The Courtesan's Courtship

by Gail Ranstrom

  “I won’t hurt you, Dianthe.” He came up on his knees and kissed her belly. “If you trust nothing else, trust that.”

  She made a sound in the back of her throat and chill bumps rose on her flesh. “None of this hurts, Geoffrey. ’Tis just so…so brazen.”

  If she kept saying his name like that, he’d lose what self-control he had left. “You are perfection,” he whispered, wanting to reassure her. Moving lower, he kissed the curly thatch of nether hair, reveling in the scent, taste and texture of her.

  Women were exotic creatures, to be cherished, respected and appreciated for what they were. For him, making love was not mere copulation. Not just a steady mindless drive to orgasm. It was a journey, full of discovery, subtleties, experimentation and shared delight. And with Dianthe, it was more. His senses were heightened, attuned to hers. He was experiencing the act through her. He was lost in her, helpless to resist her slightest wish, driven and directed by her sighs, her moans, her gasps.

  He held her hips steady as he deepened his kiss, moving subtly lower. She swayed, and he knew her knees were about to give way. He stood quickly and caught her, laying her back on the plush pillows and cool velvet counterpane. Her eyes had deepened to a midnight hue and her cheeks were flushed with passion. She was Venus on the verge. And she was reaching out to him.

  Heel to toe, he pried his boots off and kicked them away. He finished the job of unfastening his trousers that Dianthe had begun in the ballroom, and rid himself of those, too. Finally naked, he joined her on the bed.

  He needed to slow this down, to be certain she was ready, that she had shed any trace of virginal reticence and had no reservations about going forward. He had to know it was him that she wanted, and that she hadn’t just been caught up in a moment of madness.

  He nibbled her earlobe, then kissed his way to the hollow of her throat. She smelled of lilies and musk, both innocent and luxuriant. She made a sound that was half moan, half sigh, and reached for him.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Easy, Dianthe. I have plans for you. Things I’ve dreamed of doing to you since the day I met you. Do not speak. Do not think. Only feel. And trust that I will not hurt you.”

  She settled back against the pillows and a surge of possessiveness swept through him. He had a sudden desire to mark her as his. He found the tender dip of her collarbone and kissed her there, applying gentle suction. She made a mewling sound that tickled along his nerve endings, and he lifted his head to look at her.

  Long dark lashes fanned against her flushed cheeks, and her teeth bit into her lower lip as if to prevent an outcry. She was lost in a world of sensory pleasure, aware only of him and what he was doing to her. The edges of the little love bite he’d left on her collarbone blurred into the fevered flush of her skin, and he smiled with satisfaction before moving lower.

  Her breasts, aroused and peaked with firm rosy nipples, were like berries ripe and ready for plucking. He nipped at one, savoring it. The firm beaded texture teased his tongue and he cherished first one and then the other until her sighs deepened to moans. Ah, he couldn’t leave them. They were too enticing, too responsive, to abandon yet. But Dianthe’s passion was growing apace and she would demand more before long. He continued his kisses, increasing the pressure as he slipped his hand downward and found the small bundle of nerves he had so recently been denied.

  One tentative touch with the soft pad of his thumb sent Dianthe into trembling gasps. She clutched at his shoulders, her fingernails biting into his flesh. And now she’d left her mark on him. Her reaction had been just what he’d wanted. All he’d hoped for.

  When she’d caught her breath and her trembling ceased, he pushed his hand lower, finding the entrance of her passage. Ah, sweet Jesus! She was hot and slick—responsive beyond his dreams. She shuddered with shock when he probed the shallow entry with one finger.

  He clenched his jaw, drawing on his reserves for whatever strength he could still find. This was Dianthe’s initiation. Her attitude toward the sensual arts was dependent upon what he did tonight, and he wouldn’t rush, and risk ruining her or losing her trust. He couldn’t. She’d become far too important to him. This was his gift to her—the awakening of her sensuality.

  He eased his finger out, then back in, beginning a rhythmic stroking, and drew forth a sweet whimpering. Instinctively, she lifted one knee to give him better access, then began moving in concert with his stroking. She was Aphrodite, Venus and Diana. She was meant for making love.

  Dianthe’s breathing grew rapid and shallow as she neared her completion. The end was sudden and shattering. She arched, clutching the counterpane, with her fists and crying out “Geoffrey…!” and “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  As her inner muscles closed around his fingers, hunger hammered in his brain, thundered through his blood, threatened to ruin everything by inciting a blinding urge to bury himself inside her and find his own satisfaction. He’d never experienced passion so intense before. Nor would he likely ever again.

  He moved upward, gathering Dianthe into his arms, stroking the curve of her back, smoothing her hair out of her eyes, kissing away her tears of release, murmuring praise and endearments. She clung to him as her ragged breathing evened and she surrendered to sleep. And that was enough.

  The few scruples he had left had prevented him from taking her virginity and thereby her future. His pride would not allow it. But never again would he lie with Dianthe without taking her in full. That would surely drive him mad.

  “Lost them all, miss?” Giles frowned as he looked down at the shirt in Dianthe’s hand.

  “No, not lost. They…they came off.” She was still feeling lazy and luxurious from the night before, and she couldn’t seem to make her brain work. “I need to sew them back on. Please make my excuses to Mr. Prescott and tell him I shall be prepared for our lesson tomorrow.”

  “I see,” Giles said, clearly not “seeing” at all.

  Fearing she would blush, she struggled to set her mind on anything at all besides the events of last night. Giles would certainly suspect something, if he didn’t already. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the narrow sideboard in the small sitting room. “But I will see Miss Osgood when she arrives. Please do not bother announcing her. Just send her in.”

  “Yes, miss.” He picked up her luncheon tray and made his way to the door.

  She cleared her throat. “Oh, Giles? Have you seen Lord Geoffrey today?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Curse the taciturn man! Would he volunteer nothing? “Is he about?”

  “No, miss.”

  “Did he say when he’d be back?”

  “Not until tomorrow evening, miss.”

  “He left town?” Did he regret the night before so much that he’d fled?

  “At dawn, miss.” Giles sighed, as if realizing that he would have to volunteer information if he did not want to be here all day. “On business, he said.”

  Or was he simply trying to avoid her? Dianthe looked down at her fencing shirt and heard the soft click of the door as Giles closed it behind him. She attacked the shirt with needle and thread as she tried to sort out the jumble in her mind.

  She’d woken to find herself alone beneath the velvet counterpane. She was country bred, had spent her first twenty years observing animal husbandry, and knew enough about the physical aspects of mating to know that she was still a virgin. Despite the breathtaking things he had done to her last night, Geoffrey Morgan had left her intact.

  Had she been so dreadful as to send him running out of town? Lord! Was he laughing at her? Appalled by her naiveté? “Gauche,” he’d told Miss Osgood. “Daunting.” Had he been so disgusted that he could not even face her?

  Oh, but Dianthe should have known. He’d told her, warned her several times. Virgins were a novelty, but not worth the trouble. They soon grew tedious, he’d said, and experience was far more alluring. That even a homely woman willing to put puritanical morals aside was more seductive, more attractive to a man than a reigning
beauty. Like she had been.

  She put down her sewing and went to look at her reflection in the mirror over the sideboard. She appeared much the same as always, but her newly critical eye saw more this time. She noted a prim little pinch between her eyes, a slightly haughty lift to her chin, a studied composure that betrayed little of what was going on beneath the surface—all the things she’d been told were ladylike and desirable in the ton. Pleasant. That was it. She was pleasant looking. But there was nothing about her that spoke of acceptance or warmth or welcome. High-minded and judgmental, Geoffrey had called her.

  But when she’d been Lizette, she’d put on a more flirtatious personality. She’d tried to look open and approachable, because she’d needed to inspire confidences. And men, attractive, powerful men like Lockwood, who’d never even noticed her at soirees and balls, were drawn to her. Inspired to flirt with her and even suggest alliances, however unsuitable.

  Geoffrey’s words when she’d asked what men found attractive in courtesans came back to her in a rush. 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. Give it, and a man is your slave. Withhold it, and he becomes surly and resentful.

  Now she understood. A proper sort of woman, even a wife, would not have permitted the liberties she’d allowed Geoffrey last night. And would never reciprocate. Was that what he wanted from women? From her?

  The sitting room door opened and Miss Osgood entered, divesting herself of her bonnet and gloves. “Bonjour, Miss Deauville. Mr. Giles said you were expecting me.”

  Dianthe turned from the mirror, still reeling from her revelations. “Miss Osgood, I must learn everything you can possibly teach me, and as quickly as possible.”

  “Heavens! I thought you were somewhat reluctant.”

  “Not any longer. I want to know all.”

  Miss Osgood laughed and sat on the sofa opposite Dianthe’s chair, waiting for Dianthe to join her. “Perhaps you should tell me what you’d most like to know, and we can start from there.”

  She sat, took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. “I would most like to know how to make a man wild with desire.”

  “You certainly know a part of that,” Miss Osgood said with an arched eyebrow. “You’ve captured the attention of Lord Geoffrey.”

  “I fear that was…accidental. We were thrown together by circumstances. Our relationship just…well, happened. I think it surprised us both.”

  “Lord Geoffrey would not take you to his bed just because you were convenient. But I gather you mean that he did not woo you, or court your favors.”

  Dianthe looked down at her folded hands. “No. I mean I think it was entirely unintentional. If he thought I was desirable, why would he have hired you to tutor me?”

  “My dear,” Miss Osgood said, leaning forward to touch the little bruise on Dianthe’s collarbone, “this is quite intentional. He put that there so that others would know you belong to him. And he hired me to instruct you in regard to what is expected from a woman in your position. He would not throw his money away on lessons if he did not intend to keep you around for a bit.”

  She looked Miss Osgood in the eye and confessed, “I have been most recently connected to the ton. An unfortunate incident has…has ruined my prospects. I fear I know little more than what any young lady of similar background would know. Which is to say, nothing.”

  Miss Osgood laughed so hard she had to dab at her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief. “Oh, but this is rich! To think that Geoffrey Morgan has been brought down by a debutante! Well, no wonder then that you know so little. But do you know anyone who has been accused of ‘very fast behavior’?” She waited while Dianthe nodded. “Well, that is what I intend to teach you. Very fast behavior.”

  “Men find that attractive?”

  “Very, because he does not intend to marry you. You must learn to balance it. You must value yourself or a man will not. You must make promises with your eyes and body, but deny the prize until you have reached agreement as to your compensation. Then you will be able to drive a man wild with desire.”

  “Yes! How do I do that?”

  “Shed all your former conceptions of what constitutes acceptable behavior. You must learn how to use your gifts shamelessly. Men are really quite easily pleased. They want only to be accepted and encouraged in their pleasures. Encouraged, Miss Deauville. Think of that. If you are more than merely willing, they will adore you for it. If you can take the initiative, so much the better.

  “Come,” she said, grasping Dianthe’s hand and leading her to the mirror. “Look at that woman.”

  Dianthe saw only what she always saw. She was afraid Miss Osgood’s subtleties were lost on her. She gave the woman in the mirror a curious look.

  “Your chin is too high. Lower it so that you will not look haughty and unapproachable.”

  She did, but Miss Osgood then lifted her chin a fraction with her finger. “Not so low that you look like a shy schoolgirl. Directly, as one would look at an equal. Frank. Unafraid. Confident. Sure of your own worth.”

  Ah, Dianthe saw the difference.

  “Now, moisten your lips and give a tiny smile. Say, ‘I am the most desirable woman in the world. If I choose, I can give more pleasure than a man could bear.’ And, ‘I can please a man in bed better than anyone ever has.’”

  Dianthe coughed. “Can you mean it?”

  “But of course. And you must say it as if you believe it. You must think it, live it in your mind, every time you meet a man. Add to it. I promise if you do, men will follow you wherever you go. And Lord Geoffrey will be your most devoted servant.”

  Somehow, she doubted that. Nevertheless, she gave herself a little smile in the mirror, licked her lips, and said, “I am the most desirable woman in this room. I can give a man more pleasure than he could bear. I am Venus, Aphrodite and Athena. I am every man’s desire.”

  “Well done! Say it each time you pass a mirror until it is natural and a part of you. Now come, Miss Deauville. I think I should teach you a little about the interesting physiology of men, and what they like. I have brought some diagrams. We shall discuss technique tomorrow.”

  Stepping down from her hired carriage in front of Thackery’s, Dianthe smoothed her emerald-green gown, the most recent in the deliveries from Madame LaFehr’s shop. She had followed Miss Osgood’s advice and had not worn jewelry that would call attention away from her breasts, which Miss Osgood called, “Adequate, and actually quite charming.” But the pronouncement had left her feeling altogether inadequate. Scarcely an eighth of an inch of black lace kept her aureoles hidden.

  Painfully aware that she was alone and unprotected, she opened her black lace fan and carried it in front of her, as if she were too warm, even in the chill of evening. Now that the doorman knew her, he merely nodded and held the door as she entered. She did not stop to view the main salon, but hurried up the steps to the mezzanine, where she knew she’d find the ladies of the demimonde.

  Almost the moment she entered, Miss Tucker spied her and separated herself from a group of raucous men to come to her side. “Have you heard?”

  “I’ve only arrived,” she said, marking the woman’s agitation. “Heard what?”

  “Elvina Gibson has been murdered!”

  Everything inside Dianthe stilled. What horrible insidious forces were working in the demimonde? How could two popular courtesans be killed within a few weeks of each other? It had to be more than coincidence. Had Elvina been murdered for what Nell had told her? Had she told anyone else?

  “Miss Deauville?” Miss Tucker took her arm. “Are you unwell? You’ve gone quite pale.”

  “Je m’… Two murders in the same circle. It is too…terrible.”

  “Quite,” Miss Tucker agreed. “Why, I’d just had the nicest visit with Elvina earlier yesterday.”

  “Oui? And she suspected nothing?”

  “She did not se
em unduly concerned about anything. But, now that I think of it, she was a little flighty—as if she could not concentrate.”

  Dianthe took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “Miss Tucker, ’ave the police interviewed you?”

  The woman smiled. “Of course not, Miss Deauville. And I do not suppose they will. They will ask questions of whoever found her, the proprietor of the Blue Moon and anyone else who might have been around at the time.”

  “Can you think of something—anything at all—that Miss Gibson might ’ave said that would indicate a secret? Or a fear that something might ’appen to ’er?”

  “Goodness, Miss Deauville, you are quite earnest. Did you know Miss Gibson well?”

  “Not at all,” she admitted. “But if the police will not ask, we must tell them.”

  “Thank you, my dear. But I do not have conversations with police or runners. Disaster always follows.”

  And that was the reason courtesans and prostitutes were such easy prey for unscrupulous men. Dianthe sighed. “Then tell me, Miss Tucker, and I shall tell Lord Morgan. ’E shall converse with the authorities. But we simply cannot do nothing.”

  “You are quite passionate about this, Miss Deauville.”

  “Stop him…” Nell had said. Dianthe fought back the horror of that night. She couldn’t give in to it now. “La justice tout est moi, Miss Tucker.”

  The woman’s demeanor changed just then and she shrugged indifferently. “Everything to you, eh? Very well. If I should learn anything, I shall tell you at once.” She was staring at a point over Dianthe’s left shoulder.

  She smiled and turned, thinking the woman had spotted Lord Geoffrey. Unfortunately, it was Mr. Munro who approached.

  “Ladies,” he acknowledged. “Where is Geoff this evening, Miss Deauville? He is usually hovering somewhere around, but I do not see him.”

  Dianthe tried to keep from looking disappointed, then hesitated, deciding it would not be wise to admit she was alone. “Temporarily engaged elsewhere. I expect that ’e will be along presently.”