House, however, Matthew Riverton had been notorious. He'd been infamous among men for his extravagant lewd entertainments. Serena could imagine the reaction of the fathers of Miss Mallory's pupils if they discovered their daughters were being taught by Randy Riverton's widow.
Taught what? they might well ask.
And with reason. During her marriage Serena had not been allowed to handle money and so had not learned household management. She had never possessed great interest or skill in needlework or music. Having left school at fifteen, her more formal education was lacking.
The only real training she had received had been from Matthew, and that had not been in skills suitable for well-bred young ladies....
Serena became aware of something rubbing her foot. She looked down and realized it was a boot—a boot belonging to the mustachioed captain lounging opposite. He smiled and winked.
She turned hastily away, heat rushing to her cheeks. His boot tapped against hers, then slid up toward her ankle.
She turned back to glare at him.
He raised his brows in mock innocence and moved his foot, but the lascivious invitation didn't leave his eyes.
Serena pulled up her hood and huddled in its protection. Oh, but she hated her appearance that attracted this kind of attention.
Serena knew that without some man's protection this was the kind of pestering she must expect for the rest of her life, or at least until age rid her of her damnable appeal. She despaired of finding any respectable sanctuary.
Even if she could think to find a post as a governess or companion without references, her appearance would slam all doors in her face.
Serena looked out at the bleak winterish countryside and knew Tom had been right. It was her destiny to be a whore. It seemed God had designed her appearance for that role, and her husband had trained her for it. Trained her in what he revoltingly called bed-work...
She flicked a glance at the captain and he winked again, grinning. The invitation was unmistakable.
Then be damned to them all, she thought bitterly. If the choice was between marriage and prostitution, she'd be a whore but not in a brothel. She'd be a high-flying Cyprian. In fact, if she was going to be a whore, she'd be the best damn whore in England.
A boot tapped her foot again. Serena glared at the captain so fiercely that his eyes shifted and he colored up. And so he should. He couldn't afford her.
She'd be the most expensive damn whore in England, too!
If Seale would offer ten thousand pounds, what could she ask for herself? As Tom had said, her barrenness was no impediment as a mistress.
How were such things arranged?
At that point her resolution faltered, for she was unable to imagine how to go about entering a life of sin. Then she thought of Harriet Wilson.
The famous Cyprian had come to one of the house parties that Matthew had thrown at Stokeley Manor during hunting season. Orgy, more like. Serena shuddered at the memory, but she remembered Harriet as being quite kind to a seventeen-year-old who refused to have anything to do with low women.
Kind and pitying.
Serena could see why Harriet would pity the child bride she had been, obvious slave to her husband, forced even into improper behavior before strangers. Harriet had permitted no such indignities.
Harriet had even stirred herself to give some advice. "I'd leave him, dear," she'd said one day, catching Serena alone.
"I cannot. He is my husband."
Harriet had not protested but merely said, "If you do, dear, come to me and I'll help you. I'm sure I could find you a protector who'd snap his fingers at Riverton. You've a rare quality, you know."
"I loathe it."
Harriet smiled. She had none of Serena's beauty, but she, too, had something that drew men like a lode-stone. " If you're lucky, dear, one day you'll see it as the power it is. It's like a cocked gun, aimed straight at the heart of this man's world. Learn to shoot straight."
So, thought Serena, she had a
Taught what? they might well ask.
And with reason. During her marriage Serena had not been allowed to handle money and so had not learned household management. She had never possessed great interest or skill in needlework or music. Having left school at fifteen, her more formal education was lacking.
The only real training she had received had been from Matthew, and that had not been in skills suitable for well-bred young ladies....
Serena became aware of something rubbing her foot. She looked down and realized it was a boot—a boot belonging to the mustachioed captain lounging opposite. He smiled and winked.
She turned hastily away, heat rushing to her cheeks. His boot tapped against hers, then slid up toward her ankle.
She turned back to glare at him.
He raised his brows in mock innocence and moved his foot, but the lascivious invitation didn't leave his eyes.
Serena pulled up her hood and huddled in its protection. Oh, but she hated her appearance that attracted this kind of attention.
Serena knew that without some man's protection this was the kind of pestering she must expect for the rest of her life, or at least until age rid her of her damnable appeal. She despaired of finding any respectable sanctuary.
Even if she could think to find a post as a governess or companion without references, her appearance would slam all doors in her face.
Serena looked out at the bleak winterish countryside and knew Tom had been right. It was her destiny to be a whore. It seemed God had designed her appearance for that role, and her husband had trained her for it. Trained her in what he revoltingly called bed-work...
She flicked a glance at the captain and he winked again, grinning. The invitation was unmistakable.
Then be damned to them all, she thought bitterly. If the choice was between marriage and prostitution, she'd be a whore but not in a brothel. She'd be a high-flying Cyprian. In fact, if she was going to be a whore, she'd be the best damn whore in England.
A boot tapped her foot again. Serena glared at the captain so fiercely that his eyes shifted and he colored up. And so he should. He couldn't afford her.
She'd be the most expensive damn whore in England, too!
If Seale would offer ten thousand pounds, what could she ask for herself? As Tom had said, her barrenness was no impediment as a mistress.
How were such things arranged?
At that point her resolution faltered, for she was unable to imagine how to go about entering a life of sin. Then she thought of Harriet Wilson.
The famous Cyprian had come to one of the house parties that Matthew had thrown at Stokeley Manor during hunting season. Orgy, more like. Serena shuddered at the memory, but she remembered Harriet as being quite kind to a seventeen-year-old who refused to have anything to do with low women.
Kind and pitying.
Serena could see why Harriet would pity the child bride she had been, obvious slave to her husband, forced even into improper behavior before strangers. Harriet had permitted no such indignities.
Harriet had even stirred herself to give some advice. "I'd leave him, dear," she'd said one day, catching Serena alone.
"I cannot. He is my husband."
Harriet had not protested but merely said, "If you do, dear, come to me and I'll help you. I'm sure I could find you a protector who'd snap his fingers at Riverton. You've a rare quality, you know."
"I loathe it."
Harriet smiled. She had none of Serena's beauty, but she, too, had something that drew men like a lode-stone. " If you're lucky, dear, one day you'll see it as the power it is. It's like a cocked gun, aimed straight at the heart of this man's world. Learn to shoot straight."
So, thought Serena, she had a
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