His Dark Obsession (3 page)

Sarah could feel the breath being forced out of her body. Waving her hands, she gasped, trying to signal for Florence to relent. Sarah had never experienced such a gripping sensation. Usually the fabric would tear long before the rib cracking point, despite what men and the fashion cartoonists thought.

“Oh didn’t I tell you, dear?” intoned Florence sweetly,
too sweetly
. “I’ve lent you one of my new corsets with the metal eyelets. It is
such
a marvel. You can tighten the laces as much as you like and you won’t tear the silk!”

“But…but…Flor…” gasped Sarah.

“Oh it does wonders for your figure and of course it is the
only
way you will fit into my dress which I have so
generously
offered to you,” expressed Florence, having a difficult time keeping the malicious intent from her tone.

Before Sarah could muster enough breath to protest, she felt the cool, heavy silk of Florence’s dress slide over her head and settle on her hips. Sarah looked at her reflection in the glass. If she could have summoned the breath, she would have laughed at the irony of it all. The corset was squeezing the life out of her and yet she never looked more beautiful or alive. The bold magenta color made her green eyes sparkle bright and clear. Her cheeks were flushed a flattering deep pink. Her figure was a perfect caricature hourglass. A large bosom, impossibly narrow waist and rounded hips.

Surveying her handiwork with a jaundiced eye over Sarah’s shoulder, Florence roughly grabbed Sarah by the upper arm and dragged her over to the spindle chair in front of the vanity. “Sit down and let me fix this rag bin you call a chignon.”

It took a moment for Sarah to adjust to the sitting position. It seemed impossible but the corset felt even tighter.

“Why are you being so nice to me? Ow!”

“Keep your head straight!” admonished Florence as she dragged a bone comb through Sarah’s tangled curls, ignoring her question.

After several more painful pulls and tugs, Florence worked Sarah’s generous locks into an elaborate swept-up style with a long fringe and several small braids.

“Why, thank you, Florence! You did a beautiful…ouch!” Sarah abruptly turned to give Florence a sour look as she rubbed the base of her skull.

“Hair pin,” said Florence unapologetically with no other explanation. “Now, let’s take care of that swarthy complexion of yours before it ruins all my hard work.”

Florence took a small key from her dress pocket and unlocked her polished jewelry box. Reaching into a small rectangular box with tiny writing on it, she took out a thin piece of translucent paper.

“What is that?” asked Sarah.

“Arsenic wafer,” responded Florence nonchalantly. “Rub it on your face.”

“Are you daft?” Sarah slowly rose, backing away.

“I beg your pardon?”

“So this was why you were being so nice to me?” Sarah was incredulous.

“I’m being nice to you because Mrs. Needham promised me half a crown if I could make you presentable!” spat Florence.

“So…so you’re not trying to poison me?” whispered Sarah, somewhat chastised.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Sarah gestured towards the wafers in Florence’s hand.

Florence went to her jewelry box and grabbed the small rectangular wafer box. Marching cross the room, she angrily placed it in Sarah’s hand.
Dr. Cambell’s Arsenic Wafers “The Secret of a Good Complexion”

“This is what I get trying to civilize a savage.” With that disparaging remark, Florence stormed out of the room.

Sarah tossed the box of poison wafers on the vanity. The English could be so strange she thought. Now she was stuck in the death trap dress till after the client left. With a resigned sigh and a last tortured attempt at a full breath, Sarah made her way to the front parlor.

She certainly hoped this important client was worth all this trouble and fuss!

“It is about time you graced us with your presence, Sophronia,” scolded Mrs. Needham.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Needham.”

“Well, at least Florencia made you respectable although you could use some powder on your nose.”

“Yes, Mrs. Needham.”

For the next ten minutes, the girls suffered through being positioned and repositioned by Mrs. Needham in various tableaus she thought would be pleasing to her new client’s discerning eye. Unlike most parlors of the time, theirs was exceptionally uncluttered. Trinkets, porcelain figurines, walls filled with artwork and mirrors, windows covered with heavy velvet curtains…all inhibited movement, blocked the light and distracted from the natural beauty of her girls. Mrs. Needham knew what her clients’ needed most was to see her girls’ features in natural light. They needed to see how they moved and in order to do that the girls needed to move freely; unhampered by footstools, umbrella stands and funny little ceramic pug dogs.

In the end, Mrs. Needham decided on the cakewalk pose. The girls would pose as if they were going through the steps of the popular cakewalk dance. It was a favorite of Mrs. Needham’s because with the arched back and high knees, it showed their figures to advantage.

“Mrs. Needham,” interrupted Sarah. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling so well. I feel I bit lightheaded. Perhaps I could sit down?”

All the moving about. Sit in the chair. No, move to the window. No, stand by the fireplace. No, now we’re going to do the cakewalk! Had taken its toll on Sarah. The tight lacing of the corset was digging into her sides. There was a slight sheen of perspiration across her décolletage that gave her a fresh dewy appearance. She could not remember the last time she had taken a full deep breath.

“Nonsense,” objected Florence. “The little savage just wants to be shown to advantage on her own in front of the client!”

Mrs. Needham waved her handkerchief in the air to signal she wanted quiet. “No one is going to be signaled out. Sophronia, you will stop your complaining and line up with the other girls. Really,” she snorted. “I thought you colonialists were supposed to be made of sterner stuff or some such nonsense. Don’t you eat raw meat as babies?”

“We’re Americans not colonialists and…oh, forget it.” Sarah did not want to waste precious breaths educating Mrs. Needham on over one hundred years of British-American relations or on any of her other nonsensical misconceptions about Americans.

Ever the calming presence, Victoria interjected, “I believe with the late afternoon sun, we would look to better advantage in our domestic poses.”

Sarah gave her a grateful look.

“Oh, very well,” agreed Mrs. Needham. At that moment Mary, the parlor maid, entered to announce Lord Warrington was in the entryway removing his hat and coat.

The girls let out a small gasp as they all scrambled to find their places. Sarah sat by the fireplace with some prop needlepoint. Florence by the window with her chin artfully raised to catch the light. Elma, because of her slight stature, remained standing by the mantle gazing down at Sarah.

Mrs. Needham could be heard greeting their exalted guest out in the hall.

“Mrs. Needham, I presume.”

“Lord Warrington, it is a pleasure to meet you,” simpered Mrs. Needham.

“I’m looking forward to an introduction to the celebrated beauties in your employ.”

Sarah froze at the sound of his voice.

“You are too kind, my lord,” fawned Mrs. Needham as she led the way into the front parlor.

During this entire exchange, Sarah was doing her best to disappear inside the thick upholstery of her chair. Of all the gentlemen throughout the entire crowded city of London why…
why
did it have to be
him
!

Oh what a fine mess!

At any moment, Mrs. Needham was going to introduce her and Lord Warrington was going to say “are you not the little strumpet who allowed me liberties in front of decent god-fearing folk out on the street?”. Then Mrs. Needham would start shrieking in indignation and throw the pot of clotted cream from the tea tray at her before tossing her out on her ear. She would have to return to America in disgrace. Well, it might not go precisely that way, but Sarah was certain she was close. The idea made her start to gasp in short agitated breaths…even more than she was already doing because of the blasted tight laced corset.

Having already introduced Elma, or Euphemia as she was referred to in this setting, Florence was putting on quite a show for the Lord. Executing a perfect deep curtsy and batting her eyelashes, saying my lord this and my lord that in a suggestive voice. Sarah took that moment to try to sneak away. Slowly rising from her chair, she took one step before a cold boney hand clenched around her small wrist. A tight voice hissed in her ear, “Not one more step.”

Sarah’s shocked gaze met the angry one of Mrs. Needham. “I have no idea where Victoria has taken herself off to. I will not lose you as well.”

Dragging Sarah forward, Mrs. Needham spoke with false eagerness. “Lord Warrington, please allow me to introduce Sophronia.”

Sarah’s attempts to keep her chin down were thwarted when Mrs. Needham deliberately placed her thumb under Sarah’s jaw and forced her head back.

Wary green eyes clashed with ice blue.
Oh god, she couldn’t breathe!

~*~

Pierce was genuinely amused. He was often entertained. Occasionally surprised. Easily angered. Never jealous but rarely genuinely amused. The little minx he met in the street earlier was quite engaging. He was encouraged when he saw her enter the green door of Mrs. Needham’s flat, hoping she would prove to be one of the models. It actually took a bit of effort to continue on with his prior engagement with a theater a few doors down before keeping his afternoon appointment with Mrs. Needham. His initial instinct had been to chase the saucy baggage down.

As a member of the ton, he had the luxury of both wealth and time. He chose to spend both by combining his passion for art and culture with his curiosity for science and intellectual pursuit. They were living in the modern age. There were so many wonderful marvels of ingenuity. None more intriguing than the photographic camera. He found everything about the action of capturing life in the moment fascinating.

He recalled earlier, when he saw her running down the fashionable avenue in West End London as if it were a country lane. Her unfettered ebony hair streaming behind. Her cheeks flushed from the exertion. Head tilted back on a laugh. Skirts held scandalously high showing off light pink stocking clad slim calves. His palms itched for a camera. He wanted to capture the moment. To capture the swing of her bonnet. The curve of her cheek. The sound of her laughter on paper. And then she opened her comely pink mouth…and let out the most satisfyingly disgraceful curse. He was amused.

Now she stood before him. Looking so delightfully pinned up and proper. It pleased the artist in him to see she could embody a warm free spirit one moment and exhibit a cool elegant facade the next. After admiring her plump derriere as she ran away from him, it was a pleasure to now see her lush bosom on such prominent display. It had been hidden from his view earlier by some hideous tweed jacket.

She had such creamy golden skin. The usual women of his acquaintance favored a sickly pale complexion. This woman’s skin positively glowed. He believed Mrs. Needham tried to pawn her off as being from some place exotic.
Balderdash.
He knew an American female when he saw one. They had such a fresh air of nonchalance. It also explained her unusual appearance and demeanor compared to the standard London miss.

“You may recognize Sophronia from the Delight cooking range illustration in the
Pall Mall Gazette
, Lord Warrington,” remarked Mrs. Needham.

As the proprietress droned on in the background, Pierce continued to admire the woman standing before him. After tearing his eyes from her ample bosom, he explored the slim column of her neck remembering how delicate and small it felt beneath is large hand. The sharp, defined edge of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, the blue tint of her lips…
the blue tint of her lips?

“My god!” Pierce rushed forward as Sarah collapsed.

On bended knee, he captured her in his arms before she hit the floor. Despite the tense situation, he was assailed with a thousand sensations. How easily his strong arms wrapped around her tiny waist. The cool silk of her dress. The lavender scent of her perfume. The gloss of her sable hair.

“What did you say her name was, Mrs. Needham?” demanded Pierce as he gently patted Sarah’s cheek in an attempt to revive her. The irony that one moment he wanted nothing else in the world than to hear her name from her lips only to be too enthralled in studying her to hear Mrs. Needham utter it was lost on him.

“Sophronia,” answered Mrs. Needham.

“Sarah,” responded Elma, who anxiously joined Pierce on her knees next to her friend.

Pierce looked from one woman to the next as if they were both daft.

“Dammit, women! What is the chit’s name!” he shouted. Pierce was becoming alarmed. It was apparent the woman was not breathing.

“Sarah,” called out a small voice by the window. Pierce turned in that direction.

It was Florence, looking pale and worried. “Her name is Sarah.”

Pierce nodded his appreciation.

Gesturing to Elma, he commanded, “You, fetch my walking stick.”

“What should I do?” Mrs. Needham hovered over Sarah pulling at her lace handkerchief, despite her admonishments, she cared for the girl and was deeply shocked.

“I’m sure you have smelling salts somewhere.”

“I do! I do!” Mrs. Needham hurried off in a flurry, grateful to be useful.

Florence remained still and mute.

Elma returned from the entryway with his walking stick. Gently placing Sarah on the carpet, Pierce shrugged out of his frock coat and rolled it into a pillow to support her head. Grasping his walking stick, he separated the polished wood shaft from the silver handle, exposing a sharp dagger. Both young women gasped. Ignoring their reaction, Pierce grasped a handful of magenta silk material from the front of Sarah’s dress and violently slashed it with sharp point of the dagger.

“Bloody corsets,” cursed Pierce as he raised his hand to apply the dagger point to the stretched silk between the whalebone reinforcement.

“No!” called out Florence.

Pierce turned in irritation.

“This is no time for modesty. You can see she cannot breathe,” he ground out.

Florence prevaricated. “I know. I know. I could unlace her from the back,” she desperately offered. “You don’t have to ruin the corset. You’ve already destroyed the dress!”

Assuming his irritated growl was response enough, Pierce leaned over Sarah’s prostrate form, careful not to scratch the delicate golden skin he had only just admired, he placed the sharp blade against the corset and flicked it upward, cutting through the corset and chemise. He had to use more pressure than he would have liked. The material was surprisingly strong. Once he had enough of it cut, he forced both of his hands down between the materials and her skin.

Distressed at how unnaturally cool her skin felt compared to the warmth of his hands, he redoubled his efforts. Fisting the material, he tore downward. Splitting the corset in two, exposing her breasts and stomach to his view. Now was not the time to appreciate her beautiful form.

Time seemed suspended in the little parlor. No one moved. There was no sound. Not even the ticking of the Toscano mantel clock. Was it seconds? Minutes? A moment?

Still no response.

Pierce cupped the generous bottom curve of one full breast. Silently vowing this would not be the last time he laid eyes on her alluring charms. Ignoring the shocked gasps from the other women in the room, taking his forefinger and thumb, he harshly pinched one perfectly pink nipple.

Sarah’s whole body jerked upwards on a racking breath. Pierce was there to catch her. Holding her close, careful not to compress her ribs. Stroking her now tousled hair, whispering nonsense in her ear as he caressed broad soothing strokes along her back.

Sarah’s mind was fuzzy and indistinct. The last thing she remembered was looking in to the intense stranger’s blue eyes and thinking they were the same color as the ocean she crossed to get to England. She then had the funny notion that someone with eyes the color of the ocean probably wouldn’t get a girl tossed out on her ear for saying
dang
out loud or allowing him to put her bonnet on. Then the lightheaded feeling increased, her head swayed, she struggled to breathe and everything went black.

“Take nice even breaths,” said a deep reassuring voice.

Brought back to the present, still in a daze, Sarah looked up to see those same blue eyes looking down at her.

“I must say you do have a flair for memorable entrances,” quipped Pierce.

As the burning ache in her lungs eased and the fog from her mind cleared, Sarah became aware of several startling things. She was lying on the parlor floor. The stranger’s arms were wrapped familiarly around her. The constricting, relentless pressure of the corset was gone. Furthermore, she could feel a slight draft drifting over the exposed skin of her belly. At this shocking sensation, Sarah hazard a glance down. Shocked to see the crisp, white linen of his shirtsleeve protecting her modesty, if that term could be used, by covering her exposed bosom.