The Courtesan's Courtship

by Gail Ranstrom

  “My fan. My shawl.”

  “I shall buy you new ones.”

  Once on the street, Lord Lockwood, waiting for his carriage to be brought around, turned and gave them a long look. After a moment, he smiled and nodded. “Geoff, Miss Deauville. I thought you only meant to make your feet green tonight.”

  She glanced up at “Geoff” before replying with a French accent. “Là! It is only Lord Geoffrey, my lord. ’E is a mere dampening of my toes.”

  Lockwood laughed and Geoff wondered if she was truly mad to taunt him thus. He’d always liked Lockwood—until this moment. He tightened his grip on Miss Lovejoy’s arm and led her toward a hired coach with a nod in Lockwood’s direction.

  When the vehicle pulled away from the curb, she turned to him and took a deep breath. “What was that about, Lord Geoffrey?”

  “That was about saving you from complete ruin.”

  “None of them even knew it was me.”

  “Miss Deauville? Where the hell did you come up with that?”

  “How did you recognize me, Lord Geoffrey?”

  He couldn’t tell her he’d have recognized her smile from much farther away than across a crowded theater. Or that the real beauty mark just above her left breast would have given her away at close range, or that her laugh had become as familiar to him as his own. Instead he answered with another question. “Do you have any idea what those men thought you were?”

  “A courtesan,” she said.

  My God! She had done it deliberately. Her reply gave rise to at least a dozen more questions, but the most burning one at the moment he voiced. “Can you even begin to know what men like Lockwood would expect from you?”

  “I believe so, but—”

  “Little fool! You couldn’t possibly have the slightest notion of the depth of intimacy that would be demanded of you to even skirt the edges of the demimonde.” Before he could think better of it, he pulled her into his arms to teach her that particular lesson. “Best you learn it now, before it is too late to turn back.”

  Her little gasp of surprise did nothing to call him to his senses. He pressed her against his chest until there was not an inch of her, from the soft swell of her breasts to the pounding of her heart, that wasn’t burned into his memory. Her arms came up to push him away, but he was beyond recall. He loosened his hold enough to lift her chin, then took her mouth in a bruising kiss. She had to know. She had to be prepared for the insatiable appetite of men like Lockwood. Of men like him.

  Her heat, her scent, her wildly beating heart filled his senses and urged him to deeper intimacies. He lost any sense of time. Somewhere between anger and the need to teach her a lesson, the kiss had turned into more. Her pounding on his chest had given way to her arms curling around his neck and her fingers twining through his hair. Her lips parted at his insistence and she welcomed his tongue with a faint moan.

  He shouldn’t. He was the worst sort of reprobate. Ah, but he couldn’t stop. The pull was too strong, his hunger too great. His mouth still on hers, he moved his hand from her chin, down the curve of her throat to the slope of her breast, swallowing her little squeal of surprise. Her décolletage was so low that it took little effort to lift one perfect ivory orb free of its confines. He kissed his way downward, then captured the tight bud of her nipple between his teeth, giving it a gentle nip before taking it between his lips and rolling it with his tongue. My God! She tasted like summer strawberries—warm, sweet, ripened to perfection. He ached with a need so fierce it took him by surprise. It had been months since he’d had a woman, and his hunger rose to taunt him. A minute more and he’d throw all his lofty principles about teaching her a lesson aside.

  She gasped. But it wasn’t with the shock he expected. It was with passion. Her head fell back with a hungry moan and she slipped her fingers through his hair to cup his head and hold him against her. He’d have given his life to draw out that moment of madness, but the coach stopped with a lurch, recalling him to his senses at last.

  As abruptly as he had begun the kiss—and with considerably more difficulty—he ended it. Leaving her to repair herself as best she could, he stepped down and paid the driver, then turned and lifted the would-be courtesan out.

  Without a backward look or the least regret, he headed for the door as the coach pulled away, noting Miss Lovejoy’s angry footfalls behind him. When he opened the door, she stormed past him, vilifying him on her way. As well she should. For his part, he did not regret a second of it.

  Chapter Seven

  Caught between passion and anger, Dianthe burned with humiliation. How could he have used her so? How utterly unconscionable. “Libertine!” she exclaimed. “Devil!”

  “At the very least,” Morgan agreed as he slammed the door with an echoing bang.

  “Oh, the unmitigated gall to use me in such a manner! Who do you think I am?”

  “That is precisely what I was trying to demonstrate. Had you been a demirep in truth, I’d have had you on your back with your legs in the air by the time we arrived here. One more trip around Covent Garden and I’d have been done with you.”

  From the corner of her eye, Dianthe caught a shadow scurrying down the servants’ hall. She was past caring what the servants she’d never seen thought. She threw her reticule at Morgan’s head.

  He swatted it away and gave her a cynical smile. “Still want to masquerade as a courtesan now that you know a small measure of the consequences, Miss Lovejoy?”

  “How dare you question me? You swore you would not interfere with me in any way. You said you made it your business never to interfere. You said if I came here we would be leading separate lives.”

  “And so we are, Miss Lovejoy. I just thought you might like a little taste of what you were courting.”

  The memory of his tongue pushing past her lips in a most intimate manner, of his mouth on her breast, drawing forth a wild sweet yearning, nearly made her dizzy. How could she have forgotten herself so completely? Her uncertainty must have shown, because he stepped closer to her and lowered his voice.

  “Not that you weren’t quite delectable, my dear. I’d have paid dearly to have you whilst you were still fresh and before some other man had ruined you.”

  She gasped at the undisguised sexuality of that comment. “It was never my intention to…that was not what I planned—”

  “And speaking of that, what in God’s name was your plan?”

  “To…to test the waters. To see if I could pass as a courtesan.”

  “The answer is a resounding yes!” He spread his arms wide. “But why the bloody hell would you want to?”

  “That is not your business, Lord Geoffrey.” She planted her feet firmly and placed her fists on her hips.

  “I quite agree. I should have left you standing on the stairway of the Theatre Royal with a multitude of men ready to tear at you like a pack of dogs. It was just a mistaken notion that you would not want that. A mistake I shan’t make again.”

  “I should hope not!” she said, lifting her chin in defiance.

  “Indulge me, Miss Lovejoy. Why, precisely, would you want to pass as a courtesan?”

  Dianthe clamped her jaw shut. Oh, how she did not want to tell him. He would just ridicule her. But if she didn’t, he would continue to dog her footsteps and get in her way. And the truth was kinder than what he was thinking. Two days ago, she hadn’t cared in the least what he might think of her, but today, for some reason unknown to her, she did.

  “I am waiting, Miss Lovejoy. Astonish me with your brilliance.”

  “Very well. My plan is to enter the demimonde and befriend Nell Brookes’s friends. They will tell me nothing unless they trust me, and to trust me, they must think I am one of them.”

  Lord Geoffrey seemed to consider this. “Not a bad plan, Miss Lovejoy, for one more experienced than you. But last I heard, virgins were not common in that circle. You are still a virgin, are you not?”

  Dianthe could feel the heat of a blush from her toes clear up to her
forehead. She sputtered for a moment, completely at a loss for words. Then she exclaimed, “Once again, Lord Morgan, you prove your lack of breeding!”

  “Yes, I can see that you are.” He nodded, completely ignoring her attempt to divert him. “How did you plan to avoid the interest of men? Or, more to the point, how did you plan to turn away all comers and still look the part?”

  “I…I thought perhaps I could be coy. Let them think I was taking my time before making a choice.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “You really are naive, are you not? Were you a demimondaine, your income, your very existence, would depend upon your willingness to entertain men.”

  “Any man? But they would think I was a…a—”

  “Courtesan?” he finished. “Was that not the point?”

  “But would I not lose value with the number of men I entertained?”

  He laughed. “To the contrary, Miss Lovejoy. In your profession, experience is a more valuable commodity than innocence. The more you learn about pleasing a man, the greater your value. Men who consort with Cyprians are not looking for a wife to bear his heir. They are looking for a woman who will do things a wife will not, and without the incumbent obligations. One night. Two. An exclusive arrangement for a period of time. It matters not. What matters is that she should have skills that would be unspeakable with your kind, and that she give pleasure without demurring. Inexperience is a novelty, soon gone, but experience is compelling…seductive.”

  Unspeakable skill? Pleasure without demurring? Dianthe swallowed her astonishment. “Could I not just put them off?”

  “It would be remarked upon that you were not in the game. And it would take considerably more skill than you possess to play that game. The men waiting for you at the foot of the stairs tonight—what would you have done with them? How would you have come away unscathed?”

  She shook her head. She had been in a panic when she had seen so many of them waiting for her. She had been the object of many men’s attention before, but this was beyond anything she’d ever encountered. And she had seen the look in their eyes. They would not have been as easy to put off as Lord Lockwood. “Why?” she asked, voicing her confusion. “Why did so many of them want me?”

  “Because as a demimondaine, you have a power over them that their sisters, mothers and wives could never wield. You have what they desperately want. What every man wants.”

  She held her breath as she asked, “What?”

  “Freedom to be themselves. Release. Peace, if only for a moment. Pleasure beyond description. Gratification without guilt. Acceptance without judgment. Comfort in a cold world.”

  She shuddered and closed her eyes for a moment to regain her composure. “If this is all true, then is this not the woman you should marry?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Good God, Miss Lovejoy, how naive. A respectable man would never marry a courtesan. Nor would he traffic with a courtesan’s family. I would never marry a courtesan.”

  Never marry a courtesan? “But if she can give all those things—”

  “She cannot give the assurance that the child she bears is yours. She cannot attend a state dinner or a ball without numbering the men whose bed she has shared. And the fact that she suits you between the sheets does not mean she is suitable in all other areas. Intelligence, education, common goals, trust and loyalty are what a man needs in a wife. The other—the courtesan—he can purchase.”

  Of course. And that was why the two worlds existed side by side. One for pleasure. One for the future. And then the full impact of his words slammed into her. Nor would they traffic with a courtesan’s family. Her family. He was too good for the Lovejoys? She tilted her chin upward and gave him her coldest glare.

  “Thank you for the education, Lord Geoffrey. But I am set on my path. And I intend to hold you to your vow not to interfere with me. And as for you…well, I hope you get just what you deserve.”

  His expression thunderous, he threw his hands up in surrender and turned abruptly, heading for the front door. If this was victory, it was hollow.

  In the cold light of day, Geoff was still furious with the stubborn little minx. She didn’t have an ounce of common sense. Well, he would not take responsibility for her, and she would not back away from a dangerous course, so she could not complain that he had taken certain measures. What other choice had she left him?

  He paced the length of the ballroom, keeping one eye on the door and the other on a disapproving Joseph Prescott. He wished to hell he could predict her reaction to his next plan. Either way, she would not make this difficult. He would see to that.

  To his chagrin, he could not banish the memory of what had happened in the coach last night—of what he’d done to Miss Lovejoy. He’d completely lost his senses and it must never happen again. He needed distance between them, and perhaps the best way was to use a courtesan. Surely once he was sated, Miss Lovejoy would not hold such a fascination for him.

  Prescott lowered his bushy dark brows in disapproval. “This is most improper. Furthermore, I have no experience in this sort of endeavor.”

  “You were relentless where I was concerned, sir. I expect you will do no less for her.”

  “Daily, my lord? Could we not schedule it weekly?”

  Geoff stopped his pacing and studied the tall wiry man. Nothing of his form or grace betrayed his middle years. Built more like a dancer than a fighter, he was as fit as he’d been when he’d taught Geoff. “Is it money, Prescott? I’ll pay more.”

  “It is the entire…unsuitability of the scheme. Not to mention the futility. Women are not gifted by nature with either the spirit or physical endowments.”

  Geoff smiled, thinking of Miss Lovejoy’s spirit. There was nothing lacking there. As for the physical endowments, she was blessed with more than her fair share, but perhaps not in the sense that Prescott had meant.

  “She needs to learn as quickly as possible, Prescott. Her life may depend upon it.”

  At the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, he crossed to the center of the room, praying she’d at least be civil. In his experience, Miss Lovejoy could be quite a shrew. If so, Prescott was likely to say there was not enough money in England to take on the task.

  She had tied her hair back in a ribbon this morning and was wearing a frock of a light fabric embroidered with flowers in a cluster pattern. Stripped of her disguise, she looked younger than she had last night, and years more innocent. He wondered if that would help his argument with Prescott.

  “You summoned me?” she said, the accusation that he’d been arrogant in her tone once again. “And can you not do something about your staff? They slip notes under my door and leave trays with no more than a timid knock. Have you told them I eat servants for breakfast?”

  Ignoring her complaint, he gestured Prescott to come forward. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Joseph Prescott, Miss Deauville. He is undoubtedly the best fencing master in England.”

  She turned to regard Prescott, who was running his finger along the edge of the cutlass blade. He looked up and his gaze swept Miss Lovejoy from head to toe. To Geoff’s dismay, he noted a flicker of admiration in the man’s gray eyes. She bobbed a quick curtsy and turned back to him, clearly waiting for an explanation.

  “I have hired him to instruct you,” he said.

  She blinked. Had he actually managed to surprise her?

  “He is not particularly pleased with the task, so I must ask you to cooperate as much as it is in your nature to do so,” he continued.

  “Might I ask why, Lord Morgan?”

  “I have told you that I will not be your protector, true? I will not rescue you, nor will I interfere with your business. And, since you insist upon putting yourself at risk, you had best learn how to defend yourself.”

  She laughed and her china-blue eyes sparkled merrily. “Do you fear someone will challenge me to a duel?”

  “Not as much as I fear you will place yourself in some foolish position that will require you to defe
nd yourself. You’d best know how, Miss Deauville, since I will not be there next time.”

  “You are serious? You think I will engage in a sword fight?”

  “The principles will be excellent training and are the same for most defensive arts. What you must learn, and quickly, is concentration, composure when faced with danger, feint and thrust, advance and retreat, forming a strategy quickly and following through. Instinctive reactions.”

  “You think me capable of such things?” She glanced again at Mr. Prescott, an uncertain look on her face.

  “Do not doubt his abilities, Miss Deauville,” Geoffrey told her. “He taught me, and he will teach you. Additionally, I shall hire a boxing master to instruct you in the pugilistic arts.”

  “Boxing?” She laughed outright. “Should someone of your stature attempt to box me, do you really think I could prevail?”

  “You needn’t win, Miss Deauville. Often just living another day is prevailing. You are capable of learning enough to put your opponent off his guard. Or of putting him at a disadvantage with an elbow or knee.”

  Prescott circled Miss Lovejoy, his gaze sweeping her in appraisal, as if analyzing her strengths and weaknesses. “Miss Deauville will require suitable clothing unless you wish her to practice in her pantalettes—something fitting closer to her body, and without frills. I will require her to have a keen sense of the blade and be free enough to wield it.”

  Geoff tightened his jaw at the thought of her in a chemise and pantalettes. Could that be a prick of jealousy that had his hackles up? Prescott was entering into this with rather more enthusiasm than a few minutes ago. Judging by the look on the fencing master’s face, Geoff should have her fitted for a pair of trousers and a shirt.

  Miss Lovejoy stepped forward. “Pardon me, my lord, if I seem confused. Do I have no say in this at all?”

  “None, unless you are courting my interference. As you will not listen to good sense, you will need to prepare to defend yourself, since I do not intend to be in the vicinity.”