The Captain's Courtesan. Lucy Ashford

       ‘How much does it cost for a kiss, Athena? And don’t try telling me again that you’re not for sale.’

      He was drawing her closer. She could feel the heat of his body now. See the texture of his skin, his lightly stubbled jaw that her fingers ached to touch …

      ‘Let me tell you,’ he was saying softly, ‘that on closer inspection I’d have paid twice the usual rate—for this.’ His eyes never leaving hers, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his.

      It was a fleeting caress, but even so Rosalie had never experienced anything like it. A sweet, melting sensation was pouring through her nerve-ends. A moment later his strong arms were cradling her even more securely and he was kissing her properly, his mouth possessing hers, his tongue stroking her soft inner moistness in a sensual dance that stirred the blood in her veins to white heat.

      He was masterful. Dangerous. Exquisitely provo-cative. The worst of it was that she wanted more, and he knew it.

      About the Author

      LUCY ASHFORD, an English Studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favourite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period.

      Lucy has written several historical novels, and this is her third for Mills & Boon. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near to beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, all of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.

      You can contact Lucy via her website—www.lucyashford.com

       Previous novels from Lucy Ashford:

      THE MAJOR AND THE PICKPOCKET

      THE RETURN OF LORD CONISTONE

       AUTHOR NOTE

      Those of you who have read THE RETURN OF LORD CONISTONE might remember Lucas Conistone’s best friend, Captain Alec Stewart—yes, the brave officer with a ready smile and an eye for rich and pretty heiresses!

      Readers have asked me, ‘What happened to Captain Stewart? Did he find his heiress?’ I wondered too—especially as I knew that England’s soldiers often faced a harsh return to reality once Waterloo was fought and won.

      Alec is the son of an earl, but life is still throwing problems at him—notably in the alluring shape of Miss Rosalie Rowland, who is no heiress, and who accuses Alec of ruining her beloved sister.

      How does Alec face this new challenge? Here is his story.

      The Captain’s Courtesan

      Lucy Ashford

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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       Chapter One

      Spitalfields, London—February 1816, 8 p.m.

      ‘The Temple of Beauty?’ echoed Captain Alec Stewart, lifting his dark eyebrows as he eased his foil into the nearby sword rack. ‘How old are you, Harry—twenty? And still wet around the ears, my young pup. The Temple of Beauty is nothing but a den of harlots, take my word on it.’

      For the last half an hour, this dusty old hall at the heart of the east London mansion known as Two Crows Castle had echoed to the click of gleaming blades, to the muttered curses of Lord Harry Nugent, and the curt admonitions of his tutor. Now the fencing lesson was over and Harry collapsed on a bench to mop the sweat from his brow and make his plea once more.

      ‘Oh, Alec, do please say you’ll come! It’s my birthday after all. And the girls are as sweet a bunch as you’ll find in London!’

      Alec laughed aloud. ‘Trust me, they’re whores.’ Pouring out two brandies, he handed one to his pupil. ‘I’m not coming. But—happy birthday all the same.’

      Harry Nugent, inordinately rich and a truly hopeless fencer, sighed and sipped just a little of his brandy, which was rough. He let his gaze rove with a certain amount of trepidation around this lofty hall, where the chill February wind rattling at cobwebbed windows sent shadows from the candles leaping across the smokestained rafters. Then he glanced at his fencing master, who, tall and loose-limbed, looked as though the exertions of the past half-hour had affected him not one jot.

      Harry took a deep breath. ‘Alec!’

      ‘Hmmm?’

      ‘It’s really not right, you know, Alec, that you should live in a wreck like this and make your living by running a sword school. You’re a war hero, man!’

      Alec shrugged. ‘War hero or not, I’ve scarcely sixpence to scratch with, Harry. Anyway, I quite like it here.’

      Harry watched as his fencing tutor idly pulled another fine rapier from the rack and tested its balance. Alec was one of the best swordsmen in London and used to hold an enviable reputation as a captain in the Light Dragoons. Once, they said, he was light-hearted, never serious, even on the night before battle. London’s ladies used to adore him; he’d had his pick of the ton’s heiresses, and for a brief while was betrothed to one. But now … Now, he was a stranger to London’s social scene and his once-merry brown eyes were etched with cynicism.

      ‘Even so, to live like this!’ Harry couldn’t stop himself blurting it out. ‘You should take up the matter with your father, you really should! Everyone says so!’

      Alec made a gentle feint with his rapier. ‘Do they indeed say that?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you have fun discussing me with your friends around London’s clubs and watering-holes, Harry?’

      ‘No!’ protested Harry Nugent, rather flustered. ‘Well, we say nothing we wouldn’t say to your face, Alec!’ He spread out his hands in entreaty. ‘You needn’t actually—you know, do anything with any of the girls tonight. Just join us at the Temple for a bit of fun! And perhaps,’ Harry went on innocently, ‘a night away from this place would do you good. Your brother said—’

      Alec’s well-shaped, flexible fingers suddenly went very still around the hilt of his rapier. If Lord Harry Nugent had fought at his side at Waterloo, he’d have known to be wary of that look.

      ‘When, exactly,’ said Alec in a deceptively soft drawl, ‘did you see my esteemed brother?’

      ‘Why, it was mere chance, at Tellworth’s tables in St James’s last night!’

      Still in London, then. ‘And what in particular did he say?’