The Perfect Mistress Read Online Free PDF Page A

the limits of the loathsome 'maiden trade.' Why, you must be at least eighteen . No man in his right mind would believe you to be a virgin, lost and defenseless in the streets."
    "How dare you, sir. I am a decent and virtuous young woman." But even as the words left her lips, his expression made her realize that she looked anything but decent with her hair wrecked and her wet clothes clinging to every aspect of her person.

    "I dare because I am concerned for your safety, my girl. And for the well-being of your soul." He moved around the table, sending her lurching back a step. "The constables are out in numbers tonight, taking all unescorted women in the streets into custody. You know, of course, what that means."
    She, of course, had no idea what it meant.
    "A trip to the gaol and a medical examination." He said it as if he expected it to strike fear and trembling into her heart. When it didn't, he frowned and crossed his arms, deciding to be a bit more explicit. "You'll be arrested, plundered by their filthy quacks, then taken before a magistrate and sentenced on the spot for unauthorized prostitution."
    Prostitution. The word rattled her to her very core. She sat down abruptly on one end of the bench. "I am not one of those poor, wretched women."
    Her denial hung on the air, thinning, seeming less plausible and substantial with each minute that passed. In that instant, she understood for the very first time how fragile the truth could be.
    "In my experience, few women of the streets think of themselves as members of that degrading profession." He gave her a bitter smile and shook his head. "They think of themselves as 'just givin' a bloke a tumble' to help the family out with 'a quid or a fast fiver.' But it is all one in the same, my girl. A woman who hires her body out to a man for money is a prostitute, regardless of her pretenses or motivations… or her status in life."
    He came to stand over her, examining her with a worrisome fire in his eyes.
    "You're probably quite a fetching little thing, when you're all done up.
    Yes, quite. Fresh skin, uncommonly fine eyes…" He cleared his throat.
    "Your manner and speech surpass the common. I imagine the gentlemen of St. James must treat you well… take you to exciting places, make you thrilling promises. But their attentions will not last. The days will turn to months and then to years, and, in the way of all corrupted flesh, your charms will fade. What will you have then, my girl? Broken in health and bereft of spirit, what will become of you?"
    What would become of her? The question reverberated in her head. Too clearly she saw her mother's life— the life her mother wanted for her —linked to that of the poor, wretched women of the streets. Until now, she had thought of her mother's choice, however flawed, in terms of love, romance, and passion. But in pressing the count's case, her mother had emphasized his wealth and the luxury and material riches… right down to the stock portfolios. Was there really any difference between selling your body for a
    "fast fiver" or for an elegant house on Eaton Square?
    The butler returned just then from the far end of the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with a china pot and cups, and a plate of shortbread and chocolate-dipped biscuits. Her abductor dismissed the servant and took charge of the tray himself. Before her incredulous eyes, he poured cups of warm cocoa and thrust three-penny sweets into her hands. When she shivered, he shoved the bench closer to the fire and, over her protests, peeled the blanket from her so that she could warm herself and dry her dress. Then, to her astonishment, he got down on one creaking knee to remove her sodden, filthy slippers and lay them near the fire for drying.
    "The vile rutting and couplings you must endure are not what you were created for, my child." His voice began to vibrate with urgency. "You were not born to be a slave to the tempests of the flesh, but to be a temple to the eternal, a