Chapter Four

After an interminable week of waiting, Friday night had arrived. Cain sneaked the attire for her disguise into her room after dinner. He placed the items—a stiffly starched white shirt, black suspenders, a pair of pinstripe black trousers, and one pair of outrageous, enormous shoes on a chair. Olivia knew she’d have to stuff the latter with newsprint. For the final touch, he plopped a wide-brimmed straw hat on the pile.

"You can’t be serious," she said.

"Perfectly. Pull the hat down low when you’re meandering through the corridors."

"Tell me about the brothel," she said, hoping Cain could prepare her for the excursion.

"Immortelles caters to the elite of Savannah. Located three blocks from the District Court building, it’s a three-story structure the size of a city block. Inside is a parlor, an elegant dining room and the most attractive of the city’s estimated one-hundred soiled doves."

"One hundred?"

"Yes," he replied. "Prostitution is not a crime, you know." With his hand on the door latch, and about to leave, he turned to her. "Lark is suspicious these days. Just this morning she said, ‘Something noxious is in the air.’"

"Perhaps she was referring to the manure in the fields," Olivia said with a smile.

Cain ducked into the hallway and called out, "I think not."

After adding crushed white tea roses and oil of jasmine to the water, Olivia took a bath. Then she brushed her long hair until her scalp tingled, tied it in a knot at the top of her head and donned the clothes. Resembling inflated gunnysacks, the trousers hung from her hips, not to mention their ungainly length. She stepped into the shoes, hoping they would help, but in the end, scrunched the britches around her waist and secured them with a leather belt. The oversized shirt wasn’t much better. She rolled the sleeves up and tucked the extra fabric into the trousers. Facing the full-length mirror, she did a little half-spin and frowned. Good heavens, she resembled a country bumpkin and could no more pass for a member of the gentry than Cinderella.

The mantle clock chimed eight times. In another hour, the Bedouin sheik of her every thought would arrive. She could either spend it reading her most recent purchase—two volumes of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, including A Drama of Exile and her favorite, Lady Geraldine’s Courtship—or daydream about Morgan. She chose the latter.

At a quarter of nine, she rose from the bed and pulled her long cloak from a hook near her armoire. With a final glance in the mirror, and satisfied her attire was concealed, she plucked the straw hat from her bed and left the room. She tiptoed down the stairs with the unassuming presence of a church mouse, confident Cain and Lark had left an hour ago to play whist with the Marchands. The servants remained in the manor, and there wasn’t one among them who would dare to question or stop her, except Cook. She tiptoed past the kitchen with her heart in her throat and, after opening the massive front doors, slipped onto the porch. Thank God punctuality ranked high on Morgan’s list of priorities, for as she looked down the long drive, his black-lacquered coach appeared.

Moments later and seated across from the decadent creature, Olivia noted her heart kept time with the wheels of the coach as it scurried away from L’Esperance.

His hoarse, mellifluous drawl drew her gaze. "Let’s have a look; open the cloak."

She unbuttoned the garment, allowing it to fall from her shoulders. "Well, what do you think?"

"I think you look absurd, couldn’t fool me even if I was falling-down-drunk."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," she said.

"Still time to back out, change your mind."

"Not on your sweet life, Morgan. Have you any idea what pains I had to go through to get this far?"

Detachment fit the man like a glove, never more so than now as a shoulder rose and he said, "Suit yourself."

"Would it be an imposition on your cold heart if I asked what to expect upon our arrival?"

"Voyeurs, in the true sense of the word, find the element of surprise stimulating. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to begin." In a smug tone that told her he enjoyed watching her squirm like an eel, he added, "Prepare those innocent eyes for everything and anything."

She wanted to claw that superior look from his face with razor-sharp talons, but remembered her objective and opted for passivity. "You will be waiting for me..."

"Yes."

She flinched when he snapped out the word.

"Set your pocket watch for midnight, and I’ll do the same."

Several long minutes later, the coach halted. Morgan climbed down and assisted her out. She could do nothing about her quaking knees, but stuffed her trembling hands into the pockets of her cloak. The coach lurched forward again, and she cried out, "My hat, Morgan, I left it on the seat!"

The horses came to a stiff-legged arrest at his whistle, the driver turning the transport around in the middle of the street. Morgan retrieved her hat, exchanged it for the cloak, and then led her through a side door of L’Amour Immortelles.

When they stepped inside, her eyes stung. Unaccustomed to the smoke and the sweet, sickening aroma accompanying it, she held back a gag. To her left, a grand parlor flooded her vision. Even in the dim light, the room dripped sensuality. Decorated in rich fabrics of scarlet and eggplant, numerous tapestry settees lined the walls. Pink-shaded oil lamps flickered throughout, and an assortment of tapered candles cast seductive shadows in every darkened corner. Intoxicating scents wafted around her—flowers, woods, meadows, and one hauntingly familiar aroma.

She turned to Morgan. "Do I smell jasmine and white tea roses?"

"Quite possibly. Madame Rousseau is a connoisseur of perfumes and oils."

He grabbed her elbow and ushered her down a long, narrow corridor until they arrived at a pink door. She steadied herself as he rapped three times and then the door opened. Petite, and younger than Olivia had imagined, Madame Rousseau’s russet hair and expressive brown eyes contrasted with her fair, flawless skin. The woman welcomed her with a warm smile before addressing Morgan, "I’ll take over now; you can return in an hour."

For a brief moment, Olivia had the sudden urge to fling herself into Morgan’s arms, confess she’d made a horrendous mistake and wanted to go home, but stubborn pride prevented her from acting on the impulse. Thank goodness the feeling passed, for the next time she looked up, the prince of her dreams had vanished.

Madame Rousseau engaged in conciliatory small talk for several minutes and then led her down another long, dark corridor with more doors than Olivia could count. At the end of the hallway, the woman stopped, turned the knob, and pushed the door open. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the murky light provided by the single wall lantern with a pink shade, replicas to those in the parlor. The woman pushed aside a tiny curtain on the wall where two small holes had been drilled into the wood paneling.

"Please, Miss." She pointed to a cushy wing back. "Sit here."

An odd tingle of excitement raced down her spine as she lowered herself onto the chair.

"I shall leave you now and return in one hour."

Not trusting her voice, Olivia nodded.

Madame Rousseau studied her for a spell. "Should you decide to leave the room prior to my return, turn left after you exit and follow the corridor until you come to a mahogany door. Once you’ve passed through it, take another right and that will lead you to my suite. I’m certain you’ll recognize the pink door."

"Yes, very well." Olivia squeaked out the words. "Will someone enter soon?"

"Shortly," Madame Rousseau whispered and with a reassuring smile left the room, closing the door behind her.

Olivia stuck her nose to the wall and scanned the room through the peephole. A canopy of billowing red silk framed the four-poster bed, and nude portraits of men and women, their limbs entwined, graced the walls. Soft light from tapered candles on the nightstand enhanced the carnal ambience, and the heady fragrances of patchouli, mandarin leaf and a sweet, spicy aroma reminiscent of cinnamon overpowered her.

Jumpier than a skittish colt, Olivia jerked back as the door to the room opened. Playful laughter preceded the woman leading the man to the bed. She eased him down by placing her hands on his broad shoulders. Long in limb, every muscle tightly knit, deep furrows marked his olive skin, reminding Olivia of an old salt that had lived too many days beneath a pitiless sun. The man wrapped his gold-capped tooth around the pipe in his hand and drew from it. A dense, gray smoke and the same sharp aroma Olivia noticed upon entering the brothel drifted through the room. With a smile, the woman took the pipe from him, laid it between her scarlet lips and inhaled.

Her breasts firm and full, her waist narrow and her legs long, the dove exuded sensuality. She removed the green satin gown, one slow button at a time, allowing it to pool at her feet. At her come-hither smile, he rose from the bed and removed the rest of her clothing—the crimson bustier, the pale white stockings and black garters cinching her thighs— until she stood naked.

The man drew her into his arms and delivered a slow, languid kiss to her lips, easing her down to the mattress. His hot gaze wandered over her, not with disrespect, but with reverent appreciation. He joined her on the bed and suckled her breasts. A fire erupted in Olivia’s stomach and spread upward as his rough hands skimmed the soft flesh of the woman’s belly and parted her milky white thighs. His fingers disappeared, the dove’s eyes closed, and her head lolled side to side. Strange sounds left her lips, pained moans, throaty ahs, and a strangled syllable that sounded similar to yes, yes, and yes.

Olivia watched them with wide eyes, aware something wondrous occurred when the woman’s toes curled and a string of staccato mutterings filled the room. A prolonged silence followed, during which no one spoke, but breathed heavily. This included Olivia. The courtesan opened her eyes, gave him a gratuitous smile and watched him slide down her body. With his face between her legs, his fingers digging into the flesh of her buttocks, the woman clutched the bedrails for dear life and bucked against his mouth. Like a demon had taken hold of her soul, unintelligible mutterings spewed from her throat as her body stiffened, and long moments later fell into a withered limp.

Olivia squirmed in the chair, wondering if her predilection to voyeurism would evolve into a lifelong affliction. The thought flew from her head like milkweed floss when the man rose, rolled his trousers down his hips and kicked them across the room. Inching her way to the edge of the bed, the woman took his engorged member in her hands and stroked it.

The sensual, languid motion of her fingers sliding up and down the thick shaft sent quivers through Olivia’s body. The man watched her with his eyes half-closed, his mouth open. She licked the thick-ridged tip of his erection and with her mouth stretched wide, took it in and swallowed it. His hips jerked toward her lips in perfect sync with the thrusts of her mouth. Riveted, Olivia focused on the woman’s inverted cheeks as she plunged and withdrew, repeating the technique until the man’s eyes rolled in their sockets. With his jaw clenched tight, he cupped the back of her head and rocked his hips, his moans of pleasure echoing in the room. Whatever magic her skilled fingers possessed, they had the desired effect between his legs. The man roared— twice—and his body jerked. She withdrew her mouth, rose up on her knees, and cupped her breasts around the pulsating member. His body stiffened as spurts of liquid spewed from his penis and covered her breasts.

Aroused beyond comprehension, some internal organ between Olivia’s navel and privates clenched and then ached. She waited to see what would happen next, surprised that he walked to his trousers and stepped into them. Apparently, the woman had satisfied his every need. One puzzling question remained—why hadn’t they fornicated? A wad of bank notes from his pocket found the nightstand while she plucked her finery from the floor and dressed. After they left the room, vivid imagery of the man caressing the woman’s sex with his mouth flashed through Olivia’s brain. Not to mention the titillating scene of her pleasuring him with her mouth. Good heavens, she’d never seen or imagined anything so perverse and wicked.

Olivia checked her pocket watch. In another thirty minutes, Madame Rousseau would return for her. The minutes passed while she concentrated on pacing her breathing with the full realization her body had become an alien thing. Vacillating between rushes of cold tremors and searing heat, blood pumped through her veins and produced a sound in her head similar to a bass drum. Her eyes stung and her throat was dry, but above it all, she grew aware that the scene had left an indelible impression on her brain—awakening not only her senses, but every cell and fiber in her body.

The door to the room opened again, and in bustled a woman dressed in servant attire. With rapid efficiency, she tore the sheets from the bed, redressed it in a fresh set of gold satin, and tidied up the room. Scooping up the money from the nightstand, she tucked it into her apron and quit the room. Olivia wrung her sweaty palms and folded them in her lap, the anticipation of what would happen next rendering her dizzy. Her curiosity was soon appeased. A buxom woman with long, silver hair entered. Clasping a dark-haired gentleman by the hand, she led him to the bed. Olivia recognized the man—Preston Trousdale—one of Cain’s acquaintances! Gasping, she covered her mouth and shrank back into the chair. The probability she might recognize someone ranked high, but now that she had, voyeurism took on a meaning. Despite her dilemma, curiosity overtook her and she leaned forward to resume her prior position.

The epitome of genteel manners, Preston managed to shock Olivia’s befuddled brain when he ripped the woman’s black silk nightgown from her curvaceous body and flung it aside. Raw lust blazed in his smoky eyes, along with something dark and frightening. In all the years she’d known Preston, never had she seen such a malevolent look in his eyes. She shivered, as if a goose had walked over her grave.

In the next second, Preston removed his clothing, pushed the woman onto the bed into a sitting position and looked down at her. Olivia spread her fingers over her face, peering between them, mesmerized by the huge member springing to life in front of the woman’s painted lips. The courtesan took the pulsating shaft into her hands, strumming it like a fine musical instrument. With his head thrown back, Preston closed his eyes and groaned as if wounded, then cupped the back of her head and guided it to his sex until her lips parted. She took it into her mouth, slowly at first, and then sucked, increasing the tempo. She withdrew for a moment, licked and nipped the mushroom-shaped head and then took the full length down her throat. His legs spread and braced, and with his hands clasped to the sides of her head, he rocked his hips, matching her frantic movements.

His naked body captivated Olivia—his tight buttocks, narrow waist and broad shoulders—not to mention the throbbing member between his legs. With a disquieting sigh, she wondered what it would be like to copulate with Preston. Of all possible thoughts running through her mind, this shouldn’t be one of them. She’d never thought of the man in a sexual way, but then she’d never thought of any man in a sexual way, except Morgan.

An animal-like groan erupted from Preston’s throat, but unlike the first woman, she didn’t jerk her mouth from his erection, and Olivia didn’t see the liquid spurting from it. Good God, had she swallowed it? Olivia held her breath with the sincere hope the lovers hadn’t concluded their business already. Suppressing her instinct to leave the room, she pressed her nose to the wood paneling and waited.

Preston didn’t disappoint her. He walked to the night table and opened the drawer. Olivia strained to see what he was after. Four scarlet silk scarves materialized as though pulled from a magician’s sleeve. He returned to the bed, secured two around the silver-haired vixen’s ankles and stretched them wide, fastening them to the bedposts. He trailed one up her leg, over her buttocks and shoulder. The woman’s body trembled. Preston took his time, tied the other scarves to her wrists and secured them one at a time to the bedposts at the head of the bed. He stood back with his head tilted to the side and looked at his handiwork, cupping his hand around his erection. He stroked the shaft and watched it respond to his touch with a series of jerks.

He wasn’t done setting the scene. He reached for a pillow near her head and slapped her bottom. On command, she lifted her hips, and he slid the pillow underneath her. Walking to the night table again, he opened another drawer. Olivia didn’t have the experience to figure out what he was up to, or the imagination. She threw herself back against the chair and closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch. Could she? Yes, her inquisitive, pathetic brain said. Yes, you will watch. Settling into an awkward position with her shoulders pressed to the wall, her eyes wide open against the peephole she held her breath.

Preston plucked two items from the drawer—a riding quirt and a paddle. The woman strained beneath her silk shackles and looked over her shoulder, watching his every move. Preston stood behind her, and still not happy with his creation, he reached for another pillow on the bed. He slapped her left cheek with the quirt, and she rose fast. In a heartbeat, he stuffed the second pillow under her belly, her bottom fully exposed and high in the air.

The image was so perversely erotic; Olivia couldn’t have dragged her eyes from the scene with a command from God. She knew what to expect now, and so did the woman. The dove squirmed on the bed, shifting her hips left to right. Preston brought the quirt down on her right cheek, crossing over to the left and then the right again. The woman hissed and tried to wiggle from his reach.

"Did I tell you to move?" Preston asked.

She shook her head.

"I’m going to give you another three smacks, and if you even twitch, I’ll double it."

A shudder tore through the woman scant moments before Preston snapped the quirt against her naked flesh. Three quick, consecutive spanks and on the last one, she tried to deflect it. He set the quirt down and massaged the red welts on her pale bottom.

"Such a shame," he said. "Now you get six."

She whimpered.

"You want them, don’t you, sweet?"

With a groan, she nodded.

"That’s what I thought." He smiled and picked up the quirt. "Count them off while I deliver them and know that when I’m done, I’m going to spank your ass with the paddle. Good and hard, the way you like it."

Her silver hair tumbled forward as she clutched the scarves with her hands, the muscles of her forearms taut like her butt cheeks.

Preston snapped the quirt fast, pausing between each smack. Olivia sank into the bottom of the chair, overtaken by a cascade of titillating thrills. She clenched her legs together, aware of the warm, damp feeling between her thighs. She must have closed her eyes to gather her composure, for when next she looked, Preston had untied the scarves, and sitting on the bed, he had dragged the woman over his lap. With one arm placed across her back, the paddle in hand, he delivered a succession of hard whacks to her butt. The woman bit her moist bottom lip and squirmed beneath him, crying out, "Yes, yes, yes." He stopped, set the paddle down, and with his eyes peeled on her red bottom, inserted a finger into her sex, probing her hard.

Olivia let out a long, frustrated sigh, aware of a restlessness she’d never experienced in her life. She wanted to touch herself, but mesmerized by the sight in front of her and fearful she’d miss Preston’s next move she remained rooted.

And the best was yet to come. He yanked her by the hair, pulled her from his lap and tossed her onto the bed face down with her feet touching the floor. Preston’s face emerged into Olivia’s focus, his eyes glazed over with lust, his jaw clenched.

In the blink of an eye, he took the woman from behind. With his hands holding her buttocks firm and immobile, he rode her hard, reminding Olivia of a stallion she’d witnessed mounting one of her father’s mares. A tremor tore through Olivia as the woman grabbed onto the head rails and slammed her backside into his thighs, matching him thrust for thrust. Their bodies joined, they found a rhythm, a fluid, frantic tempo that lapsed into a timeless cadence of surrender and retreat. Preston clenched his jaw and drove into her time and again, his thick fingers digging into the pink flesh of her bottom. Hoarse grunts exploded from his throat, followed by a string of ohs and ahs. With his eyes closed and his hands stroking her velvety hips, he collapsed on top of her and panted like he’d run for blocks. An interminable amount of time passed. He pulled his sex from her and rolled onto his back, his body limp against the mattress.

Olivia licked her dry lips and swallowed buckets of air. Good Lord, voyeurism had indulged her every fantasy and then some. Reality returned with a jolt. How would she ever erase the image of Preston’s ruttery from her mind the next time they met socially? Dispelling a surge of panic, she reasoned Preston had no idea she had been watching him. She smiled. No one in their sanest moment would believe such a thing.

Her gaze wandered to the performers in the room again. After dressing, Preston paid the woman, cupped her chin between his thumb and index finger, and with a smile, whispered against her ruby mouth. The woman rose from the bed as the door closed, plucked her shredded garment from the floor, and covered her nakedness the best she could.

Even in the dim light, Olivia recognized Madame Rousseau when she entered the peep room. "The hour is up."

On legs made of rubber, Olivia rose and followed her down the corridor, squashing the wide-brimmed hat over her brow.

"Morgan mentioned you managed the brothel, Madame. It is possible I could meet the owner and thank him for allowing me to visit?"

The woman seemed taken aback. "I’m afraid it isn’t. He is indisposed." She paused. "Perhaps another time."

Silence prevailed for the remainder of the short journey. Olivia spent the time gathering every scrap of her scattered wits, hoping her tongue would cooperate when summoned. Her brain teemed with convoluted, erotic images. Stepping through the door of the woman’s suite, Morgan’s icy, gray eyes wandered over her. She couldn’t begin to decipher what he must be thinking.

"It was everything you had hoped it would be?" Madame Rousseau asked.

"Yes, quite," she replied, her voice a whisper.

"Christ, you’re paler than a water lily," Morgan said, clutching her elbow—a little too roughly Olivia thought. He led her from the room. "My carriage is out front."

In a sensual fog, Olivia followed him through the brothel like a leashed hound, fighting waves of dizziness brought on by his rapid pace. Biting back outrage, she tried to extricate herself from his grasp. "Morgan, slow down! I’m not a piece of baggage, and my legs are shaky."

"Good, perhaps now you’ll realize the recklessness of this folly and find a husband the conventional way!" He tightened his grip.

He opened the coach door, shoved her inside and rapped on the hood. Taking a seat across from her, Morgan smiled when the carriage lurched forward and toppled her in the seat.

"What in the world is wrong with you?" she asked.

"It’s outlandish, that’s what’s wrong with me," he said low-voiced. "I wish I’d never agreed to participate in this idiotic ruse."

"This is a fine time to rescue your morality!"

"Morality?" He shook his head, spitting the word. "I assure you, Olivia, there is nothing moral about me or my beliefs."

She shrank back into the seat.

"Look at you," he said. "A sorry imitation of Jack Sprat and whiter than cotton bolls. I hope you have learned your lesson."

Every nerve in her body tingling, she struggled to exude a haughty air. "On the contrary, I enjoyed myself and plan to keep the second appointment."

Morgan glowered at her and turned to look at the window. She wondered if she’d grown horns. As the coach rounded a corner, a silver shaft of moonbeams illuminated the inside. She couldn’t help but notice the twitch in his jaw. It had twitched in the same manner when they were children, a dire warning he was about to explode.