Always the Courtesan (Never the Bride Book 3)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  But just because he did not seek a fight nor relish one when it arrived, that did not mean he was unable to defend himself. He was tall, broad, and strong. He left the fashionable leanness of the Beau Brummells to other gentlemen, and instead, discovered that a strong man rarely had to fight battles at all.

  That was why it was not difficult for him to push past Andrews, open the door before the servant had any idea what was happening, and stride into the hallway.

  It was dark. A figure at the other end of the room moved toward him.

  “My dear, Mr. Josiah, we are so honored to have you back so soon,” Madam trilled, her cigar moving in her mouth as she spoke.

  He smiled. Finally, someone with whom he could reason. “I am here for my regular appointment with Hannah. I know I have returned quickly, but it is Thursday, and this is one of my days.”

  It was only after he finished speaking that he noticed how uncomfortable Madam looked. She glanced at the door and saw Andrews standing there, helpless, and she rolled her eyes and turned back to Josiah.

  “I am sorry, sir, but she…” Madam’s eyes wandered to the stairs and took her cigar from her mouth. “You cannot see her at present.”

  It was not simply rage building in his chest, but a flicker of concern. Could Hannah be unwell? Had he kept her in the night air too long? Had the cold air settled in her lungs, given her a cough?

  “Does she need a doctor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What in God’s name is going on?” Josiah burst out. “Madam, you and I have an arrangement, and I am astonished you are willing to—”

  “You do not own these girls,” Madam cut in, drawing herself up and placing the cigar back in her mouth, “I do. I decide who sees who, and when, and how, and at what price.”

  Josiah took a step forward, usually a clever move in an altercation—but he had never gone toe to toe with a woman before.

  “I have paid good money to you,” he hissed, “and I expect to see returns on that. I do not think I have to tell you, Madam, that I am a rather well-connected gentleman. I know you have attempted to have me followed. You have made threats of revealing my dealings here, but the tables can be turned here. I can report you.”

  He allowed his voice to trail off for emphasis of his demand, a useful skill he had learned from his father.

  He had the advantage. It was a bluff, of course. Madam did not know he had absolutely no idea what he would do if she refused. The idea of never coming back here to see her was repulsive. The idea of revealing where he went twice a week to any of his friends or fellow nobles was repugnant. But Madam did not need to know that.

  She looked wretched. “Sir, if you would come back in half an hour, I am quite sure Hannah will—”

  Josiah was tired of this. He did not have to stand around listening to Madam. He was the Earl of Chester. Even if no one here knew it, he could act like it.

  Pushing past Madam and ignoring her protests, he ran up the stairs two at a time. A thundering noise behind him was Madam and Andrews following, and their voices echoed strangely.

  “You cannot go up there!”

  “Sir, you are not allowed!”

  But Josiah knew the way. Doors along the corridor opened as curious women poked their heads out of their chambers to see what all the ruckus was about.

  Hannah’s door was closed—but it opened as Josiah reached for the handle, and a smile began to stretch across his face. This was it. He was going to see her.

  But it was not Hannah who had opened the door.

  “Oh, sorry old thing,” snickered a gangly gentleman who could not have reached twenty years of age yet. “Don’t mind me, I was just leaving.”

  There was a wicked smile on his face, and his shirt was untucked at the sides, loose under his unbuttoned waistcoat. Josiah stood still in the corridor, unable to move, unable to breathe.

  He leered at Josiah. “That’s a good one in there. You are in for a treat.”

  Josiah had never understood the phrase ‘sick to your stomach’ until now. His gut lurched horribly, and his last meal threatened to make another appearance.

  He put a hand to the wall as the corridor swayed.

  From a long way off, Madam’s voice reached Josiah’s ears. “I told you, sir, I told you to come back in half an hour!”

  But he could not respond. He did not think he would ever speak again. Hannah’s bedchamber door was still open.

  He had been in there. He had been in there with Hannah. His Hannah.

  The nausea disappeared, leaving only disgust. No wonder Andrews and Madam had attempted to stop him from going in there. They knew she was…otherwise engaged. That Josiah should not interrupt.

  It was obscene to even think of her with another man—that minutes before, that greasy-haired, pock-marked, speck of a man had been…

  Rage replaced the panic. Storming into the room, Josiah spat, “Hannah!”

  She shrieked in surprise, dropping the magazine she had been reading on her bed but immediately relaxed when she saw who it was.

  “Josiah,” she said, holding out her hand to him.

  What had her hand been touching only minutes ago?

  He slammed the door behind him and snarled, “What was that—that boy—doing here?”

  Josiah tried not to notice her hair falling down her back in waves over a loose gown, or the subtle curve of her waist as she leaned toward him. God’s teeth, she had been his, and now she was tainted in his eyes.

  “What boy?”

  Josiah stepped toward her and then immediately retraced his step. He could not be close to her, could not touch her. Anger, hurt, and confusion muddled his thinking, and he paced around the room, unable to stand still, unwilling to come any closer to her.

  “Do not lie to me. I saw him. He just left this room.”

  She blinked and then smiled—God, such a beautiful smile. “Oh, him. He’s gone.”

  “I know he has gone,” Josiah burst out, “but what did he do here?”

  He had stopped pacing now and saw the flush on her cheeks. Hatred poured out of his soul and into his heart, hatred for himself, hatred for her, hatred of that slimy man who had walked out of here as if she were nothing.

  When Hannah finally spoke, it was quietly and without malice. “Are you…are you genuinely angry I have been bedded by another gentleman?”

  “I cared about you!” Josiah did not know how to control the words coming from his mouth. “I thought you cared about me. I thought the last three days meant something. Here I find you, as though it never happened, as though when I step out of this room, I do not exist!”

  “You do not exist!” Her response was quick and calm. “Josiah, when you walk out of this room, how do you think you are real to me? Do you protect me? Care for me? Sit with me? Listen to me?”

  Josiah heard her words but could not comprehend them. “You are real to me when I leave this place!”

  “You can leave—see the world, see other people, choose when to come back here!” She was looking at him as though he was a simpleton. “Of course, I care about you. Do you think I would have opened myself to you—told you my hopes for the future—if I did not?”

  Josiah wanted to move but found himself pinned to the floor by Hannah’s fiery glare.

  “Josiah,” she said with a hint of pity. “What do you think happens in this place when you are not here?”

  Josiah stared in horror. It had all been so easy to get caught up in the way she felt. He was so lost in her, intoxicated by her, he had forgotten the entire situation. Her situation.

  She was a courtesan, not his mistress. Whenever he was not here, and now he thought about it, that was most of the time, she was likely to be with someone else.

  Unbidden, the image of that disgusting man crawling onto her forced its way into his mind, and he had to turn away. Placing his hands on the wall and leaning against it, he tried to steady his breathing.

  “It is disgusting,” he managed to say in a low
voice. “The…the idea of you with him. It is repulsive.”

  He had expected her to be embarrassed, ashamed, perhaps angry at his words.

  But behind him, Hannah laughed bitterly. “And how do you think I feel when I am doing it? I am hardly here for the scenery, Josiah, I have no choice! This is my life, and you knew that. You chose me!”

  Josiah closed his eyes. What was he but another man who came crawling in here, took what he wanted, and left? Was he any different from the greasy gentleman before him?

  “I have never kept any of this from you. If anything, I have been too honest.”

  With those words, Josiah turned around and snapped, “Apart from your name!”

  “That protects me!” She was standing by the bed, as agitated as he was. “That lie protects me and my family—whatever family I have left. And if we are to sling mud, Mister Josiah, I do not know your full name either! Is your name even Josiah?”

  He bit his lip with guilt and frustration. It had been necessary. He could never allow the truth of the matter to get out—that the Earl of Chester, a gentleman who could have his pick of the ladies of society, was visiting a brothel.

  Why? Because it is shameful! He would never live down the ignominy of the truth. It was a disgusting habit, and he had forgotten the beautiful, charming, and elegant woman standing before him, a woman he loved, was part of that shameful and dirty secret.

  Painful confusion encircled his mind. Hannah was watching him closely, and he tried to think clearly enough to speak a coherent sentence.

  “I…I had never thought about it,” he said bleakly, giving up any thought of deceit and pouring out words from his aching heart. “It hurts, Hannah. It hurts that you should have to live like this.”

  “Well, I do,” she snapped. All pity had drained away. “While you can choose to go away and live your real life, whenever you wish to, I cannot. I do not have that choice.”

  Josiah raised his head but immediately wished he had not. Her eyes were full of tears.

  “I am trapped here, and you do not even understand it,” she said bitterly. “You think I just sit here, whiling away the hours until you return? God, if I could be so lucky!”

  Josiah cursed his naïvety. What had he been thinking? Or perhaps more accurately, why had he not thought at all and allowed his emotions to get the better of him?

  She sat on the side of the bed. “I will never be a bride, or a mother if I can help it. I will never laugh wittily at clever jokes or wonder what it is people do all day. I will never pay visits or embroider cushions because I have nothing better to do that day! If that is the sort of woman you want, then you should leave now, Josiah. Just go.”

  The idea of leaving her shocked him into action. “I want you!”

  “Do you?” she shot back. “Or do you want the idea of me? A dream of me? Because the reality is, Josiah, when you step out of that door and the bell goes, I will be in the hallway to find another gentleman, and if he points his finger at me, I will bring him here. If you cannot accept who I am, right now, then you should not come back at all.”

  He opened his mouth. He had a thousand and one things to say, but he did not know exactly where he was going to start, but before he could utter a sound—a bell rang.

  She gazed unblinkingly back at him. This was her life. This was her place, and it was no longer his.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “And then, the poor bugger, the damned horse fell at the very last hurdle, and poor Chester here was out of pocket a whole two guineas!”

  The table rocked with laughter as everyone around it chortled with mirth. Everyone except Josiah.

  He sighed into the smoky room. There were what—eight of them here? Almost all of them he knew, and those he did not came highly recommended as a friend of his host.

  He had thought accepting the invitation to dine from Philip Egerton, Earl of Marnmouth, would make him feel better. Spend a little time with people of his own kind, his equals. Have a good dinner, avail himself of Marnmouth’s excellent brandy for which he was famous, smoke, and catch up with the gossip of London, and then return home.

  He breathed in the acrid smoke of four different tobaccos and coughed as the table chuckled about his most recent gambling loss on the races—and on his own horse, too. He felt worse, not better. Better to stay at home in silence rather than endure this inane conversation.

  “In fairness,” Montague Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, said over the dying laughter, “Prince of Darkness is still an excellent horse, and still worth owning. Yes, it was a bit of a failure in the last run—”

  “A bit!” came a voice from further down the table.

  Devonshire grinned. “Perhaps a little more than a bit. But is that not what money is for? Horses and women?”

  The men laughed again. Josiah tightened his grip around his port glass and stared fixedly at the cheese board before him. Another hour or so, and he would be able to leave without giving offense. It was one of the lesser-known traits of the British aristocracy; you had to stay at least half an hour longer than your host wanted you to, otherwise your exit would be deemed early and worst of all, rude.

  “You are quiet this evening, Chester.”

  Josiah recognized the voice—it was Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon. He was sitting opposite him with Devonshire on his left and was looking at Josiah with quite a shrewd look.

  Leaning back in his chair as though he had not a care in the world, Josiah smiled. “Because I am out of pocket those two guineas. But I will take them back from you next week, Marnmouth, mark my words!”

  The table rippled with appreciative laughter as their host grinned.

  “Ah, may the gods favor you, my friend, for I find myself in precious need of coin,” Marnmouth said smoothly. “Amesbury, did you hear? The bank—no, not that bank, the bank—they sent a letter to me yesterday. Yes, I know, the cheek! They say my luck is out, but I told them luck is a fickle friend, but she has been awfully good to me lately!”

  Conversation flowed in a different direction, admirably controlled by Marnmouth, and Josiah sighed and relaxed, left alone with his thoughts.

  What a shame they were not pleasant ones. A year ago, this would have been exactly his evening of choice. Good food, good wine, good company. Nothing complicated. A few friends gathered to discuss the state of the world.

  Now it all seemed hollow, bitter, stale in his mouth.

  It had been eight days since his blazing row with Hannah in that godforsaken place, and he had not managed a waking hour without thinking about her. Her words had pierced his heart and echoed in his mind.

  He had wanted to go back but had not managed it. He could not bring himself to even think about stepping through that door again, not without remembering he could not take her with him.

  Would he even be welcome? He had hardly left on good terms.

  Josiah reached for the knife and cut himself a slice of cheese and tried to focus on the tangy, nutty flavor and not the agonizing pain inside his chest. It was easier to lie and convince his mind he did not care. Why should it matter if he went back to see her?

  Every breath was painful.

  “But, of course, Marnmouth is the luckiest one amongst us.” Braedon’s voice rose over the chatter and forced Josiah’s attention.

  A gentleman Josiah did not know jutted his chin out. “Why is that?”

  Braedon grinned. “Why, he is the one getting to mount Miss Tilbury every night!”

  There were some appreciative chuckles, and one or two gentlemen banged their knives on the table.

  But Marnmouth did not smile. He leaned back in his chair and puffed on the pipe that was his trademark.

  The laughter around the room died quickly.

  “I do not call it luck,” Marnmouth said quietly, not needing to speak loudly to ensure his voice was heard. “In fact, I would say it feels less like luck each time, and more like routine.”

  The words hung in the air with every gentleman around the
room holding their breath.

  Braedon was the first to let it out in a confused laugh. “God’s teeth, man, you cannot be serious! You cannot be honestly telling us you are becoming bored with Miss Tilbury?” Marnmouth’s silent stare was enough to force the bluster from his voice. “I meant…Miss Tilbury is known as the best company in all of England!”

  All eyes were on Marnmouth, who shrugged. “Sometimes a mistress just cannot fulfill all you need. You think she can, and you welcome her to your bed and your life with that intention. But she is not enough. You need a wife for that.”

  Devonshire was nodding, which Josiah saw with surprise. It was unlike Devonshire to be so opinionated about the state of matrimony, something that to his knowledge, Monty had never given much thought to.

  But he was not the only one. A few gentlemen around the table were nodding, and evidently, Marnmouth’s words about the difference between a mistress and a wife had struck home with many.

  But not all.

  “You are jesting, surely,” Braedon grinned, unable to read the temperature of the room. “I think you must be doing it wrong, Marnmouth, if you think a mistress the inferior of a wife!”

  The argument started to roll around the room as different opinions were raised, ridiculed, and digested.

  Josiah allowed it to wash over him. Marnmouth’s words were mulling in his mind, and to his surprise, he found unexpected truth.

  After all, the man had a point. A mistress was there to please you, pleasure you, but bedding a woman was not the only way to be pleased by a woman. It could not purely be about the physical connection, it never could be.

  Josiah sighed as Devonshire shot back a response to someone’s point. He had been a fool to think one could separate the emotional from the physical. It was a fool’s errand, and like a fool, he had thought it possible. Now he could see they were intrinsically linked.

  For every beautiful smile Hannah had given him, he had been reminded of her kindness. For every soft curve of her body, her bravery. For every snarl she threw, her grit.