wrap him round your finger like you're playing with gum

by fangirl_squee

Summary:

George Russell is almost as well known for not being able to stay with a woman for longer than a few weeks as he is for crushing other businesses under his heel, but what will happen when he meets the one woman he can’t charm?

He goes out of his mind, is what happens. Slowly and completely.

Notes:

Title lyrics from ‘Chewing Gum’ by Annie.

With thanks to skatingsplits for the inspo (in chapter 2 of her mob au), and to cassi0pei4 for betaing and her suggestions which had surely made this fic far better than it would have been!!

Chicago was proving to be difficult. Not that any difficulty had ever proven itself a match for George Russell, and not that he would ever be admitting to even the slightest defeat to the likes of JP Morgan, but George had always tried to be a realist in his own mind. When you couldn’t trust anyone to be a sounding board, you had to rely on your own sense of things and that meant being aware of your shortcomings, few though there were.

 

He’d been warned, of course, and he’d done his research of the landscape he might expect to find, the rat's nest of loyalties and under the table deals that thrived in cities of industry. He’d been to the city himself years ago, in his youth really, one of his first business trips with his father. He'd had a good time, from what he remembered, the men friendly and the women even more so, but perhaps it was easier to be kind to a charming boy of seventeen than it was to a hard-nosed businessman of forty.

 

He assumed it would be the same as when he had arrived in New York to strong arm the place to his will. It had been difficult there too of course, and it had taken an irritating amount of money and effort, but he had emerged victorious and stronger for it. Perhaps it had been foolish of him to assume that greater capital and news of his recent victories would have been enough to help things along. Perhaps every city in America was the same, each with their own grind to make your way through, no matter your past.

 

Or perhaps, really, he only needed to expand his network of informants, because for all the research he and Clay had received about the city, he had not been warned about Bertha O’Brien.

 

Every time he tried to make a meeting with a man, any man, they would agree only to cancel at the last minute, leaving George waiting around, another afternoon wasted. That was when he could get them to agree in the first place - the men of Chicago were very busy indeed if they could not even spare him five minutes of their time. It took a full week and half of frustration before Mr Gardner’s secretary apparently took pity on him enough, or was afraid of him enough, to explain the situation: Miss Bertha O’Brien had declared that she did not like him, and would not meet with him, and would not visit any home that he had been welcomed into even tangentially.

 

This was, frankly, extremely confusing. While women could, in George’s experience, be the key that enabled you to open her husband’s lock, they hardly wielded that much influence. Any disdain for him was usually shown in a lack of invitations sent his way, perhaps, or an unfavourable seat at a dinner. Of the times a wife had caused George to miss out on a deal or made the situation difficult for him, it was usually because of some slight that he’d dealt her or a close friend of hers, revenge for a damaged reputation.

 

He’d never even met Bertha, as far as he could remember. The O’Brien name was common enough, but he couldn’t think of any recent targets of his that might have been associated with it. Certainly if she held enough sway to ice him out of Chicago it was unlikely that she was so closely related to factory workers or from one of the mines out west, and the name wasn’t old enough for her to be any kind of friend to anyone from New York high society.

 

Still, he didn’t get to be head and shoulders above the competition by sitting back and letting himself get hit on the chin. He sought her out - its own grindingly irritating task - finding her staying at the home of Mr and Mrs Clarence. He was familiar enough with Mr James Clarence - the man had been one of the first to refuse to take a meeting.

 

Well then. If this woman wanted a fight with him, he would take the battleground to her sitting room and see how she liked it.

 

The Clarences were both out, but their butler informed George that Miss O’Brien was at home, and so George requested an audience with her, tamping down on his irritation. It was, perhaps, improper for him to insist upon seeing a woman he didn’t know, and unaccompanied at that, but she was hardly the first lady he’d seen unaccompanied. He’d thought the shock of his arrival might fluster her enough to come down to see him if only to send him out in person, and George had done a lot of good work on women who claimed to be angry with him. It was easy enough to turn one passion into another, and it made the woman far sweeter to him. You could easily put a woman off-balance with that kind of thing, especially if they were the kind of woman unused to being encouraged in their passions. So many women were, after all, taught from birth that it was better for them to refuse pleasure.

 

It was a real shame, in George’s opinion, though there was a fun game to be had in the refusal of it, in trying to find out which particular play you could use to slip under a woman’s defenses and her dress to prove to her that there was a great deal of pleasure to be had in the world. George grinned to himself as he waited for the butler to return, already feeling the satisfaction of the turn of it, the moment when a woman realised that she wanted to say yes , and please and more -

 

His second mistake, or perhaps his first mistake made again, was in underestimating her stubbornness - the woman simply refused to come down until both the Clarences were home.

 

“Miss O’Brien says you are welcome to wait in the sitting room, but unfortunately, being a guest herself, she is not able to provide you with any refreshments,” said the butler.

 

“That’s fine,” said George, trying to affect a relaxed air while irritation bubbled under his skin.

 

Starve him out, would she? Well, he was made of sterner stuff than that.

 

He was not, unfortunately, made of the kind of stuff that made him content to sit around for hours at a time with nothing to do but stew in his feelings. He was determined not to give in and equally determined not to show the extent of his anger. If there was one thing that he was an expert in outside of his primary business it was charming the ladies, breaking down their barriers, getting a yes when she'd been told all her life to give a man like him a no. This Bertha woman, whoever she was and however she knew of him, she would be just the same.

 

He’d wait to see her before he made up his mind about how to play it - apologetic, perhaps, if she were of the younger set. He could make a claim of a skewed reputation in the papers and oh, he wasn’t really like that when you got to know him. Young ladies liked that, the idea of him as someone so wronged by the world. Fun for him, too, as young ladies like that were often the type brave enough to meet him elsewhere in a more unchaperoned state and sympathetic enough to forget all the things they ought to know better about.

 

Her being young might go some way to explain why she was staying with another couple instead of her own place or with relations. She could hardly have taken so strong a hold of the city in a matter of weeks, after all, and all generals needed a base camp for such battles.

 

He could see her now, some overconfident slip of a girl just waiting to charge downstairs and give him a piece of her mind. George grinned to himself. He could almost feel the heated tension in the air between them, how she would step into his space in an attempt to intimidate only to find he would not back down, how her cheeks would flush, anger turning to desire.

 

Then again, perhaps she was an older woman, some matriarch of society. It would have explained her sway over the city after all. That could be trickier, but if he phrased his compliments right it was still easy to get around her judgement, as compliments from a handsome stranger were rarer as ladies grew older. She’d likely have done some charitable work, especially if she were so moral as to banish him on principle, and he could ask about that to start with. Women like that were always starved for male attention, and so after a verbal tour of all the poor unfortunates she’d given a dollar to he could mention his own good works and why, then they’d be of just the same type, using the ladder of charity to pull themselves upwards. He didn't have anything against the challenge of an older woman, really. Especially if it could get him what he really wanted. There was something to be said for a woman of experience, after all.

 

He was wrong on both counts. When the Clarences finally returned home, a little startled to see him pacing their sitting room, Mrs Clarence barely made it half-way upstairs before a striking woman of around his own age was coming downstairs, dressed in an elegant blue tea gown.

 

He didn't recognise her in the slightest but he knew how a woman's face looked when she had spotted someone she disliked. George tried not to show his reaction, keeping to his facade of ease - that would be how to make a start of it. There was always the chance they had been introduced when she'd been wearing a more daring gown, so perhaps he hadn't paid proper attention to her face.

 

“Margaret, I’m so glad you’re home,” said Bertha. “Mr Russell has been so terribly keen to see me, but I wouldn’t have wanted to use your sitting room for the meeting unless you were informed first.”

 

Even her voice was not as he expected, a deeper, richer thing, as striking as her appearance in its own way. She seemed determined not to look at him now that she was downstairs, her shoulders tense. Perhaps she was bothered by the intensity of his attention - he found he couldn’t look away.

 

Margaret’s eyes flicked from Bertha to George. “Oh, my dear, you didn’t have to wait all this time, I would have understood, and I’m sure Mr Russell is terribly busy-”

 

“I’m sure he is,” said Bertha, cutting her off, “but not so busy, I hope, that he cannot behave in a respectable manner.”

 

“You wound me, Miss O’Brien,” said George, trying his best to affect a light tone. “I was of course only too happy to wait, but you had no need to worry. I would have waited any length of time to make your acquaintance.”

 

Bertha did not look particularly convinced, pausing slightly before she turned towards him at last. “Well Mr Russell, you must admit you have something of a reputation where ladies are concerned, and while ordinarily one might consider a lady of my age to be too old for such things, I know that you have no limitations.”

 

Behind her, Margaret stepped towards her husband, a look of concern on her face as she spoke quietly to him. George paid little attention to it - well-meaning couples often frowned upon George’s dalliances, especially if they felt that his attentions were not serious. Well, he didn’t have any particular need for the Clarences - James Clarence held some stock in a few companies George was after, certainly, but he wasn’t anywhere close to being as influential as George himself. If he as his wife disapproved of George’s affairs they could join a very long list of like-minded people.

 

“I don’t see why I would limit myself when the lady in question is as beautiful as you,” said George.

 

He said it with as much conviction in his voice as possible, though in that case he didn’t have to fake very much of it. She was beautiful, especially with the flush coming over her cheeks. George bit back a grin. There, easy enough, all it really took for any woman was-

 

“Was there a real reason for your visit, Mr Russell?” said Bertha, her voice far colder than it had been. “Or was this afternoon simply an exercise in wasting my time as well as your own?”

 

Ah. A flush from anger, then. Well that was a little more unexpected, but-

 

“Because I feel that I must have been clear enough on my view of you for you to come all the way here to see me,” continued Bertha, “and so surely you must understand that I do not particularly care to see you , or to be seen by you, or even, if I am to be entirely honest, to hear anything of you or from you, in any sense. Reading about you in the newspaper is bad enough.”

 

“I don’t see why you should feel that way,” said George, struggling to keep to an even tone, “seeing as how I have never so much as laid eyes upon you before this moment.”

 

Bertha inhaled sharply, anger flashing over her features with such intensity that had she been a man George would have braced himself for a blow. Instead, Bertha only clenched her jaw, glancing back towards Margaret. The other woman stepped forward, putting a hand on Bertha’s arm as she said something, too quiet for George to hear, though seeing them whisper to one another hardly helped his own irritation.

 

“I don’t know,” said Bertha slowly, her eyes flicking to George. “My mind is rather made up.”

 

“I would be most grateful,” said Margaret. “We both would. And Mr Russell, I’m sure, would appreciate it.”

 

Bertha’s eyes flashed again.

 

“But- more as a favour to me,” added Margaret hurriedly.

 

It put George, curiously, in mind of when a man would come asking for an extension on a loan he could not rightly repay. There was a particular look in a person’s eyes when they knew they would have to accept worse terms, higher interest, but were forced by some circumstance to do so anyway. Whatever sway Bertha held over the women of Chicago society it was clearly not to be underestimated.

 

“Very well,” said Bertha. “As a favour to you , Margaret.”

 

As Bertha turned her attention back to George, Margaret looked back towards her husband, a look of grim acceptance on her features. The terms, whatever they were, had been set it seemed.

 

“Mr Clarence has been kind enough to vouch for you, Mr Russell,” said Bertha. “Perhaps you might be kind enough in return to speak to him for a moment about your shared business in our fine city? I would be happy to see you to the door, once you have come to some kind of agreement.”

 

“Very well,” said George. “If only to satisfy my curiosity of what Mr Clarence and I could possibly share.”

 

Very little, as it turned out, though the man was clearly hoping for more. In the end, he settled for handing over his existing shares in other companies for a tiny percentage of the new lines George hoped to build out west. Even that tiny fraction would pay him back ten fold, should the enterprise be successful, which it of course would be.

 

“Provided you can get Miss O’Brien more on your side,” said Clarence. He gave George an odd look. “You really don’t know her?”

 

“Never met her in my life,” said George.

 

“Well, I suppose I’ve seen her take offence from a glance, it’s not out of the question she’d get set in her opinion from a few articles in the society pages,” said Clarence. He hesitated a moment before he added, “We could- That is, we’ll all be at the Edwards’ ball on Friday. If people saw you speaking to her there, you might find your work a little easier.”

 

“And what would you get out of it?” said George.

 

“I’ve just agreed to take stock in your future enterprise, Mr Russell,” said Clarence. “I’d rather you not fail simply because Miss O’Brien has her stranglehold on the society ladies.”

 

George raised his eyebrows. “Blackmail?”

 

Clarence gave a huff of laughter. “My wife won’t tell me, so it’s at least as shocking as that. I’ve a mind that she has copies of certain people’s private correspondence, but I don’t have any interest in pursuing it. Margaret’s a nervous sort as it is, that’s how we got badgered into hosting that woman in the first place.”

 

“You aren’t friends, then?” said George.

 

“I don’t know that a woman like that can ever have friends, even though she hops all over the city as though she does,” said Clarence. “But I still wouldn’t speak badly about her if I thought any woman could overhear me. You never know which one of them will run straight to her.”

 

Her own network of informants, then. Well, he couldn’t say he didn’t respect her methods or her mastery of them, though he wished they had been working more to his benefit.

 

Bertha herself saw George off in the Clarence’s entry hall, Margaret hovering nervously behind her.

 

“I suppose I’ll see you at the Edwards’ ball, Mr Russell,” said Bertha.

 

Clarence looked startled that she already knew of it. Margaret, however, looked as grim-faced as she had earlier, like a soldier facing down a firing squad - perhaps not as much of a nervous sort as her husband believed, then. Clarence would hardly have been the first husband to ever underestimate his own wife’s capabilities. George had taken advantage of such situations often enough, when the wife in question was a pretty one.

 

“It would be my pleasure,” said George. He attempted to keep to a warm tone despite his feelings, his voice leaning just a shade sharper than he would have liked.

 

“Oh, I’m sure,” said Bertha coolly.

 

She offered him her hand and George, acting on the ingrained instinct of a hundred moments of farewell, took it, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His surprise at himself must have shown on his face, as Bertha looked a little as though she were struggling not to laugh as she gently pulled her hand free from his grasp. George felt heat rising in his cheeks, grateful that his beard would disguise much of it in the dim light.

 

“Until then, Mr Russell,” said Bertha.

 

Clarence nodded to him as he departed, and George stepped out into the cool night air. By the time he returned to his lodgings, an invitation to the Edwards’ ball was already waiting for him. George tapped the card against his palm, frowning at his reflection in the mirror, the lantern throwing his features into shadow. 

 

He did not often come across so unexpected an opponent, especially not of this type. Certainly he’d faced off against his share of cunning women, but they were overprotective mothers or worried older sisters shielding young ladies’ virtues, not unattached women he’d never met stifling his business concerns. From what Clarence had said she didn’t seem to have any particular closeness with anyone else, but that still did not entirely rule out his having dallied with some relative of hers, as though it were his fault that women were so quick to form attachment. 

 

He was honest enough with them most of the time about how seriously he took such things, or he tried to be. Though there might, sometimes, be some sport in taking a haughty woman down a few pegs by adding the hint of scandal to her, most of the time George found the hysterics from such women to be more trouble than he cared to deal with. He preferred the challenge of a more willing target, someone who could sense him stepping over the line but found some amusement in it, even when they knew they shouldn’t. There were a great many women, he’d found, who found something charming in his propensity from pressing them over the line.

 

He’d been that way since his youth, enjoying the chase of it a great deal more than what women seemed to view as the destination even before they were too young for anything like marriage though if he were honest he wasn’t any more inclined towards it now. Why limit yourself to one of something - one woman, one bank, one railway line - one factory - when the whole world was your’s for the taking?

 

If, perhaps, sometimes, a woman misread him or his intentions for matrimony, well, he was hardly to blame for that, surely. If a woman’s peers felt the need to judge her for an evening or two of fun, he didn’t see why that should be considered his fault. If he, sometimes, paid for a woman’s time with a pretty bauble or two, well, that wasn’t a promise of anything more to matter than the girl and her family might try to claim. He had yet to be hit with a breach of promise suit that he couldn’t escape.

 

Still, his difficulties had been sorted now and the way ahead would be clear enough. Once he was at the ball he could get a few of the key players separated from the group, enough to talk them out of anything they might be holding or at least set up a future meeting with them. It was a good chance to have a little fun himself, too, more than he’d had since he arrived in the city.

 

Once again, however, Bertha seemed as though she had made it her mission to frustrate him. Though she greeted him, a little cooly but within earshot of others, she had clearly made her distaste for him well known. While George had grown used to the idea that women might shepherd their daughters or unmarried acquaintances away from him, he was far less used to women doing so with their husbands.

 

It made George furious, another evening wasted. It also made him, if he were honestly, more than a little curious.

 

Bertha must have had something quite serious on at least some of the women there to keep all of them in line, even the most agreeable of the wives seemingly afraid enough of her to put pressure on their husbands and sons, almost pushing them away from George’s presence. Again he was put in mind of his own business dealings, the way men would guide their fellows away from him or into his path as he willed it. Though their circumstances might be very different, he knew something of the effort and force of will that it took to press that kind of influence onto a city.

 

Bertha herself moved through the gathering with ease, a few words from her enough to make one young woman beam and another appear to fall into despair, clearly at work on more than just him for the evening. Another commonality between them then, for all such things chafed at him. He often preferred to have more than one goal in his sights at any one time.

 

She danced with only a few gentlemen, never the same one twice, and they seemed pleased to do so even if their wives and sweethearts glared from the sidelines. She looked to be a very good dancer. It was almost a shame she would never have agreed to stand up with him.

 

George shook off the thought. And why shouldn’t she? He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than she was and though his ego might be inflated at times he had the good sense to know his own looks and how to use them to great effect. He’d charmed plenty of women, even those that were familiar enough of his reputation to be wary of him.

 

He met her gaze across the room. Bertha raised her eyebrows at him and George felt his cheeks grow unexpectedly hot with having been caught staring.

 

Ridiculous. Utterly infuriating, and even more so because she apparently had not been convinced enough by his visit to the Clarences to call off the dogs.

 

It was the same when he attended a dinner at the Gardners. He’d been surprised to receive the invitation, and though he was given a seat irritatingly far away from those to whom he might have wished to speak, he’d still been feeling positively about the evening until the gentlemen separated for port and cigars. Though the men, at least, were not so cowed by Bertha as to ignore him entirely, they were, to a man, entirely reluctant to agree to meet with him.

 

The Gardners’ son, a slightly foppish sort of barely twenty, was the one to break the news to George, news that he had already guessed in full. Bertha’s hand in the evening once again.

 

“I don’t know what else I can really tell you, sir,” said the boy. “She- Well. My sister says-” He lowered his voice, glancing around them as though they were characters in an adventure novels. “My sister says she’s a woman without morals, you see. So she simply might do anything .”

 

“I understand,” said George, hoping the young man would continue on a little more to give him the kind of information he could use to understand the situation he’d found himself in. “I suppose there was some… incident in the past.”

 

“Yes,” said the boy. “They say she got herself in trouble back when she was my age, or very nearly, with some boy from out of town, and now she’s put herself in a position to hold it over everyone’s heads that they froze her out for it.”

 

George nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. It explained the why of it, even if it were not particularly illuminating as to the how.

 

“She just knows everybody, you see,” said the boy, “even people she shouldn’t.”

 

“I see,” said George.

 

The boy nodded, apparently feeling that his vagaries had been enough. George turned his words over as the men ignored him through the remainder of their glasses. Even people she shouldn’t , now that was an interesting one. He’d have to tread carefully though, if the mere memory of being snubbed decades ago was enough for Bertha to still punish an entire city.

 

It was an irritating enough thing that George found himself waiting outside Bertha’s carriage so that he could catch her before she left and force their conversation. He’d meant to shock her, of course, but Bertha’s reaction to shock was not unsteadiness but instead a kind of rage that would not have been out of place in a boxing ring.

 

“If you even think about stepping foot inside my carriage I will instruct the driver to pull you out and get the horses to trample you,” said Bertha.

 

“I only wanted a little conversation,” said George.

 

“I sincerely doubt it,” said Bertha, “as I’m sure the only conversation you have ever had with a woman has been a pretext to coax her into your bed.”

 

“That’s not exactly how I would put it,” said George.

 

“Of course it isn’t,” said Bertha, scorn dripping from every word, “but then we do seem to have opposing views of the reality of the world, don’t we?” She lifted herself into the carriage, ignoring his offer of help, though George supposed he should have expected that. “Good evening, Mr Russell. I would ask that you do not try this particular fool’s errand with me again.”

 

George had returned to his hotel in a foul mood and awoke in a worse one. That his sleep had been plagued by dreams of Bertha had hardly helped matters - her delicate hand on his shoulder, pulling tight in his hair as he pressed her back against the seat of the carriage. He kept waking through the night, overheated and gasping, furious with both her and his own mind, only to fall back asleep and dream of her again - how her voice might sound sighing his name, pressed tight against him in some out-of-the-way room during a party, her hands tight as a vice in his hair.

 

That part, at least, was an old fantasy even if the woman in question was new. He’d been in this very city the first time a girl had done it, though he no longer remembered any other part of her with any clarity. It was decades ago now, all of that particular tryst faded apart from how it had felt, that first time, the sharp tug on his curls jolting through his body as though he’d been struck by lightning.

 

A pleasant sensation, to be sure, one that made him think of towering figures purring salacious comments about punishments into his ear, but he wished his subconscious was not so keen on involving Bertha in it. She was hardly tall enough to tower over him, for one thing, and surely her hands were too small, too delicate to grip so tightly. Her voice, however, her voice and the force of her personality on the world, now that fit with the sensation of it. He felt sure that a woman who acted as though he were an errant schoolboy would delight in acting like a disapproving mother, enacting some sharp punishment upon him-

 

George cut himself off from that line of thought, his cheeks burning. Clearly, he needed to seek out some kind of entertainment to relax himself soon, if a woman like Bertha O’Brien was making him indulge in that type of fantasy.

 

His poor mood was not helped by the fact that, when he went to the Clarences to speak to Bertha again, he was told that she had apparently moved on the stay with someone else, as though the woman were determined to take up as much of his time and energy as possible.

 

“You know how it is,” said Clarence, seeming almost amused at George’s irritation. “I’ll see if my wife might know where it is she went.”

 

George grit his teeth as he waited. He did not know how it was. At least when he spent this much time on a woman normally he got something pleasurable out of it. He highly doubted any such thing would come from a meeting with Bertha.

 

Not that he would want it to, obviously. Just because a woman was beautiful, that didn’t automatically mean he had to do anything of that kind with them. Despite what Bertha clearly thought of him, he did have self control, and more than enough self respect, not to make advances towards someone who so clearly despised him.

 

He tracked her to the Evans, another stately home within the city, practicing what he might say when he arrived. He had a great deal of things he would have liked to say, but he hardly thought expelling his anger would be enough to turn her opinion. Better to try for an olive branch of some kind, to pretend he understood and was endlessly sorry for whatever slight she imagined he’d given her.

 

She deigned to speak to him in the Evans’ parlour, the doors open as though she had known he would make an attempt at apology and wanted to alert everyone present in the house of their conversation. She took a seat on one of the small couches, gesturing for him to sit opposite her. George took a breath in as he did so, firmly reminding himself that he had gotten out of worse situations with charm alone. He could do it again, he could solve his problem right here and now with just the right words, even if his goal was now the end of hostilities and not a retreat to her bedroom.

 

George shook himself. Female companionship might have been a little sparse since he’d arrived in the city but he was not in such a state that he should have been driven to such distraction over a woman simply sitting across from him, even if her pink dress did draw out the delicateness of her features.

 

Bertha, after listening to George given what he thought was a very earnest-sounding speech, was unmoved. “Mr Russell, why don’t you tell me why you’re actually here.”

 

“To apologise,” said Geroge, his irritation rising by the second. “As I said.”

 

“Not here as in crowding up the room,” said Bertha. “Here as in, in this city at this particular time. I assume it has something to do with your nonsense out west.”

 

“My nonsense ?” said George.

 

“Yes,” said Bertha. “The overgrown train set you plan to build?”

 

George inhaled sharply, feeling his temper flare.

 

“Do try to control yourself,” said Bertha. She gave him an amused look. “Why, I have never known a grown man so overpowered by his emotions, though I suppose with what I know of your character I might have expected it.”

 

“I think I’m within my rights to be annoyed at being so judged by someone who knows so little about me,” said George.

 

“I know more than you seem to think, and if it is that I lack the knowledge, why not tell me?” said Bertha. “It would allow me to make a more informed judgement of your ideas.” She paused. “Unless, of course, your ideas for the west are just as thin on the ground as your moral character.”

 

“My moral character, as you say, is no worse than yours,” said George.

 

Bertha’s nostrils flared, the first crack he’d seen in her mask since he arrived. A lady’s virtue was always a tender spot. “I can have you thrown out of here, you know.”

 

“I thought you didn’t like to make demands of other's staff?” said George.

 

“Tell me your plans for the west and I won’t have to burden them,” said Bertha.

 

“I trust then that you have some understanding of the situation?” said George. “Or should I begin with a history lesson?”

 

“I know enough to get by in a conversation with you , Mr Russell,” said Bertha. “And I should hope that you can provide some explanation rather than simply bamboozling prospective investors.”

 

“Fine,” said George.

 

He did avoid much of the detail - so much of it was in the ether, things to be confirmed or worked out once the deals were in place, deals that were reliant on Chicago falling into line behind him - sketching it out so as any lady might understand it. Men sold their stake in his competitors to him, he would then own enough of a stake to influence the Chicago lines, and he would use that influence to lay tracks to connect one half of the country to the other.

 

“Simple enough,” said Bertha. “Provided any of the men in this city will take a meeting with you.”

 

George clenched his jaw, determined not to rise to the bait. “I suppose, as you so have them in your grasp, I must offer you something in return.”

 

“How very astute of you, Mr Russell,” said Bertha. “In fact, I have been turning over just that very thing in my mind, and I believe I have come up with a very fair deal.”

 

“How much?” asked George, bracing himself for some astronomical figure.

 

“Why, it won’t cost you a penny,” said Bertha, something curling in her tone that he couldn’t place, heated and dangerous. “I’m sure that with all your masterful self-control it should be perfectly simple to achieve.”

 

“I’m sure I can entirely exceed your expectations,” said George.

 

The corners of Bertha’s lips quirked upwards. “We shall see. What I would like from you, Mr Russell, is to prove that self-control to me, so that I can be sure of your temperament as you embark on such a large project.”

 

Was it his imagination or was her voice quieter than before, enough that he had to lean towards her. There were freckles, very faint but there, scattered across her cheeks, as though to draw your gaze to the shining blue of her eyes, glittering now with amusement. Despite the airiness of the room and the chill of the air outside, the air of the room began to feel quite overheated.

 

“What proof, exactly, would you require?” said George.

 

“Why, I’m so glad you asked,” said Bertha, her voice lowering a few octaves as smugness leaked in. “All you would need to do, Mr Russell, is behave yourself as you should around any woman that crosses your path.”

 

“And what,” said George, “do you mean by that?”

 

“What I mean,” said Bertha, “is that instead of flirting your way - and whatever else you might like to do with the ladies you trap - through an evening, you should simply abstain. A week should be sufficient, I’m sure you’d like to get back to business as soon as possible.”

 

“Abstain,” said George, feeling as though he must have misunderstood her, surely no woman would be so-

 

“Yes,” said Bertha, sounding more and more amused by the second. “ Abstain . With anyone.” She paused. “Well, with anyone other than yourself, of course, I don’t expect that much of you, though I would hope that you would keep such activity to a minimum.”

 

The implication sent George to his feet, jaw clenching as he felt his cheeks flush. “You-”

 

Bertha raised her eyebrows at him, looking almost gleeful . “Do you have some problem with the idea? Afraid you won’t be able to last?”

 

“I’m perfectly capable of controlling myself,” said George. “I’m not some idiot youth.”

 

“I never said you were,” said Bertha. “Though I suppose your previous behaviour would be more understandable if that were the case.” She paused. “But I suppose… if you don’t think you can…”

 

“How, exactly, do you even plan on monitoring such a thing?” said George.

 

“I have my ways,” said Bertha, “and if you did, shall we say, breach contract on this without my knowing, well… You would know that you couldn’t go a week without.” She paused. “As an idiot youth might.”

 

It was an utterly ridiculous thing to agree to, but then, surely he’d gone weeks without before, or with only the barest of rolls in the hay. Easy. Simple. And then he could finally get back to what he’d come to this damned city to do instead of chasing after some woman for absolutely no pleasure on his part, for all that his dreams continued to make the argument otherwise.

 

It proved to be a very long week. For one thing, he received a sudden influx of invitations, a new dinner or ball every night, a luncheon or a tea or some charity function taking his time during the day, and at every event, the beauties of the city were there in their finery, turned out to perfection for his gaze. He would get a few scant moments to admire them before Bertha would come into his view, forcing him to cut off any conversation he’d been having with whatever young beauty had approached him, lest he be seen as invalidating their deal, and Bertha’s expression would tinge with a kind of smug pride.

 

George was coming to hate that expression on her face, and no more so for the way that it had burned itself onto his eyelids, so that even when he returned back to his rooms and tried to relieve a little of the pressure caused by such an evening it was only her face he could bring to mind, that smug expression as she gazed at him from across the room or the flush of anger as it spread across her cheeks and how it might, perhaps, look as it spread down her chest and further, and how he might chase the colour of it with his tongue. Despite his age and best efforts, his mind lingered on how Bertha’s gaze had followed him over the length of a luncheon or a ball, imagining her eyes on him in the privacy of his rented rooms, burning into his skin as he took himself in hand, displaying himself for her view. 

 

To his dismay, he had begun to feel, at least in part, like something of an idiot youth. Surely it had been years since circumstances had forced him to be so familiar with his own palm and even then he might have been overdoing it. 

 

She didn’t even speak to him until the very last day of it, stepping beside him to watch the dancers at a ball at the Gardner’s. ”Your last day of self control seems to be going well.”

 

“As I could have told you,” said George.

 

“Then you are to be congratulated, Mr Russell,” said Bertha. 

 

Was it his imagination or was she leaning closer to him, granting him a better view of her décolletage? He could feel sweat break out along the back of his neck.

 

She paused for a moment. “I would not have thought that you had it in you.”

 

After a week of fantasies it was all he could do not stop himself from asking if she would like anything in her , taking a large gulp of his lemonade.

 

“But then perhaps,” said Bertha, her voice soft enough that he had to lean closer to her, “all you needed was a firm hand.”

 

George bit the inside of his cheek to quiet his reaction, feeling heat curl in the pit of his stomach at the smug smile that spread across her features. Oh, how he would have liked to do something to wipe it from her features, some cutting words or the heated press of his lips perhaps-

 

“How are you at dancing the waltz?” said Bertha.

 

“I’m surprised you would want me so close to you,” said George. “Or are you no longer concerned with your virtue?”

 

Her pleased expression vanished. “Perhaps I should have requested two weeks of your good behaviour.”

 

“Far too late to change the parameters of our deal now, Miss O’Brien,” said George. He paused. “Do you have any affection for the waltz?”

 

“Some,” said Bertha, her voice cool. She paused. “If you would like to dance with me, you have only to ask.”

 

“Ah, but would you say yes?” said George.

 

Bertha gave a little shrug. “You could always try your luck, Mr Russell. As you’ve saved it all this week perhaps it might be in your favour.”

 

Well then, that was an opening if he’d ever heard one. “Miss O’Brien, would you care to dance with me?”

 

“Do you know, Mr Russell, I do believe I would,” said Bertha.

 

Their first dance was a little quiet. For all his experience and the public nature of the ballroom, the closeness of her body put him in mind of a week’s worth of heated thoughts. He could feel sweat form along his spine by their second dance, and by the third he was fervently wishing he could remove his jacket entirely, even more so because Bertha seemed utterly unaffected, as though she were enjoying the dance and nothing more.

 

She brought them to a stop at the edge of the ballroom as the third song came to a close. “Perhaps we might take a walk outside first to get some air? You look a little flushed.”

 

“I’m perfectly fine Miss O’Brien,” said George, though his words would probably have carried more weight if his voice had not been so rough in his throat.

 

“Even so,” said Bertha. “Perhaps a break from dancing for the moment? The grounds here are very lovely and even more so with their decorations. It seems a waste not to take a small tour of them, don’t you think?”

 

Her hand was warm on his arm, a hint of a smile, a real smile, almost tantalising at the edge of her lips…

 

Well. What could be the harm really. He’d already proven he could behave himself. Perhaps a little fun wasn’t totally out of the question, and nothing was better for getting his mind off a particular woman than to have her.

 

He let her guide him out of the ballroom, onto the veranda where the air was cooler. There were other couples in the gardens, lanterns hung up around the places making the trees glow with a kaleidoscope of colours. Bertha slid her arm through his, guiding them along the path that ran towards the side of the property. George bit back a grin. Ha, so that’s how it was - he might have known that there was only so long a woman could resist his charms, despite her previous arguments.

 

“Where, exactly, are we going, Miss O’Brien?” asked George.

 

“Just a little further in,” said Bertha coyly. “The Gardners have a beautiful selection of ornamental trees you might appreciate the look of.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll appreciate the look of something back here,” said George.

 

Bertha laughed, a light, airy thing, almost girlish. “Why, Mr Russell, you are simply incorrigible . Whatever am I going to do with you?”

 

“I don’t know,” said George, leaning down to murmur into her ear. “What are you going to do with me?”

 

She slid her arm from his, taking him by the hand to lead him to a little curved bench underneath one of the cherry trees. “I don’t know Mr Russell, what would you like for me to do with you?”

 

“I think you have a pretty good idea about that,” said George.

 

Bertha leaned down, resting her hands on the back of the bench either side of his shoulders, her gown whispering against his legs. The sound of the ball was distant now, muted through the trees, their position hidden from the others. George could feel his body react to a fantasy so close at hand, already picturing the flush of her cheeks, how her lips would look bitten red with his kisses.

 

“Maybe I do,” said Bertha, smiling down at him, “now that I have you here all alone.”

 

“All alone and at your mercy,” said George, his fingers itching to touch her, curling them in the fabric of his jacket so as to not overplay his hand. “What are you going to do with me now that you’ve got me?”

 

Bertha leaned closer, so close that her lips just brushed his as she spoke. He could feel the heat of her skin radiating against his, the ache of it beginning to rise up inside of him. George felt the heated thrill of it, victory within his grasp-

 

“Not a goddamn thing.” She took a quick step back, the heat of her body vanishing from his.

 

“What?” said George.

 

Bertha gave him a wide smile. “Good evening, Mr Russell.”

 

She turned, walking quickly away. George was almost sure he heard her laugh, though with the buzzing in his ears he couldn’t quite be sure. It took him a few stunned moments to even register what had happened, and significantly longer for him to be in a state to return to the ballroom, as every time he would calm himself down the memory of Bertha’s lips so achingly close to his would rise up again. As it was, by the time he made it back to the ballroom, she had long since departed.

 

He was determined to be furious with her about it. Indeed, he was furious with her, for acting so high and mighty about it all, for so blatantly teasing him, for so cruelly leaving him in such a way. That feeling lasted all the way up to the door of his room closing behind him and then his hand was pressing against himself almost without meaning to, a shock going through him at how he was already half hard in his slacks. He pressed the heel of his palm against himself, biting a lip to muffle a groan and then - feeling as if he were in for a penny he might as well be in for the pound - he all but tore open his trousers to wrap a hand around himself.

 

He tried to pull his thoughts away from Bertha even as he did it, but his mind turned against him as it had betrayed him all week long and he found he could only picture Bertha looming above him, Bertha pressing close against him on some little bench at the back of a strangers garden with her hands tight in his hair, of Bertha touching him, working quickly, that blush creeping across her cheeks at having to move with such speed so they could return to the ballroom, spurred on by her own eagerness, in this fantasy where she was not only set merely to tease him and leave him wanting-

 

Or would she? George groaned, his mind spinning around the thought of it. Bertha staying with him in the garden but keeping at a distance, her fingertips ghosting over his skin as she watched him pleasure himself. Perhaps he could goad her into the same, to watch as she lifted her skirts and used those slim, delicate fingers to bring herself to completion for his eyes alone-

 

George came with a bitten off groan, slumping to the floor. He tugged his tie loose, grimacing at the state of his suit, at the state of himself. He had to get ahold of himself. Being spurred to anger was one thing, but losing himself in some woman was entirely another. He had more important things to focus on, especially if Bertha had held up her end of the deal.

 

Indeed, when it came to business it seemed she was entirely a woman of her word. Men suddenly found they had time to meet with him, women acknowledged him in the street, and invitations to dinner came at a steady, but not punishing, pace. 

 

Bertha was even in attendance at the majority of such events, as though still keen to see how he behaved himself. Although George felt no need to prove himself to her, he found he hardly needed to - more often than not their hosts placed him next to her or guided him into conversation with her and when Bertha was not set on torturing or teasing him, she made for very pleasant conversation.

 

Indeed, she seemed genuinely curious about his work, and more knowledgeable than he would have expected on the subject. Perhaps damaging her social reputation in her youth had led to her seeking solace in a more academic field. That part of her still remained something of a mystery, as nothing made her mood sour faster than some person hinting about her past.

 

Few, however, seemed brave enough to try, a fact for which George found himself grateful. While there was a certain amount of enjoyment to be found from watching Bertha pull an opponent apart after such an infraction, he was often standing close enough to her to see too the flash of hurt in her eyes. Though they would hardly have been considered friends, there was something… unpleasant in seeing such a thing in her expression. The wound didn’t suit her.

 

Still, with meetings finally underway and himself free to explore the city’s women once more, all was finally as it should be.

 

Well. Except for one small matter.

 

It seemed the people of Chicago had gotten it into their heads that he had some kind of infatuation with Bertha. It was absurd, of course. They barely knew one another and certainly they didn’t like each other. That they had danced together was nothing, or it should have been nothing. That he had sent her a note the next day, after his first day of actual business in the city had finally been completed, well that was only polite, wasn’t it? It had been a perfunctory thing, an acknowledgement of her work and nothing more. While she had stopped such meetings at first, she now helped to facilitate them, and he was not a man to ignore the contributions of others.

 

If such collaboration now made her seek him out, well, how was he to blame for that? And it was hardly his fault that she sometimes seemed set to tease him, to flirt blatantly as though were a girl of eighteen.

 

“I think you’re hardly one to talk about childish acts,” said Bertha. “Given that you are so insistent on always playing the bad little boy.”

 

George choked a little on his drink, the moment immediately followed by the heated curl of annoyance at Bertha’s smug expression. He could feel his cheeks grow warm under her attention.

 

“I do no such thing,” said George.

 

“No?” said Bertha, blinking up at him.

 

“No,” said George firmly.

 

Bertha hummed, leaning a little closer to him in the crush of the ballroom. “I’m not so sure of that, Mr Russell. It has always seemed to me that you were someone in need of a firm hand.”

 

George made a face, irritated by the idea, which only served to make Bertha laugh. He kept ahold of his irritation, pushing the conversation from his mind as the evening wore on. It only mostly worked - the moment he climbed into bed, Bertha’s voice curled in his ears, her deep, rich voice telling him exactly how bad of a little boy she thought he was, not to mention her firm hand used against him-

 

He groaned, his hips snapping up, thrusting into his hand. Bertha bending him over her lap, for that was the punishment for bad little boys, wasn’t it? A firm spanking while she purred his infractions into his ear, her hand coming down firm and hard for some misstep even as she let him rut against her legs. It was a filthy thought, the kind that made shame curl tightly around his arousal, even as it felt like he were imagining some forbidden thing, even as thinking about such a thing made him feel as though he were every inch the bad little boy.

 

He imagined she might tell him so, her voice as deep and teasing as ever for all they were in a far more intimate position than they ever have been. A firm hand, she’d said, a firm hand against a bad little boy, just like- just like- just as though she were his-

 

Afterwards, utterly spent and panting at the ceiling, he felt mystified by the idea. Surely he couldn’t want that. Surely no man wanted that, not even when the woman involved was as handsome as Bertha. That he kept thinking of it was a result of stress, surely, and of spending far more time in one woman’s company than he ordinarily would.

 

He made an attempt to avoid her at the next gathering, his stomach twisting at her expression as he turned away from her. He’d found his own fun, for a time, the evening as full of pretty young women as any other, but then he’d see her dancing with another gentleman, lingering with him at the edge of the ballroom, and the man had had the gall to make her laugh . George couldn’t explain it, really, and surely ruined his chances with whatever young woman he’d been speaking to when he abandoned her to demand Bertha dance with him.

 

She’d looked extremely smug about it, the kind of expression that was rapidly sending him into a state whenever he so much as thought about it. The real trouble was that she did not only cause such a reaction when she was making a clear attempt to provoke him. There were times now when they lingered in one another’s company, even without some advantageous conversation for her to guide him into.

 

Sometimes, now, she would meet with him at a park, walking with him on his lunch break to lay out the particulars of someone he might wish to speak to or some piece of news she had learned. Her network of informants did indeed seem to rival his own, and she did not even have to pay for it.

 

“They even pay me, on occasion,” said Bertha. “A helpful income stream for any single woman.”

 

George raised his eyebrows and Bertha shot him a look, her fingers flexing on his arm where they were walking together.

 

“Does your mind ever leave the gutter, Mr Russell?” said Bertha.

 

“You’re the one that has dragged it there,” said George.

 

“I suppose some might say blackmail was only a small step above selling use of one’s body,” said Bertha, “but for myself I feel the difference very keenly.”

 

“I had heard that about you,” said George. “Apparently the men of this city believe you hold certain items of correspondence to ransom.”

 

Bertha’s lips twitched, the tantalising hint of her holding back a grin. “Oh yes. Among other things.”

 

“Not particularly honourable of you, Miss O’Brien,” said George.

 

Bertha’s expression shuttered, and George felt something twist in his chest - strange, to be able to wound someone so deeply without meaning to. Stranger, still, to feel guilt over it.

 

“Though I’m sure you know by now that I hold no judgement over lost honour,” added George carefully.

 

“I suppose it would be quite hypocritical of you do so,” said Bertha, her voice equally tentative.

 

He would have liked to kiss the bruised look right off her face, but Bertha was very careful to never be alone with him and certainly wouldn't have stood for such a thing in a public park. He didn’t ordinarily have much cause to offer sympathy for such things - this was the first time he had given much thought to it at all. When people found him to be dishonourable they were rather forced into gritting their teeth to continue their association with him, lest their refusal to deal with him lead to their ruin. It seemed rather unfair, now that he thought about it, for Bertha to have faced the same people and been denied, for she was every bit as smart as he was, every bit as sharp. The good people of Chicago should have considered themselves lucky to associate with her, youthful amorous behaviour or not.

 

“I simply don’t engage in that kind of behaviour,” said Bertha. “Why, I’m far too old for such things.”

 

Which implied at one point she hadn’t been, and hadn’t that been the focus of several explicit daydreams as his carriage had made its way home. Imagine if they’d met in their youth, two thoroughly wild young people throwing caution to the wind. What trouble they would have gotten themselves into, her pregnant out of wedlock or something like it, him shackled to her to make honest young people out of them instead of deviants and scoundrels. He didn’t imagine it would have stopped their behaviour, only deepened it, only increased it.

 

It also implied that she was no longer so inclined, and so would only tease and frustrate him until he died of it. She kept a tight hold of herself around such things, for all she might murmur off-colour jokes to him when they stepped outside a ballroom, for all she might walk a little closer than was strictly appropriate when they strolled together.

 

“After all,” continued Bertha, “they have a dreadfully long memory for reputations in this town.”

 

“So I have heard,” said George, “though I doubt it was deserved on your part.”

 

Bertha looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for a moment before she replied. “Oh, I did my part in the ruin of it willingly enough, for all that the reality was not terribly exciting.”

 

“Then I am doubly sorry,” said George. “For I have always thought that anyone’s ruin in that sense should at least be enjoyable.”

 

“It was enjoyable enough,” said Bertha, an odd edge coming into her voice. “Though it was- It happened a very long time ago.”

 

“You have recovered from it very well, if you’ll allow me to say so,” said George.

 

“I will allow you,” said Bertha, amusement tinging her tone. She paused. “And, I suppose, in a sense the ruin of it all did help me to deviate enough from the path of how my life had been expected to go that I was able to pry a little more freedom out of it than my peers.”

 

“More than a little, I think,” said George. He watched her expression out of  the corner of his eye. “What happened to the cause of your ruin? I suppose he’s long since had some well-placed accident befall him?”

 

Bertha huffed a laugh. “No, you- He’s actually doing quite well for himself these days, from what I hear.”

 

“But not well enough to make an honest woman out of you?” said George. “He must be an even bigger scoundrel than me.”

 

“Oh, I think he’s about the same where that’s concerned,” said Bertha. “I haven’t had much cause to see him since then. He was from out of town, and I suppose he has not yet had much reason to return to our fair city.”

 

“I wonder what fate might await him if he were to venture here?” said George. “I don’t suppose you are the sort to forgive and forget.”

 

Heat flared in Bertha’s eyes, intoxicating. “Oh, not at all. In fact, I have often thought that if our paths ever had cause to cross again I would ruin him the way he had ruined me.”

 

George’s pulse thudded in his ears and he swallowed around his suddenly dry throat. “A fair exchange.”

 

The corners of Bertha’s lips quirked upwards, as though she was trying not to laugh. “I’m glad you think so, Mr Russell.”

 

“If you even do meet him again,” said George, “I hope that you will tell me of his downfall.”

 

“Of course,” said Bertha, pressing just a little closer to him, making the heat rush to George’s cheeks. “You will be the very first to know.”

 

Despite her continued association with him, Bertha seemed greatly annoyed by people assuming his infatuation might be returned. It served her right, after pulling him into the bushes with her. If that was the kind of behaviour she still engaged in, he was surprised she didn’t have his reputation. She could hardly snub him now, as it would only make it appear as a lover’s quarrel, a fact which he took delight in reminding her of to watch her lips curve into a rather enticing pout.

 

He ought to have been offended, really. His reputation for conquest aside, he had a great deal to recommend him - he was rich and handsome with a rather spectacular mind, even if he did say so himself, with a house in New York and the means to rent a place in Newport or wherever else should he have the inclination. Surely he was a fine match for any woman, had he wanted to find any set match.

 

Still, that was the only bright spot. He found he didn’t particularly enjoy that people thought of his heart set on her, of all people. It was understandable, of course, with her being attractive and unattached, and himself the same, but- that was all of no consequence. He was the same man as he had ever been: a man untamed, a man free to do as he liked with whomever he liked.

 

It was only that, lately, he couldn’t seem to get his body to agree. During a dinner his focus could be reasoned away, after all, it would have been terribly impolite of him to ignore his dining companion simply because it was Bertha, and it would have seemed like a slight if they stood next to each other at a ball without him asking her to dance at least once and then, well, she was quite a good dancer, and you never could tell when you might otherwise be stuck with a partner who trod on your foot. Perfectly understandable for him to stick to asking her instead of someone else, and the blame for it was half on her for agreeing.

 

It was elsewhere that George began to feel the real trouble of it. When Bertha was out of his sight, she should have been out of his mind. Instead, she lingered, curling around his thoughts even as he scanned a bar or a private club for amusement. This one was too loud, this one too quiet, this one not interested enough, this one too biddable and attentive, this one’s eyes not the right shade of blue to captivate him.

 

Bertha’s voice felt as though it haunted him most in those moments, teasing him for letting his eyes linger on a low-cut bodice or painted lips. Little comments that he only imagined, yes, but also the little teasing things she said to him when they met, all the little chastisements she gave him and none that made him feel as though his blood was boiling him alive more than-

 

“Such a bad little boy,” said the Bertha that lived in his mind, a kind of dark amusement curled around her imagined tone. “This is how you choose to behave away from your mother’s eyes?”

 

George’s mother, long dead, certainly would not have approved of such behaviour, but that was hardly who the term made him think of. Bertha, looming over him, pulling him back by the hair, her hand coming down hard on his bare skin until he was promising to behave, until he was begging her to let him be a good boy for her, endless promises of good behaviour if only she would fuck him. In his most heated fantasies she did, her hands gripping his ass as he thrust inside her, her finger pressing on the bruises she had so recently made.

 

In his imagination sometimes he didn’t even make it that far, the dream version of himself spilling over his sheets alongside him as Bertha smirked above him, chastising him.

 

“You’re an eager little one, aren’t you?” said the Bertha of those dark and heated dreams. “Making such a mess of mommy’s bed.”

 

Even work was no respite, as the moment his attention wandered from the task at hand they would head in Bertha’s direction. Images of her leaning over the desk to review his work, plastering herself against his back, teasing him through the fabric of his trousers.

 

“Such a naughty little boy to do this at the office,” said the Bertha in his mind as he pressed a hand to himself. “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

 

He would stumble home, unsatisfied, and take himself in hand and his mind would conjure the image of Bertha doing all manner of depraved things to him, as though he were a man lost in the desert craving cool water, aching with need for her alone. It made him feel close to madness some evenings, rutting against his hand like an animal and muffling himself in his pillow as he imagined her body against his.

 

Still, he kept ahold of himself in public for the most part and especially around Bertha, despite her occasional sharpness with him. That was perhaps oddest of all - sometimes it almost seemed as though she had begun to enjoy his company, laughing at a comment here, leaning against his arm there, always seated next to him whenever they had cause to be at some event together though surely she had the means to put distance between them had she wanted to. Then sometimes her expression would shutter, and she would pull away, as angry with him as she had been when he’d first arrived in the city.

 

“I wish you would tell me of the crime I have so committed against you,” said George frustration spilling over during one such instance of her warm words turning to ice. “Did I bankrupt your family? Besmirch the reputation of your sister or some other relation?”

 

Bertha paused, frowning up at him for a moment before she slid her arm away from his. Her expression was less icy now, something a little bruised about it that he did not understand but that made his chest ache oddly to look at.

 

“You truly don't remember it, do you?” asked Bertha. “You don't remember when we first met, I mean to say. I admit I had thought you were only playing at it, but…”

 

George frowned. “I… We met at the Clarences.”

 

She raised her eyebrows. “No. We'd met before.”

 

“In New York?” said George.

 

“No,” said Bertha, her voice maddeningly cool. “No, it was before that.”

 

“Pittsburgh?” said George.

 

“Well now you really are just guessing, Mr Russell,” said Bertha. “Why don't you turn your rather spectacular mind to it and if you do happen to remember, you let me know.”

 

She left him standing there, at the edges of the ballroom, slipping away easily into the crowd and then further still.

 

They couldn’t have met before. He was sure he would have remembered her. Bertha practically demanded to be remembered by everyone she met. He couldn’t have forgotten her. She must have meant they had been at the same party somewhere, and she had presumably seen him but without being introduced.

 

“I cannot have met you out west,” said George, the next time they had cause to be seated at the dinner together. “You don’t have the accent for it.”

 

“I suppose I don't, no,” said Bertha cooly.

 

“At Newport then?” said George. “Or Washington?”

 

“It's alright if you don't get it, Mr Russell,” said Bertha, her expression unreadable. “It was a terribly long time ago, and I'm sure such minor things pass out of a man's mind as soon as they enter. Especially a man like you.”

 

The thought of it began to leech into all other areas of his like, as Bertha already had, the mystery niggling at him and providing a wide range of colourful imaginings to join the others of their rank: Bertha rough and ready out west, Bertha in some gauzy dress reclining in the Newport sun, Bertha seated at some Washington clubhouse in something decidedly more scandalous, all of them hazy-edged and heated. Where could he have seen her?

 

More than that, where could he have seen her and missed her?

 

It seemed utterly mad that he could have, even more so than she already made him feel. And she did make him feel quite insane, the craving for her under his skin rapidly becoming insatiable. There was only one cure for a thing like that that he knew of, and that was to have to have the woman and be done with it. He knew Bertha well enough now to know that, her ability and willingness to tease him aside, she would never have gone for it. She had her own reputation to think about, and such things were something only a married lady could do and emerge unscathed, no matter what hints of ruin lurked in her past.

 

So, in the end, after a full fortnight of torment, he proposed.

 

“You cannot be serious,” said Bertha.

 

“I’m entirely serious,” said George.

 

“You don’t even know me,” said Bertha.

 

“I know you enough,” said George. “I have a fine sense for people-”

 

“Debatable,” said Bertha.

 

“-And I think we get along well,” continued George.

 

“Now, that is simply not true at all,” said Bertha.

 

“And I’m sure you would be happy in New York,” said George, his cheeks flushing as his voice turned a little pleading.

 

“Oh, perhaps,” said Bertha, waving a hand, “but I could travel there myself if I really felt the need.”

 

George could feel a curl of arousal at that, as shameful as it was ridiculous. What kind of man was he, to get so caught up on a woman that the idea of her being able to do things without him, the idea of her dismissing him, made him want to pull her into his arms?

 

“I know you could,” said George, “but I- Wouldn’t you like to go there together?”

 

Bertha was still giving him a very odd look, her brow drawn together in concern. “As man and wife?”

 

“I doubt you'd agree to go any other way,” said George, his voice rough as he pushed it from his throat. “If you’ll have me.”

 

Bertha looked at him for long, long moment, long enough for the bottom to drop out of his stomach, long enough for him to wish fervently that he could fall through the floor and into the depths of the earth because surely even hell would be better than this-

 

“Very well,” said Bertha.

 

George blinked. “You- that's it ?”

 

“Would you prefer I keep saying no?” said Bertha. “And here I thought you must prefer your women to be extremely agreeable.”

 

She was looking more and more smug by the second and he really wished he could feel wholly angry about it instead of how he actually felt, which was a kind of mindless, burning desire to crawl towards her and bury his face between her thighs.

 

Even more perplexing were people’s reactions when he broke the news, a combination of good-natured congratulations and quite a few comments about how it was a long time coming, as though he and Bertha had been circling one another for years instead of barely a month. Bertha said nothing about such comments, though her expression would twist in a way that made him want to loom over whoever had said it as though they were trying to undercut him on a deal until they apologised for whatever offence they were attempting to give her.

 

Their wedding was a quick one, moderately populated but well-enjoyed, with a speedy planned weekend of a honeymoon so George could return to his work. It was why he was in town, after all. If Bertha had complaints about the lack of a more luxurious destination, she didn’t voice any such thing to him, even going so far as to smile at him as they walked to their hotel room. George would let himself enjoy it - one weekend of indulging in the madness of it all, and surely that would be enough to free him. He’d just give himself over to it all and then he could go back to normal. He was even looking forward to having her on the back foot for once, as such things would surely be out of her experience, for all that people implied some past scandal.

 

She leaned close to him as they walked to their room - different from those he’d been staying in while he’d been in Chicago, a decedent suite, one more suitable for the weekend of debauchery he intended to have in it.

 

“I’ve never stayed in a penthouse suite before,” said Bertha, her voice almost a purr in his ear.

 

“Now that you’re with me that’s the only kind of hotel room you’ll have,” said George, thrilling at the flush in her cheeks.

 

“Is that so?” said Bertha. “My, you do plan to spoil me.”

 

“Is that so wrong?” asked George.

 

“I suppose you have enough not to have to worry so much about frugality,” said Bertha.

 

“ We have enough,” said George. “A shared fortune, now.”

 

“I suppose I shall just have to think of something to offer you in return,” said Bertha, pressing just a little closer to him, George’s throat going dry.

 

He used the moment of unlocking their suite as cover for his lack of response. Inside, the room was as luxurious as one might expect for the rather extravagant price - an area for dining or entertaining, a small lounge, a private bathroom, two fireplaces roaring away and, perhaps most front of mind, a bedroom off to the side with a simply enormous bed.

 

Their luggage had already been delivered, everything entirely made ready for a few blissful days of complete and utter indulgence. George smiled to himself, the warmth fading a little as he felt Bertha still.

 

Ah. Right. Yes. She wouldn’t have ever-

 

George’s head spun with it. Foolish for him not to think of it before or to be so struck by it now, but- To be the first . To be the only one.

 

Or- Was he the first? Ruin, he well knew, could be caused by any number of things, many of them chaste to his way of thinking. Perhaps she had only ever kissed a man, or a boy , really, if it had been that long ago. He might be the first man to kiss her properly. He might be the only man to touch her, the only man to see her in such an intimate moment. A dizzying thought.

 

As though sensing his thoughts, Bertha lifted a hand, carding her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. George shivered.

 

“Alright?” asked Bertha softly.

 

“I think I ought to be asking you that,” said George.

 

Bertha pressed her lips together and then- a flush of colour, blooming over her cheeks, entirely captivating.

 

“I've never done this before you know, not all the way,” said Bertha looking at him from under her lashes. “I've only ever imagined it all and-”

 

Her fingers flexed. George swallowed roughly, imagining Bertha tucked away in some borrowed bed, her fingers pressed between her legs as she imagined… who, exactly? Some past beau? A handsome stranger she passed in the street?

 

Him, perhaps?

 

“You have?”

 

“Well I had to… practise a little,” said Bertha. “To prepare, you understand.”

 

George had never felt as though he understood less , but then it was increasingly difficult to think at all. “Practise?”

 

“Of course,” said Bertha. “You must know by now that I despise being a novice.”

 

“I'm sure you made an excellent study of it,” said George.

 

“I did try my best,” said Bertha. “But without the more… practical application of some things, it was a little difficult. Perhaps you might show me how best to begin?”

 

“It would be my pleasure,” said George.

 

“Not only yours, I hope,” said Bertha.

 

She was smiling as their lips met, letting out a little gasp as he fitted his hands to her waist, allowing him to deepen the kiss as he walked them backwards. Her fingers deftly pushed the jacket from his shoulders, tearing at the buttons of his waistcoat and then his shirt.

 

George huffed a laugh. “Eager aren’t you?”

 

“Well I’ve waited long enough for it,” said Bertha, pouting a little.

 

George took a moment to admire the expression before he kissed it away. “You have, haven’t you? So patient all these years.”

 

She was practically squirming against him, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as they kissed, making a little sound of frustration as he pulled back.

 

“I have to get you out of all this,” said George. ”In fact, I’d say it was something of a requirement.”

 

“I suppose you are the expert in it,” said Bertha.

 

He frowned, but for once there was no judgement in her expression, instead she looked almost teasing, almost fond. George felt laughter bubble up inside him, kissing her again before he turned her around to face the endless row of tiny buttons. There was a tension in Bertha’s shoulders as he began to work, building the lower his fingers reached. George pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, and then under her jaw, and then to her lips.

 

“In this I can rival even the best ladies maid,” said George, sliding the top portion of her dress away. “Easy enough work, if you can get it.”

 

“And you have gotten it,” said Bertha. She reached up, her fingers curling in his beard to hold him close. “And you’re about to get it.”

 

“God, I hope so,” said George, his hands fumbling for the tie of her bustle.

 

Bertha smiled, the amusement lighting up her whole face. “I think you’re more keen for this than I am.”

 

George felt a heated curl of arousal in the pit of his stomach at the admission in her words. “How could I not be, with how you’re been torturing me since our meeting?”

 

Bertha gave a little gasp of shock, the effect rather negated by the wicked grin that spread over her face. “Me? Now, what did I ever do to you that was so awful?”

 

“A whole week,” muttered George, kissing her again, groaning as he licked into her mouth. “Making me- For a whole week .”

 

And longer than that, really, the thought of it enough to leave him flushed, grinding desperately against her. A week of her making, yes, but longer than that due to his own tortured mind being unable to pull away from her long enough to give any woman more than a moment’s attention. He opened his mouth, closing it again as the thought of admitting so was too much, too pathetic, too humiliating-

 

Bertha laughed, her fingers joining his to free her of her skirts before she moved her attention to his shirt. “Really George, a week isn’t so terribly long-” She paused as a gasp escaped him. “What?”

 

“That’s- I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said my name,” said George, flushing as his voice cracked.

 

An odd expression came over Bertha’s face, her eyes darkening as it turned more heated, a hungry, greedy thing. George felt as though she were pressing the feeling into his body, pulling her close again, tugging at the lacing of her corset.

 

“George,” whispered Bertha. “George, George -”

 

Her hands dropped to the fastening of his trousers and he let out a strangled groan, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. Bertha laughed again, nuzzling the side of his face until he lifted his head enough to kiss her, swallowing his moan.

 

“I want to see you,” said Bertha. “I want to know- Won’t you show me?”

 

“Yes,” said George, pulling her corset loose enough to free her from it, the ghost of her body visible now underneath her thin chemise. “God, yes, let me be the one to show you. Let me be the only one to show you.”

 

“You’ll make me the same promise, won’t you?” said Bertha, her hand cupping him over his trousers, George’s hips grinding up against the heat of her hand on instinct, feeling half out of his mind from just the barest warmth of her palm. “You’ll have only me?”

 

“I…” George swallowed. “I don’t…”

 

Bertha hummed, her fingers teasing, her fingers making his whole body pulse with need for her. “But then I suppose I shouldn’t ask until you’ve had me, should I? Because then you’ll know what you’d be missing if you left my bed for even a night-”

 

For even a night. Every night. Together. Every night. It was enough to make his head spin, the thought of sliding next to Bertha every night, of pressing close, Bertha half-asleep as he slid inside her, warm and welcoming, of falling asleep still inside her and waking the same way, fucking her before either of them were awake enough to know what they were doing.

 

George’s fingers twisted in her chemise, pulling it roughly over her head. Bertha gasped, pressing her body against his as though to shield herself from his view. George groaned at the feeling of her against him, every inch of warm, soft skin aching against his.

 

“None of that, sweetheart,” said George, “let me see you.”

 

He put his hands on her shoulders, guiding her back onto the bed for him to admire. The flush of her cheeks did, as he had so often imagined, spread down her chest. George gave into the fantasy of it, mouthing kisses across her to follow it, teasing over her nipples with teeth and tongue as he let his hands wander, at long last, downwards, revealing in her little shivers, the soft little sounds she was making.

 

Her skin was already slick there and George cast his eyes downwards, letting out a groan that was as much at how his fingers looked as they teased against her as it was for how she felt, so obviously wet and wanting, so clearly feeling the same ache that had lived under his skin these past few weeks.

 

“So,” said George. “You imagined this, did you?”

 

Bertha nodded, biting her lip.

 

“No little comment to give me about it?” said George, teasing the tip of a finger inside the tight heat of her. “Nothing you want to say about it?”

 

“It was you,” breathed Bertha. “I imagined you, what you might do to me-”

 

George moaned, leaning forward to capture her lips against, grinding a little against her hip. “And just what did I do to you?”

 

“Ruined me,” said Bertha, her voice trembling, her eyes squeezed shut. “Ruined me utterly, over and over-”

 

George groaned. “You’ve got it all backwards. It’s you that’s ruined me.”

 

Bertha’s eyes fluttered open. “You? How did I… did I…?”

 

“Couldn’t think of anyone but you,” said George, the admission slipping free from him at last as he mouthed a kiss under her jaw, pressing his finger in a little deeper- God she was tight, he felt close just from this, and thinking about how was going to feel around him. “Could barely think at all.”

 

“Good,” said Bertha. “Don’t think, just- Please, just touch me, just show me how to- Please -”

 

George pressed the length of his finger in slowly, letting her feel the stretch of it as much as he was testing her reaction. Bertha moaned, her fingers curling around his wrist to pull his hand back and then press it forward again to fuck herself on his finger. Heat shuddered through him, his eyes flicking from how her face twisted in pleasure to the sight of her body pulling his finger in deeper, her body easily taking another finger. He let her control the movement of his hand completely, letting out a groan as he felt her fingers flex around his wrist.

 

“Yes,” breathed Bertha. “Yes, yes, that’s just how I do it-”

 

George groaned, rutting himself against her side. “How you- Bertha -”

 

“Just like that,” said Bertha. “Yes, that’s- that’s just right, that’s a good- Yes -”

 

He felt breathless as he watched her be overcome, hip arching and hair tossed back, the sight of it enough to make him rub himself against her hip, the drag of her skin through the fabric it’s own kind of torture. God, maybe he should have booked the room for longer than a weekend. Two days of watching her like this hardly seemed enough.

 

She looked up at him, her breathing still unsteady, pulling him into a rough kiss. “Won’t you show me?”

 

“Thought I just did,” said George, feeling dazed, feeling drunk with it.

 

“There’s more to it, I know there is,” said Bertha, reaching for his trousers, yanking them open. “Show me, show me please , I want to know-”

 

George pulled himself free of his trousers, barely managing to suppress a whimper as he wrapped a hand around himself and not able to quiet himself at all as Bertha slotted her fingers over his. She hummed, pleased, guiding him towards her.

 

“Want to feel you,” said Bertha, letting out a little shuddering breath. “So big, just like I always thought you’d- God, George, let me feel it-”

 

George swore, leaning down to kiss her, one arm braced on the bed and the other kept tight around himself, guiding his length inside her. He pressed in slowly, Bertha’s hands clutching at his back, her pleading moan in his ear - faster, harder, oh please, she’d wanted this for such a long time, so so, so long, she’d wanted it so badly -

 

He shuddered, sliding a hand between them and feeling a jolt to find her clever fingers already touching herself.

 

“That’s right,” managed George. “That’s it, I want to see you again, let me see it again-”

 

Bertha came with a little sob of pleasure that built to a wail, pressing her face to the crook of his neck, her hand so tight in his hair, the pain of it so sharp and perfect, that he could no longer hold back, spilling inside her, falling forward to his elbow. Bertha held him too close to move away, kissing him again, open mouthed, clumsy with exhaustion and desire. He barely had the forethought to clean them up a little before he let sleep take him.

 

He woke, Bertha still clinging to him. As though her body could sense his, her eyes fluttered open, their lips meeting and the kiss deepening. He ran his hands along the length of her spine, leaning back to tease at her chest, their hips rocking against one another.

 

“You gonna wake me up like this every day?” said George, grinning.

 

“Maybe,” said Bertha. “You have a lot of time to make up for.”

 

“I will,” said George. “Don’t you fret about that. I’ll keep you good and satisfied.”

 

“You can try,” said Bertha. “You know I’m hard to please.”

 

“So am I,” said George.

 

Bertha hummed, her eyes dark. “I’ll take care of you though, won't I? You’ll show me how to take good care of you?”

 

They worked themselves up, grinding against one another, George forgetting shame in his desperation, and he’d barely had time to catch his breath before the ache of her had him crawling down the length of the bed to lick at her, cleaning himself off her skin before he could taste her.

 

“What a little gentleman you are,” said Bertha, her huff of laughter turning into a moan.

 

It was close enough to the words he’d sometimes imagined for him to break off with a moan. He could hear Bertha’s thoughtful hum above him. She was figuring him out, he could practically feel her mind buzzing with it. The curl of it rose up inside him, the twisting embarrassment, the overwhelming pulse of arousal.

 

“Not such a bad little boy after all,” said Bertha, her words slow, almost careful, going straight into the heart of him.

 

George moaned, grinding his hips against the bed. God, that was even worse somehow - or was it better? - to hear her say it while his face was pressed to her cunt. Maybe she wouldn’t punish him after all, though he almost felt disappointed by the idea.

 

“Come up here awhile,” said Bertha, something dark and heated curled around her words. “Let me take care of you.”

 

They only paused when the hotel sent up the menu for luncheon, possibly realising that their very high paying guests hadn’t eaten in half a day. Even then, the moment they were alone again George was sliding the robe from Bertha’s shoulders, kissing down her neck, making her moan around mouthfuls of food. Bertha did the same to him, sliding into his lap, rocking against his cock until George was begging for it, for her to let him fuck her.

 

“Please, please,” he managed, feeling as out of his mind as he had since he’d arrived in the city. “I- Let me be a good husband to you, let me treat you well, I promise I’ll behave, won’t be bad, let me give you this- Bertha -”

 

Bertha hummed, her hand guiding him inside her, squeezing around him, arching her back. George moaned at the sight, leaning up to mouth kisses against her chest.

 

“That’s right,” said Bertha. “No more bad behaviour, hmm? Otherwise…”

 

George couldn’t stop his moan. “You’ll punish me.”

 

“Oh yes,” said Bertha, sounding almost as unsteady by the thought as he felt. “Oh, yes, I will, bad little boys get- they get punished.”

 

“D’you promise?” said George, feeling himself burn with it.

 

Bertha almost growled into his mouth, her hands pulling viciously at his hair until George spilled inside her.

 

It was enough to make him wish they did have time for a lengthy honeymoon, though likely they would have starved themselves to death in that case, so busy fucking they forgot to ring down for dinner and only thought of breakfast the next morning after the growl of George’s stomach was too loud to ignore.

 

He spent almost all of Sunday evening between her legs and it still hadn’t felt like enough.

 

Real life, ordinary life, returned to him and it didn’t. With Bertha’s help (or, at least, the absence of her hindering him at every turn), things progressed much more smoothly. Meetings were far easier for other men to keep when all he had to do was mention to his wife that he wanted to speak to someone and just await their request to see him. Even the men seemed a little more biddable to his demands, though that might have just been George’s imagination.

 

Or, perhaps, it was his slightly harsher tone to them. He found he didn’t want to draw out a meeting, as he might have been tempted to in his previous life. Now, a faster deal meant a shorter meeting, and a shorter meeting meant that he could return to Bertha all the faster, both of them eschewing dinner in favour of pulling one another apart first.

 

That said, George did feel as though he were a great deal more unravelled than she was. Instead of curing him, instead of the indulgence being the salve, it had made his craving a hundred times worse.

 

“God,” said George, “what are you doing to me?”

 

He’d practically ran inside from the carriage, all but dragged her upstairs to press her down against their bed. Bertha hadn’t offered more than a small protest, almost tearing his clothes from him, rocking against him.

 

“Tell me,” said Bertha. “Tell me what I do to you.”

 

“I can’t even look at another woman,” gasped George. “All I can think of is you, even at the office, it’s a miracle I haven’t needed to take myself in hand about it while I'm there.”

 

“Then why were you late?” said Bertha, her voice a whine, rocking against him, her heels digging into his back to urge him faster.

 

“I had to, sweetheart,” said George. “I thought of you too goddamn much today, had to wait for everyone to leave so they wouldn’t see the state I was in-”

 

“You couldn’t concentrate on your work? ” said Bertha, squeezing around him. “Bad boy, being such a dirty little thing at the office.”

 

George whimpered, a sound he would not have thought himself capable of before her.

 

Bertha’s grin was sharp. “It’s just me now, isn't it George? You're not going to need anyone but me. I’ll take good care of you.”

 

He'd heard that from women before - Hell, he'd said that to women before - but he'd never heard it from Bertha and that tone, god, like she was promising him the world and teasing him in the middle of a ball all at once. 

 

He groaned. “God, you really have ruined me, I used to- Used to be able to just leave, and forget and-  and now I- I need you, please Bertha-”

 

“Good,” said Bertha. “Don’t think about anyone else, just me, I’ll make sure you're satisfied and taken care of, would you like that? For me to care good care of you, and make sure you have all the little things you need-”

 

He couldn’t think of anything else he would want, couldn’t think of anything period except how his body wanted to drive him into hers over and over again.

 

“Is that right, George?” said Bertha, tugging on his hair, making George whimper again. “You want me to take care of you like that?”

 

“Yeah,” said George, and that couldn’t really be his voice could it, that desperate rasp? But it must be, it must be him.

 

Bertha's grip tightened in his hair. “Then say it. Say thank you. I think I deserve it.”

 

George gave a choked whine, feeling her tight around him, her words shuddering through him like fire along his nerves as she tugged hard on his hair.

 

George gasped for breath, the pain in his scalp twisting around his arousal. “Thank you-”

 

“Thank you, who, George?” said Bertha. “Who are you thankful to, hmm, who are you thankful for taking such good care of you, and your business, and your house, and your cock?”

 

“You,” said George. “You, thank-” God, he was losing his mind, he couldn’t, she was so- “Thank you mommy.”

 

Bertha’s body tightened around his, pulling him in deep, letting him spill inside her. He could feel her hand working herself, squeezing around him where he was spent and oversensitive before she fell back. His words came back to him as he lay panting up at the ceiling, the flush of arousal changing to one of embarrassment. 

 

God, to think it was one thing, but he hadn’t meant to say it.

 

He felt Bertha shift next to him, her hand cradling his cheek to get her to look down towards her, her smile pleased and utterly smug. She leaned up, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then, seemingly content, she lay down, her arm slung over his side and her head pillowed against this arm, leaving George to blink up the ceiling in a kind of overheated shock.

 

His own words echoed back to him, the desperate whine of them making him flush to think about even as it made his traitorous cock twitch. He’d always been a bit of a hedonist, he supposed, but nothing like what he felt here with Bertha, with how she made him feel as though he were losing his mind, over and over again, desperate to have her every moment they were apart and begging her for it the moment they reunited. What was wrong with him, he’d barely- no, he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since he'd been to bed with Bertha, and he’d certainly- He’d never done something like, he’d never begged for it like that -

 

Bertha gave a little sleepy huff at the back of her throat, her hand clumsily patting his chest. “Go to sleep, that’s a good boy. I’ll have you again in the morning before you have to leave for the office, don’t you worry. Send you on your way, nice and satisfied. Take care of you just like you need. Greedy boy.”

 

George shivered, pressing his lips together at the sleepy smile on her face, all smug contentment. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Surely he was supposed to be the one to growl a remark like that into her ear and have her blush and shiver at best and chastise him for being some kind of desperate deviant at worst. Surely she wasn’t supposed to be the one insisting on a tray in their room and then making him ignore the food, or else feeding him bites slowly as rode him. Surely he was supposed to take care of her, and not the other way around.

 

Still, there was nothing to be done and, sometimes, when he was buried to hilt inside her or when she was grinding desperately against his mouth, George found he didn’t care what his married life was supposed to look like. As long as Bertha stayed happy, as long as he could fall into bed with her every night, that was all he wanted.

 

Social events had returned with work, dinners they left early claiming headaches or early meetings, balls where he danced with her until their aching feet sent them home, charity functions where George left a sizeable cheque to excuse their early departure.

 

Some were more difficult to extract themselves from. The Williams had insisted on parlour games, which meant that Bertha would want to play at least a few before they left for the evening. George had already begun to sketch the journey home in his mind as he searched for an appropriate hiding place.

 

He slipped into the study, the room oddly familiar. It was likely one he’d seen in his youth, the WIlliams being a friend to his parents. Some of his earliest memories of travel were to the grand old house he was currently standing in, though the whole thing felt a great deal more worn out, some of the china cracked and the wallpaper out of fashion.

 

There were a series of little figures on the shelf behind the desk, one with a rather large crack through it. George stepped closer, frowning before he placed it. Ah, yes, that had been him, hadn’t it. He’d been fooling around with some local girl and she’d twisted her fingers in his hair, the first girl to ever do something like that, her fingers so tight and pulling so hard in his hair that he’d slammed them both back into the shelf, throwing the little statuette to the ground, causing them to be discovered. George huffed a laugh. Well, perhaps he hadn’t changed all that much then, if he still found himself enjoying that particular thing just as much, though, really, the only girl he’d even been with who tugged quite that perfectly and deliciously hard was Bertha-

 

It was a little like being plunged into ice water, with how fast the thought of it all came together. It was a hazy thing, half a memory really, soft lips under his and blue eyes, a hasty exit from a room. He snatched the statuette off the shelf, racing through the house before he could think better of it until he found Bertha, still talking with the daughter of their hosts. She gave him an odd look, her face paling slightly as her eyes fell to the statuette in his hands.

 

“I remember you now,” said George.

 

Bertha set down the glass she was holding. “Miss Anette, I’m afraid my husband and I have to leave. Please pass on our farewells to your mother and thank her for a lovely evening.”

 

She turned, heading in the direction of the front door, leaving George to scramble behind her. She was walking quickly, an expression on her face as though she were furious with him, as though he was newly arrived in Chicago again.

 

“Bertha-”

 

“Get in the carriage, George,” said Bertha, her voice clipped. “I won’t do this here.”

 

He offered her a hand inside and after a moment of hesitation, she took it. Good. She couldn’t be so mad at him then, not so much that whatever he’d done was unforgivable.

 

He waited until the carriage was moving to speak. “You knew me all along, then?”

 

Bertha gave him a rather lopsided smile. “A girl doesn’t forget the man who ruined her.”

 

“ Ruined -?”

 

All her hints at the past, the bruised expression that would come over her face when she thought of it, all the snide comments of her acquaintances when they’d announced their engagement… His stomach twisted.

 

“Can you wait until we’re home, please?” said Bertha, her voice holding a little tremble of something now, something that made George’s chest feel tight.

 

He nodded, his eyes fixed to her face as the carriage rumbled its way across town. Bertha didn’t look at him, her gaze turned to the window. He offered her a hand down from the carriage, and his arm upstairs, and said nothing as she waved away the offer of assistance from their maid. It wasn’t until their bedroom door closed behind them that she stepped away, wrapping her arms around herself and putting almost the length of the room between them.

 

“Will you tell me all, now?” asked George softly.

 

“I- What do you remember of it?” asked Bertha.

 

“Enough to know that it was you,” said George. “A summer romance, I-”

 

Bertha let out a laugh. “A summer romance.”

 

“But not to you?” asked George cautiously.

 

She shook her head. “We barely knew each other George, it was-” She let out a breath. “We were young. It was a night of fun at a party. Or, it was, for a moment.”

 

“What happened?” said George. “What did I do, I must have-” His stomach twisted. “I didn’t-”

 

Bertha shook her head again. “We barely did anything, really, but-” She let out a long breath. “Someone saw us, a girl who did not particularly like me, and she told- Well. She told everyone a much more colourful story, and by the time word had gotten all the way around you were long gone, so it was my word against hers which didn’t mean too that much.” 

 

She let out another sigh, looking away from him as she leaned a hip against her dressing table. “My mother told me I should have written to you, to see if we couldn’t salvage something.”

 

George frowned. He hadn’t been much for love letters at that stage of his life or any other but he felt sure he would have remembered something like that . “Did you…? I’m afraid I don’t…”

 

Bertha shook her head. “What would I have said? Dear Mr Russell, we got a little ahead of ourselves at the Williams’ party last week and now everyone thinks you defiled me in their library, could you please marry me to see if that fixes it? What would you have done with a letter like that?”

 

George made a face. The truth of it, of course, was that at seventeen he wouldn’t really thought anything of it at all. Hell, six months ago he would barely have paused over a letter like that, dismissing it as some con game, some woman out for money somehow.

 

“Yes, exactly,” said Bertha, her expression pained. “So instead I… Well, I tried to make the best of it. And I suppose it helped, in a way. When people think you’re ruined they’ll tell you things much more freely than they would otherwise, and eventually I had learned enough to pull myself out of it. I didn’t need them to like me, after all. They don’t like ruined girls, as a rule, but I have found that they’ll listen to them well enough if the ruined girl in question has something that might ruin them .”

 

George felt something like awe at it. He’d been struck by her before, of course, at the hold she had over the city even when such things had only served to vex him. Now it seemed much more impressive, to twist ruin around into victory.

 

By Bertha’s expression, though, she didn’t seem to feel the same, her eyes downcast, a bitter twist to her lips as she attempted something like a smile. His chest ached at the sight of it, his finger twitching with the urge to pull her into his arms.

 

“And then I came back,” said George slowly.

 

“And then you came back,” said Bertha. “And you didn’t know me at all. Oh, I was so furious when I realised that, I could have killed you.”

 

“Why did you…” George swallowed. “But why did you marry me if you hated me so?”

 

He couldn’t ask if that was her current feeling. He didn’t know if he wanted to learn the answer.

 

“Because,” said Bertha, “you’re the only man who has ever asked, and I was sick of having to move house every month, and-” Her expression softened. “And there was something- I don’t know. Something like a closed circle to it all.” She huffed a laugh. “My mother’s spirit can finally rest in peace, if you married me after all.”

 

Something twisted in George’s chest. “God, Bertha, I- I’m sorry -”

 

Bertha waved a hand. “It’s all in the past now. It’s fine.”

 

“No,” said George, “No, it isn’t.”

 

Bertha frowned, stepping towards him again. George felt frozen in place, his breath hitching in his throat as she stepped into his arms, her hand cupping his cheek, her nails raking through his beard, the touch of her hand so tender he almost shook with it.

 

“If I thought you were that vile I wouldn’t be here,” said Bertha. “Surely you must know that.”

 

“And why are you here,” said George, her words of weeks ago echoing in his mind, “not here in this city, but here in this room?”

 

“Because I want to be,” said Bertha. “Because you didn’t see any of my past mistakes at all.” She drew him down towards her lips. “Because you didn’t see me as I was, you saw me as I am now, how I want to be.”

 

They fell back against the bed, George’s mind almost going blank with the heat of it as he freed her from her clothing, buttons scattering and seams torn. His mind was blank, were it not for the hazy memory of Bertha in her youth, his eagerness spurring her. Blank, were it not for the dark and heated thing that rose up inside him, a confession, of a sort, spilling from his lips.

 

“I have mistreated you so,” said George, “so I would understand is you felt I need to make amends, or to be punished-”

 

“And just what would be a suitable punishment do you think?” asked Bertha, her voice deep. “Should I have you go door-to-door to explain your behaviour? Should I send you back to the Williams’ to apologise for breaking the statuette as though you were a child? Should I take you in hand myself, like-”

 

Whatever it was like he never found out, his hips grinding against her of their own accord. He moaned, watching heat flare in her eyes.

 

“Ah,” said Bertha, grinning up at him. ”I thought as much.”

 

George whimpered. “You- You did?”

 

“Oh, George,” said Bertha, her voice deep, shivering into the heart of him. “You’ve been such a bad little boy while you’ve been here, always misbehaving to get my attention.”

 

She curled her fingers in his beard, drawing him into a kiss, pulling him across her lap. Her hands slid down his back to cup his rear, George flushing at his body’s reaction. Bertha hummed, pleased and so smug that it made his blood feel as though it were boiling in his veins.

 

“You have been so terribly bad, haven’t you, George?”

 

He nodded, not trusting his voice as her fingers flexed. She swatted his ass, barely more than a light tap through the fabric of his trousers but enough to make him gasp.

 

“Clothes off,” said Bertha. “If you really want it-”

 

He scrambled to his feet, his cheeks flushing hotly as Bertha laughed. Once he’d torn himself free of his clothes, Bertha beckoned him forward, pressing him until he was bent over her lap again, his arms braced on the other side of her legs. Bertha hummed, running a hand up his thighs, squeezing his ass before he gave another, frustratingly light, slap.

 

George’s hips rocked forwards anyway, biting his lip. He’d imagined it differently, but, if this was all- He couldn’t ask for more, surely, that would be too much-

 

The next slap came down a little harder, a moan breaking free of his throat.

 

“Ah,” said Bertha, “so that’s how you need it, is that right?”

 

George nodded again, his hips rutting up against her with every blow. It felt even better than he’d imagined, the sharp pain turning hot, the heat of it pulsing through him as Bertha murmured to him. He could imagine the mark of it across his skin, the bright red mark where her hand had been branding him. He could imagine the ache of it tomorrow, every shift of fabric against skin serving as a reminder of her.

 

“You haven't been behaving at all, have you?” said Bertha, her hand coming down against him, hard enough that his skin was already smarting and George squirming for it. “Such a bad little boy.”

 

George whined, rocking his hips against her. It felt so good, too good, and he wasn’t even inside her, he was barely even touching her, achingly hard as though he were a child, some desperate youth ready to make a mess of himself at a low-cut bodice. Bertha was punishing him for that, too, for every lingering look or touch that hadn’t been for her.

 

“Oh but you are,” said Bertha. “Getting so many good girls into trouble and now they’ve sent mommy to punish you for it.”

 

“God- Yes- I’m sorry,” said George, the words tumbling out of him in a rush of breath. “Please, please, I’m sorry-”

 

“And just who are you apologising too, hmm?” said Bertha. “Who’s giving you the punishment that you’ve needed so badly all these years?”

 

“You, mommy,” said George. “You- please, mommy-”

 

Her hand came down again and again until he was spilling over her thighs, whispering, his  pleading words slurring together.

 

George slid to the floor afterwards, tugging her legs to the edge of the bed. He coaxed her open to him, feeling the slow shiver of it against first only his tongue, and then his fingers sliding in beside his mouth. He didn’t stop until she was pulling him up by the hair, her hand firm and tight, pulling him up to kiss her, licking traces of herself from his lips. George whimpered.

 

“Close,” managed George. “Please, I- Bertha, please -”

 

“Oh, don’t worry, George,” said Bertha. “I’ll take care of you. Mommy will make sure you get just what you need.”

 

“Yes,” said George, panting against her throat. “Yes, you will, you- Thank you mommy-”

 

“You’re going to be a good little boy for me from now on, aren’t you?” said Bertha. “Behave yourself just as I ask?”

 

“Yes,” said George. “Yes, I promise, I’ll be so good, anything, just- Please -

 

She slid a hand down, the heat of her palm scorching against his sensitive skin, barely lasting more than a few pulls before he was spilling over her fingers, panting against her throat. Bertha petted a hand through his hair, making a pleased little sound at the back of her throat before she brought her other hand to his lips. George mouthed at it, tasting himself on her skin, licking her hand clean. 

 

He could feel Bertha beginning to rock her hips against his leg, his spent cock twitching as his body began to ache to go again, as though she’d turned him back into his teenage self. A different version of it though, a version that didn’t let his mind wander from the woman in front of him, a version that thought and ached only for her.

 

“God you've ruined me,” said George.

 

“It's only fair”, said Bertha ”You ruined me first.”

 

“And I'm sorry for that,” said George. “God I'm so-”

 

Bertha cut him off with a kiss. “Ruin me again. Ruin me properly. “

 

George kissed her again. “There is no ruin.”

 

Bertha inhaled sharply. “You- Do you really think so?”

 

“I know so,” said George. “You will take care of me, and I will take care of you, now and forever.”

 

“Now and forever,” whispered Bertha, better and more complete than any vows.

Notes:

come say hi: mariusperkins on most places