by Jane Lark
When he returned to the task of his own attire he faced the mirror to retie his neckcloth.
Ellen blushed, remembering those fingers, now adeptly crafting a fashionable knot, playing master to her body’s whim moments before.
He smiled at her in the mirror.
She caught sight of her disordered hair and her heart kicked in fear.
Panic locking the air in her lungs, she knelt and began picking up her scattered hairpins. She couldn’t leave the room looking like this.
In a moment he was on one knee beside her, helping her. He must have sensed her concern for he caught one of her hands and held it still. “There’s no need to worry, Ellen.”
For you perhaps, but not for me, for me there is every need. She pulled her hand free and continued the task, but tried to make light of her fear. “Not if you can dress a woman’s hair.”
“I can make a fair go of it.” His voice was jovial in response.
All pins recovered, they rose, her eyes meeting his. She took a breath. “Then do your best, my Lord, please.”
His hand cupped hers and looking down he tipped the pins she held into his other palm. She shivered, remembering his touch; the things he’d done. In answer his eyes lifted, and she saw an unspoken question visible, pondering her skittish start.
“Edward, at least, Ellen,” he admonished while one hand pressed her shoulder, turning her to the mirror. She looked at his reflection as he took a single lock of ebony hair in his fingers. Then, their sixth sense speaking, his gaze met hers in the glass. He smiled before looking away and concentrating on the task.
His touch was soothing, light and tender. Her body bathed in it, like rain on dry ground, her heart soaking it up.
When the job was finished their gazes collided in the mirror once more, desire burning clearly, like fire, in his. But the echo of it was in hers as she looked at her reflection too. “When can we meet, Ellen?” The question was whispered.
She shook her head in denial then tore her gaze from his, turning to retrieve her discarded fan and gloves. There could be no repetition. Gainsborough would not allow it.
Lord Edward will not help me. He cannot.
His grip caught her elbow and turned her back. “Do not deny me.”
Stiffening her spine, Ellen lifted her chin. I have to.
As though he sensed the change in her, his hand slipped away before she spoke.
“My Lord, there can be nothing more, I thought that was clear.”
Such cold, unemotional words. She set her face and eyes to match them, locking him out of her heart.
Did she imagine the sudden look of pain in his eyes? This was just sex for him, surely. He felt nothing. He would walk away unchanged. My heart is wounded. Not his. She couldn’t escape Gainsborough. Dreams were not reality. Succumbing to Edward tonight had been enough risk. She did not dare repeat it. But she did not want him to know fear held her back. Nor did she wish him to pity her. “Your agreement was with Lord Gainsborough. I am his, not yours, my Lord, Edward.”
The look in his eyes hardening, it was not pity she saw but disgust.
“I must go.”
He moved, forming a wall between her and the door.
She met his gaze and waited, without answering the accusations lying there. This was who she was. He’d known that. He could not change it, and he could hardly judge her.
His lips a tight line, he bowed his head and stepped aside. But before she had time to reach for the doorknob his fingers caught hers.
“Tell me your full name? At least tell me that.” His deep pitch was so full of emotion the ice she’d begun re-laying about her heart cracked, flooding her body with warmth. Warmth she longed to hold on to.
“Ellen Harding.” Her married name, but even that she did not normally reveal.
Withdrawing her fingers from his, she made a final plea. “Please, do not acknowledge me again if I see you, my Lord. There can be no communication beyond tonight.” But something dreadful pierced her chest as she spoke, and perhaps it showed in her eyes because his lips fell to hers, the kiss deep and fulfilling, belittling her denial. And she knew he knew it, but she could not unsay those words, she had no choice but to walk away. He cannot save me, no one can. I’m already lost.
Setting her palms on his chest she pushed him away, turned from his grip and grasped the doorknob, refusing to look back.
Masculine conversation spilled from the adjoining rooms and filled the high ceilinged space as she crossed the hall, broken by the occasional trill of a woman’s laughter rising above the lower tones. She kept walking, ignoring the sound of a door slamming behind her, and the heavy tread of quick masculine strides hitting the floorboards.
Crossing into the first room she saw Lord Gainsborough seated at another card table by the far wall. He was waiting, watching. He rose. The men about him turned to follow his look, rising too. Her heart racing she took the few steps to where he stood.
Ribald jests and jeers greeted her from the male audience who were oblivious to the reality of his little welcome scene.
Refusing to cower she met Lord Gainsborough’s glare of accusation.
She’d angered him, yes, but she could see he was equally enthralled to think another man had taken her but yards from where he sat. She knew his sadistic lusts must have thrilled at it, while his need for control revolted.
A round of laughter rang from another room. The men about them turned back to their game. Gainsborough’s hand lifted.
As she heard the front door slam shut she felt the first strike across her face. The world about her tilted, time shifting to a slower pace as her vision hazed.
“Good God, Gainsborough, no need for that!”
“My God, man!”
A dozen calls of outrage echoed in her head. Reaching out blindly to stop her fall, she felt Lord Gainsborough’s painful grip catch her and haul her back, holding firm.
“Mind your own damn business!” his bellow rang. “Out of my way!
The Illicit Love of a Courtesan
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014
Copyright © Jane Lark 2014
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