Tiffany Clare - The Surrender of a Lady

“Stand, my sister.” Laila’s words pulled her back to the present. “You must take your pantalets down. Do not blush so. This is not something I haven’t seen before. It will be done before you know it.”

Elena looked wearily around her. The men had retreated, and she wondered if that was the reason her fear had abated slightly. How could she ever get used to the eunuchs’ presence during ablutions, if one could call it such? Laila started to pull her pantalets down when Elena stalled mid-thought. She lowered one hand to cover herself and looked about nervously.

“Lie on the bench.” Laila tapped the seat beside her and Elena sat. “You don’t need to be shy. Put one leg on either side and lie back.”

“Might I have a moment to collect myself?”

Laila gave a sultry chuckle. Elena did as directed, one arm across her breasts and the other clenched in a tight fist as she spread her legs to rest on either side of the stone slab. Laila didn’t give her a moment to change her mind, smearing the paste over the hairs at her center.

“Spread your legs farther. You do not want this on your inner pink skin.”

Since she did not obey quickly enough, her legs were pressed wider, small fingers covering the hair lower down, even around her rear entrance. Elena was shocked into stillness, her breath frozen in her lungs. Then the scrape of a shell pressed against her skin, leaving another burning patch of tender flesh in its wake. Warm water was poured between the folds of her sex while impersonal fingers washed away remnants of rusma.

“You see . we are done.”

Elena lowered her hand to touch her center. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. The skin was bare, sensitive. She was like a prepubescent girl with no hair to identify her as a woman. What kind of perversity was this? She spread her fingers out to cover her nakedness. She opened her eyes. Laila stared down at her.

When she found her voice, she said, “My name is Elena . ”

“Pretty name. But you will want to change it. A new identity will free you from your old life. Now come, we have to go to the bathhouse. The water will soothe the afterburn.”

Griffin watched the women through a gauzy-white silk screen. All the patrons were situated in a wraparound balcony that faced the baths below. The harem girls lounged, played music, and braided each other’s hair. They were posed so strategically, it was almost enough to fill any man’s fantasy seeing them this way.

And wholly unrealistic. This had so obviously been staged for the benefactors of the auction. Not that he cared it was staged.

“What do you think, my good man?” Asbury asked.

Griffin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I see no difference in the women here from the beauties found at any established bawdy house.”

“True. But you don’t get quite this variety in Europe unless you go to one of the opium dens.”

Griffin turned and gave his friend a look that said otherwise.

“Fine, you’ve probably had your fair share of Orientals traveling China. And I’m not likely to forget how I found you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to forget, merely thought you shouldn’t be one to judge. I think you’ve supplied all those opium houses back home.”

“When did you become such a priggish maid? Good God, Rothburn. You’ll recall who supplied me with opiates to sell in the beginning.”

“I have come to my senses since. You will eventually, too.”

“Well, if the variety of women here isn’t as pleasing, just know they are a sight bit cleaner than where you were playing. They’re also willing to do anything you fancy.”

“I can imagine.”

He looked away from Asbury and back to the voluptuous harem girls on display.

Asbury had brought him here in hopes of lifting Griffin’s ennui, and annoyance with society in general. He wouldn’t disappoint his friend. He’d indulge in whatever the island had to offer. Better that than slipping back into that dark, welcoming well of excess dissipation again.

A distinctive laugh caught his attention and had his gaze narrowing on the scene below.

He searched out the source; it came from the veiled bronze beauty. That sound took him back in time. There weren’t many women who expressed a free exuberance like that. He remembered the husky deepness of a laugh like that on another night—from another woman—some ten years ago. It was one of those contagious laughs that had everyone in a room turning, and every man rising in salute.

He leaned forward with his elbows planted on his knees and studied her.

There was the shy tilt of her head when she listened to another talk, the soft but clear timbre of her voice as she spoke Persian—which seemed the common language in the palace. The inborn grace with which she sat poised so ladylike made her seem as delicate as an orchid in bloom, so easily destroyed if not properly cared for. There was something about the way she brushed her hair from her brow, as though it were done up in some other fancy style society women liked. The motion stilled his breathing altogether.

It occurred to Griffin that his imagination had finally gotten the better of him.

After dreaming about Elena Ravenscliffe for what felt like a lifetime, he found it hard to identify the tangible reality from what could only be an illusion in front of him.

He stood, edged around the other men in order to see her from another angle.

She laughed again, halting his steps. He put his hand out on the rail to steady himself and leaned in close to the screen. There was no mistaking what he knew for the truth.

He knew her as well as he knew himself. His memory was like that of a bloody elephant. There were some things he wished he could forget. He might have fared better had he been able to forget her in the first place. He shook off the thought.

How had she ended up in a place like this?

When he’d moved back to England after his uncle’s death, the first thing he’d done was look for her. That had to be some five years ago. His sources had said she was still married to that lowly baron with an estate up north. Perhaps Griffin had given up his search too easily.

Lady Elena had proved impossible to find once she and her husband moved abroad. Her husband had sold his properties in York and left for Constantinople hastily.

Griffin had been disinclined to ferret out any other information. Really, he’d recognized it as a hopeless venture to pursue a married woman.

What could have happened between then and now to bring her to a place like this?

How had such a fine young English lady come to sell herself into such a degenerate life? He supposed she wouldn’t be the first to find herself in such a situation.

Well, now he’d know all of her sordid tale. Once he talked to the owner of this fine establishment.

Griffin turned away from the screen and looked for the man who had escorted them up to this section of the palace. Griffin had made his selection. Now it was time to see what his little lady friend was worth. For the first time in years he felt like smiling; he had reason to express himself happily. He’d had to pull himself through a long path of self-destruction to make it to this point. Was this some sick ironic award for moral behavior? It didn’t matter. It was what it was. After all these years, she was finally going to be his.

Asbury slapped him on the back. “I see I’ve brought you to the right place, my friend. Hope you aren’t taking up too many old habits.” There was censure in his friend’s voice. He didn’t want to hear it but the reminder was for the best. He had a feeling old habits were going to be hard to ignore.

“There’s not much else to do.” Griffin folded his hand. Standing from the card table, he bowed and took his leave. He was done gambling for the night. “I’ve found a beauty to occupy my time. I’ll bid on her tomorrow night, when she’s on auction.”

“Which one’s caught your eye?”

“That’s for me to know.” Griffin gave a slow smile. Asbury’s only response was to laugh.

That secret was his for now. The beauty could be none other than Elena, his fiancée for all of a day before he foolishly left her side, and she became vulnerable, unable to protect herself from the greedy clutches of the Baron of Shepley.

They walked toward some empty chairs off to the side of the room, and away from any ears. It was decorated like any Englishman’s establishment back home. Leather furniture—mostly chairs—a billiards table, gaming tables, Turkish carpets underfoot, heavy smoke from pipes and cigars that filled the dimly lit chamber. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and the room had been fitted with bookshelves. Though not many came here to read. Only a dozen gentlemen were there now, most of them trying their luck at cards.

Earlier, when he’d gone to inquire about the bronze beauty, the owner, Amir, had asked Griffin not to say anything about paying in advance. It didn’t matter either way to Griffin, so he’d readily agreed so long as he could have her history. Amir had given Griffin some cock-and-bull story of her being part of his brother’s harem in Turkey before she was sent to this island. There was a great deal of assurance as to her abilities in the arts of seduction, like so many of the women brought up in these settings. It made him want to snort in disbelief.

Griffin didn’t believe the concocted story for one second. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard a cleverer spouting of lies. She was no more a harem girl than he was an impoverished lord.

For now, he’d comply with house rules. And tomorrow, he’d finally know if he’d gone mad with his obsession for Elena, or if he’d been handed a second chance to court her. It would be a very different sort of courting they did this time around. He should be ashamed of his ungentlemanly thoughts. What he should be doing was attempting to remove her from this place. He might in the end, but not before he heard her version of the tale of how she came to be here.