Dukes of the Demi-Monde

by Felicia Greene

  What would he do, once she told him the newest problem?

  ‘What is wrong, Miss Harcourt?’

  ‘Nothing. Please keep reading.’

  Marcus closed the book with a soft thud. ‘Not until you tell me what ails you.’

  Elsie took a deep breath. Her voice couldn’t shake now—not in front of Marcus. Not in front of a man who had treated her with more patience, more kindness, than any man she had ever known. ‘I am beginning to—to show.’

  Marcus blinked. No judgement lay in his eyes, no censure—only concern, and a tenderness that Elsie hesitated to acknowledge. She didn’t deserve the tenderness he gave her. ‘I see.’

  ‘I didn’t believe it at first.’ Elsie rose to her feet, her hands moving to her stomach. ‘I didn’t want to believe it. Look.’

  She moved to the fireplace, standing in front of the glowing flames. Holding her hand to her rounded belly, she softly stroked over the curve as Marcus looked on.

  ‘Already so big.’ She laughed softly to herself, shaking her head. ‘I shall be fit for the circus before long.’

  ‘No.’ Marcus’s voice was huskier than usual, the flames reflected in his eyes. ‘No.’

  She should sit down, and conceal herself. Her friendship with Marcus was unconventional at best, but this was too exaggerated a demonstration of immorality. Elsie shifted, turning slightly away from the fire, but found herself staying still under Marcus’s gaze.

  Why did he look at her like that? There was pain in his eyes, almost—a frustration. As if he were sorry for her—but no, it wasn’t that. Neither was he judging her current state.

  She loved him looking at her. That in itself was proof that her sentiments, powerful as they were, should be squashed as quickly as possible.

  ‘This makes things rather more difficult.’ She sat down. Marcus averted his eyes, busying himself with packing away the tea things. ‘Impossible, if I think about it for too long.’

  ‘Your work here will not be affected. I will purchase every hour you have, until you come to your final confinement.’

  ‘You… you are too kind.’ Elsie looked at him shyly. How handsome he was in the firelight—how carefree he was when speaking of money. What would it be like, to have such power?’

  ‘At least you have sense enough to accept kindness.’

  ‘I must think of the life I carry.’ Elsie looked down at her bare feet. ‘Pride can leave one starving.’

  ‘I will find a home in the country, if you wish it. For—for fallen women.’ Marcus stumbled over the words. Elsie’s heart leapt—thank God the cruel name didn’t come easily to him. Thank God she was no simple fallen woman to him, not completely. ‘You have only to ask.’

  ‘I know.’ Her heart raced as she spoke. ‘And… and you have only to ask about this. About—about what happened. How I came to be in this unhappy state.’

  He had never asked. There had been that single, fraught conversation eight weeks ago—but even then, he had never asked. Who was responsible, if they still present in her life… he had never, ever asked for even the smallest detail. His silence was so graceful, affording her such honour, that Elsie wanted to weep whenever she thought of it.

  A part of her wanted him to ask. Wanted him to demand the story from her—every sad, painful, horrible word of it.

  He was so rich. He was so persistent. I didn’t want to… but he said he’d marry me…

  ‘Your story is your own. I cannot presume to demand it. It is irrelevant to—to my regard for you. My respect for you.’ Now Marcus’s voice was much clearer. ‘Sit closer to the fire. You will catch a chill, sitting in the draught from the window.’

  Else obeyed. She held her hands to the flames, the warmth moving through her fingers as she chose her next words with care. ‘Working here is not the problem.’

  ‘You do not have to continue working here.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I thank you for continuing to come to me, under the guise of work.’ Elsie paused. Why did her voice have to quiver so? ‘I know that I am currently providing no service worthy of your funds.’

  ‘If you wish to continue your pursuit of economic independence, I can only support you.’ Marcus held his hands to the flames as well, his fingers so close to Elsie’s hands that she could grip them if she wished. Oh, how she wished. ‘And you provide a valuable service.’

  Elsie hung her head. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ There it was again—that slight catch in Marcus’s voice. ‘I have no-one else to read to.’

  In the silence that followed, Elsie looked down at her skirts. All of their lively discussions over the past few weeks, about the stories they loved as children—about their dreams, and hopes, and foolish fantasies—faded away.

  She knew that she would need to ask why he was doing all this. Why he had purchased all of her hours without so much as an objection, why he brought her baskets of food fit for a duchess… why he brought her book after book after book, books that she eagerly devoured. Why he read to her when she was too tired to turn a page, and asked her opinion of the books they had read together as if she were someone important.

  The questions needed to be asked. Elsie looked furtively at Marcus as he gazed at the fire, wondering why she didn’t wish to ask them.

  Because you don’t want this to end.

  The truth made her shiver. Blinking, chasing away the thought, Elsie spoke as hurriedly as she could.

  ‘As I said—it is not employment. It is my family.’

  Marcus frowned. ‘Do you fear your family’s reaction to—to—’

  ‘No. My mother and father are not cruel. I… I fear their disappointment more than I do their anger. I came to London to not be a burden on them.’ Elsie shook her head. ‘Returning to them in my current state would be the exact opposite of that.’

  ‘You do not need to return to them now. They live in Surrey, do they not? They... well, they—’

  ‘They work at Attlebury House for His Grace. Your friend.’ Elsie couldn’t help smiling at Marcus’s reticence to draw attention to the differences between their states. ‘Yes. They are in service.’

  ‘Do you need to see them?’

  ‘I visit every year for the Harvest Ball. They need extra kitchen help, and we have two or three days together after the festivities.’ Elsie sighed. ‘It will be impossible, this year.’

  ‘Are you sure they would notice?’

  ‘My mother would, without a doubt.’ Elsie tried to smile, but couldn’t. ‘I see the difference in myself.’

  ‘I see no difference in you.’

  ‘Well.’ Elsie awkwardly looked at the hem of her gown. ‘You are normally looking at a book.’

  ‘Yes.’ Marcus gently ran his fingers over the pages of a novel that lay open by the fire. ‘I… I should have looked at you more closely. To anticipate a problem such as this.’

  Another strange, meaningful silence in the conversation. Why were they happening so frequently? Elsie looked away, not knowing how to respond.

  Well. That wasn’t quite true. She knew how she wanted to respond, and knew at the same time that such a response was impossible.

  ‘Forgive me. I should not have said anything.’ She curled closer to the fire, letting the comforting crackle warm her through. ‘I have expressed an unsolvable problem, and have saddened myself and you into the bargain.’

  ‘There are very few utterly unsolvable problems.’ Marcus’s voice was even more comforting than the flames. ‘There will be a way forward.’

  ‘A way forward?’ Elsie laughed gently, watching the glow of the fire. ‘The way forward would be returning to the Harvest Ball with a husband in tow, and inventing a mournful separation before the next ball.’

  The idea hovered in the air, shining like a fish in water, gathering shape. Elsie swallowed, suddenly frightened at how easy it had sounded.

  ‘Yes.’ Marcus slowly nodded. ‘A husband.’

  ‘An—an invented one, of course.’ Elsie s
tumbled over her words. ‘Nothing more serious than that.’

  ‘A way to explain the—the child, and calm their worries.’ Marcus kept nodding to himself. ‘Convenient. Pleasant.’

  ‘They would be terribly upset at not having attended the wedding, but… but they would see my state, and understand how necessary it was to marry as soon as possible.’ The idea grew weightier, hanging in the air. ‘It… it could work.’

  ‘Yes. It could.’

  Everything now seemed curiously inevitable. The idea was gathering force, gaining a strange, crackling energy that twinned with the heat of the fire. Elsie looked timidly at Marcus, not knowing if she needed to ask the only question that still remained.

  ‘I…’ Marcus paused. ‘Who would you choose to—’

  ‘Who else would I choose?’

  ‘You must have—’

  ‘No. I don’t.’ Elsie kept her voice steady. ‘No friends. No… protectors. Just you.’

  It was true. Even outside of the Cappadene Club, she had no male acquaintances. The gentleman responsible for her current condition certainly did not frequent her plain room in Wapper Street—he had vanished from the face of the earth ever since Elsie had accosted him in St. James’s Park, tearfully telling him of her condition.

  How do I even know it’s mine? His whispered invective burned her brain.

  ‘I see.’ Marcus’s determinedly blank expression couldn’t conceal the excitement. The small, tremulous note of joy that heated the room as well as the fire. ‘Well… I can only agree, if you think it best.’

  ‘Agree to—to—’

  ‘To being your husband. Your—your false husband.’ Marcus looked down at his hands. ‘Unless I have misunderstood.’

  ‘No. You understood.’ Elsie paused. ‘It… it is simply so strange to hear.’

  ‘Really? So… so very strange?’

  ‘Of course. How could it not be?’

  It was as if he didn’t understand who he was, and who she was. Didn’t understand that whatever bargain had just been struck, whatever brief arrangement, would be the closest they were ever permitted to be. Elsie, swallowing, tried to think about anything other than Marcus’s glittering gaze.

  ‘I have already been invited to the Harvest Ball.’ Marcus smiled. ‘I shall arrive a day early, in the garb of a working man, with you—and I shall keep to myself that night. Then, with that concluded, I can feign a second arrival as myself and insist on being served by my own staff.’

  ‘It is risky.’

  ‘Yes. But not impossibly so. It is your plan—you can alter it, or refuse it entirely.’

  Elsie closed her eyes. Marcus in simple clothes, Marcus helping her father, joking with her mother, caring for her under the eyes of her family…

  ‘It is the best solution.’ Her voice was firm. ‘The very best.’

  If nothing happened now, if no distraction came, something would occur between them. There was simply too much tension in the room for nothing to happen. He would come to her, lay with her by the fire, tell her what truly lay behind the angry look she sometimes saw. Or she would go to him, sit astride him in his favourite armchair, and kiss him as passionately as she truly wanted.

  The clock by the bed chimed. Elsie fought the urge to curse as Marcus rose.

  ‘Think on your plans, and furnish them.’ He picked up the hamper, placing an orange by the hearth. ‘When I come tomorrow, we can think upon the details.’

  ‘Yes.’ Elsie rose, smoothing down her skirts. ‘Yes.’

  It always hurt when he left. Hurt more and more as the weeks went on, however much she tried to ignore it. A hollow appeared in her heart every time he left her—every time she slept alone. Now, after this conversation, the hurt was even worse.

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Harcourt.’ Marcus bowed low. He always bowed with utmost politeness—as if she were a lady. As if she were someone important. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘I shall.’ Elsie curtseyed. ‘I—I always do, after an evening of reading.’

  There it was again; that flash of darkness, of frustration, in Marcus’s eyes. ‘I shall read to you every night.’

  He was standing so close to her. Close enough to something foolish. Elsie shrank away, not wishing to be more foolish than she already had been. ‘I… I would like that. Very much.’

  Another long moment came. The awkward, painful moment of goodbye, which grew more and more intense with every passing day.

  ‘Well.’ Marcus stepped away. ‘I shall take my leave.’

  ‘Yes.’ Elsie’s heart sank. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  The walk back home was long, but Marcus didn’t want to take a carriage. He couldn’t bear the thought of being cooped up in a box, shaking and rattling down the street, unable to hear his own thoughts.

  A man of his wealth and position should never be seen on foot at night. The risk of blackmail was simply too strong. But the moon was high in the sky, shining on the silent streets—surely even the criminals of London had other concerns, tonight… and oh, he needed to walk. Needed to think.

  Needed to dream. Ever since he had met Elsie Harcourt, his dreams had become as powerful as his reality. More powerful, even—so powerful, they were becoming dangerous.

  It was like opium. Worse than opium. Opium had its downsides; Elsie, from what Marcus could see, had none.

  James Hildebrande had tried his best to teach him debauchery. Marcus had been in a bewildering number of brothels since the beginning of his friendship with the duke. Fortunately, the Cappadene Club had been where James had met Catherine Wentford—the woman who was now his wife.

  It had meant a lack of new brothels in Marcus’s life. He couldn’t be more grateful for the absence of sin. It also meant that he and James were now oddly similar, but different in all the ways that matter.

  Catherine Wentford was gently-bred, a member of the ton. She had been at the Cappadene Club for nothing more illicit than accounting work—the woman had a head for numbers. Once she had James had grown sure of one another, they had been free to pursue one another as romantically as they had seen fit.

  Marcus was one of the richest men in England. Elsie Harcourt was the well-read, sprightly daughter of two servants… and she was pregnant, and a courtesan.

  Nothing could ever happen between them. Nothing more than had already occurred. What had already occurred was more than even the most tolerant society would ever understand.

  ‘Oh, but I love her.’ He murmured the words under his breath, looking at the moon. ‘I do love her.’

  He didn’t allow himself to think about what circumstances had led to her condition. If Elsie didn’t wish to tell him, it was none of his business. He had no claim over her—no right to her past. And as for keeping her financially with the expectation of carnal pleasure in return, as so many men of his wealth did… if he wanted a being who was completely dependant on him, he would find a dog. Not a spirited, clever woman in possession of her own mind.

  He wasn’t keeping her now. She thought he was, but he wasn’t. He needed those quiet, peaceful moments by the fire with her more than he needed anything else. More than food, more than water, he needed her to be safe and well.

  He was loving her as best he could. As much as he allowed himself to. And however often he thought of Elsie saying kiss me, touch me, please… he knew that it could never happen.

  Being her husband for even an hour was a poisoned chalice. Being so close to her in the eyes of the world, taking responsibility in all the ways he so desperately craved, but unable to stake his private claim.

  A crueller man would insist upon payment in kind. A less caring man would not bring food, or books. Marcus, being neither cruel nor uncaring, simply resigned himself to sadness.

  Hands deep in his pockets, the scent of summer lingering on the air, he turned the corner into Knight’s Circle. The calm, wealthy splendour of the houses soothed him, before another though robbed him of that fragile stability.

  Elsie should be with him. They should be
returning from the theatre, laughing and talking together, ready to drink wine and read books and make love in the library until dawn. Instead, thanks to who they were, Elsie would be sleeping God-knew-where—and he would be sleeping alone.

  At least at the Harvest Ball they would see one another in sunlight. He could pretend, for a brief, glorious moment, that what they shared together could be shown to the wider world.

  The cart smelled of freshly-picked vegetables, carrots and potatoes escaping from their sacks as it trundled over the road. Elsie, sitting atop the largest sack as she bit into an apple, sighed with a contentment that she hadn’t felt in months.

  With artful dress and a rattling, free-wheeling manner, she had managed to conceal her condition from the other ladies at the Cappadene Club as they had wished her a pleasant few days in the countryside. Only Arthur Weeks, the manager, had looked at her suspiciously—but then, with his enormous moustache and permanently furrowed brow, he looked suspiciously at everyone. Still, he had settled her wages and given her a few coins from his own waistcoat pocket for a bonnet-ribbon.

  According to Lucy, the most well-informed gossip in the Club, Mr. Weeks recently married a lady far above his own relatively humble station. How had they managed to make a life together, despite such overwhelming odds?

  ‘Are you sure you’re safe up there?’ Marcus looked up at her from the end of the cart, shading his eyes from the sun. In a simple linen shirt and breeches, his handsomeness was even more evident. ‘You could fall.’

  ‘I won’t fall.’ Elsie smiled. ‘I am perfectly comfortable.’

  ‘I assume your mother and father are as limber and well-read as you are. There must be an explanation for your spirit.’

  ‘My father taught my mother to read. She used to teach at the dame school in Attlebury before going into service with him. I believe she went without new dresses so that our household could have books.’ Elsie took another bite of her apple, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again. ‘It was always Father’s dream to be a bookseller, I think. The family’s dream.’