A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

  She wanted to feel his arms around her again. To make love with him again. And again.

  She moved closer so her lips were near to his. He closed the gap and kissed her, his warm tongue tasting of brandy as it slipped into her mouth. His hand cupped her breast, his palm rubbing against her nipple and creating an ache that could only be eased by his touch.

  Or his joining with her.

  He held her against him, pressing her against his male member, making her ache even more intense.

  ‘I do not know what is wrong with me,’ she murmured. ‘It feels so—different. As if I will perish if you do not couple with me right now.’

  He rose on top of her. ‘I do not wish you to perish.’

  He entered her, slowly, almost reverently, and the passionate ache doubled.

  ‘Oliver.’ Her voice was a plea.

  He complied, moving inside her in a stroking that was at once easing the ache and intensifying it at the same time. It was a glorious, confusing mixture.

  He’d said they might merely enjoy this for the time it lasted. She could not do otherwise. He seemed wholly present with her in this moment, ready to relieve her fears and deepen her pleasure. Could she not muster that much courage to stay with him until her condition prevented it?

  She tossed away her caution and stopped resisting, stopped trying to comprehend. She gave in to every sensation he created and let the pleasure build even further to impossible heights until the pleasure exploded inside her, like the rockets she’d seen in battle. Oliver spilled his seed inside her once more and collapsed heavy on top of her for only a moment before moving to her side where they both languished in the afterglow of their frenzied act.

  She lay still, so relaxed that she doubted her limbs could hold her upright. Her thoughts were quiet, as if the thrill of lovemaking had driven them from her mind. She merely relished the heat of his body next to hers, the sound of his breathing.

  She might have drifted off to sleep, except a fluttering inside her roused her.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, touching her thickened belly.

  He rose on to an elbow. ‘What is it?’ His voice was worried.

  ‘The baby moved again,’ she whispered. ‘I can feel it.’

  This time she felt the movement beneath her fingers as well as inside her.

  As she had done once before, she took his hand and placed it on her abdomen, holding it still until the fluttering repeated.

  ‘Did you feel it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he rasped.

  The baby moved again and she and Oliver exchanged knowing smiles.

  She carried life insider her, a life that began with lovemaking much like this. With Oliver.

  She turned to him and cuddled against him. Yes. She would enjoy a little more time together with him.

  * * *

  Feeling a new life beneath his fingertips, Oliver experienced a fierce sense of protectiveness towards her and this child. In his mind she and the baby were his. For ever. No matter that she would leave him.

  ‘I feel happy,’ she said in a surprised voice.

  He held her closer. He felt happy, too.

  ‘I cannot remember when I last felt happy,’ she went on.

  He could remember. He’d last felt happy in Paris, on that day they shared together. Could they recreate it?

  He had an idea. ‘Tomorrow would you like to explore London?’ As they had explored Paris. ‘We could visit St Paul’s Cathedral and walk through the city. It would not compare with the Louvre, but we could visit Bullock’s Museum. What do you say?’

  She moved so they were face to face. ‘It sounds like a lovely idea.’

  * * *

  The next day Oliver took Cecilia to St Paul’s Cathedral. Like Notre Dame, it dominated the skyline of the city. From almost anywhere in the city, one could turn and see its great dome, which was gleaming white on this rare brisk and sunny winter day. St Paul’s had been built over three hundred years later than Notre Dame, replacing a Gothic cathedral on the same site that had been destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666. St Paul’s was classical architecture, with its dome, columns, arches and symmetry.

  They explored the three naves inside the church and all its chapels, examined the beautiful masonry and ran their fingers over the woodcarving of the choirs. St Paul’s lacked the magnificent stained-glass windows of Notre Dame casting rainbows of colour, but its interior was bright, in part due to the windows on the great dome.

  Oliver savoured the time with Cecilia—enjoying her while he could. In Paris, he’d known their time together would end—so, too, would it end in London.

  Ironically, he’d vowed never to marry, believing no woman would want to marry a bastard half-caste for anything other than his money. Under such circumstances a marriage like that was doomed to unhappiness. It never particularly bothered him not to marry, because he preferred to be free to pursue pleasure and women did not mind his half-caste self in bed, only not as a husband.

  But he wanted to marry Cecilia. He wanted to raise the baby as his own. He wanted to spend his life making them both happy.

  She did not want it, though. And not because of his birth.

  As they walked the long distance of the nave’s white-and-black-chequered stone floor, he shook himself out of these musings and decided to enjoy the moment, as she’d asked. As they’d done in Paris.

  ‘What did you think?’ Oliver asked her as they reached the great doors of the cathedral to go outside again.

  ‘It is grander than I expected,’ she replied. ‘But I miss the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame.’

  He opened the door. ‘It is Christopher Wren’s crowning achievement,’ Oliver said.

  They walked back onto the street in the midday sun. The weather, though much colder, rivalled that beautiful day they’d spent in Paris. It was crisp and cool and windy enough to blow the air clean of the usual veil of smoke that covered the city.

  ‘Could we walk back?’ Cecilia asked him. ‘It is such a fine day!’

  Was she reading his thoughts? ‘We could indeed.’ He smiled at her. ‘I need to let my groom know.’

  He’d driven them to the cathedral in his phaeton and his groom waited for them nearby, tending to the horses.

  ‘We have decided to walk,’ Oliver said to the man. ‘Drive them home, would you?’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  Oliver and Cecilia started walking along Fleet Street.

  ‘It is not all that far, is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Two miles or so.’ It felt good to be outside, stretching his legs, walking with her.

  She took his arm and they strolled together as they had done in Paris. She did not know London, so he pointed out buildings of interest along the way. St Bride’s Church. The various inns of Fleet Street. St Clement’s, standing where Fleet Street became the Strand.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

  She did not answer; merely lifted one shoulder.

  She must be. ‘I am hungry,’ he declared. ‘Let us detour to Covent Garden. There will be food there.’

  In the early mornings, wagons filled with produce grown outside the city and other wares descended on Covent Garden for a market that had existed for years. It was as rowdy a place as St Paul’s had been peaceful. A cacophony of vendors hawked everything from vegetables, fruits and herbs, to hedgehogs.

  Oliver spied an old woman tending a still. He pulled Cecilia over to her stand. The old woman was filling bowls with some steaming hot liquid.

  ‘We must have some salop,’ he said.

  Salop was a hot drink made from sassafras wood and infused with milk and sugar. It was like nectar for the gods.

  On many a pre-dawn hour Oliver and his friends had soothed aching heads with hot salop after imbibing
too much liquor at one of the disreputable gambling houses or houses of ill repute in Covent Garden.

  Oliver gave the old woman a coin and she poured the steaming liquid into two bowls. Oliver handed one to Cecilia.

  She tasted it cautiously, then looked up at Oliver in surprise. ‘It is good!’

  ‘Who could dislike it?’ Oliver lifted his bowl to his mouth.

  The salop not only tasted wonderful, it warmed him inside.

  They walked on, looking at the displays of vegetables and fruits, stopping at another vendor to purchase ginger cakes.

  When they neared the flower sellers, Cecilia exclaimed, ‘Oh! Smell the evergreens!’

  She hurried to the wagons selling lush cuttings of holly, pine, hawthorn and juniper.

  She turned to Oliver. ‘Might we purchase some? I have some money with me. It has been so long since I have decorated a house for Christmas. Might we do so?’

  She looked as excited as a little girl.

  Christmas had never been a happy time for him. He’d either been left at school while his father and stepmother attended a country house party or he’d been stuck staying out of the way when the house party had been at his father’s estate. He did remember some enjoyment gathering evergreens to adorn the house on Christmas Eve. He’d been able to climb high in the trees to cut branches or gather mistletoe.

  The scent of this greenery reminded him of those days.

  ‘Of course, if you desire it,’ he answered her. ‘But I will pay.’

  She danced in front of him, her cloak coming open. He caught a glimpse of the pearl she wore around her neck, the one he had bought her in Paris. It pleased him that she wore it. It pleased him, as well, that small things like a pearl necklace or fragrant evergreens made her smile.

  He’d buy her a forest of greenery if it kept that smile on her face.

  He followed her as she flitted from wagon to wagon, trying to decide on what she wanted.

  ‘Buy it all,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’ll pay a lad to bring it to the house.’

  While she picked branches of holly, hawthorn and pine, he spied a ball of mistletoe and purchased it when she was not looking. He hired a couple of boys to help them carry the greenery to the house. By the time they neared the town house, Cecilia’s cheeks were tinged pink and her eyes sparkled.

  Oliver could not have been more gratified.

  ‘I have an errand,’ she said suddenly. ‘Just a quick run to the shops. I—I want to buy something for Mary. She has been such a help to me.’

  ‘I will come with you if you wait a moment.’ All he needed to do was hand off the boys and their bundles to Irwin.

  ‘No. No.’ A nervous edge came into her voice. ‘It will only take a moment. I’ll buy her pretty muslin or something at Harding, Howell and Company, perhaps. And ribbons and things for our decorations.’

  She sounded secretive. It raised his suspicions.

  ‘As you wish.’ He pulled out his purse and handed her some coin. ‘For the decorations.’

  She looked at the money in her palm, gave him a smile and dashed off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It had been such a lovely day, Cecilia’s heart was floating on air. Even more than the cathedral she’d enjoyed the market at Covent Garden, so filled with pretty vegetables and fruits and tantalising treats. She’d loved the salop and the ginger cakes, but mostly she adored Oliver for buying all the evergreen cuttings.

  She intended to go to Harding, Howell and Company, a linen draper just a couple of streets away on Pall Mall, but her real errand took her first down Jermyn Street to Floris.

  She entered the shop and the same clerk, who had served Oliver and her a few days before, greeted her again. ‘Good day, madam. May I assist you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stepped forward. ‘I would like to purchase a nice gift for a gentleman. Would you help me decide?’

  ‘Some scent?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Something more enduring. Something he would use.’ She wanted something he would remember her by, like the pearl necklace.

  ‘Let me show you our combs.’ The clerk displayed a variety of combs. She selected one made of tortoiseshell and silver. The clerk wrapped it for her.

  She hurried to the draper’s and purchased ribbons to adorn the evergreens and a length of a pretty sprigged muslin for Mary.

  When she headed back to the town house, she felt like skipping along the pavement as she’d done when a little girl. She was excited about her gift to Oliver, excited to decorate and to share Christmas with him.

  But she kept a normal pace. When she turned to walk to the town-house door, a man approached her, taking her by surprise.

  Sir Nash Bowles.

  ‘There you are.’ He moved towards her with an unsteady gait.

  She tried to edge towards the door.

  ‘I remembered you.’ His words were slurred, adding even more emphasis to his rasping lisp. ‘You are Madame Coquette. From Paris. I know all about you.’

  He came close enough for her to smell liquor on his breath.

  ‘Leave me alone, Sir Nash.’

  She reached the door, but he seized her arm and pulled her away. She dropped her packages and cried out, ‘No! Let me go!’

  Bowles cried, ‘I want to learn what Gregory knows. You find out or I’ll make trouble for you.’

  She tried to pull away, but his grip was surprisingly strong.

  The door flew open and Oliver charged out. He grabbed Bowles by the collar and wrenched him away from Cecilia.

  Bowles came back at Oliver, leaping on him, fists flying. Oliver took some blows before he was able to hit him back. He knocked Bowles to the pavement and the two men rolled on the ground and into the street.

  Cecilia screamed.

  A carriage narrowly missed running over them. Oliver made it to his feet first and went to hit Bowles again, but Cecilia could stand it no longer.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ She ran over to Oliver and tried to pull him away.

  Oliver backed off, breathing heavily. Bowles got to his feet and limped away.

  Oliver turned to Cecilia. ‘Are you harmed?’ He rubbed the hand that Bowles’s knife had cut.

  She glanced at his hand in alarm. ‘Are you hurt?’

  He shook his head. ‘I aggravated the cut.’

  ‘I’m not hurt,’ she finally responded. ‘Frightened, though.’ Frightened at his violence.

  He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Come inside.’

  Irwin was in the doorway, looking alarmed.

  ‘Have Mrs Irwin bring tea up to Mrs Lockhart’s room,’ Oliver told him.

  Oliver walked Cecilia up the stairs and entered the room with her. He untied the ribbons of her cloak. He took it off her shoulders and laid it down on a chair.

  ‘Sit down, Cecilia. There will be tea here soon.’ He walked her to the sitting room. ‘Or would you prefer some claret? Or brandy?’

  ‘Tea.’

  There was a knock on the door. Mrs Irwin brought tea.

  She placed the tray on the table near the sofa.

  ‘How are you, dear?’ she asked. ‘That was such a fright!’

  Cecilia made herself smile. ‘I am a little shaken. Your tea will fix me up.’

  Mrs Irwin nodded. ‘Nothing tea cannot help.’ She patted Cecilia’s hand. ‘Now you tell us if you need anything else.’

  The woman was kind. ‘Thank you, Mrs Irwin.’

  After Mrs Irwin left, Oliver sat in a chair opposite Cecilia. ‘What did Bowles want?’

  ‘He was drunk. Not making sense. He wanted to know what you know.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Know what I know? About what?’

  ‘He did not say.’ She did not add that Bowles threatened to make trouble for her
.

  ‘He’s been trouble from the first. I banned him after learning about Flo, but we should have banned him years ago.’ He opened and closed his injured hand. ‘How many times must I fight him?’

  ‘Do men always fight?’ she murmured.

  It was not meant as a question for him, but he answered anyway. ‘More than not.’

  His answer did not reassure her.

  * * *

  Oliver watched her. He’d seen the panic in her face when she pulled him away from Bowles. Now she looked pale and drawn.

  What a damnable end to their perfect day.

  She pressed her hand to her abdomen and turned even paler.

  ‘What is it?’ Something was wrong.

  ‘I—I need to be private for a moment.’ She stood.

  He left the room, but remained by her doorway waiting, his alarm growing.

  She finally opened the door, but clung to the door jamb.

  ‘Oliver...’ Her voice shook. ‘Find Mary. I am bleeding. I do not know what to do.’

  Bleeding?

  ‘Mary!’ His voice boomed. ‘Mary! Come here this instant!’ He put an arm around Cecilia. ‘Let me take you to your bed.’

  When they reached the side of the bed, he picked her up and placed her on it. ‘I’ll find Mary.’

  He ran out of the door, only to discover Mary hurrying up the stairs.

  ‘What is wrong, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Cecilia is bleeding. Tend to her. I am sending for the doctor.’ He bounded down the stairs and found Irwin and his wife at the bottom staring up to see what the commotion was about.

  ‘Get the doctor,’ he said to Irwin. ‘Quick. She’s—she’s bleeding.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Mrs Irwin bustled upstairs.

  Oliver paced the hall outside Cecilia’s bedchamber door while the women tended her.

  He’d lost too much already. His mother. His childhood home. His trust. His friend Nicholas. He did not want to lose this baby.

  Or Cecilia.

  He could give them what he’d lost in India. A name. Security. Love.