‘Miss Rossington.’ A portly man stopped before her, his beady eyes bright as they skimmed over her dress. ‘I’d hoped our paths might cross.’
Though Lottie tried to step back, she bumped into a woman in a purple frock. She cast an annoyed look at Lottie and did not move. Nor did the women on either side of her.
Lottie was trapped.
Lord Devonington’s eyes moved over her like hands.
‘Would you care to dance?’ He held out his hand in invitation.
God, how she wished she could flee.
Lottie suppressed a shudder of revulsion. It was a trick necessary for a courtesan. And although the three protectors she’d had in her short career had been kind, the skill was one she’d had to implement on several occasions.
Only now she had a new means of employment. One in which she did not have to spend time in the company of men she did not favour. Chiefly, men like Lord Devonington.
‘Forgive me, but I’m taking a bit of a respite.’ She gave him a false smile.
‘For the entire evening?’ he queried.
Lottie maintained her pleasant expression. ‘Perhaps. It’s been some time since I’ve danced.’
He smirked. ‘Surely your other activities keep your constitution in good order.’
She gritted her teeth at the blatancy of his crass remark. ‘And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?’ she asked, determined to make him say it aloud, so that she might counter it with the truth.
‘Activities I’m inclined to discuss with you in private, activities that we might pursue and enjoy together.’ His stare oozed over her and settled on her bosom. ‘I was hoping for something lower cut. You do have such fine breasts.’
Her mouth fell open in outrage. ‘You’ve never seen... How could you possibly...?’
His mouth curved into a slow smile. ‘That gown you wore with Lord Astly. Do you not remember the masquerade?’
The masquerade?
Her stomach dropped. That gown.
Lord Astly had been her protector at the time—a wealthy earl who had never bothered with marriage. He had once been invited to a ball meant for peers and their mistresses—the sort of event where a lady would never be seen. Mistresses were put on display at parties such as these like baubles, wearing sheer fabrics and brazen gowns.
Lottie was no different. The gown was of thin white silk, opaque enough to keep the shape of her legs unseen, but cut extraordinarily low, with the pink of her nipples visible where they just peeked above the fabric of her risqué neckline.
She’d hated that dress almost as much as she had hated being paraded around like something to be owned.
What she hated even more, though, was the fact that she could not erase such memories from the minds of others. While Evander would always see her as a fresh-faced vicar’s daughter, with her country innocence, others would always remember her for the men who’d paid for her company and for what she’d done in her time of employment.
No matter how Evander tried to appease her fears, Lottie knew she would always be no better than a courtesan.
‘Now you remember.’ Lord Devonington licked his lips. ‘I assure you I have not forgotten.’
The urge to be sick pressed at the back of Lottie’s throat. She didn’t bother to excuse herself from the conversation, not caring for manners with someone so rude. She rushed away to the retiring room, where she slid behind a curtain for a moment of privacy.
Coming to the ball had been a mistake. She hadn’t realised how many would be in attendance. Evander’s explanation had made it sound small. Once she realised it was anything but, she ought to have left. Except she’d already gone to the expense of her dress, spent time putting her hair just so and indulging in that terrible thing called hope that now felt as though it were strangling her.
‘Did you see her?’
A woman’s voice came to her.
‘Dancing with all the men. No doubt propositioning them.’
Lottie closed her eyes, knowing full well they referred to her.
‘Perhaps that is her angle, then,’ another woman replied. ‘To rub elbows with her betters in an attempt to acquire several more. And I thought a man of the Earl of Westix’s wealth would be enough to sate her avarice.’
Lottie pressed a hand to her mouth to squelch her sob, but it did nothing to keep the hot tears from coursing down her cheeks. She wished the carpet beneath her would part and swallow her whole. Or, better yet, that she might sprout wings like a bird and fly out of this awful place, never to return to London or anywhere anyone had ever heard of her transgressions.
‘Lady Norrick and Lady Cotsworth—how lovely to see you.’
Lottie recognised the woman speaking as Violet, the new Countess of Dalton. The lovely young woman had once been the secret author of the scandal sheet the Lady Observer.
The women acknowledged Violet with murmured greetings.
‘I’m quite certain both your daughters are under Lottie’s tutelage—unless I’m mistaken,’ Violet said in a conversational tone. ‘Am I mistaken?’
The two women stammered.
Violet tsked. ‘Shame on you both. Yes, Lottie is beautiful enough to make any woman jealous, but it’s only in the truly awful that such hateful spite arises.’
There was a gasp of outrage, followed by the bustle of hasty departure.
Lottie leaned her head back against the wall and remained where she stood. She was grateful to Violet, but by no means eager to return to the ballroom.
After a bit of time had passed, and Lottie was certain Lady Cotsworth and Lady Norrick wouldn’t be lingering beyond the door, she removed herself from the retiring room and, after retrieving her cloak, from Westix Place.
Rather than endure the interminable wait for her own carriage, she took her chances in the open night air, in the hope of securing a hack. After all, not worrying after one’s reputation did have its benefits, though they were indeed few and far between.
As the cool night air rushed across her blazing cheeks, Lottie reconciled herself to what she’d known all this time and what she had been trying to make Evander understand: it didn’t matter how much he longed to be with her. People would never forget who she was or what she had done to survive.
She wished he had never left her, that she had never had to degrade herself. Hurt and anger flashed like sparks. Not that they did any good. There was no going back over the bridge she had burned.
She pushed through the door of her townhouse, startling Sarah into a scream. The maid had been walking past the door when Lottie made her abrupt arrival, and now held her chest with open hands, as though keeping her heart from spilling out.
‘You gave me a fright,’ Sarah exclaimed. Her shock blinked into confusion. ‘Why are you home so early?’
‘Come, now,’ Lottie’s butler swept past Sarah and came to take her cloak. ‘Is that any way to care for our mistress?’
‘Thank you, Andrews,’ Lottie whispered.
He folded the heavy velvet in his arms and regarded her with concern, furrowing his brow into a new series of wrinkles. ‘Is something amiss? Has someone hurt you?’
Yes.
She swallowed back her answer and shook her head. ‘I’d simply like to be left alone. You may have the remainder of the night off.’
He hesitated, his thin lips arcing downward in a frown.
‘I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind,’ Sarah gloated as she bumped past him.
‘I’d prefer to stay.’ Andrews lifted his chin with the haughtiness all butlers seemed to bring to their profession.
Lottie had kept her composure in the privacy of the hack she’d been able to acquire. But now, in the sanctuary of her own home, that resolve began to crumble. Rather than argue with the stoic butler, she nodded and allowed Sarah to guide her upstairs.
‘Did
you see him?’ Sarah asked.
Lottie nodded.
‘Was he cruel to you?’ There was a sharpness to Sarah’s tone.
Lottie shook her head, and a sob escaped her as Sarah swiftly opened the door to Lottie’s bedchamber.
‘What happened?’ Sarah pressed.
Lottie shook her head, not wanting to speak of it.
‘Tell me,’ the maid insisted as she removed the pins from Lottie’s hair and helped her undress.
Blast Sarah for her inability to be put off.
The shame of it rushed at Lottie in a hot wave. ‘It will never be the same. Not with the ton, who will never accept me, and not with Evander, who I don’t know if I can allow myself to open my heart to again.’
Sarah helped Lottie into a warm nightrail and guided her towards the bed. ‘Come, love, get into bed while I fetch you some tea.’
In truth, tea did sound lovely. She crawled into the large bed, with its sheets that felt like cool silk, where there were no witnesses to her humiliation, no one to judge her. There she gave way to the torrent of tears she’d managed to dam. Tears for the innocence she had sacrificed, for the life she had lived, for her terrible, terrible loss.
A cold, wet nose nudged her after a while, and her grey tabby, Silky, butted her furry head against Lottie’s. Sarah had found the cat three years ago, when Lottie was near her own wits’ end. The thing was nearly starved to death and scarcely weighed anything at all. She had bonded with Lottie immediately—two broken souls finding one another—and a sense of comfort formed between them as a result.
The door creaked open and the sweet scent of tea followed the quiet whisper of footsteps. Finally Lottie explained what had happened, her fingers idly stroking through Silky’s thick fur while Sarah listened.
Only when Lottie was done did the maid speak up. ‘Lady Norrick’s husband has a new mistress. One he holds in high regard, if the time and wealth he spends on her are any indication. From what I understand, Lady Norrick has been quite miserable.’ Sarah gave a sad smile. ‘She loves her husband, you see.’
Lottie regarded her maid with appreciation, seeing Lady Norrick in a new light in the understanding of her suffering. ‘It’s rather disconcerting, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘How freely servants speak?’
‘Not me.’ Sarah winked. ‘But I do like to listen.’ She eyed Lottie’s empty teacup. ‘More tea?’
‘No, thank you.’ The hour was truly late now, and Lottie’s eyes were gritty from her tears. Heavens, how she hated crying.
‘And regarding Lord Westix,’ Sarah said hesitantly. ‘You have not given yourself the chance to recover from what happened, and you’ll never be open to him if you don’t.’
Lottie shook her head, not wanting to talk about the topic. It was still far too tender.
‘Feel better?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes.’ Lottie smiled at the woman who had become so dear to her over the years. Bless Sarah for her inability to be put off.
‘If I may...?’ the maid hedged.
‘When has my lack of permission ever stopped you before?’ Lottie scratched under Silky’s chin and the cat’s low, lazy purr intensified.
Sarah’s grin answered that question. ‘Don’t let anyone ruin your chance at happiness. Even yourself.’
Lottie nodded, but said nothing. Because it wasn’t simply about how Devonington and those awful women had made her feel, it was also the delicate topic of allowing herself to heal, which would mean facing her hurt head-on.
It was far too great a thing to do. Perhaps even greater than she could manage.
* * *
Evander had long since abandoned discretion in his search for Lottie. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been dancing with Rawley.
Kentworth, having no one to entertain him now Rawley was preoccupied, had fastened onto Evander, regaling him with tales from a house party he’d attended over the Parliamentary break. The Marquess was in his cups, as was typical of him, and he went on at length about the various games he’d won.
‘Have you seen Lottie?’ Evander asked abruptly, as Rawley finally joined them.
Kentworth stopped midsentence and regarded Evander with a curious look, as if he couldn’t quite deduce whether or not he ought to be offended by being cut off in the middle of his story—or epic saga, as it was turning out to be.
‘I haven’t,’ he finally replied, appearing nonplussed. A sloppy smile sloshed over his face. ‘But I’ve been meaning to ask you about her. Are you finally luring her out from under her rock after all this time?’
‘Kentworth,’ Rawley spoke in a warning tone from beside his friend.
The Marquess pulled back and regarded his more austere acquaintance. ‘I daresay you are trying to prevent me from being punched.’
‘Again?’ Rawley slid his small silver watch from the pocket in his waistcoat.
Kentworth snorted a laugh and elbowed Rawley. But the nudge wasn’t what pulled the shorter, more studious man from studying the time. No, it was the lady walking towards him.
Lady Caroline’s face lit up like a candelabra at his besotted expression.
Irritation surged through Evander. He was fed up with Kentworth’s antics, and he wanted nothing more than to find Lottie. After finally succeeding in encouraging her to join him at the ball, he was not going to see it all go to waste.
He turned to go when Kentworth caught him by the elbow. ‘We’ll find her.’
‘Find who?’ Lady Dalton asked, arriving with Lady Caroline.
‘Miss Rossington,’ Rawley said, staring shyly at Lady Caroline. ‘She appears to be missing.’
‘Lottie is missing?’ Lady Dalton turned, looking over her shoulder in thought. ‘I wonder...’
‘Did you see her?’ Evander pressed.
Lady Dalton frowned. ‘No, but I overheard several women speaking ill of her.’
Rage flashed through Evander. ‘I do beg your pardon.’
‘I had words with them.’ The Countess gave a haughty toss of her head. ‘Wretched gossips. I’d seen Lottie enter the retiring room before me, and wondered at the time if she had somehow overheard.’
‘What did they say?’ Evander demanded.
‘Nothing polite.’ Lady Dalton sighed and gave him a pointed look. ‘Exactly what you would expect.’
Evander’s stomach dropped. He knew how upsetting that would have been for Lottie. He uttered a soft curse and strode away, ignoring Kentworth’s calls for him to return.
Evander found his butler and immediately asked after Lottie.
‘She’s taken her leave, my lord,’ Edmonds replied.
‘You’re certain she’s gone?’ Evander asked.
Edmonds lifted an austere brow. ‘I’m familiar with Miss Rossington. I assure you it was she who left the ball, perhaps an hour ago. She didn’t request her carriage.’
Evander frowned. She hadn’t bade him farewell, which was suspicious enough when she’d seemed to be so happy dancing with him previously. But to leave her carriage?
‘Fetch me my carriage,’ he said. ‘At once. And inform her driver she has left so he may return to Bloomsbury.’
Edmonds rushed off to comply with Evander’s request. Within moments his carriage pulled to the front of Westix Place and Evander was on the cushioned seat, on his way to Russell Square in Bloomsbury.
On his way to Lottie.
But when he arrived her townhouse stood dark and forbidding, and his footman’s knocks went unanswered. He pushed out of the carriage himself, foregoing decorum, and rapped hard on the door.
When no one opened it, he stepped back to regard the darkened windows and called out for Lottie.
Still there was no response.
At last he had no choice but to return home, where his birthday celebration had concluded and carriages were departing the townhouse in a steady
line.
This had been his first real opportunity with Lottie since he had returned from his travels, and he had been careless. He should have stayed at her side the entire night.
He had failed her yet again.
A hard knot of despair twisted in his gut, along with the understanding that he might not be given another opportunity.
Dejected, he exited the carriage and trudged into the townhouse. The multitude of candles had all burned out, and only a few remained lit for the servants to clear away glasses and tables, casting the room into an atmosphere as dark as his mood. The floors were streaked with muddied chalk, which would be quite a feat to clean the following day. Evander would ensure the staff received a generous bonus to compensate for the effort.
‘There you are.’
Lady Westix rushed towards him, the soft light catching at the beads on her silver dress and making them shimmer. When she stopped before him, he could make out the worry creasing his mother’s face.
‘Where did you go?’ she asked.
‘Lottie left.’ He glanced back towards the doorway, as if it would be possible to see her departing.
Lady Westix sighed. ‘I know you long to be with her, my son. However...’ She pursed her lips.
‘However?’ Wariness simmered beneath the word. Surely his own mother understood how he felt, Surely she—of all people—would not castigate Lottie as the rest of the ton did.
‘When it comes to women, some wounds take a considerable amount of time to heal. Especially those that run deep.’
‘But it doesn’t mean they’ll never heal.’
‘No,’ she replied slowly, ‘it doesn’t. But it might take an extraordinary amount of patience on your part. As well as tenderness and consideration.’
‘I’m willing to do anything it takes,’ he said with finality, then softened his tone. ‘The hour is late. Come, I’ll walk you to your room.’
She gave him a grateful smile and allowed him to lead her from the empty ballroom. Their footsteps echoed around them, amid the clinking of glassware being neatly stacked.
How to Wed a Courtesan--An entertaining Regency romance Page 10