Читать книгу The Illicit Love of a Courtesan - Jane Lark - Страница 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take off your coat!”

“Prove it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You agree?” Lord Edward prompted.

“I agree,” Lord Gainsborough snarled.

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

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

The air escaped her lungs and Ellen opened her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

But this was no act of chivalry.

He was no saviour of a lady’s virtue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He said nothing, waiting for her reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ellen?”

She met his gaze, hearing a question and a statement in that single utterance of her name and somehow knew he wouldn’t force her, as others had done before. He was asking permission and offering admiration, she saw it in his eyes.

“You have such beauty. I swear I’ve never seen the like.” His gaze holding hers, his curled fingers trailed upwards, the tender, gentle touch following the line of her jaw and sweeping up across her brow, before brushing down her nose. Then his thumb rested on her mouth, running over her lips.

“Do you wish for this too?” he whispered.

There was no need to ask what he meant, her body sang with longing for his, her skin was already hot and sensitised by the flush of desire. The pressure of his palm at her back pulled her lower body hip to hip with his, making the level of his arousal blatant as the outline of his erection pressed against her stomach.

He’d said he wanted diversion.

She needed him for release. If only for an hour or two, she could escape.

Her lips brushing the pad of his thumb, she formed the single word of agreement, surrender, her arms lifting to his shoulders. “Yes.” No, for the first time since Paul, this was not surrender, this was choice.

The rhythm of her heartbeat lurched to an even greater pace, her gaze locked with his, captured by the invisible link she felt woven taut between them.

His hands fell, resting on her hips in a gentle brace, just for a moment.

His touch was like an expression of awe, not domination. His hands skimmed upwards across her ribs and then reaching the soft flesh of her breasts, his palms and fingers clenched her through the thin material of her gown. Time stopped, suddenly suspended as his gaze dropped to her lips and he lowered his head.

When their lips met, the rush of desire through her veins was overwhelming. Instinctively her fingers slipped upwards delving into his soft hair, clasping it. His tongue slid into her mouth and he tasted delicious. He drugged her senses, taking her away somewhere else, somewhere outside of her sordid, soiled self. His crooked thumb dipped into the low neck of her gown and brushed across her breast, stroking her casually as his mouth ravished hers. A pleasant spasm ran from her breast, spiralling down through her body to her stomach and into her womb. Her body already ached for fulfilment.

Feeling brazen to the core and every bit the wanton whore life had made her, her tongue passed across his lips, into the warmth of his mouth and her fingers fell to his shoulders, splaying and running downwards. They slid over the taut muscles beneath his evening clothes, revelling in his athletic physique and descended to his breeches.

An erotic, pain filled sound resonated from his chest and reached her mouth as heat. But abruptly his fingers left her breast, grasped her hand and removed it as he broke their kiss. Yet his eyes were still dark with longing as they met hers. She knew her look mirrored his.

The timbre of his voice thick with desire, he said, “I would like that, Ellen, but it is not what I want tonight, not yet. Let me lead. I want to see you gain your pleasure first.”

He wished to give her pleasure? The ice about her heart cracked and warmth seeped into her blood. This was more than lust, much more, it was longing beyond a physical need. She’d given herself to men for years, she knew what pleased them. None of them had cared for what pleased her. Pleasure during sex—was it still possible? If it had been like that with Paul, she’d forgotten.

His head bowed and his lips brushed her neck while his gentle fingers slipped the straps of her gown from her shoulders then followed the neckline of her dress, slackening the material and drawing it down. With his head lowered his hair caressed her skin as his fingers lifted her breasts free, then one taut peak was absorbed in the warmth of his mouth. It sent a tremor across her skin and pain and pleasure reaching inside her.

He did not just want her body, he wanted her soul. It had only ever been Paul’s. But with Edward Marlow she wasn’t sure she could keep it safe. When Gainsborough touched her—when she touched him—she detached her mind. He took her body, but only her body. This man would claim everything.

He lifted away from her again and began plucking pins from her hair, watching the dark curls fall to her naked shoulders and over her breasts.

“If someone comes in?” Ellen heard her breathless words.

“No one will.” His voice was deep. He sounded as lost in lust as her. His hands rested on her shoulders and turned her to reach the back fastenings of her dress. The small ivory buttons slipped free one by one, and he kissed her exposed skin.

“You’re so beautiful.” The whisper brushed her neck as her dress fell in to a pool at her feet. Then his fingers swept her hair across her shoulders before tugging at the lacing of her light corset.

When her corset fell away too, he began stripping off her chemise, lifting it over her head and baring her breasts before throwing it aside. Then his hands reached about her and gripped together, drawing her back against him as he kissed her neck.

“You are nature’s finest art.”

Her head tilted back, savouring his caresses and his hand slid down over her stomach and then slipped under her cotton underwear. No one had ever caressed her with such tenderness. She ached for him—he made her feel—every nerve in her body was humming for his touch—it was a rising floodtide inside her. It was torment, unbearable. It stole her awareness of everything but him. She wanted to cry out, to protest and scream. She did not. He did not stop. Oh, she was afraid of it, of this unfamiliar feeling.

There was an explosion of pleasure. It rushed through her blood, a flood, racing, ripping her apart, an unearthed power she hadn’t known existed tearing into her limbs and leaving them weak. She felt him take her weight as she nearly fell and her fingers gripped his forearms. His lips brushed the skin behind her ear and he did not cease.

“Not again, please.” Her words were breathless. She was afraid of the torrent that might flow now the dam was breached, afraid of losing control. He was still a stranger. It was too hard to trust.

His answer was to turn her and kiss her. She willingly returned it, her hands gripping fists full of his hair, as the tide of his passion swept her away again and he leaned her back a little so the chair’s seat pressed against her calves until she fell back. She knew it was by design when he knelt before her and smiled and then his gaze dropped and he began loosening the ribbon securing her drawers. He slid them off, leaving her naked—exposed—while he was still fully clothed.

His warm breath brushed her breast. His eyes were glazed and his pupils wide dark onyx pools as his gaze swept over her body.

Awareness of the room, of him, refilled her. “This is not fair.” She hesitated, unfamiliar with desire. “I want to touch you.”

Amusement and compliance shining in his eyes, he released the knot of his cravat while she pushed his coat from his shoulders.

Once he was stripped of neckcloth, coat and waistcoat, she tugged his shirt from his waistband and lifted it off over his head before throwing it aside. Then she reached for the buttons of his breeches but his hands stopped her.

“Not yet.”

Why? What else could come?

Lean muscular contours rippled across his torso, shadowed by a dusting of dark hair across his chest which narrowed to a line delving into his waistband. Instinctively she licked her lips, only to be disturbed from her admiration by a sound of humour in the back of his throat.

“Careful, you’ll make me think you’ve not known pleasure like this.” His voice was low and husky, laden with lust and unexpected humour.

His hands gripped her hips and drew them forward, tumbling her backwards, and his head bent to kiss her stomach. Her muscle tightened, caught by surprise, but she was equally overwhelmed by a feeling of tenderness—care. It pierced her disordered thoughts. It was in his touch. She knew if she asked him to stop, even now, he would.

Moisture rushed into her eyes. This man is kind and gentle. Longing swelled inside her, body and soul. Desire and hope.

But he is not my rescuer. She had to push the thought away and shield herself behind denial. Her heart could not be involved in this. It was a physical hunger. He knows the art of sex better than other men I’ve known, that is all.

His fingers slid down her thighs and up again. “Relax, Ellen,” he whispered, looking up and smiling.

She closed her eyes, took a breath and tried to, but she felt so nervous and uncertain. When his lips touched her, her fingernails dug into his flesh.

She’d thought herself incapable of embarrassment after a lifetime of humiliation, yet this intimate caress made her blush. No one else, not even Paul, had kissed her there.

She clung to him, hanging on as he urged her back into the pool of sensual delight. He knew more than Paul had done, Paul had made her happy, but never like this.

This time when the flood swelled, smashing aside her sanity, Edward did not let her escape but pushed her over another wave. It was then he freed the buttons of his breeches and filled her.

An exclamation of satisfaction left her lips.

His slate-blue-eyes looked into hers and his closed lips smiled as he pressed into her again. He smiled more and she gripped the arms of the chair.

Well, she had wanted escape. He was certainly giving her that.

The sweet sensations transported her beyond the room, body and soul, and she clung to him, watching him through a haze of lust.

He was so beautiful, hard, masculine, yet gentle.

She loved this man, she had known him only moments but still she knew she loved him. He’d possessed her body and her heart.

He released her hips and held her hands, weaving their fingers together.

How could this? How could anyone stand such..? Light exploded within her.

The man was a God, an athlete, his strength, his stamina, his gallantry all spoke of it. There was no doubt.

“You are…” She stopped, hardly knowing what she said, and then her fingernails digging into his flesh she fell over the edge of reality into an abyss of sensation far below.

A virile cry escaped his throat, erupting from deep in his chest and he hastily withdrew.

When she felt the warmth on her stomach, she was plummeted back to reality and felt cheated, insulted. She was still a whore whom he would not want to bear his child. He was no hero, just another man. For a moment she hated him, even though he’d only really shown forethought and kindness. He’d reduced the possibility of a child. What good would a bastard child bring? No good, except a memory of this one night of release and him.

Ellen felt cold, thrown from a warm hearth in to snow, soiled again, naïve and foolish. She’d given herself completely, crying out. Anyone in the hall outside might have heard her. She hadn’t just let him use her, she’d let him pluck and strum her sensual strings. He had played her like an instrument for his amusement. She’d spent years under the influence of men and still she had not learnt this lesson. Men took. He simply had a greater skill and different tastes.

Yet the delicious feelings he’d stirred up inside her still ran through her blood, overwhelming her tangled senses. Without looking at him, she accepted the handkerchief he pulled from his coat and held towards her. Then she wiped her stomach, expecting him to reach for his clothes and make himself ready to leave. Instead he did something which surprised her. He handed over her glass.

“Drink, it will steady your nerves.”

She sipped the ruby liquid and as its warmth slid down her throat, she dared herself, lifted her gaze and looked at him.

His fingers slotted the buttons of his breeches into place and then he bent over and picked up her undergarments. Seeing her watching, he smiled. There was no hint in it that he intended to simply walk away, no rake’s art, nor aversion. He looked embarrassed too. She could see his pulse flickering at the base of his throat.

Drinking down the remainder of the port in one swallow, she waited. She wanted a word from him, an acknowledgement, something. Something to confirm his life had been changed by this, by their private interlude. She wanted it to not be her imagination.

But what could change?

Nothing.

He did not have the money to free her from Gainsborough.

She could not escape.

Just because he was beautiful and gentle and she’d engaged her heart in this, it did not mean he returned her feelings. The man was in his physical prime, he could have any woman he wanted. It doesn’t make him my hero.

She had to stop this ridiculous hope from rising to lessen the pain when he walked away.

Her stubborn heart clenched in her chest. He’d been kind. He was being kind now.

How pathetic she’d become, craving so much for kindness she would love a man after little more than an hour, simply because he’d thrown her crumbs of it.

She accepted her undergarments from his hand and rose, pulling them on while he donned his shirt and tucked it in.

“My corset?” She couldn’t tie it alone with the lacing at her back. “Would you send for Madam?”

“I’ll lace it.” He smiled, a masculine blush darkening the skin across the bones of his cheeks and took the garment from her hand. She turned.

Her fingers pressing it to her ribs, his threaded the laces at her back.

The gentle tug as he worked each lace, the pressure of her corset as he pulled it tight, the brush of his fingers as he tied it off—sent warmth racing through the heightened senses of her skin.

Daft, foolish woman to make so much of this. His skill with the lacing of a corset was testament to the level of his past experience.

He bent and picked up her dress. “Lift your arms, Ellen.” And so, she was dressed.

While his fingers worked the tiny buttons at her back into place, her senses reeled and her head told her heart over and over again, this was no more than sex.

When he returned to the task of his own attire he faced the mirror to retie his neckcloth.

Ellen blushed, remembering those fingers, now adeptly crafting a fashionable knot, playing master to her body’s whim moments before.

He smiled at her in the mirror.

She caught sight of her disordered hair and her heart kicked in fear.

Panic locking the air in her lungs, she knelt and began picking up her scattered hairpins. She couldn’t leave the room looking like this.

In a moment he was on one knee beside her, helping her. He must have sensed her concern for he caught one of her hands and held it still. “There’s no need to worry, Ellen.”

For you perhaps, but not for me, for me there is every need. She pulled her hand free and continued the task, but tried to make light of her fear. “Not if you can dress a woman’s hair.”

“I can make a fair go of it.” His voice was jovial in response.

All pins recovered, they rose, her eyes meeting his. She took a breath. “Then do your best, my Lord, please.”

His hand cupped hers and looking down he tipped the pins she held into his other palm. She shivered, remembering his touch; the things he’d done. In answer his eyes lifted, and she saw an unspoken question visible, pondering her skittish start.

“Edward, at least, Ellen,” he admonished while one hand pressed her shoulder, turning her to the mirror. She looked at his reflection as he took a single lock of ebony hair in his fingers. Then, their sixth sense speaking, his gaze met hers in the glass. He smiled before looking away and concentrating on the task.

His touch was soothing, light and tender. Her body bathed in it, like rain on dry ground, her heart soaking it up.

When the job was finished their gazes collided in the mirror once more, desire burning clearly, like fire, in his. But the echo of it was in hers as she looked at her reflection too. “When can we meet, Ellen?” The question was whispered.

She shook her head in denial then tore her gaze from his, turning to retrieve her discarded fan and gloves. There could be no repetition. Gainsborough would not allow it.

Lord Edward will not help me. He cannot.

His grip caught her elbow and turned her back. “Do not deny me.”

Stiffening her spine, Ellen lifted her chin. I have to.

As though he sensed the change in her, his hand slipped away before she spoke.

“My Lord, there can be nothing more, I thought that was clear.”

Such cold, unemotional words. She set her face and eyes to match them, locking him out of her heart.

Did she imagine the sudden look of pain in his eyes? This was just sex for him, surely. He felt nothing. He would walk away unchanged. My heart is wounded. Not his. She couldn’t escape Gainsborough. Dreams were not reality. Succumbing to Edward tonight had been enough risk. She did not dare repeat it. But she did not want him to know fear held her back. Nor did she wish him to pity her. “Your agreement was with Lord Gainsborough. I am his, not yours, my Lord, Edward.”

The look in his eyes hardening, it was not pity she saw but disgust.

“I must go.”

He moved, forming a wall between her and the door.

She met his gaze and waited, without answering the accusations lying there. This was who she was. He’d known that. He could not change it, and he could hardly judge her.

His lips a tight line, he bowed his head and stepped aside. But before she had time to reach for the doorknob his fingers caught hers.

“Tell me your full name? At least tell me that.” His deep pitch was so full of emotion the ice she’d begun re-laying about her heart cracked, flooding her body with warmth. Warmth she longed to hold on to.

“Ellen Harding.” Her married name, but even that she did not normally reveal.

Withdrawing her fingers from his, she made a final plea. “Please, do not acknowledge me again if I see you, my Lord. There can be no communication beyond tonight.” But something dreadful pierced her chest as she spoke, and perhaps it showed in her eyes because his lips fell to hers, the kiss deep and fulfilling, belittling her denial. And she knew he knew it, but she could not unsay those words, she had no choice but to walk away. He cannot save me, no one can. I’m already lost.

Setting her palms on his chest she pushed him away, turned from his grip and grasped the doorknob, refusing to look back.

Masculine conversation spilled from the adjoining rooms and filled the high ceilinged space as she crossed the hall, broken by the occasional trill of a woman’s laughter rising above the lower tones. She kept walking, ignoring the sound of a door slamming behind her, and the heavy tread of quick masculine strides hitting the floorboards.

Crossing into the first room she saw Lord Gainsborough seated at another card table by the far wall. He was waiting, watching. He rose. The men about him turned to follow his look, rising too. Her heart racing she took the few steps to where he stood.

Ribald jests and jeers greeted her from the male audience who were oblivious to the reality of his little welcome scene.

Refusing to cower she met Lord Gainsborough’s glare of accusation.

She’d angered him, yes, but she could see he was equally enthralled to think another man had taken her but yards from where he sat. She knew his sadistic lusts must have thrilled at it, while his need for control revolted.

A round of laughter rang from another room. The men about them turned back to their game. Gainsborough’s hand lifted.

As she heard the front door slam shut she felt the first strike across her face. The world about her tilted, time shifting to a slower pace as her vision hazed.

“Good God, Gainsborough, no need for that!”

“My God, man!”

A dozen calls of outrage echoed in her head. Reaching out blindly to stop her fall, she felt Lord Gainsborough’s painful grip catch her and haul her back, holding firm.

“Mind your own damn business!” his bellow rang. “Out of my way!”