The Illicit Love of a Courtesan

by Jane Lark

  “You agree?” Lord Edward prompted.

  “I agree,” Lord Gainsborough snarled.

  Because there was no other choice, Ellen thought, not willingly. Her manipulator had met his match, and she’d given Lord Edward the means to make this manoeuvre. Even her satisfaction in seeing Lord Gainsborough beaten at his own game was hollow. It was earned at her expense. She was a fool.

  “Madam, we need a room,” Lord Edward ordered, soiling the images Ellen had appreciated earlier. This is hell, not heaven. I want choice not coercion.

  The air escaped her lungs and Ellen opened her eyes.

  He stood barely a foot away, facing her, watching her intently.

  He was taller than he’d seemed when seated, a good seven to ten inches taller than her. He towered over her. His appearance was no longer impressive, but imposing.

  She’d thought him authoritative before, now she knew him to be overwhelmingly commanding. Fear grasped her more tightly.

  “Please follow me, Lord Edward.” Madam Marietta beckoned with her fingers.

  Without speaking, he lifted his arm, a look of steel daring her to refuse to accept it. Compelled by his will alone, Ellen laid her fingers on his coat sleeve. The gentle weight of his other hand covered them, as though fearing she would run he urged her to stay. The impression it conjured up in her head was a knight in shining armour, like the heroes in the fairy tales she’d read as a girl.

  But this was no act of chivalry.

  He was no saviour of a lady’s virtue.

  He had just bartered with another man for the use of her body! He was no rescuer come to release her from Gainsborough’s evil grip. I should not long to lean on his strength.

  Yet, the strength beneath her fingers and the assurance implied in the hand resting on her own sent warmth running into her blood. It suggested security—constancy. Like the scent of fresh bread stirring hunger, his touch set alive silly speculating notions in her head—dreams—desires for a happy-ever-after that could never be.

  Silent, Ellen found herself guided in Madam’s wake. She knew instinctively all eyes were on her back and she felt Lord Gainsborough’s burn between her shoulder-blades, imagining them narrow with anger and calculating revenge. Her courage failing her, Lord Edward’s aura of undaunted power kept her walking as they crossed two rooms in which Madam’s customers played at tables. The attention they drew apparently did not disturb him. But when they reached the hall as if sensing her fear, his arm fell away from beneath her hand and instead his fingers gently but firmly gripped hers.

  “I would rather not go upstairs, Madam. Have you a private parlour we could use down here?” While he spoke his fingers squeezed Ellen’s, as though offering the comfort and reassurance her spirit craved.

  The temperate strength gripping her hand unsettled her, setting speculation whispering through her head again. He is not my rescuer.

  Marietta hesitated, looked aloft, and then clearly thinking quickly, she held forth a hand encouraging them to follow her around the foot of the stairs and along a narrow hallway. There she opened a door. “This is my own sitting-room. No one will disturb you here, my Lord. Is there anything I may bring you?”

  When they entered the room, Lord Edward let Ellen’s fingers go and she took the opportunity to move away.

  Crossing the room, she trailed her satin clad fingers over the chair-backs as she passed them until she reached the far side.

  “A decanter of port and two glasses, Madam, nothing else…” Ellen looked back, answering his pause and met his gaze. “Unless you are hungry or have another preference?”

  She shook her head before finding her voice. “No, my Lord, thank you, I am in need of nothing.” What a lie, I am in need of everything.

  She turned away and ran her fingers over a polished mahogany writing desk which stood against the wall. The room was different to the public areas. It was decorated in tasteful greens not the gaudy gold and reds which adorned the gambling rooms, and, she also knew, dressed the bedchambers above. There were two winged armchairs and a chaise-lounge, all upholstered in moss green velvet which matched the closed curtains. In the grate at the centre of the hearth, a low fire burned and on the floor before it a Persian rug covered the boards. The walls were dressed with painted patterns of green ivy.

  The door clicked shut. Ellen turned back swiftly and her fingers gripped the rim of the desk behind her as her gaze reached across the room to meet Lord Edward’s again. Marietta had gone and he stood watching Ellen, assessing her as he’d done in the card room while she’d watched him. Then he held out his hand reminding her of a man approaching a nervous colt. Did he not realise she was used to being payment in kind? He need hardly fear she wouldn’t give him what he wanted, she was no debutante. I am a thrice damned courtesan. There was no need for courtship or kind words. She knew what he wanted. He didn’t even have to ask.

  His mouth suddenly lifted to a smile, tilting at one side. “Why did you tell me?”

  It took her a moment to register that he spoke of Gainsborough’s little trick. Why did she? Because she’d seen something in his eyes she’d warmed to, or just because he was handsome and she was drawn by his looks, or possibly only because it gave her opportunity to rebel? It could be any of those things, but she knew herself too well. The person she’d once been, the stranger surviving deep inside her heart of ice, couldn’t see another human being brought down to her level. He hadn’t had the money. She couldn’t see him trapped, even if he was a man.

  Her misguided generosity had led her here. She was trapped. Caught in the hands of another man who’d sate his lust for her body—the woman within it was irrelevant. He wanted to use it but he’d use her too.

  Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace at his back. Her beauty was incomparable. She was not blind to it. She’d been told it dozens of times. It lay in the starkly pale blue of her eyes, the dark sweep of ebony hair across porcelain coloured skin. God had made her perfect in face and figure. The look of a Goddess, her husband, Paul, had once said. Then compliments had pleased her. Now beauty cursed her.

  A sound escaped his throat, drawing her attention back to him. She didn’t know if it was a prompt, but she responded anyway. “It was obvious you could not afford the stake, my Lord. I am surprised you took the bet.”

  He dismissed her words with a wave of his hand as a tap sounded on the door. “Enter!” His voice carried considerable confidence for a man she’d classified no greater in age than his mid-twenties, but then he’d probably lived his whole life with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth.

  “Put it there.” He pointed to a small table as a footman brought in a tray bearing the decanter and glasses he’d ordered.

  “Thank you.”

  The words of gratitude surprised her as the servant left and closed the door.

  Lord Edward’s gaze crossed to her again. “You will take a drink?”

  She nodded. She’d need the fortitude that strong liquor brought to see this through.

  Turning away, he answered her earlier statement, “I’m not in such dire straits as rumour would have it. I care not if I win or lose, as proven by my letting your friend keep his money.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug as he spoke, before pouring the port from the decanter.

  When he faced her again he had a glass in each hand and, walking towards her, he held one out.

  She took it, looking at the ruby colored liquid. “Then why play, my Lord?”

  “Because I find myself at a loose end. I need diversion. Please, sit, Miss… What is your name?”

  He asked as though he’d only just realised he didn’t know it.

  “Ellen, Lord Edward.” Her voice sounded cold even to her, and formal.

  “Sit then, Ellen. Let us get to know one another.”

  Perching on the edge of an armchair she felt like a mouse before a cat, waiting for the moment he would pounce.

  He sat in the chair facing her and leaned back, his
legs splayed slightly, drawing her attention to the physical strength in his muscular thighs.

  The instinctive awareness which had ailed her earlier returned. She was attracted to him, despite all else. The room suddenly felt hot, she looked up blushingly to meet his gaze. The light in his eyes implied he saw her susceptibility, but he did not speak of it. “Your age, Ellen?”

  “Women do not speak of their age, my Lord,” she snapped, angered by his ability to move her and apparently remain unmoved.

  He smiled, a heart stopping expression. It set hers skipping against her ribs.

  Am I really so shallow I will simply succumb to his looks?

  “I am four and twenty, if it makes you feel better to know my own,” he answered, his tone relaxed. “There, it’s not so hard to say one’s age.”

  “I cannot see why you care to know it.” She could remove a year, two, even claim to be younger than him, she could pass for three and twenty, but she was unwilling to lie. Her life had been so full of sin, adding another lie, no matter how small, felt suddenly intolerable.

  He said nothing, waiting for her reply.

  “I am eight and twenty, my Lord. Older than yourself, and now you have embarrassed me.”

  “It matters not. We are adults, Ellen, age makes little difference.”

  “Then why ask?” she bit back, annoyed by his languorous tone. He disturbed her, she felt hot and uncomfortable, afraid—yet not afraid. Her heart thumped; a hammer ringing upon an anvil in her ears.

  “Because I cannot understand what you are doing with a man like Gainsborough. He must be twice your age. You cannot persuade me it is his looks or character which draw you.”

  Spurred, anger flashed through her. Who was he to judge her? He’d bartered over her body. How could he accuse her of poor choice? Surely it was obvious why she was with Lord Gainsborough; she had no choice. But she would not admit it. Not to him or anyone. She would not face that humiliation. Instead she played the part of a woman who chose to be a man’s chattel.

  “Because he was the highest bidder, my Lord, what other reason would you think?” Deliberately she edged her voice with a sultry cutting pitch. The role of harlot was now instinctive. She would act it for Gainsborough too once this was done, to placate his damaged pride.

  “Are you telling me I cannot afford you, Ellen?” He was amused by her; she heard it in his voice. She imagined him laughing at her, inwardly.

  Lord, the self-confidence of the man was infuriating.

  “Your words, my Lord.” She took a sip of port from the glass in her hand.

  “Yes, my words.” he repeated, his pitch sobering. He drained his glass, set it aside and stood. “But I do not need to pay, do I, Ellen?”

  A dart of longing pain stretched through her core, confirming his words. No man had stirred this reaction in her since Paul. He was right. Her body craved his.

  “Come.” He stepped towards her and leaned down. Mesmerised by him, she watched his movement, while uncertainty and fear warred with attraction.

  His long, beautiful fingers wrapped about the bowl of her glass and lifted it from her hand.

  Unwilling to look up, unable to meet his gaze, she heard the click of the base as it was placed on the table.

  His fingers then closed around hers and encouraged her to her feet.

  She was silent as he lifted the string of her fan from her wrist, stripped off her gloves and put them down beside her half empty glass of port. Then he moved closer and one hand pressed against the small of her back while the other curved beneath her chin, lifting her face.

  “Ellen?”

  She met his gaze, hearing a question and a statement in that single utterance of her name and somehow knew he wouldn’t force her, as others had done before. He was asking permission and offering admiration, she saw it in his eyes.

  “You have such beauty. I swear I’ve never seen the like.” His gaze holding hers, his curled fingers trailed upwards, the tender, gentle touch following the line of her jaw and sweeping up across her brow, before brushing down her nose. Then his thumb rested on her mouth, running over her lips.

  “Do you wish for this too?” he whispered.

  There was no need to ask what he meant, her body sang with longing for his, her skin was already hot and sensitised by the flush of desire. The pressure of his palm at her back pulled her lower body hip to hip with his, making the level of his arousal blatant as the outline of his erection pressed against her stomach.

  He’d said he wanted diversion.

  She needed him for release. If only for an hour or two, she could escape.

  Her lips brushing the pad of his thumb, she formed the single word of agreement, surrender, her arms lifting to his shoulders. “Yes.” No, for the first time since Paul, this was not surrender, this was choice.

  The rhythm of her heartbeat lurched to an even greater pace, her gaze locked with his, captured by the invisible link she felt woven taut between them.

  His hands fell, resting on her hips in a gentle brace, just for a moment.

  His touch was like an expression of awe, not domination. His hands skimmed upwards across her ribs and then reaching the soft flesh of her breasts, his palms and fingers clenched her through the thin material of her gown. Time stopped, suddenly suspended as his gaze dropped to her lips and he lowered his head.

  When their lips met, the rush of desire through her veins was overwhelming. Instinctively her fingers slipped upwards delving into his soft hair, clasping it. His tongue slid into her mouth and he tasted delicious. He drugged her senses, taking her away somewhere else, somewhere outside of her sordid, soiled self. His crooked thumb dipped into the low neck of her gown and brushed across her breast, stroking her casually as his mouth ravished hers. A pleasant spasm ran from her breast, spiralling down through her body to her stomach and into her womb. Her body already ached for fulfilment.

  Feeling brazen to the core and every bit the wanton whore life had made her, her tongue passed across his lips, into the warmth of his mouth and her fingers fell to his shoulders, splaying and running downwards. They slid over the taut muscles beneath his evening clothes, revelling in his athletic physique and descended to his breeches.

  An erotic, pain filled sound resonated from his chest and reached her mouth as heat. But abruptly his fingers left her breast, grasped her hand and removed it as he broke their kiss. Yet his eyes were still dark with longing as they met hers. She knew her look mirrored his.

  The timbre of his voice thick with desire, he said, “I would like that, Ellen, but it is not what I want tonight, not yet. Let me lead. I want to see you gain your pleasure first.”

  He wished to give her pleasure? The ice about her heart cracked and warmth seeped into her blood. This was more than lust, much more, it was longing beyond a physical need. She’d given herself to men for years, she knew what pleased them. None of them had cared for what pleased her. Pleasure during sex—was it still possible? If it had been like that with Paul, she’d forgotten.

  His head bowed and his lips brushed her neck while his gentle fingers slipped the straps of her gown from her shoulders then followed the neckline of her dress, slackening the material and drawing it down. With his head lowered his hair caressed her skin as his fingers lifted her breasts free, then one taut peak was absorbed in the warmth of his mouth. It sent a tremor across her skin and pain and pleasure reaching inside her.

  He did not just want her body, he wanted her soul. It had only ever been Paul’s. But with Edward Marlow she wasn’t sure she could keep it safe. When Gainsborough touched her—when she touched him—she detached her mind. He took her body, but only her body. This man would claim everything.

  He lifted away from her again and began plucking pins from her hair, watching the dark curls fall to her naked shoulders and over her breasts.

  “If someone comes in?” Ellen heard her breathless words.

  “No one will.” His voice was deep. He sounded as lost in lust as her. His hands rested
on her shoulders and turned her to reach the back fastenings of her dress. The small ivory buttons slipped free one by one, and he kissed her exposed skin.

  “You’re so beautiful.” The whisper brushed her neck as her dress fell in to a pool at her feet. Then his fingers swept her hair across her shoulders before tugging at the lacing of her light corset.

  When her corset fell away too, he began stripping off her chemise, lifting it over her head and baring her breasts before throwing it aside. Then his hands reached about her and gripped together, drawing her back against him as he kissed her neck.

  “You are nature’s finest art.”

  Her head tilted back, savouring his caresses and his hand slid down over her stomach and then slipped under her cotton underwear. No one had ever caressed her with such tenderness. She ached for him—he made her feel—every nerve in her body was humming for his touch—it was a rising floodtide inside her. It was torment, unbearable. It stole her awareness of everything but him. She wanted to cry out, to protest and scream. She did not. He did not stop. Oh, she was afraid of it, of this unfamiliar feeling.

  There was an explosion of pleasure. It rushed through her blood, a flood, racing, ripping her apart, an unearthed power she hadn’t known existed tearing into her limbs and leaving them weak. She felt him take her weight as she nearly fell and her fingers gripped his forearms. His lips brushed the skin behind her ear and he did not cease.

  “Not again, please.” Her words were breathless. She was afraid of the torrent that might flow now the dam was breached, afraid of losing control. He was still a stranger. It was too hard to trust.

  His answer was to turn her and kiss her. She willingly returned it, her hands gripping fists full of his hair, as the tide of his passion swept her away again and he leaned her back a little so the chair’s seat pressed against her calves until she fell back. She knew it was by design when he knelt before her and smiled and then his gaze dropped and he began loosening the ribbon securing her drawers. He slid them off, leaving her naked—exposed—while he was still fully clothed.