Silence stretched between them. Finally, she turned.
“Will you come back?”
She gave a light shrug. “If somebody pays me.” There. She’d be on her way soon enough after that, and he’d never know how much it cost her to sever ties. Self-preservation. That was worth anything. Madame Chambon had instilled that into her girls.
“All right.”
Puzzled, she watched him reach forward to open the drawer of his escritoire. He pulled out a roll of banknotes.
“How much do you want?”
“I told you. This afternoon…now…is already paid for.” Shame burned her cheeks. Paid for, in effect, by the man who would ensure that their connection did not continue.
He nodded, slowly, though he still held the banknotes in a tight ball. “But you’ll come back if I pay you?”
“If that is what you want.”
“Is it what you want?”
“It’s of no concern what I want.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” He straightened and looked out of the window. “So…I could be any man, and you’d do what was asked of you…as long as you were paid.”
“It’s how I keep from starving.”
“Dear God,” he muttered, turning, his eyes boring into hers. “What happened to you?”
She couldn’t help herself. She moved slowly forward for the connection was too strong to ignore. He wanted her back. For another precious half an hour she could drown in his arms and imagine the life she might have had.
“I made a miscalculation.” She stood only a couple of feet from him now. “But that’s not a conversation I want to pursue. I am here for your pleasure now.”
He raised his eyebrows with faint scepticism. “Certainly not for yours. Pleasure is the preserve of the man willing to pay for it. Not for the woman?”
“I don’t think that’s quite accurate.” She smiled as she put her hand on his cheek, for she could when she was playing a role. The coquette. That’s what he’d enjoy for it was safely removed from earnest, innocent Miss Merriweather. “I think gentlemen like to use that as their excuse for variety after they’ve wed.”
“You don’t think a wife would prefer to be spared the excessive attentions of her husband?”
“Only a husband who does not share a mutual love with his wife would believe that.” He moved his cheek into her hand, and she raised her other hand to gently ruffle his hair. Just as she’d always dreamed of doing. “You must feel something for Miss Hunt to have gone so far as to contemplate marriage. Tenderness, perhaps? A desire to do with her what we’ve done today? Why would she not feel the same?”
He closed his eyes and gently gripped her wrist. “When I kissed her, I hoped I’d feel more.”
Hope experienced a sense of grim satisfaction at the admission. She also knew that Wilfred’s promise not to sully Charlotte’s wedding aspirations hinged on Hope doing all in her power to promote the shaky union between Felix and his sister.
“Sometimes it’s better not to hurl oneself into a union in a surfeit of desire only to be disappointed. Love grows.”
“And a harlot would know? Have you ever been in love?”
Hope was glad he couldn’t see her expression. “I’ve felt desire, contrary to what you apparently believe. And I’m not an aberration. Every woman wants to feel desired by the man she loves. Every woman wishes for love when she must take a husband. Annabelle would be no different. She loves you, doesn’t she?”
Hope lowered herself onto his lap and put her head on his shoulder. It was nice to feel him like this. Yes, he was angry but in a more contained, contemplative way. Passion spent, they could, perhaps, go some way towards being honest with one another. Honest in voicing their disappointment. And Hope could persuade him that Annabelle was the woman for him. If she could manage just that without having to damn herself in his eyes at the same time—with the thoroughness Wilfred wanted—it would be some small victory. Satisfying Wilfred was all that mattered.
“Yes.” He began to stroke her hair, moving his hand to her cheek which he caressed gently.
“And she would make a good wife.” Hope squeezed shut her eyes as she remembered the malice in Annabelle’s when the girl had raised her gaze from Hope and Felix’s clasped hands after she’d come upon them in the shadows after the Hunt Ball.
“She would.” He cupped her chin and moved his face closer. “She would make an excellent wife.” He touched his lips to hers, and Hope felt the familiar need and want within her flower as it took on a life of its own. A deep throbbing sensation began at her core and made her tremble as he increased the pressure of his lips. She felt she was breathing him in. It was a powerful aphrodisiac. Until he murmured, “And you could be my mistress.”
She drew back, rising rapidly to her feet. She should have expected it, she berated herself silently. She should have been prepared for the lash that followed the loving. It was not good form to show her emotions like this.