Forsaking Hope (Fair Cyprians of London 2)

She wore only her corset now. The intricacies of the unlacing required help, and usually the gentleman enjoying her charms for that evening was only too happy to oblige.

With trembling fingers, Hope untied the laces of the final petticoat and let it slither to the ground. Now, she was naked from the waist down, two creamy mounds swelling from the top of her corset. This was not how Mr Durham would expect to see her, but then he’d never know it was her.

And that was how it should be.

All Hope wanted was to enjoy one physical encounter in her life that created in truth the sensations she had to simulate in order to leave a client satisfied: the show of desire, lust, craving for whoever was paying her. And, for the aftermath, just the right degree of admiration, appearance of being sated, a hint of wanting more though not to the extent he’d propose another round. Lord, not that. No adoring prince of the realm, or noble, however handsome, apparently besotted, had been worth that.

But this man, with his kind, earnest, blue-grey eyes, his reputation for proving himself so much more worthy than his father to run an estate so important to the livelihoods of the local district, was different.

Flicking back the dark ringlets that fell over her right shoulder, Hope put one knee on the bed and leaned over. He stirred a little as the pressure of her weight caused the mattress to dip.

Her heart ratcheted up a notch. Would he turn and open his eyes, registering horror as he realised what she’d become?

It was a very real possibility, so she must prepare herself. She hesitated. There was still time to retreat with her dignity—and her money, she mustn’t forget. Her eyes strayed to the writing desk. Could she bring herself to do as Wilfred demanded?

Shame scalded her as she considered the ramifications. If Hope carried through with her desires—her own bodily desires—then Mr Durham would realise what she’d done, albeit at Wilfred’s behest. He’d know she had betrayed him.

Yes, he’d add betrayal to her list of sins on top of his scorn and disgust.

A sliver of hope drifted through that train of thought. He would if he was in a state to register what was going on around him.

He was murmuring now. Unintelligible words. That woman’s name amongst them. Annabelle. The woman to whom he was writing. His lost love? The Annabelle Hope knew?

She leant forwards and put out her hand. He could dream he was having intimate relations with someone he’d once admired even if it was just a little for a short while—and he could attribute it to a dream, never knowing it was Hope in the flesh—or that she had taken something from his pocketbook. The note Wilfred wanted as proof that she’d discharged his mission.

Hope glanced towards the table where she’d seen a carelessly discarded leather pouch, out of which spilled a few loose coins, suggesting there was more where that came from.

But Hope was not a thief, and Wilfred could not force her to become one, for all his threats.

She hung her head. She did have some dignity. Enough, at least, to gracefully withdraw before she ran the risk of shredding her soul.

With a sigh, she rose. She couldn’t do this. One more lingering glance and she’d quietly dress herself and leave.

Carefully she extended her body across the mattress and ran her hand through the air, just an inch above the back of his head, closing her eyes as she imagined what it would feel like to touch him.

It was far too dangerous to get any closer, and she should have realised this before.

But she could dream.

Just as he could.

With an unexpected stirring to life, he rolled onto his back, his arm arcing through the air, collecting Hope’s hand along the way. It was as if he expected a woman to be there, for his beautiful mouth stretched into a smile and, although his eyes were still closed, he reached for her, gripping her hand more tightly as he drew her across the bed; tugging, sighing contentedly as he settled her on top of him. He chuckled as he skimmed his fingers down her contours, lingering over her breasts which surged out of her corset.

Hope caught her breath, suspended between the thrill of what might happen next and pure terror.

“Beautiful!” he declared, opening one eye as his hands cupped her bottom, and his mouth latched onto one of her breasts. “Delectable!” he declared, his eyes closed again as he teased out a nipple and rolled it over his tongue.

Hope could not have torn herself away if she’d tried. Since she’d met this man, she’d wanted to feel his hands gently stroking her face, his lips touching hers. She’d hoped so much, as she was taking the carriage to meet him, that this might happen.

It hadn’t, of course. And that was the reason she was here. A pragmatic bitterness encased her heart—necessary if she were to survive her calling—but there was still enough feeling there to register the deep and painful ache of loss and regret.

It was gloomy, but light enough for Hope to study the face she remembered so well as her flesh tingled at his touch. She felt him harden beneath her as he continued to knead her buttocks, and although she straddled him, she was careful to keep her distance. She did not intend this to be a grubby encounter that was finished before it was begun.

She should not let it proceed, either, but while he was enjoying himself in such blissful ignorance, she could continue a little longer.

He brought his hands up to cup her face.

And then he opened both eyes and Hope waited.