The Illicit Love of a Courtesan

by Jane Lark

  “I’ll try,” she voiced. The look he gave her in answer was turbulent with emotion as his palms and fingers pressed to the sides of her head and brought her lips back to his. He kissed her ardently, as though seeking to portray all he’d said about his feelings for her.

  When she felt his emotion dissipating and his kiss became gentle, a smile lifting her lips, she whispered to his mouth again, “I love you so much.”

  He pulled away and smiled too. Lord, he was beautiful when he smiled. Her heart swelled. He’d let her argue and listened. He had let her lose her temper with him and apologised to her. Even Paul had not liked it when she was angry, and ‘sorry’ had never been a word he knew. “You are a wonderful man. Thank you. I’m sorry I offended your friends.”

  Her arms slipping from around his shoulders, she sniffed as reaching to the inside pocket of his evening coat, Edward withdrew a handkerchief and offered it.

  Accepting it she gave him another uncertain smile.

  Then his fingers gently tapping her under the chin, a deep gravelly grunt of humour escaped his throat. “I love you too, more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone. And I love your son as though he is my own. But you shall not just try though Ellen. Do you understand? I shan’t accept trying. You will let it go, I insist.”

  Chapter Ten

  Ellen laughed as John tossed the ball to her. Edward, as the piggy in the middle, tried to catch it and made an awful impression of failing. Ellen caught it and threw it back, arcing it across the background span of azure blue sky.

  The thaw of spring had come, at last. The wind turning from the northwest winds that brought the frosts, to the warmer southeast breezes which opened up the growing buds of blossom on the trees and the sun sank its tepid warmth into the earth, bringing to life all the hibernating bulbs and plants. And the renewal, the expectation, of the blossoming season had seeped into her and John too, thanks to Edward’s generous love which had formed and now fuelled their little family. In her heart it felt like spring too.

  Reaching tall, John caught the ball securely with a shout of pleasure as Edward made another playful lunge to capture it. Then dodging from one side to another, John teased Edward, trying to trick him into darting the wrong way to block the ball.

  Ellen watched them with a heart so filled with happiness it was painful. John’s internal joy shone from him. It was thanks to Edward’s constant care and approbation.

  When John finally gave up teasing and tossed the ball though, Edward reached up and easily caught it.

  “Papa!” John yelled in complaint.

  Edward merely laughed, “I call an end. I am hungry for my luncheon. I say we eat!” The proposal was to John, who, grinning, ran across to the picnic blanket.

  Edward stole the moment of John’s distraction and turned to embrace her suddenly, claiming her lips with a kiss. She was breathless and hot when he broke away, and no doubt blushing, the kiss had expressed all of his love and desire for her.

  He gripped her hand firmly, his hold feeling possessive, again suggesting much more than the simple touch it was as he walked her to the blanket.

  “What do we have?” he spoke to John as the boy began unloading dishes.

  “Hot chocolate.” John grinned, as he lifted out a corked porcelain canister. “Rabbit pie,” he continued, as he pulled each item out and set it on the rug. “Boiled eggs, curried rice, scones and whipped cream, Mama.” John looked up to her with a smile knowing they were her favourite, and no doubt why cook had included them.

  “Sounds like a feast to me,” Edward responded as she knelt and began to lay out the plates and cutlery, before starting to serve out the dishes.

  This had been the pattern of their days for over a week, a long ride in the morning, to a destination Edward had planned the night before so that the footmen could bring out a picnic. Then they would idle in play for an hour or two, eat lunch and return home. The afternoon was equally lazy, with card games, chess or backgammon, before a warm fire because the spring air had not yet heated enough to completely sweep away the chill of winter. Often leaving her boys to play, Ellen would curl up in a chair with one of the books from his brother’s library.

  Life was heavenly.

  Of Edward’s brother there had been no sign, nor word, which did not seem to bother Edward at all. But more importantly no one had come for John and they had now been here for what, twelve days, nearly two weeks? She was beginning to progress from hope to a burgeoning belief that they were truly safe. Some of Edward’s endlessly positive nature was perhaps rubbing off on her. Leaning back onto her hands, her feet stretched out before her, crossed at the ankles, she was quite snug within her new sapphire blue riding habit with its smart black fringe and trim. She smiled. Then sensing Edward watching, she turned to receive a dark assessing look which broke into a smile.

  The man was unceasingly randy. He would have her in bed all day long if it was not for John. When she had made that wicked accusation to him the night before, he had merely laughed and told her bluntly that ‘it was after all their honeymoon, and why should he not appreciate her beauty and sate his appetite? Surely she would be more concerned if he did not.’ She’d smiled at him in answer.

  Besides, she had no weight to her words, he knew how much she enjoyed making love too; as if to prove it a little fission of desire curled inside her tummy.

  As she finished her mouthful Edward reached for a scone, broke off a piece and dipped it into the whipped cream, lifting it to her lips. Ellen bit off the end. He was being wicked. Confirming it he leaned to her ear. “Perhaps I should ask cook to send us some cream up for supper.”

  “Edward.” She slapped at his arm and sent her gaze to John in warning. In response he kissed her lips briefly licking the cream from her lower lip before he drew away.

  “Now, John, what shall we do this afternoon?” Edward said, looking at John.

  “Can we play backgammon, father?”

  Father. That word sounded so natural on John’s lips now. It had become commonplace, a fact, the truth.

  She looked at John. For his age he was a needy child, not for things, but for love. He’d been so starved of it through the years. She had tried to offer it in the written word but it was not the same as her physical presence in his life. He’d clung to her through their journey here and accepted Edward without hesitation. John had longed for a father as much as his mother and Edward had fulfilled John’s wish. Edward’s willingness to give often overwhelmed her, and her son soaked it up.

  Edward had wanted to heal her and he had. She could feel the wounds and scars in her soul mending, disappearing, thanks to Edward. But he was healing her son too.

  Ellen turned to Edward, who was sprawled beside her, resting on one elbow, and hugged him. Pressing his head to her chest, she summarily cut off the conversation which had continued between him and John.

  He freed himself, laughing. “What was that for?”

  She didn’t deem to give him an answer. Instead, holding out an arm, she encouraged John to come for a cuddle too. He did, accepting her possessive and comforting grip.

  Edward shook his head, smiling, sat upright and brushed crumbs from his coat and legs. “Tomorrow I would like us to go to church,” he stated, pushing himself from the ground to his feet, glancing at her. “I have always gone. As the administering landowner, I thought it my responsibility, and as it is Mothering Sunday, I think it fitting. What do you say?” The question glinting in his eyes expressed a rare vulnerability. He’d been thinking on this then, understanding that it would be difficult for her. She lifted her hand for Edward to take, as John left her embrace to rise, and let Edward pull her up. With his fingers still grasping hers she laid her other hand over his heart on his coat.

  “If that is what you wish, then we shall be more than glad to accompany you.”

  His answering smile said, thank you, as he gave her a stiff slight nod, as though acknowledging her courage. In response, lifting to her toes she set he
r arms about his neck and pressed a kiss on his warm cheek. “We promise to make you proud.” The soft weight of his hand settled on her back. It was a feeling she’d grown to love.

  “You hardly need promise, you always make me proud.” His voice rumbled by her ear.

  Julie and Casper had come over for dinner three nights ago, on her suggestion. She had apologised for her previous reticence, explaining that Edward hadn’t informed her where they were going and that she was just a little overwhelmed by the speed of the wedding and settling into Farnborough House. She had then gone out of her way to play the perfect hostess. Reminding herself constantly of Edward’s words she’d set her former life from her mind, and behaved as though that awful time had not occurred. It was as though it had not; to his friends and his brother’s staff all she was, was Edward’s wife.

  The night had ended with the couples on good terms. But when the door closed on his friends, Ellen had a feeling of envy for the life Edward had led before he met her, for the years he’d lived and she’d not known he was there, beyond her reach.

  After they made love that night, when he drew her close, she’d asked him how he’d entertained himself in the country before he’d left for London and in turn he’d asked her about her first marriage.

  Each day they seemingly knew each other better and loved each other more.

  Life was perfect. If only it would stay perfect.

  ~

  The heat of the spring sunshine strong on his back, warm inside and out, Edward walked along the lane leading back to Farnborough House with his wife and child, gripping Ellen’s hand tightly.

  Lord, he’d received a sharp shock when she and John had sung out the first hymn in a sweet, unwavering, harmony. Of course if he’d thought on it he would have known John had a superior voice. He’d been selected as a chorister to sing at Eton, in King Henry’s own chapel, after all. But Ellen? Her singing voice had such clarity. It held each note with perfection. They’d taken the family box at the front of the church and were mostly hidden from view until they stood. But when they stood to sing the first hymn and Ellen’s voice together with her son’s had rung out against the grey stone, the whole congregation had turned in awe.

  He squeezed the delicate hand in his again.

  John was running ahead, the soles of his boots grinding on the gravel path.

  Looking up at him, Ellen smiled, her light blue eyes sparkling with a happiness which seemed to run very deeply. A person’s eyes were a window to the soul so the vicar’s sermon had read. Yes indeed, he agreed, he’d always only seen good in Ellen.

  If she had been afraid to go to church she’d not shown it. But if God judged a woman with such a pure, good heart as hers, for deeds that were forced upon her, then in his opinion, God was an ass. But Edward held to the knowledge of the Lord’s omniscience, and if God knew all and could see all, then he must know of her innocence, her regret too, and thus he must forgive.

  When they left the church, Ellen had stood beside Edward greeting their neighbours, the village folk and some of his brother’s tenants. Their resounding consensus on his bride was that she was ‘a true gem’—‘how lucky he was,’ ‘with such a voice’—it was added. Poor John had been patted and petted for his own sweet soprano singing voice of course, but the boy kept extremely quiet about his skill, not mentioning that he’d sung for the king. If it had been Edward at John’s age, some bragging would have been in order.

  In fact, Edward suddenly realised, John had said very little of his life to date, apart from asking about his father. Perhaps Edward ought to speak to Ellen and find out what had actually happened regarding John. The two of them were obviously close, but there still seemed something underlying which disturbed the boy.

  “I’m hungry,” John called from in front, as they turned onto the path leading back to Farnborough while he struck at the long grass on either side of the path with a stick he’d picked up from the ground.

  “Good, because cook promised to have luncheon ready when we return. You will be able to do it justice,” Ellen responded.

  Dropping the stick, John kicked into a run, racing off ahead.

  “Remember you need to go to the nursery and wash your face and hands before you sit down!” Ellen called after him.

  As the boy tore off out of sight Edward took the opportunity to pull her close for a long kiss, leaving her lips reddened and her cheeks rosy. He so loved her appearance when she was slightly rumpled, mussed, especially first thing in the morning, when her hair was riotous and loose, her eyes sleepy and her mouth swollen and kissable.

  Smiling, taking up her hand again, he tugged her on. “Come on, I’m hungry too.”

  She sent him a look from beneath her lowered lashes. “For what?”

  “For you always,” he answered, with a guttural wolfish half-laugh. “But I’ll settle for food.”

  “Mama!” John’s urgent cry came from beyond the corner of the house and instantly, the joy on Ellen’s face shattered. Edward saw it. Blood drained from her face, her smile fell and fear flooded her eyes.

  “Ellen?”

  Without even registering his enquiry, her fingers pulled from his and she turned away, catching up her skirt and breaking into a run. The sharp strikes of her new half-boots on the gravel rang with desperate urgency.

  He followed and rounded the corner of the house a moment behind her nearly colliding with them both in the archway at the entrance to the courtyard. Ellen was standing rigid, one hand still holding the skirt of her new pale lemon walking dress and moss green pelisse. John was gripping her about the waist with both arms, clinging on for dear life, as though someone sought to drag him loose.

  Edward’s gaze reached beyond them to see what they were staring at.

  A large black enclosed carriage stood within the courtyard. It was a grand vehicle and glowing with fresh polish, its lines traced with gold leaf, and on the door was a painted embossed coat of arms he didn’t recognise.

  “Ellen. John,” he demanded, passing them and beckoning them on with his hand. They would certainly not find out who’d arrived by standing in the driveway gawking.

  He heard them follow, their footsteps ringing on the cobble of the courtyard.

  When Edward traversed the steps up to the front door, in a quick light jog, Davis opened it, his manner at its most toplofty, “Lord Edward, the Duke of Pembroke is in the best drawing room. I did say you were not at home, my Lord, but he insisted upon waiting.”

  “Did he say what his call is regarding?” Edward asked quietly, his heart already hammering. Pembroke? Ghost-like memories returned in a mist, of Ellen looking at his wife. The Duke?

  “No, my Lord.”

  Taking a deep breath, Edward straightened his coat and collar before turning to Ellen. She stood just inside the door. “Take John up to wash, I will see to this.”

  She looked in shock. No, not shock, it was terror, and she was not looking at Edward but past him. John’s hand dropping from hers, the boy visibly dressed himself in armour, changing from a child to a young man, his chin lifting, steeling himself. Edward had seen Ellen do the same often enough to know.

  The Duke.

  Turning, Edward followed their gazes to the drawing room door across the hall. Pembroke stood there, his pale austere look fixed on John. For a man most probably in his fifties, Pembroke still held a dominant, slender figure which defied the shading of grey in the dark hair about his temples. He was dressed completely in black, apart from his white cravat and the white embroidery on his waistcoat. His bearing and physical presence filled even the open space of the hall. The man had a menacingly powerful aura reaching from him.

  “John!” Pembroke clipped out the single word as a command, and by what appeared to be an instinctive or trained response the boy went to him.

  “Your Grace,” John acknowledged, crossing to the man’s side, his voice grave, weighted with the sound of resignation.

  No! Ominous realisation tolled in Edward’s thoughts.
Pembroke? The Duke? He remembered the speculation he’d refused to contemplate in White’s little more than a fortnight ago. She would not have done this to me? Lied to me?

  “Please, don’t take him from me?” Ellen rushed forward, passing Edward, as if she would throw herself physically on the man’s mercy. But then she stopped, hesitating a few feet away from the Duke, no doubt losing her courage before the look of sheer hatred and disgust which was levelled on her.

  “Move this woman aside.” Pembroke thrust the words at Davis, his voice as full of denigration as his glare had been.

  “Mama?” John dared to speak up, in a desperate whisper, and for that he received his own rebuke.

  “What have I told you? You have no mother, John. Your mother is dead.”

  Edward saw the plea in John’s wide eyes as he looked at Ellen, his lower lip quivering before it was caught between his teeth.

  “We are going home,” Pembroke growled, his gaze visibly warning Ellen to stay back. “Get in the carriage, John.”

  The boy didn’t move, braving defiance, despite his obvious fear, he just looked at his mother.

  Still standing before Pembroke, her arms limp at her sides, Ellen appeared lost, bowled over by this force which she clearly had no capacity to fight. “John, I’m sorry, I…”

  Edward moved and blocked the doorway, as the Duke of Pembroke took hold of John’s arm and drew him past Ellen, as though she did not even exist.

  “You are not taking the boy.” Edward’s words halted the Duke’s stride and astonishment crossed his expression. It seemed Pembroke was unaccustomed to refusal.

  “Who are you to order me, Marlow? You have no say in this.” The arrogant dismissing look the man gave Edward would have made most men quake in their boots, but Edward was not most men.

  Edward felt the muscle in his jaw contract, his teeth clenching as he restrained the surge of anger, while his right hand tightened to a fist he itched to thrust into the bastard’s condescending face. But he would not be bear-baited into blows which would make him the one at fault and play straight into Pembroke’s hands. Instead, squaring his shoulders, he met the Duke’s imposing stare, defiantly, and refused to be set aside. Schooling his voice to a deliberate, calm, clear depth, bitter with contempt, Edward answered, “You are in my home, and handling my wife’s son. I have every right.” His voice echoed about the hall. “Let the boy go. It is you who have no right here, Your Grace.” Edward used the title with disgust.