A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man (29 page)

He and Piper walked down a slate sidewalk along the cobblestones of Chalmers Street, part of Charleston’s celebrated historic district. Lovely row houses in brick, stone, and clapboard lined the narrow lane, flower boxes bursting with welcoming color and Southern gentility.

“The scenery is as charming as the history is ugly,” Piper commented. It was just what Mick had been thinking.

They arrived at the brick façade of what was once part of Ryan’s Slave Mart, which had opened for business on July 1, 1856, shortly before Ophelia had made her journey there from Boston. Not coincidentally, the four-building compound opened on the day outdoor slave auctions were outlawed in Charleston. It seemed street auctions attracted abolitionists, and citizens were concerned the constant ruckus took away from their reputation as a “genteel city.”

The instant Mick and Piper walked inside, the air-conditioning slammed into them. And so did the heavy sadness of the building itself.

It didn’t take long for Mick to realize that touring a museum with a curator was a whole new experience. Piper missed nothing. She commented on every aspect of the design and display of information. She listened to every audio segment, including the powerful Depression-era recordings of former slaves’ firsthand accounts of the auction block. She paused to consider and analyze everything she saw. She took notes and drew sketches.

On more than one occasion, Piper sat quietly in whatever chair or bench was nearby. She stared at the ceiling of what was called the “showroom,” where slaves were told to strut and dance and hop on one foot, where their teeth and eyes were examined, and where an auctioneer skilled in salesmanship would get the highest price possible for their flesh.

Piper studied the door leading to the “barracoon,” a jail that housed slaves ragged from their journeys, where their chains would be removed so their wounds could heal, where they were examined by a doctor, and clothed, fattened up, and exercised to tone their muscles, where young girls’ hair was oiled and old men’s beards were dyed.

Piper cocked her head and gazed at the auction block, as if it were speaking to her. It was then that Mick saw the moisture in her eyes, the hard set of her jaw. He approached her, not speaking, not touching her. He only wanted her to know he was there.

Piper returned several times to one particular display, a British journalist’s account of a young woman being sold by one plantation owner to another, a man infamous for his brutal treatment of slaves. The girl had stood on the auction block, looked the owner right in the eye, and said, simply, “I will cut my own throat from ear to ear before I’d be owned by you.”

Though the museum was small—just two floors and probably a fifth the size of the Boston Museum for Culture and Society—they spent three hours inside its walls, and another half hour conferring with the museum’s executive director.

Back on the roiling hot street, Piper was silent at first. When they reached the manicured city oasis of Washington Park a few blocks away, Piper collapsed onto a wrought-iron bench in the shade of towering live oaks draped in Spanish moss.

He sat down next to her.

Eventually, Piper spoke. “Did you know Ophelia forced her way into that miserable place, though women were forbidden? She insisted her husband see for himself. She wanted him to end all business dealings even remotely connected to slave labor—rice, cotton, tobacco.”

Mick’s eyebrows went up. “I just bet he did, too.”

“As soon as they returned to Boston,” Piper said. “And it cost him half his fortune.”

Piper looked up into the tangled canopy of leaves above their heads and when her lovely green eyes met his once again, they were alive with a sudden fierceness.

“What are you thinking?” he whispered.

Piper chuckled to herself. “The truth?” she asked shyly.

“Lay it on me. I can handle it.”

She nodded. “This exhibit is going to kick some serious ass, Mick.”

“It most certainly is.”

*   *   *

Piper stood in the middle of the museum’s south gallery, leaning over a makeshift plywood table as she reviewed elevations with the exhibit’s lead carpenter. She had to yell to be heard over the buzzing saws and pounding nail guns.

“Are you hungry?”

Piper looked up, and laughed in surprise. In the glare of the stark lighting stood Mick, Brenna, Basil Tate, and bed-and-breakfast owner Nanette Benson. Piper hadn’t expected them until much later in the day.

Mick held up two huge paper sacks, imprinted with the logo of Piper’s favorite Indian take-out. She gestured with her hands for them to meet her in the museum café.

“Be right there. Let me wash up!”

Brenna veered off and followed Piper into the ladies’ room.

“How did you guys get here so fast?” Piper asked, rinsing soap from her hands.

“Mrs. Benson had a whole team of movers, so everything was loaded in less than a half hour. And Baz had everything in shipping crates, ready to go. And it didn’t hurt that Mick drives like Stevie Wonder on speed.”

Piper was feeling too nervous to joke around. She dried her hands and tossed the paper towels in the trash. “But what about—”

“It’s all under control,” Brenna said. “Everything for the A exhibit is in the museum loading dock as we speak. Everything for the B exhibit is safely tucked away in the rented storage facility. Here’s the key, by the way.” Brenna dropped it into Piper’s palm. “And I labeled and double-checked every item personally, Pipes. There were no mistakes. Please don’t worry.”

Piper sighed. “I just don’t want LaPaglia picking up a two-hundred-year-old dildo instead of Mr. Harrington’s pipe stand.”

Brenna laughed. “He wouldn’t know the difference. Everything going okay here?”

Piper nodded, then ran her fingers through her hair. She was trying to keep a lid on the panic she was feeling, and thought she had done a good job—until right that moment.

“Speaking of LaPaglia, do you think he suspects anything?”

“God, no,” Piper said. “He’s too worried about what font I’m using on the display boards and the color scheme to notice I’m a lying, scheming double agent.”

“This is no time to doubt yourself,” Brenna said, her voice kind.

“Ha! The funniest part is that we’ve got four weeks now until the gala, and even if I were only putting together one exhibit, I’d be a wreck, but no—I’m a crazy person putting two installations together at the same time, and one in secret!”

“Shh,” Brenna reminded her. “It’s not going to stay that way if you don’t keep your voice down. Have you reached Claudia Harrington-Howell yet?”

“No,” Piper said. “She’s still in the ashram in India and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Her assistant said she has complete faith in my abilities and I should carry on as planned.”

Brenna laughed and held open the restroom door for Piper. “Hey, well, she can’t say she wasn’t consulted!” The two women walked down the main center hallway of the museum. “What do you plan to wear to the opening?”

Piper stopped in mid-stride and stared at Brenna. “Oh my God, I don’t have a dress for the gala! With everything going on, I totally forgot. I guess I’ll wear a nice suit.”

Brenna clutched at Piper’s forearm. “No,” she said.

“Fine. I’ll go online and—”

“Let me take care of this for you,” Brenna jumped in. “You don’t have time and I’d be honored. All I ask is you be available for a fitting so we’ll have time to get it altered if need be.”

“A fitting?” Piper snorted. “It’s not my wedding, for crying out loud.”

Brenna grinned. “No, but in a way it’ll be your ‘coming out.’”

“Out of work, you mean.” Just then, Linc Northcutt came strutting down the hall behind Brenna. He nodded at Piper, then turned away, and she swore he shook his head as if he knew what she was up to.

What a little prick.

They continued on to the café. Mick already had the food containers arranged on a large table, and paper plates set out. Piper could smell the rich spices from across the room.

He kissed her sweetly and pulled out a chair for her. The two of them didn’t bother to hide their relationship anymore—it had been written on their faces since that night at the bed-and-breakfast, anyway.

Everyone served themselves tandoori chicken and tikka masala and enjoyed lunch, and since it was nearly two o’clock, they had the place to themselves. Piper was fascinated by Baz and Brenna’s discussion of sex toys in ancient Mesopotamia, though the conversation had Nanette Benson blushing. As she looked around the table, Piper knew the exhibit would not have been possible without their help and friendship. Baz Tate’s connections had come through with a variety of artifacts—lingerie and underclothing, shoes, jewelry, hair combs, and even examples of Regency England pornography. Nanette had been extremely generous in loaning antique furnishings and décor similar to what would have existed in Ophelia’s opulent world.

When she stopped to think about it, Piper was astounded at what was possible when she asked for—and accepted—the help of others.

“Looks like the construction is coming along,” Baz said, a smile in his brown eyes.

“We’re right on schedule,” Piper said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “The hard fixtures for each chamber will be in place by tomorrow, and then we can focus on wall and floor coverings, lighting and signage, and the acrylic shields and cases.”

“Did those wallpaper samples help?” Nanette asked.

“Oh yes! Perfect. I was able to get small-scale facsimiles made for what will become the parlor and the boudoir. It’s going to be lovely.”

“How about the voice-over artist? Did that go well?” Brenna asked.

Piper nodded. “Fabulous,” she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “And she gave me a price break on the additional diary readings, since I’m paying for that myself.”

“Jeesh, Piper,” Brenna hissed. “How much of Granny Pierpont’s money are you spending on this?”

She shrugged, a little uncomfortable with the answer—almost four thousand dollars. “Most of it’s going to the artist I hired to construct the main visual installation. If he can make my idea come alive, it’s going to blow everyone’s minds.”

Mick made a quick survey of the cafeteria to make sure no one was in earshot. “Have you had a chance to talk to Melvin?” he asked Piper.

She shook her head. That was going to be a bit tricky. The night before the gala, the museum always held a soft opening of the new exhibit for museum staff and the board of trustees. Only after that was over and everyone had gone home could Piper and her accomplices switch out the exhibit. It would be an all-night process, and would require Melvin turning his head to the tomfoolery.

“I’ll talk to him soon,” she said. When she noted Mick’s worried expression, she added, “Melvin’s a good guy. He won’t give us any trouble.”

Twenty-four

London

Lord B
____
picked me up in his carriage mere moments after the setting of the sun. I did not invite him inside, but met him at the door clad in a full-length cloak of forest-green velvet. The evening was misty and chill, but that was not the reason for my concealment. When I sat across from him and the carriage jolted into motion, I gazed silently at him as I unclasped the frog at my shoulder. The cloak fell open to reveal that I wore nothing but stockings and high-heeled shoes beneath it.

It was rewarding to see his eyes widen and his jaw drop. Handsome and self-assured men look very appealing when flabbergasted. I ran my hands down my bare thighs to my knees, then pressed them slowly apart, spreading them wide.

His large hands came down over my own and moved them aside, replacing them to push my knees wide. I leaned back against the cushions and ran my fingertips up over my body, pausing a moment to tease my nipples even harder in the chill. His eyes darkened at that, his jaw clenching tight. I lingered a bit longer, just to watch him watch me, then stretched my hands high over my head. I looked as if I were bound, just as he’d fantasized.

“Well?” I breathed the word. “Will you not keep your side of the bargain?”

In an instant he was on his knees before me. His big body parted me wider, until my feet were stretched almost to the opposite walls of the carriage. I found a parcel hook far above my head and clung to it as he leaned close into my cunte and kissed it. His warm fingers stroked me up and down lightly, then disappeared into his mouth.

“You are wicked honey and wanton salt,” he murmured, his breath hot on my spread labia. “I want to feast on you for hours.”

He began to lap at me, his tongue slipping up and down and in and out to circle my clitoris. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to lust, pure and simple. Just as he’d said, my cries were drowned by the clatter of the carriage wheels upon the cobbles. I made no attempt to be quiet, but moaned and cursed and cried obscenities until he finally thrust two fingers deep into me and sent me over the edge into a hot and shameless orgasm.

I shouted then, loud and long, aware that we drove through Covent Garden at that moment, that the crowds swarming the square would surely hear me. I relished the wickedness of it and cried out all the louder, reveling in my own wildness.

I caught a glimpse of Lord B
____
’s face in the light of a street lamp as we passed and saw a like enjoyment in his eyes. He wanted the world to hear and envy us both.

Robert would have been appalled at the very thought of such an act. Even Sir would frown.

At last I had found a playmate I could not offend. I knew that no matter how low I might care to explore, Lord B
____
had already gone beyond me and would not judge. Moreover, I found I did not care if he did. I wanted the danger and the darkness and the wickedness I felt rising inside of me. It was beautiful and animal and it wanted out of its cage, damn Sir and even damn the Swan and her Seven Obligations.

No one owned me.

No one.

*   *   *

Lord B
____
wished me to go away with him to a house party the next week. After some urging, I finally consented. I had not yet allowed him to penetrate me and I knew he was eager to do so at last. I did not truly understand my own reasons for this restriction, for I am normally most generous in bed. I told myself I was simply exploring the power of taunting and suspense to increase arousal. Lord B
____
seemed to enjoy the game for the most part. After all, I made sure he reached satisfaction in other ways. He had a great fondness for fellatio, in fact. We had devoured each other like animals for the past ten days and I found myself a bit edgy and overheated from it all. A good rogering would set me right, I told myself.