Lord Wickham, Mr. Craiggorm—a fellow Scot—and Sir Elliot. Not terrible prospects altogether, but none of them deserving of her hand.
“All of these men have agreed to accept a bride?”
“You leave that to me. You’ve enough to worry about. Once she’s off your hands, you can resume your efforts to pay back what you owe on your family’s house faster than Lord Meed can convince me to sell it, but time is not your friend, Mr. Chase. I can only hold him off for so long.”
“He’ll give up whether he wants to or not,” Tristan grumbled.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon chuckled. “I adore your fighting spirit, Mr. Chase. But don’t let your prejudice against gambling get in the way of Miss Brandon’s salvation.”
Tristan stood and turned away, but he couldn’t resist. “What is it? What is she so afraid of? I think I should know.”
“Then ask her yourself.”
Chapter Three
Felicity sat onthe balcony on a spindly, wrought iron chair dropping little bits of bread for the gathering pigeons. This morning had shaken her, much as she tried to forget it. But she couldn’t stop feeling the hands that had pulled at her dress. It didn’t matter that it was a maid and a seamstress. Her vision had gone black, and she couldn’t breathe.
The glass door opened behind her, and Felicity turned, smiling as one of the courtesans stepped out and lit her cheroot. Lucia was her name, and she’d come from Spain. She had long black hair past her waist and red lips with a deep cupid’s bow. She smiled in greeting at Felicity while taking a long pull and blowing it out elegantly. She arched her neck and lifted her face to the warm sun peeking through the clouds.
Felicity jerked when she saw the bruised spots on Lucia’s pale neck.
“You’re hurt?”
Lucia cocked her head. “I am?”
Felicity’s heart pounded as she touched her own neck.
Lucia laughed. “Oh, those? Love bites, not good for my profession,but Hugh loves to mark me like I belong to him, the fool. I’ll wear a scarf until they fade.”
Felicity blinked. “Love bites?” Those bruises did not make her think of love.
“From kisses, dear.” Lucia leaned against the wall and studied her. “I forget you’re not one of us.”
“I beg your pardon?” Felicity crumpled the bread in her hand. She thought she’d found some comradery here, even with these women who traded their bodies for money. From afar, she’d been taught to judge them, but once she’d met the women who worked at the Den, she found them to be kind, independent women.
“A lady.”
“Oh no, I’m not—”
“Don’t look so downtrodden, dove. I won’t tell. We’ve all got secrets here.”
Felicity pursed her lips. So much for her secret identity. At least no one—almost no one—knew her real name. “Do they hurt?” Felicity asked in curiosity.
She lightly touched them. “No, they feel marvelous.”
Felicity’s eyes widened.
Lucia giggled. “You sweet, innocent thing.”
Felicity deflated. “Not so innocent.” And yet she didn’t understand anything about men and women or how something that would bruise the skin could feel good. Her bruises had felt like torture. Even after they’d long disappeared, she could see them. Handprints on her shoulders and hip. She’d stopped looking in the mirror at her body.
The other chair scrapped against the stone as Lucia sat across from her, the hungry pigeons scattering.
“Miss Smith, I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean?”
Felicity shook her head. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face says enough.”
