Sold to the coldhearted beast

The truth of things

*Everly*

The room is warm, the fire crackling, and yet sitting in front of the fireplace, I feel as though I am carved from ice. My own clothes are a wet mess, so I am wearing one of the maids’ nightdresses and dressing gowns. I had soaked in a tub of hot water for what had seemed like hours. My hair is braided. I curl one bare foot over the other. I should strive to determine what I am to do about this unfortunate circumstance, but I seem incapable of managing little more than staring at the yellow and orange flames.

Orley’s strange behavior in the carriage, his cryptic words … I was quite amazed that he had been able to meet and hold my gaze at least once. If I sought to destroy the very fabric of his being, I would not be able to face him.

A mistress, not a wife. That is what I am to become, what he expects for my future, what he sought to give me. Not love, not a family, not a place in Society. It is not to be tolerated.

What are my options? Literally, all I possess is the clothes on my back. Well, the clothes I had been wearing on my back earlier. The clothes I now wear are not mine. I wear them only because of the kindness of servants.

I hear the door click open, without a knock, without warning. I might have assumed it was a servant, but the very air in the room seems to shift and change as though a mighty gale has suddenly swept through it. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck and arms rises. The footsteps are almost silent, and yet I know to whom they belong. Breathing becomes a chore, but I force myself to do it because I refuse to swoon. It is bad enough that he had witnessed me acting embarrassingly weak and my falling apart.

I concentrate on the fire. But even it seems to have grown smaller in submission.

“Here, you’ll find this will warm you more efficiently than tea”. He says unexpectedly softly.

A large hand holding a thick tumbler comes into my field of vision, very nearly kissing my nose. Long, thick, powerful fingers. I imagine they could wrap easily around my neck and choke the life from my body. Inhaling, I recognize the scent.

“Do you think Scotch is the remedy for all problems?” I ask.

“You would be surprised by the answers you can find in the bottom of a bottle. Take it.” He says.

It is not an invitation, so much as a command. As much as I don’t want to obey, I know I need to pick my battles. Keeping my hands steady, I set the teacup and saucer on the small table beside the chair, then take the offered glass.

I had ignored the contents earlier in the evening when he had given me a tumbler. This time I take a small sip. It burns, but he is right. It also warms as it goes down, the heat spreading out to my fingertips.

He moves away, places himself by the fireplace, resting his forearm on the mantel. I wonder if he is as cold as I am after our journey in the rain. His hair is much curlier now, as though he has not bothered to tame it. His white shirt is loosely fitting, buttoned only to midchest. Black trousers fit snugly over his legs. His boots are polished to a shine, and I think he would see his reflection in them if he glanced down.

Instead, his gaze is focused intently on me. He, too, is holding a tumbler, and when I lift mine to take another sip, he does the same, his eyes never straying from mine. He is a large man. I had felt his corded muscles beneath my fingers, pressed against my body, as he carried me here. He had never paused his rapid steps. He had never struggled for breath. He had seemed unbothered by the pelting rain.

I suspect he is a man very much accustomed to having his way. And he wants his way with me.

“I’ll fight you, you know”. I say. “I shall kick and scream and claw out your eyes”.

I think I see a twinkle of humor light those very eyes that will feel the scrape of my fingernails, but it happens so quickly I can’t be sure. His throat works as he takes another long slow swallow of his Scotch. I can’t recall ever seeing so much of a man exposed: his neck, the narrowing V of skin down his chest. I see strength there, potency that Orley doesn’t possess. Neither had my father. Before his illness, his form had been robust but it had not exuded power. Food, rather than anything of an exertive nature, had shaped him. Tristan Rafe obviously does not lie around all day doing nothing more than ordering servants about.

“I’m not in the habit of forcing women, Everlyn”. He finally says. “But I am pragmatic. If you do not become my mistress, what future is open to you ?”

Ah, there's the rub and he knows it. I fight not to let my shoulders slump with my despair. “He didn’t let me take anything, not even the jewelry my father gave me. I could have sold it …”.

“And how far do you think you would have gotten with it ?” He asks.

I shake my head, hating to admit. “I don’t even know where I would have sold it”.

“With me …”. He says softly. “ … You will have a roof over your head, food in your belly, a clothing allowance to rival the queen’s, as well as jewelry, trinkets, baubles. You will never want for anything that is within my power to purchase”.

“But I must give you my body”. I point out.

Another long swallow of Scotch, a slow nod, a half closing of his eyes in acknowledgment.

I am suddenly unbearably cold again. I take a big gulp of my drink, but it fails to warm me. “I want a husband … a family”.

“How do you expect to acquire that ? By sitting out on the street in your hideous black gown until someone walks by and thinks, ‘By the Goddess, I would like that lovely woman for a wife’. How will you eat ? Where will you find shelter ? Be realistic, Everly. You have nothing. You have no one. You have no options”. His words might seem harsh, but his voice isn’t, he is merely speaking the truth. “I have someone who sees to my household. Shall I dismiss her, toss her out on the streets because you don’t want to warm my bed ?”

I shake my head, wishing I was of a selfish bent, content to think only of myself. “No, you’re right. That’s not fair either. Perhaps you would be kind enough to allow me to stay here for a few days until I find employment …”.

“What skills do you have ?” He asks.

I want to blurt out something, anything, but the truth is that I am not certain I could even manage a household. I have never helped with the servants. I only know that tables are never dusty, fires are always ready to be set, floors are always polished, my clothes are always pressed. I am horrendous at stitching, my penmanship is not precise, and numbers are not my friend. They never add up the way they should. I can read, very well in fact, but who would hire me to read?

It also seems I am very good at drinking Scotch. I down the last of the liquid in the glass and set it aside. With smooth unthreatening movements, he exchanges his glass for mine. Does he have to be so graceful, so masculine, so utterly gorgeous?

“Orley informed me that you own a gambling establishment. Perhaps I could work there.” I suggest.

“The women who do wear very little clothing and spend a good bit of their time sitting on gentlemen’s laps. Do you prefer to spread your thighs for many men rather than only one?” He simply asks.

My mouth opens and my eyes widens. If I were a true lady, he wouldn’t speak to me of such raw, carnal things. But then if I were a true lady, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Crouching, he adds a log to the fire and stirs it. His trousers outline his muscular thighs and firm buttocks. I imagine guiding my hands over them. Is that what I would do if I was his mistress? Touch him, caress him, tell him how marvelous he is even though at this precise moment I hate him with every breath I take?

I reach for the almost half-full glass of Scotch and toss back nearly half of it. It fairly scalds me as it travels through me. But it makes my limbs feel as though they are no longer part of me. If I drink enough, could I lie beneath him and pretend I am not truly there?

“I know what it is, Everlyn, to have no options.” He is still stirring the fire, not looking at me. “To think: this cannot be my life. It is not where I was headed, and yet … It is where I have arrived. To survive, you learn to make the best of it. It’s not easy. It’s not what you want, but you can still own it, make it yours.”

He unfolds his magnificent form, places his arm back on the mantle, and studies me with those warm hazel eyes, that both seem to fit him and not fit him at all. “Your brother sought to humiliate you, to degrade you, to give you a place in Society that is no place at all, where you would not be seen or acknowledged. What better revenge than to become the most infamous courtesan in all of the land? I won’t hide you away. I’ll flaunt you. I’ll teach you to manage your money. When our time together comes to an end, as long as the ending is of my choosing, you may have this residence and everything within it. You won’t be forced into becoming any other man’s mistress. You can select your lover, be choosy if you wish. Seems a rather fair trade to me.”

“Fair? I will be ruined.” I point out.

“You were ruined the moment you were born.” He simply says.