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The woman standing in front of him was not as tall as his wife. And her golden hair was a shade yellower. She was dressed in a low-cut gown of salmon pink silk, so that her full bosom strained against the material, with a tight ribbon of black velvet around her pale throat. She smiled seductively, draping herself across the chair opposite.
He scoffed into his whiskey. Of course, she was a courtesan. No other women were allowed in this club. How could he have forgotten?
“Go away,” he said, his voice thick with liquor.
Her eyes widened. Slowly, she moved towards him, almost slithering like a snake. Her arms slid around his shoulders and he caught a whiff of perfume, heavy and cloying.
“But you look ever so lonely,” she said, in a strong Cockney accent. “A man should never drink by himself, your Grace. I could share a glass with you…or we could go somewhere else where you could be more comfortable still.”
She was practically sitting in his lap, now. He didn’t push her away. He seemed not to have the strength at all.
“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly.
She gave him a dazzling smile. “Essie, your Grace. At your service.”
“Essie.” He could barely pronounce the syllables. “What is that short for?”
She laughed. “Esther, your Grace. But only my old grannie ever called me that. My name is Essie to all.” She paused, gazing at him steadily. “But of course, you can call me whatever you fancy. I can be anyone that you want me to be.”
He gazed blearily at the top of her bosom, seeing the peaks of her nipples straining against the coarse silk of her gown. He was almost tempted to reach out an unsteady hand and tweak them. See if they would harden further underneath his touch.
But then, he shook himself, as her words sunk in. A game of pretend…like all women. He supposed at least she was honest about it. Unlike his wife.
As the thought of Patricia pierced his mind again, he reeled away from the woman as if she were poison. He almost regretted it. By Jove’s beard, he didn’t want his wife spoiling his pleasure in other women, but it seemed as if she had. Was there no comfort in this world at all?
He cursed underneath his breath. He was far too in his cups to do anything with the doxy anyway. He didn’t think that his body would be able to function at all in that way. His manhood was as soft as overcooked potato and wouldn’t stir to save his life.
“Maybe another time,” he slurred, stumbling to his feet. The world was starting to spin a little now. He needed to get out of here before he fell asleep in the chair, but where was he going to go?
He waved away the footman, who tried to assist him down the stairs while gripping the bannister tightly. He felt sweat slithering down his neck. How had it gotten so hot in this place? He pulled at his cravat, unloosening it and throwing it away. It fluttered like a grey bird in flight before landing on the floor.
He was surprised to discover how dark the night was, with a full moon hanging suspended above the city. He squinted at the sky. He had no idea what the time was at all. And nor did he care.
His footman helped him into the carriage. He collapsed across the seat, feeling the world spinning. A wave of pure loneliness swept over him, so intense that he doubled up, gripping himself tightly.
Where could he go now? He knew that he had drunk his fill and could not have another. But the thought of returning to the house on St. James filled him with sorrow. He still could not face her. And it was worse now. Who knew what he would say to her, or what he would do in his inebriated state?
Suddenly, he opened the carriage door and lurched back out. The footman gazed at him in surprise.
“Go home,” he slurred, waving his hand in the air. “I want to walk awhile.”
“Your Grace.” The man sounded worried. “Are you quite sure?”
He nodded, stumbling off into the night. He didn’t look back.
