The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark

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!”

       Chapter Two

      Maintaining his vigil on Gainsborough’s townhouse, Edward leaned his back against the iron railings of the park at the centre of Grosvenor Square. The cold air of the harsh frost seeped through his loose fitting heavy wool greatcoat and leather gloves.

      Clapping his hands together briefly, he ignored the misty vapour of his breath rising on the cold winter air. Then he tilted the rim of his hat forward and folded his arms over his chest.

      The property was a grand, lavish statement of the man’s wealth.

      Well, Ellen had told Edward bluntly she was with the man for his money. In comparison to it, Edward was a pauper. Even if he’d been heir to his father’s estates not second born, he could not have matched Gainsborough’s wealth.

      But why then had Gainsborough cheated?

      Edward watched the man descend the steps from his front door, his wife fixed on his arm, his eldest daughter and grandchild in their wake.

      For God’s sake, his daughter was a similar age to Ellen. It made Edward sick, the whole sordid bloody affair, including the part he’d played in it. When he’d woken the morning after with a thundering head, he’d thought it a dream, and then images and senses had merged into memories he couldn’t refute.

      He was not his brother. He had no appetite for vice or excess. He did not drink, gamble, or idle away his time with women. He’d never paid for sex, nor ever would. He did not condone the immorality of it. Sex simply shouldn’t be for sale. Women threw themselves at him anyway. But none of those women had responded like her. Skill, he told himself in explanation. It was her living after all. But it was more than the sex. The woman had touched his insides—somehow—changed him— drugged him.

      He was obsessed—addicted.

      Lust, his brain delivered the single word to justify his feelings.

      Lust? Yes, but … He thought for a moment but reached no conclusion. God. Who knew? He’d never felt like this before. He couldn’t think, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t even bloody breathe without want of her. It was not him. His reputation leaned towards dull and staid.

      He blamed his brother. Since Robert’s return life had become boring and Edward had been restless. It seemed the outcome was he had turned to all of his brother’s vices.

      What am I doing here? She’d made it plain she was with Gainsborough by choice. She wouldn’t meet him. She’d given herself because Gainsborough had willed it.

      But Gainsborough hadn’t willed her to say the man had swapped his cards. Protecting him was her choice. And every