Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake

A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake
Diane Gaston
Claiming the courtesan’s child…It’s been more than three months, but Oliver Gregory still remembers the exquisite night he shared with a beautiful woman in Paris. Discovering her working at the discreet London gentlemen’s club he part-owns comes as a shock…even more so when he realises she’s pregnant!Oliver knows the pain of being an outcast, and will do all in his power to ensure his child is not born illegitimate. Cecilia will return to his bed…as his wife!The Society of Wicked GentlemenThe hour is late and the stakes are high


Claiming the courtesan’s child...
It’s been more than three months, but Oliver Gregory still remembers the exquisite night he shared with a beautiful woman in Paris. Discovering her working at the discreet London gentlemen’s club he owns comes as a shock...even more so when he realizes she’s pregnant!
Oliver knows the pain of being an outcast and will do all in his power to ensure his child is not born illegitimate. Cecilia will return to his bed...as his wife!
Hidden amongst the masked revellers of an underground Regency gentlemen’s club, where decadence, daring and debauchery abound, the four owners of Vitium et Virtus are about to meet their match!
Welcome to...
The Society of Wicked Gentlemen
Read
A Convenient Bride for the Soldier
by Christine Merrill
September 2017
An Innocent Maid for the Duke
by Ann Lethbridge
October 2017
A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake
by Diane Gaston
November 2017
And look for the concluding story
from Sophia James
A Secret Consequence for the Viscount
December 2017
Author Note (#ude25f249-d36c-5e6b-bb02-097036ef212a)
I’ve always considered myself very lucky to be among my fellow authors of Mills & Boon’s Historical Romance line. These ladies have been a fount of information, support and, on the rare times we can gather together, sheer fun. So I was thrilled to be invited to write a book for The Society of Wicked Gentlemen series. It was every bit as enjoyable as I thought it would be. We made a most efficient team—quick to answer each other’s questions and to collaborate on our stories.
Readers, enjoy The Society of Wicked Gentlemen! We loved telling their stories!
A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake
Diane Gaston


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DIANE GASTON’s dream job was always to write romance novels. One day she dared to pursue that dream, and has never looked back. Her books have won Romance’s highest honours: the RITA® Award, the National Readers’ Choice Award, Holt Medallion, Golden Quill and Golden Heart®. She lives in Virginia, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. Diane loves to hear from readers and friends. Visit her website at: dianegaston.com (http://www.dianegaston.com).
Books by Diane Gaston
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
The Society of Wicked Gentlemen
A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake
The Scandalous Summerfields
Bound by Duty
Bound by One Scandalous Night
Bound by a Scandalous Secret
Bound by Their Secret Passion
The Masquerade Club
A Reputation for Notoriety
A Marriage of Notoriety
A Lady of Notoriety
Three Soldiers
Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady
Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress
Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy
Linked by Character
Regency Summer Scandals
‘Justine and the Noble Viscount’
A Not So Respectable Gentleman?
Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks
The Unlacing of Miss Leigh
The Liberation of Miss Finch
Visit the Author Profile page
at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
To Christine, Ann and Sophia,
my fellow Society of Wicked Gentlemen authors.
It has been a pleasure!
Contents
Cover (#u86440f32-acda-51bc-bab8-a4a4dbe26e45)
Back Cover Text (#u8776683b-7c54-5d16-bc1c-9a25c505350b)
Introduction (#u2e0abb13-c8b2-54b6-97e2-ae4de63d0ef6)
Author Note (#u9a732773-7065-51c3-a88c-941b4514353a)
Title Page (#uaf786c4e-35f5-5a88-b4a6-ad5fbe6f1a95)
About the Author (#u8de11ad3-3d72-5ee7-9f5b-ee211d3e3318)
Dedication (#u1766923c-dab9-52e6-a352-e36debc5191f)
Prologue (#uedf4e702-8bb3-5108-b4a9-851dacdb7b91)
Chapter One (#u787d7b3a-764c-5b37-9f0d-5a3047a4c561)
Chapter Two (#u00e7f44e-c78d-55c6-bd0f-682a637999ab)
Chapter Three (#u151b6913-1a07-586e-b63c-12c50630b144)
Chapter Four (#u01376737-8366-5da5-ad75-82e094dc86ba)
Chapter Five (#u8ba62526-8d88-5485-816f-14a7710cd99e)
Chapter Six (#uc49384b4-1eaa-5aa7-9c2a-ead831b79c37)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ude25f249-d36c-5e6b-bb02-097036ef212a)
Paris—1816
‘He is dead?’
Cecilia Lockhart stood in the doorway of the shabby Paris room where her husband insisted she should be grateful to lodge. Sounds of babies crying, a man and woman quarrelling, and an old woman wailing could be heard from behind closed doors. The scent of cooking meat, urine and sweat filled her nostrils.
A captain of the 52nd Regiment of Foot stood stiffly in the hallway, unable—or unwilling—to look her in the eye.
‘Killed,’ he said. ‘By a Frenchman. In a duel.’ His tone was disapproving. Why not? Duelling was forbidden in the regiment. ‘He apparently had a great deal to drink.’
Of course he had. What day did Duncan not have a great deal to drink?
‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Did he cheat at cards? Insult the French army?’ Why did she bother to ask? Cecilia did not care about the reason.
The captain stiffened. ‘The Frenchman apparently found Lieutenant Lockhart in bed with his wife.’
Oh.
Why that detail should have stung, she did not know. It was merely one more humiliation.
Another slap in the face.
She almost laughed at her little joke, but this stern, disapproving captain would never have understood.
‘What happens next?’ she asked.
‘We’ll bury him,’ the captain replied. ‘You may return home. Do you have enough money to make the trip?’ He asked the question without sympathy, perhaps worried he would have to take up a collection among his fellow officers on her behalf.
‘I need nothing.’ Not from these men anyway. ‘Do what you must, and thank you for informing me.’
He nodded and turned away. She closed the door and leaned her forehead against it. The baby cried. The old lady whined. The couple cursed each other. And the captain’s receding footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs.
But for Cecilia it was as if the sun had burst through a sky of dark clouds.
She was free. Her husband was gone, never to return.
Never to slam his fist into her flesh ever again, nor throw her against the wall. No more bruises to hide. No more pain.
She had little money, no friends—Duncan had seen to that—and no one in England who would welcome her home. In a moment she might panic at being alone in this foreign country, among people who, a few short months ago, would have considered her the enemy. But for now she felt as light as air.
Free.
Chapter One (#ude25f249-d36c-5e6b-bb02-097036ef212a)
Paris—August 1818
Oliver Gregory strolled along the River Seine as the first fingers of dawn painted the water in swirls of violet. The buildings of Paris, tinged a soft pink at this time of day, were even more beautiful than in the brightness of a noonday sun. London at dawn would seem a dark maze of streets and shops.
And Calcutta... Calcutta, the city of Oliver’s birth, defied description, except in words whispered in memory—Hindi words.
Oliver struggled to remember those steaming, fragrant, exotic days of his childhood and the smiling woman swathed in brightly coloured silks holding him in her arms and calling him her pyaare bete, her sweet boy.
In the quiet of dawn he could bring it all back. He feared forgetting even more than the depths of depression that followed. Lately his decadent lifestyle provided no ease from the blue devils.
He’d crafted his life to distract him from the sadness of loss. What better setting than a gentlemen’s club devoted to pleasures of the flesh? Oliver was one of the owners of Vitium et Virtus—Vice and Virtue—the exclusive gentlemen’s club he and his three friends started when they were mere students at Oxford. Vitium et Virtus specialised in decadent pleasure, whether it be beautiful women, the finest brandy or a high-stakes game of cards.
To think he’d just left a Parisian club that made Vitium et Virtus look tame. This club featured sexual gratification through pain, whether self-inflicted or inflicted by another. Vitium et Virtus included some fantasy games with one of their tall, beautiful, dark-haired women playing dominatrix, but this French club went way beyond, so far Oliver nearly intervened to stop it. He knew some people found pleasure in pain, but these Parisians flirted with death. He had no intention of bringing those ideas to their club.
His mind flashed with an image of a nearly naked man swallowing a snake. And another man running over hot coals.
Memories from India again.
A cry jerked him back to the present near-dawn morning. In the distance a swarm of street urchins accosted a woman, pulling at her clothes, their demands shrill in the early morning air. He’d seen street urchins in Calcutta rush a man and leave him with nothing, not even the clothes on his back. The dark rookeries of London posed similar dangers.
Oliver sprinted to her aid. ‘Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Stop! Stop!’
The woman lifted her arms. ‘No! No!’
The children scattered.
When he reached her, she placed her hands on her hips. ‘Look what you’ve done!’
‘You are English?’ He was surprised.
She merely gestured in the direction the children had disappeared. ‘They’ve run away.’
‘They were attacking you.’ At least that was what he’d thought.
She gave him an exasperated look. ‘They were not attacking me. I was giving them money so they might eat today!’
‘Giving them money?’ He turned to where he’d last seen them and back to her. ‘Is that wise?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Wiser than having them starve or be forced to steal.’
He could not argue with that. ‘Forgive me. I thought—Can you call them back?’
‘No, they will be too frightened now. They are gone.’
He shook his head. ‘I am sorry.’
She frowned. ‘Another time—tomorrow—I will be back.’
She turned to walk away.
‘Wait.’ He strode to her side. ‘What is an Englishwoman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’
Now mischief sparkled in those dark eyes. ‘Why, I was giving coins to street children until you chased them away.’
She was lovely! Those beautiful eyes were fringed with dark lashes, and her brows, delicately arched. An elegant nose and full, luscious lips adorned her oval face. Her bonnet covered her hair, but as the sky grew lighter, Oliver saw her dress was dark blue and her hair a rich brown.
‘What is an Englishman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’ she asked, mocking his tone.
Oliver smiled. ‘Attempting to rescue damsels in distress.’
She laughed. ‘You must keep searching, then. I assure you I am not in distress.’
‘But I am at your service.’ Oliver bowed.
She kept walking, and he kept pace with her.
She finally spoke again. ‘Enjoying the delights of Paris now that the war is over?’ Her tone was a mockery of polite conversation, but at least she’d not dismissed him.
‘Actually a bit of business.’ Although his business was pleasure. ‘And you?’
‘Moi?’ She fluttered her lashes. ‘I live here.’
He was pretty astute at perceiving the character of a person, a skill he’d honed so he’d know right away the degree to which a person might accept him as an equal or as a lesser being. She was guarding her own privacy, not giving him any information at all.
He pretended to peruse her. ‘I would surmise there is quite a story about why an English lady such as yourself lives in Paris.’
She looked suspicious. ‘Why do you say I am a lady?’
His mouth widened into a smile. ‘It is not difficult. The way you carry yourself. The way you speak.’
She shrugged at that. ‘Well, I am not telling you anything.’
And he would not press her. He understood the need to keep one’s privacy, but he also did not wish to say goodbye to her. The sky had lightened, turning the water blue and the stone path to beige. He suspected she would soon leave this path and be gone.
‘I have a proposal,’ he said impulsively. ‘Eat breakfast with me.’
She laughed derisively. ‘Why would I do that? I do not know you.’
‘Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am Oliver Gregory. My father is the Marquess of Amberford.’ He never explained further. People who did not already know his father usually assumed he was a younger son. ‘Now you know me.’
She laughed again, this time with more humour. ‘I know your name. Or at least the name you deign to give me.’
‘I assure you it is my name.’
Her brows rose and she nodded with exaggerated scepticism.
He spread his palms. ‘I am telling you the truth.’
She cocked her head. ‘It does not matter.’
‘So,’ he tried again. ‘Will you have breakfast with me? I promise to be amusing. We can sit in the open at a café if that will ease your discomfort.’
Her expression sobered and she stared at him for several seconds, as if deciding how to respond. ‘At a café?’ she repeated.
‘Wherever you wish. You choose where you would like to eat.’ He’d dined at Le Procope, a café that had been in existence for two hundred years. Would she choose some place as grand? He was suddenly very eager to find out.
‘Very well,’ she finally said. ‘But you must also give me some coins for the children. They will be even more hungry tomorrow.’
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a leather purse. He loosened its strings and poured out several coins. Then he extended his hand. ‘Here.’
She scooped up the coins and slipped them into her reticule. ‘I know of a place we can breakfast.’
She walked him past La Fontaine du Palmier, the monument to Napoleon’s battles in Egypt, in the Place du Châtelet, to a small café just opening its doors. They sat at a table out of doors. With the sun came warmer temperatures and a blue sky dotted with white puffy clouds. A perfect day.
‘The pastries are lovely here,’ she said.
‘Pastries.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Everywhere in Paris I’ve been served pastries and I do not possess a sweet tooth.’
‘Some bread and cheese, then?’
‘Ah, oui. C’est bon.’ He smiled. ‘With coffee.’
The waiter arrived and greeted her warmly. Obviously she was known to him. She gave him their order, selecting a pastry and chocolate for herself, bread, cheese, and coffee for him.
He watched her as she settled herself in her chair. She removed her gloves and rearranged the colourful Kashmir shawl she wore that reminded him of India. She wore a dark blue walking dress and looked as if she’d just spent an afternoon promenading in Hyde Park. Was it only the children who caused her to be on the banks of the Seine at dawn?
‘Tell me what your business has been that brought you to Paris,’ she asked with some evident interest.
Oddly enough, he did not want to tell her of the business that brought him to Paris lest she disapprove. He’d come to explore the decadence of Parisian gentlemen’s clubs to see what they might include at Vitium et Virtus. This trip had not been as productive as the previous one when he’d found a satisfyingly buxom, Titian-haired French songstress eager to come to London to work in their club. He usually did not care if a lady disapproved of his activities. For the ladies who did disapprove of him, the gentlemen’s club was the least of their objections.
‘Exploring opportunities,’ he responded vaguely.
‘Opportunities?’ Her eyes, lovely as they were, showed little interest.
He challenged her. ‘You are making polite conversation with me.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Yes. I am. But tell me what opportunities anyway.’
Those eyes distracted him. In the sunlight they appeared the colour of fine brandy and just as liquid. A man could lose himself in those eyes.
He glanced away. ‘Business, you know, but nothing came to fruition.’
The waiter brought a pot of coffee, a pitcher of cream and a sugar dish, placing it in front of him. He placed a chocolate pot in front of the lady, produced two cups and poured for them.
When he left, Oliver added only some cream. He took a sip of the coffee and nodded to her. ‘This is excellent.’
Her captivating eyes appeared to concur. ‘It always is here.’ She sipped her chocolate and made an appreciative sound.
He faced her, fingering the handle of his cup. ‘The topic of business is always a boring one. Perhaps there is something else you would like to ask me?’
Her eyes flickered in surprise, then fixed on him with a challenge of her own. ‘Do you mean why you do not look like an Englishman?’
He was not certain if she was asking or not.
Who was he attempting to fool? Women always wanted to know why his skin was so dark, why his hair was so dark. She simply was more direct than most and much quicker.
‘See. You are wondering why the son of a marquess looks like something spawned on a foreign shore.’
‘Am I?’ Her brows rose. ‘Or is this what you desire to tell me?’
He paused, unsure of his own motivation. He did want to tell her, though, he decided. ‘My father is the Marquess, but my mother was from India.’
He waited. Usually the women with whom he spent the most time found his looks exotic and appealing but, then, such women were typically interested only in sharing the pleasures of the night with him.
Ladies of the ton with marriageable daughters steered them away from him, however. Even though they knew he was wealthy. Even though some of those same ladies did not mind sharing his bed.
She took another sip of chocolate. ‘That does explain it. Were you born in India?’
‘I was. I left when I was ten.’ He would not tell her everything about his birth and those first ten years of his life. He never talked about it, although many who knew his father knew some of it. His partners in Vitium et Virtus knew nearly all and they’d accepted him as an equal since their days at school.
‘You must remember it then.’ She sounded truly interested now.
‘I do.’ He’d been remembering it that morning when she appeared.
‘Tell me,’ she said, licking off the chocolate from her lips and nearly driving India from his mind.
‘I remember the sounds and the smells and all the bright colours,’ he began.
He told her about the man charming the snake and others sleeping on a bed of nails or walking over hot coals. He told her of the music and the singing and dancing, of statues and paintings of gods. He talked of fragrant gardens and cool houses with pillows.
He did not tell her about his mother. Or about how his father shared his time between his Indian house and his English one on the other side of the garden.
‘I cannot imagine it,’ she said, her face alight with animation. ‘I would love to see such a place some day.’
His insides clenched in a familiar pain. He would never return there, never see those sights again.
He made himself smile. ‘Is Paris not enough for you?’
Her expressive face turned sad before she composed it again. ‘Paris...has not been unkind.’
How much was hidden in that statement?
The waiter brought a flaky confection filled with whipped cream and jam for her and, for him, a selection of cheeses and a loaf of bread still warm from the oven.
She nibbled on her pastry. ‘There is much beauty here in Paris. I gather some of the buildings, statues and art were almost lost during the Revolution. We can credit Napoleon for preserving them.’
‘If we must,’ he said, smiling wryly.
He was gratified she smiled in return.
‘I have seen very little of the city,’ he went on. His hosts had taken him to places where pleasure was more valued than architecture. ‘And now I have only today left.’
She lowered her pastry from her lips. ‘You have only today?’
‘I leave tomorrow.’ Somehow that information did not seem to disappoint her. ‘Tell me what sights I must see before I leave.’
Again her face animated. ‘Notre Dame, for certain. It is the most impressive and beautiful church one could ever see. The Louvre, as well. It is a beautiful building filled with beautiful art that once graced the houses of the aristocracy before the Revolution. And I suppose one should see the Palais-Royal. It is now filled with shops and restaurants.’
She went on to describe these sights in more detail as they finished their meal and drank the last of the coffee and chocolate. He paid the waiter and reluctantly stood. He could have remained all day in her presence, even though she’d told him nothing about herself. She wrapped her shawl around her, despite it being warm enough now to go without.
‘Thank you for breakfast,’ she said. ‘I did enjoy it.’
‘As did I,’ he added.
‘I suppose I must say adieu.’ She did not look happy about it, though.
‘I suppose...’
They left their table, but stood together on the pavement. The city had come alive while they’d eaten. The streets were full of carriages, horses and wagons. The pavement was abustle with workmen, servant girls, children and a few finely dressed gentlemen.
He held her elbow and guided her away from the fray.
Then he took her hand. ‘Do not say adieu. Stay with me. Show me the sights you have so wonderfully described.’
* * *
Cecilia glanced into his face. He had a memorable one—as handsome as any woman could wish. That was not what captivated her, however. Duncan had been handsome. After Duncan she’d learned not to be seduced by a handsome face.
His complexion was darker than one would expect from an Englishman. Knowing he was half-caste explained that. His hair was as dark as the night, worn longer than fashionable as if he did not trouble himself to visit the barber overmuch. His eyes were unexpected, though. They were hazel, the kind of eyes that changed colour from green to brown with the hue of his coat. When he fixed his gaze upon her she had the feeling he could see inside her, directly to her thoughts.
Perhaps that was why he asked her no questions about herself. He asked nothing of her, but shared about himself. What other man of her acquaintance would tell of his life before age ten? Duncan certainly had not.
What harm could there be in spending the day with him? She had no other obligations for today and he was leaving tomorrow. She liked his foreign looks and she relished the sound of his English accent, so familiar, so reminiscent of home. He was an easy companion, agreeable, unhurried and undemanding.
With those enthralling eyes.
Her hands started to shake and her knees grew weak, not from his allure, but from her decision. ‘I will show you Paris.’
He smiled and her knees grew weaker.
‘We should start at Notre Dame,’ she said quickly lest he notice he affected her. The famous cathedral was close by, its spire and towers visible from where they stood.
* * *
As they neared Notre Dame, she said, ‘Before we go inside, we must walk around the cathedral, because it looks very different from each side. You would hardly know it is one structure.’
They first faced the western façade, looking up at its symmetrical towers and carved stone. From where they stood they could see only the tip of the spire.
Slowly, they walked around to the north side. ‘See the rose window? How big it is? You will be astounded when we see it from the inside with the sun illuminating it.’ They continued walking. ‘You can see now how the cathedral is in the shape of a cross. All cathedrals are in the shape of a cross.’
He smiled at her. ‘You are quite knowledgeable about this.’
‘I suppose I am.’ She felt suddenly self-conscious.
She often had days free and the cathedral had become one of her favourite places. Sometimes she wandered for hours inside it, especially when she needed to feel peaceful.
They continued what was a fairly long walk around the building. The Seine was behind them, not too far from where he’d chased away the poor street children, busy now with boats and barges transporting people and goods up and down the river.
‘Flying buttresses,’ he pointed out, then smiled. ‘See? You are not the only one who is knowledgeable.’
Humour. It was as welcome as the clear summer air. She so rarely experienced the levity of humour. She could not help but return his smile.
They concluded their walk around the cathedral, talking of its architecture, and finally went inside. As they entered the church, the bell tolled the hour, its sound echoing against the stone walls.
Cecilia loved the inside of Notre Dame, loved the colours the rose windows cast upon the interior. Oliver Gregory seemed interested in everything she drew his attention to. Was he pretending? If so, he was very good at it.
Others filed into pews and soon a priest and his attendants appeared at the huge altar. They had come at the time of the Catholic Mass.
‘Do you mind if we stay?’ she asked. There were so many English people who would abhor attending a Catholic Mass.
‘Not at all,’ he said.
They chose a pew in the back, but with a good view of the altar.
She liked the ritual, a little like her church at home, but different as well. Watching and listening to the Latin service drove other thoughts from her mind and calmed her. It made her forget the strange way she made her living and how lonely she was.
* * *
When the service was over he clasped her hand. ‘I am glad we stayed.’
They walked around the cathedral some more, marvelling at the windows, peering at the statues until they had seen enough.
As they came towards the long aisle to the door, she stopped him. ‘My name is Cecilia.’
Surely it would not hurt to tell him her given name.
She had never told anyone in Paris her real name, not since the day the captain came to tell her Duncan was killed, but she wanted this man to know. For one day she wanted to be herself, as she might have been had she never fallen under Duncan’s spell.
This lovely man beside her did not act as if she’d said anything unusual by giving her name so abruptly.
‘If I am to call you Cecilia,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘you must call me Oliver.’
‘Oliver,’ she whispered.
‘Cecilia.’ He smiled.
It was not the done thing for a gentleman and a lady to call each other by their given names, not unless they grew up together from childhood. She’d known him only a few hours, but still it seemed natural that they should do so.
‘We should go to the Louvre next,’ she said.
The Louvre was another place Cecilia visited when she needed to remind herself that there was incredible beauty in the world. She loved the Renaissance art, especially the portrait called La Gioconda. She tried to imagine any other man of her acquaintance walking through the museum without any sign of boredom.
Was this man—Oliver—really what he seemed? Or was he pretending, hiding his true nature? Every day she pretended to be someone she was not. Every day she hid her real self. Today, though, she would be her real self, even if he were not.
When they again stepped outside, they could hear the bell of Notre Dame strike four o’clock, reminding her of when Oliver had last eaten.
‘There are restaurants at the Palais-Royal, if you are hungry.’ She was accustomed to going without food.
When she’d followed the drum with Duncan, she’d been allotted half his food rations, but when he could, he ate her portion as well as his own. She’d quickly learned not to complain.
‘Do you wish to eat?’ he asked.
Throughout the day, he’d checked on her wishes before stating his own, she noticed. Another technique of seduction? Or did he truly wish to fulfil her desires?
‘I know it is country hours, but I am quite famished,’ she admitted.
‘Then we must eat.’ He offered her his arm and they leisurely walked to the Palais-Royal, once the home of the Duc d’Orléans and, earlier, Cardinal Richelieu. The palais was not far from where she earned her money.
No. Cecilia Lockhart, who strolled by the side of this English gentleman, earned no money.
That was the job of Madame Coquette.
Chapter Two (#ude25f249-d36c-5e6b-bb02-097036ef212a)
The restaurant Oliver chose was the Beauvilliers, with its tables covered in white linen, shining silverware and sparkling crystal. He had dined there once already during his visit.
‘This restaurant is very expensive,’ Cecilia warned him as they were led to a table in a private corner.
‘Do not concern yourself,’ he told her. ‘I can afford it.’
He was used to ladies’ eyes kindling with greed when realising he was wealthy, but Cecilia merely nodded sceptically.
He laughed. ‘I assure you, Cecilia. Order whatever you desire.’
After they were seated he said, ‘There is something to be said about liberté, égalité, fraternité. I have yet to have any Paris high servant or shopkeeper regard me with disdain.’
She looked surprised. ‘That happens to you—being regarded with disdain?’
‘Because of how I look. Like a foreigner.’ In England, members of the ton and their servants often peered down their noses at him. It happened often enough in London shops as well.
‘I do not think you look all that remarkable,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Thank you...I think.’
They perused the printed menu with its numerous choices for each course, deciding to begin with an onion soup followed by a platter of oysters and sausages. For the main course they chose beefsteak, then an entrée of duck. They could have ordered additional courses of fish and roast poultry or veal, but Cecilia said she would burst from that much food. Each course was accompanied by a different wine.
‘This meal reminds me of dinner parties at home,’ she said over the soup.
This was the most information about herself that she’d divulged yet. This was an aristocratic meal, so it was likely she came from an aristocratic family.
‘Home meaning England?’ he ventured.
Her expression sobered. He surmised she debated how much to disclose.
‘Surrey,’ she replied.
He smiled inwardly. It was as if she’d bared her soul to him.
‘We were practically neighbours, then,’ he said. ‘My father’s estate is in Kent.’
They went on to taste the oysters and sausage and sip the wine before she spoke again. ‘I am not welcome back in Surrey. My family disowned me when I ran away to Gretna Green to marry.’
This was a great deal to divulge and it made him sad for her. He knew how it felt to lose someone.
He was also disappointed to hear her mention a marriage.
Oliver usually did not care much about the details of a woman’s life, not the least of which was whether or not she was married. The woman’s apparent character and disposition of the moment were enough to satisfy him, but his reaction to this woman was different. He was intrigued by Cecilia. Maybe because she kept information about herself so close to her chest, he wanted to know all about her. Mostly he wanted to know what experience had put that sadness in her eyes. Had it been that Gretna Green elopement? Being disowned by her family?
He would continue to tread carefully, though.
‘They disowned you,’ he repeated as neutrally as he could.
‘My parents declared my husband to be unsuitable.’
He certainly knew that feeling. Most noble parents felt Oliver was unsuitable.
‘My husband thought they would come around if we were married. He thought my father would relent and turn over my dowry—but my father never did.’ She finished her glass of wine. ‘My husband had no fortune, no name to speak of, but he was dashing in his regimentals.’ Her voice turned sarcastic.
‘He was in the army?’ he guessed.
She nodded. ‘That is how I came to be in Paris. His regiment was ordered to Brussels and I came with him. After the battle at Waterloo, his regiment marched into France and, ultimately, Paris.’
Oliver had honoured his father’s wishes and had not purchased a commission. He regretted that decision to this day. He should have been fighting along with his friend Frederick.
She nodded as the waiter filled her wineglass again. ‘The battle was a horrific thing!’
‘You witnessed the battle?’ He was shocked.
Oliver had been there, too. At Waterloo. Unable to enlist, he’d gone to Brussels to be a part of it all, like so many others. Brussels had been filled with the British aristocracy and British tourists at the time. On the day of the battle he and other spectators rode to the site where the troops were amassed. Never had he felt so helpless as he watched the carnage unfold. Cecilia would have witnessed horrors no woman should ever see.
She took a long sip of her wine, and her voice turned to a mere rasp. ‘So many men killed.’
Oliver had done what he could to pull wounded men off the field, but it had never felt like enough. After he’d returned to London from Brussels, it had taken him a long time to again lose himself in the pleasures of Vitium et Virtus. In fact, he’d never quite managed to free himself of Waterloo. A part of him always remembered the sights, the sounds. The agony.
‘I saw the battle, too,’ he told her.
Her eyes turned wary. ‘Oh? You were in the army?’
‘I was not.’ He pushed the food around on his plate. ‘My friend Frederick was, though.’
‘Did he live?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Thank God.’
They had barely touched the oysters and sausage, but the waiter removed those dishes and brought the beefsteak, smothered in sauce. Another bottle of wine was opened and new glasses poured.
‘And your husband?’ he asked. ‘What happened to him?’
She shrank back as if his question had been an attack. ‘In the battle, do you mean?’
‘Yes.’ He had meant in the battle, but suddenly realised he wanted to know so much more.
‘He came through without a scratch.’ She sounded disdaining.
Oliver cut a piece of his beefsteak and brought it to his mouth.
She tapped the stem of her wineglass with her fingernail, making the crystal ring. ‘My husband died here in Paris. In a duel.’
‘A duel?’
‘Two years ago.’ She did not say more about the duel. ‘Since I was no longer welcome at home, I stayed in Paris.’ She drank her wine.
Oliver knew she was not the only British expatriate to find living in Paris more affordable than London.
She turned her attention to her food, apparently consumed by her own thoughts, but it seemed that she was pulling away from him. Perhaps she’d regretted confiding this much to him. He would not press her for more, no matter how he yearned to know.
Finally, she spoke again. ‘But what of you, Oliver?’ Her tone was defensive. ‘I have said all there is to say about me.’
He doubted that. ‘There is little to say about me.’
She smiled, but he still felt she’d gone back into hiding. ‘Surely you do not expect me to believe that.’
‘It is true. I’m a simple man with simple tastes.’ He lifted his wineglass, filled with fine, expensive wine, in an ironic salute.
‘Come now, Lord Oliver.’ She wagged a finger at him.
He frowned. ‘I am not Lord Oliver.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But you said your father was a marquess.’
‘He is, but I have no honorific.’ He was admitting himself to be a bastard.
Understanding dawned on her features. Understanding. Not distaste.
He went on. ‘My father was not married to my Indian mother, as you have no doubt surmised.’ He was a bastard son—his father’s only son. ‘But he brought me with him to England when he assumed the title.’
His mother had been an Indian bibi, a mistress. A prostitute. The love of his father’s life, his father had often said. But his father left her behind when he unexpectedly inherited the title, something his British wife had insisted upon. His wife had also promised to raise Oliver as if he were her own son—a promise she broke as soon as she could.
‘Did you ever see your mother again?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He poured himself more wine. ‘She died.’
Oliver’s mother died shortly after he left India. She died before the ship Oliver sailed on even reached England. His stepmother told him she’d lost her life giving birth to another of his father’s bastards. So he’d believed he’d lost a mother and a brother or sister.
It wasn’t until he was a young man that his father told him that story was not true. His father had to show him the letter he’d received from India for Oliver to believe him. His mother had died, but from a fever—or perhaps from a broken heart.
Cecilia’s face filled with sympathy. ‘I am so sorry! How very sad for you.’
He took a gulp of wine. ‘It was long ago.’
She had not commented on him being a bastard. She’d hardly blinked at that information. He was not sure why he’d even told her. He never spoke about that. Or about his mother.
He had the illusion that they were old friends who knew each other well and could trust each other. As he knew and trusted Frederick, Jacob...and Nicholas, wherever Nicholas might be. Not dead. He’d never believe Nicholas was dead. The fourth founding member of the gentlemen’s club had simply disappeared from Vitium et Virtus one night six years ago, leaving only a pool of blood in the alley and his signet ring.
‘I still miss my family.’ Her voice turned low. ‘Even though—’ She stopped abruptly and stabbed at her meat. ‘Never mind. It is foolish to wish for what one can never have.’
‘I could not agree more.’ He lifted his glass as if in a toast.
He turned the conversation to something less emotional for them both—the sights they had seen that day, their favourites and least liked.
Pretty soon the dessert was served, profiteroles and éclairs and finally coffee and liqueur.
When they left the restaurant, the shops were still open. To walk off the sumptuous dinner they strolled under the galleries and through the gardens. The Palais-Royal was filled with people and the shops were busy.
Oliver was accustomed to giving gifts to ladies whose company he enjoyed and all the ladies he knew received his gifts eagerly. He wanted something to commemorate this day, this companionship that had been unlike any other he’d experienced.
When they came upon a jewellery shop, he stopped. ‘Let us go in.’
She accepted the idea impassively and he was surprised. Most ladies would surmise they were about to receive a gift.
They gazed at necklaces and bracelets with diamonds, emeralds, rubies and garnets, but he could not discern any special interest on her part.
‘Beautiful, are they not?’ he tried, hoping she would give him a clue as to what she might like.
‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed dutifully. ‘Quite beautiful.’
He pointed out several other pieces, but she showed less interest than she had gazing at the paintings in the Louvre or at the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame.
Finally, he faced her. ‘Do you not realise, Cecilia, that I wish to buy you a gift? I am trying to discover what you would like.’
‘A gift?’ Her voice turned wary. ‘Whatever for?’
‘To commemorate our day together.’ So she might remember him as he would remember her.
She stepped back. ‘And what will you desire in return?’
He was startled. ‘In return? Why, nothing. It is a gift.’
Her eyes narrowed as if she did not believe him.
‘Heed me.’ He took a chance at touching her arm. ‘This has been a most special day. You’ve shown me sights I would not have seen nor would have appreciated had I been on my own today.’
He probably would have slept half the day and made his way to one of the dancing halls or casinos at night. In her company, he’d lost any interest in either.
One of the glass cases displayed gold lockets and other less expensive pieces.
He pointed to a necklace consisting of a single pearl on a long gold chain. ‘Let me buy you a token, then? In thanks for this day?’
She still looked leery, but she said, ‘Very well.’
He caught the attention of a clerk and purchased the necklace with the coin in his purse. As the clerk opened the glass case to remove the necklace, he turned to her. ‘Earrings to match?’
The corner of her lovely mouth quivered as if she was trying not to smile. ‘No. Do not say more or I will change my mind.’
No woman of his acquaintance would threaten to refuse a gift, especially such an inconsequential one. It was even less of a gift he might bring to Jacob’s sister or her young daughter.
Nothing about this fascinating lady was like other women he knew.
* * *
Cecilia glanced into Oliver’s hazel eyes, so unexpected paired with his darker skin, but so captivating she had to glance away again. He placed the gold chain around her neck, her skin tingling where his fingers touched as he worked the clasp. Stubble shadowed his cheeks, and his scent filled her nostrils. His face was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.
She knew this feeling, this attraction that made her want to run her hands over his stubble-roughened chin or plunge her fingers into his hair. She’d once felt a similar attraction to her husband as she felt now. This carnal aching inside her.
She’d forgotten that erotic sensation, but she had not forgotten that just because a man attracted her like a moth to a flame did not mean he was decent or honourable. It did not mean he would not change from loving to...hurtful.
‘Thank you for the gift,’ she managed.
‘My pleasure.’ His voice turned low.
He finished fastening the necklace and put an inch more space between them, enough that she could see his smile, which had its own power over her.
‘It looks fine,’ he said. ‘In fact, against your skin, it is even more pleasing than against the black velvet of the glass case.’
As compliments went this was a mild one. Did he know that a more flowery compliment would have driven her away even faster than an expensive gift would have done? Was he that clever to know precisely how to chip away at her defences?
For long moments during this day she had been able to believe he was just as he seemed—gentlemanly, kind, generous—but every once in a while her guard flew up again. Like when he asked about her husband. Like when he wanted to buy her jewels. Somehow, even in those moments, he managed to find a way around the walls she erected to keep from ever being at the mercy of a man again.
They left the shop and strolled out to the gardens, where it seemed there were many gentlemen and ladies engaged in flirtations. That only made her worry again. Was he merely charming her or was he what he seemed to be?
‘Do you know what I would like to do now?’ he asked.
Some wariness crept in. ‘What?’
‘I would like to walk along the Seine like early this morning. There is still an hour or so before the sun sets. I watched it rise there; it would be nice to see it set.’
What man desired walking? Duncan had once seemed to enjoy the strolls they took away from prying eyes when he was trying to ingratiate himself with her, but after she married him, he wanted nothing to do with walking. Just bedding.
But, then, that was all she’d wanted at first, too.
‘I should go home.’ Best she part from him while she could still think and before he did something to burst the illusion that he was a perfect gentleman.
They left the Palais-Royal.
‘I will escort you home, then,’ Oliver said.
‘It is not necessary.’ She did not want him to know that she lived in a small room near the theatres, casinos, gentlemen’s clubs and maisons closes or houses of prostitution.
He frowned. ‘I would feel remiss to merely send you on your way alone.’
‘I was alone when you met me,’ she reminded him.
‘Still, I would not forgive myself if any harm came to you.’
She made a face. ‘How would you know? You leave tomorrow. We will never see each other again.’ Her throat tightened at her words and she feared tears would sting her eyes.
He gave her an imploring look. ‘All the more reason not to say goodbye so soon. Stay with me to watch the sunset.’
Those captivating eyes seemed to pull her in.
What harm would it do? Besides, she wanted to stay with him; she wanted to keep this lovely illusion that such a kind, handsome, charming man existed, a man who wanted nothing from her but her company.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will stay with you to watch the sunset.’
They walked through the Paris streets to the stairs leading to the Seine. There were walkways on both sides of the river with other couples strolling, street vendors plying their wares, other men and women hurrying to and fro.
‘I am glad to walk off my meal.’ He patted his stomach.
‘It was delicious.’ The best meal she’d had since Brussels three years ago when Duncan had taken her to fine restaurants.
Then Duncan received the letter from her father saying he would never provide her dowry or any money at all. After that everything changed.
But it had not changed in a day. Certainly not in an evening. So, perhaps she could pretend Oliver could be trusted to be a gentleman for one evening.
As the sun dropped lower in the sky, the evening took on a magical quality.
Oliver seemed to catch the magic as well. ‘I had been told of the beauty of Paris, but I confess I did not believe in it...’ He paused and looked down at her. ‘Until this day.’
She fingered the pearl that nestled almost between her breasts. ‘You have more than paid me back.’
He touched her arm and made her face him. ‘This was not a gift for recompense, but for remembrance.’
As if she would be able to forget him. A man who behaved as a friend and stirred her like a lover.
They resumed their stroll. ‘I have been here almost three years and I cannot tire of its beauty.’
The conversation that had come so easily to them when they were sharing the sights lost its ease. There was too much she wished to conceal. Let him think she was an English lady living on a small income here in Paris. Sometimes she felt that was exactly what she was.
She did not fit into this Parisian world any better than he must fit into the British aristocracy. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to him.
‘You told me earlier a little of India, but do you remember what it looked like?’ she asked, truly wanting to know about the distant foreign land that was in his blood. ‘I have read it also is a beautiful place.’
He took several steps before answering. ‘I remember lush gardens filled with fragrant flowers and pools of water. My mother’s house was filled with colour, woven carpets, fragrant sandalwood, and soft cushions instead of chairs. My father’s house, on the other hand, was typically English. He wore his jama when with my mother, but on the other side, he dressed like he’d come from his tailor on Bond Street.’
‘What is a jama?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘A bit like a dress, actually. I wore a jama as well. They were cooler than British clothes.’
She threaded her arm through his and rested her head against his shoulder. All the wine they’d consumed made her languorous—and loosened her control. ‘Tell me something else about India.’
‘I remember the streets of Calcutta being crowded and noisy and alternately perfumed and putrid.’ He paused. ‘I remember elephants and camels and scantily dressed men charming snakes.’
‘Snakes.’ She shuddered.
He went on talking about spices and tigers and Hindu gods. His voice lulled her and her eyes grew heavy. It was so comfortable to hold his arm, to lean against him.
To not be alone.
He stopped and put his arm around her. ‘You are falling asleep. Time to take you to your home.’
Leave him? She should never have agreed to walk along the river with him. The alchemy of the setting sun turned the sky into yellows and oranges, making the water appear to sparkle with gold. She felt its riches and dreaded going back to the emotional deprivation that was her life.
‘Not to my home,’ she murmured.
‘Where to then?’ His voice vibrated inside her.
‘To your hotel.’
Cecilia knew precisely what she was saying to him. What she was offering. She wanted to pretend a little longer. She wanted everything that she thought she’d have with her husband, even if for only a night.
‘Are you certain?’ he asked. ‘This is not the wine speaking?’
The wine had given her courage. ‘I do not want our night to end, Oliver. I want all it can offer us.’
She did not want the magic to end.
Chapter Three (#ude25f249-d36c-5e6b-bb02-097036ef212a)
They crossed the Place Louis XV, which had been called the Place de la Concorde after the Revolution, and walked to Rue Saint-Honoré to where Oliver’s hotel, Le Meurice, was located. A doorman opened the huge wrought-iron door for them and the attendant in the hall greeted Oliver by name. Other guests passed them without comment.
In London, a gentleman would have had to sneak a woman up to his room or risk being asked to leave the hotel. In Paris, no one took any notice.
Oliver led Cecilia up the three flights of stairs to his room. It was a comfortable space with a sitting area and a separate bedroom and dressing room. His valet stayed in a room next door and would come only if Oliver summoned him.
Oliver opened the door and stepped aside for Cecilia to enter. She walked to the centre of the room and stood as if uncertain she wanted to be there.
He closed the door and removed his hat and gloves. ‘Are you wishing I had walked you home instead?’
She turned to him, looking surprised.
He softened his voice. ‘It is not too late, Cecilia. I will take you home if that is what you desire.’
She pulled off her own gloves and removed her bonnet. ‘I do not desire you to take me home.’
He stepped forward to take her shawl. His fingers skimmed her determinedly squared shoulders.
‘Then tell me why you suddenly seem as taut as a bowstring.’
‘Do I?’ She attempted a smile, which disappeared as quickly. ‘I was remembering something...unpleasant.’
He put his arm around her and guided her to the sofa. ‘Come sit and do not think of unpleasant things. I will pour us some champagne.’
He was filled with desire for her, which had surged when she proposed coming to his hotel. He’d been on fire ever since. But she was different from other women he’d pursued. She was not a conquest; he liked her too much.
She was mysterious and sad, but strong, as well. He wanted to know why. He wanted to know everything, so he could make her smile again.
She gazed around while he opened and poured the champagne. ‘This is a lovely room.’
He recognised, after this whole day, that she relied on typical society conversation when her guard was up. He knew many women who knew of no other kind of conversation, no matter what.
How was he to put her at ease?
He handed her the glass of champagne. ‘It looks remarkably like a room in the Clarendon Hotel on Bond Street, but then, Le Meurice is known to cater to British visitors.’
‘It is quite comfortable.’
Oliver felt as if he was losing her.
He sat next to her on the sofa. ‘Cecilia, nothing will happen here that you do not want. I have enjoyed this day with you. I will not spoil it now.’
She smiled wanly. ‘You must think me very absurd. To offer myself so blatantly, then to act like the silliest ninnyhammer.’
He met her gaze. ‘Explain it to me.’
She glanced away and her breathing accelerated. ‘I—I do not frequent the hotel rooms of gentlemen by habit.’
He was glad of that, even though he could not say he did not occasionally entertain women in hotel rooms.
She finished her glass of champagne, and he refilled it.
Then he put his hand on top of hers. ‘You have promised nothing by coming here, except to spend time with me.’
She gazed at him sceptically.
He smiled. ‘Nothing.’
Her eyes softened. ‘May I truly believe you?’
He looked her in the eye again. ‘I do not lie. I abhor lies.’
She held his gaze for a long time.
He took the champagne glass from her hand and set both glasses on the table next to the sofa. ‘So...how do we begin?’
Her lashes lowered and then opened again. She looked directly into his eyes. ‘With a kiss?’
He smiled. ‘I believe I can comply.’
He gently lifted her chin with his fingers and moved slowly, coming closer and closer until his lips touched hers.
Her lips were soft and warm and they trembled under his. With all his resolve, he held himself back when every fibre of his being wished to pull her body against his and deepen the kiss.
It was she who moved. She wrapped her arms around his neck and came closer. He leaned back and she slid on top of him. Her lips had become hungrier, and he was only too glad to appease her appetite. She opened herself to him, straddling him and pressing against his groin. He was already hard, wanting all of her. He pressed her to him and parted his lips to allow her tongue access. She tasted of champagne, but more intoxicating. His senses reeled.
He could take her here, he realised. Merely unbutton his trousers and free himself to enter her, but he wanted so much more than a speedy release.
He lifted her off him and stood, sweeping her into his arms. ‘The bedchamber?’ he asked.
She nodded.
He carried her into the bedchamber and lay her on the bed. Making short work of removing his coat and waistcoat, he leaned down for another kiss, which she willingly accepted.
She watched him as he next pulled at his boot, trying to remove it. The boot stubbornly stuck to his foot and he cursed it beneath his breath.
She laughed, a deep, genuine laugh that made his insides quake in joy for it.
She reached for him. ‘Let me pull them off for you.’
He climbed on the bed, and she took hold of his boot, twisting and wiggling it before finally pulling. The boot came free.
She grinned at the victory.
She pulled the other boot off with as little difficulty.
He came to his knees. ‘Now I shall help you.’
He turned her around and undid the laces of her gown and carefully lifted it over her head, folding it before placing it on the floor. Next he untied her corset and helped her slip out of it. She turned to face him and reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head. He jumped off the bed and removed his trousers and drawers.
She remained seated on the bed, dressed only in her shift, pulling pins from her hair. It tumbled to her shoulders as she watched him, naked before her.
He was accustomed to the appreciative gazes of the women he bedded, but Cecilia set his senses afire.
As she could obviously tell.
He smiled again and twirled his finger at her.
She looked puzzled for a moment, then her brow cleared and she smiled back as she drew her shift over her head. He knew she would be lovely. All creamy skin, narrow waist, full breasts.
‘You are a beautiful woman, Cecilia,’ he said with complete honesty.
She blushed an appealing pink.
He approached her slowly, climbing back on the bed and lying next to her, drawing her into another kiss, stroking her fine skin, fingering the rich waves of her hair. She touched him, too, placing her palm on his chest, sliding her hand lower to his groin. To his surprise and delight, she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, though it made his resolve to go slow a challenge.
She slithered up to place her lips against his ear. ‘How long do you intend to wait?’
* * *
Cecilia knew she was behaving wantonly, but she did not care. The wine had loosened her inhibitions and this man had made her yearn for lovemaking. In the early days of Duncan’s seduction, he had shown her these erotic delights. She remembered aching for him so acutely she’d have done anything for him. Now she knew it had been his way of making certain she would marry him.
Those early days of lovemaking awakened her to the pleasures of the flesh. She had no doubt she would gladly succumb to such temptations over and over if only she could be certain that the tide would not turn.
Coupling could be transcendental or it could be...brutal.
Since Duncan she’d never taken the risk. Until now.
One night was not too much to ask, was it? One night to re-experience corporeal delights?
‘How long?’ she whispered again.
He turned his head to face her. ‘I should ask first if you have the means to prevent a child?’
She’d not had to worry over that with Duncan. ‘I know what to do.’
He smiled teasingly. ‘Then have your way with me, Cecilia.’
He rolled onto his back.
She immediately climbed on top of him, but, unlike his words suggested, he was not passive. He grasped her by the waist and guided himself inside her. She gasped at the sensation.
Together they moved, forming a rhythm that built her need. He was a skilled lover, she could tell. He knew just how to move her to intensify her sensations. It seemed to her that he also knew just how long he could draw this out to put her into a frenzy.
A pleasurable frenzy.
She felt the change in him, the moment he lost all thought and was in the throes of lust. His thrusts quickened, pushing her to the brink of frustration until her release came in like a lightning storm. She cried out with the acute pleasure just as his release came. His cry joined hers. He held her tight until the wave of pleasure washed away and her body turned the consistency of soft butter.
She collapsed beside him. ‘Well, that was rather nice.’
He laughed softly, but the laugh resonated within her. ‘I feel damned with faint praise.’
‘And assent with civil leer?’ She knew that poem. ‘Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot’ by Alexander Pope.
He countered. ‘And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer.’
She smiled. He knew the poem as well.
‘Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,’ she added.
He finished it. ‘Just hint at a fault and hesitate dislike.’
She returned his smile. ‘What nonsense, to recite that poem after making love.’
He feigned an innocent look. ‘You started it.’
She loved this bantering. Would it not be lovely to have a man who always found some lightness and humour wherever he went?
He reached over to her necklace and fingered the single pearl. ‘I do not have faint praise, Cecilia. Mine is rather loud, I fear.’
She grew warm all over again. ‘I am glad I accompanied you to your hotel.’
His smile grew slowly. ‘As am I.’
He turned on his side and pulled her into a kiss that ignited her senses all over again.
This time he rose over her, entering her again and moving slowly as if savouring the experience. As if trying to make the moment as pleasurable as possible for her.
She was glad she’d allowed herself this liberty, this lapse in the tight control she exerted over herself. She’d lived in the winter of her emotions for too long. How lovely it was to let the sun shine in.
As he moved, her need built slowly, a glorious need because it held the promise of fulfilment at the end. All her senses came alive, awakened after a long hibernation. She was delighted she could still experience this pleasure.
And she was delighted with this lovely man who bestowed it like a gift.
His thrusts accelerated and her thoughts flew out of her head, replaced by sensation. Need. Growing. Nearing its promised end.
Her release shattered inside her, sparkling like the sunlight on the rose windows of Notre Dame. Then the release came again and again. And again when he spilled his seed inside her.
He collapsed on top of her, and she relished his weight upon her for the moment he remained there. Before he made it hard for her to breathe, he rolled off her, pulling her into another kiss and another.
He finally faced her, twirling a lock of her hair in his fingers. ‘Ah, Cecilia. Words fail me.’
She merely snuggled against him, relishing the scent of him and the warmth of his skin against hers.
‘I wonder,’ he began.
She could feel his voice through her body as well as hear him with her ears.
‘I wonder,’ he said again. ‘Perhaps I might extend my visit...’
A frisson of fear raced up her spine. No. That was not what she wanted. One day, he’d said. One night. More time together and what could happen?
One night did not seem like enough to her either, though.
She did not answer him, instead closed her eyes and let herself drift into sleep. Another pleasure—sleeping naked next to the man who had just joined with her.
She could still pretend for a few more hours, even if he wished to extend that time into days. She was determined not to let go of this wonderful illusion until she absolutely must.
* * *
Oliver, too, drifted to sleep with the thought that he had no real reason to start his journey back to England so soon. What would a few more days hurt? Frederick and Jacob could manage things until he returned. One more week would not matter.
He slept deeply, content to hold Cecilia in his arms.
* * *
When he woke it was to a loud knocking on the door.
‘Sir. Sir.’ It was his valet knocking. ‘The coach is due in an hour. You must rise now.’
Oliver shook himself awake and sat straight up.
He turned to the space in the bed beside him.
Cecilia was gone. Her clothes were gone.
‘Sir!’ His valet knocked again.
‘One moment,’ he answered, climbing out of bed.
He searched to see if she’d left him a note, but there was nothing in the bedchamber. He entered the sitting room and searched there. To no avail.
There was nothing to indicate she’d ever been with him.
He had no way to find her. No surname. No address.
Perhaps he could find her on the banks of the Seine, giving coins to the children. He must dress quickly. He ran back to the bedchamber and grabbed his drawers, managing to don them as he started towards the door to let his valet into the room.
A glance towards the window depressed his spirits. The sun was high in the sky. He’d slept through most of the morning. She would not be on the banks of the Seine giving coins to street urchins. She would be long gone.
‘Sir! Sir!’ his valet cried.
‘Coming!’ He walked to the door and opened it, and knew he would never see Cecilia again.
Chapter Four (#ude25f249-d36c-5e6b-bb02-097036ef212a)
Cecilia had left Oliver’s bed at dawn and hurried to the river to pass out the coins to the children who, hungry, flocked to her.
Now when she met the children she would be reminded of him for ever. She’d see him running to rescue her. She’d see his smile and remember his laugh.
How would she be able to sit in Notre Dame, listen to the bells, witness the Mass, without remembering him at her side, seeming to understand the special aura of the place? When she gazed at her favourite paintings in the Louvre, would she not think of him standing next to her, listening to her enthuse about what she loved about the work?
As she’d walked back to her room, she fingered the pearl next to her skin. The memory of him would always touch her if she wore the necklace.
How good it was that the memory of her day with him was a happy one. She so much relished having a happy memory to replace the unhappy ones from her past.
On her way she stopped at an apothecary to buy the items necessary to keep from getting with child. She returned to her room afterwards.
Her room was about half the size of Oliver’s sitting room in the hotel, but it was as clean and as cheerful as she could make it, with a pot of flowers she’d impulsively bought from a vendor and the lace curtains on the window it had taken weeks of saving to afford. She reached behind her to untie her laces so that she could pull her dress over her head and folded it carefully.
Next she removed her corset and set about using the items from the apothecary.
When first married to Duncan, she’d pined for a baby, but it did not take long for her to pray a child would never happen. She’d learned what to do to prevent it. Too many times, though, she could not clean herself afterwards. Still, she did not become enceinte. She’d concluded his punches had damaged her and she could not conceive. At the time she thought it a blessing.
After completing her task, Cecilia climbed on her bed and burrowed under the quilt she’d crafted from scraps of cloth collected during her years of marriage. Sewing the quilt had helped her endure. It was her prized possession, her badge of honour.
Her mind drifted as she lay on her bed. She’d slept only briefly the night before. In Oliver’s arms. Most of the night she’d gazed out of the window, keeping herself awake so that she could be sure she’d rise before him and make her escape.
She’d waited until the first light of dawn appeared, then slipped out of his embrace where she’d felt warm and safe. As quietly as she could she searched for her clothing, scooping it into her arms and tiptoeing to the sitting room to dress. On a table had been a stack of Oliver’s calling cards. She took one as a souvenir of the man with whom she’d spent this wonderful day. When she was fully clothed, except for her shoes, which she still held in her hands, she peeked in the bedchamber one last time, for one last look at him.
So handsome. His face was relaxed in sleep, which only accentuated the perfection of his features. His dark hair was in wild disarray. She stared at him a long time, committing his image to her memory.
As if she could ever forget him.
He’d proposed more days together. He’d tempted her especially when her body had still been humming with the pleasure he’d brought her. But she knew she’d reached her limit with one day. One glorious day.
More time was too great a risk. More time making love with him would only bind her to him, a cord that could bring delight, but also great pain. More time and she’d likely fall under the spell of his charm. More time and she might convince herself that she needed him. Before she knew it, he would be able to control her every move. He’d change. Become brutal.
She’d never go through that again.
Even so, as she lay on her small bed, she yearned to be held by Oliver again. He’d opened a door that she’d thought closed for good—one that Duncan had slammed on her—and how was she to lock those feelings away again?
She would, she vowed. She must.
* * *
That night Cecilia entered the club through the rear door. The Maison D’Eros was located near the Palais-Royal, which, at this late hour, became quite a different place from the one she’d strolled through with Oliver. She was glad Oliver would never know she was a part of this world. At night courtesans, departing from the theatre, promenaded with their patrons. Prostitutes strolled, hoping to attract clients.
Cecilia might have been one of those unfortunate creatures had she not been rescued by Vincent, her one French ally. When Vincent found her that first desperate night at the Palais-Royal, she’d spent her last sou. Her search for employment had been futile. No Frenchman wished to hire an English lady for any reason—except the most wretched and shameful one. So she’d been reduced to that circumstance that night.
Until Vincent took pity on her.
Dear Vincent, the one man she felt comfortable with. Vincent was like a bosom beau and unlike anyone she’d ever met before. A man who adored womanly things, but preferred men to women. He was the very safest sort of ally. He took her under his wing and brought her to the Maison D’Eros, talking the manager into letting her serve drinks for tips.
‘You must flirt with the rich gentlemen so that they buy more drinks and pay you more tips,’ Vincent had told her, then he showed her how to do it. She managed it by pretending she was someone else, not Cecilia Lockhart. The men started calling her Coquette, so she became Coquette.
Coquette was brave. Coquette could tease men and put them in their place. Coquette could laugh at their silly jokes and admire their braggadocio. Coquette could sing bawdy songs and dance seductively. Coquette spoke only French.
Soon men were begging for her favours and Vincent devised another plan.
‘I have a way you might become the rage of Paris! Paris’s most selective courtesan!’ he’d said to her one night.
She’d been scraping by on her tips. ‘I told you, Vincent, I do not wish to be a courtesan. Bedding strange men is abhorrent to me.’
He’d sighed. ‘Abhorrent to you, but my greatest pleasure.’ He’d placed his hand to his heart for a moment. ‘But, never mind. You will not have to bed anyone.’
‘How can one be a courtesan without the bedding?’ she’d asked.
He’d explained it to her.
And so Coquette became Madame Coquette, Paris’s most selective courtesan, selling her favours a mere two nights a week—without selling her favours at all.
Tonight Vincent greeted her in the back room wearing a purple coat, a deep blue waistcoat and a bright yellow neckcloth—his work costume. His blond hair curled around his boyish face and his lips and cheeks were tinted a pale pink.
‘Madame Coquette, chérie!’ He kissed both cheeks in his flamboyant manner. ‘You look ravishing.’
‘As do you, mon cher.’ She kissed him in kind.
‘Who do you entertain tonight?’ he asked.
‘Monsieur Legrand.’
Legrand was a wealthy merchant who had made it a point to ingratiate himself with those in power during the restoration of the monarchy. It was said he courted favour with the Duke of Wellington, but now, with the Occupation near to its end, he’d turned to Frenchmen who were likely to come to power. Procuring a night with Madame Coquette was, no doubt, part of how he intended to impress.
‘Legrand,’ Vincent repeated. ‘He is no challenge at all. You will wrap him around your little finger in no time.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But Hercule will remain nearby, will he not?’
Hercule, large, strong and intimidating, was employed as a flash man to make certain none of the working girls suffered mistreatment. He stayed within shouting distance in case things did not go as planned.
‘But of course.’ Vincent threaded her arm through his. ‘Time to turn yourself into Madame Coquette.’
They walked up the servants’ stairs to a room on the first floor where the dresser arranged Cecilia’s hair and applied just a light dusting of rouge on her cheeks and lips.
‘What dress today, Coquette?’ the dresser asked.
‘The red, I suppose.’
The red gown was made of fine silk, its neckline, sleeves and hem trimmed in gold embroidery. The neckline dipped lower than what Cecilia would wish, but it was perfect for Madame Coquette. Her gowns were fine enough for a high-priced courtesan, but they were not hers. The manager of the club paid for them.
Once in her gown and slippers, Ceclia said au revoir to the dresser. In the hallway with Vincent, there was nothing left to do but meet her customer.
Vincent held her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘Deep breath!’ he commanded. ‘Breathe in, Madame Coquette!’
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let herself become her alter ego.
Lifting her chin, she opened her eyes again and nodded to Vincent who turned her towards the door that led to the drawing room and gave her a little push.
With a slight sway to her hips that had not been there before, she entered the drawing room and made straight for Monsieur Legrand as if she were eager to be in his company.
He gaped at her as she approached him, almost spilling his glass of wine and only remembering to stand when she drew near.
‘Legrand,’ she said in a voice deeper than she usually spoke, emphasising the grand. ‘It is my pleasure to entertain you tonight.’
Legrand was a man in his fifties, who obviously enjoyed the fruits of his labour. His round stomach strained at the buttons of his waistcoat, which was well tailored and made of the finest cloth. His nose had the red hue of someone who enjoyed too much wine and his neck disappeared behind his jowls. Yet he displayed himself to her as if she would find him irresistible. No wonder so many courtesans had their beginnings in the theatre. It took a great deal of acting to convince a man such as this that his company was desired.
He’d paid a great deal for this night with her, although the manager of Maison D’Eros took the lion’s share. Her goal was to save enough for a modest living somewhere, ideally back in England, for which she was always homesick—even more so since spending the day with Oliver. It would take her a long time to amass such a sum. Years, perhaps. She’d been building Madame Coquette’s reputation over the last year and a half and she had little more than what travel expenses to England would cost her.
‘Shall we retire to my room?’ she asked, taking his arm.
‘Yes. Yes,’ he stammered.
She led him up to the second floor to a room that was not exclusively hers. Others, including Vincent, used it on other nights of the week.
She gestured for Legrand to open the door and she swept by him to enter the room, decorated in red-silk drapery on the walls and white and gold damask upholstering the chaise and sofa. The tables were mahogany embellished with gold and Egyptian motifs made popular by Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt. On the tables were crystal decanters of wine and brandy, bottles of champagne, and plates of grapes and cheeses. Prominent in the room was a large bed, its covers and canopy in a white fabric similar to the upholstered chaise and chair, trimmed in gold fringe.
Cecilia’s silk red gown was perfect for the room. She looked as if she were part of the room’s decoration.
Legrand closed the door and lunged for her, throwing himself at her and slamming his lips against hers.
She pushed him away. ‘Monsieur Legrand!’ She spoke with great indignation. ‘How dare you attack me like—like you are a hound in heat. I will not stand for such disrespect!’
‘Forgive me, madame.’ He grovelled. ‘I could not help myself. The mere sight of you lights a fire in me that can never be extinguished!’
She straightened her clothes. ‘Well, I suggest you compose yourself immediately. Remember the bargain, monsieur. You have paid for my time, but that is all. You must win me over if you want any more of me.’
This was the brilliant ruse Vincent had thought up for her. Her customers were required to make her want to bed them. And if she wanted it, she promised them rapturous satisfaction.
Of course, she never wanted any of them.
‘What might I do to please you?’ Legrand asked.
She lowered herself onto one of the sofas. ‘First you may pour me some champagne and amuse me with your repartee.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Legrand nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach the champagne bottle and open it.
The champagne always made being Madame Coquette a bit easier.
Legrand babbled of once meeting and advising Talleyrand, the French politician who’d managed to operate at the highest levels of government through Louis XVI, the Revolution, Napoleon and now the Restoration.
As if Talleyrand would accept advice from such a ridiculous man.
‘Talleyrand.’ She made a sound of derision. ‘He is the one no one trusts completely, is that not so? He is a traitor to France. Am I to admire you for associating with a traitor?’
If Legrand had vilified Tallyrand, she would have praised Tallyrand as a great statesman of France.
Because, no matter what Legrand said or did, she was not going to be pleased by him. He would never win her over. That was the point.
Legrand continued to try, attempting to impress her with his wealth and his success as a merchant. Cecilia could almost feel sorry for him, except he was willing to pay for a woman’s favours, merely to impress his compatriots.
Conversation inevitably came to an end and Legrand began spouting flattery. ‘Madame, your beautiful skin makes me long to touch you. You are the most ravishing of Paris courtesans. I would have paid double for this night with you. Triple. And considered it worth every franc.’
Cecilia wished her price had been negotiated higher. This was something to discuss with the manager, who might be underselling her services.
‘You flatter me, monsieur,’ she said, dipping her head and fluttering her lashes the way Vincent had shown her.
His expression turned eager. ‘Please, I beg you, madame. Sit with me.’
‘With pleasure.’ Cecilia girded herself and moved to the chaise.
Legrand put his arm around her. ‘This is much better. Much better.’
She pretended to sigh. ‘Would you pour me more champagne?’
‘More champagne?’ He sounded both surprised and disappointed. ‘As you wish.’
‘For you as well.’ She smiled sweetly.
He opened the second bottle of champagne and poured two glasses, handing one to her.
She tapped her glass against his. ‘To this lovely night.’
He puffed up with hope. ‘This lovely night.’
He drank the contents in one gulp and put his arm around her again. As Cecilia slowly sipped hers, he stroked her arm, then became bolder and put his hand on her thigh.
‘May I kiss you?’ he asked while he performed the greater indignity of kneading her thigh.
She took her time to drink the last of her champagne, then smiled. ‘Of course you can!’
He placed his dry, thin, fleshless lips against hers and held her in both arms.
She made herself remain still for a moment, before starting to cough. And cough. And cough.
He released her. ‘What can I do? More champagne?’
She nodded, still coughing.
His hand shook while he poured another glass of champagne. She grabbed it from his hand and drank as if desperate for it.
When she’d composed herself again, she apologised. ‘Forgive me, monsieur. I—I tried...’ She let her voice trail off.
She positioned herself for another kiss and Legrand eagerly complied. This time he opened his mouth.
She made a sound and again pushed him away. ‘Did you clean your teeth, monsieur?’
‘My—my teeth?’ He looked befuddled.
‘I am sorry, but your mouth—the taste, the smell—it makes me cough.’ She reached for her champagne again.
He cupped his hand near his mouth and exhaled, trying to smell his own breath.
‘I cannot kiss you, monsieur.’ She frowned. ‘I am so sorry.’
He moved towards her. ‘We can proceed without kissing.’
She allowed him to touch her, to fondle her breasts, to run his hands down her body before pushing away again. ‘It is no use, monsieur. I am certain you are a very fine gentleman and I am so very impressed by your wealth and your importance, but I must feel something for the men I bed. They must stir me and you—you do not.’
He looked as if she’d slapped him.
This was the dangerous moment. When the man was filled with lust, but spurned. This was when Hercule might be needed.
‘I am very certain this has never happened to you before,’ she said. ‘You are such a fine gentleman. I do not know what is wrong with me.’
He puffed up again. ‘Never happened before. Never. Women like me. Many women.’
‘I am certain they do,’ she said soothingly.
He gave her a hopeful look. ‘Perhaps we can proceed anyway? I will not hold it against you if you do not—do not get pleasure from it.’
‘Monsieur Legrand!’ She pretended to be horrified. ‘You wish me to bed you without feeling on my part?’
‘Well...’
She shook her head. ‘No. That is not what I do. Remember the bargain?’ The rules set forth for a night with Madame Coquette were very specific. ‘I must want to couple with you and now, I simply cannot. I will have another coughing fit and I know you would not wish me to have another coughing fit.’
‘No...’ He rubbed his face. ‘I told all my friends.’
‘You told your friends that you had arranged a night with me?’ she asked.
He nodded, looking horror-struck.
She reached over and patted his hand. ‘It is not your fault. It is entirely mine.’ She always tried to take the blame. She had no wish to humiliate the men, although with some of the more unpleasant ones, it was tempting.
‘No one will believe that.’ His lower lip jutted out like a hurt child. ‘Some of them are here tonight. In the card room. If they see me leave early—’
‘You must not leave early, then!’ she reassured him. ‘We will stay the whole night, until just before dawn. Will that do?’
He seemed to be considering it. ‘Just before dawn. That might work. My wife will expect me home about then.’
The men always had a poor wife waiting at home.
‘And you must tell your friends whatever will impress them,’ she added. ‘I will never say anything but that my time with you was incredibly passionate. I will say I was impressed by your skill—because I am sure I would be, if it were not for my awful cough. Because of the smell.’
‘You would be, that is very true.’
She patted his hand again. ‘I am very sure I would be.’
He flushed with pride, as if he really had given her incredible passion.
Cecilia was always surprised how easy it was to talk these gentlemen out of bedding her by complimenting their supposed prowess. What the man’s friends thought of his night with her was always more important to them than the act itself.
‘What will we do all night?’ he asked.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a deck of cards. ‘We can play piquet!’
Chapter Five (#ude25f249-d36c-5e6b-bb02-097036ef212a)
November 1818, three months later
Oliver leaned against the wall in the billiard room of Vitium et Virtus, watching Frederick and Jacob knock the balls in the pockets of the green baize table. The day’s weather was cold and drizzling, but the fire in the fireplace kept the room comfortably warm. Frederick was meticulously lining up his next shot, taking long enough that Oliver began tapping his foot.
‘Just take the shot, Fred,’ he said impatiently. ‘This fuss does you no good.’
Frederick ignored him and continued to study the ball some more before placing his cue and executing a perfect shot, sending Jacob’s cue ball and the red ball into the pockets.
‘That’s the game,’ groaned Jacob.
Frederick looked up and grinned. ‘Does me no good, Oliver?’
‘You would have made it without all that fuss.’ Oliver picked up his cue and stepped up to the table while Frederick retrieved the balls from the pockets.
Jacob flopped in a chair. ‘That is the second game you’ve won over me.’
‘You were distracted.’ Frederick turned his grin on the new duke. ‘Thinking of your bride, no doubt.’
Jacob laughed.
It was gratifying to see Jacob happy. Oliver had often caught Jacob spending the night hours at Vitium et Virtus, drinking and looking more haggard by the day.
Jacob had been reeling with grief over the accident that killed his father and brother, and lamenting that he was not up to the enormous responsibility of a dukedom.
But then Jacob met his Rose.
Oliver wished them well. He really did.
He wished Frederick and Georgiana well, too.
Both Oliver’s friends were obviously besotted with their wives. When Oliver saw them with the women, the loving looks and tender touches between them reminded him of the many gestures of affection he’d long ago witnessed between his mother and father.
But his father had still left his mother behind in India.
Obviously love fled in the wake of expediency. Once gone, love could destroy.
Oliver sincerely hoped the love shared by Frederick, Jacob and their wives would not be so easily shattered. But he would not wager any money on it.
And he was known to wager on almost anything.
Oliver stood next to Frederick and they hit their respective cue balls simultaneously to see who would have the first shot. Oliver’s ball stopped closest to the baulk cushion. He went first, hitting both Frederick’s cue ball and the red ball.
Oliver concentrated on the billiards. That was what he liked about games or any competition. He could focus on winning and push all other thoughts out of his mind. Unfortunately, Frederick’s careful approach to billiards gave Oliver too much time to think.
He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.
‘Back to discussing my wife,’ Jacob said in good humour. ‘I highly recommend marriage.’
‘As do I.’ Frederick continued to eye the ball. ‘You should try it, Oliver.’
‘Not likely.’ Oliver’s reply came quickly.
‘You will change your tune.’ Frederick continued to consider the placement of his cue. ‘Once you meet the right lady.’ He finally hit the red ball and sent it into a pocket.
Did Frederick not see how easily his marriage to Georgiana might have turned to misery? Oliver held his tongue, though.
He took his shot and this time sent Fred’s cue ball into a pocket.
‘Maybe he already has.’ Jacob rose to pour himself some brandy. He turned to Oliver. ‘The mysterious Parisian lady.’
Cecilia.
‘Nonsense.’ He regretted telling them of her, not that he’d said much, and it had taken him some time to divulge even that meagre information. He never discussed the more private elements of his time with women.
‘You cannot tell us you do not think of her,’ Jacob persisted. ‘You’ve been different since that trip. A veritable malcontent.’
‘I dispute that statement.’ Oliver tapped his foot, impatient over Frederick’s care in executing his shot. Or at least that was the reason he told himself his toe was tapping.
Frederick finally hit the ball. ‘I agree with Jake. You’ve been moodier. And what lady was your last conquest? No one since Paris.’
Frederick was right, of course. ‘You assume too much. Perhaps I do not tell you of my every liaison. Perhaps I am discreet.’ Oliver took his shot and missed.
His friends exchanged knowing glances.
He played the rest of the game in disgruntled silence. And lost.
Oliver refused to believe that the brief encounter with Cecilia had sent him into this funk. Perhaps the cause was because he’d not accomplished his goal in Paris. He’d not found very much new to offer at their club. Nothing, at least, that was not distasteful to him.
Too much of Vitium et Virtus was becoming distasteful to him.
But that was a worry that had preceded his trip to Paris.
He must admit that the memory of Cecilia did linger in the recesses of his mind. A church bell would call back the image of her in Notre Dame, the sun through the rose windows bathing her face in colour. One of the lady patrons of the club wrapped her Kashmir shawl around her shoulders, just as Cecilia had. Their new French songstress had Cecilia’s colour hair.
Reminders were to be expected, were they not? Yet surely that bore no special significance.
‘Another game?’ Frederick held up a cue ball.
Jacob stood and picked up a cue.
Oliver poured himself some brandy and lowered himself into a chair. The room had been designed for their comfort, his, Jacob, Frederick and Nicholas. The richly carved oak panelling on the walls came from a German monastery. The billiard table, with its fine green-baize surface, filled the room’s centre, but around it were the most comfortable chairs in the club and enough tables and cabinets to hold the ever-present brandy. The chandelier’s many candles illuminated the billiard table so play could continue all night, if desired.
Very occasionally they offered billiard tournaments, the prize of which was some debauched spree, but most of the time this room was for their own amusement. Oliver preferred it that way. Increasingly he was preferring the days Vitium et Virtus was closed and he had time to himself.
He, Frederick, Jacob and Nicholas began the club back in their Oxford days. It was secret, exclusive and naughtier than the Hell Fire clubs of their grandfathers. Vitium et Virtus also lacked the Hell Fire clubs’ anti-religious affectations. No black mass for Vitium et Virtus. No devil worship or paganism or ridiculous rituals. Their club worshipped pleasure and excess, in card-playing, drink and fornication. It had been their highest accomplishment at the University.
When they left Oxford, they brought the club to London.
What did Oliver care that he was not welcome at Almack’s? He belonged to Vitium et Virtus.
Life had been good right up until that night six years ago when Nicholas disappeared, leaving only a pool of blood and his signet ring in the alley behind the club.
Oliver, Frederick and Jacob had kept Vitium et Virtus running for Nicholas’s sake, but for how much longer? Frederick and Jacob were now married. What honourable gentleman runs a club of Dionysian revels when his wife is waiting at home?
Oliver would keep it going by himself, if necessary. To him, giving up on Vitium et Virtus was like giving up on Nicholas. He refused to believe Nicholas was dead.
He finished his brandy and poured another.
Enough blue devils.
‘I do have one new idea for the club,’ he began.
Jacob grinned. ‘Nothing that involves driving hooks through one’s skin and hanging from ropes.’
Oliver had told them of the self-mutilation and flagellation of some Paris clubs.
‘Not unless you wish to try it,’ he shot back.
Jacob held up both hands. ‘Not me!’
‘We could have a Vitium et Virtus ball.’
‘Oh, that is original,’ Frederick said.
‘Not the usual sort of ball.’ Oliver rose and picked up one of the billiard balls from a pocket. ‘We have two baskets of balls like these, only each ball has a number painted on it. There are matching numbers for men and for women. The men pick from the men’s basket and the women from the women’s. Then they partner up with the person whose number matches theirs. No one knows ahead of time who their partner will be.’
Frederick straightened his spine. ‘Georgiana and I will not play.’
Jacob laughed. ‘Nor will Rose and I.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘Of course not.’ In truth, he also had no desire to play that game. ‘I think several of our members will relish it, though. We know many married couples who would clamour to be first in line to play.’
Frederick turned back to his game. ‘You manage it, if you like, but you had better make certain everyone knows what to expect.’
‘What if Bowles shows up?’ Jacob asked.
Frederick missed his shot.
Nash Bowles was a nasty fellow they’d known since their Oxford days, who’d joined before they’d become more selective. He’d lately pressed to purchase Jacob’s share of the club.
Frederick’s lips thinned. ‘That reprobate.’
Bowles was the reason Fred had married his Georgiana. Vitium et Virtus had held a virgin auction which was supposed to have been a total farce. The women usually auctioning their wares were certainly no virgins, but instead, those who loved the sexual excess of the club. Instead, respectable, well-bred Georgiana Knight, a viscount’s daughter, had climbed up on the table and offered herself. Frederick had bid on her, intending to protect her reputation.
‘Bowles.’ Fred spat out the name like a piece of rancid meat. ‘He had better behave himself or he will answer to me.’
Bowles had threatened to ruin Georgiana for her escapade at Vitium et Virtus unless she married him as her father wished.
Honourable Frederick married Georgiana instead, to rescue her from Bowles. And somehow Fred and Georgiana had fallen in love with each other.
What were the chances that marriage would remain blissful? Especially since Georgiana was so free-spirited.
And how long would Jacob remain besotted with Rose? He was a duke and she had been a maid here at Vitium et Virtus. How long before Jacob left Rose like Oliver’s father had left his mother?
‘You two should go home to your wives,’ Oliver said. His friends had better do right by those good women or they’d have to answer to him.
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Fred said.
Jacob looked pensive. ‘I was thinking how lucky I am to have this happiness. And how much I wish Nicholas could share in it.’
‘Nick.’ Oliver’s voice rasped with pain.
He placed his hand palm up on the billiard table. Jacob and Frederick placed theirs on his. ‘In Vitium et Virtus,’ they recited together.
They’d been schoolboys when they first contrived this oath, resurrecting it after the night Nick vanished to remind them that they were still four. Nicholas was somewhere, Oliver insisted. And somehow he’d find his way back to them.
They broke apart, and Frederick poured more brandy. He lifted his glass in a toast. ‘To absent friends.’
Oliver and Jacob raised their glasses.
‘Be he in heaven or hell—’ Oliver continued, a refrain they’d repeated several times in the six years Nicholas had been gone.
‘Or somewhere in between—’ Fred added.
‘Know that we wish you well.’ Jake ended it.
If only words could magically bring Nick back.
They downed their brandy in silence.
* * *
After Oliver said goodbye to his friends, he made his way to the back door, the private entrance used only by him and his friends. The drizzle persisted, so he dashed across the garden and out the gate, through the alley and the garden of the town house on Bury Street adjacent to the club. Oliver’s town house. How lucky he’d been to be wealthy enough to buy a town house so conveniently located to Vitium et Virtus.
When his father became the Marquess of Amberford and inherited the property and riches to go with the title, he’d settled the fortune he’d acquired in India on Oliver, a fortune great enough that Oliver could live more than comfortably. He could afford many pleasures. Fast carriages, matched horses, beautiful women.
Funny that Oliver used to fear he’d be poor. When he was a boy, his father’s wife often threatened to put Oliver out on the streets. Eventually he learned about his fortune and that she could not touch it. When his father was not present, she was always nasty to Oliver. He’d absolutely believed he could be tossed out onto the streets like Cecilia’s street urchins—
Cecilia.
Again she popped into his mind unbidden. For the last three months the memory of her caught him at odd moments. Why should she inhabit his thoughts so often? He’d only known her one day.
Perhaps the brevity of their time together had enhanced the experience, made it grander, magical. It had seemed as if she’d appeared out of the mist and disappeared as quickly. No liaison of his had ever begun so unexpectedly and ended so abruptly.
He reached the garden door of his town house and went inside, brushing the raindrops off his coat and hair. He greeted his cook and housekeeper as he passed the kitchen and made his way up to the hall where his butler stopped him.
‘Sir, you have a caller,’ the butler said.
‘A caller?’ Oliver rarely had callers. He was not on society’s circuit of people whose favour one must court.
His butler, only a decade older than he, leaned closer. ‘A lady. She declined to give her name.’
Oliver’s brows rose. ‘You do not know her?’
Irwin typically had an excellent eye for faces and names, especially ladies’ names.
He shook his head. ‘She has been waiting over an hour.’
‘An hour?’ What lady would wait an hour for him? ‘Why did you not simply say I was out?’
Irwin appeared affronted. ‘I did say you were out. She insisted upon waiting.’
Oliver was always very careful that the ladies with whom he associated knew precisely the nature of the relationship. He did not want any of them to consider him so important they’d waste an hour waiting for him.
Irwin inclined his head towards the drawing room. ‘She waits in there.’
Oliver shrugged. He might as well discover who it was.
He opened the door, startling the woman who sat upon the sofa facing the fireplace. She stood and turned to him.
For a moment Oliver could not breathe.
‘Cecilia.’
Chapter Six (#ude25f249-d36c-5e6b-bb02-097036ef212a)
Cecilia had forgotten how his presence affected her. His handsome face. His masculine grace. His riveting eyes. Unwillingly, her body flared in response to him. She’d not wished to seek him out, but what other choice did she have?
He hurried towards her. ‘But why are you here? How did you know—?’
‘Where to find you?’ She finished his question and felt somewhat embarrassed to admit to the answer. ‘I took one of your cards before I left. It gave your direction.’
She was wary of him, of how he would respond to her, of his reaction to what she must tell him.
To her surprise, he softened his voice. ‘I am delighted to see you, Cecilia. What is wrong? You seem distressed. Do you need my assistance?’
She had to turn away from him. From his kindness.
‘I never intended to come to you. I went first to my parents—my mother—’ Her voice cracked and she blinked away tears. The last thing she wanted was to weep in front of him. She wrestled her emotions back in control. ‘My mother and father refused to see me. I am dead to them, you see.’
She’d yearned for her mother. When everything fell so completely apart in Paris, she’d desperately yearned for her mother. She’d wanted to be enfolded in her mother’s arms and soothed and told everything would turn out all right. So many times after Duncan had beaten her she’d wished for her mother’s arms, but when Duncan was alive, it had been impossible. This time, though, with Duncan dead, she thought perhaps her parents would forgive her. She’d travelled first to their country house only to be told they were in London.
She then went to London, but they refused to see her.
You are dead to them, their butler, a man she’d known since childhood, had frostily told her.
So she came here. To Oliver.
She’d always known that her ruse as Madame Coquette would end some day. One night the man who’d paid for time did not fall for her excuses. He’d tried to take what he wanted. For a few frightening moments, it was as if her husband had returned from the dead to again force himself on her. Hercule had burst in and stopped him.

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