Read the book: «The Illicit Love of a Courtesan»

Chapter One

Perfectly positioned to view one of the ton’s fairest sons, Ellen’s eyes were drawn from Lord Gainsborough’s playing cards to the man seated across the table—Lord Edward Marlow, the second born son of the tenth Earl of Barrington. He was newly in town and therefore a novelty, an enigma. Every mistress and courtesan in the room had been watching him all evening and she was no exception.

Lord Edward’s long, manicured fingers moved, poising above his cards. Ellen openly stared, the low light in the room and its stale hazy air, thick with tobacco smoke, hiding her scrutiny from the watching crowd.

His hair was dark brown and gentle curls tumbled from his crown, licking his forehead and the high collar of his black, tailed evening coat, Brutus style. In the candlelight thrown by the chandelier above, his hair glistened with a variety of rich, roasted coffee bean shades.

His head lifted and she indulged her eyes with his severe yet perfect, profile. He exuded authority. The man was sleek strength and sophistication. The muscle of his jaw tight, his lips rose as if to smile, but hesitated as though some thought stopped him, and she saw doubt or indecision pass across his expression. Then his eyelids lifted and his dark, intense gaze clashed with hers, a pale blue, more like slate-grey.

Embarrassed and a little flustered, Ellen’s appraisal fell to his hands.

His fingers teased out a card and threw it to the table while she felt his gaze burn into her.

Desire stirring, she pictured the pleasure those fingers could give a woman and the air in the room was suddenly hot and thick, despite the cool winter night outside.

Ellen lifted her open fan and fluttered it gently to cool her skin as her gaze drifted back to his face. He was still watching her. One dark eyebrow rose and his broad lips smiled. Her gaze hovering on his, she mirrored his smile, her heart pounding as though she was already coupling with him. She imagined his mouth on hers and a hot blush touched her skin. The sweeps of her fan increasing, her imagination drifted on towards indecency—impossibility—picturing tangled limbs and warm flesh.

Light caught the jet-black pools in his eyes, as though he saw the pictures forming in her thoughts and his captivating smile twisted with implied agreement. It turned his features from handsome to utterly devastating.

A hot flush spread like a caress down her throat to her breasts and lower, racing across her skin.

“I shall raise you a hundred, Marlow. Will you match me?” Lord Gainsborough’s brusque challenge sliced through the silent communication she shared with Lord Edward.

His gaze tore away, his blank expression cutting her, apparently dismissing their flirtation. Instead it focused upon Lord Gainsborough.

Ellen stood behind Lord Gainsborough and slightly to his side, in her protector’s shadow, oppressed. Oppression was Lord Gainsborough’s pleasure and Lord Gainsborough’s pleasure was her life. Her gaze fell to the seam at the centre of the back of his black evening coat. The pressure of his bloated body strained it. Excess was another of his passions.

Revulsion stirred. She despised the man—her protector. Yet preference was irrelevant. She was tied to him, trapped by him. He had blackmailed her into obedience five years ago and now here she stood, her soul and conscience dead while her body lived on, fulfilling his dissolute desires. She was empty, a vessel, deaf to the voice of morality and blind to shame.

Laughter hovered behind her closed lips, ringing in her thoughts, a sound of silent madness.

Lord Gainsborough liked flaunting his pretty vessel—his precious trophy. Sometimes he let others touch, taunting them with what they couldn’t have. Wickedly she wondered how he would react if she let someone of Lord Edward’s ilk touch her. He’d be furious.

Hiding her self-deprecating smile behind her fan, Ellen glanced over its top at the gorgeous man across the table. Was it very wrong for her sinful body to want a man like that? How would it feel? How would it feel to be free from her so-called protector for an hour or two and play his games with a man of her choice? Choice was a holy grail; a cup fallen woman longed to drink from. And she would love defying Lord Gainsborough.

As though pulled by an invisible cord winding between them, Lord Edward’s gaze lifted to her while he contemplated Lord Gainsborough’s call. His eyes widened, darkening, perhaps reading hers, and what appeared to be amusement twitched his lips before he looked back at his cards.

Ellen snapped her fan shut and lowered it to her waist, turning her attention to the game. Only Lord Gainsborough and the younger Lord Edward were left in play. The others sitting about the table simply watched, and behind them stood a crowd three deep. The dense ring of silent observers were men in the formal black evening dress Brummell had made popular, with the occasional female, mistress or courtesan, draped upon their arms. They were men enjoying the hedonistic lifestyle of the sleazy gentlemen’s club, or gaming-hell as it was more commonly known. Gaming-hells, like this one, provided the thrill these men craved from high stakes games, with women and wine to increase the rush.

For Gainsborough, she knew this place fuelled something else—his desire to be envied. He brought her here to show her off. Lord Gainsborough wore her as women wore their jewels. She was an adornment—his precious, beautiful, trophy. He’d not even dislike Lord Edward’s attention—he’d relish it. Yet if Gainsborough knew she was enticing Lord Edward, she would pay a price.

“I will meet your hundred, Gainsborough, and raise you ten.”

“Are you sure you have it, boy?” Lord Gainsborough’s tone rang with condescension, ridiculing Lord Edward. It fell flat. Lord Edward was younger, but he was in his prime. She would place him at his peak, mid-twenties at the least.

Receiving no answer, shifting in his seat, her protector pulled at the cuffs of his evening coat, while the eyes of their crowd turned to Lord Edward.

“Now your brother is back, Marlow, surely you have lost your portion. Should I request security for your funds?”

That barb seemed to hit a mark. Suddenly leaning back in his chair, Lord Edward’s eyes narrowed, his nonchalant air shattering as anger flashed in their blue-black depths. For all his beauty and youth he lacked nothing in masculine strength. Ellen sensed ruthlessness in the look he threw back at Lord Gainsborough.

“Play the game, Gainsborough. I’ve no desire for conversation.”

“But you are able to honour your debts? I need not wait for you to tug your brother’s purse strings for payment?”

Ellen watched Lord Edward’s grip tighten on his cards while his other hand reached for his glass. A slowly indrawn breath and he appeared back in control.

Everyone had heard the talk. He’d been running his brother’s estates since the age of eighteen, while his brother, the eleventh Earl, wasted both time and money abroad. Now his brother was back, potentially to bleed dry the estates which were prospering under Lord Edward’s careful hand.

Lord Edward had arrived in London a week ago, angry and bitter, from the reports of the gossipmongers in the ton, and his behaviour this evening certainly concurred with the tale. His mask of serenity had slipped, revealing the man beneath the façade. He appeared out of sorts with the world, playing hard and deep, drinking heavily—and this from a man known for his dislike of vice.

His gaze lifted, meeting hers, anger and mockery in the look, as once more he caught her contemplating him. The determination in his eyes seemed to challenge her to speak. To what, agree with Gainsborough? Does he think I would condemn him? I am in no place to cast judgement.

Again his gaze ripped away from hers. “I have enough of my own blunt, Gainsborough,” he said, looking at his cards. “I have no need to beg from my brother.”

The nuance in his voice made her feel as though the words were said for her.

“I’m glad to hear it. Then I will raise you another two hundred guineas.”

Lord Edward’s narrowed eyes lifted suddenly to look at her protector.

He didn’t have it, she was certain of that. He could not afford the stakes but would stupidly bury himself in debt because of some bizarre falling out with his brother, or stubborn male pride.

Unwilling to play audience to his downfall, she lowered her gaze and saw Lord Gainsborough’s cards had changed. The ten had become an ace, and the eight exchanged with a king. Disgust twisted Ellen’s stomach. Gainsborough would win by deceit and Lord Edward would be neatly leashed with the debt a whip in Lord Gainsborough’s hand. Her protector had no decent, honest bones in his body. He manipulated people. That was Gainsborough’s art; he used, broke and discarded people like puppets. She prayed daily he would cut her strings and cast her off—set her free—even though she had nowhere else to go. But he never seemed to tire of the power she gave him. Yet she need not watch him secure another victim in his sadistic sway.

Her heart pumping hard, looking up, she found Lord Edward’s eyes on her again. An odd feeling assailed her, a sense that he saw into her thoughts. His assessment was no longer admiring, nor mocking or angry, instead his gaze intently studied hers, searching for something.

She darted her gaze down and up, trying to direct his attention to Lord Gainsborough’s cards with her eyes while simultaneously flicking open her fan and then fluttering it beneath her chin to distract attention from their silent communication.

Lord Edward’s brow furrowed. She could see he didn’t understand.

Widening her eyes, she once again looked to Lord Gainsborough’s cards, then snapped her fan shut and tapped the tip against the long sleeve of her satin glove.

Smiling, or rather smirking, Lord Edward looked down at his cards.

Ellen glanced about their audience but she saw no one watching her.

“I will meet your stake, Gainsborough, and double it to see your hand. Show me your cards.” With that Lord Edward tossed two jacks and two eights onto the green felt and then Lord Gainsborough laid a royal flush down in opposition to the pairs. Lord Gainsborough’s hand won. An exclamation rang from the gathered crowd, voicing congratulations for Gainsborough. Then comments of consolation followed, as Lord Edward’s shoulder was slapped.

Ellen held her breath, her gaze fixed on the table, her heart pounding. She was too afraid to look up in case Lord Gainsborough identified her collusion when, if, the accusation came.

It did. “You are a damned cheat, Gainsborough! Take off your coat!” From Lord Edward’s voice she could tell he was standing, facing them across the table.

Ellen stepped back as Lord Gainsborough rose, his bulk lifting from the chair. He was old enough to be her father and looked older still after years of debauchery, broken veins marring his fallen cheeks and bulbous nose. But despite his age and weight he could still move quickly when he wished. Tonight he did not wish, he stood slowly, making no effort to do Lord Edward’s bidding.

“Don’t be ridiculous, boy. I am a Viscount. I have no need to cheat.” Gainsborough’s voice welled with ridicule. He knew this game. Act the aggrieved. Turn the accusation back upon the accuser. Be above reproach, and you are. She had watched him play it numerous times.

“Yet still, I ask you to remove your coat, my Lord, and prove your innocence, if it is so.” Lord Edward’s eyes searched their audience then and settled on a man similar to him in age. “Find Madam, have her bring her brutes and we will sort this out.” The other man instantly disappeared obeying the request.

“You are talking nonsense, Marlow. I refuse to be challenged like some damned guttersnipe! Come, my dear, we’re leaving.” Painfully gripping Ellen’s arm Lord Gainsborough turned her away. “My man of business will contact you, Marlow. Then you will settle your debt.” As Gainsborough thrust the words sideward over his shoulder, his grip steered her into the parting crowd.

“You played me false, Gainsborough! You’ll wait until it’s proven!” Lord Edward’s voice resonated throughout the room, a barked order carrying no deference for Lord Gainsborough’s seniority in age and status.

Irate voices rose, supporting Lord Edward, “Yes, Gainsborough!”

“Take off your coat!”

“Prove it!”

The crowd grew, closing the avenue before Ellen. Lord Gainsborough’s hand fell from her arm as he turned back. She knew he was starting to realise he was not going to win so easily this time.

A swell of satisfaction stirred in Ellen’s chest. Revenge would be another sin to add to her list of many, but it tasted sweet, even if the victory was minor and he’d no knowledge of her part.

The crowd about them parted again for the gaming-hell’s tall, slender, aged and highly painted female proprietor to forge a path towards them. Ellen was aware of two of Madam’s burly doormen moving behind her.

“Lord Gainsborough? What is this accusation? My house is honest. Please, if you have done nothing wrong, you shall not mind removing your coat.”

Gainsborough took a breath and then snorted, scoffing at the crowd, apparently casting them all fools. But he was cornered, he could do nothing but concede.

Slipping the buttons of his double-breasted evening coat free, he looked at Ellen, growling, “Woman, help me!” before turning his back to her and holding out one arm. “Tug the sleeve loose.” He threw her a warning look over his shoulder as he spoke. She understood it exactly. He expected her to hide the cards.

Afraid. Her heart thumped. Gripping his cuff in fingers and thumb, Ellen felt the cards hidden within his sleeve, but she refused to help him. She loosened his cuff from his hand then let go and lifted hers to ease the coat from his shoulders. The cards fell to the floor and she gasped to make it appear accidental, but the sound was lost amidst the outburst of the watching crowd. They shouted in shock and disgust, a burst of masculine irritation.

This would cost her. Their battlefield had revised and her involvement was too visible, but she was not letting Lord Gainsborough crush her first assault.

Gainsborough’s anger and accusation struck her as he looked back, and she stepped back, afraid he would strike her physically, her heart pulsing as panic turned her stomach to ice.

“As I told you,” The statement of vindication turned Gainsborough’s attention to Lord Edward, “the winnings are mine, Gainsborough. The question is what should I request in compensation for not handing you to a magistrate?” Lord Edward’s steel like gaze passed from Lord Gainsborough to her and a wicked smile played on his lips. Her heart missed a beat. What was he doing?

His gaze passed back to Lord Gainsborough. “Give me the woman in consolation.”

“For an hour, no more,” Lord Gainsborough barked.

Ellen blushed. They were bartering over her as they would over horseflesh. Another piece of her died. Men had taken her self-respect as well as her body. They were arguing over the vessel, not her, not the living, breathing, feeling woman within it.

“Two hours and you may keep your stake beyond what is on the table.”

Ellen opened her mouth to protest and closed it again. What good would it do? They did not care for her. Her eyelids falling over the moisture in her eyes, she drew a breath. She’d helped Lord Edward—he was hurting her. The cost of her involvement had just tripled.

“You agree?” Lord Edward prompted.

“I agree,” Lord Gainsborough snarled.

Because there was no other choice, Ellen thought, not willingly. Her manipulator had met his match, and she’d given Lord Edward the means to make this manoeuvre. Even her satisfaction in seeing Lord Gainsborough beaten at his own game was hollow. It was earned at her expense. She was a fool.

“Madam, we need a room,” Lord Edward ordered, soiling the images Ellen had appreciated earlier. This is hell, not heaven. I want choice not coercion.

The air escaped her lungs and Ellen opened her eyes.

He stood barely a foot away, facing her, watching her intently.

He was taller than he’d seemed when seated, a good seven to ten inches taller than her. He towered over her. His appearance was no longer impressive, but imposing.

She’d thought him authoritative before, now she knew him to be overwhelmingly commanding. Fear grasped her more tightly.

“Please follow me, Lord Edward.” Madam Marietta beckoned with her fingers.

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 awareness which had ailed her earlier returned. She was attracted to him, despite all else. The room suddenly felt hot, she looked up blushingly to meet his gaze. The light in his eyes implied he saw her susceptibility, but he did not speak of it. “Your age, Ellen?”

“Women do not speak of their age, my Lord,” she snapped, angered by his ability to move her and apparently remain unmoved.

He smiled, a heart stopping expression. It set hers skipping against her ribs.

Am I really so shallow I will simply succumb to his looks?

“I am four and twenty, if it makes you feel better to know my own,” he answered, his tone relaxed. “There, it’s not so hard to say one’s age.”

“I cannot see why you care to know it.” She could remove a year, two, even claim to be younger than him, she could pass for three and twenty, but she was unwilling to lie. Her life had been so full of sin, adding another lie, no matter how small, felt suddenly intolerable.

He said nothing, waiting for her reply.

“I am eight and twenty, my Lord. Older than yourself, and now you have embarrassed me.”

“It matters not. We are adults, Ellen, age makes little difference.”

“Then why ask?” she bit back, annoyed by his languorous tone. He disturbed her, she felt hot and uncomfortable, afraid—yet not afraid. Her heart thumped; a hammer ringing upon an anvil in her ears.

“Because I cannot understand what you are doing with a man like Gainsborough. He must be twice your age. You cannot persuade me it is his looks or character which draw you.”

Spurred, anger flashed through her. Who was he to judge her? He’d bartered over her body. How could he accuse her of poor choice? Surely it was obvious why she was with Lord Gainsborough; she had no choice. But she would not admit it. Not to him or anyone. She would not face that humiliation. Instead she played the part of a woman who chose to be a man’s chattel.

“Because he was the highest bidder, my Lord, what other reason would you think?” Deliberately she edged her voice with a sultry cutting pitch. The role of harlot was now instinctive. She would act it for Gainsborough too once this was done, to placate his damaged pride.

“Are you telling me I cannot afford you, Ellen?” He was amused by her; she heard it in his voice. She imagined him laughing at her, inwardly.

Lord, the self-confidence of the man was infuriating.

“Your words, my Lord.” She took a sip of port from the glass in her hand.

“Yes, my words.” he repeated, his pitch sobering. He drained his glass, set it aside and stood. “But I do not need to pay, do I, Ellen?”

A dart of longing pain stretched through her core, confirming his words. No man had stirred this reaction in her since Paul. He was right. Her body craved his.

“Come.” He stepped towards her and leaned down. Mesmerised by him, she watched his movement, while uncertainty and fear warred with attraction.

His long, beautiful fingers wrapped about the bowl of her glass and lifted it from her hand.

Unwilling to look up, unable to meet his gaze, she heard the click of the base as it was placed on the table.

His fingers then closed around hers and encouraged her to her feet.

She was silent as he lifted the string of her fan from her wrist, stripped off her gloves and put them down beside her half empty glass of port. Then he moved closer and one hand pressed against the small of her back while the other curved beneath her chin, lifting her face.