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She had learned a few things as a cobbler’s daughter. That the higher the cost, the more people perceived value. That beauty had to be combined with uniqueness.
And that men could sometimes be blinded by their need.
Her first lover had been a very wealthy cit and he was pleased beyond measure to have such a beautiful lover that he hadn’t noticed her lack of skills. But she learned quickly. And what she didn’t know, she’d found out through discreet inquiry. It was astounding what women would share about male sexual proclivities. The molls at Vauxhall had been very willing to tell Isabelle their trade secrets, for a price.
Dorian held his glass between his hands, looking her over. She imagined he kept his innermost desire to bed her under control. He was reputed to be a virile man and she was doing her best to tempt him. His restraint was impressive.
“I feel certain that they would have been happy to give me all the bastards they could breed on me, but then that doesn’t make for a smart or wealthy whore, does it?”
He chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”
His voice made her feel safe. His laugh had come suddenly and made her feel warm and appreciated.
Still on her knees, she picked up one of his feet. He watched without saying a word. Tugging off one soft leather Hessian boot, she placed his stockinged foot in her lap. She bared his foot, placing the rolled-up stocking beside her on the thick Isfahan carpet. His toes wiggled at the freedom. The heat of his gaze burned warmer than the sputtering fire.
With one hand, she rubbed along the top of his foot, brushing the small hairs on his toes. Sounds of happiness were her stock in trade. She heard his sigh, his breath coming out in a long, relaxed release. His head lolled back against the chair.
Since she’d turned nineteen, she’d had to choose men for one quality. The fatness of their purse. And each and every one of them had had her within a half an hour of payment.
Dorian seemed content to let her rub his feet the rest of the afternoon. In the quiet of the room, the fire crackled. His breathing cadence added to the comforting prelude to seduction. Isabelle moved, then pulled at his other boot and stocking.
She sat cross-legged, massaging him from the back of his calves to the end of his toes. He sat with his eyes closed, occasionally lifting his glass to his lips for a sip of brandy.
When he spoke, she jerked in surprise. “What do you normally do in an afternoon?” he asked, peering at her from beneath lowered lids.
She grinned. A little over a month ago, she’d ridden her horse across the grassy fields at home, racing her younger brother to the stables, trying to get home before the rainstorm broke. They didn’t make it. “Ride my horse, Cleopatra. Race my brother. His horse is named Marc Antony. Sired out of Blacklock.” She’d been thrilled to buy the horse for her brother. Men and their horses—she knew the conversations that interested them.
A pleasant warmth suffused her skin as she thought about her home in Italy. Her grandmother, her only living relative besides her brother, lived there. Isabelle had purchased a lovely villa near Napoli where they all lived in modest comfort. Christian, her brother, knew of her trade and while he didn’t approve, he remembered their life before. She knew practicality outweighed his pride as he saw her off for England each year—that didn’t stop him from voicing his objections though.
Dorian cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with her answer. “I meant what do you normally do with your…”
“Oh.” She hung her head for a moment, embarrassed she’d shared something personal he didn’t want to know about. “Well, I guess I ride, but in the way of whores,” she said, her tone a bit more biting than she intended.
Dorian gazed into her eyes, intent and domineering. “I have a couple rules of my own. Don’t call yourself a whore again in my presence.”
She smoothed her hand over the top of his foot. “As you wish.”
He lifted his feet from her lap and leaned toward her. He peered at her upturned face, looking as though he wished to say something. Stroking her skin with the back of his hand, he rubbed the pad of his thumb along the plump flesh of her lips. The soft puff of her breath caressed the back of his hand.
He held out his hand, palm up. “Come.”
Getting to her feet, Isabelle stood before him. He tugged gently and she settled into his lap.
This she knew.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and slid her fingers through his hair. Her lips met his, only he didn’t respond. Her heart lurched. Men always responded.
Again, she nipped at his lips, but nothing.
“Would you like something else?” she asked.
Dorian shifted, pulling one of her legs over the arm of the chair. He gazed into her eyes while he slid his hot hand under her rail. Underneath, she wore nothing. “Isabelle, this isn’t about duty. This isn’t a job. It’s about pleasure.”
When his hand passed her knee, she swallowed back the sudden anxiety. She liked to be in control and suddenly she found herself with a man who seemed bent on controlling her. The tip of his finger brushed between her thighs. A small gasp escaped her lips.
A frown creased his brow. “So long at this game and you’re still as dry as the desert.” His hand still stroked. “And a pretty blush too. Are you really the Westminster Whore or an impostor?”
She pushed at her gown and struggled to extricate herself from his lap before he exposed the secrets that were meant for later.
