Seducing an Angel

Sherry's mother took her for a stroll all about the ballroom after supper. The verdict today is bound to be that the ball was a resounding success – and all the more so for the titillation of Lady Paget's appearance there. You need not fear, old chap. Most men of my acquaintance have always thought Sherry one devil of a fine fellow for being bold enough to do what he did all those years ago. He did what other men only dream of doing. And even the ladies are begi

There were murmurings of assent from the other two before they all stopped to exchange pleasantries with another group of riders, and the embarrassing moment passed off.

But Stephen carried his anger with him for the rest of the morning. He sparred at Jackson's Boxing Saloon for half an hour before the old pugilist took him on himself for a bout when Stephen's first partner complained of the u

He went to White's afterward and sat in the reading room with one of the morning papers held up before his face in such a way that it discouraged anyone from coming along to disturb him and carry him off elsewhere.

He was by nature gregarious and a favored companion of a large and varied number of gentlemen. But he sat morosely behind his paper and glared at the only one who dared smile and nod at him as he passed.

He did not read a single word.

He had been caught in a trap, and there was no decent way out.

He had woken up feeling embarrassed. He had made love to Cassandra rather swiftly and fully clothed, and then he had fallen asleep – and remained asleep for what must have been hours. It must have been a deep sleep too – good Lord, he had not even stirred when she buttoned him up and left the bed to get dressed. She had been sitting on the chair before the dressing table when he awoke, swinging her foot as if she had been there a long time waiting for him to return to the land of the conscious.

The only way he could have redeemed himself was to lure her back to bed, divest himself of his clothes and her of hers, and make love to her very slowly and very thoroughly.

But then she had sprung her trap and caught him in it – and there was nothing he could do about it. A leg shackle could not be more confining.

She had been abused during her marriage. It must have been very bad abuse – she had finally ended it by taking a pistol and shooting Paget through the heart.

Was it murder?

Or self-defense?

Was it unpardonable?

Or justifiable?

He did not know the answers and did not care. She had aroused his pity and sense of chivalry – as she had no doubt intended.

She had been cut off from all the benefits to which the widow of a man of property and fortune was entitled. Her stepson had tossed her out with the threat of prosecution if she should return or try to press her claim on the estate through some legal means.

She was poor. Stephen was not sure /how/ poor. She had somehow got to London and rented that gloomy, rather shabby house. But he guessed she was very close to being destitute and that she already was desperate.

She had gone to Meg's ball last evening, risking the degradation of being thrown out while half the /ton/ looked on. She had done it in order to find a wealthy protector. She had done it so that she could live and avoid becoming a beggar with no home but the streets.

He did not believe he was exaggerating her poverty.

And he was the savior she had chosen.

The /victim/.

He had looked to her like an /angel/ and she had discovered his identity and realized that he was a very wealthy man. She had thought he would be an easy touch.

And how right she had been!

Stephen turned a page of the paper so viciously that one corner of it tore off in his hand and the rest of that side fell down into his lap with a loud rustling sound. Several gentlemen looked pointedly and disapprovingly his way.

"Shhh!" Lord Partheter said, frowning over the top of his spectacles.

Stephen shook the half-mutilated paper into some sort of order, regardless of noise, and hid his face behind it again.

She was /right/ because he felt both pity for her story – or the little of it he had heard, anyway – and concern for her poverty. He could no sooner have stalked out of that house a free man than he could have punched her until she was down and then kicked her in the ribs until they were all shattered.

He could have offered her a pension with no strings attached, and the thought had occurred to him even at the time. No one ought to be allowed to be as wealthy as he was. He would not even miss the amount that would enable her to live in modest luxury.

But it could not be done. He suspected that somewhere behind that facade of smilingly scornful, unfeeling siren there were probably the shreds of pride that her husband had tried to beat out of her. She would surely refuse the gift.

Besides, he could not go about offering a generous pension to everyone with a sorry story to tell.

And so her destitution would be on his mind and on his conscience.

He had felt forced to offer her a ridiculously high salary to grant him sexual favors that he was not at all sure he wanted. In fact, he was almost certain he did not.

He had paid for sexual favors in the past – and always more than the woman asked for. It had never seemed sordid before now. Per haps it ought to have. Perhaps his moral conscience needed some honest self-examination.

Because perhaps all women who offered such services did so in order to ward off starvation. It was hardly something they would do for the mere pleasure of it, was it?

He frowned at the unwelcome thoughts, moved his hand to turn another page, and thought better of it.

Just this time yesterday he had had no more intention of employing a mistress than he had of flying off to the moon. Now he had employed one.

Philbin, unusually subdued, had been dispatched to Portman Street with a fat package of money after helping Stephen on with his riding boots.

He had paid handsomely for last night's sexual encounter and for the exclusive rights to more of the same, at least for the next week.

He did not care about the money. He cared about the deception – he had thought she /wanted/ him, that she had been /attracted/ to him. He had thought it was mutual sexual pleasure they had sought. It was both embarrassing and humiliating to know the truth. And he cared about the trap and the leg shackle he wore just as surely as if she had lured him into marriage.

Why the devil should he also feel responsible for making her respectable? She was /not/ respectable. She had killed her husband. She had sold her body to a stranger and trapped him into being her protector. She – She had lived through a nomadic, insecure childhood and a nightmare of a marriage. Now she was doing what she needed to do to survive – to put food in her stomach and a roof over her head. There was no way on this earth she would be able to find any other employment but prostitution.

She was prostituting herself to him.

And he was allowing it.

He was /forced/ to allow it on the assumption that she would not take his money unless it came for /services rendered/.

Hatred did not come naturally to Stephen. Even dislike did not. He liked people of all types. He enjoyed humanity.

But this morning he was consumed by hatred as well as by anger. The trouble was that he did not know whom he hated more or with whom he was more angry – Lady Paget or himself.

It did not matter. The simple fact was that he was going to make her respectable. And he was going to sleep with her enough times that she could preserve her pride and feel she was earning her salary.

His eyes focused upon a heading in the paper, and he read it and the accompanying article with great attention and without taking in a single word. It might have a