Helen Dickson - Miss Cameron's Fall from Grace

She was stunned by these thoughts at first, then fearful of what they could mean to her future; at that instant, as if he sensed the change in her, he opened his eyes and the pinpoints of fire in their depths linked with the light shining from hers.

‘What are you? Are you some kind of sorceress, or are you an angel, that you can make me feel this way?’

Again he claimed her lips and she could not have drawn away had her life depended on it. Then she felt a bliss so bright, so blazing, she knew she couldn’t possibly endure it, not a moment more. He shuddered and she was torn into a thousand shimmering shreds and cast into the abyss of ecstasy.

Dear Lord, what was happening to her—the helper, the do-gooder? Like some dreadful, insidious disease, the low life of the brothel had begun to infect her with its dark promise. Gone was the shining simplicity of her father’s house and the dignity and elegance of her mother’s world. What she felt now was every rotting desire that drove those who had anything to do with Mrs Cox’s bordello. Having been bedded by a complete stranger, having responded wantonly to his demands made her no better than they were.

He fell asleep with Delphine in his arms. Forgetful for the moment of how the situation had come about, the feel of him so firm and strong infused her with a sense of security. Its curious comfort made her spirit dissolve like ice in a noonday haze. It was the first time any person had ever held her and the unexpected need of a lonely girl to be held broke loose and mingled with untold fears about her empty future. They found their outlet in tears.

She wept with the stranger’s arms fast around her, breathing in the essence of him, and in so doing—even though she did not know this man, her only knowledge of him carnal—she sensed part of his spirit was empty, lonely and bereft, because, like her, he, too, had no one.

Though there was no strength left in her limbs, she sought to hold fast to the moment lest she lose some portion of it to the oncoming demands of sleep. But her eyelids were heavy, and she felt herself drifting away.

Stephen opened his eyes and quietly studied the face on the pillow beside his own, taking pleasure and becoming lost in the exciting beauty of her. Long sooty lashes fanned flawless skin, her mouth softly pink and tempting. A wealth of hair the colour of ripe chestnuts, streaked with red and a deep burnished gold, spread over her shoulders and breasts, dewy white as though they were lit from within, glowing and gleaming in the soft morning light. She lay limp against him and he shifted slightly in bewilderment, staring at the flecks of blood that stained the sheet they lay beneath.

He was confused by the memory of her reaction to last night; even though his brain had been befogged by alcohol, he remembered her own confusion when she had entered the room—and her inexperience in bed. Why had she allowed Oakley to bring her if she was a virgin? Was she compelled by poverty to take up the occupation of prostitution? He sighed, resting his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes. A virgin was the last thing he’d been expecting last night. They often spelled trouble and he always made an effort to avoid them, taking his pleasure with experienced creatures.

On his first night in London after months of fighting in Spain, after a night in an overcrowded tavern, he had instructed Oakley to find him a lively wench with emphasis on comeliness and cleanliness. No, he thought, looking at the woman asleep in his arms, a virgin had been the last thing he’d expected—and, he observed, as his eyes coursed slowly over her figure, admiring the well-turned hips, sensuous thighs and gracefully curving back, she was a beauty at that. At that moment, more than anything he wanted to take her once more, but in the cold light of day, his senses returning, he could not. Had she then made the smallest gesture that she was willing, he might have taken her quickly, but she was no longer merely a body, a thing of the flesh.

Her expression was one of peace, of perfect tranquillity. He put a finger gently to her face and brushed a wisp of hair from the sweet curve of her cheek. She did not speak or move, only opened her eyes. They darkened almost to black as the pupils dilated.

Delphine stared up at him, her mind slowly coming together from the depths of sleep, and saw that she nestled against a warm, hard chest. Stephen Fitzwaring was looking down at her, his breath stirring the hair on her brow. There was no denying that he was handsome, physically magnificent. She might even have dreamed of such a man at one time, but never in those dreams did she imagine that she would be made to fulfil his basest desires.

That was the moment when she realised full well where she was and what she had done—what she had allowed to happen. She had been bedded by a complete stranger. The passion that had earlier heated her blood with lust now blazed into fury and shame. The infatuation that had betrayed her honour was decimated by her own disgust. A gasp of anguish tore itself from her lips before she could strangle it. Throwing off the protective arm, she sat up, clutching the sheet over her bosom, her body trembling, her hair falling in soft disarray over her shoulders.

‘How do you feel this morning?’ Stephen asked, as though she had been his willing partner in carousing the night away.

‘How do you expect me to feel?’ she whispered hoarsely, wriggling to the edge of the bed and lowering her legs over the side, amazed and shocked to find she was still wearing her stockings. ‘I want to get dressed.’

‘If you must.’ His eyes passed over her with a leisurely ease and he reached out a hand to caress her thigh, laughing softly when she shrank further away from him. ‘Would you like me to help?’

‘Please don’t touch me again,’ she managed to utter, horrified and shocked to the core of her being by what she had done. ‘You’ve done your worst—you’ve defiled me, you—you lecher— now leave me alone.’

He heaved himself out of bed and, to Delphine’s relief, pulled on his trousers. ‘Such cruelty. And if I don’t?’ he teased, walking round the bed to stand in front of her, hands on hips, not touching, but near enough that she was trapped and could not move without coming into contact with him.

‘I’ll scream the place down.’ Tall though she was, he topped her by a full head.

‘I doubt that would do any good.’ He grinned quite devilishly. ‘Oakley knows better than to interrupt me when I’m entertaining a lady.’

‘A lady is exactly what I was—my life one of chastity and restraint, before I encountered you,’ Delphine cried wretchedly, pushing him away and beginning to pull on her underclothes, though she found it impossible to stop her violent shaking and her thin petticoat offered little protection. How she wished he would complete his dressing and put on a shirt. ‘What you have done to me makes me feel like a … a scarlet woman.’

The silver, early-morning sunlight drifting through the window glowed on his bare chest, showing him lithe and dangerous like a panther. Her nerves stretched taut, she raked her trembling fingers through her hair, combing it as best she could before securing it in a knot in the nape of her neck. Leaning on the bedpost with his arms folded across his chest, Stephen continued to watch her. When her gaze fell on the blood that stained the rumpled sheets, her cheeks flushed scarlet: her shame was complete.

Stephen shifted his gaze from her angry face to the bed, then back to her, and their eyes met. She was a most desirable young woman, but with a subdued, ladylike composure. The bold ones always drew immediate attention, yet they could not always keep it. Delphine Cameron was of prime quality and, until her encounter with him, unsullied. His awakened passion had made him more forceful than he’d intended and he did not recall her saying no.