Her laughter was rich and melodious as she crossed to a liquor service. “I insist, my lord. I intend to have a brandy and it would not be gentlemanly for you to allow me to drink alone.”
He watched as she poured the liquor into two snifters then turned to bring one to him. When she reached his side and extended the glass, he realized what he had initially thought was a bracelet winding around her forearm was in fact a tattoo. A black dragon adorned the pale skin of her inner arm, its serpent-like tail twisted around the delicate bones of her wrist, and the creature’s tiny green eyes stared at him as she waited for him to take the brandy.
“Please, my lord. Accept the drink and come sit with me. We shall talk.”
There was patience in her voice, as well as an odd note he struggled to identify. Whatever it was, it managed to soothe some of his initial discomfort. He took the snifter and brought his gaze back to the woman’s face.
Her head was slightly tilted and her green eyes, much like the dragon’s, met his without judgment or expectation. She did not say anything more—just waited calmly for his decision.
He experienced a rush of self-assurance. He had come this far. He had gone years in his current state and had no intention of continuing in the same manner for the rest of his life. It had not been easy to finally acknowledge he needed assistance, especially from a prostitute, however high-class.
As if seeing his acquiescence in his expression, Pendragon’s smile widened before she turned to take a seat in one of the plush chairs. He lowered himself into the chair beside her, holding the brandy snifter balanced on his knee.
The burst of confidence gave way to a trickle of uncertainty.
He would need to explain what he wanted.
The heat of his frustration, which never seemed to be very far from the surface lately, began to stir. The old and familiar powerlessness spread through him as he considered how to articulate his reason for being there. He hated acknowledging it had come to this. He hated knowing he would have to confess his weakness to this stranger if he was to ever find a way past it. He clenched the chair in a death grip.
“My lord,” the madam whispered soothingly as she leaned forward to rest her hand over his.
He wore gloves only to the most formal affairs, detesting the feel of them against his skin, but he wished he had them now. The moment he felt the warmth of her bare fingers, he flinched away—violently and uncontrollably. “Do not touch me,” he muttered through clenched teeth, fisting and unfisting his hand as if he could will away the burn of that one simple touch. He lowered his gaze. “I cannot bear it.”
He waited tensely for her to order him to leave. He had been foolish to come here. What did he expect to gain by coming to a pleasure house when he could not abide even the most casual touch?
“My lord.”
Something in the madam’s tone had him lifting his gaze to meet hers. She still leaned toward him. Her expression was calm, but he saw in her eyes something he had never observed in anyone else before—acceptance.
She smiled. “I am beginning to get a sense of why you have come to me, my lord, and I shall endeavor to accommodate your needs. Why don’t we start with a few simple questions?”
He gave a short nod, surprised she was willing to go on.
“Excellent.” She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of brandy. Then she began her questioning with a concise and steady rhythm. “What is your age?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Your aversion to touch,” she began gently, “is this something you have lived with for long, or is it relatively new?”
Pain seared across his upper back and his stomach twisted violently. His breathing spiked. But an iron will developed over years of practice came to his aid as he brought his physical reaction back under control. He regulated his breath until it returned to a steady rhythm and the cramping in his muscles eased.
Then he looked into the madam’s green eyes.
“Since I was young,” he answered.
“Interesting.”
Madam Pendragon took another sip of her brandy. Her steady gaze never left his. Somehow, her unrelenting focus did not feel invasive. Just the opposite—the steady, assessing nature of her manner along with her lack of an emotional response inspired an unusual sort of assurance.
“Tell me, my lord, what do you hope to accomplish in coming to me?”
He hesitated only a moment before giving his answer. “It is time I enter society. As you noticed, I am unable to manage even the most causal of social interactions without difficulty. I cannot allow my personal limitations to become fodder for ridicule and gossip.”