The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark

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