“Whore,” he said softly. “It is because you enjoy it. You are enjoying it, aren’t you?”
“No.” She squirmed to release herself from the strong hands that held her while he worked his pleasure in her. “No.”
No. No. There was nothing of herself left. No dignity. No privacy. No identity. Deprived of her clothes. Held wide by his knees and the powerful muscles of his thighs. Invaded to the very core of her being. No.
“No. No. No!”
She was sitting up on the bed, sweating, shaking. The familiar dream. The dream that was haunting her nightly. One would have thought that it would be Hobson’s dead face that would come to her as soon as she released her hold on consciousness, she thought, but it was not. It was that of the gentleman with the ugly scar who had hovered over her, taking the very last possession that had been hers to give—or sell.
Fleur got up wearily from the bed and stood before the window to cool her face. Would she never forget him? The sight of him? The feel of him?
Had he really said those words to her? She could no longer remember. But his face and his body had said them even if he had not uttered them aloud.
There surely could not be an uglier, more evil man in the world, she thought. And yet, memory reminded her, he had bought her food and insisted that she eat it. And he had paid her three times what she had asked for outside the theater. He had not done anything to her that she had not freely consented to.
And he had brought her a cold cloth with which to cleanse away the blood and soothe herself.
She rested her face in her hands. She must forget. She must accept this gift of a new life that some benevolent power had granted her.
“THAT IS PRETTY, DARLING,” the Duchess of Ridgeway said, bending down to kiss her daughter on the cheek and glancing smilingly at the painting the child held up for her inspection. “I will certainly see her, Nanny. It must be made clear to her that she is to be subordinate to you and that she must not force Pamela into doing anything she does not wish to do.”
“She is expecting to meet her charge this morning, my lady,” the nurse said. “I have explained to her that Lady Pamela likes to be quiet in the nursery during the mornings.”
“Must I meet my new governess today, Mama?” the child asked petulantly. “Did Papa send her?”
“He did it to provoke me, did he not?” the duchess said to her nurse. “He must have heard of my plans and thought to have his revenge by sending a prosing schoolmistress for my darling. But I have a right to company, don’t I? Just as much as he does. He is enjoying the Season in London. Does he think I can live here all alone and be dull? Does he think I do not need company too to dispel this endless boredom?” She coughed dryly and reached for a handkerchief.
“I told you to wear a pelisse yesterday, lovey,” the nurse said. “It is still just spring, even if the sun does shine. You will never get rid of your chill if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“Don’t fuss, Nanny,” the duchess said crossly. “I have had this cough since winter, even though I always bundled up warmly then, as you told me to. Do you suppose he will come home if he hears?”
“I daresay he will, lovey,” the nurse said. “He usually does.”
“He does not like me to have any enjoyment or company,” her grace said. “I hate him, Nanny. I really do.”
“Hush,” the nurse said. “Not in front of Lady Pamela, lovey.”
The duchess looked at the child and touched one soft dark ringlet. “Send her down to my sitting room, then,” she said, “this Miss Hamilton. Adam may have hired her, Nanny, but she must be made to see that she will be answerable to me. After all, Adam—”
“Hush, lovey,” the nurse said firmly.
The duchess kissed her child’s cheek again and swept from the room, her morning robe flowing out behind her.
Her daughter watched her go wistfully. “Do you think she liked my picture, Nanny?” she asked.
“I’m sure of it, lovey.” The nurse bent to hug her. “Mama adores you and everything you do.”
“And will Papa like it?” the child asked. “Is he coming home?”
“We will keep it carefully until he does,” Mrs. Clement said.
WHEN FLEUR WAS USHERED into the duchess’s sitting room a short time later, it was empty. She stood quietly inside the door and waited, her hands folded before her. It was a small room, but quite exquisite. It was oval, with a painted dome for a ceiling and slender gilded Corinthian columns supporting the entablature. Decorative panels on an ivory-colored ground in pale reds, greens, pinks, and gold leaf made the walls delicate and feminine.