Always the Courtesan (Never the Bride Book 3)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  “Hannah!”

  Honora sighed. There was nothing for it but to go downstairs. Pulling an old shawl around her shoulders, she stomped down the stairs.

  “And just why do you shout for me, Ma—”

  But the last word froze in her mouth as she saw Madam was entirely occupied in a different kind of argument—and with Mr. Josiah.

  He had not seen her, his back to her as he furiously muttered, “—and there will be another few coins in it for you, Madam, if you can only see my point of—”

  Honora’s mouth fell open as she glanced at the three women waiting in line. Two of them scowled, clearly irritated they were up this early. The third was Ellen, who winked.

  “But I have plenty of other lovely girls, sir,” Madam was saying haughtily, as though her reputation had been called into question. “See, these three are—”

  “And I do not think you have understood me,” Mr. Josiah said. “I want—” He turned around and his voice faltered. “Hannah.”

  Despite every wish in her being, Honora’s cheeks heated. This was utter madness—to think he had returned so quickly! And asked for her by name, too, fiercely enough to have a disagreement with Madam.

  A thrill passed through her. He’d chosen her. The joy that thought sparked disappeared quickly when the reality of her situation forced its way back into her consciousness.

  If she had been home, in her proper place, no gentleman alive could have made such demands to see her. She would have said no, politely and courteously, and then the footman or butler or whoever would have relayed the message for her.

  But as she stared at Mr. Josiah, taking him in clearer in the morning light, that was not true. When she had been a lady, polite society meant having to smile at gentlemen whom you did not like. It required polite conversation to continue even with a dullard, and to even dance with some of them, for how could she refuse?

  And he did remind her so much of that class of gentleman, who was unaccustomed to hearing the word ‘no.’ The elegantly embroidered waistcoat visible under his frock coat, the breeches tucked carefully into expensive-looking riding boots. Here was a man who got what he wanted and never had to worry about rejection.

  A nervous smile crept across her face. So lost in her thoughts, she had forgotten where she was, standing in the hallway before a strange man being argued over by himself and Madam, as three other women watched.

  Mr. Josiah grinned like a fool, and Honora had to fight down a snort of laughter. Ah, there it was, her laugh—her friends had always said you could tell she was from the other side of a ballroom.

  “H-How are you, Miss Hannah?” Mr. Josiah’s grin had not faded, and he took a step toward her. “Are you quite well?”

  Ah, so he was one of those. They got them every now and again, though none had ever been attached to her. He was a knight on a white charger type, coming back to rescue her from what he saw as the error of her ways. As though she would choose this sort of life.

  Well, it had all been too good to be true, she supposed. All she had to do was break it to him gently—and in a way that did not drive Madam into a rage—that she had no choice but to be here.

  “Go on then, chit,” Madam snapped. “Take our Mr. Josiah upstairs.”

  Honora considered reminding Madam that this was her morning off, and she would do no such thing—but she hesitated. Mr. Josiah was evidently in her power, that was clear, and she could do with the extra shilling. If she played her cards right, she might not even have to hitch up her skirts for it.

  “Yes, Madam,” she said quietly and reached out for Mr. Josiah’s hand before retracting it immediately. The memory of last night shot through her mind, for it had been like a bolt of lightning when they touched, and it had done something strange to her entire body.

  “Come, Mr. Josiah,” Honora said quietly to hide her confusion and walked up the stairs.

  A clatter behind her told her he had obeyed, and she stood aside at the door so he could enter her bedchamber.

  This has gone far enough, she told herself. Just tell him some lie about how it’s the life you have chosen, and he can go off and rescue someone else. Or at least try to. None of Madam’s girls would ever be foolish enough to try to escape. Not after Peggy.

  She had opened her mouth to speak when Josiah interrupted her with, “I have to start off by apologizing, Miss Hannah.”

  “What for?”

  Mr. Josiah looked around. “May I sit on the stool again?”

  His apology confused her, but Honora just nodded and moved back to her bed, where she sat as though it was the safe place in a game of tig. What was this strange man here for?

  Now she had the faint rays of morning sunshine pouring through her boarded window, and she could see him a little clearer. He was a handsome man, as she had suspected last night—more than handsome. Wide eyes and a broad mouth balanced by his strong jawline. He had stubble, as though he had not shaved this morning, which somehow just managed to increase his attractiveness.

  Honora shivered. She had never had such a handsome and young man in her bedchamber before. He could not be much older than her brother John. What was a gentleman of evident fortune, education, and it turned out good looks, doing here?

  At this moment, he was looking at his hands. “I was…I am looking for something simple, Miss Hannah.”

  Honora blinked. “Simple.”

  “I…I must admit, I’m tired of playing games. All the ladies of society attempt to trick one into matrimony, and you cannot even talk to one lady under the age of fifty without being accused of courting her with some sort of duty to the family. I want something simple. So I came here.”

  Honora smiled, not allowing the bitterness to seep into her words but displaying it plainly on her face. “Any gentleman with money can come here and get something simple.”

  He grinned wryly. “Yes, I know. But I wanted you.”

  Honora almost laughed but recollected herself. “I can tell you have money, and what’s more, breeding, Mr. Josiah. A few brains, too. What is your full name?”

  All of the awkwardness and discomfort disappeared from Mr. Josiah’s body. He sat there now as comfortable as if he’d been reclining on a sofa. How did he do it?

  “You first,” he said.

  Honora glared. Oh, so you want to be funny, do you? “I go by Hannah here. A simple name for a simple girl.”

  “Yes, and that is what I wanted. Simple.”

  He was so matter-of-fact, without malice, it was hard to fault him. After all, Honora could remember what it was like out there in society, and she doubted much had changed in the last three years. The marriage market was indeed mad, and many girls would do absolutely everything they could to trick a man into matrimony. Some of the wigs and face powder she had seen were quite ridiculous.

  The small amount of pity she felt for him swiftly disappeared.

  “Simple you can find here,” she said with an arch smile. “After all, ’tis nothing so simple as purchasing a woman.”

  Mr. Josiah visibly bristled at this. “Now then, Miss Hannah. You chose this life, and—”

  “Chose?” Honora stood up, her hands balled into fists. She carefully unclenched her fingers. “Chose?”

  He looked astonished and stood himself. “I know I chose you, but you are here after all, and—”

  “And you think I chose this life?” Honora took a few steps toward him, surprised at how tall he was. “Chose?”

  Mr. Josiah looked at her carefully. “But…but you can surely leave whenever you wish, can you not, Miss Hannah?”

  Hearing her false name, the name she had been forced to adopt the day she had been dragged here on his lips was torture. She could kiss those inviting lips, and that would surely cease their nonsense, but she would not allow it—it would be allowing him to win.

  Leaning toward him and seeing with satisfaction that he stiffened, she whispered, “You may be a fancy lord or gentleman or whatever you are, and you may be able to come an
d go wherever you so choose, but I have a job to do, and it is here.”

  It hurt to see him here. He was able to leave.

  “I do not wish to distress you,” Honora said quietly and found she meant it. “I do not need a rescuer unless you can actually save me. Can you, Mr. Josiah?”

  He licked his lips, and she found her eyes trailing across them.

  “I…” was all he managed, deciding instead to take a step forward, closer to her. “Hannah.”

  Why did it have such an effect on her, hearing her false name on his lips?

  “I don’t understand.”

  Honora laughed bitterly, fighting the impulse to touch him. “I know you don’t. But I am not one of those women you meet, and you do meet them, Mr. Josiah, who is actively looking for a husband.” The bitterness of her laugh grew. “After all, I am hardly wife material!”

  “You are beautiful—”

  “I’m a whore.” The words burned her tongue, but they must be spoken—she could not allow this strange idea he had to continue.

  “A courtesan,” Mr. Josiah shot back. “A courtesan, surely. Entertaining me. Looking after me, just as a courtesan would.”

  “Your own personal courtesan, I suppose.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  His words weren’t spoken but growled. He reached out and held her hand.

  It was fire between them, and she did not understand it. No gentleman had ever made her feel like this, even the kind ones who had taken their time and made sure she got a little pleasure out of the experience. None of them compared to Mr. Josiah, who was able to possess her entire body with a simple touch.

  She swallowed. She must not lose control; she must be the one in control. “I have come to accept I will always be the courtesan and never the bride.”

  “All I want to do is talk. Will you sit and converse with me?”

  Honora found her eyes flicker to the door. For the first time, she wished Madam would knock and demand she hurry up. But there was no such rescue.

  She sat on the bed. “Converse?”

  Mr. Josiah nodded. “I will not ask more from you. Not today.”

  Chapter Five

  The loud clatter was not purely caused by the fall of William Lennox, Duke of Mercia, to the floor, but also a silver platter, two knives, and fork.

  The men around the table roared with laughter. As Abraham Fitzclarence, the Viscount Braedon, and Montague Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, wiped tears from their eyes, Josiah shook his head and reached down.

  “Come on, Mercia, up we get.”

  Mercia was worse for wear of drink—Josiah had not seen him like this in months. His happy marriage to Charlotte meant less drinking at home, and that meant when he did pour himself a pint of porter…

  “I’m fine,” murmured Mercia from the dining room floor. “Don’t you worry, Chester…”

  Josiah sighed. He had not intended this evening to descend into this kind of merriment.

  He reached out. “Here, Mercia, come on.”

  Instead of allowing himself to be pulled up, Mercia pulled Josiah down with him.

  Josiah laid on the red carpet, looking at the cherubs some ancestor had commissioned for the ceiling, not joining in with the jokes of Devonshire and Braedon. Somehow, nothing seemed funny anymore. Yes, he was on the floor. Why was that causing them to split their sides?

  “Oh dear, my merry men,” hiccupped Braedon. “Fear not, a rescue party shall be sent forthwith.”

  He and Devonshire got Mercia back onto his feet, and Josiah followed them.

  “I think it is time for cigars and port,” said Josiah, desperate to move them away from the dining table where more than six different bottles of wine still stood, unfinished.

  “Oh, port!” Braedon’s eyes lit up. “Lead on, Macduff!”

  Staggering and supporting Mercia between them, he and Devonshire tottered into the drawing room next door.

  Josiah watched them go and sighed. These evenings used to fill him with joy. Always Devonshire, of course, and then a mixture of other lords and nobles. Sometimes Lord Westray made it, and other times Orrinshire—but whoever graced his table at Chalding was a good laugh, and that was all that mattered.

  They would talk horses, women, stocks and shares, the latest gossip, and the latest war stories. It had all entertained him so well. What had changed?

  Josiah realized he was standing alone. Grabbing a bottle of port from the sideboard, he strode into the drawing room and saw each man had found a comfortable seat around the lit fireplace.

  “Here,” he said quietly, handing around three glasses and pouring measured portions of the dark red liquid into each. “Your health, gentlemen.”

  Four glasses were raised and three immediately emptied.

  “Ah,” said Mercia, smacking his lips. “You do have excellent port, Chester, and I would never dishonor you by guessing it made its way here through smugglers.”

  He winked slowly at Josiah, who smiled as he took a seat. “And I would never dishonor you by lying about it, Mercia.”

  Devonshire chuckled, but Braedon cut in with, “Pah, the whisky is better, if you ask me. Did you not bring some through with you?”

  “You would know,” Devonshire laughed. “You’ll end up having a pint of each inside you before the night is through, so you’ll have to give us a direct comparison of which made you sickest in the morning!”

  Laughter echoed around the room, and Josiah remembered to laugh this time, but too late.

  Braedon frowned. “Come on then, Chester, out with it.”

  Josiah smiled. “Out with what?”

  “It. Whatever is on your mind and preventing you from having any fun this evening,” Braedon grinned with a knowing smile. “It’s your party, after all.”

  It took all Josiah’s concentration to keep his smile steady, but he could not look at Braedon as he answered, “Tiredness, nothing more.”

  Braedon nodded and returned to his glass of port—but Devonshire, one of his oldest friends, was not so easily fooled.

  “Tired of life?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

  This got a few laughs from Mercia, and Josiah bit down the desire to say life had become far more complicated for him in the last week than he could ever have predicted.

  But he smiled. They were so far from the truth. “No, not really.”

  Mercia grinned as he stretched his legs out. “Ah, ’tis a hard life for these earls. Why, it’s so easy to become tired of life when you have all this money and prestige—if only there was some sort of hard work we could put them to!”

  The others chuckled, but Josiah looked deep into his new friend’s eyes as he smiled. Did he detect a hint of envy in his words? True, Mercia had inherited his title from a distant cousin or similar and had never been raised to this sort of life, whereas Josiah had been a viscount from birth before taking on his father’s mantle as Earl of Chester—but it had never been a problem between them before.

  And even if it was, what could he say? What could he do about it? Mercia was fortunate enough to no longer be Major Lennox.

  Josiah coughed. “Being an earl is certainly a help in life. I cannot disagree with you there.”

  He would have continued, but Braedon, laughing away to himself, was attempting to pour another glass of port. This would have been easy if Josiah had not put the stopper back in the bottle.

  Taking the bottle off the inebriated Braedon’s hands and placing it out of reach, Josiah said, “But that does not make everything easy. There are still…frustrations in life, shall we say.”

  Devonshire snorted, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Oh, God, he’s talking about women again.”

  Braedon and Mercia joined him in laughter as irritation and a sliver of embarrassment coursed through Josiah.

  “I do not just mean women,” he said defensively, but as his friends’ humor grew, he said, “but yes, including women.”

  Mercia gave him a good-natured smile. “God’s teet
h, Chester, I have never seen anyone so unhappy when there are so many beautiful and adoring ones available. Why not pick one of the ladies that fall for you, rather than falling for the ones who don’t want you? There are more beautiful women in Bath and London than you know what to do with!”

  “That is the problem,” Josiah muttered, unable to fully explain himself.

  “Too many women?” Devonshire grinned. His oldest friend, they went further back—along with Harry–than anyone. Handsome, debonair, adored by the ladies, there was no possible way Devonshire could understand. “You say your problem is too many beautiful women? Ah, to have your problems!”

  Josiah smiled as he put down his glass. “No, ’tis more than that. All these beautiful women—out for what they can get, and what they want isn’t me, ’tis the title. They play games, lie, pretend…one of them even stole from me! I have had to ask my butler, Murray, to nail down the silver!”

  Devonshire and Mercia chuckled as Braedon looked around groggily for the port.

  “What is the point of all these games,” Josiah said finally, “when gentlemen and ladies want completely different things?”

  Braedon looked up. “Different things?”

  “It’s obvious.” Mercia grinned. “Take it from a married man, chaps, and more happily married than a gentleman has any right to be. Women want to marry men, and men want to bed women!”

  “’Tis the battle of the sexes,” Devonshire said with an impressive sigh. “Since the dawn of creation, men and women have fought these things out. Is it any wonder their weapons have become more exquisite?”

  Josiah thought about the way Hannah looked at him, the curve of her neck, that smile when she thought she had the better of him. In the privacy of his mind, he could not help but agree. Exquisite weapons.

  “But here’s the thing…” Braedon said, waving his glass around. “It doesn’t matter, right? The battle is about different things, and no one even knows it, and there is an easy solution, but no one takes it! Well,” and he hiccupped, “few do.”