Page 3 of Their Master

“You’re a reserved, mysterious little thing, aren’t you?”

Like any good whore, Moira had been trained to conceal any emotions other than admiration from the wealthy and powerful clientele she’d served over the years.

But mysterious? No. She was about as mysterious as one of the bland tea biscuits the English seemed to love so much. Or at least she was bland when compared with her parents and her tall, elegant, and darkly handsome siblings.

Moira looked nothing like the rest of her family. She was a throwback to her diminutive, Scottish grandmother—barely five feet tall, pale and freckled, and as curvaceous as a plank—a resemblance that embarrassed her statuesque mother and regal father.

Smith pinched her already hard nipples, drawing a ragged gasp from her. “These are beautiful.”

It was a night for firsts; in all her twenty-five years nobody had ever called Moira’s insignificant breasts beautiful—not even the men who’d preferred her exactlybecauseshe was so flat that she could convincingly masquerade as a young boy.

She was stupid to be surprised at his words. After all, her boyish appearance was why her parents had chosen her to come all this way: because Smith preferred his female lovers to be androgynous.

They had considered sending Moira’s brother Etienne, first—since Smith enjoyed the full spectrum of male body types, from over-muscled brutes to slight, dainty men—but Moira was the most expendable member of her family.

Etienne wasn’t just beautiful; he was also currently under the protection of the Duc de Montaigne and earning their family a great deal of money. Etienne was also clever and managed all the bookkeeping for the family’s business, ensuring that the venerated Maison Bardot continued to prosper and maintain its much-vaunted reputation for producing the finest courtesans in France.

There were no wealthy dukes lusting after Moira and she had no head for accounting, so she’d been sent to England to capture and bring home her family’s greatest enemy.

Not that she’d done much toward that goal. She’d been in London almost eleven months and tonight was the first time she’d managed to get into the same room as Maximus Proteus Nicolaides, the real name of the man who’d spent the last thirty years of his life known only as Mr. Smith.

Moira had begun to worry that Smith would nevernotice her. More than once she’d toyed with the notion of pursuing him, but Marie’s warnings had been explicit: “Nicolaides is a man who enjoys the hunt far more than the kill; never show him anything other than reserve. Always be just beyond reach. That is what all men want—a challenge—and Nicolaides with all his wealth and power needs that thrill more than most.”

And so Moira had been forced to exercise patience, and lots of it.

It had taken her three months just to get hired at Bernina’s, Smith’s preferred—and exclusive—brothel.

If Madame Cecile had known Moira was a Bardot, she would have hired her without a second thought. But Marie had spent thousands of francs and many months to carefully construct Moira’s false background and hide any connection to either Maison Bardot or the Bardot family, so she’d needed to impress the madam with her abilities and persistence.

But working at Bernina’s didn’t necessarily guarantee a person access to Smith.

Week in and week out Moira had watched as the powerful, sexually rapacious, businessman had taken men, women, or both but never her.

Smith wasn’t just flexible in the matter of gender; he also enjoyed both ends of a flogger or crop—a unique characteristic in Moira’s experience—and she’d heard that he administered whippings as beautifully as he endured them.

His sexual tastes were so varied that she’d begun to believe her mother’s assessment was wrong and that Moira held no special appeal for such a man.

As the days had turned into weeks Moira had despaired that he’d ever notice her. Then, earlier that evening—ten months and twenty-six days after she’d stepped off the packet from France—Smith’s roving gaze had landed on her.

“What are you thinking about?” Smith asked.

The question startled her. It also reminded her that she was a fool for allowing her mind to wander in his presence.

“Nothing,” she lied.

“Nothing at all?” he teased.

“I was thinking how wonderful your hand feels.” That was true enough.

“How prettily you lie.” His eyes narrowed. “How long have you worked here?” he asked, the question far too close to her recent musing for Moira’s comfort.

“Six months.”

“How is it that I didn’t notice you until tonight?”

“Perhaps I’m not very noticeable.”

He laughed, his obvious dismissal of her words flattering. “I think I’m just not very observant.”

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