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She wasn’t accustomed to wearing anything tighter than loosely tied cotton stays. The corset thrust up her breasts and squeezed her midriff smaller.
The knowledge that she was wearing a silk corset from Paris and fine Swiss lace-trimmed garters under her plain cotton gown made her feel more in control, more seductive and alluring.
This was a garment designed with only one aim: to inflame a man’s lust.
Building fences required heavy hammers.
Writing needed a sharpened quill.
This corset was the tool Alice required to speak Nick’s language.
She could satisfy her curiosity, and improve her translation, without losing her head... or her heart.
Nick led her to an excessively large bed framed by beeswax candles burning in tall candelabras. Were those rose petals strewn across the pale green silk counterpane?
He’d prepared.
“So this is the notorious bedchamber of the infamous Lord Hatherly,” she said.
“This is where the magic happens, Dimples.”
“That is, without a doubt, the most enormous bed I have ever seen. It’s more of a small island than a bed. You could fit ten brides upon it.”
“That’s a few too many, even for me,” he quipped, walking to a nearby table.
“You mean you’ve had more than one woman here at the same time?” She glanced at the bed with renewed interest, nervously twirling an escaped lock of hair around her forefinger.
“Occasionally.” He caught her eye and winked. “One will do tonight.”
“The first time I met you, you had a woman on each arm.”
“Ah yes, the Satine twins.”
“They were twins?”
“Not really, they liked to call themselves twins. They came from an opera house in Paris. I bought them passage to London for one of my entertainments.”
“Perhaps you do have more in common with Eastern culture than I supposed.”
“I never kept a harem. But I don’t want to talk about my past.”
“How many women have you had here over the years?”
“Let’s not quantify such things.”
“Ten?” Silence. “Twenty?”
“What’s in a number?”
More than twenty? Good gracious. Alice felt light-headed.
Courtesans. Bored wives. Worldly, seductive ladies with sophisticated tastes. What was she doing here? All of a sudden it seemed almost ludicrous.
She was no practiced seductress. No French opera singer.
“What happens the next day?” she asked.
“In the morning they leave. Glowing and satisfied. I’m usually a stepping-stone for them. Sharing my bed is a badge of honor, of sorts.”
