Married By Morning (The Hathaways #4)(54)

However, despite the sign that clearly proclaimed its purpose as a library for the use of distinguished gentlemen, Catherine had gradually realized there was something wrong about the place. No one ever left with any books.

Whenever Catherine mentioned this incongruity, Althea and her grandmother became cross, the same reaction they had displayed when she asked if her father would ever return for her.

On Catherine’s fifteenth birthday, she had been given two new dresses. One was blue and one white, with long skirts that had reached all the way to the floor, and waists that had fitted at her own natural waist, instead of childishly high. From now on, Aunt Althea had told her, she would put her hair up and behave as a woman. She was no longer a child. Catherine had absorbed this promotion with pride and anxiety, wondering what would be expected of her now that she had become a woman.

Althea had proceeded to explain, her long, lean face looking harder than usual, her gaze not quite able to meet Catherine’s. The establishment next door, as suspected, was not a lending library. It was a house of prostitution, for which she had worked since the age of twelve. It was an easy enough occupation, she assured Catherine … let the man do as he pleased, turn your mind elsewhere, and take his money. No matter what his desires or how he used your body, there was relatively little discomfort as long as you didn’t resist.

“I don’t want to do that,” Catherine had said, turning ashen as she realized why the advice was being given.

Althea had raised her plucked, arched brows. “What else do you think you’re fit for?”

“Anything but that.”

“Mutton-headed girl, do you know how much we’ve spent on your upkeep? Do you have any idea what a sacrifice it was to take you on? Of course not—you think it was owed to you. But now it’s time to repay. You’re not being asked to do anything that I haven’t done. Do you think you’re better than me?”

“No,” Catherine said, shamed tears slipping from her eyes. “But I’m not a prostitute.”

“Each one of us is born for a purpose, my dear.” Althea’s voice was calm, even kind. “Some people are born into privilege, some are blessed with artistic talent or natural intelligence. You, unfortunately, are average in every regard … average intellect, average wit, and no distinguishable talent. You have inherited beauty, however, and a whore’s nature. Therefore, we know what your purpose is, don’t we?”

Catherine flinched. She tried to sound composed, but her voice shook. “Being average in most regards doesn’t mean I have the makings of a prostitute.”

“You’re deceiving yourself, child. You are the product of two families of faithless women. Your mother was incapable of being constant to anyone. Men found her irresistible, and she could never resist being wanted. And as for our side … your great-grandmother was a procuress, and she trained her daughter in the business. Then it was my turn, and now it is yours. Of all the girls who work for us, you will be the most fortunate. You won’t be hired out to any man who comes off the street. You’ll be the luminary of our little business. One man at a time, for a negotiated period. You’ll last much longer that way.”

No matter how Catherine resisted, she had soon found herself being sold to Guy, Lord Latimer. He had been as alien to her as all men were, with his sour breath and scratchy face and crawling hands. Trying to kiss her, forcing his hands into the openings of her clothes, tearing at her like a gamekeeper plucking a dead grouse. He had been amused by her struggles, grunting in her ear about what he was going to do to her, and she had loathed him, loathed all men.

“I won’t hurt you … if you don’t fight me…” Latimer had said, grabbing her hands, forcing them down to his groin. “You’ll like it. Your little quim knows what’s what, I’ll show you…”

“No, don’t touch me, don’t—”

She woke up sobbing, straining pitifully against a hard chest. “No—”

“Cat. It’s me. Hush, it’s me.” A warm hand moved over her back.

She went still, her wet cheek pressed to a soft mat of hair. The sound of his voice was deep and familiar. “My lord?”

“Yes. It was just a nightmare. It’s over. Let me hold you.”

Her head was pounding. She felt shaky and ill, and ice-cold with shame. Leo cuddled her against his chest. As he felt the way she trembled, he smoothed her hair repeatedly. “What were you dreaming of?”

She shook her head with a shuddery sound.

“It had to do with Latimer, didn’t it?”

After a long hesitation, she cleared her throat and replied, “Partly.”

He caressed her shrinking back in soothing circles, and his lips moved to her damp cheeks. “You’re afraid he’ll come after you?”

She shook her head. “Something worse.”

Very gently he asked, “Can’t you tell me?”

Pulling away from him, Catherine curled into a ball, facing the opposite direction. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry for waking you.”

Leo fit himself against her spoon fashion. She quivered at the sensation of warmth applied all along her back, long hairy legs tucked up beneath hers, a muscular arm thrown across her. All the textures and scents and pulses of him were wrapped around her, his breath falling on her neck. What an extraordinary creature a man was.