She’d been betrayed before. She could survive it. And her Briarley heart was focused, now, entirely on survival. “May I ask the name of your friend?”
“No. He shared his need with me in confidence. I won’t break his trust until you are ready to sign the contracts.”
“How do I know we’ll suit?”
“You’ll suit,” Somerville said. “I’ve heard you say that you like him well enough. But you understand why I cannot tell you his name.”
She understood. And she didn’t blame Somerville, or his mysterious friend, for their caution.
She hadn’t understood when she had made her agreement with Somerville. He had offered her the same terms that he offered now — mistress in name only, no need to fuck him in exchange for a bed to sleep in.
Not that he’d ever used that word with her. He always treated her like the lady she used to be. She’d heard it from others, whispered in shadowed gardens or drunken masquerades, when Somerville wasn’t next to her and others wanted to lure her away. There was something heady and dangerous about that word, a word she never should have heard spoken in her presence — would never have heard, perhaps, if she had remained Miss Briarley.
She was supposed to have married some perfect prince of a man, one who would have swept her off her feet. One who would never say anything inappropriate to her.
One who would have left her in their townhouse, with their babies, too perfectly behaved for a word like “fuck,” while he pursued his real pleasures elsewhere.
Octavia was losing her composure. She fought to rein herself in. Wasn’t it better if she found a protector who didn’t want to use her body?
If Somerville’s friend shared his inclinations, she knew she’d never have to fear that the man would change his mind. She hadn’t entirely believed Somerville when he had said that he wouldn’t take her to bed — even at eighteen, she hadn’t been naïve enough to think that anyone would pay her way without demanding something in return. But what he used her for was exactly what he had said he wanted. He only required that she dress well, speak appropriately, and host grand parties for his political connections. He had never asked for anything more than that.
She chose not to dwell on that one night, six months into their arrangement, when she had tried to seduce him. She had worn the filmiest chemise she owned, dampened to translucence. She had waited for him, knowing he would come to her room after the party to compare notes on what their guests had said.
But he hadn’t kissed her. He had looked at her, disbelieving.
She had wanted to die from mortification.
He’d been sweet about it — almost painfully kind, telling her that she was the most beautiful woman in creation, and one of the smartest besides. She hadn’t believed any of it. Her flush had spread from her toes to her hair. Gooseflesh had raised against the dampened chemise and shame had burned through her veins until she’d wanted to cry. She had held back her tears and ordered him to leave.
He’d hugged her then. Hugged her, as though she were a child, not a woman he might have made love to.
And then he had whispered in her ear that there was no woman for him. That she would be it, if he were capable. But….
Here he had drawn a breath, hugging her tighter, until she wasn’t sure whether he was still comforting her, or whether he was comforting himself. And he’d whispered, even more quietly, so low that she wasn’t sure she’d heard it correctly, that he didn’t wish to sleep with a woman.
They had never spoken of that night again.
That memory stretched between them now as she met his gaze. Her love had softened, faded, until it was something a sister might feel for a brother. And she had pitied him, to some extent, when she thought about it. Somerville was entirely too consumed with his political career, but he had been kind to her when no one else was. His preferences in the bedroom
“No. He shared his need with me in confidence. I won’t break his trust until you are ready to sign the contracts.”
“How do I know we’ll suit?”
“You’ll suit,” Somerville said. “I’ve heard you say that you like him well enough. But you understand why I cannot tell you his name.”
She understood. And she didn’t blame Somerville, or his mysterious friend, for their caution.
She hadn’t understood when she had made her agreement with Somerville. He had offered her the same terms that he offered now — mistress in name only, no need to fuck him in exchange for a bed to sleep in.
Not that he’d ever used that word with her. He always treated her like the lady she used to be. She’d heard it from others, whispered in shadowed gardens or drunken masquerades, when Somerville wasn’t next to her and others wanted to lure her away. There was something heady and dangerous about that word, a word she never should have heard spoken in her presence — would never have heard, perhaps, if she had remained Miss Briarley.
She was supposed to have married some perfect prince of a man, one who would have swept her off her feet. One who would never say anything inappropriate to her.
One who would have left her in their townhouse, with their babies, too perfectly behaved for a word like “fuck,” while he pursued his real pleasures elsewhere.
Octavia was losing her composure. She fought to rein herself in. Wasn’t it better if she found a protector who didn’t want to use her body?
If Somerville’s friend shared his inclinations, she knew she’d never have to fear that the man would change his mind. She hadn’t entirely believed Somerville when he had said that he wouldn’t take her to bed — even at eighteen, she hadn’t been naïve enough to think that anyone would pay her way without demanding something in return. But what he used her for was exactly what he had said he wanted. He only required that she dress well, speak appropriately, and host grand parties for his political connections. He had never asked for anything more than that.
She chose not to dwell on that one night, six months into their arrangement, when she had tried to seduce him. She had worn the filmiest chemise she owned, dampened to translucence. She had waited for him, knowing he would come to her room after the party to compare notes on what their guests had said.
But he hadn’t kissed her. He had looked at her, disbelieving.
She had wanted to die from mortification.
He’d been sweet about it — almost painfully kind, telling her that she was the most beautiful woman in creation, and one of the smartest besides. She hadn’t believed any of it. Her flush had spread from her toes to her hair. Gooseflesh had raised against the dampened chemise and shame had burned through her veins until she’d wanted to cry. She had held back her tears and ordered him to leave.
He’d hugged her then. Hugged her, as though she were a child, not a woman he might have made love to.
And then he had whispered in her ear that there was no woman for him. That she would be it, if he were capable. But….
Here he had drawn a breath, hugging her tighter, until she wasn’t sure whether he was still comforting her, or whether he was comforting himself. And he’d whispered, even more quietly, so low that she wasn’t sure she’d heard it correctly, that he didn’t wish to sleep with a woman.
They had never spoken of that night again.
That memory stretched between them now as she met his gaze. Her love had softened, faded, until it was something a sister might feel for a brother. And she had pitied him, to some extent, when she thought about it. Somerville was entirely too consumed with his political career, but he had been kind to her when no one else was. His preferences in the bedroom
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