Page 19 of Their Master

Bernina’s was a small brothel and didn’t have enough space to give every employee a room of their own. As the newest worker, Moira had to share a room with a whore named Julia, a woman nobody liked. Because the brothel operated around the clock, the day was divided into two shifts. That was good for people sharing rooms as they rarely had to see one another. But if the person was noisy and inconsiderate—like Julia—it meant you had to be a sound sleeper.

Unfortunately, Moira slept as lightly as a cat, so she’d begun to stuff wads of batting in her ears, but that didn’t muffle the slamming of doors or Julia’s carrying on with her sometimes-lover, Becky, one of the chambermaids.

Luckily Julia would be gone from their room because she worked day shift so at least Moira wouldn’t have to tolerate her presence while she dressed for her appointment Smith.

Moira owned five outfits and rotated them by day. Today’s dress was a cream gown that was trimmed with narrow heliotrope ribbon. All she wore beneath it was a single petticoat, plain stockings, and a chemise.

Cecile didn’t require her employees to buy a large, expensive wardrobe like Marie did. It had always irked Moira that she’d been forced to spend so much of her hard-earned money on clothing that she could only wear a few times. God forbid some man saw his demimondaine wearing a dress she’d once worn for another.

Madame Cecile also allowed her employees a more casual sort of clothing—not the formal layers upon layers that Parisian society demanded, even of its whores.

The tiny dressing table she shared with Julia was piled high with the other women’s pots and vials and powders. All Moira kept on the crowded table was a small tin of lip grease and her tortoiseshell comb and brush set, the only gift she’d ever received from her father. He’d sent it to her on her eighteenth birthday, when she’d joined the family business.

She knew theComtehadn’t chosen the gift himself. Likely her mother had assigned the task to some servant.

Moira plaited her vulgar red hair and then pinned it up in an elegant twist, the only style possible with such long, unruly curls.

Once she was ready, she stared at her reflection. The thought of failing her family—failing her beloved sister’s memory—wasn’t just demoralizing, it was unacceptable.

Tonight, the impossible had happened and Smith had decided to give Moira a second chance.

She could not fail this time; shehadto ensnare him.

∞∞∞

Moira was even smaller than Smith recalled, a good eight inches shorter than his own five-foot-nine. Tonight, her slender form was garbed in a simple but tasteful ivory gown with a hint of dark purple on the sleeves and hem.

Her heart-shaped face was as he remembered, as was her copper-colored hair, which was caught up in an elegant knot.

“Good evening, sir.” She dropped a curtsey that was breathtaking in its gracefulness, another characteristic he recalled from their prior visit.

“Good evening, Moira. Come, sit with me.” He led her to nearby settee, poured her a glass of wine, and sat beside her, close enough that their thighs touched.

“Moira is a lovely name—Scottish, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you raised in Scotland?” If he’d not been staring at her he would have missed the way her sea-green eyes shuttered.

“No, sir. I grew up in London.”

She was lying to him—why?

“Is that so? For some reason I thought I detected an accent. In what part of the city did you live?”

“On Cleveland Street.”

She held his gaze for longer than most dishonest people before dropping her eyes to her hands; hands which lay loosely clasped in her lap.

Smith ran a light finger across the narrow ribbon that banded her puffed sleeve. “I’ve thought about you often these past weeks.” That made her look up, her brilliant blue-green eyes widening.

Smith stroked the sweet curve of her jaw with the back of his fingers; she reminded him of a fairy creature: delicate, mysterious, and intriguing—and ready to flee if startled.

“You gave me a great deal of pleasure the last time I was with you,” he continued, enjoying the faint flush his words elicited. He’d been half-hard since she’d entered the room and the slight quickening in her breathing brought him to full mast. It was almost embarrassing to become aroused so quickly—like a boy in his first whorehouse—but Smith didn’t care. He wanted her. Now.

His intention had been to become better acquainted, but that would have to happen after he’d taken the sharp edge off his hunger.

He smiled, amused by his own eagerness. “Open my trousers, Moira.”

---