In the Flesh by Portia Da Costa Read Free Book Online

with pragmatism. Well-bred young women weren’t supposed to even be aware of such negotiations, but they could easily be discovered in sensational fiction and the rags like Marriott’s Monde were full of them. The ladies of the Sewing Circle whispered and giggled and chewed over such scandals of the demimonde with relish.
    I’m standing at the edge a cliff top. One step and I’ll tumble over. Unable to prevent herself, Beatrice pressed her hand to her bosom. Surely her heart was thundering so much the palpitations were visible? But if I don’t plunge, it’s utter ruin for Charlie and me anyway.
    How much worse could this be than losing everything? She knew she could survive somehow, get lodgings, and obtain some kind of modest employment. The idea of the typewriting machine ever intrigued her. But Charlie? For all his bravado he was more helpless and without a clue than she’d ever been.
    “For how long?” She drew in a breath, narrowed her eyes and looked Ritchie in his eyes. “For how long would you…you require me?”
    “Require you?” Behind those dark blue eyes, Beatrice imagined she saw the whirring cogs of some infernal calculating machine.
    “Come, Mr. Ritchie, we both know that it’s nothing so noble as an engagement or marriage that you’re offering in return for your largesse. If it were, you’d be all kisses on the hand and tender words and a request to present yourself to my brother and I for tea.”
    “You’re very astute, Beatrice. I like that. I see we can proceed.” His hand loosened on her arm, and with a twist of the wrist, he drew the back of it across her chest, his knuckle trailing across one breast and lingering lovingly against her nipple through her dress and corsetry.
    Even through the layers, the way he circled the little crest of flesh was demonic. Her nipple puckered, though he was barely touching it, and again, ripples of sensation surged through her body, centering between her thighs. Was she such a sensualist, a woman so easy that even the tiniest of caresses could work her into a frenzy?
    Is that really such a very bad thing?
    The question was relevant. The boundaries of her beliefs and her values were shifting and metamorphosing. She was no longer the woman who’d arrived here tonight.
    It was time to call the arrangement by its name.
    “For how long do you require me as your whore, Mr. Ritchie? I’ll enter into an agreement with you, but I insist on a finite period of time. After that, I’ll simply forget you ever laid a finger on me.”
    Still stroking her breast, he laughed. It was a strangely young, happy sound and as he threw back his head, his white teeth glinted in the lamplight.
    “You’re very wise to set conditions, Beatrice. If I was selling my body for money, I’d do exactly the same.” Then he lunged closer, his breath on her neck as he whispered in her ear, the scent of his shaving lotion coiling in her brain. “But I’m not sure you’ll be able to forget my fingers quite so easily. Would you like a little demonstration?” It didn’t seem that he needed an answer. Reaching for the fullness of her skirts, he began hauling the heavy mass of them upward again. “A little sample of what we might expect…for you and for me.”
    He planted a hard, hungry kiss on the side of her neck, and then went at her skirts with his whole attention, lifting all the layers of petticoats so he could get both hands under them. French faille and lace, cotton and linen, all rumpled like an ocean of haberdashery, but Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was clearly a master mariner in those waters.
    I should stop him. It’s too soon. Too great a liberty.
    He intended yet more than he’d already achieved, she knew that, but within moments, she was holding up her skirts to help him while he slid his fingers into the vent of her drawers.
    Thanking providence she’d chosen an open undergarment this evening, for ease when wearing a multiplicity of petticoats, Beatrice bumped backward