scratches against velvet.

He was staggered not only by the kiss, but also but the emotional whiplash. It seemed this vivacious red head could not experience emotions by halves, and it left him not knowing where he stood, yet strangely exhilarated. With a wary laugh, he nodded and straightened his back, fixing her with an odd and curious look before glancing either side of them. People moved past them, blinkered as they were in London, yet he had felt eyes on their unusual display. 

“You shan’t go like poor Annie. Let me assure you, I like to take care of my girls,” he continued, rather liking the cheek of her promise. With a bark of laughter, he scoffed at her question and leaned in to press a finger to her lips. 

“Not so loud. These are decent streets,” he reminded her with a harshness to his whisper and a pointed instruction to try and be a little quieter in the brief intensity of his eyes. “Of course I’m going to fuck you. Just stew in your anticipation a bit longer, won’t you? Now, are you coming into the shop or shall we make more of a scene out here?” he inquired, gesturing into the dressmakers behind them with a quirked brow. 

as soon as he groups her within the term ‘my girls’, dolly beams. she smiles with such enthusiasm as she had when one of the girls put her baby boy in her arms! how jolly life was in that very moment, dolly holding her skirts up by an inch as she straightens her back and pushes her chest out, like a peacock willing for a mate. it’s only when his finger goes to her lips does she slouch again, releasing her skirts to lap round her feet in a sad motion. 

his gaze makes her feel about a foot tall, but it is no matter to dolly - the young harlot practically bouncing from foot to foot with excitement. though most whores had fallen into the job due to circumstances, dolly had quite fallen in love with it - the only change she’d ask for is to have a position on golden square, though you’d have to be well educated or a molly for either estate. 

she leans in and slaps her lips together, eyes piercing back into the baron’s as she matches him as well as she could do so. “i’ll go inside sure, but it won’t stop me from thinkin’ about your cock,” dolly tells him with a sense of joy before she pushes past him gently, her skirts skimming his frame as she enters the dressmakers with a smile. 

Never before had he met someone who so happily went on and spoke their mind. Or at least not with such an accent, or with such vulgarity. If he had not been so taken aback, or so nervous on how to shake her, or so blasted hungover, perhaps George would have taken to the harlot and found her entertaining. As it was, he found himself gently tugging his clammy hands, trying to take them from her grasp. When she plopped her palm back on her hip, he quickly shoved the freed hand into his pocket where it could not be taken up again.

“Well, uh, I mean, that is to say-” he heard a giggle from behind him, and turned on the spot to see a gossiping pair pass by, not meeting his eye but still whispering amongst themselves. His cheeks flamed, and he turned back to the doxie before him. “No. I can’t. I’m not… intact.” He gave her a meaningful look. Then, for greater measure, took his hand out from his pocket once more, and pointed one long, solitary finger towards his crotch. “Down there.” He was also stunningly, startlingly broke from a night with his head buried with in a glass of wine or a Molly’s lap.

“Uh,” George wavered then. He thought she would have understood, would have pointed, laughed, and left him be with some crude remark. Then he could have gone on his merry, sodden way, found home, and collapsed into his bed until supper. “Well, it means-” he started, but then she was off, and he was muted.

“Well, uh, you make them well,” he said, and looked at her outfit. The gown was not at all shoddily made, though the fabric was cheap, and George must admit to a fondness for far more ornamentation. He supposed, though, if there was talk of babies and a need for culls, that having a dress with hoistable skirts and space to take our her breasts was more important than extra ruffles.

she didn’t care if he were impotent, a warlock or a knight in shining armour. all that mattered in dolly’s mind was the coat on his back, and how it felt beneath her fingertips. it was a guilty pleasure of hers to admire fashion and how one dressed themselves in the streets. of course, dolly knew nothing would come of it but she had always enjoyed pretending - playing on the streets as a young girl she used to take snapshots with her mind of dresses, of hats and of shoes that tapped against the cobbles. 

Snorting a laugh at her in turn, he made to reply to her first statement perfectly jovially. “I don’t know, you certainly seem like a woman with–”  He was cut off, rather abruptly, by the pull at his arm. With little choice but to obey, albeit with an undignified grunt of surprise, Rowan nonetheless eyed Dolly with a hint of fear and suspicion of his own. Feeling the adjustment of her hold on him, he knew better than to try and counter it. He could only lose her by doing so. In something of a peace offering, he instead wrapped a hand around her wrist and offered her a sheepish, tight lipped smile. 

“There will be no need for that, my dear. I have no interest in hurting you, I assure you,” he confirmed, only then trying with the slightest attempt to pull himself away from her. “This is all just…Well, its twofold. Threefold, really,” he elaborated, speaking quickly and quietly to assure her knees stayed as far away from his bollocks as possible. “Part of it is revenge, though, might I add, not against any one you might know. Part of it is a bit of an investment in your future, if you don’t mind my saying.”

she couldn’t help but trust him, as if she were a child who willingly accepted everything an adult told her. she leans into his hand, how is rests on her waist. dolly was much more at home with physical affection rather than words, and found such a touch a comfort in the foreign setting they were stood in. she listens but far from deeply, and almost skips a few words as she jumps on the spot and puts her hands to his cheeks. quickly, so there was no room for rowan to throw her from him, dolly presses her lips to his and kisses him in a way to show her gratitude and an apology for her enquires that were only wasting time. 

“you keep talkin’ to me like that and you’ll get more than a kiss,” dolly grins, taking him by the arm again so they could go inside as a pair. “i’m sorry sir, it’s just - sometimes you meet some real weird men on these streets and, to put it bluntly, the richer ones are normally the worst. like, just ‘cause you got coin doesn’t mean you can kidnap the girls! poor annie, she really went in a odd way...” her mind trailing, her body is forced to kick in as she gives his arm a quick tug. 

“are y’gonna fuck me at the end of this though? just so i’m prepared, aye?” 

“I dare say you could,” he wagered, glancing briefly after the vaguely phallic hat that had elicited such an uncouth laugh from his companion. Though she was hardly the most high class courtesan he had ever held upon his arm and he did, admittedly, hurry her along the way so she might not be studied too closely, she held a certain charm those of his own class did not. Easy to laugh and eager to speak her mind, he found her entertaining beyond belief and didn’t hesitate a moment before encouraging her. 

“I would recommend being a tad cautious in your questioning, lest the ladies there consider you a rival business woman,” he warned, casting a look her way with brows raised. “But there is no reason you cannot ask after their practises. Still, I’m sure you’ll enjoy being fussed over and commissioning something yourself rather than doing all the hard work, though we can, of course, visit a haberdashery or the market for some fabrics if you have a frock of your own making in mind.”

“a rival business woman? y’joking! look at me!” she laughs, finally catching his eye once more as rowan takes her across the streets at such a speed she seems to skip a cobblestone or two, daring to take a skip over a puddle of muddy water. “i bet they’re right fancy, jewels and all,” dolly scoffs, her hand still tightly holding onto rowan - as if she may get lost within the crowd. still, she suspected the man wanted something other than to buy her stuff, or maybe he was the type who got off on acting with charity. dolly didn’t mind either way, as long as she got her share of tin. 

before they enter the shop dolly forces him to stop with a sharp tug on his arm, pulling him closer to her as she anchors herself into the stone beneath her slippers. she refuses to let go, as if such a tale might vanish before her eyes, or if she was still drunk from the night before after a heavy few hours at the dock’s tavern, and rowan was all but a figment of her imagination. “why are you REALLY takin’ me here?” she asks, one brow quirked before she leans in closer, her hand that once clung to him now grabbing the front of his coat. “you’re not gonna kidnap me, are ya? let me go in this here shop, try on a few dresses then when i’m down to me petticoat, your lads are gonna swoop in and get me?! i ‘ave a son at home, and he has a pa who’d knock your lights out.. also, i know where to hurt a man, not one to boast but daisy taught me a few things before she hit the grave!” 

Taking more than a moment to study her, Rowan’s smile remained in place, though the furrowing of his brow clearly showed his assessment. Simply put, she looked poor. Clearly trying, but poor. At least he had dressed in a similar style, but though he wore the clothes of a man with lower means, he wagered their relationship to one another would still be suspect. Still. He should not have expected much more. 

Slipping his arm through hers, he took the lead as soon as they were onto the street, surrounded by the unsavoury sights and smells of Russel Street. Despite the areas poverty, it was really only a stone’s throw from the finer districts of London; this marked contrast made evident on their journey. 

“A tempting offer, my dear, but something we shall save until later,” he reminded her, looking sidelong at her, wagging a finger before his chest. “I know you are simply doing your job, but try not to be so dense, if you can help it. It is my money we shall be spending today, and not on groceries or anything so droll. If it pleases you, I’d sooner take you to a dress makers or a perfumers salon or…well, whatever you’d like, I suppose.” 

they began their walk down doly’s normal route. she liked to jump over the boarder of poverty and wealth with a hop, glancing at the tall houses made of white and gold. she liked to imagine what it was like, to walk amongst the golden people who surely had little fears or qualms in their lives. they probably attended church every sunday like a good christian, ate food straight from china plates and the women surely bought a new dress for social occasions. it’s an entire mystery for dolly, who has only ever known the mud-soaked streets and the crying babes who are left to go hungry. she should’ve stopped to think why she had been left in such a place, and why someone like the baron would ever stop to pick her up - but she doesn’t, and lives too merrily in the moment. 

his words fly over her head, her arm tucked into his as she admires their surroundings and muffles an immature laugh at a particular woman’s hat, the particular shape not far from a poxy pintle she had once seen on a hard day’s night. she wants to show rowan and explain, fingers ready to point till she realises how he rushes her along the streets. thoughts of men soon wash away at the sound of dressmakers and perfumes! she didn’t care for smells, since if you lived around russel street your nostrils were filled to the brim with waste - human and otherwise. perfume could only ever be useless when out of the street, and dolly honestly didn’t see the reason for it. “the dress maker would be a dream!” she confesses, eyes lighting up as her hand grips his arm tight. “i try and make me own dresses, y’think i could learn somethin’?” she asks bluntly, unaware that rowan would probably prefer her quiet and sober. 

George lost himself in spluttering again, mind still slow from the sickening amounts of alcohol and snuff consumed the night before. Could he even begin to explain away his presence? Could he think of an excuse which did not hinge on the very thing he was about to expose himself as not having; a lust for women, so deep it would fling him to Covent Garden and stick him there?

“Not famous,” he said as his wrists were clutched and drawn close to the harlot’s face for inspection, “I’m the impotent!” He announced it as if he were proud, as if such a label had not been the bane of his life in the weeks gone. “You know, the one who got tried- I- oh, actually this coat was made over Piccadilly way,” for a moment he was distracted, and glowed at the praise, even through his spoiled and smudged powders.

she rises one brow, unsure what he meant by such a word - though she shrugs it off and runs her fingers over a ring on his finger. dolly was no pick pocket, but if she simply had known how to do it she would’ve in that very second. “what does that mean?” she asks like a child, eyes round and full of wonder as the stranger holds himself. the way he talks makes it sound like a good thing, a thing the rich would call themselves so she only mutters something in reply and shakes it off with a flip of her hair and a release of his wrists. 

It was that excitement in her that he had longed to see. It lit a fire in him as well as he was pleased to note how much more genuine her touch had become. Of course, it was all bribery, and quite sensibly motivated, but he was quite happy to reap the benefits of his generosity; of her gratitude. “Don’t be long,” he warned as she hopped up from his lap. Still smiling in self-satisfaction, he smoothed down his attire and took to drumming his fingers upon the back of the sofa. 

The decor of the little whore house left a great deal to be desired. Functional it certainly was, but to think of the time Arabella had concerned herself over silks and velvets, it was clear this establishment paid no mind to such things. It concerned him to think on precisely what he had sat in. Promptly, he opted to stand for the rest of his wait for the lady. 

dolly felt as if she were dancing on air, at one of those parties where you see girls tapping their satin boots on table tops! as if she were anything but a harlot who spread her legs for a living. though she doesn’t hate her job, and in fact grew to love it with such immature glee. she always got her satisfaction. and ALWAYS demanded a certain amount of respect from a cull ( well, perhaps just a slither of it ). she changes quickly, running her fingers through her hair to replace the comb she didn’t own, making quick work of a few knots before changing into something a little fancier - a dress made of satin and linen, nothing of grandeur but she had one seen a famous harlot wear something with the same colours so she had scrimped and saved to make a replica. 

she turned back to rowan with no make up to cover her freckles and stood there with her arms by her side - a grand smile on her face, ready to accept her prize. “y’know i have no money to actually buy shit, right?” one brow rising before she takes him by the arm, tugging him from the house and out onto the street where dolly could be seen by such a man. “all the money i have goes on rent, or the boy - look, y’sure you don’t want me to take y’down one of these streets?” 

It had a little, he supposed, but he was no blushing school girl. It would take more than that to make herself irresistible. Clearing his throat pointedly, he remained insistent. “If I just wanted a quick shag I’d have dropped ten shillings on your pillow,” he pointed out. Though he kept one hand comfortable beneath her bunched skirts, he raised the other, purse still in hand, kept safely toward his person on the off chance she was as light fingered as Grace Keene. 

“We’re going to spend some of this,” he announced, palming the coin purse as he watched her face. “Which would you prefer; shopping in Mayfair or dinner at Charring Cross?” he inquired keenly.

such an idea excited her to the borders of sanity! her face lighting up, her hand clenching round his shoulders as if he were to vanish into oblivion. truly he was too good to be true? shopping in mayfair? dinner in charring cross? she shakes her head - she had only ever spared with other harlots on the street corners in such area, and had never been browsing such areas as a customer who had the coin to spare. “y’serious!?” she asks in a slur, one hand cupping his chin so he couldn’t dare turn away - trying to look for a glint in his eye that may just give him away. 

“shopping for us, i can show me gratitude in whatever way you’d like it in, sir-” with a tongue in cheek, she bounces from his lap and doesn’t care to straighten her skirts as she rushes out the lounge to fetch a shawl and to tell the girls to watch baby francis. 

“No!” George cried - her voice, pitching into the harsher sounds of anger - rung about his head like the morning bell; unwelcome, unwanted, and unbearable when hungover. “I mean- that is to say I’m sure they are wonderful but-” he spluttered, lost for a way out of the mess he had quite literally fallen into.

“Do you not know who I am?” he asked, the thought suddenly coming to him. He raised his arms, as if displaying himself. Granted, the cartoons made his legs far more bowed, and his nose far longer, and his waist much, much more trim, but he reckoned he was not too far off the simpering impotent they caricatured.

she wouldn’t admit to it but dolly was hurt by such an opinion and his refusal of her warm, soft skin. her hands are steady on her hips, holding her position as her eyes move to take him in. in truth, dolly had never seen a person who held themselves with such posture and grace - as if he belonged in a zoo where everyone could watch with awe. her mouth falls open at the mere sight of jewels and the condition of his coat - she could swear that only one of his items could pay her rent at russel street for an entire year or two!

The fall had left his head spinning and swaying, and the brash Northern squall of the harlot’s voice felt much like a needle pressed into his eyes and ears. For a moment it seemed she was everywhere - so thick with excitement she glowed - and managed to place her hands upon every part of him. He felt her put him to rights with hands on his middle, and brush him off like a groomsman or a proud mother over his shoulders. Then, quite suddenly, her hands were off him, and threatening to tug out her chest from her stays.

“Gnuh,” he replied, very eloquently, and quickly placed a hand over hers to still them. Then, realising how close he was to touching her flesh, just as quick withdrew it. “Uhh,” he continued, trying to order his scattered thoughts into something resembling words, and he blinked hard as his head pounded. Then, giving up, he pinched his brow, and groaned.

There she was. That character that entertained him so. She had cost him less than a third of the others he had bid upon, yet he was quite confident she would be worth every penny if even half of the reputation she gave herself was true. He found himself buffeted back into the chaise by the flurry of skirts that came upon him, though he took it all in extremely good humour.  “Goodness, if you aren’t eager,” he sighed, shaking his head in belittling bemusement. Settling down her skirts with smoothing hands, he let them come to rest on the sides of her legs as he settled himself back into a more dignified position. “I’m not going to fuck you on the couch, sweetheart. I thought we might have a little prelude before getting down to business. If you wouldn’t mind?” he suggested, looking back to her with an expectant smile. 

her brows rise, her body slouching as the baron proposes a chaste introduction. men didn’t buy her time just to talk, or to walk around the streets. they bought her time to fuck her, what exactly did this chump want? baron or not, she treats them all the same - with keen eyes and a pouting mouth. “huh,” though she doesn’t think about it she bides her time before shifting her hips against his breeches, as if she were to warm him to the idea of taking her on the couch with the girls nearby doing their make up and hair. “y’sure about that mr baron sir?” she asks in her slow drawl, her eyes narrowing as she tries to sense if his member had grown at all - though the flurry of material made the mission harder instead. 

“y’not bein’ serious? huh. ‘ite then... what d’you wanna do?” she asks with genuine intrigue, though it’s excitement that causes her to grin.