The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark

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      Without speaking, he lifted his arm, a look of steel daring her to refuse to accept it. Compelled by his will alone, Ellen laid her fingers on his coat sleeve. The gentle weight of his other hand covered them, as though fearing she would run he urged her to stay. The impression it conjured up in her head was a knight in shining armour, like the heroes in the fairy tales she’d read as a girl.

      But this was no act of chivalry.

      He was no saviour of a lady’s virtue.

      He had just bartered with another man for the use of her body! He was no rescuer come to release her from Gainsborough’s evil grip. I should not long to lean on his strength.

      Yet, the strength beneath her fingers and the assurance implied in the hand resting on her own sent warmth running into her blood. It suggested security—constancy. Like the scent of fresh bread stirring hunger, his touch set alive silly speculating notions in her head—dreams—desires for a happy-ever-after that could never be.

      Silent, Ellen found herself guided in Madam’s wake. She knew instinctively all eyes were on her back and she felt Lord Gainsborough’s burn between her shoulder-blades, imagining them narrow with anger and calculating revenge. Her courage failing her, Lord Edward’s aura of undaunted power kept her walking as they crossed two rooms in which Madam’s customers played at tables. The attention they drew apparently did not disturb him. But when they reached the hall as if sensing her fear, his arm fell away from beneath her hand and instead his fingers gently but firmly gripped hers.

      “I would rather not go upstairs, Madam. Have you a private parlour we could use down here?” While he spoke his fingers squeezed Ellen’s, as though offering the comfort and reassurance her spirit craved.

      The temperate strength gripping her hand unsettled her, setting speculation whispering through her head again. He is not my rescuer.

      Marietta hesitated, looked aloft, and then clearly thinking quickly, she held forth a hand encouraging them to follow her around the foot of the stairs and along a narrow hallway. There she opened a door. “This is my own sitting-room. No one will disturb you here, my Lord. Is there anything I may bring you?”

      When they entered the room, Lord Edward let Ellen’s fingers go and she took the opportunity to move away.

      Crossing the room, she trailed her satin clad fingers over the chair-backs as she passed them until she reached the far side.

      “A decanter of port and two glasses, Madam, nothing else…” Ellen looked back, answering his pause and met his gaze. “Unless you are hungry or have another preference?”

      She shook her head before finding her voice. “No, my Lord, thank you, I am in need of nothing.” What a lie, I am in need of everything.

      She turned away and ran her fingers over a polished mahogany writing desk which stood against the wall. The room was different to the public areas. It was decorated in tasteful greens not the gaudy gold and reds which adorned the gambling rooms, and, she also knew, dressed the bedchambers above. There were two winged armchairs and a chaise-lounge, all upholstered in moss green velvet which matched the closed curtains. In the grate at the centre of the hearth, a low fire burned and on the floor before it a Persian rug covered the boards. The walls were dressed with painted patterns of green ivy.

      The door clicked shut. Ellen turned back swiftly and her fingers gripped the rim of the desk behind her as her gaze reached across the room to meet Lord Edward’s again. Marietta had gone and he stood watching Ellen, assessing her as he’d done in the card room while she’d watched him. Then he held out his hand reminding her of a man approaching a nervous colt. Did he not realise she was used to being payment in kind? He need hardly fear she wouldn’t give him what he wanted, she was no debutante. I am a thrice damned courtesan. There was no need for courtship or kind words. She knew what he wanted. He didn’t even have to ask.

      His mouth suddenly lifted to a smile, tilting at one side. “Why did you tell me?”

      It took her a moment to register that he spoke of Gainsborough’s little trick. Why did she? Because she’d seen something in his eyes she’d warmed to, or just because he was handsome and she was drawn by his looks, or possibly only because it gave her opportunity to rebel? It could be any of those things, but she knew herself too well. The person she’d once been, the stranger surviving deep inside her heart of ice, couldn’t see another human being brought down to her level. He hadn’t had the money. She couldn’t see him trapped, even if he was a man.

      Her misguided generosity had led her here. She was trapped. Caught in the hands of another man who’d sate his lust for her body—the woman within it was irrelevant. He wanted to use it but he’d use her too.

      Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace at his back. Her beauty was incomparable. She was not blind to it. She’d been told it dozens of times. It lay in the starkly pale blue of her eyes, the dark sweep of ebony hair across porcelain coloured skin. God had made her perfect in face and figure. The look of a Goddess, her husband, Paul, had once said. Then compliments had pleased her. Now beauty cursed her.

      A sound escaped his throat, drawing her attention back to him. She didn’t know if it was a prompt, but she responded anyway. “It was obvious you could not afford the stake, my Lord. I am surprised you took the bet.”

      He dismissed her words with a wave of his hand as a tap sounded on the door. “Enter!” His voice carried considerable confidence for a man she’d classified no greater in age than his mid-twenties, but then he’d probably lived his whole life with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth.

      “Put it there.” He pointed to a small table as a footman brought in a tray bearing the decanter and glasses he’d ordered.

      “Thank you.”

      The words of gratitude surprised her as the servant left and closed the door.

      Lord Edward’s gaze crossed to her again. “You will take a drink?”

      She nodded. She’d need the fortitude that strong liquor brought to see this through.

      Turning away, he answered her earlier statement, “I’m not in such dire straits as rumour would have it. I care not if I win or lose, as proven by my letting your friend keep his money.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug as he spoke, before pouring the port from the decanter.

      When he faced her again he had a glass in each hand and, walking towards her, he held one out.

      She took it, looking at the ruby colored liquid. “Then why play, my Lord?”

      “Because I find myself at a loose end. I need diversion. Please, sit, Miss… What is your name?”

      He asked as though he’d only just realised he didn’t know it.

      “Ellen, Lord Edward.” Her voice sounded cold even to her, and formal.

      “Sit then, Ellen. Let us get to know one another.”

      Perching on the edge of an armchair she felt like a mouse before a cat, waiting for the moment he would pounce.

      He sat in the chair facing her and leaned back, his legs splayed slightly, drawing her attention to the physical strength in his muscular thighs.

      The instinctive СКАЧАТЬ