Another Lover Page 2

  Only this year the money didn’t matter. Yes, she was pleased with the offer, but she would have accepted Dorian for the sheer possibility of promised passion.

  The last several years she had made practical decisions. Her livelihood depended upon the generous, if not outrageous price men were willing to pay for her. As her own agent, she could accept or deny any man who wanted her. This year she wanted only Dorian Montgomery.

  In addition to all of his outward qualities, he was reputed to be an outstanding, durable lover. Several years ago, she had strolled in the park with his most recent mistress who’d bemoaned the fact Dorian had tired of her in less than two months. She’d proceeded to describe one sexual encounter that had Isabelle wet between the legs for the next week.

  This year, this last time she whored for a man, she would do it for herself as much as she would do it to secure her future. This year, she wanted a lover who would consider her needs. Pleasure her for a change. It was widely said Montgomery had God’s gift for a cock and the prodigious desires to go with it. She didn’t think his former lovers lied about him. They all wanted him back—desperately.

  Oh, he would not be denied sexual gratification. She would make sure he fainted with desire at her merest touch. Isabelle St. Hillaire understood what drove men, what they wanted.

  What they wanted was a woman who was unattainable. They were hunters all. Competitors and warriors in the mind, if not the body. All of the men who’d purchased her had succeeded in life, even Dorian, who had neither title nor privilege to bolster his success.

  And if she were attainable to only the most wealthy the conquest would be all the sweeter. As a prize, she believed her skills and her determination were unmatched.

  Her only fear was that Dorian’s skill and experience outmatched hers and that somehow he’d be disappointed. So she had planned the month with the utmost care.

  Her reputation was legendary and her mirror did not lie. The once-a-year lover. The freakishly colored eyes—even she tended to gaze into one eye or the other but not both. The witch-black hair. Her body—she could not say what attracted men to it. She only knew that baring her limbs, her breasts, was often the only catalyst she needed to fuel passion. That, and the very helpful rumors.

  Because she was rarely seen in public, her unique eyes and undisputed beauty provoked intense speculation. It added to her appeal.

  And once her clients possessed the unattainable, she would never allow them to know her, or keep her, or satisfy her. It was all part of the wicked game of hunt and capture. Little did Dorian know, this year he was both the prey and the preyed.

  Dorian walked to the bureau where a crystal decanter and four glasses were set out on a sterling silver tray decorated with scroll engraving. He reached for a glass. Isabelle heard the sloshing as he poured a hefty draught and then the tinkle of glass when he stuffed the plug back into the decanter.

  “You are pleased?” she asked, feeling timid in a way she had not for many years. Misplaced sensibilities aside, she wanted Dorian to be happy.

  The darkened room hid the secrets of her body, including the faint blush that covered her from head to toe. In time, he would see enough to tantalize and entice him.

  She’d known with certainty who she wanted this year. She’d prepared so carefully—learning all there was to know about Dorian. She wanted it to be perfect.

  She wanted to be the perfect lover.

  Mechanical pleasure seemed to satisfy her other lovers. Robert Waldegrave, her third lover, had thrown the money on the floor of her drawing room, pushed her to the square handwoven carpet, lifted her day dress and ravished her as she lay on the money, the carpet and the slats of the hard wood. And she could do nothing about it. She’d been bought and paid for. The carpet of money added no cushion to the severe blows he’d given her body. It had taken a few days, but she had gotten him in hand. He’d begged and pleaded at the end of his thirty days. By then, she had hated the man. He was nothing more than a brute in breeches.

  Her satisfaction knew no bounds when she closed the door behind him.

  She’d had enough of selfish lovers, inadequate lovers and quick lovers. Her former lovers had other unsavory qualities she didn’t care to remember.

  Isabelle wanted something that had been beyond her reach before. She hoped to find physical fulfillment. She’d yearned and wanted these past years, only to be left unsatisfied. She had had enough and she was determined to find more. Much more.

  “Yes, I am pleased. Is this how you get men to worship you? You cater to their every need?” He sauntered toward the chairs near the unlit fireplace and lazed his way downward, sinking into a comfortable position, one of his long legs stretched toward the hearth.

  The fire should be lit, she thought. Dorian must be made comfortable.

  “Not every need. Only the ones that men want from their mistresses,” she answered.

  “And what is it that you want, sweet Isabelle?”

  “What you left for me on the table in the drawing room.” Could she tell him, truly, what she wanted? Or would he find offense in the fact a whore desired him?

  She didn’t remember where or when she’d first heard his name or the first time she’d seen him, just that one day he’d absorbed her every waking fantasy of her last lover. Each spring for the past five years, she’d anxiously await the first time she’d see him, even though she’d never spoken to him. Hyde Park, Bond Street, Savile Row. Sometimes just a glimpse. She never understood how she could even have a fantasy about a sexual relationship. But there it was.

  And the last two years, as he had made her serious offers, she’d gotten to speak to him. Then she appreciated his true form and features.

  She took a few steps to the fireplace and knelt on the carpet. She had lighted the fire in her father’s shop since she was seven. It was one of her morning duties to ensure that the shop was warm when he started work.

  The firewood lay ready to be kindled. Reaching for the flint, she struck twice. Sparks scattered over the dry tinder. A small fire caught. Pushing back her hair, she leaned forward and blew into the sputtering flames.

  Isabelle sensed his gaze over her back and buttocks, aware of every gesture and posture. No doubt he could see the light coloring of her flesh beneath the flimsy robe, the fire outlining the gentle curves. But not all of her surprises.

  “The money is enough for you?”

  “It has been.” She leaned back on her haunches and stared up at him.

  “So you will retire a rich woman?” he questioned.

  “Wealthy enough.”

  “Wealthy enough for what?”

  “Wealthy enough for a life that you take for granted. Wealthy enough to change my circumstances and those of the people I love. Perhaps I will marry now that I have means,” she said without rancor. What did a whore have to hide? The entire ton knew her profession.

  What they didn’t know was that when she had lost her parents and betrothed to cholera within a week of each other, the life she might have had—a simple but safe life—had all but disappeared.

  Now she had the best clothes and food. She had a nice home.

  At Drury Lane, she sat in the best boxes, mingled with a very select group of British peers.

  Only those peers were always men. The men who would seek her out, make their offers and express their desires. Men who jested with crude references, men who swore, smoked, gambled, whored. The only kind of men she knew.

  She did not know their wives or daughters or sisters. Very often she knew their sons, as if possession of her body were a family entitlement.

  The sons could be the worst. They’d tried to poach on their fathers’ whore more times than she could count. At one time, the Earl of Sanford had taken her to his country home in Somerset. What had started as a lovely weekend turned into a nightmare when the earl insisted she school his son in sexual matters. She had refused. Since then, she had kept two menservants who traveled with her, who stood sentry outside her bedr
oom door or whatever room she happened to occupy.

  They were brothers. For the two months a year she needed them in London, she paid them handsomely and they could return to their tenant farms and their wives and children in time for the spring planting. They’d been with her seven years now. They were almost like family—family who knew her secrets and respected her anyway.

  All that Isabelle had now had been obtained at a very high price, but she had reclaimed most of what she had lost. The final things she wanted required that she give up whoring, not that she would miss the forced submission and unpleasant physical contact. Or the myriad other social problems caused by her choice of professions.

  “And none of your other lovers would bother to marry you?” he asked.

  Oh, it wasn’t so simple. She had been in a vacuum as her life, and her brother’s, spiraled into nothingness. Prayer had been her only salvation. That and the shocking offer that had changed the course of her life.

  She had learned a few things as a cobbler’s daughter. That the higher the cost, the more people perceived value. That beauty had to be combined with uniqueness.

  And that men could sometimes be blinded by their need.

  Her first lover had been a very wealthy cit and he was pleased beyond measure to have such a beautiful lover that he hadn’t noticed her lack of skills. But she learned quickly. And what she didn’t know, she’d found out through discreet inquiry. It was astounding what women would share about male sexual proclivities. The molls at Vauxhall had been very willing to tell Isabelle their trade secrets, for a price.

  Dorian held his glass between his hands, looking her over. She imagined he kept his innermost desire to bed her under control. He was reputed to be a virile man and she was doing her best to tempt him. His restraint was impressive.

  “I feel certain that they would have been happy to give me all the bastards they could breed on me, but then that doesn’t make for a smart or wealthy whore, does it?”

  He chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”

  His voice made her feel safe. His laugh had come suddenly and made her feel warm and appreciated.

  Still on her knees, she picked up one of his feet. He watched without saying a word. Tugging off one soft leather Hessian boot, she placed his stockinged foot in her lap. She bared his foot, placing the rolled-up stocking beside her on the thick Isfahan carpet. His toes wiggled at the freedom. The heat of his gaze burned warmer than the sputtering fire.

  With one hand, she rubbed along the top of his foot, brushing the small hairs on his toes. Sounds of happiness were her stock in trade. She heard his sigh, his breath coming out in a long, relaxed release. His head lolled back against the chair.

  Since she’d turned nineteen, she’d had to choose men for one quality. The fatness of their purse. And each and every one of them had had her within a half an hour of payment.

  Dorian seemed content to let her rub his feet the rest of the afternoon. In the quiet of the room, the fire crackled. His breathing cadence added to the comforting prelude to seduction. Isabelle moved, then pulled at his other boot and stocking.

  She sat cross-legged, massaging him from the back of his calves to the end of his toes. He sat with his eyes closed, occasionally lifting his glass to his lips for a sip of brandy.

  When he spoke, she jerked in surprise. “What do you normally do in an afternoon?” he asked, peering at her from beneath lowered lids.

  She grinned. A little over a month ago, she’d ridden her horse across the grassy fields at home, racing her younger brother to the stables, trying to get home before the rainstorm broke. They didn’t make it. “Ride my horse, Cleopatra. Race my brother. His horse is named Marc Antony. Sired out of Blacklock.” She’d been thrilled to buy the horse for her brother. Men and their horses—she knew the conversations that interested them.

  A pleasant warmth suffused her skin as she thought about her home in Italy. Her grandmother, her only living relative besides her brother, lived there. Isabelle had purchased a lovely villa near Napoli where they all lived in modest comfort. Christian, her brother, knew of her trade and while he didn’t approve, he remembered their life before. She knew practicality outweighed his pride as he saw her off for England each year—that didn’t stop him from voicing his objections though.

  Dorian cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with her answer. “I meant what do you normally do with your…”

  “Oh.” She hung her head for a moment, embarrassed she’d shared something personal he didn’t want to know about. “Well, I guess I ride, but in the way of whores,” she said, her tone a bit more biting than she intended.

  Dorian gazed into her eyes, intent and domineering. “I have a couple rules of my own. Don’t call yourself a whore again in my presence.”

  She smoothed her hand over the top of his foot. “As you wish.”

  He lifted his feet from her lap and leaned toward her. He peered at her upturned face, looking as though he wished to say something. Stroking her skin with the back of his hand, he rubbed the pad of his thumb along the plump flesh of her lips. The soft puff of her breath caressed the back of his hand.

  He held out his hand, palm up. “Come.”

  Getting to her feet, Isabelle stood before him. He tugged gently and she settled into his lap.

  This she knew.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and slid her fingers through his hair. Her lips met his, only he didn’t respond. Her heart lurched. Men always responded.

  Again, she nipped at his lips, but nothing.

  “Would you like something else?” she asked.

  Dorian shifted, pulling one of her legs over the arm of the chair. He gazed into her eyes while he slid his hot hand under her rail. Underneath, she wore nothing. “Isabelle, this isn’t about duty. This isn’t a job. It’s about pleasure.”

  When his hand passed her knee, she swallowed back the sudden anxiety. She liked to be in control and suddenly she found herself with a man who seemed bent on controlling her. The tip of his finger brushed between her thighs. A small gasp escaped her lips.

  A frown creased his brow. “So long at this game and you’re still as dry as the desert.” His hand still stroked. “And a pretty blush too. Are you really the Westminster Whore or an impostor?”

  She pushed at her gown and struggled to extricate herself from his lap before he exposed the secrets that were meant for later.

  Isabelle thought she was prepared for pleasure, but the idea of giving up control, allowing Dorian to do has he wished, suddenly seemed overwhelming and foreign. She had been the dominant partner. She was the one who pleasured.

  She didn’t know how to give in or how to let go of her carefully measured seduction.

  He held her tight. “What do you like, Isabelle? Tell me.”

  “No. I—”

  His finger slid farther, invading her. Circling. “Mmm, there. What are you thinking about?” The change in his voice sent shivers through her. It was a voice she could dream about.

  She closed her eyes. She’d been sexual with many men, but never intimate. They didn’t know her. They didn’t get to be personal.

  “There’s no hurry. I’m patient. Were you thinking about my cock inside you?”

  Slowly he circled. There was no air in the room. She couldn’t breathe. She heard the rumble of laughter in his chest.

  “You won’t admit it, but you like a nice cock. I can tell. I won’t disappoint you. What else do you like?”

  Isabelle clutched his hand, trying to pull him away, but the soft stroking had her mind in a daze. He was supposed to throw her on to the bed and use her. Simple. She had assumed that’s what he would do, at least until she was ready for more.

  What he was doing wasn’t simple. “You need to stop. Let me—”

  “Let you what? Suck my cock dry in two minutes? Is that what you did for your last lover?”

  She squirmed under his hand. A finger slid deep. Then a second one followed. “Oh Isabelle,” he said, ho
ney and sex dripping from his voice, “you’ve a nice little cunt here. You’re tighter than I thought you’d be. Feel that? Now you’re wet. Hmm, I think you enjoy talking about it too. Do you, Isabelle?” he whispered. “Do you like it when I talk about fucking you? Filling you with a cock that won’t give out in ten minutes?”

  He brushed away the silky material, allowing it to pool around her waist.

  She forced her eyes open only to see her bare legs dangling over the arms of the chair while his hands coaxed her into submission. He’d leaned back, bringing her to rest against him while his fingers touched her intimately. His other hand stroked from her knee along the outside of her thigh.

  Control. She had to take control of the situation. With others, there had been no warmth or reciprocal attention—she serviced her lovers thoroughly while keeping her mind on the task.

  In her imagination, she’d seen Dorian naked. She wanted to lie with him, touch him, allow him inside her body while they shared long kisses in a candlelit room. This was wrong for her. This breathless taking.

  Just as she prepared to vault from his lap, his free hand grasped her shoulder and pulled her to his body. He turned her so her back was to his chest. He lifted her other leg, letting it dangle over the other arm of the chair. She was spread in a revealing, susceptible pose, her cunt open to the heat of the fire.

  “Relax,” he said.

  She had no choice once his arm encircled her waist. Her heart pounded in her ears and the heat from the fire warmed her bare legs. She pushed the rail down to cover the colorful surprise on her thigh. He had yet to acknowledge the smooth expanse of her mons.

  That might have had something to do with the hard erection she felt pressed against her bottom. She rubbed against his covered cock in an attempt to distract him, to control him.

  Still his fingers explored. This was her fault, craving a man who had a reputation as a seducer.

  “What are your desires, Isabelle? Do you want me to be your slave while you beat me? Do you want me to inflict pain?” His finger circled her sensitive nub and he bit at her ear. “Do you want me to take you from behind, hard and deep, while you scream with want? Do you want pleasure in new ways? Tell me.” His hands melted away, finding their way up her body to knead her breasts with slow, soft movements of his flexible fingers. “Or do you wish to take me in your mouth and tease me with your tongue until I spill down your throat?”