Love Requited (The Market, A Short Story)

When a bluestocking and a billionaire have an unexpected night of passion, he discovers that money cannot buy the most important thing...her love. 

Whitney Merriman is exploring life. Her academically driven parents always encouraged her to study whatever she found of interest. Of course, she seriously doubted they intended for her to study human sexuality in such an intimate manner. But not many men of her set were interested in an intelligent woman, so her opportunities for love were non-existent. 

Magnus Penderson is in London for business, not pleasure. Tagging along with his host, he finds himself at The Market, a notorious brothel. Not his usual preference. But then a golden haired beauty catches his eye, and once he has her alone he knows he can never let her go. 

Note: This is a standalone short story set in The Market series world. You will see a few familiar faces and meet some new exciting characters.

Magnus Pendersen, III looked at his cards and cursed. He’d already lost five thousand pounds, a small fortune, though it felt better thinking about the number in pounds rather than dollars. He looked at the green felt table with a rather large pile of money in the center and once more at his cards. He had no shot at bluffing his way into winning so he decided to cut his losses. As the bid came around the table he laid his cards face down and rose. “Gentlemen, it has been a passable evening, but I fear I cannot stomach further losses. If you will excuse me.”

“Grand having you with us, Pendersen.” One masked man chortled.

“I’m certain it was.” He smiled indulgently and stepped away from the table.

The need to douse the pain of his bad luck at the tables led him into the main salon. He found the bar and requested his preferred whiskey. A cut crystal glass appeared and was promptly filled by the liveried servant. He turned to absorb more of The Market’s décor.

The brothel reminded him of New York City’s Hoffman House in its elegant décor dotted with risqué touches such as nude art and more than a few rather phallic statues. The most resounding difference between the two establishments lay in that most of the long-term residents of Hoffman House were American tycoons, the giants of industry, not prostitutes. Though he supposed they were all for sale in their own way. He was one of the lucky ones who could afford to own a floor of the hotel so that when he stayed in the city he had all the comforts of home. And better than home, there was always a ready card game in the common rooms of Hoffman House. Just the previous month he’d taken Randolph Hurst for ten thousand dollars in a friendly game.

Unfortunately, tonight the cards at The Market had not fallen in his favor, but perhaps some of the establishment’s other offerings would. As he scanned the room, the Earl of Northampton approached him as he stood near the fireplace. “Pendersen, enjoying our little corner of the world?”

“I am indeed, Lord Northampton.” He nodded his head as he spoke.

Lord Northampton clapped him on the shoulder. “Please, call me North.”

“Then, by all means, call me Magnus. I’ve never been much for formality.” He tipped his drink and drew a sip of the warm amber liquor.

“Yes, well even if you were, I imagine all of that would be shed the moment you entered these hallowed halls. Madame Celeste de Pompadour only stands on ceremony when in the throes of a lively contract negotiation.”

“Contract?” Magnus was curious, but as he asked the single word question a flicker of sea blue caught his eye. He turned a bit to better locate the source of the distraction. Two men crossed his vision and parted ways to reveal the most breathtaking beauty he’d ever seen. Golden hair piled on her head accentuated the long creamy column of her neck. Her companion must have said something amusing because she didn’t merely giggle with lady-like demureness. No, the beauty threw her head back and laughed a full-bodied laugh. Blue eyes danced with merriment from behind a black mask as she straightened up pressing her hand to the delectable swell of her breasts. A man could dive into the plumpness and choose to never leave.

“Magnus.” North snapped his fingers before his face.

“My apologies. But, do you know who that enchanting creature is?”

His companion looked in the direction he had indicated. “Afraid not. I’ve seen her here a time or two, but I generally stick to the ladies of the house. Much easier that way.”

“So she’s not a prostitute? What the devil is she doing here?” Magnus couldn’t have explained his indignation that a woman of quality, and she clearly was not born of the gutter, would be found in such a place.

“I imagine much the same as we are. Enjoying the company, possibly looking for more intimate entertainments.” North shrugged as though women often frequented brothels.

“But it’s a brothel.”

North chuckled. “The Market is more a private club that caters to all of its members’ needs, however deviant they may seem.”

Magnus peeled his gaze off the woman long enough to cast a dubious look at his companion.

“But, even should you tend toward less exciting interests, they are happy to make arrangements that suit your needs.” North tipped his head toward a masked couple slipping from the room. “That is a pair of nobles who might not otherwise seek each other out. Neither is a professional.”

“And how do they come to slip off together? Mutual agreement?” Magnus was curious, and not just because of the beauty across the room.

North nodded. “That or Madame de Pompadour will negotiate an agreement of some duration. All depends on the needs of the parties involved.”

“I see.” Magnus couldn’t resist the pull of the woman from across the room. “I believe I shall go and make myself acquainted with the lady.”

North slapped him on the back, “Best of luck, my friend.”

But lost in his desire for the sultry beauty, Magnus did not reply. He simply drifted away from the bar and into the milling crowd.

As he neared the woman in blue, her friend was pulled away by a masked man who seemed to have more to say with his lips than with words. The object of his recent obsession turned to walk away and landed smack in his arms. Exactly where he wanted her to be.

“Excuse me, sir.” Pink dusted her cheeks beneath her mask as their gazes met and locked, her breath hitching as she pressed her hands to his chest.

“My pleasure, I assure you.” He held on to her, unable to make his arms obey his command to release her as propriety dictated.

She stared a heartbeat or twenty longer…long silky lashes lowered over her mesmerizing eyes as she shifted her focus to his arms wrapped around her. Then she shifted her gaze back up to his face. “I am quite capable of standing on my own two feet, sir.”

“That may be, but I seem unable to let you go.” The words rattled around in his throat like the last coals in a bucket.

“Quite the conundrum. But, being two rational adults I am certain we can negotiate a compromise.” The imp had the audacity to wink at him!

He couldn’t help but laugh. “And what is this compromise you speak of?”

She paused as though considering her options. “I could promise to remain here for at least ten minutes if you released me.”

“No.” He pulled her in closer until her hands were all that remained between them. “I fear that may not be enough.” His instinctive response surprised him.

She chuckled. “What could a big strapping Yank like you have to fear?”

An infectious grin stretched his mouth. “What if you’re a fairy? If I let you go you’ll simply flit away and then I’ll never know your name.”

“If I were a fairy I wouldn’t tell you my name. It would give you too much power over me.”

“Then tell me your name and I’ll promise to let you go if you’ll remain here for no less than a quarter of an hour.” He watched surprise, and a glint of something he couldn’t quite put a name to, flash through her brilliant blue eyes.

“Whitney. My name is Whitney.”

“Whitney.” He repeated her name and his heart seemed to do a hundred and eighty-degree rotation in his chest. “And do you promise to remain for a quarter of an hour?”

She looked up into his eyes again, seemed to search for something, and then nodded. “I’ll promise if you’ll also tell me your name.”

“Magnus.”

“Hello, Magnus.” She offered a winsome smile and fluttered her lashes like an experienced flirt.

He made his arms release her slowly so she wouldn’t take a spill. But as she withdrew from the embrace a chill crept in where she had previously heated his body, his blood, and possibly even his soul. Not a man prone to flights of fancy, he shook his head at that last notion and ensured his hands found his pockets lest he reach out and grab her again. “Would you care to sit a spell?” He motioned at an available settee.

“I’d love to, Magnus.”

And with a sweep of her skirts she spun about and sat down leaving enough room for him to join her, though his rather large thigh would be pressed against her own more delicate one.

Whitney Merriman’s head spun. She’d heard about this sensation. Studied it in her self-guided human sexuality curriculum. But, she herself had never experienced such a physical response before. And my, what a response Magnus caused. Her body waffled between flashes of hot and cold. Her breasts had grown sensitive, almost achy as he held her, and her legs had turned as soft and wiggly as aspic.

As he settled next to her, despite the layers of petticoats and sundry layers of fabric between them, she swore she could feel the flex and release of his muscles along their adjoined legs. Her pulse skittered wildly as she grappled for something intelligent to say to the handsome devil.

He leaned closer, pressing his arm against hers. “Don’t grow shy on me now, Whitney.”

“Never.” Where was her fan when she needed it? For once she cursed her lack of decorum, which her mother described as her tendency to leave off the accouterments of a well-dressed lady. “Where in America are you from?”

“Yes, you did suss that out rather quickly. I am from New York, the City specifically.” His deep voice rumbled against her and sent a jolt of desire through her body. An interesting phenomenon. She made a mental note to record all of her symptoms later when she returned home.

“I see. And are you here for business or pleasure?” She had to dig deep to find the inane conversational elements her mother often assured her were critical to social interaction.

“Both I hope.” His boyish grin charmed her despite the obvious lusty undertones of his response.

Her cheeks grew more heated as she imagined what he might mean by pleasure. And as the images flashed through her mind, all rooted in her study of current and historical pornography, as well as the hours spent in The Market’s salons and hall of mirrors watching how humans interact, she suddenly wanted to step out from behind the glass and experience all she had spent the last year studying.

But could she? Did she have the nerve to allow a man, one unknown to her beyond the last few minutes of interaction, to touch her so intimately?

And then she imagined when she might have a future opportunity. One word came to mind. Never. Without the mask and her spectacles, she was simply another plain-faced woman with more brains than most men could manage. She had come to believe it was the primary reason her parents had encouraged her studies. Her distinct lack of marriage options was not something she had the dowry to remedy. Without means, most eligible men wouldn’t be able to look past her bluestocking ways.

Magnus—whoever he was—might be her one chance to experience her area of expertise first hand. To be able to speak with the authority of one who truly knows versus one who has studied what others have known. She couldn’t pass up the chance. With determination, she looked up at the man beside her. Examined his strong, distinct features. Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, slashing eyebrows over clover green eyes, and all topped with a mop of sun-bright blond hair. He was beyond handsome, and then when she added on his body, which was huge in proportion and covered in what felt like honed muscles from her limited exploration of his arms and chest, she knew a finer specimen would not be made available to her ever again. If he sought a bit of pleasure, she was certain she could provide him exactly what he needed. “Indeed, you’ve come to the right place for the latter.”

One brow rose in surprise at such a double entendre. “Have I then?”

“I believe you have. The Market is notorious for catering to the pleasure of men…” she drew a breath, “and women.” Her face flamed, but she captured his gaze with hers and refused to look away. She would do this, damn it.

“And what of you, Whitney? Are you one to cater to men’s pleasure?” At a glance, one would think Magnus was calm and cool in asking her such a scandalous thing. But since she was trained to note even small nuances of human response, she saw the pulse pounding in his neck, the strain hinted at around his eyes, and the fine tremble of his lip as though he worked hard not to say more.

“Honestly, no. I am not one to do such a thing. But for reasons of my own, I am inclined to do so tonight.”

“And do those reasons have anything to do with another man?” His mouth tightened as he waited.

“Not in the least. There is no one behind my decision beyond my own needs and interests. No man I wish to strike back at. No husband who might hunt you down. No one at all.” She groaned when she added the last little bit. As usual, she offered up more than was seemly.

He snorted at that. “I find that difficult to imagine. But I shall take your word. Would you prefer to make an arrangement through Madame de Pompadour?”

“No need. Celeste will keep an eye on me regardless of a formal arrangement or not. But, I would like a drink to toast our agreement and then I can arrange a more private place for us to retire.” She rose from the settee.

Magnus popped up, surprise written across his face. “Please, allow me to manage what we require. You have proven more than capable of handling this conversation, but some things a man does like to take care of.” He winked and stepped over to where Madame Celeste de Pompadour held court. The regal brunette waived her lead manservant over and Magnus stepped aside to speak with Phillipe. It seemed he was the third or even fourth Phillipe to work at The Market. Whitney had been fascinated that though the Madame’s name changed with each new owner, the second in command, her manservant, always retained the same name.

After a few moments more, Magnus strode across the room and placed a hand against her lower back. A ripple of sensation rolled through her as she luxuriated in the possessive gesture. The warmth of his big hand against her back paired with the size difference between them made her feel more dainty and feminine than she had ever experienced. At five foot eight, she often met her male colleagues eye to eye, which they found disconcerting.

“Phillipe will bring a bottle of champagne to our room. We will be in the red room, one of the mirrorless rooms you are likely aware.”

She grinned, pleased that he had instinctively known she would prefer not to be observed. “An excellent choice, sir.”

“Just Magnus.” He leaned closer as they climbed the stairs and whispered, “That is the name I want on your lips as I make you come tonight.”

And just like that, her core grew superheated and her thighs wet with her desire. Would she survive her own curiosity? She wasn’t sure, but she had not been wrong that this was the man who could show her all she desired to know about sex and intimacy.