Virgin Encounter: Virgin Series, #1

By Louisa Trent

Late 19th century erotic romance.

Petty thief and consummate liar Daisy Crumbly scrambles to learn the rules of seduction in a risky scheme to swindle wealthy merchant James Cornell out of a fortune. Daisy's virginity is on the line even before her plan goes awry... then James holds her against her will. Restrained in his attic, the young pickpocket succumbs to her much older mark's dark magnetism and loses all to him: her innocence, her self-respect, her very idea of what love is and what it is not. And when he demands more of her, she surrenders that too until she is left with nothing more to give him...

Save herself, all of herself, every naked corner and honest inch of herself

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trent Publishing
• Release date: Apr 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386976141

Louisa Trent

Louisa Trent has been published in ebook format since 2001. Her erotic romances have been with Ellora's Cave, Liquid Silver, Loose Id and Samhain. Refusing to be "branded" ( Louisa has a rebellious streak ) she writes across the genres -- contemporary, historical, paranormal, multi-cultural, and sci-fi. Basically, she writes whatever piques her interest, and she is a writer of many passionate interests. Readers can reach Louisa through her website: www.louisatrent.com .

Book preview

Chapter One

Tut-tut! Your actions, Miss Weatherford!

Recognizing Malcolm’s censorious tone only too well, I hardly breathed as my mentor in seduction stared me down.

Now what had I done? Or not done. Or done too quickly. Or taken my own sweet bloody time doing. Or any number of complaints Malcolm was always sure to indicate about the suggestiveness – or lack thereof – in my performance.

For sodding sure, he could not accuse me of sitting up straight. Not this time! Just as Malcolm had advised, I slouched – to minimize the fullness of my bosom. Evidently, the flat chested look was de rigueur this season. Who knew?

Not me. Thieves had more productive things to do with their time than follow the whims of fashion. Fleecing the unwary came to mind.

At any rate, there I was, slumped in my chair, my shoulders hunched, the rest of me statue still, as motionless as a nabbed crook before the police clamped on the shackles.

In my line of work, I knew all about shackles. And police.

Not to say I had a first-hand acquaintance with the hospitality of Charles Street jail. I did not! In all my years as a pickpocket, I had never once been apprehended by the coppers. My expertise centered on the avoidance end of things – not getting caught in the first place. But if ever I was escorted downtown, I knew what never to do:

Fidget.

Fidgeting was one sure way of making a con artist like myself look as guilty as hell. As I always was guilty as hell, there was none of this squirming and twitching nonsense for me.

Hands posed a problem. Mine always dripped sweat during these so-called seduction lessons with Malcolm. And as nothing screamed discomfort more than perspiring fingers, I kept all of mine tucked out of sight within the luminous folds of my borrowed gown, a prop for this con. The day dress was a gold satin number, the yardgoods smooth and slippery. Like myself.

Ordinarily.

Alas, in the face of Malcolm’s critical stare, I was neither smooth nor slippery. Not ever. Invariably, I bumbled and stumbled. Today, though, I’d had it with Malcolm’s condescending reproaches. Today, I would show him what was what. Today, I was calling his bluff.

And why not?

By trade, I was a charlatan and an imposter. Ruses were my bread and butter. My specialty?

The grand con. Stand back! I was about to foil the best in the business.

My actions, sir? Making sure the glass chandelier overhead mirrored my every pretense of haughty disdain, I tossed my head, just as I heard tell actress Letty Lind did up on stage. What about my sodding actions?

Mind your language, Malcolm reminded me in that real snooty way he had.

Sorry. I hung my head, plucked at my day dress.

Already tired of my dreariness, I snapped back to attention. But what about my…actions, I said all over again, minus my favorite curse word.

Exactly this, he shot back. Your movements are far too abrupt.

His coolness defeated me, and I could only stutter, Wh-what?

"Not what, Malcolm exclaimed. Pardon me!"

Pardon you for what, sir? Sod off! I must have missed it. No matter, I said cheerfully. We are all of us only human. Mistakes are inevitable in life. So, of course, you have my pardon. Besides which…

I stopped mid-sentence. Upon deeper reflection – and seeing exasperation screw Malcolm’s usually composed features into a bit of a wince – I realized he had been chastising my manners. Again.

In a small little voice, and shrinking in on myself, I muttered a mortified, Oh. Pardon me.

Abrupt, he repeated without raising either his voice or a pomaded hair on his glossy head. "Draw out each movement until the mark’s tongue hangs out of his mouth. Make him drool over you."

Now I was confused. Dripping drool? A spastic tongue? A presumably gaping mouth?

Ew. Disgusting! With symptoms like those, the mark rightly belonged in a madhouse, not slobbering all over me.   

An unbidden thought crept up on me then. Could it be…was it possible…was this a test Malcolm had devised to separate the wheat from the chaff?

I was just full of chaff, so this had me worried. And that was not all that set me to fretting.

After withdrawing my sweaty hands from hiding, I clenched them in my lap. Now that it was too late to back out, I was beginning to have second thoughts about this whole scam. According to Malcolm, the mark was some sort of moldy old shopkeeper, an independently wealthy gent who sold antiquities and such as a pastime. Seduction would most likely kill a timid old geezer like that, a crime that would get my arse sent up the river for murder. Blackmail was bad enough, thank you very much, and blackmail was as far as I was willing to go even for Malcolm.

Although…although…if I refused to go along with what my mentor proposed, some other thief-in-training would step in and take my place faster than spit travels in summer. Getting fired would be a moot point then.

All of us petty hoodlums were here under Malcolm’s tutelage on a trial basis only, to prove we had nerves of steel before he hired us on permanently. We could not all graduate from small-time larceny to big-time scoundrels, now could we? No, we could not! If high-stakes scams were that simple to pull-off, every two-bit thug in Boston would be doing them.

Here was the rub: Should any of us not measure up to Malcolm’s strict criteria, the weak link would be out the door and back on the streets again, pockets empty, scrounging around for the next sure deal. Everyone understood this. But had Malcolm decided to ax me before the training period was even over? If so, was my premature firing due to being a girl?

What else could I think?

I was the only female in the group. Had he already labeled me a liability due to my gender?

No! That was my lack of confidence talking. Malcolm might be persnickety, but he was fair. We criminals were all from the sewers of Boston, we were all of us shifty to a one, and so we all stood on equal footing with him. Only our abilities counted with Malcolm.

Which was to say – anyone likely to make Malcolm look bad had to go. Which was to say – anyone likely to leave him open to criminal prosecution would get the boot.

I understood. In fact, I agreed. An incompetent con artist would squeal like a stuck pig if arrested. Names might be named. And holy hell, if one of those names mentioned belonged to Malcolm, the informant would end up as dead as a doornail. 

My mentor took no chances. None. Amongst crooks, Malcolm did it all, from shaking down marks, to huckstering, to masterminding elaborate blackmail schemes like the one in which I was presently involved, all executed while he, the perpetrator, maintained a flawless legal reputation.

With impressive credentials like those, how could I not have fallen in love with Malcolm?

And I had. Fallen in love, that is. All he’d had to do was crook his finger at me and I was a goner.

Suddenly, I sensed something terribly amiss with the object of my affections. Suddenly, the normally unruffled Malcolm began to pace the pretentiously staged training room. At the sight of him wearing out a hole in the purloined carpet, nerve-driven laughter rose up inside me and threatened to escape.

No! How many times had Malcolm told me inappropriate hilarity such as mine would never pass muster in Boston drawing rooms, one of the locales where I was supposed to charm the pants off my mark?

Literally.

My mentor was forever going on and on about my inappropriate hilarity, constantly reminding me not to laugh aloud. He told me this too many sodding times to count, along with never to sodding use the word "sodding.

Oops.

According to Malcolm, dowdy society matrons decried anything more boisterous than a reserved murmur of appreciation behind a raised hand. Outbursts of the sort I was prone to?

Definitely déclassé. Whatever the sod Malcolm had meant by that.

And there it was, about to explode, another of my raucous belly whoops building inside me.

And inappropriate laughter was not the worst of my offences.

According to Malcolm, my very familiarity with the word belly was an egregious error in good taste a far worse faux pas than actually splitting a gut chortling in public. And according to Malcolm, this was why:

By society’s exacting standards, anything south of the waist anatomically was considered vulgar. Midsection was iffy. The word belly was…well…belly fell below the belt where fancy speechifying was concerned. Contrarily, the mention of cleavage – very much on display in haute couture – was allowable in polite conversation, especially if those half-naked bosoms happened to pop out on the dance floor during the Two-Step. Everyone would feel free to talk about them then.

Holy shit! Look out below! Tits a-toppling.

The spectators would probably use classier phraseology than me.

Feet. Dependent upon context, feet were permissible in discussion. For example: if someone had been caught out in a rainstorm and gotten their feet inadvertently wet while splashing through a puddle. Or, not so inadvertently in my case. I absolutely adored splashing through puddles. I did so intentionally whenever possible. Alas, society types limited themselves to accidents only.

Sodding idiots! What fun those prigs were missing out on without even knowing it.

Legs. Admitting to owning a pair was strictly forbidden. Why, even the word limb barely passed muster in decency. Well-turned ankles, however, were a cause for boasting.

This was where Malcolm and I came to a parting of the ways – in my opinion, bragging was sodding rude. Then again, sometimes I got everything all mixed up. So many rules! How did those stuffy Boston Brahmins keep them all straight?

Anyway – off-the-cuff-impersonations were my forte. My ear for a cultivated tone of voice was beyond reproach, as was my ability to portray gentrified manners. In all things mimicry, I was a veritable sponge, soaking up everything around me.

Especially the unsavory.

Call me a fraud. An imposter. Do! I would answer to both. But never call me untalented. My thespian skills gave me a leg – Oops! – a limb up on the competition. If there was one thing I knew, it was how to put on fake airs in public. Thanks to my mentor’s tutoring, I aimed to be very best pretend society lady in all of Boston.

No siree! My mentor was not getting the chance to toss me out on my tastefully tailored, if grossly exaggerated bustle, most of which was all-me, not stuffing.

Which reminded me:

Sir, in a bustle, my hindquarters resemble a sodding horse’s sodding arse. I have plenty enough natural padding of my own without needing to strap on peplum or whatnot.

My mentor stopped pacing and stared me down. Intently. Again.

Not censoring my thoughts before speaking was a bad habit of mine.

At Malcolm’s unspoken indictment, I chewed the inside of my cheek until I nearly choked on the less-than-blue blood filling my mouth.

I had learned my lesson. Here on out, euphemisms all the way.

I could do this. I could do this. I could talk highfalutin’! What? Was I born in a sodding barn?

Probably.

My humble beginnings in no way signified where I would end up. I had big dreams and high hopes…and a bad attitude.

That last I would endeavor to correct.

As I balanced my nether regions on a velvet cushioned chair, references to little Miss Muffet ensconced on her tuffet did not escape me. Was Malcolm my spider? Would he frighten me away?

Never! Not even if he cozied up beside me as the hairy bug had done with Miss Muffet in the beloved nursery rhyme. Rather, his closeness would thrill me.

Too bad Malcolm never cozied. Too bad familiarity was not his way. Too bad not even a smidgeon of human warmth penetrated his chilly heart. Too bad day-old corpses radiated more heat than my mentor. Too bad I loved him despite the risk of frostbite.

A glutton – that was me, all the way around. For punishment. For loving people who found it hard to love me back. For food…

As a child, I stole to quiet noisy hunger pangs. My present voluptuousness testified to my success in the area. As I grew older, my thieving repertoire extended beyond meat pies.

I started stealing pretty things. Or, at least I thought them pretty at the time:

High-heeled boots that laced up the calf. Tawdry gowns in gaudy shades of magenta and orange. Jewelry. Drop earrings that would bat my jaws as I sashayed down dark alleys, my wide hips rolling like a ship on the high seas, stilling only long enough to lift fat money pouches from drunken whoremongers who congregated outside the Mad Dog Tavern.

Those whoremongers never solicited me. I stole, yes I did, but I never did prostitute. At twenty, my age now, the same applied.

This extortion scam would correct that deficiency in my education.

You meet your mark on the morrow, Malcolm needlessly reminded me. And, frankly, that meeting causes me untold anguish.

Anguish? Wait! Malcolm had feelings?

Me too! A shitload of anger held me in its grip. Like inappropriate laughter, the vexation had been building in me a long time. Now I seethed with it.

Why did Malcolm ever hire me?

If a lady of the evening was what he required for this scam, Malcolm should have sodding gotten someone else. What did a virgin like me know about getting a gent in bed? 

Chapter Two

Have I taught you nothing of how wealthy men think, of what beguiles them? Malcolm asked.

You taught me aplenty, sir.

Then do you or do you not intend to dupe this gentleman out of a small fortune by virtue of your radiance?

I coughed. That radiance is the gown, sir. The gold stuff shimmers under the lamp.

That you would say such a thing is yet another reason for my anguish.

"Look at me, sir! I say what I see in the mirror each morn. We both know I ain’t no beauty. I gestured wildly at my person. The hideous hair that defies definite description. Are the strands black? Brown? Curly? Straight? The washed-out blue eyes, almost colorless at times."

Their odd upward slant tended toward the chameleon. What man writes love poems about lizard eyes?

And my form, I continued, my arms wildly waving now as if I were drowning far from shore at Carson beach. "My shape defeats all attempts at the ladylike. Those loose combinations of camisole with attached drawers currently in vogue? Not for me. My breasts – excuse me – my bosom requires rigorous corseting. Bone corseting. I shan’t bore you by going into the dimensions of my waist. Well…only to say...my waist exceeds current specifications, particularly after I gobble down an extra large portion – or three – of chocolate pudding when I think no one is looking."

He frowned. That was you?

I let that go. Self-incrimination was just plain stupid. Especially with Malcolm. My mentor was more guarded than a sodding prison.

I am altogether out-of-fashion, sir. The figure-hugging aesthetic style is impractical for me! Neglect my cinching, and my shape shifts every which way. Get someone else to seduce the mark. A high-class gent like the mark will never want me…

Just to make me feel better, Malcolm might have disagreed. Indeed, I hoped he would. Too much to expect, I soon learned. And if I continued on this reckless course, I would argue myself right out of this con.

Was it already too late? Had my cold feet lost me the only opportunity I had ever had to improve my lot in life?

To hell with it! If I was going down, I would do it my way.

I straightened my spine. I now sat on the sodding tuffet like I had a ruler stuck up my arse. Then, no half-measures for me, I hiked my chin high, all the while mentally packing my valise.

In a mewling frame of mind, I awaited Malcolm’s dismissal.

Listen here, Miss Weatherford.

Listening. I gulped. Go on. Taking charge made me feel less vulnerable.

Not only beauties can seduce, Malcolm said, his expression inscrutable.

Pardon?

If you are listening, as you said you were, then you heard me. Furthermore – perfectly aligned features often stand in the way of seduction.

Tell that to all the great beauties of the world. Tell that to sodding gorgeous Helen of Troy. I wagered her arse was smaller than mine. I wagered the giant Trojan horse in the story owned a smaller arse than mine.

I blew out a frustrated breath, the gustiness of which ruffled the fashionable fringe carefully arranged across my forehead.

Malcolm’s idea. The style looked ridiculous on me. My mentor suggested I cut the bangs to copy the look of a Gibson Girl. A mistake, I realized now that it was too late to remedy the disaster.

The story of my life.

What was I doing here?  

And now, rather than bow to my insecurities and give me the uplifting boost of a much-needed compliment, Malcolm thought to use logic against me instead?

Low blow.

Oh, to strike him. Not dead, but not a missish drawing room slap, either. Full-out fisticuffs guaranteed to wreak havoc on his handsome face.

Not his nose! I would leave that alone. His hawk-like profile was too aristocratic to mar with a bump.

Not his cheeks either. High and sculpted, rather exotic, those chiseled bones must stay exactly as is.

His jaw then? Could I strike him there?

No. The granite firmness would hurt my knuckles while doing nothing to diminish his male beauty.

Still, I would retaliate. Not with the flat of my hand but with a volley of logic surpassing his own. See how he liked it!

How would beauty hinder seduction, sir?

"Figuring her good looks will do all the hard work for her, a good looking woman comes to rely on her appearance to get what she wants. She expects her smile to drop men in their tracks. Whereas a less physically gifted woman, such as yourself, will often develop other traits, less conventional but just as lethal traits…humor…the art of conversation…intelligence…cleverness…carnality…to conquer the male heart."

Sounds like the short end of the stick to me, sir. I would go for the beauty angle every time. Oh, and a smaller arse.

Ignoring all that, Malcolm continued. A true coquette realizes seduction is no more than a sleight of hand trick. You would know all about that sort of deceptive cunning if memory serves.

And Malcolm’s memory always did serve. Him.

Damn it all to hell. He would never allow me to forget my humble thieving origins in Boston for even a minute. I had not always borne the name Cynthia Weatherford. Certainly, my foundling’s birth certificate had not been recorded as such. And should I be fortunate enough to remain with this organization, I probably would not always go by that quality name, either. The aliases would come and go, the name changes suiting whatever the scam.

And what of me? Would