The Courtship
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
The critics praise the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
CATHERINE COULTER
THE WILD BARON
“Catherine Coulter has created some of the most memorable characters in romance.”
—Atlanta Constitution
ROSEHAVEN
“A hot-blooded medieval romp.”
—People
“Catherine Coulter delivers the kind of straightforward, fast-paced romance her readers expect in Rosehaven.”
—Minneapolis Star & Tribune
“Bawdy fare, Coulter-style . . . romance, humor, and spicy sex talk.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A winner . . . Coulter expertly takes the reader beyond the simple romance of this medieval couple, showing the politics of the times, the attitudes of the people, and the characters’ daily struggle to simply keep on living. She delivers intrigues and plot twists as solid as the stone walls of Oxborough keep.”
—Tulsa World
“A witty, feisty heroine; sexy situations; and accurate historical settings.”
—Daily Oklahoman
THE BRIDE TRILOGY
The Sherbrooke Bride · The Hellion Bride · The Heiress Bride
“Coulter is excellent at portraying the romantic tension between her heroes and heroines and she manages to write explicitly but beautifully about sex as well as love.” —Milwaukee Journal
THE VIKING TRILOGY
Lord of Hawkfell Island · Lord of Raven’s Peak ·
Lord of Falcon Ridge
“Coulter’s characters quickly come alive and draw the reader into the story. You root for the good guys and hiss for the bad guys. When you have to put the book down for a while, you can hardly wait to get back and see what’s going on.”
—The Sunday Oklahoman
THE LEGACY TRILOGY
The Wyndham Legacy · The Nightingale Legacy ·
The Valentine Legacy
“Delightful . . . brimming with drama, sex, and colorful characters . . . Her witty dialogue and bawdy, eccentric characters add up to an engaging, fan-pleasing story.” —Publishers Weekly
“Marcus and the Duchess are sparring lovers worthy of Shakespeare’s Beatrice and Benedick, or at least TV’s Dave and Maddie; and their supporting cast is every bit as much fun.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Lively characters ... an exuberant adventure.” —Booklist
“Old secrets, a pirate’s legacy, and a cast of wonderful characters are part of this funny, lively, and occasionally mysterious story.”
—Library Journal
“Strong characters . . . entertaining reading with interesting and varied characters, historical local color, and a well-paced plot.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“There is murder, mystery, and sex in this engaging story . . . It’s hilarious and in the usual good writing and intricate plotting style of Ms. Coulter.” —The Chattanooga Times
Titles by Catherine Coulter
THE COURTSHIP
THE TARGET
MAD JACK
ROSEHA VEN
THE WILD BARON
THE COVE
THE VALENTINE LEGACY
THE NIGHTINGALE LEGACY
THE WYNDHAM LEGACY
LORD OF FALCON RIDGE
LORD OF RAVEN’S PEAK
LORD OF HAWKFELL ISLAND
THE HEIRESS BRIDE
THE HELLION BRIDE
THE SHERBROOKE BRIDE
BEYOND EDEN
IMPULSE
FALSE PRETENSES
THE EDGE
in hardcover from G. P. Putnam’s Sons
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE COURTSHIP
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with
the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / January 2000
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2000 by Catherine Coulter.
Excerpt from Stardoc copyright © 2000 by Sheila Viehl.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
eISBN : 978-1-101-05281-5
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To my very dear friend, Martha Walker,
Who’s finally home where she belongs.
And you were our first birthday celebration in
the
Pink Palace.
—Catherine
1
London 1811
May 14
Just before midnight
LORD BEECHAM STOPPED dead in his tracks. He turned around so quickly that he nearly tripped over a huge potted palm.
He couldn’t believe it. He had to be wrong. She couldn’t have said that, could she? He looked for the woman he had just heard speaking.
He parted two huge palm fronds and peered into the Sanderling’s library, a long, narrow, shelf-lined room just off the ballroom. Where the library was filled with dark-bound tomes, cobwebs in gloomy corners, and just one small branch of candles casting shadows, the ballroom was overflowing with lit candles, plants, and at least two hundred guests, all of them laughing, dancing, and drinking too much of the potent champagne punch.
The woman he had heard before spoke again. He took a step closer to the dimly lit library. Her voice was rich, tantalizing, filled with laughter. “Really, Alexandra,” she said, “doesn’t just the simple thought of discipline, just hearing the word, saying it slowly to yourself and letting it caress your tongue as you say it, doesn’t it conjure up all sorts of delicious scenes of dominance? Can’t you just see yourself? You are completely at the mercy of another, that person is in total control, and there is nothing you can do about anything. You know something is going to happen, you’re dreading it, your heart is pounding, you’re afraid, so very afraid, yet it’s a delicious sort of fear you feel. You know, deep down, that you are anticipating what is to come. You can’t wait
for it to come, but there is nothing you can do except imagine what will be done to you. Ah, yes, your skin is rippling with the excitement of it.”
There was dead silence. Wait, was that heavy breathing he heard?
Lord Beecham, whose very active imagination had conjured up a vision of himself standing over a beautiful woman, smiling down at her as he tied her hands over her head and her legs, spread, to the posts of his bed, knowing that in just a few minutes, he would remove her clothing, one lovely garment at a time, slowly, ever so slowly, and—
“Oh, goodness, Helen. I have to fan myself. I believe my bosom is palpitating. You are far too good at painting word pictures. What you describe—it sounds terrifying and wonderful. It rather makes my mouth water. It also sounds like a grand production that requires a lot of planning.”
“Oh, yes, but that is part of the ritual. It is very important that it be planned perfectly. You are part of the ritual, the most important part, if you are the one in control. It requires that you be constantly inventive, that you don’t continue to rely on the same old disciplines. Remember, anticipation of something unknown is a very powerful thing. To be effective, discipline must constantly grow and change. In most cases, it is effective to have other people nearby to witness the discipline. This makes the recipient all the more frightened, his senses more heightened, his thoughts more focused. It is an amazing process. You will have to try it. Both sides of it.”
More deep silence.
Try it? He wanted to run into that room this very instant and try everything he could possibly envision or dream about. His fingers were already on his cravat, ready to jerk it off so he could tie the wrists of the woman speaking, together over her head, so she would be helpless, her eyes large and frightened and excited as she stared up at him, her lips parted. Damnation, he had only one cravat, the one he was wearing. He needed at least two. He shuddered, imagining the smooth flesh of her wrists as he lightly wrapped the cravat around and around them, then pulled them bound, over her head—
He heard a deep sigh.
“All of that is well and good, Helen, but what I need are specific disciplines to try. A list of disciplines, if you will. From mild disciplines to the most rigorous.”
He realized suddenly that he knew that voice. Good God, it was Alexandra Sherbrooke. He couldn’t believe it. On second thought, he pictured Douglas Sherbrooke in his mind’s eye, that big, hard man who had reputedly kept his wife happy for eight whole years now. And Alexandra wanted to know about discipline? To try on her husband? What a delightfully wicked idea.
Who was the woman speaking to her, this Helen?
“On the other hand,” Alexandra said after a moment, “I would like to know how you know so very much about discipline.”
“I have read every book, every article, every paper—both scholarly and secular—ever penned on the subject. I have seen every painting, etching, and drawing of disciplines employed throughout the world and throughout the ages. Now, the disciplines in China—goodness, talk about inventive. The drawings show that the Chinese are exceedingly flexible.”
A bit more silence, then Alexandra said, her voice lowered a bit, as if she were leaning closer to this other woman, speaking in confidence, but he could still make out her words. “Helen, you are laughing at me. All right, I accept that you know all about discipline. Now, you must force yourself to come to my level. You have told me how you discipline your servants. You have told me about the ritual, how to build to a climax, how to squeeze out every tantalizing drop of fear and excitement during the discipline to achieve the result you wish.
“Now I want to go directly to the extreme pleasure end of things. I want specifics. I am talking about physical pleasure, Helen. I want to know exactly what you would do to a man to drive him to the brink of madness. Since you have read every tome written about the subject, you must know something that would help me.”
Lord Beecham would not have moved if a beautiful woman had stripped naked in front of him and started kissing him. Now this was a kicker. Alexandra Sherbrooke wanted to know how to drive Douglas to the brink of madness? That made no sense. Driving a man like Douglas to the brink would require very little effort on her part. It would probably require an effort of ten seconds, no more. Actually, any man who was still breathing was a suitable candidate. He himself, for example.
Suddenly it simply became too much. He was eavesdropping on two ladies discussing discipline, for God’s sake. He was lurking there behind a palm, listening to them, sweating, and ready to remove his cravat. It was not to be borne. Lord Beecham couldn’t hold it back. It just burst from his mouth. He laughed—something he didn’t normally do because he was, after all, a man of the world; a lazy nod or a slightly contemptuous snicker was usually more fitting. And so what poured out of his mouth sounded a bit rusty, perhaps a tad hoarse to the casual ear, but it was a laugh, a good strong laugh, and it just kept rolling out of him.
He realized they could hear him. That would never do. He tried so hard to stop laughing that he hiccupped. He clapped his hand over his mouth and quickly slipped behind another giant palm tree. And none too soon.
“I know I heard someone, Helen. It was a man and he was laughing. Oh, dear, you don’t think it was Douglas, do you? No, Douglas would come right in here and laugh in our faces. Then he would look at me with a smile in his eyes and tell me to forget the thought of disciplining him, that he is in charge. I am tired of his controlling everything. Eight years is a long time, Helen. I want to make him wild first, for once.”
“Well, that can’t be too difficult. Simply distract him when he is reading the Gazette. Start nuzzling his ear, kiss his neck, bite him. Why haven’t you done this already?”
Dead silence.
“Oh, dear, you are scarlet to your hairline, Alexandra.”
“I have bitten him, Helen, I have. My bites simply take place in a different context. There is no Gazette lying about.”
“A context that Douglas has provided?”
“Yes. You know, it’s just that Douglas has only to look at me, perhaps give me a small touch anywhere with his hand or his mouth, and I lose every shred of thought. I puddle right on the floor, directly in front of him. It just does not stop, Helen. Help me. Oh, dear, what if he is out there, listening? Now he knows what power he wields over me.”
“Trust me, he already knows. Now, you’re right, of course. If it had been Douglas, he would be standing right in front of us, laughing his head off. But then, perhaps he would have let you lead him off to begin disciplining him this very night—that is, if he didn’t decide to discipline you first.”
Alexandra sighed.
“Goodness, you mean it? You’re serious here, Alexandra? Doesn’t Douglas ever let you have control? Eight years of one-sided marital sorts of things? From everything I’ve read, this isn’t good. The Italians, especially, believe that participation in lovemaking should be balanced. You must pull yourself together.”
“It’s difficult once Douglas turns his attention on me. I would like to read what the Italians have to say about this.”
“I will lend you a treatise on it. Now, you cannot allow Douglas always to discipline you first. You must focus your mind, Alexandra.”
Alexandra’s eyes nearly crossed. She shuddered delicately. “Douglas has never said anything at all about discipline. I’m sure he’s never done any to me.”
Helen laughed and patted her cheek. “From everything I’ve read, I’ll wager Douglas already performs a lover’s standard discipline on you and you don’t even realize it. You’re just having fun.”
“Do you really think so? I wonder what specific sorts of things that Douglas enjoys with me one could call discipline? Perhaps I shall ask him.”
“Or perhaps not, at least not yet.”
“Whatever he does, it’s true that I do sometimes forget to think,” Alexandra said, then squared her shoulders, “but that’s another problem, one I will have to solve.” Her shoulders squared even more
and her magnificent bosom achieved new prominence. “I will have to learn how to retain my own control if I want to have a chance of controlling Douglas. I will have to have a specific goal in mind, a course that I will have to follow. I will get the upper hand of Douglas. The brink of madness—yes, Helen, that is where I want to dispatch Douglas. You must tell me specifically what I am to do.”
Helen looked down at her fingernails a moment. She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she couldn’t help herself. She said on a deep, wistful sigh, overflowing with exquisite memories, knowing that Alexandra would be enraged within moments, “Ah, even when I was fifteen and I first saw Douglas and fell in love with him, I knew instinctively that he wouldn’t be a clod. I knew he would excel, and I wanted to be the female he chose to excel upon. Such a pity that it wasn’t meant to be.” She sighed again, a sad, forlorn sigh.
Helen watched beneath her lashes as Alexandra’s eyes narrowed remarkably, and her voice turned mean and low. “Helen, I will not tell you again. You will forget those early years of infatuation with Douglas. You will forget those tender feelings you cherished for him when you were too young to realize what was what.”
“Yes,” Helen said at her most humble, her head bent to show how contrite she was, “I will try.” She hoped Alexandra couldn’t hear the laughter in her voice.
Lord Beecham heard the laughter. And then he realized that here he was, a man of immense savoir faire, hiding behind huge green palm fronds, hanging on these women’s every word. He hadn’t yet seen the disciplinarian, but he could see Alexandra Sherbrooke now. She was looking around, just a bit apprehensively, her fingers splayed over her incredible bosom. It was too bad Douglas insisted she keep all that lovely white flesh more covered than not. It wasn’t at all the style. God gave women bosoms to flaunt, and every woman he knew flaunted, except Alexandra Sherbrooke. Everyone had seen Douglas drag his wife into a corner from time to time to pull up her bodice if he thought there was too much white flesh showing.