Willing (5 page)

“Will my bodyguard be accompanying me?”

“I’m sorry, madam, but I am under the strictest -”

“Then do have a good night, sir.”

With that, Constance turned up the stairs and ascended with such an air of regality that half of the bar hushed in reverence to watch her pass. Her stomach was in knots, but she set her jaw and held her head high to hide it. By the time she reached the landing, the driver was gone, slipping out the front doors with his hat under his arm.

Chapter Four

“What were you thinking, girl? Do you know how much money he was offering you?”

Berty hadn’t had a free moment the night before to scold Constance for her behavior. That was fine, as Constance’s pious march up the steps inspired several fellows in the crowd and Constance found herself fully booked with new clientele all night.

Still, Berty was not pleased.

“For fuck’s sake, last time was more than most girls make in a month! This woulda’ been double? I can’t believe you. Should toss you out on yer arse for it, you know that, don’t ye?”

“I’m sorry, Berty, but if you’d seen what I saw last time, you wouldn’t begrudge me the caution.”

“Oh, aye. I saw what you saw. I saw a fat sack of cash, I did.”

Constance chuckled, despite Berty’s stern mood. Whether it was a good deal of money or no, Constance still woke from dreams about that night – lying on a cold slab, mouths of wealthy, noble men moving all over her body, working to bring her to orgasm while a room of chanting robed figures watched. The driver could offer any amount of money; she would not go into that again, alone.

“I could kill you!”

“Berty, if you were so desperate for the cash, you could’ve taken my place.”

It was meant as a joke, but Berty stomped her foot. “Oh, I offered! Said it had to be you.”

Constance turned to her, feigning jovial shock. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Nothing I’d love more than to pocket that cash without owing any harlot a cut. Could buy myself a bloody house with a few months of that kind of work.”

“You’re making me question this whole madam and whore relationship, suddenly.”

Berty glared at her. “Oh, don’t you be getting any ideas now, love. I already lost Sally, can’t be losing you, as well.”

Constance leaned back in her armchair, her cooling tea cupped in her hands. Her hair was down this morning, tossed over one shoulder in a cascade of tangles. She took a deep breath. “Did he really say that?”

“What?”

“That it had to be me?”

“He did. ‘His Lord’s request,’ he said.”

Constance stared down at her near empty tea cup and pinched her lips between her teeth. A part of her was flattered, but that part was quiet in comparison to the part that felt a near dread to think of it.

“What on earth did you do for the fella to win him over? Give lessons, for Christ’s sake. These other girls need em.”

Constance smiled. “I don’t imagine I did anything.”

She truly didn’t see reason for it. She’d lied on the altar, made a scene and forced them to hold her down at one point, then leaned back and let three or four men please her. She hadn’t even touched Alisdair for his own pleasure. In all her years of sex work, she’d never encountered anything like it.

Octavia appeared in the doorway, her olive skin glowing in the light from the high windows. Berty gave her a raised brow. Octavia was from Wales, but she milked her exotic appearance, faking a French or Italian accent when new lads came into the brothel. Many took her upstairs, begging that she coo to them in another language. She would do so, though no one knows what language she chooses, given Octavia admittedly doesn’t speak anything but the Queen’s English, and even that is questionable.

“Sorry, Mum. There’s a lad down’ere askin for ya.”

Octavia jutted her chin toward Berty and Berty sighed, heaving herself up from the side of the bed to follow Octavia downstairs. “Remind me to kick you out of my room before you get too comfortable, will ye?”

Constance grinned.  “I still don’t know why you put me in here!”

Berty mumbled something back, but she was halfway down the hallway now, and there was no deciphering a word of it.

Constance set her tea cup aside and ran her hands over her face. She’d had a long night, however uneventful.

“Constance, love. Come on down, please. Octavia, wake up Roger.”

Constance stood up swiftly and hustled down the hallway to find the familiar face of the carriage driver staring up at her from the bar below. Constance’s stomach tightened instantly. He nodded up to her, and she felt almost exposed, still dressed in her underclothes. Not a troublesome state for the average whore, but given behavior the night before, a bathrobe wasn’t the best outfit to maintain an air of regality. She pulled it tight around herself and gave him a curt nod in return.

“Get dressed. You’ll be going with him, now.”

“What? I made it very clear -”

“Better be a good reason, getting me outta bed at this hour.”

Roger stood in the bar below, disheveled and fresh from his bed in the back rooms of the tavern.

“You’re going for a ride, lad.”

Roger raised his eyebrows. “What again?”

Berty and Roger shared a long look, then he turned back toward his chambers. Berty seemed agitated, bustling about behind the bar as though she might clean something. Constance knew she’d sooner be caught dead than cleaning the bar.

“Get dressed, love. Don’t keep the man waiting.”

Constance met the driver’s gaze and held it. He was just a servant, it wasn’t his fault she found herself in these circumstances. Yet, the corner of his mouth twitched, and she wanted to slap him. Constance turned back for her chambers, shut the door tight and locked it, before turning for her small bag beneath the bed. She spotted the shimmery fabric and retrieved Lord Alisdair’s gift; the silver dress.

Chapter Five

“Bit early fer dis sor’a trip, wouldn’t ye say?”

Constance turned to Roger, the sway of the carriage sending her lurching toward him with each uneven bump in the road. They hadn’t spoken more than two words since leaving the brothel, but with twenty minutes of silence behind them, Roger seemed to be getting antsy. Constance stared out her open window, watching Starlings flit from branch to branch in the trees that lined the road. They were out of the city now, and in the daylight, Constance could see the pristine grounds; fields of green, peppered with sheep and at some points, cattle. Roger had his window open as well. Despite the good breeze outside, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the carriage grew warm quickly with the two of them in it.

Constance forced a smile. “You did sleep half the day away.”

“Sure, but idn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Ain’t even had tea, yet. You fink he’s having ye fer tea, den? I hearda some fellas likin that sor’a thing. All dem proper gents. Pretendin yer their lady, or sumfin.”

Constance frowned. She didn’t imagine Lord Alisdair was too concerned with something as mundane as having her for tea. She imagined Roger just wanted to complain, given the sour head he’d woken up to. That’s what you get for drinking too much whisky on the job, she’d thought.

Roger curled into himself, pressing his face to the wall of the carriage and the lapel of his jacket up over his eyes. Constance was happy to let him sleep. She was fighting dreadful knots in her stomach. She hadn’t heard anything from the Lord in the month since her strange visit to the estate, but that didn’t still the dreams – waking in the night, breathless and shaken, certain she’d open her eyes and find robed figures chanting around her bed. Yet the weeks passed without incident and she began to forget, or at the very least remember with distant curiosity. When the carriage driver appeared the night before, it had nearly knocked the wind out of her. Constance now sat on the cushioned carriage seat, watching the estate grounds pass outside. She fidgeted there, her fingers caressing the satiny fabric of her skirts.

The jostling intensified as the carriage picked up speed. The estate was in view up ahead, and Constance shut the screen of her window, as though she might hide from the place. A few moments later, the carriage stopped, then shifted as the driver climbed down from his perch. She nudged Roger, who groaned his disapproval.

“Welcome, Lady Constance.”

Constance stifled a laugh at the strangeness of those words, but nodded graciously to the footmen who opened her door. She recognized them from her previous visit; two young men both donning perfectly slicked back hair and tailored suits. The blond bowed as he held open the carriage door, the other stood aside, holding out his arm to her. She climbed out with as much grace as she could muster and took his arm.

“We are to escort you to the conservatory for tea.”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled, turning back to shoot Roger a look. The carriage door was already shut behind her, leaving Roger inside, still asleep. She hooked her arm in the footman’s elbow and gave a squeeze before letting them lead her into the house. She caught a hint of a smile on the dark haired man’s face.

Lit now by daylight, the place seemed more like a home than some Pagan Cathedral. They passed the same double doors to the ballroom, passed a parlor and a library, as well as the entrance to a large gallery and dining room. Then, after passing just outside the bustling kitchens, they came to the conservatory; a massive and bright room made entirely of glass. It housed whole trees, flowering plants and vines, and at its center, a beautifully set dining table. The footman led her to the head of the table, and pulled the chair out for her. She took her seat, laying the napkin across her lap as a young maid poured her a cup of tea. She’d never felt so out of place in her life.

Suddenly, the space came alive with energy as maids poured in from the kitchens carrying trays and platters of food. They set them along the length of the table, everything from oranges and strawberries, to French pastries and fruit tarts. Yet another platter was set with half a dozen different kinds of cheese, followed by a pheasant, its feathers still intact, a grand flourish of plumage at the center of the extravagant spread. As the servants each retreated, one of the familiar footmen stood at her side, a bottle of wine in his hands. He leaned in to offer her a glass, but she politely declined.

“I would have tea, if I could, please?”

He bowed his head and stepped aside as the second footman appeared, as though loaded and shot from a cannon, piping hot kettle in his gloved hand. He poured her a cup, set the kettle aside, and the two men stepped back, setting their gaze on the far wall.

Constance swallowed. “Will Lord Alisdair be joining me?”

They shook their heads, but did not meet her gaze. “No, madam. He is indisposed at this time.”

Constance looked around, confused. “Then who is this all for?”

“You, madam. His Lordship wishes you to dine and enjoy yourself before we begin preparations for this evening.”

‘Preparations for this evening’ – those words almost robbed her of her appetite. Almost, but not quite.

“Am I to eat this all myself?”

“His Lordship would have you enjoy yourself.”

Constance inspected the bounty before her, settling on a plan of attack. She turned to the footmen and gestured toward the bottle. Suddenly, at the mention of that evening’s ‘preparations,’ a bit of wine didn’t sound too bad.

As the footman poured her a full glass of red, Constance slathered a soft cheese on a slab of French bread, and took a noisy bite.

The Preparations were not what she expected. After she ate her fill, growing too nervous to truly enjoy the meal, three women came to collect her. They led her to a large bathroom, drew her a steaming bath, and proceeded to undress and bathe her. One of the women even unpinned her hair, washing it thoroughly with lavender oil, and Constance let her eyes fall shut at the sensation of the women’s agile hands.

The windows of the bathroom were growing dark by the time one of the women spoke. “When was your last monthly?”

Constance startled at the question, meeting the gaze of the nearest woman, a young blonde with stern, gray eyes. She swallowed. “It was a good while ago.”

“More than a week? Less than three?”

Constance tilted her head, trying to think. She remembered making preparations for Joseph Flannery while in the midst of her menses, ‘plugging’ up the flood to keep from disappointing him on his bi-weekly visit. Constance nodded. “Would have been at least two weeks ago.”

The stern woman then took it upon herself to wash between Constance’s legs, taking great care in the job. Constance startled, but dared not argue. Once every inch of her had been scrubbed, soaked, cleaned, and rinsed, they helped her from the tub and proceeded to douse every inch of her in a strange sugar and honey mixture, scrubbing it into the skin of her back, her thighs, and her breasts.

“Is this all necessary? I didn’t need a bath last time.”

One of the women giggled softly and Constance felt a little more at ease.

“His Lordship’s request. Wants you to be at ease.”

Constance almost laughed. That was a tall order given what she knew to be coming. Still, the warm water felt wonderful as they once again rinsed her from head to toe. Then they dried her and helped her into a light robe that seemed to float over the surface of her freshly washed skin. 

The stern blonde was just tying her robe when the door to the bathroom opened and a familiar footman appeared.

“Is she ready?”

The blonde stepped back, as though appraising her work. Constance was naked beneath the robe, her skin tingling from its scrubbing, her hair still just a touch damp, now free and cascading down her back.

The woman nodded. “She is.”

The footman stepped forward, but did not offer his arm as before. “You will follow me, mum.”

He disappeared into the hallway, now dark, save for a golden glow coming from out of sight. She knew exactly which door offered that light, and followed the footman down the hall and into view of the ballroom. Just as before the chandeliers and walls were alight with candles, and just as before, the figures stood in wait.  Constance reached the door, her eyes darting from masked face to masked face, searching for the familiar presence. Yet, Alisdair was not there. She stopped.

“Mum?”

The footman gestured for her to follow him to the altar, where he and his partner swiftly untied the belt of her robe and relieved her of it. They then took her hands and proceeded to draw symbols on each of her palms, at her shoulders, at the center of her chest, and over her belly. She held her breath for much of it, willing herself to stand tall, unaffected, as the figures all watched, sheltered behind their masks.

“Is the altar ready?”

She gasped at the familiar sound. That voice that haunted her dreams; he was here.

“She is, your Lordship.”

A tall figure appeared at her side, taking hold of her hand to inspect the symbols drawn there. He came to stand in front of her, his face masked, but his green eyes still clear beneath. He smiled at her, and she willed her face remain still.

“Are you at peace, Constance?”

She met Alisdair’s eyes and nodded. “Yes.”

It was a lie. How could anyone be at peace in such circumstances? Still, she was as peaceful as she could be. That would have to do.

“Join me, then. Please.”

Alisdair held out his hand to her and led her to the stone altar. Just as before, she climbed atop it, lying lengthwise before him, her naked and marked body bared to all. Constance’s heart was racing. She watched his every move, exactly as before – as they’d been in her dreams since. Alisdair presented a goblet, cutting his finger and letting a drop fall into the cup before raising it high over his head. Then he turned his masked face to her, and he smirked.

“Join me in worship.”

Constance swallowed, stifling a whimper as figures appeared at the four corners of the stone table. Despite knowing what was coming, still she was uneasy. The masked figures touched her, running their hands over her skin, up her inner thighs, across her belly, grazing their fingertips over her nipples and her throat. Suddenly, Alisdair leaned over the table, taking her by the wrists, and spun her sideways on the table so her legs now faced the circle. The first robed figure bent before the altar as two others lifted her legs up and apart. Then just as before, a masked face descended over her and the man’s open mouth clamped down on her sex. She arched her back, groaning against the warmth of his eager mouth, holding onto the edge of the stone table as the man pulled her ass closer to him. He made satisfied noises from between her legs, like some rooting pig searching for truffles. He wrapped his arms around her hips and held her there, pressing his face to her, lavishing her with his tongue. She sighed, bringing her hands to her breasts, holding them in her hands, the way she did when a man took her properly. Suddenly, Alisdair pulled her hands away, then snapped his finger to another two robed men. They leaned over her, clamping their mouths over her breasts, sucking and nibbling at her as she shuddered.

She could no longer watch the man between her legs, something that made sensation all the more intense. Instead all she could see were the masked faces right before her, their tongues moving swiftly over her breasts. She looked up at Alisdair, his face upside down to her, but still clearly smiling. He reached across the altar to one of the men holding her legs, and she caught sight of a familiar shape, carved of wood, solid and smooth. She whimpered, bracing herself for the familiar sensation; a sensation she relived many times in her dreams. She felt the smooth head sliding against her as the man that wielded it teased her, then slid it inside. She gasped, her whole body tensing as he slid it in and out, slowly. She pushed her legs against the masked men that held them, letting their strong arms hold her there, tightening every muscle in her body, readying herself for what was coming.

She winced in pain, then held her breath. She waited only a moment before the phallus drove too deep again, slamming her insides enough to cause pain. She winced again, fighting to hold her cries. She didn’t want Alisdair to see, to be disappointed. The man thrust it inside her again, too deep, too hard, and she couldn’t help but recoil from it, her legs kicking in retreat. She glanced down at the man, his face hidden by a mask, but his mouth unhidden. He was smiling up at her as he pushed it inside her once more. She met his gaze, and despite the pain, did not let him see it.

“Roman.”

The man wielding the phallus looked up, startled, and then relinquished his duties, stepping aside as the man holding her other leg took over. This man was softer. This man knew a woman’s body. He moved the phallus with care, but enough purpose to drive deep, to hit all the right places. Constance met his gaze, and though he smiled as well, this smile carried a very different meaning. Her thighs tensed and her head fell back. A man’s mouth returned to her sex, sucking at her clitoris as she sighed. She looked up into Alisdair’s focused face. He’d delegated every one of her needs to others, the masculine heads moving over her as their mouths pleased every part of her. He stood just inches from her, but not touching her.  She cried out and the phallus moved faster, so fast it nearly hummed inside her. Constance moaned long and loud, and without reason, reached her arms over her head, and took hold of Alisdair. He let her. She curled her fingers into the fabric of his robe, feeling the shape of his hips beneath. Her head fell back and she held her breath just as Alisdair leaned over the altar, taking hold of her legs and holding them aloft. She screamed, gasped, and holding her breath, reached between Alisdair’s legs to feel him through his robe. He was as hard as the altar beneath her.