by Sharon Page
Sophie felt very relieved.
Nell glanced around the room. Then she smiled. “It is time to take you into the ballroom. I believe you will be surrounded by gentlemen in no time.”
And she was. Soon she was in the center of a group of eight gentlemen, all gathered by Nell.
A gruff voice growled, “This is my mistress, gentlemen. Do not poach on my preserve.” Suddenly, two of the men were shoved out of the way.
Caradon! He lifted her hand and kissed it. Quivers went through her. His eyes captured hers. In a low, dangerous voice, he growled, “What in Hades are you doing here? Are you completely mad? Of all the daft things to do—you come to a damned orgy?”
She registered his furious gaze, his narrowed blue eyes. He wrapped his long fingers around her wrist and dragged her across the ballroom.
She was too stunned to resist.
Then Sophie gathered her wits. She couldn’t dig in her heels on a parquet ballroom floor. But when he reached a door to the outside, which must have led to a terrace, she gripped the doorframe. Obviously, he could have pulled her free, forced her to go, but when he felt resistance, he stopped.
Goodness, here by the wall, in the shadows behind potted plants, couples were making love.
There were groups of three as well.
“I can’t leave,” she cried, though he was right—she was not ready for this. But she wouldn’t admit it to the man who wanted to send her back to the country. “I have come to find a protector. And why are you here? If you are looking for a woman to make love to, why couldn’t she be me?”
“I came,” he said, between gritted teeth, “because I received a note telling me that you would be here. What was your game? To get me here to rescue you? Well, I’m here.”
“Note? What note?”
“The anonymous note you sent, Sophie.”
“I didn’t send any notes to you. Anonymous or not. Why did you think I did?”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know—” Nell knew she would be here. Why would Nell—? Oh, heavens, had Nell hoped Caradon would come to her rescue?
But why, when Nell had told her that love was dangerous?
“Why in God’s name have you come here to find a protector? Sinclair is my friend, but his entertainments attract some of the most perverse and dangerous of London’s rakes,” he said curtly.
“They just look like gentlemen to me.”
He lifted his brow. “In name only,” he said. “And you are far too intelligent for me to believe you saw those displays in the entry and you still believe that.”
“Well, you refused me,” she pointed out, “so I had to come to another ball. I found Nell, for she gives out invitations for money. And you are just scaring men away! You told those men I am your mistress when I am not! It’s hardly fair.”
And it was agony on her heart. Why was he so possessive of her when he didn’t want her?
“I need to think,” he growled. “I am not going to stand by and let you turn yourself into a whore.”
That word pricked her pride like a burning hot fireplace poker. “One protector, if I’m devoted to him, does not make me sinful. I believe that. Even if I haven’t said vows, it’s not wrong if I’m faithful.” That was what her mother had written in the anonymous manuscript. That she was more faithful to her protectors than most ton wives were to their husbands. “If I’d had my way, my night with you would have been the first of many nights with you.”
When he didn’t answer, just watched her, she grew furious. “It is easy for you to judge. You are a rich duke. Do you know what it’s like to have nothing and starve?”
“I know what it is like to face death and to be starving and held prisoner. I know the last thing I would surrender would be honor.”
“What if it was the choice between your honor and watching three innocent children starve? What would you do then?”
“There has to be another way,” he barked. “Look at the women here—pretty enough, but they are hard, ruthless survivors at the core. You are so sweet.”
“I have to learn to be ruthless. I want to survive.”
“Goddamn it,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I will give you an offer. I will give you all the things you dream of having as a courtesan. You’ll be mine. But you will not make love with me. You’ll have your house, your allowance, and food and safety for your family.”
She gaped at him. All around them, people were having sex in all sorts of tortuous positions, but she was blind and deaf to it all. “You’re making me an offer for—”
Another man stepped right up to them, so close she had to see him. He was shirtless, wearing only trousers and boots. Wicked intent glittered in his dark eyes, and his coal-black hair hung over his brow. He was breathtakingly handsome, with a broad chest and huge arms.
“I am the Earl of Stratham.” He bowed over her hand, in the middle of an orgy, like a knight of old. “I overheard that Caradon made you an offer. Ungentlemanly of me to eavesdrop, but when such a beauty is about to be claimed, a man can be excused for some desperation. I promise you three times whatever he offers you.” His voice lowered, and he bent to her ear. “As well as jewels, gowns, carriages, and a town house, I am prepared to offer an allowance of five thousand. I believe Caradon won’t top that.”
Five thousand! It was a fortune. If a gentleman came with that, debutantes would club him over the head to drag him to the altar. A year of that and Sophie could keep her family for a lifetime. The children’s futures would be secured. With a fortune like that, it wouldn’t even matter that her son was illegitimate. Well, it almost wouldn’t matter.
And she could tell Devars to take a long walk on a short pier.
She knew what she must do—she must say yes.
But when she met Cary’s shocked gaze, her heart flip-flopped in her chest. What should she do?
Would he really give her a house and an allowance to not sleep with her? And he said he needed to marry—he wouldn’t keep her then.
She suspected Stratham would.
Oh God, then she would be kept by a man who had a wife. The Earl of Stratham might already have a wife. She hadn’t thought of that.
But she had only days—then Devars would destroy them all.
“What’s your name?” Stratham demanded.
“Sophie,” she managed.
“All right, Sophie,” Stratham said heartily. “What’s your choice?”
She parted her lips. She couldn’t look at either of the men. She knew what she must choose—
11
How naïve was I! I believed X. Q. was now mine, and we would look forward to a future of happiness. After all, he could not resist me. We played such delightful bedroom games—naughty, delicious games with the judicious use of ropes.
Yet his father disapproved. In face of losing his allowance, X. Q. cooled our relationship once more. By this point, I was so deliriously in love, I would have taken him without a penny to his name. But losing his allowance mattered far more to him than to me. But I had been a fool!
So from love—and its bitter lessons—I toiled onward and upward.
—From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous
Couples—and threesomes—actually stopped making love to watch the competition between the Duke of Caradon and the Earl of Stratham.
Before Sophie could speak, Stratham grabbed her wrist and yanked her closer to him, forcing her to stumble. Her back stiffened. The brandy on his breath almost made her eyes water. A lecherous grin twisted his handsome mouth into something horrid.
“I know, my dear, what your answer will be.” Stratham lowered his voice and he gripped both her wrist and her bottom. His squeezing fingers almost crushed her wrist. He pinched her derrière. Hard.
“When you are mine, you will belong to me. Completely. Do not ever cross me; do not ever stray. If you even look at another gentleman, you will know the force of my wrath and you will not forget.”
This “gentleman” was just like Devars. He felt he owned her, when she had done nothing to encourage him. He’d decided he wanted her, so she was his, and she had no choice and no say.
She struggled to push Stratham’s hand away.
“I am afraid you are mistaken, sirrah. Your offer is most generous, but I must decline. His Grace did make his offer first, and I fear it would not be fair to accept.”
“Fair? Dear lady, in matters of the bedroom, I never play fair.”
Suddenly, a look of pain shot across the man’s angry face.
His hand was yanked away from her, and his entire body jerked and straightened. Cary had grasped his forearm and twisted it, pinning Stratham’s arm behind his back.
She marveled at Cary’s strength as he carelessly captured the earl. Stratham cried out in agony—though he bit it short.
“Keep the hell away from her, Stratham, before I call you out,” the duke growled. “And I would not plan to shoot wide. I’ve killed a lot of men in battle. I don’t miss.”
The Earl of Stratham was pale with pain, shaking. “All right.”
Cary released him. But before Stratham went, he said in a low deadly tone, “I accept your choice, harlot. But I have not been dealt fairly in this matter. Until we next meet.”
Oh, they were never going to meet again.
“There will not be another meeting. If you even see her enter a room you are in, you will leave it immediately. You will keep far away from her. Or I’ll damn well shoot you.” Cary’s chest moved with angry breaths. He looked like he could breathe fire.
Stratham straightened, then tried to salvage his pride by grasping a courtesan who was standing nearby, wearing a harem girl costume. “Come with me,” he snapped. “Let me fuck you.”
“Of course, my lord,” the woman simpered.
Then they were gone.
Sophie’s pulse thundered. She looked up at Cary, up at his pale blue eyes. “You rescued me again.”
His long fingers gently stroked her wrist. Lightning sizzled through her at even the soft, delicate touch he gave. “Does it hurt? He bruised you. I should have called him out.”
“No! Not a duel. I won’t have you shooting at someone. Or getting shot.”
Cary shook his head. “You are trouble, aren’t you, Sophie?”
“I’m not. These gentlemen are,” she declared, indignant. This was hardly her fault. She glanced toward the earl, who was pushing his way through the crowd. A sense of cold washed over her. She shivered. “I fear I’ve made a dangerous enemy.”
Cary studied the earl’s retreating back. “Don’t worry. I’m your protector now.”
“Yes, you are. But how can I let you be my protector if I’m not giving you anything in return?”
“You are,” he said curtly. “And it’s time I take you home, before you get into more trouble.”
“I should tell Nell I am leaving.”
But then she spotted Nell strolling through the crowd, her arm linked with the arm of a tall, extraordinarily handsome gray-haired gentleman. Nell saw her.
And winked.
Soft gray tinged the sky, promising dawn, and Sophie hurried along the carriageway to the door of her room, located at the end, where the gravel drive opened out into a small courtyard. A man passed her, lifting both his cap and his brow as he said, “Good evening, Miss Ashley. Out a bit late, aren’t ye?”
She saw a hint of a teasing smile on the man’s face—he was handsome, had a wife and five young children, but he watched out for her. “Good morning, Ben. You’re right, it is beyond late, and now it’s early.”
She was coming home while many people were leaving their rooms to go to work—bakers, butchers, coopers, laborers.
“As long as ye’re home safe and sound.”
“I am. Not to worry,” she said cheerfully. She was all but bursting with joy. And it was kind of him to be concerned about her.
Strange smells touched her nose as she opened the door to her small room. The building was a rabbit warren of corridors and rooms. Hers was accessed from the outside—from a small carriageway that ran underneath the building. She also had a tiny, dirty window.
Sophie took a deep breath. A mistake—no matter what time of day it was, the stews smelled of coal smoke, chamber pots, smelly fish, cabbage . . . and damp.
She turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped inside—into pitch dark, of course, for there wasn’t much light in the sky yet. Even if there were, it wouldn’t penetrate the grime and grease on the miniscule window.
But after several days here, she could make her way in the dark to her table—and her candle—without bumping into things.
She shut the door. Then she spun around. This was to be one of her last days here. Caradon had promised to have a house for her quickly. She might not be a courtesan for real, but she was about to get all the advantages.
And everything was solved!
Sophie closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and squealed with joy. A restrained squeal—so she didn’t wake any sleeping children in the building.
She would bring Belle and the children to London. They would have warm beds. She could thumb her nose at Devars, for she would be under a duke’s protection. She would have money to replace the dratted bracelet, and he would never dare offend a duke by having her arrested.
Even though Cary wasn’t going to be her lover, he was going to protect her.
It just showed what a wonderful and perfect man he was.
But she wanted him. Really wanted him.
She would find a way to heal him. She would turn him into her lover for real.
Spinning around again, she got dizzy. She stumbled and knocked the teapot to the floor. She bumped her one rickety chair with her hip, and the leg finally parted from the seat. It toppled over with a thud. She sank to the bed—rather, the cot—in the dark, and she laughed.
Her son would be safe now. He would have a future—!
A floorboard creaked. The sound didn’t come from under her feet.
Sophie froze. Her heart pounded fast, but that was the only part of her willing to move. Her entire body seemed to have turned to stone in an instant.
It was only a creaking board. It could be coming from the room beside hers. It could be anything—the house groaned at the slightest provocation.
She strained her ears, listening for more. But sound filled the stews. Dogs howled. Carts rattled. So much sound now, with people waking and leaving in the weak dawn light to go to work.
Suddenly, her tiny room felt vast and dangerous. She couldn’t even speak—why ask if anyone was there? There shouldn’t be. Oh heaven, there shouldn’t be.
There couldn’t be.
She thought of the girl huddled on the mucky ground in Cary’s mews, and she wanted to shriek.
Get hold of yourself!
Sophie launched off the cot and stalked with determination toward the table and her candle—and her flint—
She was suddenly thrown to the side and slammed up against her closed door. Her chest hit hard, and all her breath flew out. Then she was shoved harder by ruthless hands and banged repeatedly against the unyielding door. Pain shot through her breasts and her ribs. The weight pressing on her, pushing her against the wooden surface, was crushing.
A gloved hand clamped hard against her mouth. She bit—sank her teeth in desperately—but all that got her was an evil chuckle. Leather was crammed into her mouth. The side of a hand was jammed in there so she couldn’t scream.
That courtesan, Sally, had been killed. The same was going to happen to her.
She bit at his glove, lashed out at him with her feet, her hands. It was useless.
Then his hand moved away. For a moment, she was stunned by her good luck.
Scream, you fool!
She screamed. Screamed and screamed.
And fought to push back against him enough to open the door. She managed an inch, then his huge hand slammed it shut again.
Wrapping her hair in his fist, he yanked her head back, and she cried out. Tears blinded her. She should have gone for a weapon, not the stupid candle. The frying pan. The fireplace poker. Anything.
That had been what had saved her with Devars. Why had she been so stupid?
She was propelled back across the room so fast, she almost didn’t touch the ground. She still couldn’t see the man who was going to kill her.
He threw her onto the table, and all she saw was shadow. A feeble shaft of daylight touched the white of his eye and sliced along the ridge of his sharp cheekbone, but there was something black over his face. A mask.
Then she saw a bit of gold. It was blond hair peeking out from under his hat and touched by the light.
“Don’t do this,” she begged. “I’ll give you money. I’ll—”
“I’ve been given more to kill you. But a little fun first wouldn’t go amiss.”
He grasped her skirts, and she fought. She kicked at his hands, but he grabbed her flailing legs and shoved them apart. His bulk pressed on top of her.
His body was all hard muscle, not fat, and weighed a ton. She fought to breathe. He smelled of cologne—an exotic, expensive one.
He backed off and flung her over. The table plowed into the small of her back. She could barely see through the tears of pain.
You have to fight!
His eyes. Go for his eyes.
She desperately poked with her fingers.
The flat of his hand cracked across her face, pounding her head to the side. Pain exploded. Lights burst before her eyes. Like being hit by a board!
He hit her again.
Leaving her dazed. But she must fight against the pain and confusion; she had to fight for her life.
She couldn’t—
Her door flew open, slamming into the wall. Plaster dust puffed out, and another large shape filled her doorway. She screamed, “Help me, please!”
At least that was what she thought she’d said.