The woman led Evelyn toward a door she assumed opened into the secretive back rooms, where she would find what she’d truly come for. Her heart hammered wildly, her throat constricting as she took one last look back at Patience.
“I’ll just wait right out here for you, Miss,” the companion said with a secretive grin. “Perhaps I’ll find new trimmings for your canary ball gown.”
Madame Hershaw led her into a shadowy corridor, maintaining a light hold on her arm and steering her toward one of three dimly lit rooms.
“You’ve arrived just in time,” said the modiste. “He’s almost finished taking appointments for the day.”
Evelyn did not bother to ask who ‘he’ was. All of this was kept so quiet, she supposed she’d be told only the most pertinent of details. Discretion was of the utmost importance, not just for the ladies being ushered into the back room, but also for those offering this very unique service.
“Go right in, he’ll be with you in a moment,” Madame Hershaw said, opening the door and motioning for Evelyn to go inside.
She obeyed, finding herself in a room that struck her as being far different from what she’d expected. Considering her reasons for being here, she’d thought to enter a chamber that looked as if it belonged in a bordello. Instead, she stood in a space decorated in pink and gold silk, with shining brass fixtures offering soft lighting. There was an oak desk facing a pair of armchairs upholstered in pink and gold striped damask, which matched the drapes shutting out the light of the sun. A plush, pink settee sat in one corner, and near it stood a sideboard holding a tea service along with rows of crystal decanters and glasses.
The settee and chairs looked comfortable, but because she hadn’t been invited to sit Evelyn remained near the door where the modiste had left her.
Who was this man that would come to greet her? All Samantha had told her was how to go about securing an audience. There had been no further description of what she was to expect or experience. Would this man become her lover? He was likely a worldly man, skilled at seduction—she would expect nothing less.
Dear God. Such a man would likely wish to get right down to business. He might even think to seal their agreement in some unseemly way. Her stomach churned with dread as she imagined some dark-haired rogue sweeping into this room, ripping off her gown, throwing her onto the settee and…
“Oh, relax, you ninny,” she muttered to herself.
Her overactive imagination was taking her to the most ridiculous places. Of course it wouldn’t be that way. This was only a preliminary meeting, and her friend had assured her that she would be in complete control of the entire arrangement and its terms. After all, the primary aim of this endeavor was to cater to the wants and needs of women.
Despite her determination to remain poised and relaxed, she nearly leapt a mile in the air when the doorknob turned. She whirled just as a man strode in, confidence and command emanating from each of his sure steps. She backpedaled a bit, then caught herself, straightening her spine and raising her chin. This man likely dealt with all manner of women—the sorts who knew what they were about and would attend such a meeting with enthusiasm and excitement. While she did want this for herself, Evelyn hated the feeling of not knowing what to do or say, what to expect.
And the man who stood in this room with her…God, he was a beast of a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, a Corinthian frame stretching the seams of his coat. Unruly blond hair fell about his head in rakish disarray, a bristle of sideburns running toward his jaw on either side. He looked as if he’d shaved just that morning, but his facial hair had already begun to rebel, leaving a dark blond shadow along the lower half of his face. Pale blue eyes seeming to stare straight through her, leaving nothing uncovered. She shuddered at the coldness glittering in the depths, further emphasized by a face that was all harsh angles and slopes. It was quite a handsome face, she had to admit, despite the way looking him in the eye unnerved her. There was a slight bump on the bridge of his nose, as if it had been broken once or twice, though it only made him appear all the more dangerous.
She could see how such a man had come to be in in a business like this. Women all over London must blush when he set those eyes on them, and whisper about how he might have broken his nose.
Evelyn, however, felt as if she might swoon in a dead faint just looking at him.
However was she to go through with this?
“Good afternoon,” he said with a deep, gravelly voice. “Miss Coburn, is it?”
He offered a hand and gave her an easy smile—a move that transformed his face into something more approachable and less intimidating. She put her hand in his, stiffening when he raised it to his lips and brushed a kiss over her gloved knuckles.
“Y-yes,” she stammered.
“Please, sit down,” he said, dropping her hand and loping toward the sideboard. “May I offer you something to drink? Tea, perhaps? Or do you wish for something a bit stronger? I have sherry, and—”
“Sherry would be wonderful,” she blurted without thinking.
Yes, something to fortify her courage would be just the thing. He selected sherry from among the decanters and filled a clean glass. Her hand shook so badly, she feared she might not be able to accept the offered drink. Cradling her shaking right hand with one of his, he stilled it, then placed the sherry into it.
“Make yourself comfortable. You can call me Ben.”
First names already? She supposed it was appropriate given that he might become far closer to her than any man ever had. Swallowing, she tried to smile but found her mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
“Ben,” she repeated, raising the glass to her lips. “Then you should call me Evelyn.”
“It is nice to meet you, Evelyn,” he said while rounding the desk.
After taking a sip of sherry, she made her way to one of the two armchairs facing him. Sinking onto it, she took another sip, her gaze flitting about the room.
“I can see that you are nervous,” he said. “There is no need to be. This is merely an initial interview; an opportunity for me to determine what your needs are.”
Her face grew even hotter at this mention of her ‘needs’. She could hardly think of such things without becoming embarrassed. How did he expect her to speak them aloud?
“Madame Hershaw informs me you carried one of our cards. How did you come by it?”
“A friend,” she managed. “Mrs. Morton.”
“Ah, yes, Samantha. Wonderful woman. I suppose she explained to you how it works?”
“Of course. I have recently come into an inheritance left behind by my father. I have more than enough to...cover the cost, as well as any other...expenses.”
“Good. I do not like to make assumptions, Evelyn, so do forgive me for asking, but have you any experience? When it comes to men, that is.”
This called for more sherry. Taking almost all that was left in her glass, she grimaced, but then carried on. She could talk about this, couldn’t she? If she was going to go through with securing a lover, she must learn to speak of these things without succumbing to paralyzing reticence.
“Nothing of substance,” she replied. “A few chaste kisses that lasted no more than a few seconds.”
That was all there could be when Evelyn could barely look a man in the eye without becoming tongue-tied. She was so pitiful, needing to pay someone to seduce her, because no other man would based on his own desires.
Ben folded his hands on the desk, giving her a reassuring smile. She saw no amusement in his eyes, which came as a relief. Perhaps he didn’t expect her to possess any experience after all.
“That is quite all right,” he said. “Can you tell me what sort of qualities you would like in a lover? If you could think up your ideal man, what would he be like?”
That question took her aback, making her cheeks go warm and bile rise in the back of her throat. She’d almost rather the floor open up and swallow her than be forced to answer such a question.
She hadn’t t
hought to be asked something like this, but as she forced herself to calm Evelyn supposed it made sense. If she were to get her money’s worth, he would want to know her requirements.
“Well,” she began, staring down into her sherry. “I should like him to be handsome, of course. Charming...kind...gentle…”
She choked out the last word, nerves making her tremble as she thought of surrendering her maidenhead. It was the reason she’d decided to do this, having reached the age of five-and-twenty without ever being kissed properly. She had no desire to die a virgin.
“Romantic,” she added once she had found her voice again. “I should like him to be romantic as well.”
It occurred to her that she’d just named all the qualifications for a husband, without the benefits of a new last name, protection, shelter, children, and love. But, marriage no longer seemed like an inevitability. It didn’t even feel possible anymore. So, why shouldn’t she enjoy all the peripheral things that came along with it, including the pleasures of the bedchamber?
Slouching in his chair, Benedict folded his arms across his chest, studying her with a pensive expression before speaking.
“I have just the fellow. He meets every one of your requirements and is very good with women like yourself.”
“You mean dowdy, untouched spinsters,” she grumbled.
She turned a wide-eyed gaze to him, shocked by what she’d allowed to fall out of her mouth. The sherry had obviously gone straight to her head.
Ben chuckled. “Women who require patience and gentleness while they are initiated into intimacy. Do not be so hard on yourself, Evelyn. Of all the women who come here seeking the services of the Gentleman Courtesans, most are inexperienced and curious enough to take matters into their own hands. I can assure you that Hugh is everything you require and is in search of a new arrangement.”
Hugh. Knowing the man’s name brought her a sense of calm, along with relief that Ben was not the man who would become her paramour. Nice to look upon he might be, but the man was downright terrifying. It was also good to know that this Hugh would not expect her to come to him with knowledge of what to do once he took her to bed. The little she did know could fit inside a thimble, so it was a good thing he knew what he was about.
“He requires his keeper to cover the rent for his townhouse in Mayfair on top of a monthly stipend,” Ben continued, opening a drawer in his desk and drawing out a document. “I hope that won’t be too much trouble.”
Thinking of the inheritance she’d been left—enough for her to live on, with more leftover to bequeath upon any children she might have, which was unlikely—she knew the cost would be nothing more than a pittance. A spinster she might be, but because of the forethought of her grandfather she was now an exceedingly wealthy one. Her father had been terrible with managing his own funds, so his sire had seen to the welfare of his grandchildren on his own—bequeathing her and her sisters with dowries set to turn into inheritances should they fail to marry before reaching their majority. Of three granddaughters, Evelyn was the only one to fail at securing a marriage, and so her dowry was now hers outright.
When deciding how to spend the money, she could think of no greater use than discovering what passion and romance might feel like. She’d experienced precious little of either during her disastrous coming out and the following Seasons and had thought she’d never find out. Now, she stood poised to not only discover the secrets of desire between men and women, she could afford to enjoy it for as long as she wished, providing Hugh was amenable to such an arrangement.
“Not at all,” she assured him.
Ben pushed the document across the table toward her, then opened an inkwell and offered her a pen. “Then, all there is left to do is read and sign this agreement which stipulates the amount of Hugh’s allowance, along with the cost of his rent and small household staff, as well as your promise to keep our meeting and your arrangement quiet. I don’t think I have to tell you how important it is that no one know the true nature of your connection to Hugh or my agency.”
No, he did not. She’d witnessed the downfall of many a London chit, the vicious cycle of gossip and backbiting amongst the ton ruining even the most popular of ladies. If rumors of her involvement in anything unseemly ever made the rounds, her family would disown her. As much a wallflower and outcast as she’d always been, it would be nothing compared to the scrutiny and scorn she would face if anyone ever found out she had hired a man to act as her courtesan.
The talk, the censure, the staring. Nausea welled up in her throat at the thought, but she pushed it back down. She had gone so long without taking chances, remaining quiet and meek...and what had it gained her? A life so far filled with bitter disappointment and an aching sense of never being fulfilled. There was more to life, surely there must be, and she would reach out and take a bit of pleasure and an experience she would treasure for all her life. She was a woman now, one who no longer had to bow to the dictates of her parents. There was no husband to command or control her, and she felt certain there never would be.
So, she stood in a position to finally take control of her own circumstances, doing something solely for herself. It could be the first step to a new sort of life, one in which she did what she pleased and found some sort of happiness after all the disappointment she’d ever felt. She had no idea what might come next, or what her future might look like. For now, she was content with taking this leap, with allowing herself to take a taste of the forbidden.
“That will not be a problem,” she stated, accepting the pen.
Chapter 2
“This afternoon, I spotted no less than a dozen young ladies coming and going from various shops with newly-purchased capes, masks, and trimmings as mundane as feathers and as obscure as baskets of fruit. A sure sign that another Vauxhall Gardens Masquerade is upon us.”
-The London Gossip, 10 March 1819
“Hugh, you’re right on time,” Benedict declared as Hugh was shown into his friend’s drawing room. “I’ve just arrived home from Madame Hershaw’s where I met with your new keeper.”
While he’d come here straight from Somerset House for this exact purpose, Hugh found he did not wish to be faced with it so soon upon arriving. His mind was already overrun with the consequences of failing to be selected for the Exhibition yet another year.
“You’ve become a terrible host as of late,” he grumbled, taking himself over to the sideboard. “You might offer a fellow a drink before launching straight into talk of business.”
Benedict loosened his cravat as he slouched on the loveseat. “Such a trial for you being paid to bed a lovely young woman.”
Hugh rolled his eyes while pouring himself a snifter of brandy. “Is she? Lovely, that is.”
He cut his eyes at Benedict while taking his first sip, noticing the gleam of amusement in his friend’s gaze.
“She isn’t my type, but she’s a pretty bit of muslin, I suppose.”
Hugh snorted, taking a seat in the nearest armchair. “You say that about almost every woman who crosses your path.”
“Have you seen my countess?”
He had, and like all the other Gentleman Courtesans, Hugh envied his friend. The widowed Countess of Langford was a ravishing beauty with a massive fortune. Raven black hair, bright blue eyes, and tits that could sink a battleship, she was one of London’s most sought-after eligible females. Despite being a widow who’d grown a bit long in the tooth, her beauty and her fortune still had the men of the ton tripping over themselves to gain her notice. Unfortunately for them, she enjoyed her freedom and had been avoiding the matrimonial noose for years.
During every one of those years, she’d seen fit to keep Benedict as her paramour in grand style—taking over the rent on this townhouse, filling the mews with a carriage and team, turning him out in the latest fashionable clothing still fitting with Benedict’s austere style, and flaunting him all over London like a prized stallion. She did not care that all the world assumed he was keeping her,
for the two of them—as well as the other men of their agency—knew the truth. And, Hugh suspected, Benedict might have agreed to their arrangement for free, if for no other reason than the public affair served to annoy his father.
Unlike the other courtesans, who had flitted from woman to woman since the beginning of their little endeavor, Benedict had been fortunate to snare one lover and keep her. Which meant he was free and happy to spend his spare time maintaining arrangements for the rest of the gentlemen courtesans—the number of which had grown to ten since they first began. The original five men, apparently, weren’t the only ones desperate or destitute enough to agree to such arrangements.
“You make a valid point,” Hugh grumbled between sips of brandy. “Lucky bastard.”
“Celeste does keep me busy, but never too much to ensure my best courtesan does not go without a fat-pocketed lady to keep him comfortable.”
Hugh pursed his lips. “Your best courtesan? Truly? Better than you?”
“Worlds better than me,” Benedict said with a chuckle. “Though, do not tell Celeste I said that or I may lose her to you.”
“Better than David?” Hugh speculated aloud, stroking his chin. “Have you forgotten the bidding war that broke out between that duchess and her cousin over him?”
Benedict scoffed. “David is certainly good at what he does. The ladies love his pretty mouth, and he loves showing them all the useful ways he can employ it. Nick has a way with his mouth too, but it’s the filth that comes out of it they like. Aubrey...well, you know how his very unique tastes appeal to a bolder sort of woman. All of you have your talents, this is true. But you, yes, you are the best.”
Curiosity got the best of him, and Hugh sat up straight in his chair. “How so?”
Benedict gave him a smug smirk, crossing one leg over the other and bracing an arm along the back of the love seat. “Because you make your keepers believe in love. And when it comes to the fairer sex, isn’t that entirely the point?”
Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1 Page 4
