June H.

 

Chapter One

England, 1811 

Taking cover from the icy drizzle of rain beneath a stone archway, the gentleman held the cheroot between his lips, its end blazing, as he slipped a miniature portrait from his coat pocket for a last inspection. The evening shadowed the painting to complete blackness. He hovered the cheroot’s burning tip over the portrait, the glow illuminating the countenance of a young woman no older than sixteen. ‘She should be two-and-twenty by now,’ he thought, while observing the face—it was too narrow, the cheeks too prominent, and the chin too pointed. But the unappealing features were easily overshadowed by the restrained animation that brimmed over in her clear brown eyes and the arch of her lips. Darkness fell upon her face once more as he flicked the cheroot aside. Its stub hissed in a puddle.

Finally, after all these months, he had found her.

Closing his fingers tightly over the portrait, he stepped past the veil of rain trickling from the arch. His boot heels echoed against the cobblestone street, emphasizing the desolation around him, as he headed towards an establishment further ahead. He knew he should not be out alone at this hour. Thieves with their sharp knives were known to lurk in every shadow. Yet he had taken great pains to discover this brothel, and he was determined not to turn back. Now he was duty-bound.

Once he arrived at his destination, he raised his fist and knocked on the door of what he’d been told was one of the best houses in Brighton. It was soon opened by the keeper of the establishment who, upon seeing how well the stranger was dressed, favoured him with a fawning smile.

“Good evening, sir,” the Madam purred.

He gave her a curt nod and then impatiently peered through the open door. He caught a glimpse of the woman’s voluptuous body, her powdered face, decorated with a patch at the corner of her lips, and the foyer where harlots and their patrons lingered.

“How may I help you, sir?” she asked.

Instead of replying, he pushed against the door. The woman at once stepped aside. As he entered and was led up to the main parlour, the laughter and cajoling that filled the room lowered into hushed murmurs. They stared at him as he walked past, with the mistress sauntering ahead. Before he got far, a plump hand grabbed his arm, dirt lining the crescent of the nails.

“Oh, look at ‘em legs,” cooed the woman, eyeing his figure. “Never saw such long ‘n lean ones in the whole of me life.”

He glanced at her yellow teeth encased by her smiling red lips, and peeled her fingers off, walking on. It struck him then that this was not the finest house in Brighton. His journey here would indeed prove futile if Amanda had turned out like this lot. Frowning, he looked around, searching for the face from the portrait. Seeing no one similar, he turned to the mistress.

“I’m looking for an Amanda Hollingworth—” and he added, that nothing should hinder his scheme “—I took an interest in her.”

“Amanda? She may be a sweet lass, but she’s only a plain-faced chit. Would you like me to bring you my prettiest girl, sir?” she asked, grinning, even daring to nudge him with her elbow. Her grin faltered when he subjected her to an indifferent stare.

“No, I’ve come for Amanda, no one else.” To nullify any suspicion, he offered her a bag of coins. “Now, where is she?”

The madam snatched the coins from his hand. Her brows rose high as she looked into the bag. With a smile, she declared, “You are the best gentleman that ever breathed!” And then she called out in a stentorian voice, “Amanda! Amanda!” A pause. “Amandaaaaa.” Another pause ensued. “Ah! There she is.” She pointed ahead. “D’you see her, sir?”

He scanned the crowd. In the far corner of the brothel, he saw the face from the portrait: the common brown eyes, the oblique brows slashing darkly across her white skin, her curly pile of chestnut-brown hair. She wore a low-cut dress and white threaded stockings. Her countenance no longer held the vigour and sparkle which had so defined the girl in the painting. Whatever had stolen the youth from her had transformed her features to sharp angles.

###

Amanda Hollingworth did not hear the call of her name. After fetching the tenth bottle of wine for a patron, she weaved her way towards the door of the reception room, throwing her shawl quickly about her, to keep herself dry from the rain. She had to pump water out in the yard before she could heat it in a cauldron, so that the girls might have warm water to wash in.

She heaved a sigh.

There was so much to do before she could retire to bed. And in a matter of hours she would have to rise again to clean the reception room for the guests, though it would require such attention many times over, before the day was out. Then to scrub the front steps, which would be dirtied again a quarter of an hour later. Then, before she could even think of taking any breakfast, she would have to scoop the ashes from the grate and lay the fires afresh, the soot catching in her lungs.

She looked at her hands, chapped and bleeding from work. ‘I thought I was meant for more than this.’ Then she shook her head. There was no benefit in second-guessing her worth. She had to accept life as it was. A life serving harlots and rakes, Amanda told herself, as she looked up to see a man swaggering towards her down the hall. She tried to move away, but his hand reached out in time to catch her by the waist.

“Come ‘ere,” he slurred, his hot breath creeping down her dress. “I’ll be good to ye.”

“Sir, not now,” she said through her clenched teeth, a stiff smile pinned to her lips. The smile trembled from the pressure required to keep it from tilting into a thin line. Women, to these men, were nothing more than a walking instrument of pleasure. “I need to attend to my work—”

“Yer may attend t’ me, girl.” His stale breath wafted over her face. When she tried to push him away, he shoved her back against the wall and buried his head against her shoulder. His hand lowered to grab and squeeze her.

“Get off!”

He wouldn’t listen, continuing with his assault.

Amanda lifted her heel, aimed it at his foot, when he was suddenly shoved aside. Relief flooded her. But the moment Amanda looked up, her relief dissipated, substituted with dread. Madam glared at her, her face contorted with annoyance. The scars on Amanda’s back burned. She had angered this woman once before by insulting a patron.

“I’m sorry. I was trying to work,” Amanda quickly explained. “I had to get the water ready for the girls. But then this man came and—”

“You little chit,” the woman sneered, “can’t you hear a word I say?” She grabbed Amanda’s wrist, dragged her back into the room and brought her before yet another man. From the corner of her painted red mouth, the mistress murmured so only Amanda could hear, “Go on to your new cully now.”

Her cully? Amanda’s eyes travelled up the length of his well-cut figure and she had to crane her head back to study his face. Shivers ran down her spine upon seeing the stern features of a handsome man in his late twenties.

“You’re his now,” Madam said, hefting the heavy pouch in her hand, letting the coins chink. “Well?” came her sharp voice. “Go on now!” She thrust her forward. Amanda stumbled a bit, her knees weak with trepidation. “I don’t know how you met a gent like this one, but—Ah, I shan’t keep you waiting, sir. Good night.” And with that, Madam favoured the gentleman with a curtsey before ambling away.

Amanda looked around before fixing her eyes back on the stranger. “You want me?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I want you.”

“But I don’t know you. There must be some mistake.”

He leaned toward her, his lips inches away from her ear. “Keep your voice down. Whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me.” Without giving her room to speak, he placed his hand on the small of her back and not too gently escorted her down the stairs, out the entrance and into the open.

She followed him through the light rainfall, glancing back at the brothel several times. Even that rat hole seemed like a haven at the moment. She looked at the stranger again. What could he possibly want with her, a mere maid? She searched for a reason until she came across a possibility that sent chills down her spine. It was not unheard of for men to abuse women before abandoning their bodies in alleyways…

When they arrived at the chaise pulled by four horses, the gentleman held out his hand. A hand that could easily crush her. Seeing her hesitation, an icy glint flashed through his eyes, frightening her. She wanted to run away. But he would surely hunt her down. She was his, after all. As if a bucket of icy water had been dumped over her, she realized there was no escape. Her legs trembled as she took his hand and climbed up inside the vehicle, sliding to the far corner. He soon joined her and hit the ceiling, signalling at the driver to drive on. At once the conveyance lurched into movement.

Her breathing quickened. She glanced out the window. The brothel was already growing smaller in the distance. ‘Where is he taking me?’—the question continued to ring in her mind. Her gaze dropped to the street, passing quickly beneath the wheels. How many bones would she break by jumping out?

Before she could make any such attempt, her focus whirled upward as the stranger caught her by the chin and tilted her face to the moonlight. His heavy-lidded eyes followed the arc of her brows, the line of her nose, and the curve of her lips. Amanda’s fingers grew icy beneath her palm while he stared at her for a contemplative moment. He returned his attention back to something in his hand—a portrait—then to her face once more.

“Yes,” he murmured, half to himself, “you’re the one.”

Amanda forced herself further into the corner. “The one? The one for what?”

Rather than answering her, he reached over to open the window. She flinched as cold rain splattered across her face. He held out a handkerchief, and when the white cloth darkened from the rain, he brought it in, shutting the window.

She went still as he leaned forward to her and pressed the handkerchief against her face. Her gaze slipped past him and rested on her reflection against the window. He wiped the layer of powder and cream away. She saw the strips of her skin, the faint bruises on her cheeks. Her eyes returned to him. “Why are you doing this?”

“You no longer belong to the brothel.”

A multitude of questions whirled in her mind. She wanted to ask, but her tongue was frozen. A shiver ran through her as a drop of paint-stained water slid from her jaw down to her throat. When his hand lowered to wipe the wetness away, his knuckles brushed against the skin beneath her chin. She instinctively shoved his hand aside, shocked by such intimacy—an intimacy that triggered foul images in her head.

“This isn’t a very promising beginning,” he said.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

“My family calls me Lucas and the public addresses me as Lord Candover.”

Her lips parted and her eyes went wide. “You have a title? You spent a fortune on me, or at least, it is to me. Why are you doing this when you don’t even know me? Of course, I am grateful, but—”

“My dear, I am no philanthropist. I am simply a man under a certain obligation,” he replied dryly. “And I do know you. You were born in America. When you were seventeen, you came to England with your family. But during the journey, you were orphaned. You remained in your brother’s care, until, by a strange and unfortunate turn of events, you ended up in a brothel. And there you have been working all this time. Now, is that enough information to have the right to say I know you?”

Amanda gaped at him. The facts about her life were not known to many. As the carriage passed beneath another street lamp, its light lifted the shadow from his features completely, rendering his countenance clear. She looked at him more, trying to discern the answer his lips chose not to impart. His face, narrow with hollow cheeks, conveyed the brooding elegance of an aristocrat. She rummaged through her memory but in vain. She had never seen him before.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “How did you know where I was? Who told you—” There was only one other man in all of England who knew as much. She felt the blood drain from her face. “God help me,” she whispered.

TEASER # 1
TEASER # 2
Original Draft vs. Revised Draft

I regret adding the clip of a naked butt in this trailer : /

Here’s the trailer I made for my book ‘The Runaway Courtesan’ (TRC). I made it when I was bored…hehehe.
The song I used is an excerpt of the music from Unfaithful by E.S. Posthumus. The video clipses I used are from:
North and south
The Tudors
Pride and Prejudice
Vanity Fair
Snow falling on Cedars