A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

  She held his gaze for a long time.

  He took the champagne glass from her hand and set both glasses on the table next to the sofa. ‘So...how do we begin?’

  Her lashes lowered and then opened again. She looked directly into his eyes. ‘With a kiss?’

  He smiled. ‘I believe I can comply.’

  He gently lifted her chin with his fingers and moved slowly, coming closer and closer until his lips touched hers.

  Her lips were soft and warm and they trembled under his. With all his resolve, he held himself back when every fibre of his being wished to pull her body against his and deepen the kiss.

  It was she who moved. She wrapped her arms around his neck and came closer. He leaned back and she slid on top of him. Her lips had become hungrier, and he was only too glad to appease her appetite. She opened herself to him, straddling him and pressing against his groin. He was already hard, wanting all of her. He pressed her to him and parted his lips to allow her tongue access. She tasted of champagne, but more intoxicating. His senses reeled.

  He could take her here, he realised. Merely unbutton his trousers and free himself to enter her, but he wanted so much more than a speedy release.

  He lifted her off him and stood, sweeping her into his arms. ‘The bedchamber?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  He carried her into the bedchamber and lay her on the bed. Making short work of removing his coat and waistcoat, he leaned down for another kiss, which she willingly accepted.

  She watched him as he next pulled at his boot, trying to remove it. The boot stubbornly stuck to his foot and he cursed it beneath his breath.

  She laughed, a deep, genuine laugh that made his insides quake in joy for it.

  She reached for him. ‘Let me pull them off for you.’

  He climbed on the bed, and she took hold of his boot, twisting and wiggling it before finally pulling. The boot came free.

  She grinned at the victory.

  She pulled the other boot off with as little difficulty.

  He came to his knees. ‘Now I shall help you.’

  He turned her around and undid the laces of her gown and carefully lifted it over her head, folding it before placing it on the floor. Next he untied her corset and helped her slip out of it. She turned to face him and reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head. He jumped off the bed and removed his trousers and drawers.

  She remained seated on the bed, dressed only in her shift, pulling pins from her hair. It tumbled to her shoulders as she watched him, naked before her.

  He was accustomed to the appreciative gazes of the women he bedded, but Cecilia set his senses afire.

  As she could obviously tell.

  He smiled again and twirled his finger at her.

  She looked puzzled for a moment, then her brow cleared and she smiled back as she drew her shift over her head. He knew she would be lovely. All creamy skin, narrow waist, full breasts.

  ‘You are a beautiful woman, Cecilia,’ he said with complete honesty.

  She blushed an appealing pink.

  He approached her slowly, climbing back on the bed and lying next to her, drawing her into another kiss, stroking her fine skin, fingering the rich waves of her hair. She touched him, too, placing her palm on his chest, sliding her hand lower to his groin. To his surprise and delight, she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, though it made his resolve to go slow a challenge.

  She slithered up to place her lips against his ear. ‘How long do you intend to wait?’

  * * *

  Cecilia knew she was behaving wantonly, but she did not care. The wine had loosened her inhibitions and this man had made her yearn for lovemaking. In the early days of Duncan’s seduction, he had shown her these erotic delights. She remembered aching for him so acutely she’d have done anything for him. Now she knew it had been his way of making certain she would marry him.

  Those early days of lovemaking awakened her to the pleasures of the flesh. She had no doubt she would gladly succumb to such temptations over and over if only she could be certain that the tide would not turn.

  Coupling could be transcendental or it could be...brutal.

  Since Duncan she’d never taken the risk. Until now.

  One night was not too much to ask, was it? One night to re-experience corporeal delights?

  ‘How long?’ she whispered again.

  He turned his head to face her. ‘I should ask first if you have the means to prevent a child?’

  She’d not had to worry over that with Duncan. ‘I know what to do.’

  He smiled teasingly. ‘Then have your way with me, Cecilia.’

  He rolled onto his back.

  She immediately climbed on top of him, but, unlike his words suggested, he was not passive. He grasped her by the waist and guided himself inside her. She gasped at the sensation.

  Together they moved, forming a rhythm that built her need. He was a skilled lover, she could tell. He knew just how to move her to intensify her sensations. It seemed to her that he also knew just how long he could draw this out to put her into a frenzy.

  A pleasurable frenzy.

  She felt the change in him, the moment he lost all thought and was in the throes of lust. His thrusts quickened, pushing her to the brink of frustration until her release came in like a lightning storm. She cried out with the acute pleasure just as his release came. His cry joined hers. He held her tight until the wave of pleasure washed away and her body turned the consistency of soft butter.

  She collapsed beside him. ‘Well, that was rather nice.’

  He laughed softly, but the laugh resonated within her. ‘I feel damned with faint praise.’

  ‘And assent with civil leer?’ She knew that poem. ‘Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot’ by Alexander Pope.

  He countered. ‘And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer.’

  She smiled. He knew the poem as well.

  ‘Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,’ she added.

  He finished it. ‘Just hint at a fault and hesitate dislike.’

  She returned his smile. ‘What nonsense, to recite that poem after making love.’

  He feigned an innocent look. ‘You started it.’

  She loved this bantering. Would it not be lovely to have a man who always found some lightness and humour wherever he went?

  He reached over to her necklace and fingered the single pearl. ‘I do not have faint praise, Cecilia. Mine is rather loud, I fear.’

  She grew warm all over again. ‘I am glad I accompanied you to your hotel.’

  His smile grew slowly. ‘As am I.’

  He turned on his side and pulled her into a kiss that ignited her senses all over again.

  This time he rose over her, entering her again and moving slowly as if savouring the experience. As if trying to make the moment as pleasurable as possible for her.

  She was glad she’d allowed herself this liberty, this lapse in the tight control she exerted over herself. She’d lived in the winter of her emotions for too long. How lovely it was to let the sun shine in.

  As he moved, her need built slowly, a glorious need because it held the promise of fulfilment at the end. All her senses came alive, awakened after a long hibernation. She was delighted she could still experience this pleasure.

  And she was delighted with this lovely man who bestowed it like a gift.

  His thrusts accelerated and her thoughts flew out of her head, replaced by sensation. Need. Growing. Nearing its promised end.

  Her release shattered inside her, sparkling like the sunlight on the rose windows of Notre Dame. Then the release came again and again. And again when he spilled his seed inside her.

  He collapsed on top of her, and she relished his weight upon her for the mo
ment he remained there. Before he made it hard for her to breathe, he rolled off her, pulling her into another kiss and another.

  He finally faced her, twirling a lock of her hair in his fingers. ‘Ah, Cecilia. Words fail me.’

  She merely snuggled against him, relishing the scent of him and the warmth of his skin against hers.

  ‘I wonder,’ he began.

  She could feel his voice through her body as well as hear him with her ears.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said again. ‘Perhaps I might extend my visit...’

  A frisson of fear raced up her spine. No. That was not what she wanted. One day, he’d said. One night. More time together and what could happen?

  One night did not seem like enough to her either, though.

  She did not answer him, instead closed her eyes and let herself drift into sleep. Another pleasure—sleeping naked next to the man who had just joined with her.

  She could still pretend for a few more hours, even if he wished to extend that time into days. She was determined not to let go of this wonderful illusion until she absolutely must.

  * * *

  Oliver, too, drifted to sleep with the thought that he had no real reason to start his journey back to England so soon. What would a few more days hurt? Frederick and Jacob could manage things until he returned. One more week would not matter.

  He slept deeply, content to hold Cecilia in his arms.

  * * *

  When he woke it was to a loud knocking on the door.

  ‘Sir. Sir.’ It was his valet knocking. ‘The coach is due in an hour. You must rise now.’

  Oliver shook himself awake and sat straight up.

  He turned to the space in the bed beside him.

  Cecilia was gone. Her clothes were gone.

  ‘Sir!’ His valet knocked again.

  ‘One moment,’ he answered, climbing out of bed.

  He searched to see if she’d left him a note, but there was nothing in the bedchamber. He entered the sitting room and searched there. To no avail.

  There was nothing to indicate she’d ever been with him.

  He had no way to find her. No surname. No address.

  Perhaps he could find her on the banks of the Seine, giving coins to the children. He must dress quickly. He ran back to the bedchamber and grabbed his drawers, managing to don them as he started towards the door to let his valet into the room.

  A glance towards the window depressed his spirits. The sun was high in the sky. He’d slept through most of the morning. She would not be on the banks of the Seine giving coins to street urchins. She would be long gone.

  ‘Sir! Sir!’ his valet cried.

  ‘Coming!’ He walked to the door and opened it, and knew he would never see Cecilia again.

  Chapter Four

  Cecilia had left Oliver’s bed at dawn and hurried to the river to pass out the coins to the children who, hungry, flocked to her.

  Now when she met the children she would be reminded of him for ever. She’d see him running to rescue her. She’d see his smile and remember his laugh.

  How would she be able to sit in Notre Dame, listen to the bells, witness the Mass, without remembering him at her side, seeming to understand the special aura of the place? When she gazed at her favourite paintings in the Louvre, would she not think of him standing next to her, listening to her enthuse about what she loved about the work?

  As she’d walked back to her room, she fingered the pearl next to her skin. The memory of him would always touch her if she wore the necklace.

  How good it was that the memory of her day with him was a happy one. She so much relished having a happy memory to replace the unhappy ones from her past.

  On her way she stopped at an apothecary to buy the items necessary to keep from getting with child. She returned to her room afterwards.

  Her room was about half the size of Oliver’s sitting room in the hotel, but it was as clean and as cheerful as she could make it, with a pot of flowers she’d impulsively bought from a vendor and the lace curtains on the window it had taken weeks of saving to afford. She reached behind her to untie her laces so that she could pull her dress over her head and folded it carefully.

  Next she removed her corset and set about using the items from the apothecary.

  When first married to Duncan, she’d pined for a baby, but it did not take long for her to pray a child would never happen. She’d learned what to do to prevent it. Too many times, though, she could not clean herself afterwards. Still, she did not become enceinte. She’d concluded his punches had damaged her and she could not conceive. At the time she thought it a blessing.

  After completing her task, Cecilia climbed on her bed and burrowed under the quilt she’d crafted from scraps of cloth collected during her years of marriage. Sewing the quilt had helped her endure. It was her prized possession, her badge of honour.

  Her mind drifted as she lay on her bed. She’d slept only briefly the night before. In Oliver’s arms. Most of the night she’d gazed out of the window, keeping herself awake so that she could be sure she’d rise before him and make her escape.

  She’d waited until the first light of dawn appeared, then slipped out of his embrace where she’d felt warm and safe. As quietly as she could she searched for her clothing, scooping it into her arms and tiptoeing to the sitting room to dress. On a table had been a stack of Oliver’s calling cards. She took one as a souvenir of the man with whom she’d spent this wonderful day. When she was fully clothed, except for her shoes, which she still held in her hands, she peeked in the bedchamber one last time, for one last look at him.

  So handsome. His face was relaxed in sleep, which only accentuated the perfection of his features. His dark hair was in wild disarray. She stared at him a long time, committing his image to her memory.

  As if she could ever forget him.

  He’d proposed more days together. He’d tempted her especially when her body had still been humming with the pleasure he’d brought her. But she knew she’d reached her limit with one day. One glorious day.

  More time was too great a risk. More time making love with him would only bind her to him, a cord that could bring delight, but also great pain. More time and she’d likely fall under the spell of his charm. More time and she might convince herself that she needed him. Before she knew it, he would be able to control her every move. He’d change. Become brutal.

  She’d never go through that again.

  Even so, as she lay on her small bed, she yearned to be held by Oliver again. He’d opened a door that she’d thought closed for good—one that Duncan had slammed on her—and how was she to lock those feelings away again?

  She would, she vowed. She must.

  * * *

  That night Cecilia entered the club through the rear door. The Maison D’Eros was located near the Palais-Royal, which, at this late hour, became quite a different place from the one she’d strolled through with Oliver. She was glad Oliver would never know she was a part of this world. At night courtesans, departing from the theatre, promenaded with their patrons. Prostitutes strolled, hoping to attract clients.

  Cecilia might have been one of those unfortunate creatures had she not been rescued by Vincent, her one French ally. When Vincent found her that first desperate night at the Palais-Royal, she’d spent her last sou. Her search for employment had been futile. No Frenchman wished to hire an English lady for any reason—except the most wretched and shameful one. So she’d been reduced to that circumstance that night.

  Until Vincent took pity on her.

  Dear Vincent, the one man she felt comfortable with. Vincent was like a bosom beau and unlike anyone she’d ever met before. A man who adored womanly things, but preferred men to women. He was the very safest sort of ally. He took her under his wing and brought her
to the Maison D’Eros, talking the manager into letting her serve drinks for tips.

  ‘You must flirt with the rich gentlemen so that they buy more drinks and pay you more tips,’ Vincent had told her, then he showed her how to do it. She managed it by pretending she was someone else, not Cecilia Lockhart. The men started calling her Coquette, so she became Coquette.

  Coquette was brave. Coquette could tease men and put them in their place. Coquette could laugh at their silly jokes and admire their braggadocio. Coquette could sing bawdy songs and dance seductively. Coquette spoke only French.

  Soon men were begging for her favours and Vincent devised another plan.

  ‘I have a way you might become the rage of Paris! Paris’s most selective courtesan!’ he’d said to her one night.

  She’d been scraping by on her tips. ‘I told you, Vincent, I do not wish to be a courtesan. Bedding strange men is abhorrent to me.’

  He’d sighed. ‘Abhorrent to you, but my greatest pleasure.’ He’d placed his hand to his heart for a moment. ‘But, never mind. You will not have to bed anyone.’

  ‘How can one be a courtesan without the bedding?’ she’d asked.

  He’d explained it to her.

  And so Coquette became Madame Coquette, Paris’s most selective courtesan, selling her favours a mere two nights a week—without selling her favours at all.

  Tonight Vincent greeted her in the back room wearing a purple coat, a deep blue waistcoat and a bright yellow neckcloth—his work costume. His blond hair curled around his boyish face and his lips and cheeks were tinted a pale pink.

  ‘Madame Coquette, chérie!’ He kissed both cheeks in his flamboyant manner. ‘You look ravishing.’

  ‘As do you, mon cher.’ She kissed him in kind.

  ‘Who do you entertain tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Monsieur Legrand.’

  Legrand was a wealthy merchant who had made it a point to ingratiate himself with those in power during the restoration of the monarchy. It was said he courted favour with the Duke of Wellington, but now, with the Occupation near to its end, he’d turned to Frenchmen who were likely to come to power. Procuring a night with Madame Coquette was, no doubt, part of how he intended to impress.