The Courtesan's Daughter

by Claudia Dain

  “And you are ill-mannered and of marginal intelligence,” he snarled softly, looking at the occupants of the dining room over the top of her head. How unspeakably rude, not to even give her the consideration of his gaze, but what could one expect of a wolfish beast?

  “Again, Lord Ashdon,” she snipped, “I repeat, casting serious doubt upon your own intelligence, that you do not know me at all and can know nothing of my intelligence. As to my manner, how to answer but that it seems particularly appropriate when directed at you?”

  “Hardly the manner of an eager courtesan.”

  “Perfectly the manner when the courtesan has no eagerness, no, nor desire, to spend one minute more in your questionable company.”

  “No desire?” he murmured, still watching the room. “Must you force me to add deceit to your list of character traits? Is not being ill-mannered enough for you, Lady Caroline? Must you reach ever higher, or would that be ever lower?”

  “Standing this close to you must certainly rank as being ever lower,” she said, fighting for a full, deep, purging breath. There was something about this odious man that robbed her of every thought beyond punishing him. What she was punishing him for she did not dare scrutinize, her own superior intelligence notwithstanding.

  “Come, come, Lady Caroline,” he mocked, finally looking directly into her eyes, “a courtesan must in all ways be pleasing. You are off to a troubled start. Dare I say, I think you would have found the role of wife more in line with your abilities.”

  “My abilities? But that is exactly the point, Lord Ashdon,” she said, matching his stare and forcing herself to keep breathing. “I found I possessed no talent at all for being a wife if you were to be the husband.”

  “ARE you certain that the marriage contract between them has been broken? They are behaving rather oddly for a couple with no history between them,” Lord Dutton said softly. “I would swear under oath that he is snarling at her exactly like a husband.”

  Anne moved a step away from the whispering Lord Dutton. Lord Dutton followed her. Though she avoided gazing directly at his face, she could feel his grin.

  “We thought you were sleeping, Lord Dutton,” Anne murmured, trying to catch Sophia’s eye, but Sophia was busily engaged with Lord Staverton. She really ought to rethink her decision not to marry Lord Staverton. There were worse things than being a viscountess, much worse. “Your snores were so very convincing.”

  “Thank you,” he said, bowing crisply, still grinning that ridiculous grin. He was a devilishly good-looking man with blue eyes that were so direct and so inherently good-natured that one sometimes forgot that he was a complete rogue. He would hardly have frequented Lady Dalby’s salon otherwise. “I perfected the technique while still in the nursery. It allowed me to hear so very many interesting discussions between my nurse and the second-best footman.”

  “I’m sure,” Anne said, refusing to return his smile, though she was tempted.

  That was the trouble with Lord Dutton—he was a temptation. What was worse was that he was well aware of it. What was the absolute worst of all was that she was almost certain that he knew what a temptation he was to her. His blue-eyed gaze and disarming grin were a good part of the reason why she had refused even the prospect of an offer from Lord Staverton.

  She was a complete and utter fool.

  “Why didn’t she accept his offer?” he said.

  “This is none of our concern, Lord Dutton,” she said crisply, moving away from him. He moved with her. She should have been more upset about it; as it was, she was just slightly charmed by it. Just slightly, as if degrees in foolishness had any meaning.

  “Which is why it is so intriguing,” he said, his breath fanning the hair at her nape. “If it were my concern I’m quite certain I’d find it unrelentingly boring. Other people’s trials are so much more interesting, are they not, Mrs. Warren? For instance, I found the revelation that your mother had been a courtesan to be absolutely riveting. I’d love to hear the full story.”

  “With illustrations, no doubt,” she said, seriously moving off now. He seriously followed her. In this instance, she was not charmed by it. Of all the things she most ardently did not wish to discuss it was her past, and her past most decidedly included her mother’s occupation.

  “Oh, pantomime would suffice for me. No need to get out the pencils and parchment.”

  “I think I preferred you snoring, Lord Dutton.”

  “Do you know, my nurse once told me the very same thing,” he said, and then he did the most appalling thing. Lord Dutton took her by the arm and made to guide her to the dining room doorway that led to the private white salon. And what was worse, she did nothing to stop him. “I simply must convince you that I have other skills besides snoring, and then you must in turn convince me that you have other skills besides a keen friendship with Lady Caroline. Fair?”

  They were in the white salon, the door closed behind them with a definite click, his back leaning against the door and his smile, as ever, in place. Fair? There was nothing fair about it.

  “I don’t think I’ve been given a fair run at this, Sophia,” Lord Staverton said as he and Sophia sat across the table from each other, pretending to play a quiet game of vingt-un. “Mrs. Warren would be far better off as my wife than as companion to your daughter.”

  “You don’t have to convince me, Stavey,” Sophia said. “I put forth your case with as much enthusiasm as was seemly. For the moment,” she said, watching as Lord Dutton practically shoved Anne through the doorway into the white salon, equally noting Anne’s lack of resistance, “I believe her interest is engaged elsewhere. If you can be a bit patient, I believe she will consider your suit again.”

  “Patience at my age is a high-stakes gamble, Sophia, as you well know. I could topple into my tea tomorrow.”

  “Then you certainly don’t need a wife tonight,” she said, smiling.

  “On the contrary,” he said with an annoyed sniff. “It makes the urge for a wife all the more urgent. One must jump whilst he still has the legs for it.”

  “You are a randy goat, Stavey. ’Tis no wonder Anne is skittish around you.”

  “If I am a randy goat it’s because whenever Anne is around, you are there as well. It’s possible I could be persuaded to forget Anne if you would let me just once come into your bed.”

  “A lovely effort, but Anne is the woman who makes your eyes dance,” Sophia said, grinning, “and you were randy long before I came on the scene. As much as I would wish, I cannot take the credit for what nature has endowed. As to taking to your bed, why tarnish a lovely, lasting friendship with the coils of the flesh? I treasure you too much, Stavey. You are quite my oldest and dearest friend in London.”

  Staverton actually blushed and cast his gaze down at his cards, sniffing loudly.

  “I always secretly presumed that Fredericks was your oldest friend. He has been at your side from the start, hasn’t he?” Staverton said.

  “From the start? Most definitely,” she said softly, “yet Freddy is more family than friend.”

  “You could cause a riot saying things like that, Sophia,” Staverton blustered, regaining his composure. “Declaring one’s butler is like family, it’s not done.”

  “I do so many things which aren’t done, Stavey. What’s one more?” she said.

  “You jest, as usual,” he said, “but we both know that you have family and that, with the right approach, they would likely take you in and forgive all.”

  “How charming you are, darling Stavey,” she said softly, “but not only do I not require forgiveness, I have not at all decided if I shall ever forgive them.”

  Staverton shook his head slowly and fingered the cards on the table, not looking at her. “It was all long ago, Sophia.”

  “That all depends upon how one measures time, Stavey,” she said, smiling gently as she changed the subject. “Will you wait for Anne to realize what a fine man you are and what a stellar husband you’d be to her? Will you wait ju
st a little while, and take care in the waiting that you do not topple into your tea?”

  Lord Staverton coughed and said, “I’ll drink nothing but brandy for the next fortnight.”

  Sophia grinned and toasted him with her wineglass. “To the next fortnight, and an unstinting supply of brandy. We shall make you a husband yet, Stavey, never fear.”

  “BUT I am not going to be a husband, and most particularly not your husband, am I, Lady Caroline?” Ashdon said in a soft growl. “Rumor has it that you have chosen a different course for yourself entirely.”

  “By rumor I suppose you mean my mother,” Caro snapped, determined to open the space between them and unable to. Ashdon had her backed up against the window ledge. It was either face him down or go tumbling out of the window. She almost preferred tumbling to staring into his relentless blue eyes.

  “Does it matter?” he said, running his hand down her gloved arm in a manner that could have been a caress if it hadn’t been so rough. The man was intemperate in all things, obviously. “A woman in your position, with your ambitions, certainly could only benefit by some careful advertising.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood the entire thing, Lord Ashdon, and you’ve certainly misunderstood me.”

  “Have I? ” he breathed. He smelled of clean wool, fresh linen, and brandy. The scent of him was an unwelcome assault upon her senses. Far better for her if he smelled of sweat and dirty feet. “Explain it to me, will you? I want to get the details exactly right when I mention your name at White’s.”

  “I would prefer it if you did not bandy my name about in the clubs of St. James Street,” she hissed softly, looking over her shoulder at her mother.

  Sophia was engaged in conversation with Lord Staverton. They’d been talking for close to an hour now; what could they possibly have to discuss? Not Anne, certainly. That subject had been closed. Would that she could close the current subject with Lord Ashdon. There was something decidedly coarse about discussing her future plans as a courtesan with the man who might have been her husband.

  “I suppose then that you’d not be pleased if wagers were placed as to how soon and with whom you tumble into your chosen . . . well, what to call it?” He frowned and looked up at the ceiling. She tried to pull her arm free while he was distracted. He didn’t release her a fraction. Obviously, he was difficult to distract.

  “You needn’t call it anything,” she said, still pulling against his grasp. “And there will certainly be no wagers placed with my name attached to them.”

  “On the contrary, Lady Caroline,” he said, pulling her toward him fractionally, his eyes boring into hers with all the finesse of a hot poker. “I intend to place the first wager myself.”

  “You have ill luck at wagering, Lord Ashdon. I would refrain, were I you,” she snapped, yanking her arm free, no matter how rude she appeared. Maintaining appearances was beyond her when dealing with the profligate Lord Ashdon.

  “Not this wager,” he murmured intently. “I intend to wager that Lady Caroline will become the fille de joie of Lord Ashdon by noon this day. It’s a good wager, Lady Caroline. I’d be more than happy to place a bet on your behalf.”

  It was then that she slapped him.

  “WELL, that was worth waiting for,” Lady Louisa Kirkland, the unmarried and slightly scandalous daughter of the Marquis of Melverley, said from her perch on a small carved chair. Lady Louisa didn’t particularly care for gambling or for Lady Dalby or for Lady Caroline, but she did care particularly for Lord Dutton. Lord Dutton was a frequent guest at Lady Dalby’s, and so Louisa developed a taste for Lady Dalby’s particular brand of amusements.

  Her father was not pleased with her tastes. Her father could go to the devil.

  “Let’s call it a matter of opinion, shall we?” remarked Lord Henry Blakesley, fourth son of the Duke of Hyde. Blakesley was lounged in apparent discomfort, his long legs stretched out before him, his fragile chair tipped back to rest against the dining room wall. His longish blond hair was tangled and his blue eyes were rimmed red. As ever, his expression was one of boredom and cynicism. Louisa enjoyed his company thoroughly.

  “Don’t tell me you saw that coming?”

  “A pigeon on the spires of Westminster saw it coming three hours ago,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall.

  Blakesley was a lean, muscular sort and, conversely, it was never so apparent as when he was completely relaxed. Not that she had ever seen him completely relaxed. Lord Henry Blakesley was a bit like a faulty gun in that one never quite knew when he would go off. Nor, it seems, did he. Consequently, being around him was a bit like frolicking with a venomous and irritated snake.

  Her father absolutely distrusted Lord Henry. She liked that about him as well.

  “What do you think he said to make her slap him?” Louisa asked softly.

  “A guess?” Lord Henry lazily replied, his eyes still closed. “He told her what everyone has been saying about her all night.”

  “That she’d refused him to be a courtesan? Why slap him for telling the truth?”

  Lord Henry cocked an eye open to look at her. “You like the truth paraded out directly in front of you, do you? I shall have to remember that.”

  Louisa shifted her weight, straightened her skirts, cleared her throat, and fussed with her fan. Lord Henry had closed his eyes again, ignoring her. He really did do too much of that of late. He was entirely too easy in her company. It simply wouldn’t do for Lord Henry to be easy in her company, not to the point of snoring, which he was close to approaching now.

  “Well, we’ve seen the explosion,” she said. “I suppose we might as well leave now.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t leave now, not without being asked,” he said softly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, my dear, that slap, if I don’t miss my guess, is going to bring Ashdon to life in a way you have not yet seen.”

  “Really?” Louisa said, leaning forward avidly.

  “Besides, I can’t imagine that you want to leave Dutton and Mrs. Warren alone in the white salon without knowing what they’re engaged in. Misses the point, doesn’t it? Why else do you hunt him throughout London if not to encourage him to catch you?”

  Lord Henry Blakesley could be rather insulting and entirely too direct. She did not particularly like that about him, but as he made a very willing and very commendable escort, she held her tongue on the matter. But she did not like it.

  “I don’t particularly like being forced into a room, Lord Dutton,” Anne said firmly.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Warren. I had no intention of forcing you. I merely wanted to be alone with you and assumed you wanted the same.”

  “You have no basis for such an assumption.”

  Lord Dutton smiled and cocked his head, looking at her skeptically. “I stand corrected. The last thing I want to do with you, at this particular moment, is to argue with you.”

  “At this particular moment? ”

  “Or at any moment.”

  Calm reason itself, on its face, but she didn’t trust him. She wasn’t even going to bother feeling guilty about it. Some instincts were just too urgent to be ignored.

  “Now, what were we discussing, besides your abduction into the famed white salon of the famed Lady Dalby? Oh yes, we were discussing you, Mrs. Warren, and your mother.”

  “I was discussing no such thing,” she said, walking to the doorway that led into the entrance hall.

  “I don’t mind, you know,” he said softly, and the words stopped her cold. “It doesn’t bother me that your mother was a courtesan, just as it doesn’t bother me that Lady Dalby started life on that foot.”

  “No one starts life on that foot, Lord Dutton,” Anne said, turning to face him.

  “Of course not. Excuse my poor choice of words,” he said, bowing crisply.

  He looked very contrite and very sweet and, of course, very handsome. She found that the voice of instinct became an annoying whisper when face
d with the sweet expression in the Marquis of Dutton’s vivid blue eyes.

  “I ask your pardon, Lord Dutton,” she said with a curtsey. “It is late and I am of an uncertain temper.”

  “I must disagree, Mrs. Warren,” he said softly, “for I have found your temper to be ever certain, ever agreeable. In point of fact, you prove the exception to the tale that women with flaming ginger hair must in fact also be of flaming temper.”

  Just as she was opening her mouth to thank him in some socially respectable way, some way that preserved the emotional distance they must maintain between them, he added, “Unless your passionate temper is revealed at other, more intimate moments? Shall we put it to the test, Mrs. Warren? Shall we test the veracity of your glorious red hair?”