who sold their favors. It was more lucrative than scrubbing floors. It was whispered about Town that Lord Osborne had once visited his favorite brothel only to be confronted with his housemaid, who was working as a courtesan on the side. Margery had never considered supplementing her income that way. When she had left Berkshire for London it had been with her grandmother’s warnings ringing in her ears.
“London is a cesspool of vice,” Granny Mallon had said. “You take my word for it—I’ve been there once. Keep yourself nice for your husband, my girl.”
Margery had not cared much about finding a husband but she did care about keeping herself nice. It was important to her.
Besides, no one had asked her to give up her virtue anyway. Lady Grant’s twin footmen were too pretty and too much in love with themselves to notice anyone else, and the rest of the male staff were too young, or too old or too unattractive. And they were her friends. Margery had not felt a single amorous flutter toward any of them.
She did have a servant follower, Humphrey, who was the second gardener at the house next door. He brought her flowers and moped about the kitchen inarticulately, staring at her and reddening if she spoke to him. Humphrey reminded Margery of a stray animal. She felt pity for him and a kind of impatient affection. He did not make her tremble, or cause her knees to weaken, as they were weakening now. He did not make the breath catch in her throat or her heart beat like a drum, as it was beating now.
But Margery had also been warned about handsome gentlemen, men who preyed on naive country girls. Granny Mallon had not been wrong. London was indeed a home to every vice beneath the sun, and Margery was fairly certain that this man was intimately acquainted with quite a number of them. There was something downright wicked about him.
“We are at cross-purposes,” she said. She had to force the words out and her voice sounded husky and high-pitched at the same time. “I am not a lightskirt, nor am I here to sample any of the pleasures of the brothel—”
“Are you sure?”
Had he heard the note of wistfulness in her voice? Margery gulped.
“Not even—” his mouth was dangerously close to hers “—one kiss?”
“I’m a virgin!” Margery squeaked.
She saw him smile. “It takes more than one kiss to change that, sweetheart.”
There was a long, long moment in which Margery could feel the warmth of his body and hear the thunder of her pulse in her ears. She did want to kiss him. Her stomach dropped with shock as she realized it. Fierce curiosity licked through her, laced with wickedness. She could barely believe how she was feeling. Things like this did not happen to her; she was far too sensible to want to kiss strange gentlemen in brothels. Or so she had thought. Yet something of the sumptuous, bawdy atmosphere seemed to have infected her like too much wine in the blood, and here she was with this man who was temptation personified….
His lips brushed hers, so light a touch she thought she had imagined it. He captured her gasp of shock in another kiss, hot and sweet, that took her completely by surprise. It was her first kiss. Occasionally, she had wondered what it might feel like and now, all of a sudden, she knew. It felt as though there were too many sensations for her to grasp. She was aware only of the strength of his arms about her and the touch of his mouth on hers. It was all sparks and flame, fiery desire and the ache of wanting. It was enough to set her trembling in a way she had never felt before.
His lips very gently nudged hers apart, his tongue touched hers and everything became dizzying and molten and shocking in a perfectly delicious way. Now she knew why people liked kissing so much. She never wanted to stop. Her body felt soft and yielding against the strength and hardness of his. The pit of her stomach felt hollow with a peculiar longing. She was lost in a dangerous new world and did not want to be found.
A door shut sharply, away to their right, and Margery jumped and awoke, stepping back out of the circle of his arms. The sweetness fled and she felt cold and shocked. She was no Cinderella. Nor was she the heroine of one of the Gothic romances she read in secret. She was a servant girl and he was a gentleman. She wondered what on earth she had been thinking. No, she knew what she had been thinking. She had been thinking that kissing was the most delightful occupation she had yet discovered. More accurately she had been thinking that kissing this particular man was the most delicious thing imaginable. But that did not make it the right thing to do.
“No.” She pressed her fingers to her lips in a brief, betraying gesture and saw his gaze follow the movement and his eyes darken.
“No,” she said again. “This is quite wrong.”
“You!” Mrs. Tong was swooping toward Margery like a vengeful harpy, scarves flying, bangles clashing. “I told you—” She broke off as the man moved protectively close to Margery’s side. A smile of ludicrous brightness transformed her sharp features. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “I did not see you there. Was this girl importuning you? She does not work here.” Mrs. Tong shot Margery another vicious vengeful look. “My girls are a great deal more professional—”
“I don’t doubt it, ma’am.” The gentleman cut in, so smoothly it did not sound like an interruption. “But you have the matter quite mistaken. I was lost—” a hint of amusement in his tone “—and Miss Mallon was doing no more than giving me directions, for which I am most grateful.”
“Since she is in the wrong place herself,” Mrs. Tong said sharply, “it amazes me that she could direct anybody.” She softened her tone and placed a hand on the man’s arm. “If you would care to come with me, sir, I can help you with whatever you require. You.” She jerked her head at Margery. “Out.”
“Goodnight, ma’am.” Margery did not spare Mrs. Tong more than a brief nod of the head. She could feel the madam’s eyes boring into her. She knew that Mrs. Tong suspected her of trying to tout for business. This would be the last time she was permitted in the Temple of Venus.
“Sir…” She dropped the gentleman a curtsy. “I hope you find your way.”
That provocative smile lit his eyes again and made her shiver. “You sound like a Methodist preacher, Miss Mallon.”
Margery turned away. She did not want to see him accompany Mrs. Tong into the brothel’s salon to be pounced upon by all those twittering courtesans. The thought set up an odd sort of ache in her heart. It was foolish to care, when all he had done was flirt with her. He will have forgotten her in less than a day, or very likely in less than an hour. The door of the salon opened, and light and music spilled out across the tiled floor of the hall. The real business of the evening was about to start. Margery tucked the basket beneath her arm and hurried through the door to the servants’ quarters, past the kitchens where the steam was rising and the cooks were sweating to prepare delicacies for Mrs. Tong’s guests. No one looked at her as she passed. Once again she had become invisible.
Out in the street the evening was bright and starlit but Margery’s feet suddenly felt like lead. It was no more than tiredness, she told herself. It had nothing to do with the gentleman she had met in the brothel and the contrary disappointment she felt because the encounter was over. She was tired because she had risen early to launder Lady Grant’s silk underclothes, for they were of such exquisite quality that they could not be trusted to anyone else. She had worked a whole day and here she was working a long evening as well, and once she was back in Bedford Street she would need to stay up into the early hours to await Lady Grant’s return from the theater. Those people who thought that lady’s maids had an easy life had absolutely no notion.
“Moll!”
