UnCoNtRoLlAbLe ACOTAR LOVER

She continued her walk through the station, jerked off her feet by the blaring claxons from the train, clutching her travel satchel close to her chest. It had her only possessions inside–her two dresses, her unmentionables, stockings, another pair of boots, hair ribbons and pins, her spare corset, and toiletries. 

Her walk was interrupted constantly, men offering rides and calling out “Miss! Miss!” to her. But she kept her eyes down and shouldered her way to the massive doors of the station. 

She must be mad.

Mad.

It had to be that!

To be doing this, she couldn’t be normal.

She was here, in London of all places, alone, to meet with some mysterious man.

What if he was Jack the Ripper?

She’s read the papers–Jack the Ripper was rampaging on the streets of Whitechapel and what if Mrs. Amren was his co-conspirator? What if she lured unsuspecting country girls to London, and into the clutches of Jack the Ripper?

Elain’s read and enjoyed the tales of Sherlock Holmes, that wiley intriguing detective, who solved crimes–but if she thought about it more, why was there so much crime in London? People stole and abused and murdered others. It was horrifying.

Where she was from, St. Margaret’s Bay, the biggest crime last year was Ollie Oswald stealing Mr. Clarence’s goat, and Maggie May becoming pregnant out of wedlock. That thought sobered her right up, though still, Maggie’s out-of-wedlock babe was hardly the same thing as a mad serial killer running around the streets of London and slaughtering women of ill repute.

Elain finally existed the station and stood on the street, all her senses assaulted by even more noise, the stench of manure, hordes of jostling people who were all rushing somewhere, paper boys who were announcing the latest headlines – another Ripper murder, apparently – vendors peddling food and all sorts of items, handsome soldiers, and every spoken language imaginable. Elain recognised everything from French and Italian, to some dialects that she was unfamiliar with, Slavic, German and even Scandinavian speech. She had a knack for languages, and having spent time in Dover, with her father’s ships, she’d seen sailors, merchants and visitors from every part of the world. Stupidly, she thought that Dover was a busy city. It had nothing on this monstrosity.

She walked over to where the cabs were parked awaiting passengers.

“Good mornin’ Miss, in need of a ride?” one of the drivers asked.

“Yes, this is the address,” she handed him the paper that Mrs. Amren had given her, which had the address and all the instructions. Mrs. Amren had also given her ten pounds, which was more money than Elain’s seen in a long, long time.

She could buy so much for ten pounds! Dresses and a pair of shoes, meat pies, maybe even a pastry, tea, lodging…Her whole family survived on four-five pounds a month, and here she was, with ten pounds, six shillings and 3 pence in her pocket. Mrs. Amren told her that the tenner had come from the gentleman who took care of her travel accommodations and spending money.

Once she was situated in the carriage, they took off,  the driver navigating the streets and the chaos of other cabs and pedestrians with expert precisions. Elain knew that they were going to Westminster, and she wished to see the cathedral, and the abbey, but she did not, though she was pleased that they’d be staying far away from Whitechapel.

“Dog and Hound, Miss,” the driver announced and then opened the door for her.

It was a public house and also offered lodgings and once Elain exited the cab, she thought that it looked presentable and clean. The facade of the building was well-kept, brick, with garlands of wisteria wrapping around the lower part of the building and the very large bay window. Once she paid for the ride, she walked inside–she’s been to public houses and taverns before–but this one looked very well kept, with a beautiful walnut bar, all sorts of hunting pictures and engravings on the walls, and burgundy and green seats. There were not many patrons milling around, but it was also only 10:30 am. 

Elain approached the proprietor, just like Mrs. Amren told her to do and said, “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. Arthur Johnson.”

The man straightened at the mention of the name, and then quickly and accommodatingly told her, “Follow me, Miss.”

“Where are we going?” Elain whispered, baulking at the invitation.

“Mr. Johnson is waiting for you Miss. My understanding is that he wished to have a conversation with you in private.”

Elain’s never been with a man in private, let alone in an unfamiliar city, but what choice did she have? She already felt like she signed her life away, when she was meeting with Mrs. Amren. The woman had a heap of papers and documents for Elain to sign, mostly about confidentiality and non-disclosure of any information that she was to learn. There were financial papers as well, but Mrs. Amren told her that they would be finalised should the contract be signed. 

They stopped at one of the doors and the proprietor knocked. A man’s voice answered promptly.

“Enter.”

“You may proceed, Miss,” he told Elain and then stepped aside.

This is where I die, was her only thought. 

It was definitely Jack the Ripper. There have been whispers that he came from the upper classes, maybe even nobility, and she was going to meet him right now and he was going to skin her alive. And then her body would be baked into meat pies, just like Sweeney Todd did it. They said that the mad barber did not exist, but Elain begged to differ. Stories like that didn’t just happen to be written due to someone’s fevered imagination. He must have existed.

So she would be abused, killed and then will end up in a pie.

-

He sat in a wingback chair.

That’s all she saw when she finally dared to enter the room. The man. The gentleman.

A very tall man by the looks of it, considering how far his long legs stretched. He was dressed in all black, elegantly, in a way Elain wasn’t used to seeing men dressed on a Thursday morning. His jacket was stylishly tailored and his boots were perfectly polished. However, it was the man’s face that gave Elain pause. He was handsome to an unusual degree, the panes of his face sharp and sensual at once. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a peculiar colour regarded her with detachment and mild scrutiny. When he licked his full lower lip, Elain couldn't help but notice the movement and she balled her hands at her sides, suddenly feeling tense and hot. He had the look of a foreigner about him–dark bronze skin, thick black hair cut unusually long on top, and those strange light hazel eyes.

“Elain Archeron, I presume,” he asked at last, and his voice was deep, low and just as sensual as the rest of him. Like a whisper of black silk in the wind. The accent was unfailingly upper crust. 

“I am, my lord,” she confirmed and curtsied.

“Please sit,” he gestured to the sofa across from his chair.

She did as she was told and noticed that he held a photograph of her in his fingers. His hands were large, with long, strong fingers, but surprisingly, the hands were covered in thick scars–burn scars from what Elain could gauge. Mrs. Amren said that the photograph was a requirement and Elain was forced to travel to Dover to have her photograph taken. It was expensive, and she needed to sit in the same position, unmoving and silent, for almost seven minutes. In the end, she didn’t even think that the photograph looked like her. But following her handing the photograph off to Mrs. Amren, she received an invitation to travel to London–-she supposed that it did the trick.

“How was your journey?” he asked politely.

“Very nice, thank you, my lord.”

“I wished to have our conversation first, if you don’t mind, and then you may rest.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Her fingers were shaking and she attempted to hide them in the folds of her skirt, though she was sure that he noticed it.

His tone was light when he assured her, “there is no need to be nervous. I believe we ought to have a talk first and you aren’t obligated to anything, and neither am I.”

She nodded and allowed him to talk, because it was just easier. Her throat was tight and her mouth dry. Her dress felt itchy against her skin and the collar borderline was suffocating. 

He stood up and she had to crane her neck to take in his full height–he was probably six and a half feet tall, and when he moved to pour water into a glass, she definitely noticed how thickly muscled his arms and shoulders were, and how slender he was otherwise, trim and lean and strong. He handed her the glass and then leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and drumming his fingers on the surface.

“I am Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris,” he announced simply. 

Elain’s hand stopped mid-way to her lips, as she stared at him wordlessly.

She’d assumed that he would be a nobleman, perhaps a baron, maybe a count, but a duke? The Velaris family was well-known: it was said that they came to Britain all the way back with William the Conqueror. It couldn’t possibly be the same Velaris? Could it?

“I am sorry, my lord,” Elain said softly. “You are the Duke of Velaris?”

He nodded, “the very same”.

“But…” she bit her lip, “I was under the impression that you were married, my lord? To Lady Morrigan?”

The lovely Lady Morrigan, Countess of Hewn, was renowned for her beauty. Elain had seen her in newspapers and other publications. The Velaris-Hewn nuptials was the society wedding of the year just a couple of years back. 

“I am,” he confirmed calmly. “And since you are bound by our confidentiality agreement, I will disclose that my lady wife had suffered a grave incident last year. She was thrown by her horse, and had broken her spine. Unfortunately, she suffered a brain bleed from her injuries as well. She is my wife and will remain so until she or I die. But alas, she is bed-bound and without sense or consciousness. Now, you must understand that her condition is not known to anyone, other than my most trusted servants and her nurses. It must remain so until I produce an heir. The child must be mine, and upon the birth, we shall announce that Lady Morrigan suffered compilation in labour.”

Elain sighed and murmured, “I am sorry, my lord. For you and your lady wife. It is truly tragic and I am…just sorry.”

He cocked his head and regarded her quietly for a while.

She’d only known him for about fifteen minutes, but she could already see how observant he was, methodical even. There was a calmness about him, an almost predatory stillness, and she sensed that he dwelled in some dark places inside his head. Perhaps it was the sorrow  resulting from his wife’s condition, or maybe something in his past, but this was a man of secrets and unanswered questions.

“May I ask some questions of you?” he inquired at last.

Elain sipped her water and nodded once.

He didn't use any props, not notes or correspondence, when he said,

“Elain Archeron, twenty-one years old, the middle of three sisters. Tell me, why are you, of all people, responded to my advertisement?”

“We need the money, my lord,” she admitted plainly. 

“There are other ways to get money,” he noted, his dark brow raised. “You are a maid of gentle breeding based on your family’s history–a merchant father, a mother who was from a well-to-do family. Surely you can think of other ways to…” he stopped and scrubbed his scarred hand over his chin, before continuing, “tell me, why?”

“My father has lost his fortune,” Elain explained, her voice quiet. “My younger sister has a disease of the stomach that makes her vomit and she is frail and weak. She needs medicines, which we cannot afford. My older sister is a proud woman and…” her voice trailed. How could she explain Nesta? She couldn’t. Nesta was smart, even cunning, but she was better suited for running an estate or even a business. Haughty, proud and demanding is what Nesta was. But she was not one for sacrifices. “And that leaves me. I…well, I answered the advertisement in The Times, and was contacted by Mrs. Amren. We met and discussed the offer…and,” she swallowed, “I am interested.”

“What do you understand of the offer and the proposal?” he asked seriously.

She tugged on her skirt and peered down, looking at the floor. 

Quietly, she answered,

“A gentleman requires the services of a female to produce a child, an heir. The gentleman is willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the child and…well, would pay all throughout the pregnancy…That is all.”

He sighed and turned, his movements measured and languid, as he walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, as he looked out on the busy Vincent Street.

“I fear, Miss Archeron, that you are underestimating the commitment that this ordeal would require of you,” he said, almost to himself.

Elain’s heart dropped.

He wasn’t interested.

He did ot find her comely or appealing or satisfactory. Perhaps he liked her photograph, but seeing her in person made him change his mind.

Ten thousand pounds was an astronomical amount of money.

It was enormous. At the height of their success, the Archeron family wealth was estimated at about fifteen thousand pounds, which made Elain and her sisters very appealing on the marriage market. To have a large portion of that fortune come back to them would guarantee a bright future for all–they could all marry well, they could cure Feyre’s illness, they could operate on their father’s mangled leg and send him to Italy or France to recuperate. They could have fine homes and wardrobes and servants. 

Currently, they existed on about four pounds a month, for the four of them. If they were lucky. 

“I don’t think that I am, my lord,” Elain found it in herself to answer boldly and firmly. “I understand what is required.”

“You understand that you must lie with me,” he was still not looking at her, and therefore couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, “and have relations with me as if I were your husband. You would be required to do so at my beckoning and pleasure, for at least six months,”

“What happens after six months?” she interrupted him, confused.

He turned his head and explained,

“I am willing to allot six months for the conception to take place. Children are usually not made in a day…it may take time, and I realise that. I feel that six months is an adequate amount of time for you to conceive. If you don’t, then we will part ways, since clearly we would not be compatible enough to create a child together.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek and then asked,

“And if I don't…conceive that is? What happens then?”

He shrugged,

“You will be paid five hundred pounds for your troubles and you will leave. Naturally, you will be bound by the non-disclosure agreement for the rest of your life. That extends to me as well, Miss Archeron. If we proceed with this…arrangement…whatever the outcome is, your name will not be mentioned or besmirched, so that you have a chance at a successful marriage with a man of your choosing.”

“I appreciate that, my lord,” she said sincerely.

He went back to the desk and gathered a stack of papers in his hands, though he did not give them to her yet. He was clearly still deciding on something, his brow furrowed. At last, he said,

“These are the financial terms of the arrangement, Miss Archeron. If we proceed, you will sign and retain a copy for yourself.

“Again, I urge you to consider everything with utmost seriousness,” he pressed. “This is not a trivial matter. Your involvement with me may last up to a year and a half. It is quite a long time for a woman of your age to dedicate to a…male. One who will not marry you in the end, and whom you shan’t see again.

“Furthermore, if there is a child, it will be wholly mine.”

A shudder ran through Elain and she suddenly became cold. When he put it like that, it did give her pause. Because in exchange for the money, she would be required to give up her baby. Theoretically she understood that–when she began corresponding with Mrs. Amren, and when they finally met, this was thoroughly discussed. But seeing this man in the flesh, even briefly imagining that there would be…coital relations involved, though Elain wasn’t quite sure precisely what it all entailed, and then there would potentially be a pregnancy, which was something that was often fraught with dangers, only to end in a painful labour, and then…the separation. Permanent separation from a baby that she’d give birth to. From the man too. Yes, he was strikingly handsome–to her great relief–but she knew that she was in danger of developing feelings for him, which he surely would never reciprocate. He had his poor wife and was devoted to her, and was only after an heir to carry his name and his legacy. Elain would be left without love, without companionship, without her babe, but with money. She supposed that she could have more children, but the idea of giving up her son or daughter seemed terrifying. Her firstborn. 

Azriel looked up at her and watched the warring emotions that danced on her face. 

“Would you like me to read out the terms?” he asked at last, his expression slightly softened, even kinder.

She swallowed and nodded.

He glanced at the first page and began reading.

“The female in the arrangement is expected to be an unmarried and unbetrothed maid, of good moral standing and a virgin. She is to be free of diseases and for the duration of the arrangement she may not be seen with a male or engage in any manner of relations with a male other than the Requestor.

She would enter into the arrangement willingly and would be required to have sexual intercourse with the Requestor at his bidding. The Requestor shall not physically hurt, slap, hit, abuse or force the female, and will not verbally insult or berate her. If the female is unwilling or unable to have sexual relations with the Requestor, she is to notify him immediately and provide an explanation as to the cause. Relations are not required from the female when she has her monthly flow. 

The female is expected to live on premises of the Requestor’s abode and accompany him upon his travels. She shall have her private room(s) at the dwellings. She is not expected to sleep with the Requestor or share his private quarters. The female is required to maintain her decorum at all times, and may not fraternise with the help. The female is not to divulge any part of the agreement to anyone, including her family. The female will not occupy a place at the servants’ quarters and will not partake in meals with them. The female will have a maid of her own to assist her with personal matters. 

Upon conception, the female is to remain at the Requestor’s home, under the care of his physicians. She is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, to ensure a successful pregnancy. She will be assisted during her labour by a midwife, a doula, nurses and physicians. Upon delivery of the child, the female will be allowed to bond and nurse the infant for up to one week (if she wishes  to do so). After one week of recovery, the child will be removed from the female’s care and presence. At that time, the arrangement would be considered fulfilled and would be terminated.

The Requestor guarantees the following payments:

£1000 for taking the female’s virginity

£50 weekly stipend, for up to six months of service

£50 weekly stipend for the duration of the pregnancy

£1000 for labour and delivery

£10,000 for the birth of a live child

All legal fees, room and board, wardrobe allowance, personal and beauty treatments, transportation, et cetera would be provided by the Requestor. 

The female may be allowed to spend Christmas with her family (up to one week), as well as one week of her choosing as a personal holiday.”

He did not ask whether she was agreeable to the contract, but simply handed it to her and said,

“Read this over and be thorough. Any questions, you should ask me.”

Elain didn't answer for a while, but he didn’t seem impatient, and wasn’t put off by the awkward silence between them. Instead, he went over to a sideboard upon which stood a decanter and some glasses and poured himself a drink of whatever it was.

She finally broke the silence and said,

“This is much more than ten thousand.”

It seemed that she took him by surprise with her comment and he looked at her with expectation.

“The contract was for ten…this is closer to twenty,” she pushed. 

“Is that a problem?” he queried.

“I just…” she blushed, “I don’t want to be unfair. I was fine with ten. Why a thousand for the virginity?”

He sat back in the wing chair and sipped his drink, before saying,

“Seems only fair. I would be taking something that doesn’t belong to me and isn’t intended for me to take. You ought to be compensated for that.”

Theoretically, what he was saying made sense to her, but it seemed so…transactional. And, of course, it was a transaction. There were no feelings involved. 

Craning his head side to side, he added after a pause,

“The pleasure is free, if that makes you feel better. I won’t be charging for it, and I won’t be paying for it either. You can enjoy it free and clear.”

If that meant to be a lighthearted comment of some sort, it didn’t land, because Elain looked at him, perplexed and said. “What pleasure?”

He chuckled softly, “Sexual pleasure, Miss Archeron.”

“There is no pleasure in relations such as those,” she argued primly.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing into the leather and smiled at her, though the curve of his beautiful mouth was both challenging and sinister.

“And you are an expert then?” 

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t even believe that she was discussing this with a man she didn’t know.

“I am no expert, my lord,” she told him, “but what pleasure could there be? It is an act designed to propagate the species.”

He propped his head on his fist, crossing his long, muscular legs and swaying his boot-clad foot casually. A lock of his silky black hair fell on his forehead and Elain had the insane urge to go and fix it for him. His handsomeness didn’t help. Elain had feared that the man would be old and paunchy, sweaty and balding. Why else would one need to contract for a woman to give him a child? She figured maybe he was missing limbs, or had distorted features, or perhaps some unappealing trait…but she definitely, definitely did not expect Lord Night. She had some parameters that she had set for herself in regards to the arrangement–if the gentleman seemed brutish, if his looks made her squeamish, if he had a visible disease or if his visage repelled her, she would not have gone along with the scheme. As much as she needed the money, she also knew that she wouldn’t have a child with someone cruel or unappealing. She wanted her baby to live in a loving environment and with a parent who’d want them and care for them. 

The problem was that Lord Night’s appearance quickly overrode her good sense. It wasn’t something that she ever considered–that he would be so handsome and so titled that she’d forget all her common sense and all the expectations that she had prior to meeting him.

Stumbling a bit over her own tongue, she asked at last,

“What sort of pleasure is there?”

“Ahhmm Miss Archeron,” he smiled at her, “why do you think people have lost their minds and morals through the centuries over love?”

It was an excellent question, to which Elain did not have an answer. Why indeed?

“Well, perhaps, you will have the chance to find out,” he got up and straightened his jacket.

“I do not want love, my lord,” Elain insisted brusquely. 

He nodded slowly,

“Yes, yes. I know. You need the money.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t fall in love, Miss Archeron,” he suggested.

But why did it sound like a challenge.

“Take the rest of the day to think about everything,” he told her. “These rooms are yours for the night. You may order food and drink. St. John’s Gardens are not far–should you wish to take a stroll. 

“I will call upon you tomorrow, at 10 am, and I expect an answer.”

When he had put out his advertisement, and sent the requirements to Mrs. Amren, his criteria was rather simple. He was looking for a female aged 17 to 26, a virgin, with a good reputation, a pleasant appearance and free of diseases. Medical records were obtained from the local physicians–Azriel did not want to deal with TB, gout, or any other unpleasant conditions. He wanted someone well-proportioned, and not too slim or sickly, and neither did he want a girl who overindulged in food. She was to carry his babe, and needed to be healthy and preferably fit. He preferred someone spirited, with a good, cheerful disposition, though he knew it would be difficult to gauge. Anyone could pretend to be anything for a few hours. Ideally, the chosen girl would be someone curious, easy to talk to, and someone who had at least basic education. She needed to be able to read and write, so she could sign the contract.

Everything about Elain Archeron had checked out, after he received reports from his investigators, who had travelled to Dover and to St. Margaret Bay to gather more information about the woman. 

The woman, whose photograph unsettled him deeply. 

Truthfully, he wasn't expecting much from his advertisement. It was absurd to assume that 90% of responders would not be opportunists and madams, crafty whores and sob-story adventurists. Naturally, no one was familiar with his identity, and even Mrs. Amren, with whom he’d worked before, and who’d proven herself to be an agile and witty woman, was not entirely sure whether he was the one to actually place the advertisement. She was the one who sorted through the respondents, and Azriel’s army of servants and investigators was at her disposal. Mrs. Amren narrowed down the list for him, whittling it down to manageable, and selecting the few girls who seemed to fit all the criteria, before sharing the photographs with her employer. 

There were only four women who made the cut. 

The first one was a hearty red-haired girl, with a big bust, wide hips and a strong body, named Bryce Quinlan. Her face was appealing and she had large, beautiful amber eyes. Despite her simple appearance, she was in fact interesting to talk to. Gregarious. Well-read. Inelegant. A farmer’s daughter, who studied to be a teacher, she was unapologetically interested in money. Which was absolutely fine with Azriel. But if she was a virgin, then he was a giraffe. He was half-afraid that she’d tackle him on the floor and ride him into oblivion. She might have impregnated him.

So that was a no.

The next girl…he already forgot her name, because the moment she stepped into the room, she buried her face in her hands and began to weep loudly. Then she turned around and ran away.

So that was that.

Disappointed, he still had high hopes for the next girl.

Her photograph intrigued him–she was attractive, with an open, unblemished face, pin-straight hair and big, light-coloured eyes. When she arrived, she was taller than he assumed, and remarkably pleasant of face. She was Irish, and spoke with a lovely accent. Her eyes were bottle green with shades of aqua, and her hair turned out to be reddish-brown. Her face and hands were covered in a smattering of freckles. Gwyneth Berdara was her name.

She was a librarian at the Trinity College Dublin–an unusual position for a female. But she was also a student there, one of very few females accepted to study at the university. Her tenacious attitude, and her open, friendly manner impressed Azriel. She was not young–almost 25–unmarried and studious. It was clear that she was a learned woman, interested in academics and the pursuit of her goals. 

“Why are you here?” he had asked her bluntly.

“I don’t wish to marry, Lord Night,” she admitted to him. “And neither do I wish to live in poverty, like so many of my kind. I want to teach and I want to be an academic, but I am realistic–it’s not a position that is easy, or even possible for a woman to achieve. Who’d want to have a female as a professor?” she laughed, sadly, and unhappily.

Azriel understood. She was correct in her fears.

“This opportunity,” and she pointed between the two of them, “would allow me independence. I wouldn’t be saddled with a child, but I would have the money to continue my studies and live the life I wish to live. Perhaps become a suffragette.”

He could see it. This Gwyn Berdara was the kind who wouldn't sit back and hope for a happy ending for herself. She’d fight for it. Carve it out.

In the end, Azriel knew that she wasn’t for him. Mostly, he didn’t want to deny her her goals. He was realistic–even if she thought that the child wouldn’t impact her life, he was convinced that that wouldn’t be the case. 

He did what he thought was right in this situation. He wrote a check for £1000 and wished her luck in all her future endeavours. He didn’t have to, but he felt a paternal kind of tug towards her. That amount of money would set her up for life. For him, it was a drop in the sea of his wealth.

Lastly, there was Roslin. He couldn’t recall her surname, but Roslin was a beautiful woman with thick auburn hair, brilliant blue eyes and a thick scar on the side of her neck. The scar did not disturb him, though he wondered what had happened to her to receive such a nasty wound. The conversation flowed comfortably, but Azriel noticed quickly that Roslin was…dazzled. She sighed and batted her lashes, wrung her fingers, smiled and blushed. Azriel thought that she would serve him fine, but it was quickly apparent that she was looking for a husband, and not for a gentleman who needed her to bear his child. Azriel didn’t even want to start upon this road. He dismissed Roslin kindly and politely, and thanked his lucky stars that he did not offer her his name. He was well known and his face was featured in the newspapers with some frequency, but he hoped that Roslin wasn’t someone who read much about political affairs or the War Office.

Elain Archeron was a latecomer. He’d basically given up on the idea of finding anyone even remotely suitable and the task was taking too long for his liking. So it took him by surprise when he recognised the name–Archeron, as in Archeron Shipping, Ltd. It was an unusual surname, which only one family in Britain possessed. Because the origins of the family were in fact Greek. It was once a well-established, successful, widely known shipping company, which had fallen on hard times. When he’d asked Elain about her reasons and she told him about her family, he already knew the story. The father, Voldemar Archeron, had run the company into the ground with bad investments and even worse weather–three of his ships were lost at sea. Whatever was left of the wealth, he squandered. Ida, his wife, had died a few years back of typhus. The three daughters were left without dowries or good prospects. Back about a decade ago, the eldest sister, Nesta, was proposed as a match to none other than the Duke of Dorchester. Her dowry promised to be so big, that her lack of a title didn’t seem to matter. And then, it all just disappeared one day, including Dorchester’s interest. Azriel didn’t know much about the middle or the youngest sisters, until he read the name ‘Elain Archeron’. Mrs. Amren confirmed that Elain was indeed one of the Archeron sisters and it piqued Azriel’s interest even further. Seemed like pure madness that a young woman from a good family, and with what was confirmed to be a spotless reputation, would be interested in selling herself, her womb, and her potential for money. It intrigued him for whatever reason. 

There was something that they had in common–the Archerons were also someone who had made it big, who were successful, yet who always remained the outsiders, because of their origins. He could relate. One look at his dark golden skin, his jet-black hair, his aquiline nose and the slant of his eyes, and it was obvious that he wasn’t exactly English. Which he wasn’t. His mother was from the Middle East, an exotic, gorgeous woman, who became his father’s obsession. His father, an English duke, dragged the woman here, actually married her! Yet never allowed her to forget that she was something else. A foreigner. Someone lesser. Azriel’s mother was a beautiful, sad woman, who spent most of her life behind the walls of their various estates–too strange to truly become Lady Night, the Duchess of Velaris, yet virtually enslaved by Azriel’s father. The only kindness his father permitted was for them to adopt baby Cassian. Azriel and Cassian were cousins, though they viewed each other as brothers. 

In some way, Azriel wondered if he was repeating his hateful father’s ways?

Was he also forcing an unsuspecting woman into a situation of bondage and sexual slavery? All because he saw Miss Archeron’s photograph and knew, without doubt, that she must be delivered to him. 

Simply put, in the photograph, Elain Archeron was gorgeous.

Elain Archeron

The sweetest face, gentle and innocent, like a blooming flower. Thick lustrous hair. A plump cheek that he wanted to sink his teeth into. He didn’t know her colouring, and needed to find out. Were her eyes black or blue? Green or brown? What colour was that beautiful thick hair? He wanted to know what her neck would taste like. How her hands would grip his arms. He needed to see beyond what the photograph offered him. 

Seeing her photograph made him send a telegram to Mrs. Amren, requesting an immediate meeting with Miss Archeron. 

Today, he saw the girl in the flesh, and he came to realise that he wanted nothing, absolutely nothing more than for her to agree to the arrangement. 

He’s been faithful to Morrigan–they had planned on a happy marriage, not one of convenience, but certainly one of mutual attraction and respect, and eventually, maybe even love. And he’s been faithful to her since her accident. No, he wasn’t planning on living the life of a monk, but he needed to secure himself a child, a legacy, for he couldn’t divorce his wife and had to remain married to her while she was alive. Frankly, in the past year, he didn’t have time for any liaisons and didn’t want to arouse any unnecessary questions about the state of his marriage. 

Elain, however, was something unexpected. His plans changed the moment she stepped into the room and looked at him with that shy, yet slightly defiant gaze of her huge brown doe eyes. Sad eyes, which spoke of hidden sorrow and grief which was her own. Brown. They were brown. Dark caramel came to mind when he looked into those eyes. Pale, but flushed cheeks, and full, plump lips. A tiny cleft on her chin, and a birthmark on her cheek. Golden brown curls tucked under a simple hat. The dress was plain, a little ill-fitting, definitely not tailored. He imagined that the dresses were shared among the sisters, and it was probably one of the better ones that they had. She wasn’t wearing a jacket, and he could imagine that the poplin dress offered little warmth to her too-thin frame. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t wear any jewellery, even something simple, but the hat was decorated with three beautiful flowers, and there was a little flower brooch on her lapel. 

Azriel didn’t expect to be actually fully attracted to her. He thought that she might be pretty enough for him to willingly stick his cock into her. But he was intensely and immediately drawn to her. He fought the urge to come up to her and cup her little heart-shaped face between his hands. He wanted to press his lips to those pink, soft lips, and offer her her first kiss. It would be her first, he was sure. Was it so wrong that he suddenly desired to bring her into womanhood? He added the virginity clause and payment into the contract after he saw her photograph. He was honest when he told her that it wasn’t something that belonged to him, and he wanted to compensate her for it. But just because her maidenhead didn’t belong to him didn’t mean that he did not want to take it. That it wasn’t meant for him. And he wondered if in exchange, he could make the girl with the sad doe eyes see some light and offer a measure of comfort and happiness. 

Azriel was a male prone to melancholy and didn’t love or care for most people in his life. He didn’t even love his wife, though he cared for her. Yet the prospect of spending more time with Elain Archeron, of making her his lover, of caring for her physically, of keeping her by his side filled him with a sense of joyful anticipation. Was he feeling excited? Intrigued? Thrilled? Yes to all. He could also be just a lonely man who wanted to be needed by someone, even if it was just for his money. It was possible that she’d come to care for him in some personal way eventually. She was so cute, declaring how she was not looking for love. It was wise of her and he appreciated her rationality and the fact that she knew that there would be no chance of a happy end for her, for them. But it didn’t mean that he couldn’t hope for a connection, for this to be less than just a transaction.

He didn’t even notice his hour-long walk by the time he arrived at his house. Unlike most of his compatriots, Azriel was a soldier, a military man, and though he was only twenty nine years old, he held the rank of a Captain in the army. Nowadays, he actually had a job…Which sort of made him smile, every time he thought about it. Men of his station did not have jobs. It kept him mostly in London, which is what he preferred–yes, he was a Lord, a peer, and held a position at the House of Lords, but he also headed the Intelligence Branch for the British War Office. It frustrated him that Britain was so far behind in its intelligence initiatives, than, for example Prussia, which had established its own branch of Intelligence services back in 1804. Now, almost 100 years later, he was actively working on establishing a new branch–the Doctorate of Military Operations–which would include intelligence gathering and spying. The world was changing around them, and so the needs of his country demanded that their operations moved with the progress. 

Azriel spent the rest of the day at his office at Westminster, and was grateful for the distraction because it allowed him the opportunity to not think about Elain Archeron. He couldn’t forget her even if he tried, even when he engaged in numerous conversations throughout the day, and read dozens of documents, and put his signature on reports and missives. He didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings when he finally left work and walked to his club. He always enjoyed walking, particularly when he was in the city and indeed to spend so much time indoors. The walk also allowed him the opportunity to obsessively ponder what Elain might be doing at that moment, and what she’s done during the day. Did she eat enough? He hoped that she had ordered food for herself, and ventured out of the inn and enjoyed the park and the shops. He knew that she wouldn’t spend any money on herself, even if she really wanted to, but he wondered if she’d found something that she enjoyed looking at, or touching. He ate dinner at the club, wishing for the day to be over.

In his head, he was creating a list of things that he wanted to do for Elain. A very hypothetical list, but it gave him something to do and occupied his mind for the evening.

Firstly, he wanted to make sure that she ate and got healthy. The kind of thinness that she sported wasn’t the fashionable type, where noble ladies ate like dodo birds, so they could maintain their tiny waists. No, her kind of thinness was caused by hunger, maybe even starvation. Her tiny arms were as thin as noodles and the collarbones protruded violently through her skin. 

So it would take a little time to get her to a place where she was feeling better physically, and hopefully, emotionally as well.

When he initially thought about this scheme, Azriel wasn’t looking for a ‘project’ to sink his time and effort into. He wanted to impregnate a woman, have her have the baby and leave. However, after only one meeting, he was already reconsidering his initial plans. And that allowed for a coil of dread to unfurl in his stomach. What he could not permit himself to do–ever–was to develop feelings for this woman. Any woman. 

Morrigan was his priority. He wasn’t going to exchange her for another woman. Yes, the physicians told him that there was no hope of recovery–not only was she paralysed from the waist down, the brain bleed rendered her completely incapacitated. She breathed, and she ate soft, pureed foods, but she needed total care, around the clock, and when he told her ‘for better or for worse, in sickness and in health’ Azriel meant it. Azriel valued loyalty above else, and just as he expected it from others, he also required it of himself. He might not be a faithful husband, but he would be loyal. 

However charming, beautiful and desirable Miss Archeron was, and he found her to be enticing in every way, Azriel knew that he had to remain clear headed. This liaison had a purpose, and that’s what he was going to stick to. In the end, she would be ruined. And notorious, if she was not smart about it. He wished to maintain as much decorum about the affair as possible, and of course there was the non-disclosure agreement by which they were obligated to abide. 

He’d treat her well, with kindness, he’d pay her the way he promised, but he was going to use her body because he needed to, and not because he wanted to. In the end, he knew how this was going to end–he was going to break Elain Archeron’s heart. He was going to be ruthless about it too. An innocent girl such as herself would undoubtedly find herself enamoured with him, especially because he was going to be her first in everything. And she was going to lead herself to believe that he was reciprocating her feelings. Alas, when all was said and done, the truth would be brutal–she would be left with money, but without her babe, and without love.

He only hoped that she’d be able to find happiness and a good man some time in her life.

And forgive him.

-

It was 10 am exactly when Azriel stood in front of the door to Elain Archeron’s room. It was utterly quiet on the other side of the door, but he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, as his blood rushed hotly through his veins. He wouldn’t be terribly surprised if she’d bolted. He was almost expecting it, though last night he was feeling hopeful. The morning light made things clearer, and with clarity came the realisation that this entire scheme was pathetic and at best absolutely ridiculous. It was never going to come to pass and he was deluding himself into thinking that he’d ever succeed. Regardless of how wealthy he was and what riches he offered to someone, no woman in her right mind would go through with this. Even if he wasn’t painful to look at, and was a gentleman, it was still an experience that no one wanted.

He knocked softly on the door.

If he was going to face rejection, he was going to face it like a man. 

He knew it was coming, and he’s been preparing for it the entire morning: while he was getting a shave and dressing, he was imagining how she would let him down. Would she be gentle and soft? Would she be curt and upfront? Or cowardly, and simply run away without seeing him ever again?

A better question was–why was he so obsessed with her? Why did he need her answer so badly and why did he want it to be a ‘yes’? Why was he feeling so strangely possessive about her? Her body? Her acceptance? Her acquiescence?

All of last night, he was trying to convince himself that this wasn’t for him, that she wasn’t for him and that he shouldn't be subjecting a reputable maiden to this foolishness. Nevertheless, here he stood, hopeful like a young lad at his first courting.

He knocked harder, when he didn’t get a response the first time.

Heart sinking, he needed to acknowledge to himself that she was gone. 

Was he going after her all the way to Dover, pursuing her like a madman? Or was he letting her go, acknowledging that she was an unfulfilled promise? 

For the first time in a long time, Azriel, a lord and a duke, a millionaire and a magnetically attractive male, felt terribly lonely.

When he knocked the third time, louder and more insistent, a vast, empty hole opened up in his chest, and when there was no answer, he hung his head low, accepting the inevitable truth.