Page 60 of A Cinderella to Redeem the Earl
‘Under the watchful eye of matchmaking mamas, dowdy dowagers and worried wives. Social strictures. Society’s reins. Here, there is only fun in elegant surroundings and no questions asked. Anonymous fun that otherwise can only be had in sordid surroundings. The French are masters of it.’
‘The rooms upstairs.’
‘Indeed. Discreet rooms for couples who wish to avail themselves of the delights within them.’
‘Those silly games are really such a draw?’
‘Now you are a partner, I suppose you ought to be aware ofallwe have on offer.’
The dark note in his voice sent a shiver of awareness down her back. She took a quick sip of her brandy and realised she had swallowed it all in one mouthful.
It slid down her throat, warm and bracing. ‘Yes. I suppose I should.’
She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.
He finished his drink. ‘Come.’ He took her hand and together they walked upstairs.
Chapter Ten
Unto the breach, as his English compatriots were so fond of saying. Damian hoped he wasn’t making a huge mistake by revealing this particular secret.
He had not been exactly lying when he said he was one of the wealthiest men in England. He held a great many vowels which, when added together with his own money, represented an enormous fortune. However, the chances of ever collecting on those mountains of debt were slender.
Indeed, he had no intention of attempting to collect on them. Or rather all of them. There was only one young man who would know the disgrace of ruin.
Yet it was hard to believe the recklessness of so many of his fellow peers. Did they even know how much they owed?
Unlike their debts to tailors and innkeepers and other tradesmen, the debts to him were considered debts of honour. Failure to pay a debt of honour had terrible consequences, should repayment be demanded and go unfulfilled. Dishonour was the thing most feared by any English gentleman.
Pamela’s dishonour would be of a different sort.
A twinge tightened his heart. It would be hard on her, but it would not change her life so very drastically. At least, not as she lived it now. It would bring dishonour to her family name, however.
She would never be permitted a place in society.
As they passed down the corridor on the first floor on the west wing, he lit the candles in the sconces beside each door. Her hand gripped his arm tightly. Clearly, she feared what he would reveal. Yet she trod boldly onwards.
Each chamber brought a different delight to his guests, as shown on the various pictures hung beside each door. It was through the last door that she would pass this evening. For some, the height of pleasure. And usually the most difficult to obtain except in the grubbiest of surroundings.
He turned the key in the lock and threw open the door beside the picture of a whip and spurs.
He held his candle aloft to pierce the gloom inside. ‘Wait there, or you might trip,’ he said quietly. ‘Let me light some lamps.’
‘Oh, my,’ she said, as light gradually filled the room and revealed all its glory. ‘It’s positively medieval.’
He tried to see it through her eyes. The whips and restraints hanging on the walls. The long bare marble table gleaming white. The metal bars of the triangular whipping post. The schoolroom birch twigs in varying widths and lengths neatly hanging from hooks. The velvet cushions strewn on the floor in one corner offering a place for comfort.
She turned slowly around, then walked here and there, touching the implements of pleasure-pain. There was an odd expression on her face. It was not one of shock or horror, but rather of curiosity.
She picked up one of the whips and looked at him. ‘They use these whips?’
His body hardened. He turned away from her. He had no wish to scare her off.
‘They?’
‘The men. They whip the women. I have never seen anyone come down looking beaten. They always look...’
‘Well pleasured.’
