appreciate beauty without becoming a driveling idiot.
Well, I see that I have written an entire paragraph devoted to Philip’s attractions. I apologize; I shall not digress further about his manly chest or the charming pink hue that suffused his cheek when I made him laugh. I will say nothing more about his strong brown hands. And I will not mention the adorable blond stubble that graced his masculine jaw at dawn.
You can see that I was rather taken with the chap, so much so that Mother Moore noticed that her best earner would rather spend her time with Barrett than attend to her duties. I received a severe sermon on more than one occasion, telling me to lay off the flirtation. But I was young then and paid no heed to my elders (not, come to think of it, that I do so now). And Philip could always get round Mother Moore with a compliment and that sleepy smile of his. We took to walking out on Sunday, and while Mother Moore disapproved of any of her tarts having a beau, her censorious lectures merely whetted my appetite for the fellow.
Don’t misunderstand me; I never was one of those pitiable girls who dreamed of a handsome knight on a white horse sweeping me into the saddle and carrying me off to a castle. I had my feet firmly on the ground. Gentlemen only dally with whores; they don’t marry them. Oh, a few chaps like having their dolly at their beck and call, and there are women like Mother Moore who enjoy being kept like a favorite shotgun, trotted out for admiration when the owner’s friends are in town. But that wasn’t the life for me. Nor did I think it was the life for Philip. Sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t watching, a piratical gleam appeared in his eye and his mouth quirked in a private smile. I believe he had the potential to be a bit of a lad in the right circumstances, and that suited me just fine. I like a whiff of brimstone about a man.
One fine Sunday in late spring, Philip stopped by Mother Moore’s house and collected me for a stroll in Hyde Park. We ambled along Rotten Row with my arm tucked into his, dodging the piles of horse manure and laughing at the haughty young whores parading about in their paramours’ carriages and pretending to be ladies.
“Wouldn’t you like to be one of them, India?”
“Not in the least. Go home to a tottering old gent who leaves his teeth on the table while he beds you? No, thank you.”
Philip laughed. “You’re an odd one, my dear. Most women would jump at the chance for comfort and security.”
“As you have no doubt observed, I am not ‘most women.’ I’d rather take my chances out in the world. I’ve sharp elbows and a sharper wit.”
His hazel eyes sparked with gold. “We suit each other admirably then. I enjoy a bit of risk myself.”
“It’s well that you do. Commerce requires a gambler’s heart.”
“Indeed. All of life does, for that matter.”
We strolled along slowly for a bit, enjoying the May sunshine and the soft breezes.
Philip squeezed my elbow. “I shan’t be by next week, India. I’m going to the country to see a man about what I hope will turn out to be a profitable arrangement.”
Bit of a disappointment, that. Philip was a welcome relief from the daily drudgery. But it’s best to encourage customers in their endeavors and hope fervently that they succeed. If the married blokes don’t make money, they have to resort to sex with their wives and you won’t be seeing them at the brothel. So I squeezed Philip’s arm in return.
“I do hope it goes well for you,” I said.
“So do I. God knows, I need the money.” There was bitterness in Philip’s voice that I hadn’t heard before.
“Going through a rough patch?” The news was faintly alarming. Next thing you know, the poor chap would do a budget and conclude that bread took priority over whores.
Philip shook his head. “I shouldn’t have brought up the matter. A gentleman never discusses finances with a lady.”
“As I’m not a lady, that
Well, I see that I have written an entire paragraph devoted to Philip’s attractions. I apologize; I shall not digress further about his manly chest or the charming pink hue that suffused his cheek when I made him laugh. I will say nothing more about his strong brown hands. And I will not mention the adorable blond stubble that graced his masculine jaw at dawn.
You can see that I was rather taken with the chap, so much so that Mother Moore noticed that her best earner would rather spend her time with Barrett than attend to her duties. I received a severe sermon on more than one occasion, telling me to lay off the flirtation. But I was young then and paid no heed to my elders (not, come to think of it, that I do so now). And Philip could always get round Mother Moore with a compliment and that sleepy smile of his. We took to walking out on Sunday, and while Mother Moore disapproved of any of her tarts having a beau, her censorious lectures merely whetted my appetite for the fellow.
Don’t misunderstand me; I never was one of those pitiable girls who dreamed of a handsome knight on a white horse sweeping me into the saddle and carrying me off to a castle. I had my feet firmly on the ground. Gentlemen only dally with whores; they don’t marry them. Oh, a few chaps like having their dolly at their beck and call, and there are women like Mother Moore who enjoy being kept like a favorite shotgun, trotted out for admiration when the owner’s friends are in town. But that wasn’t the life for me. Nor did I think it was the life for Philip. Sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t watching, a piratical gleam appeared in his eye and his mouth quirked in a private smile. I believe he had the potential to be a bit of a lad in the right circumstances, and that suited me just fine. I like a whiff of brimstone about a man.
One fine Sunday in late spring, Philip stopped by Mother Moore’s house and collected me for a stroll in Hyde Park. We ambled along Rotten Row with my arm tucked into his, dodging the piles of horse manure and laughing at the haughty young whores parading about in their paramours’ carriages and pretending to be ladies.
“Wouldn’t you like to be one of them, India?”
“Not in the least. Go home to a tottering old gent who leaves his teeth on the table while he beds you? No, thank you.”
Philip laughed. “You’re an odd one, my dear. Most women would jump at the chance for comfort and security.”
“As you have no doubt observed, I am not ‘most women.’ I’d rather take my chances out in the world. I’ve sharp elbows and a sharper wit.”
His hazel eyes sparked with gold. “We suit each other admirably then. I enjoy a bit of risk myself.”
“It’s well that you do. Commerce requires a gambler’s heart.”
“Indeed. All of life does, for that matter.”
We strolled along slowly for a bit, enjoying the May sunshine and the soft breezes.
Philip squeezed my elbow. “I shan’t be by next week, India. I’m going to the country to see a man about what I hope will turn out to be a profitable arrangement.”
Bit of a disappointment, that. Philip was a welcome relief from the daily drudgery. But it’s best to encourage customers in their endeavors and hope fervently that they succeed. If the married blokes don’t make money, they have to resort to sex with their wives and you won’t be seeing them at the brothel. So I squeezed Philip’s arm in return.
“I do hope it goes well for you,” I said.
“So do I. God knows, I need the money.” There was bitterness in Philip’s voice that I hadn’t heard before.
“Going through a rough patch?” The news was faintly alarming. Next thing you know, the poor chap would do a budget and conclude that bread took priority over whores.
Philip shook his head. “I shouldn’t have brought up the matter. A gentleman never discusses finances with a lady.”
“As I’m not a lady, that
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