Free Lord Savage by Mia Gabriel Page B

performance.
     Having a gentleman—even Lord Savage—pay for my favors would be … distasteful.
    “Extra money’s always welcome, ma’am,” Simpson agreed. “I won’t deny it. But mostly
     it’s the power of the Game, ma’am. Standing there before them gentlemen, displaying
     what God gave you, it makes you feel powerful to be a woman. Nothing to be a-frighted
     of, ma’am. You’ll see.”
    She quickly removed the last of my clothes, leaving only my shoes and stockings.
    “Gentlemen prefer a pretty pair of silk stockings to a bare leg, ma’am,” Simpson explained
     briskly. “And the heeled shoes show your feet and ankles to better advantage than
     slapping along barefoot like a duck.”
    She held the costume up over my arms and dropped it over my now-naked body. The silk
     slithered and fell into place, clinging to my breasts and bottom like the merest whisper
     of a caress.
    “You must take off your jewels, ma’am,” Simpson said, already pulling the diamond
     pin from my hair. “You can’t be wearing nothing that shows who you are, or were. Innocents
     don’t have pasts, and they don’t have futures. They can only live in the present,
     as their Protector sees fit.”
    I frowned. “That sounds rather like my own father and his endless rules.”
    “I’ll warrant it is, ma’am,” Simpson said, musing. “For aren’t all fathers and husbands
     protectors?”
    “I should not like my father to have seen me dressed like this,” I said.
    Simpson laughed, deeply and earthily.
    “Nor my own da, either,” she said. “I would’ve gotten a proper thrashing if he had.
     But Lady Carleigh’s game is different, because it’s pretend. You’re not to address
     your Protector unless he addresses you first, or unless he gives you leave. He can
     call you whatever he pleases, but you can only call him ‘Master,’ even if he be a
     lord. You’re supposed to be dependent on him for everything. That’s part of the sport.
     There you are, ma’am. Have I pleased you?”
    Taking a deep breath, I crossed the room to the tall standing mirror.
    It was I, but not I. The woman staring back at me from the mirror was undeniably beautiful,
     but in a wild, untamed way, like some shameless forest nymph. On my body, the costume
     was like a magical mist, making me look more naked than if I’d been without it. Nothing
     was hidden, from the round fullness of my breasts to the dip of my navel, to the shadowy
     curls at the juncture of my thighs.
    “Permit me, ma’am,” Simpson said, standing behind me. She reached around to fondle
     my breasts and tweak my nipples. Startled, I gasped, and tried to squirm free.
    “Nay, ma’am, you must trust me about this,” Simpson said firmly. “The gentlemen do
     love the titties, and you’ve a wondrous pair of them. But you want to show yourself
     pert and ready. Rub them yourself before you enter the room so they’ll be stiff, ma’am.
     Though as soon as you feel all them eyes on you, they’ll go hard on their own.”
    But my nipples didn’t need any further rubbing, from Simpson or my own fingers. The
     thought of the scene that the maid described—of standing like this before a crowd
     of lustful men—was more than sufficient to make my nipples into tight buds of excitement,
     and bring a flush to my cheeks as well.
    “Thank you, Simpson,” I said. “I believe I am ready. Will you escort me downstairs?”
    We walked swiftly down the stairs and back to the Egyptian Room. Although the footmen
     we passed were too well trained to stare, I was still acutely aware of walking before
     them, the filmy costume drifting about my naked body and my uncorseted flesh jiggling
     with each step.
    I told myself I was playing a role, and that I was now a different lady altogether
     from the painfully proper Mrs. Hart of New York. But then, hadn’t that been a role
     as well, pretending in public that I was Arthur’s loving and dutiful wife when there
     had never been a scrap