Читать книгу A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 13

Chapter Four

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!’