Gorgeous As Sin

Chapter 2

WHILE THE DUKE of Groveland was making his way home through the gaslit streets of Mayfair, Rosalind St. Vincent was seated at her writing table, nibbling at her penholder, trying to dredge up a synonym for penis that she hadn’t already used a million times. Not that she had the leisure to deliberate for long when the next installment of Lady Blessington’s Harem Adventure was scheduled for the printer in the morning and she still had ten pages to write.

Why not the eunuch’s golden horn? The story took place in Constantinople, after all; she rather liked the play on words. And the eunuch wasn’t really a eunuch-a nice little plot twist if she said so herself.

But not half as nice as the lucrative erotica market that her well-mannered, cultivated husband had discovered. Not that she had known about Edward’s alternate writing career until after his death when she’d discovered the manuscripts in his armoire. In the course of searching for something suitable in which to bury him, she’d found the neatly tied volumes hidden behind his coats, each cover page bearing a notation of the sum realized for the work.

She’d been shocked, both by the discovery and the substantial proceeds such stories commanded. Erotica appeared to be considerably more profitable than poetry.

While Edward had been lauded and feted when his first poems had been published and he’d savored his celebrity, it had soon become apparent that fame was fleeting and the earnings from his verse would not long sustain a household.

Of course, Edward’s unfortunate addiction to gaming had also contributed to their financial problems. As did his unfortunate lack of initiative. And his guileless propensity to befriend unsavory characters. He was gulled by swindlers and artful dodges on more occasions than she wished to recall-always by men he’d perceived as bosom compatriots.

She’d always forgiven him, though. He was so sweet and naive.

Perhaps they both had been at one time.

But someone had had to overcome youthful innocence and see the world with clarity. That task, by default, had fallen to her, and she’d mustered the wherewithal to face their challenges. She’d managed to garner enough from Edward’s successful second edition of Yorkshire Memories to purchase the bookstore and in doing so had kept them solvent.

Immediately setting about to learn the trade, she’d asked questions and took advice from any successful merchant who was willing to respond to her queries. She’d also studied the prosperous bookstores in the city, noting which business practices, displays, and public readings drew the most customers. Very quickly-since their funds were limited-she’d mastered the necessary aspects of bookselling and merchandising. To those tried and true principles, she’d added particular elements of interest to her: a free library for the working poor, a small gallery where women artists could show their work, a Saturday evening reading group open to all. She also kept a steaming samovar on a table near the doorway so customers could help themselves to tea when they walked in.

The bookstore had granted them a modest living. But coming as they did from families of moderate means, they were well acquainted with living simply. While Rosalind had concentrated on managing the bookstore, Edward had written and published poems and, unbeknownst to her, authored the auxiliary works that had rendered him funds for gambling.

There had been times during the years of their marriage when she’d felt overwhelmed. Their financial resources were always stretched thin. But she’d never long succumbed to desolation-a testament perhaps to her father’s hearty spirits and her mother’s optimistic nature, which she’d inherited. Her mother had served as helpmate and inspiration to her father, who had spent a life engaged in scientific research. Eschewing fame and monetary recompense, he’d been intent on the pure joy of discovery.

So she’d fully understood Edward’s passion for poetry; she’d even sympathized with his fascination for gambling. She had only wished he might have been luckier at the tables. And slightly less moody. Stronger.

But they had both been so young when they married. Young and full of dreams.

She’d wondered more than once if he’d accidently fallen into the Thames that stormy night or whether he’d jumped from Westminster Bridge.

Her unconscious sigh shattered the silence, jerking her back to reality and her fast-approaching deadline.

She glanced at the clock. Two fifteen.

She put pen to paper, the nib fairly flying over the page. She didn’t have time for maudlin introspection or reflection on what might have been. She had to finish ten pages by eight in the morning. And that was that.

She was paid by the page.

It was piecework, pure and simple-like a seamstress who was compensated for the number of garments she completed in a day.

Rosalind smiled.

This was easier.

She’d never learned to sew despite her mother’s best efforts to make her a genteel young lady who could embroider her husband’s slippers or sew a fine seam. Fortunately her father had taken her side and she’d studied his favorite subjects instead: botany, anthropology, history, Latin, and Greek.

Even more fortunately, she’d quite by accident forged a new market for her steamy novels. Her publisher was ecstatic-his delight measured in increased fortune for her and less agreeably in persistent demands that she write faster.

Her stories ran counter to the accepted male narrative of domination bolstered by various fantastic devices with which to restrain female characters. Not that she was averse to an occasional bondage scene. After all, their bookstore had always sold books by Anonymous that were kept behind a screen in a back room. The risquй books and magazines bound in innocuous bindings had generated excellent sales.

But when she’d first undertaken the task of continuing Edward’s secret work, she’d instinctively penned tales appealing to her feminine sensibilities. Almost instantly, word of mouth had translated into a tidal wave of eager customers. Women readers, a major component of the bookstore’s customer base as well, had quickly heard of her writing-not that they knew it was hers-and had taken to indulging themselves in sexual fantasies tailored to female imaginations and passions.

Not that her male customers were averse to purchasing the weekly magazines that published her books in serial chapters. Mr. Edding’s Facts and Fantasy was a typical example of the cheap serial fiction that boomed after the abolition of the Newspaper Stamp Tax in 1855. But what increased the volume of her readership so remarkably was the additional female audience.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been so surprising. It was, after all, an era of sweeping social changes, many of them specifically directed toward women’s rights. There was increasing ferment for women’s suffrage, and reforms in marriage, divorce, and inheritance laws had over the past fifty years broadened the scope of female self-determination. Women could now sue for divorce, gain custody of their children, retain control over their own property-not easily, but it could be done. Women were, on the whole, leading much more complex and productive lives.

Female artists were coming to prominence as well in exhibitions previously closed to them. Sexual issues, unrelated to chauvinist bias, were being researched for the first time, and the studies were being published in the burgeoning field of psychology both in England and on the Continent. Radicals, socialists, and feminists had come together in the Men and Women’s Club to debate, dispute, converse, and expound upon the sexual issues of the day even while the vast public barely noticed. The government’s policies directed at mass education had given rise to unprecedented numbers of readers hungry for knowledge and entertainment. And with the advent of the typewriter, more and more women were entering the workforce, domestic service no longer the sole occupation open to females of lesser rank. Also, universities had begun enrolling women, albeit in limited numbers, and those pioneering females were unprecedentedly taking firsts at Oxford and Cambridge.

In some small measure, her stories ran parallel to contemporary women’s pursuit of liberty and freedom in all areas of life. Not that women were free from their corseted, high-collared, straitlaced world of patriarchy, puritanism, and prejudice, but critical change was in the air.

And with it, a crisis of masculinity had begun.

Enough, enough! She had no time for musing.

Her piecework had to be finished.

She smiled. If her stories continued to sell well, someday she might actually visit Constantinople.

She wiggled her toes in her slippers, shoved a heavy fall of auburn hair from her forehead, and bent to her task.

Should Lady Blessington sigh or scream in orgasmic ecstasy?

The erstwhile eunuch was very well endowed-very well, indeed.

She rather thought Lady Blessington might scream, she decided, her pen once again racing over the page.

Rosalind didn’t look up again until the last page was complete, the newest chapter conveniently coming to an orgasmic conclusion. Then she checked the time, smiled, and stretched leisurely.

Six. She had a sufficient interval in which to bathe, dress, and breakfast before carrying her manuscript to Bond Street and turning it over to Mr. Edding. His stationery shop was tres fashionable; only the best clientele ordered their monogrammed writing materials from him. And he looked so very unlike a publisher of bawdy literature that her anxiety about having her secret occupation exposed was minimal.

MR. EDDING LITERALLY rubbed his hands in delight when she walked through the doorway of his shop at eight. “What a pleasure to see you, Mrs. St. Vincent!” he exclaimed. “We are most anxious for your new chapter. You’ll be pleased to hear that the circulation has increased to six thousand copies! I hope you may find the time to increase your production. Perhaps add another serial for our little periodical.” He put up his hand. “I know, I know, your business requires attention as well. But, my dear lady, if you would be amenable to an increase in your wages-say double the amount-you could hire someone to oversee your shop and satisfy your readers in the process.”

“Why don’t I see what I can do, Mr. Edding.” Rosalind refrained from showing her excitement as she handed him her manuscript. Double! Good Lord! Perhaps she might be free of debt soon if she could write faster. Not only did the bookstore require constant funds to maintain its inventory, but her free library and Saturday reading group that offered tea and sandwiches for those less fortunate were also substantial expenses.

In addition, there remained a balance due on Edward’s funeral. It had cost dearly, but she’d wanted her husband buried in a fashionable cemetery with an elegant, tasteful headstone to mark his grave, and such tangibles had come at no small price. “Your generous offer is welcome, of course,” she blandly murmured as if she were generally indifferent to finances when, in fact, she was dancing with delight in her imagination.

“Good. Might I have another chapter of Lady Blessington’s Harem Adventure in a week and perhaps the first chapter of a second series as well?”

She repressed a gasp, and her voice indicated only the veriest agitation when she spoke. “I would need more time I think, Mr. Edding.”

“Very well. But think about hiring a shopgirl.” The clandestine publisher smiled. “You have a rare talent, my lady. Quite, quite rare. I’d like very much to see you devote more time to your writing.” Sliding the package under the counter, he opened the cash register, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to her. “Cash as you prefer, my lady. And may I say how much I appreciate the quality of your work.” Glancing over her shoulder, he waved his hand as though shooing someone away.

Rosalind stiffened but kept her back to the door. She deliberately came to Mr. Edding’s shop before it opened in order to avoid being seen.

“It was some passerby, my dear, who apparently can’t read the hours painted on the door. He’s gone. You’re quite safe.” He understood her fear of exposure; if it were revealed that she was a writer of erotica, her reputation not to mention her livelihood would be at risk. The scandal could ruin her.

A moment later, Rosalind bid good-by to Mr. Edding, left the shop, and walked home through the quiet streets. Only after she entered her apartment above the store did she allow herself to give in to fatigue. Not that she was unfamiliar with weariness after so many nights with little sleep.

Fortunately today was Tuesday-normally not a busy day, particularly in August with the beau monde having deserted London. Even the bourgeois were at the seashore with their families. She didn’t expect many customers.

She would rest for a brief time; the store didn’t open until ten.

Then fortified by another cup of tea-several actually-she would survive another day with limited sleep. But tonight, she would allow herself a rare treat and go to bed by midnight.