The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom

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      “Going somewhere?” he persisted.

      “As you know, Lord Morgan, I am in somewhat of a pickle. I do not want my scandal attached to my friends’ names.”

      “Ah, then you’re going home? Back to Bloomsbury Square?”

      She sighed deeply and glanced sideways at him. “It is locked up until the Hawthornes’ return.”

      “That places you in a rather awkward position, does it not? No family, no friends?”

      “Thank you for stating the obvious, my lord.”

      He chuckled. “Where are you going, Miss Lovejoy?”

      “I intended to let a room at a ladies’ hostel.”

      “Were there no vacancies?”

      She hesitated, then murmured, “None, I fear.”

      “So you are going back to the Thayers?”

      “Of course not,” she snapped.

      Although he already knew the answer, Geoff raised an eyebrow. “Are the authorities after you, Miss Lovejoy?”

      “I…I imagine they are.”

      Pity. The girl was in over her head and had no one to help her. His conscience tweaked him and he did his best to ignore it. Miss Lovejoy was just the sort of empty-headed little ingenue he avoided at all costs. “Then what are you doing here in the open? Shouldn’t you be looking for a hiding place?”

      “Did I not tell you that I do not want my friends inconvenienced by my problems?”

      The first uneasy stirrings of guilt prickled the hair on the back of Geoff’s neck. Adam Hawthorne had been one of the few men to give him the benefit of the doubt. For that reason alone, he owed the man. And then Adam had taken a bullet meant for him, which had compounded the debt. Now that Adam had married Dianthe’s Aunt Grace, could he leave Adam’s gently reared cousin alone on a bench at dusk? Not likely. But he avoided involvement in other people’s lives like the plague. Maybe it was a simple matter of money. Yes, he could give her money and be done with her.

      “Vacancies can be found with enough money, Miss Lovejoy. I shall be happy to—”

      “Keep your ill-gotten gains, Lord Morgan. They cannot buy me what I need.”

      How like the high-minded little brat to bite the hand that fed her. “Damn it, Miss Lovejoy, they will buy you a room.”

      “No, my lord, they will not.” She took a deep breath and raised her chin in proud disdain. “No one will rent me a room, because I am alone and unchaperoned.”

      “I shall hire you a chaperone,” he offered.

      She rolled her eyes so comically he nearly laughed. “Your money will not buy you everything.”

      “It buys enough to pass for everything.”

      “No doubt it is why you get away with so much. But your money will not buy me, Lord Morgan, so scoot away, if you please.” She made a sweeping motion with one hand.

      “Even if I don’t please?”

      “Even then,” she confirmed.

      He removed his foot from the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. What was he to do with this prickly little baggage? He could find her a room easily enough, but it wouldn’t be in a part of town suitable for her, or in an establishment even remotely acceptable.

      “Well, go!” she said.

      He turned to do just that. But then Adam Hawthorne’s face, white from loss of blood, rose to his mind, and another idea occurred to him. Miss Lovejoy would be an excellent way for him to repay his debt to Adam. Besides, she would be child’s play to manage.

      “Do you care about my name or reputation, Miss Lovejoy?”

      “Yours are beyond redemption,” she declared.

      True, but he didn’t like hearing it from Dianthe Lovejoy. He took a deep breath and reined in his temper. “Excellent. Then you should have no objections to accepting my hospitality.”

      His statement so surprised her that she coughed. “You cannot be serious!”

      “Completely,” he confirmed, surprising even himself. “I have a home in the West End that is presently unoccupied. There is only a small staff, but I could hire more if needed.”

      “But you—”

      “I prefer my house in Covent Garden. We would not be sharing the same quarters. My housekeeper would vouch for your…ah, reputation, until I can find a more suitable chaperone for you.”

      “I do not like owing you, Lord Morgan.”

      “I do not like owing your cousin, Miss Lovejoy, but things are what they are. Your present circumstances place you in a position to benefit from the debt I owe him, although I rather think he will owe me after this. It is a simple proposition and will not require you to be courteous to me—or even speak with me, which would be preferable, given your general lack of civility. I’d advise you to take the offer before I think better of it.”

      She blinked those gorgeous blue eyes and gave him a slightly confused look. A moment passed while she seemed to consider her options. Or lack of them. He offered his hand.

      Hesitantly, she took it. Her hand was warm and strong, and it looked insignificant resting in his palm. He grinned. Miss Lovejoy made it clear how much she detested him and any necessity of dealing with him. She was a bit of a snob and considered him socially beneath her. Only his title had kept him near her social circle. Still, she had no reasonable alternative, and they both knew it.

      She stood. “This…this is one of the most remarkable mésalliances I have ever heard of, Lord Morgan.”

      “I could not agree more, Miss Lovejoy, but do not mistake this for an alliance of any sort. I am repaying a debt, and with very little inconvenience to myself.” He picked up her valise. “This, in fact, may be the last time we are required to speak to one another.”

      A home on the West End? This was a mansion! On Curzon Street just around the corner from Half Moon Street, it boasted one of the best Mayfair addresses. Berkeley Square was a stone’s throw away and Green Park just a fraction farther. Heavens! It must have cost Lord Morgan an entire fortune—if he hadn’t won the place from some poor unwary gambler!

      He opened the front door, entered unannounced, and dropped her valise with a sharp slap on the polished marble floor. The central hall, as large as a chapel, contained two curved staircases that met at the second floor landing. The doors to the right and left of the foyer were taller than any she’d seen outside a palace or a church. A balding servant scurried from a hidden hallway behind the stairs at the first sounds of Lord Morgan’s entry.

      “My lord! We did not expect you this evening.” The man—a butler, Dianthe assumed—bowed and darted a glance in her direction. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

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