Seven Nights to Forever (2 page)

He had endured three years. What was another? And were his own selfish needs worth the risk of discovery? Especially when this year was the most important of them all.

Perhaps he should leave. Take the opportunity before the madam arrived. Return to his office and bury himself in work, as he had done on most every night for the past three years.

That hollow ache flared in his chest, a raw lance that seemed to encompass his entire being.

Gripping the edge of the desk, he hung his head, a harsh wince tightening his features.

One time, and she’ll never know
, he told himself. In any case, could it truly be classified as infidelity if the other party never had, and still did not, want him?

Heaving a great sigh, he pushed from the desk, straightening. Then he settled in one of the scarlet leather armchairs and waited for the madam to arrive.

THE
carriage slowed to a stop. Rose Marlowe did not have to look out the window to know she had arrived. The dread that had been building for the past sixteen hours descended like a heavy iron blanket weighing down every inch of her body and every bit of her soul, her shoulders rounding, her head bowing under the force of it. The feeling so familiar, yet no matter how many times she experienced it, she swore it was denser and thicker than the last.

Savoring the last remaining moments of solitude, she closed her eyes. The absence of the rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves and the crunch of gravel beneath the carriage wheels felt odd to her ears. She would have much preferred to instruct the driver to continue on, to return from whence they came, but no matter how much she wished it otherwise, she knew she could not change the inevitable.

Her sigh, laden with resignation, filled the darkness inside the carriage. Slowly turning her head, she looked out the window. The small back courtyard was plain and utilitarian, lacking the elegant grandeur of the front façade. Twilight had come and gone hours ago. The moon hung high in the night sky, shrouded by gray wisps of clouds. Only the golden light streaming from the kitchen’s two windows lit the flagstones leading to the black door. Heavy draperies covered the other windows, effectively obscuring the interior from prying eyes and providing the discretion the establishment’s clients preferred.

“It’s only one week,” she said in an effort to bolster her spirits, but her whispered words held little reassurance.

Seven nights. She had done it many times before and could certainly do it again. It had long since stopped being about whether she
could
do it, and it had never been about whether she wanted to do it. It was a matter of necessity. A lesser of evils, a means to an end. And each time the rented carriage slowed to a stop at the back door of Madame Rubicon’s brothel, it became a test of will. Her ability to will herself through yet another week before she could return once again to her quiet Bedfordshire country home.

The carriage shifted as the driver moved about on the bench, the springs creaking in protest, recalling her to the task at hand.

Maudlin thoughts never accomplished anything and lingering would not pay the bills her younger brother, Dashell, had most certainly incurred since her last visit to London.

Gathering her resolve, she gave a firm nod and reached for the valise on the floor at her feet.

“Next Wednesday?” the driver asked as she got out of the carriage.

“Yes, Frank.” She reached into the pocket of her cloak and, lifting up onto her toes, handed the fold of pound notes to him. A kind, strapping man in his midfifties, Frank Miller had been her driver for four years now and knew the routine well. He showed up at her doorstep at eight o’clock in the morning on the last Wednesday of every month and returned to the courtyard the following week to take her home. The times set to ensure one day of travel, preventing a stay at an inn along the way.

Frank tipped his head and gathered the leather lines in his gloved hands. He did not say another word, did not wish her a good evening. He somehow knew such pleasantries were wholly unnecessary. One of the horses tossed its head, impatient to be off again, but he held the beasts steady. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her as she followed the short path to the back door.

Her knock was answered almost immediately.

The door opened, revealing a girl with frizzy dark blonde hair and a smudged white apron over her plain brown dress. “Yer late.”

Rose ignored the hard bite in the maid’s tone and stepped inside. “Yesterday’s rains wreaked havoc on the roads. Not much to be done about it.” She didn’t mention how one of the horses had thrown a shoe or trouble they had had procuring a fresh team in Luton. The servant cared not for the trials of Rose’s day, only for the opportunity to voice her displeasure to someone who would bear it.

The second before the maid shut the door, Rose heard the snap of leather lines and the jangle of harness as the carriage departed. Frank never left until she was inside, an unasked-for kindness she was most grateful for. Four years, and she still wasn’t fully comfortable venturing about London on her own. The urge to glance over her shoulder had receded with time, but had yet to vanish completely even with the madam’s reassurances. Odd, to associate the place she dreaded returning to month after month with safety. But she had learned long ago that in her line of work common logic rarely prevailed.

The maid didn’t offer to take Rose’s valise, nor had Rose expected it. The girl merely locked the door and turned on her heel, grumbling under her breath as she went into the kitchen.

Rose took the narrow back stairs to the second floor. The house seemed to hum about her with the familiar sounds of a busy evening. The barely perceptible drone of voices, the
click
of shoes on floorboards, the occasional bout of drunken laughter. She paused at the door before opening it and took a deep breath, willing the exhale to flow smoothly. Thankfully the corridor was empty. The plush rugs silenced her footsteps as she made her way to the last door on the right. She tried to close her ears to the faint feminine squeal of delight leaching from the room across from hers. The sound grated down her spine, a heavy reminder of what her next seven nights would entail.

But perhaps, if she was fortunate, only six nights. Shifting her valise to her other hand, she pulled the brass key from her pocket. She knew she shouldn’t wish for it—she came to London for a specific purpose, after all—but she simply could not stifle the hope. Most greeted news of a travel delay with a harsh scowl of impatience, but as ten hours had grown to sixteen, she had only been grateful for the possibility of a reprieve, even if only temporary.

The
click
of the lock sliding home resounded in the corridor. A mocking taunt that all but killed every trace of hope that had seeped into her veins. It mattered not that it must surely be well past midnight. The pursuit of pleasure knew not day or night. It cared only for itself, for the bliss to be found in release, and it particularly did not care who it had to use to find it.

Letting out a sigh, she slipped through the door and shut it behind her. A fire burned in the marble-manteled fireplace. The three-arm candelabra on the side table next to the cream brocade settee had already been lit. Jane must have recently checked on the room, for the candles had not burned themselves down to stubs and instead appeared fresh.

She made her way through the small sitting room and into the adjoining bedchamber where she found the fire had been lit there as well. There wasn’t a single wrinkle in the bronze silk coverlet on the large four-poster bed that dominated the room. The pillows were fluffed and neatly arranged at the mahogany headboard. The dresser and bedside tables held not a trace of dust. Nothing at Rubicon’s came without a price. A maid to ready her rooms, never mind the rooms themselves. Her own private suite, small though it might be, and the luxury of leaving it empty for three weeks out of every month did not come cheap, but Rose had deemed it well worth the expense ages ago.

It took only a few moments to unpack the contents of her valise. As her Town and country lives never mixed, she did not have need to bring much with her. A plain cambric day dress, similar to one she currently wore except in a slightly faded navy, to don on her errands about Town. Her favorite brush, its wooden handle smoothed from years of use, and a miniature of Dashell that had been commissioned just months before their father had gone to his grave. A reminder of why she was here, for those instances when her will teetered on the verge of crumbling.

She traced the oval frame with a loving fingertip. Now eighteen and determined to be seen as a man, Dash barely resembled the boy with the mop of unruly black curls and the smooth, round face. He had grown significantly in the past five years, to the point where he towered over her, but he still had the same impish glint in his light blue eyes. One that announced trouble followed in his wake. Before she left London, she would need to have another discussion with him regarding Oxford. Hopefully her advice would not fall on deaf ears again.

And if it did . . . She shrugged. The most she could do was provide him with the opportunities he was meant to have. Whether he availed himself of them was another matter altogether.

The small portrait was tucked in the top drawer of the dresser, behind the neat rows of fine silk stockings. The traveling dress was hung on a peg in the back corner of the closet where she stowed her empty valise. A quick check revealed the buttons on the bodice on the violet gown had been mended in her absence. Impatient clients usually promised a short evening, but they did tend to wreak havoc on her wardrobe. Thankfully Jane was handy with a needle and thread.

Contemplating the gown, she rubbed the silk between her forefinger and thumb, but the rich, vibrant shade far from matched her mood. Instead she selected the mauve. Smokey and subdued with cap sleeves and a low, square neckline designed to draw the eye and hold it. Even though it was unadorned with ribbon or lace trim, it was still very much a gown fit for a whore.

“Which is what you are,” she whispered.

A wince crossed her brow. She loathed that word. So base and blunt. But she could not hide what she had become behind a prettier label. She had turned herself into a whore. Had done it deliberately years ago, with her eyes open and fully aware of the consequences. Regretting it now was simply an act in futility.

She laid the gown on the bed, along with stockings, stays, chemise, and slippers. Might as well get on with it. The first night was always the hardest and dwelling on it would only make it harder to do what was needed to see herself through to the dawn.

She was doing up the tiny row of buttons on the front of the gown’s bodice when Jane entered the bedchamber. Wisps of the girl’s long dark hair had escaped the braid knotted at her nape, the strands framing her flushed face.

“She asked after you. Twice in the past couple of hours,” Jane said, as she poured water from the pitcher on the washstand into the porcelain bowl.

That meant Rubicon had already turned down two clients for her.
Lovely.
She would be sure to hear about the incidents tomorrow, from the madam herself.

At the wince flickering across her face, Jane added, “Not to worry. I spotted quite a few wealthy-looking gentlemen in the receiving room. She was heading down there when I came up here. The night won’t go to waste.”

Not the reassurance Rose was hoping for. It wouldn’t take long for the small silver bell to ring in her receiving room, signaling the madam had found her a client. God, how she hated that sound.

“Do you need assistance with anything?” Jane asked.

“No, thank you. I’m almost ready as it is.” A few flicks of her fingers, and she removed the pins from her hair. The length unwound from its tight bun, tumbling over her shoulders and unleashing the light scent of roses from the soap she had used that morning to wash her hair. She carefully worked her fingers through the dark waves and then coiled them into a loose knot. Holding it in place with one hand, she rummaged in the dresser drawer, pushing aside pins, ribbons, and silver combs until she found what she was looking for. A twist of her wrist was all it took to secure the knot with the ivory knitting needle.

Jane grabbed her sage green traveling dress and practical white stockings from the closet and folded them over her arm. “All right, then. Have a good evening.”

Highly unlikely. But Rose forced herself to smile, to give the maid the expected response. Jane’s kindness was born from the pound notes Rose paid her; still, it wouldn’t do to be rude.

The moment Jane left the room, Rose’s shoulders slumped. Standing there in her elegant little bedchamber and clothed in a rich, silk gown, seven nights suddenly felt like forever. The days would slip quickly by, but the nights . . . each one an eternity.

The despair that had long since killed every one of her girlhood dreams began to wind its way around her heart. She swore every time she smiled at a new gentleman, every time she pressed her lips to his, opened her arms to him, she lost a tiny bit of her soul. But what other choice did she have?