As time went on, however, Ariel had come to appreciate the sturdiness of her body, the luscious curves she firmly believed lent a more feminine air to her tall frame. She enjoyed longwalks at an aggressive pace, so her stamina was undoubtedly greater than many titled ladies who grew winded from walking up too many stairs, or faint from lack of sustenance so they could fit into one special gown or another, shamed into their willowy grace and delicate paleness by generations of ladies who came before them. Ariel didn’t know if it was because she’d never known her mother or any other female figure of consequence in her life, but she simply hadn’t experienced the same pressures at home. Instead, she did as her brother did. She ate what she loved, she appreciated good brandy, she could curse as fluently as any man, and she’d developed a thick skin.
Well, as thick a skin as a woman who has been passed over, mocked, and sneered at for most of her life.
Ariel had gradually learned to tell herself that there wasn’t much she could do about any of it. She couldn’t influence the minds and ingrained opinions of others, and there was little she could do about herself without losing those things she loved most about who she was. She’d inherited the same sturdy build as her brother, but she had the unfortunate circumstance of having been born with breasts instead of bollocks. Men seemed to appreciate her ample bosom well enough (if the tilt of their lascivious gazes was any indication), but it seemed like the rest of her lagged well behind in their estimation.
Weary of being overlooked, looked through, and blatantly ignored, she had finally decided to handle her frustration on her own and take matters into her own hands.
The women in her close circle were all married ladies and many were also mothers, each of them happy enough to discuss marital matters (the joys of sharing a bed with a man, for one…). What had begun as murmurs and whispered titters between the few ladies recently wed had spread to encompass every woman of their group until Ariel was the only one left out. Luckily forher, she was allowed in on the conversations when she reached the ripe old age of five and twenty.
She was gradually allowed in on these hallowed secrets, of climaxes and naughty adventures, of forbidden words like “cunny” and “cock”, of rapturous embraces and kisses that left a woman breathless. Of course, she’d listened and been utterly enthralled, but she also had no point of reference for these conversations. Many of these descriptions eluded her and were beyond her sheltered mind’s comprehension. She hadn’t made it nearly thirty years of life without curiously exploring her own body alone in the dark, testing secret places with tentative fingers, but she always lost her nerve and shied away when the sensations grew too overwhelming.
But no longer.
Ariel was fed up with living vicariously through others. She was tired of having nothing to contribute to her friends’ deliciously naughty conversations. And she was finished with not understanding everything they discussed.
She didn’t know where the idea had come from or when it had first occurred, but once the first tendril took root in her mind, it had spread rapidly like ripe strawberry plants; creeping and taking hold, impossible to uproot or completely eradicate, bearing fruit despite little care or mindfulness until it became impossible to ignore.
She’d bolstered her courage, steeled her nerves, and requested a recommendation from a dear friend with knowledge of the illicit industry. A missive had been sent to the exclusive establishment and the meeting was arranged with the utmost discretion.
Men in his profession went under any number of titles, but the fact of the matter was a male prostitute was scheduled to arrive at Ariel’s home by half-nine the evening before her thirtieth birthday.
As wracked with nerves as she was, Ariel refused to spend another birthday pathetic and untouched, wondering what it would feel like to experience physical affection. She planned on performing the transaction, educating herself, and moving on with her life more worldly and more confidently than before. Even if she never married or had a family, at least she would have this night.
Now, with said caller knocking on her door, however, she was reconsidering the entire scenario.
She should have donned another persona, used a false name, andnotgiven out her address… But she couldn’t very well have rented a room at a hotel on her own (for one, she was a woman, and, two, that gossip would travel swifter than a plague) and, while she’d wracked her brain for other options for location, she’d come up short.
Though Arnold was evasive about his schedule, she knew full well her brother was spending the evening with his mistress and he never returned home until the wee hours of the following morning. She’d told their elderly, nearly deaf butler to retire early for the night and their housekeeper was off visiting her sister for two days of leave.
Two of their maids had a room above the mews behind their home. And Ariel was as alone as she could be.
There was another rap on the front door and the thumps vibrated through the brass knob and up her arm, jolting every nerve into awareness.
Just before she turned the knob, Ariel was struck by a recollection: She was quite certain she had sent instructions to knock at the back door so none wandering the streets or heading to other outings witnessed the man’s arrival. It would most certainly not do if anyone
asked questions or reported back to her brother, but she supposed it was too late to worry about that now. He was already there. She held her breath and pulled on the door.
She didn’t know what she’d expected from a fancy man—a working male hired for the feminine pleasure of the most carnal forms—but it wasn’t quite the dashing figure before her. He was tall; at least a handful of inches above her, so it was an interesting change where she had to look up into his face.
To speak of his face…it was hewn of marble. More angular, elegant lines she had never seen, even in the most beautiful male Grecian sculptures in the museum. There was a small cleft in his chin, but it served only to accentuate the sharpness of his jaw and the fullness of his lower lip. His aquiline nose led up to bold, straight slashes of dark brows that hovered above the most enchanting eyes caught somewhere between blue and steely gray. Beneath the sharp brim of his beaver hat, she could see a hint of deep brown curls. His body was mostly disguised by the voluminous fabric of a black greatcoat and, while the garment was usually designed for warmth and to exaggerate the width of the male shoulders, she sincerely doubted exquisite tailoring could create the magic standing before her. That was all God.
One of those dashing brows rose as the mesmerizing eyes focused on her and it took her a moment to realize why that was. It wasn’t the done thing for a lady to answer the door herself.
Then again, it also wasn’t the done thing for an unmarried lady to hire a male courtesan to visit her at her brother’s home and deflower her.
To his credit, he did not comment on any of it; instead, his gaze swept her from head to toe. “I have an appointment,” he said, and the surprisingly deep tone of his voice threw vibrations throughout her body, shook her so deeply that it took her several heartbeats to find her voice.
“Y–Yes. Do come in.” She stepped to the side; the man hesitated only one moment more before brushing past her. She poked her head through the doorway, her eyes darting about to survey the empty street before she ducked back inside.
She found the man’s captivating gaze assessing her with an unexpected intensity. He’d removed his hat to reveal to her that he did, indeed, have some of the most lusciously curly hair that she’d ever beheld. It was boyish and innocent, standing incongruently with the rest of his smoldering looks. She absently wondered if it was as soft as it appeared.
And then she realized she’d likely know by the end of the night.
The very thought set her cheeks ablaze and she was immensely grateful for the dim lighting left behind after the butler had doused most of the candles before retiring. She exhaled an uneven breath. How did one conduct such business? Even have a conversation? What were words, again?
“May I…take your coat for you? Your hat?” She’d never taken anyone’s coat and hat for them—had never thought to be in such a position to do so—then again, she never thought she’d proposition a man for intercourse. So, there she was. This was her life now. In for a penny, in for a pound, or so the saying went.
He cleared his throat and, very slowly, handed her his hat and swung his coat from his shoulders.
