by Julia London
In truth, Kate was nervous. When Benoit had told her the Prince of Wales had bought her—bought her, he’d said, as if she were a bolt of cloth—she’d grown quite ill with worry. Not that she had any particular attachment to Benoit, or that she was even surprised. She was very much aware of her place in the world and how women like her made their way in it. Nevertheless, she loathed that she was a courtesan for many reasons, and one of them was that she was out of practice in the private arts of being a courtesan.
Benoit had seen to it that she learned those arts. He wanted her as his kept lover, but as Kate didn’t know how to be that, he’d sent her to Madame Albert in Paris. Madame taught her certain skills, which she’d practiced on Benoit, and he’d been an eager participant in the beginning. But he’d become increasingly enchanted with laudanum, and in the last three or so years of their association, Kate had been summoned only occasionally to his bed. Benoit came to prefer laudanum to coupling. Most nights, he put himself to sleep with the drug.
His growing inability to couple was something for which Kate was privately thankful. She did not, and had never, possessed any amorous feelings for the man. The kindest thing she could say for him was that he was a benevolent master, but she never mistook the true nature of their liaison—he was her master and she his slave. The times they had come together had been physically uncomfortable for her and lacking in any sort of affection. The plays she’d seen, the operas she’d heard, and the poetry Digby had read to her had taught her what she knew of passion and love. There was none of it between her and Benoit.
Besides the sea captain who had robbed Kate of her virtue, there had been only Benoit.
Nevertheless, the arrangement with Benoit had tangible benefits for Kate—namely a roof over her head and food in her belly—and she had been as content with it as a woman in her position could be.
But then Benoit had privately presented Kate to the prince after the opera one evening. She’d responded politely to his inquiry of how she found the opera and had commented on the particularly wet weather. That was the sum of their meeting, but soon thereafter, Benoit informed Kate that the prince wanted her.
The Prince of Wales wanted her.
The very notion had sent Kate into a panic. He wanted her for all the obvious reasons. What if she couldn’t please him? What would happen to her then? Would he toss her back to the streets? Would he hand her off to one of his friends? What sorts of lewd acts might he expect of her? What if he got her with child? Would she lose her appeal then? Would he provide for the child?
Her worries had kept her up more than one night, but then, as suddenly as the news of the prince’s interest in her had come, she’d been given a reprieve. On the night Benoit had had her trunks moved to her new town house and had said his fare-thee-wells (which, Kate noted, was not unlike a farewell he might have given any one of his many servants), he had told her about the prince’s unique situation.
“Make good use of these days, for he’ll not come to you,” Benoit had said cryptically.
“Pardon?”
“He’ll not take a mistress at present, given the possibility of a parliamentary trial of divorce. He won’t have the likes of you dragged before Parliament to embarrass him. But as soon as his scandal is resolved, he will make you his mistress in more than name.” Benoit had chuckled at that.
Kate had swallowed down a lump of fear. “His scandal?”
“Mon dieu, do you not read the morning papers?” Benoit had asked irritably. “Be thankful he has provided for your needs, Kate. Most gentlemen would not be so generous with water if the tree has never born fruit.”
Kate didn’t know what he meant, precisely, for how could a tree bear fruit without water? Digby had explained it to her later. He’d also explained that her new home was part of the contract between the prince and Benoit. Although Benoit treated Kate indifferently, he’d seen to it that the prince would provide properly for her. Kate had even been given a sum of money—nothing that would keep her if the arrangement were to end—but enough to purchase food and sundries while she resided in the prince’s house. She was to live quietly, to do as the prince bid her, when he bid her. She would be allowed to keep her friends—Aldous, rescued from an impressment gang on the docks, and Digby, who would remain in Benoit’s employ, even though Benoit planned to return to France.
Kate’s fear of failing to be the sort of courtesan the prince desired had fueled her determination to become a proficient baker, so that she might have an occupation on which to depend when her looks faded or her situation changed irrevocably.
There was only one other stipulation in the agreement between Benoit and the prince: Kate was to pretend to be the mistress of the Duke of Darlington while she waited for the prince to become disentangled from his royal marriage.
“I don’t understand why I must!” Kate had complained to Digby. “I should be just as happy to hide away in this lovely house while the prince does whatever it is he must do,” she’d said one afternoon. “That is what courtesans do—they are tucked away and kept.”
“But, my love, if you hid yourself away, the prince would not see you. He may not have you just yet, but he may certainly feast his eyes on you.”
“He might come here and feast his eyes on me,” Kate had said dismissively.
“Come here?” Digby laughed. “Darling, if he came here, the whole of London would know it! He is the Prince of Wales, and his movements about town are noted by everyone! Particularly now, when everyone is looking for the slightest bit of scandal to fuel the fires.”
She hadn’t quite thought of it that way.
“It’s really not so very bad,” Digby had tried to assure her. “The duke is by all accounts a gentleman. And you are required to accompany him to only one or two engagements. Think of it as a diversion.”
A diversion, indeed.
She thought of that as Amy helped her into the last gown, an ice blue silk with white fur trim.
“Perfect,” Digby proclaimed when she presented herself. “You look like a winter princess.”
Kate stepped back and looked at herself in the full-length mirror, at her coiffed hair and the jewels the prince had sent that glittered at her throat and ears.
“Aye, there’s a beauty,” Aldous said, nodding approvingly as he handed Digby a tot of whiskey. Aldous held one for himself, and took a seat in a chair near the hearth.
“Lud, I feel… anxious,” Kate said as Amy straightened the train of her gown.
“Anxious?” Digby came to his feet, put aside his tot, and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, looking at Kate’s reflection in the mirror. “There is no reason for that. Never forget—by virtue of this face,” he said, gently touching her chin with his finger, “you possess the power. You shine down everyone and men cannot resist you. Am I right, Aldous?”
Aldous’s gaze flicked over Kate. “Aye,” he said.
Digby stepped back, picked up his tot of whiskey. “You must go and enjoy yourself. Imagine—Kate Bergeron at a Carlton House ball!”
Kate could not imagine it. Nor did she have time to try and imagine it, as the duke called for her a few minutes later.
And he called with a very insistent knock at her door.
Kate crouched down at the top of the stairs to steal a glimpse of him through the balustrade when Aldous went down to open the door. He’d hardly pulled the door open before the duke stepped into the foyer and instantly swept the hat from his head. “I have come for—”
“I’ll fetch her,” Aldous interrupted, and turned away. Darlington frowned at Aldous’s back, but he remained standing, his hat in hand, his legs braced apart. He was wearing a greatcoat, but it was open, and beneath it, Kate could see his suit of clothing. His white silk neck cloth was perfectly tied, and a jeweled pin glittered at his throat. The collar of his shirt rose just beneath his chin, and the ruffled cuffs peaked out from the sleeves of his coat. He wore a white silk waistcoat beneath his formal coat of black tails, which hug
ged a trim waist.
Kate’s heart started to beat a little faster. The duke cut a very fine figure. Indeed, she’d never seen quite so fine a male figure.
When Aldous reached the top of the stairs, he looked at her curiously, crouched there as she was, and Kate quickly put a finger to her lips. She stood up, smoothed her skirts, then silently turned around in a full circle and looked questioningly at Aldous. He nodded in response to her silent question and gallantly offered his arm.
All right, then, she thought. Here she was, Kate Bergeron, off to a Carlton House Ball. If only her mother could see her—she would think the faeries had really come.
Chapter Ten
Grayson was mindful not to crush his hat in his hand as was his inclination given his irritation with the impossibly rude butler Miss Bergeron saw fit to employ. He meant to say something to the man, and looked up at the sound of footfall on the stairs… and promptly forgot the butler.
Miss Bergeron was indescribably bewitching as she floated down those stairs on the arm of the butler. With diamonds twinkling at her throat and hanging from her ears, and wearing a blue brushed silk gown trimmed in white fur, she reminded Grayson of a figure sculpted from ice. In her pale blond hair, she wore a single white plume.
She was stunning. She belonged in a picture book, in a frame, in a grand house of her own. He couldn’t help but wonder how a woman as beautiful as she was had come to be in such a position. He would think any number of gentlemen would have eagerly sought her hand.
She smiled as they reached the bottom step and let go the butler’s arm as she glided forward. “Good evening, Your Grace,” she said, falling into a graceful curtsy.
“Good evening, Miss Bergeron,” he said as she rose up and clasped her hands before her. “How do you fare this evening?”
“Very well indeed, thank you,” she said as her gaze skimmed over him. “You are… you are quite well put together, aren’t you?”
It was an odd thing to say—Grayson was not accustomed to ladies remarking on his appearance. “I… thank you,” he said. “And may I remark that you…” Lord help him, but there were no words to describe her. “Your gown is lovely, Miss Bergeron.”
A slow smile curved her perfect lips. “Thank you,” she said with a gracious incline of her head. “Please, sir, do call me Kate.”
He didn’t intend to call her anything, really, and Grayson gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
The butler appeared behind Miss Bergeron with a cloak that matched her gown—ice blue on the outside, colorfully embroidered on the inside. She fastened the cloak, then donned a pair of long gloves the butler handed her. When Miss Bergeron was properly encased in wool, she smiled at Grayson. “Well, then! Here I am, as tightly wrapped and tucked away as a sovereign in a beggar’s coat.”
She had a curious way of speaking. “Allow me,” he said, and opened the door. Miss Bergeron walked forward and would have walked on without him, Grayson thought, but he caught her elbow with his hand. He glanced at the butler—scowled at him, really—and escorted her out of the house.
His carriage was waiting directly in front of the house, emblazoned with his seal, plumed for the occasion. The prince’s Twelfth Night Ball was legendary among the ton. It happened that the social Season usually commenced a month to six weeks after Twelfth Night, and all of the pillars of society were in attendance at the ball. In years past, the event had attracted upward of eight hundred people.
A footman bundled in heavy wool and a scarf opened the carriage door and put down a step. Grayson quickly handed Miss Bergeron inside before the cold could penetrate her cloak.
When he stepped in behind her, he discovered in an awkward moment that she’d seated herself on the bench facing backward. Ladies usually rode facing forward. “Would you not be more comfortable over here?” Grayson asked, half in, half out of the coach.
“No, thank you.” She smiled.
Grayson slowly entered the carriage and settled onto the bench across from her.
She was studying the interior. The walls were covered in green silk, the squabs in paler green velvet. A warming pan full of hot coals provided heat. It was a very comfortable, very expensive carriage.
“This is very large, isn’t it?” Miss Bergeron said. “I’ve not had the pleasure of traveling in a carriage as roomy as this one.”
“I suspect you will soon enough,” Grayson remarked as he rapped on the ceiling to signal the driver. “The prince will undoubtedly hope to impress you with the grandest of conveyances.”
She glanced at him as the carriage lurched forward. “Then it will not impress me, for now I have already seen a grand one.” She settled back onto her bench with a pert smile and diamonds twinkling at her throat.
“Perhaps you have already seen a grand necklace, as well, and were not impressed with my gift,” he suggested.
Miss Bergeron blinked. And then she laughed.
Grayson did not laugh. He braced one hand against his thigh and leaned forward. “Pray tell, Miss Bergeron, why did you return the necklace I sent you?”
“I did not mean to injure your feelings, Your Grace,” she said with a smile.
“You did not injure my feelings,” he said. That was preposterous. That would imply he cared. “But you seem to enjoy fine jewelry,” he said, indicating the necklace she wore. “Why did you not keep it?”
“Because it was too lavish.”
“Too lavish,” he repeated, to make certain he’d heard her correctly.
“Mmm,” she said, nodding, as if that were a perfectly reasonable explanation.
“Too lavish?” he repeated incredulously. “Madam, I can rightly say that never, in my thirty years on this earth, have I ever heard a woman complain that a piece of jewelry offered to her was too lavish.”
“Then they must have been your lovers. But as I am not your lover, I thought it too lavish.”
The word lover whispered across his consciousness, teasing him. “That’s ridiculous,” he blustered. “I am a duke. I am not in the habit of giving cheap trinkets as gifts. I was merely attempting to apologize for having been rude.”
“I understood your intent quite clearly,” she assured him. “But the necklace seemed far too lavish for such a trifling thing, and I did not care to be beholden to you in any way.”
“You would not have been beholden to me, and furthermore, you did not seem to think it was trifling thing at the time,” he reminded her.
She shrugged a little. “Perhaps not,” she admitted airily. “But I am accustomed to slights and make it a point of never allowing one to undermine my happy disposition for long. It was forgotten the moment I left Whitehall.” She smiled, obviously pleased with herself.
There was something in those words that gave Grayson pause. He imagined who would treat Miss Bergeron rudely—in addition to himself, obviously—and often enough that she would become accustomed to it. The ton, he guessed, many of whom believed themselves far superior to mere mortals by virtue of their birth and particularly to mortals such as courtesans and tradesmen and servants. Perhaps Grayson could count himself in that group, a thought that did nothing to improve his happy disposition.
Still, Grayson watched her closely, trying to detect any hint of feminine pique, as it seemed impossible to him that she’d returned the necklace because it was too lavish. Between three sisters and a few lovers through the years, he’d learned to make gifts of apology larger and more expensive than gifts of affection. “You did not indicate, Miss Bergeron, if you have accepted my apology.”
“Kate. Yes, of course I accept your apology,” she said. “I thought it hardly mattered if I did, other than to appease your conscience. It’s not as if we shall ever be friends.”
Grayson did not like his own words being tossed back at him. “On my word, my apology was honestly offered. Thank you, Miss Bergeron.”
“You are most welcome, Your Grace. Now will you please call me Kate? I am anxious enough as it is without feeling as if we are ut
ter strangers. I mean to say that we are strangers, as I would never presume to know you, really, but I suppose I am better acquainted with you than with anyone else I will encounter this evening.”
“You are anxious?” Grayson repeated, entirely taken aback by her admission.
Her sheepish smile was surprisingly charming. “Utterly and completely.”
Was she mad? She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She would be the most noticed, the most remarked upon, the most envied woman at the ball. “I think you have naught to fear,” he said. “You seem to be quite… sanguine.”
“Sanguine?”
“Confident,” he amended.
Her pale green eyes sparkled and a small, wry smile tipped up one corner of her mouth. Grayson felt something hot sluice through his veins. “You flatter me. But it has been some time since I have been in society.” Her hand fluttered a little when she said it. “You must promise that if I misstep, you will tell me straightaway. Will you promise?”
“There will hardly be need—”
“I promise not to be the least offended, if that concerns you.”
He couldn’t imagine her misstepping. He thought every healthy male in Carlton House would forgive her most anything. “Very well, Miss Bergeron,” he said tightly.
“Kate, please. We are supposed to be lovers, Your Grace. A lover would not call me Miss Bergeron.”
Lovers. He could feel the notion trickling warmly through him.
“May I ask, why do they call you Christie?”
He glanced at her. “My surname is Christopher. When I was quite young, before I was duke, my friends made a name of it.” Grayson toyed with the idea of inviting her to use that name, but he could not bring himself to such familiarity. Kate Bergeron seemed to sense his dilemma, for she smiled knowingly at him.
That smile held him.
The carriage stopped, and Kate leaned forward to look out the window. “We’ve arrived.”