Page 33 of Cocky August Rake

He could hear no more. “Perhaps it is safer here. Perhaps your rules make it less cruel than the places I have seen.”

His hand flattened against the desk.

“But it doesn’t change the fact that men arrive with money and women give their bodies in return.”

He met her eyes. She kept silent.

“So forgive me if guards at the doors and fine furnishings fail to impress me. However carefully it is managed, men come to this place to purchase women.”

“No one owns us.”

“It is prostitution.”

Miss Darling went perfectly still.

Not the composed stillness he had noticed before. This was harder. Colder. A door closing behind her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

There was no shame in her voice.

For reasons Reginald could not explain, that unsettled him more than anger or defensiveness would have.

The enigmatic woman who had haunted his dreams for weeks rose and smoothed her skirts.

“It seems nothing I say today will change your mind.” That should have settled the matter, but then— “We should begin your tour before the patrons arrive.”

She crossed the room and opened the door without waiting to see if he would follow.

Reginald did.

THE TOUR

Rose led Lord Reginald down the elegant staircase and into the main lounge.

And with his words still ringing in her ears, she couldn’t help but see it through his eyes.

The velvet wall coverings. The amber glow of lamps against polished wood. Sensual paintings displayed in gilt frames, their subjects draped in silk and suggestion rather than innocence. Every inch of the room had been designed to make indulgence appear civilized. Luxurious. Almost respectable.

She was not ashamed of what she did.

She was not.

But The Domus had not been some bright, fearless choice. It had become her home because everything beyond its doors was crueler and far more dangerous.

She had chosen the best life the world had to offer a woman like her.

And she hated that anyone, especially her mystery man from the ball, would use the truth of that to hurt her.

She hadn’t expected that.

But she had a job to do, so none of that mattered. None of that could matter.

She led him into the kitchens first.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Frye.” Rose forced herself to be cheerful, introducing him to the staff that created and served meals morning, noon, and night. The supper they were preparing for tonight was a simple stew, but the vegetables were vibrant and fresh, the meat dripping with a healthy amount of fat. Loaves of bread were baking in the oven even as more dough was being rolled out at a service station, and all of these smells permeated the entire room in a mouthwatering combination.

All the while, Rose was aware of him noticing the gleaming counters and the well-swept floors.