Czytaj książkę: «One Night as a Courtesan»
Widow Julia Partridge is desperate. To repay a debt, she’s forced to sell herself in an auction at the most exclusive bawdy house in London. Julia only has to get through one night with one man—though she never imagined that man would be Alistair Crawford, the dissolute Duke of Dunstan! Alistair has the face of a fallen angel…and a reputation for vice to match. Yet when he turns his attentions to Julia, he unexpectedly arouses more passion in a few moments than she’d felt in her entire marriage…
One Night as a Courtesan
Ann Lethbridge
MILLS & BOON
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This story is dedicated to my steadfast hero, Keith.
About the Author
ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent many memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
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Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Mills & Boon Historical at www.millsandboon.co.uk or your local bookstore.
Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to undone@harlequin.ca.
Dear Reader,
People often ask where my ideas come from, and for once I have a really good answer. When I visited Bath and heard about Jane Austen’s aunt being arrested for stealing lace, shoplifting in fact, I knew I would write this story when the right heroine came along. A very respectable woman, the aunt was eventually found innocent of the crime, but spent some very uncomfortable days in prison.
In this story, Julia is in a very different position, being down on her luck, but she seemed like someone who would try to solve such a problem her own way. You will also see that you have met some of the characters in this story before. Harry, from The Laird and the Wanton Widow, Undone, and Garrick, just before his story starts in Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress.
Want to know more about me and my books? Visit me at http://www.annlethbridge.com
Chapter One
Tossed out on his ear, by Jove. Alistair Crawford, Duke of Dunstan, glowered at the Marquess of Beauworth’s front door as it closed. Not only had Beauworth’s Scottish cousin Godridge interrupted the game of cards Alistair had been sure of winning, Beauworth had actually welcomed his relative and shown Alistair the door
His lip curled in derision. No doubt about it, families were an utter bore.
He took the three steps down to the pavement with a leisurely stride. His coachman drove around the corner to retrieve him like some lost puppy. Farkey had an odd sixth sense around Alistair’s comings and goings.
Very much aware of the velvet pouch in his pocket and the fortune in jewels it contained, he started for his coach. His stepmother’s furious words still rang satisfyingly in his ears. If it wasn’t for Godridge, he and Beauworth would be celebrating their recovery.
Damn it all, the night was young. Why should he head home? There was nothing there for him. Nor did he need Farkey to ferry him around. The poor old fellow would be better tucked up in his nice warm bed. Alistair signaled the coachman to return home.
Past midnight, his evening barely started, and here he was at a loose end. White’s? Too stuffy. Or Brooks’s? The stakes were high enough. The members, on the other hand, were far too predictable. Dull. Something earthier appealed. Something of a darker nature to beat back the ennui. He turned his steps east. A gambling den where men killed at a sideways glance might suit his mood. He might even wager the cursed family jewels and send his stepmother into a nervous decline.
In the end, the jewels had done his father no favors, disproving the legend. But Alistair had no interest in marriage. He had no desire to shackle himself to a grasping female anytime soon.
“Dunstan!” a panting voice called.
Alistair groaned and walked faster.
“I say, coz,” the voice persisted.
Bloody families. Couldn’t they take a hint? With a sigh. he turned to meet his cousin, the Honorable Percy Hepple.
“Percy,” he said when the young man stood puffing in front of him. The boy could use a bit more exercise. Not that Alistair cared a jot. The lad could also use a bit of advice on his dress. With his nipped-in waist, or nipped in as far as it would nip, his towering shirt points and strangely wilted cravat, he looked every bit the bumptious dandy newly on the town. Not the kind of man with whom Alistair kept company.
“This is fortunate,” Percy said, grinning, his moonish face shifting until his cheeks resembled apples. “Very fortunate.”
“For whom?” Alistair looked around.
The irony flew over the lad’s head and on down the street.
“For us.” Percy beamed. “You will never guess where I am going?”
“No,” Dunstan said. “Why bother when no matter what I say, you intend to tell me.”
“Going to Mrs. B.’s.”
“Thank you. I shall be sure to avoid that particular brothel this evening.” He eyed the fair young man’s paunch. “The slightest thought of it has me revolted.” He took a step in his original direction.
Percy caught hold of his sleeve.
Jackass. Dunstan eyed the hand clutching his black superfine coat through his quizzing glass and Percy recoiled, snatching his hand back as if it had been burned.
“Tonight is her annual auction,” Percy said, his voice pitched an octave too high.
“And?” Dunstan let his quizzing glass fall. He’d seen the invitation. Discussed the possibility of attending with Beauworth, but they’d both agreed they’d seen nothing of interest there in years to make the effort worthwhile. Alistair couldn’t remember the last time a bawdy-house trull had truly aroused his interest, no matter how often he gave it his best effort.
“Blast it, coz,” Percy said. “You know I’ll never get in without an introduction. You told my father you would do everything in your power to assist with my entry into society.”
“I doubt your esteemed pater wants me to sponsor you at the most expensive and ruinous brothel in town barring that of the Wilson sisters.”
Percy pouted. “I just want to see the best ladybirds in all of London. All my friends are going.”
Mrs. B.’s auctions were certainly no place for a green’un like Percy. His father would be furious. Might never speak to Alistair again. Might even stop trying to borrow money. He allowed the flicker of a smile to pull at his lips. “All right. Why not?”
Percy bounced on his toes.
Waiting to go onstage, freezing cold in the skimpy tunic, Julia repeated the same words over and over again in her mind.
One man, one night, one hundred guineas.
The offer had sounded too good to be true when Betty Bentwhistle had proposed it as a way out of her difficulties. Julia went hot and cold by turns when she recalled the dreadful moment of being caught with a stolen skein of lace. The panic. The realization of how low she’d sunk and where she would end up next.
But that little bit of trim had meant the difference between selling a bonnet or going another night without food. A hard choice among many these past few months. The decision to steal had led to the worst choice of all. One night with a man or prison.
The urge to turn and run tensed her limbs. She took a deep breath. One man, one night, one hundred guineas. More than double what she needed to pay her debt to the shopkeeper and the brothel keeper. The rest, used carefully, would end her financial woes. And she wouldn’t end up on a ship to Australia.
Eager for Julia’s acceptance, Mrs. B. had proclaimed all her customers were gentlemen and wonderful lovers. Julia didn’t believe it for a moment. Her now-dead husband had been a gentleman to the outside world. The bedroom had been a different story.
But she had survived him and she would survive this auction and the night to come. She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering as two girls rushed off the stage squealing with excitement, their eastern veils fluttering madly.
“Off you go, then,” Mrs. B. said, giving her a push.
Throat dry, palms damp, she adjusted the feathered mask to make sure she could see and hurried across the stage. The bare wood chilled the soles of her feet, the flimsy tunic swirled around her knees with each sway of her hips.
It felt very odd and very naked.
Lanterns along the painted backdrop of Roman ruins lit the stage. At the far end, she stepped up onto a pedestal painted to look like a column. Although muffled by the curtains, the cacophony of laughter and cries for more wine on the other side buffeted her with the force of a gale. Men. Eager to inspect the wares.
One man, one night. The more attractive she looked, the more money she would make. Turning sideways, she cocked a hip in their direction and flicked her hair over her shoulder as Mrs. B. had directed. Julia practiced a sultry smile, hoping the men wouldn’t see the stiffness in her lips, or quivering of her body caused by her rapidly beating heart. The men out there in that room behind the shabby red velvet curtains were all rich and hand-picked by Mrs. B. They were also members of the haut ton.
She could only hope to catch the eye of one that was kind and generous. And hope desperately that he wasn’t someone she knew. The shame was just too awful to contemplate.
Mrs. B. pushed her way through the gap in the curtain. A roar of approval went up. Julia’s rapidly beating heart sounded loud enough to be heard beyond the swathe of red between her and the company beyond.
The beefy man in the wings hauled slowly on the curtain ropes. Julia’s knees shook. She locked them and prayed she would not fall off her perch.
What if no one bid?
Alistair stretched out his legs and palmed a yawn. The girls were just as ordinary as he’d expected. Not even the thought of enjoying two or three at one time excited his tastes for the exotic.
On his right, Percy squirmed in his seat. “Did you see the bubbies on that last wench?” he said in a hoarse whisper. A rivulet of sweat trickled from his temple to his chin. “You should have let me bid on her.”
Alistair gritted his teeth. “Bubbies?” The lad spoke the language of a schoolboy. “Those were breasts. And you haven’t got any money.”
“You could—”
“I could, but I won’t lend you money for a dose of the pox.” Nor would he give a whore as a gift, no matter how much the boy whined. He was finished with being dunned by family members. “You only asked to see the girls. And see them you have.”
Percy mopped his brow with the end of the cravat hanging loose about his neck and quaffed the third ale Alistair had purchased. “I don’t see why you should begrudge me a guinea or two. You’ve far more than you need.”
A familiar cry of envy. When they weren’t thinking up ways to spend Alistair’s money, they bemoaned his meanness and complained about his lack of morals. Percy’s father was the one who’d named him the “Dissolute Duke.”
A waiter approached and leaned close to Alistair’s ear. “Gentleman at the door, your grace. Says he’s here by your invitation. Can I let him in?”
Alistair raised a brow and looked toward the entrance. A big man filled the doorway. Alistair narrowed his eyes. Why the hell had Godridge following him here? All he needed was another bloody hanger-on.
The large Scot caught his eye and jerked his chin in a silent indication of purpose. Alistair sighed. “Let him in.”
The waiter moved off to pass on the reply.
Damn it all. What a bloody bore. Not only did he have to bear-lead his own cousin, but it looked as if Beauworth had shuffled his relative off on him too. He really was going to have to cut the marquess from his diminishing circle of friends.
He sank deeper in his chair and swallowed a draft of his brandy, preparing to give Harry a set down of monumental proportions.
Mrs. B. appeared in front of the curtain. Her head turbaned and her large form draped in enough red silk to provide a tent for a company of infantry, she lifted her hand for quiet.
Percy leaned forward so eagerly he almost fell off his chair. The idiot was drunk on a few pints. Alistair grabbed him by the collar and heaved him backward. “Sit still or you are going home.”
Percy shrugged him off.
“Got your hands full there,” Harry observed, taking the empty seat beside Alistair. Empty because Alistair scared off all potential occupants with an icy stare.
“Beauworth said I might find you here,” Harry continued. “Sends his apologies for chucking you out.”
Alistair yawned. “Kind of you to let me know.”
“No need for sarcasm. He was on his way to find you when he received urgent word from Carleton House. The prince had a question about a horse he plans to purchase. Beauworth suggested you join him.”
The Scottish brogue was soft on Alistair’s ears and the words eased his irritation. “Are you going?”
Harry shook his head. “Above my touch, Duke. Having disturbed your evening, I thought it my duty to deliver the message.”
A man who cared about duty. A rarity among the beau monde.
“Quiet,” Mrs. B. yelled.
The chatter subsided.
“One of our last offerins of the night, gents,” the gargantuan abbess announced loudly. “A good one, too. As published in our program, this one’s a vestal virgin…”
Excited mutters ran around the room.
A virgin would certainly be cause for wonder. Alistair had never had one and doubted they existed, except in myth, unless they were looking for a husband or under the age of twelve. He wasn’t that jaded in his tastes.
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