A deep twinge from the vicinity of her chest made her eyes prickle and her throat ache, the realization growing and swelling until it overtook her mind with an unavoidable truth.
She had fallen in love with her courtesan, a man she’d hardly known a few weeks ago, whom she had paid to act as her companion and lover. A man who was only doing any of this because she kept him secure in his home and in this studio where he engaged in his true passion—painting and working toward a future as a portraitist. Her heart sank, even as she clung tighter to him. Their time was not over yet, and perhaps her feelings wouldn’t seem so real or raw outside this moment. With the scent of sex, the warmth of him wrapped around her, and the dull ache between her legs reminding her that he’d just been inside of her, it was easy to think herself in love with him. She tried to convince herself it was normal for a woman to feel this way after being deflowered, and it was no wonder young girls were urged to maintain their innocence until they were married. She tried to convince herself she was merely infatuated with a man who’d spoken so sweetly to her and given her that first elusive taste of passion. It would pass, it would fade, and she would forget she’d ever felt this way.
Yet, the longer she lay there trying to make herself believe all these things, the more Evelyn realized she knew better. For better or worse, whether he returned the sentiment or not, and no matter how short their time together might be, she loved Hugh.
* * *
The next morning, Evelyn had just finished her morning toilette when Patience informed her that two visitors had come to call. Her pulse fluttered with excitement, as her first thought conjured Hugh’s face in her mind. She had been loath to part with him after having spent the night in his bed, but Hugh had his instruction at the Royal Academy to attend and she could not very well remain in his home while he was not there—no matter how much she might want to. Evelyn could have spent her entire day lying in a bed that smelled like him, wrapped up in a dressing gown that had touched his skin, and generally soaking in every crevice and corner of the place he called home. She wanted to spend hours in his studio staring at his canvases and poring over the pages in his sketchbook. She wanted to gaze upon Virtue and Vice until she recognized herself as the woman in the painting, the person Hugh saw whenever he looked at her. She wanted to believe it meant that perhaps he was coming to love her as she loved him.
She had told herself she definitely must return home before she lost hold of her senses completely. Letting herself think any of those things would only lead to heartbreak in the end. She knew this, even as she clung to him for one last kiss before letting him hand her down from his phaeton and walk her to her front door. She knew this, even as she’d lingered in the doorway watching him depart with the light of dawn kissing the air with a warm glow.
She knew it even now, as she allowed herself to grow excited over seeing him again so soon, only to remember that he must be attending his lectures at Somerset House by now. It was far too early in the day for him to visit, and they had already arranged to meet that evening.
“Who could be calling at this hour?” she murmured to herself as she descended the stairs.
She had very few friends, and the ones she did have would never pay a social call so early in the morning. The voices of two women came at her through the half-open door of the morning room, but it wasn’t until she’d already stepped into the space that she realized she ought to have recognized them.
She stumbled in her surprise, reaching out to steady herself on the sideboard, her eyes going wide and her mouth falling open. “Beatrice? Mother?”
Her mother and eldest sister glanced up from the folded newspaper they were poring over together, two pairs of dark-brown eyes identical to Evelyn's fell on her. Mrs. Matilda Coburn had passed on her sable locks and matching eyes to all three of her daughters, though hers was now shot through with silver strands. Matilda appraised her with a critical eye—as she always did—though she made no mention of Evelyn’s morning gown, which was an entire Season out of fashion.
“Why do you look so surprised to see us, Evie?” she huffed with a roll of her eyes. “Did you not receive my note yesterday?”
Evelyn’s gaze darted to her writing desk, where an unopened envelope rested. This was where Joseph always placed her correspondence, where she was sure to find it when it was time to resume work on her novel. However, upon returning home she had gone straight up to her bedchamber.
“Of course,” she lied, hoping her mother would not notice the unopened missive on her desk. “I apologize, I was out late last night and have only just awakened.”
“Out late,” Beatrice mused, pursing her lips. “With Mr. Radcliffe?”
Her heart lodged itself in her throat as Beatrice’s cool dark eyes settled on her, probing and far too assessing. Beatrice had always been the smartest of the Coburn daughters, and never let the others forget it. Typical of elder sisters, she thought it her duty to meddle in the lives of her siblings, often offering her advice whether it was wanted or not. She’d been the first to experience a Season, the first to wed, the first to bear children, and naturally thought herself the most knowledgeable on these subjects. Because their middle sister, Sybil, had also wedded and begun to breed, Evelyn had been left as the sole recipient of Beatrice’s meddlesome ways.
Did her sister know that Evelyn and Hugh were having an affair? Worse, did she know that the basis of that affair was built upon the exchange of funds and a contract that made him her courtesan?
She clenched her sweating hands around her skirts and feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Their mother thrust the wrinkled newspaper in Evelyn’s direction with a smirk. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out that the son of an earl has been courting you? You wicked girl! To keep such a thing from your mama.”
Evelyn steadied her shaking hand and perused the copy of The London Gossip, a gossip rag that the ton had become obsessed with as of late. It contained the choicest bits of fodder each week, from the most mundane details of who had worn a hideous ensemble to a certain soiree, to the shocking account of which debutante had been caught with her skirts up in the garden during a ball. She frowned as she came to the section detailing a sighting of Hugh at the opera.
This writer attended the Theatre Royal this Thursday past, with my eyes to the rented boxes ruled by le bon ton as one does...and was quite disappointed to see that the box of one, The Hon. Mr. S was not occupied by the man himself. Meanwhile, all people of Quality—myself included—have waited with baited breath for the inevitable confrontation between The Hon. Mr. S and his father, Viscount S. With the Season soon coming to a close, such does not seem as likely as I once believed, but one can still hope.
But all was not lost! As it happens, Mr. S loaned his box for the night to a group of friends, which included a merchant of dubious background and blackamoor heritage, and that most notorious gambler, The Hon. Mr. B. Most notable among the occupants of this box was The Hon. Mr. R...the fourth, excommunicated son of a certain earl. This writer reported some time ago the family estrangement caused by the attendance of The Hon Mr. R at the Royal Academy of the Arts, one that does not appear to be on the verge of ending. With my own eyes, I witnessed a chance meeting between the artist and his eldest brother outside the theatre, during which the latter gave the former the cut direct with such brutal accuracy I was left stinging just from having witnessed it.
Also of note was The Hon. Mr R’s companion, Miss C, a spinster of several Seasons past who still finds herself unattached, though recently became the recipient of quite an inheritance. Perhaps wedding bells shall ring from the ramparts of St. George’s by Season’s end...at which time, this author wonders whether the earl and his family will put in an appearance? I shall surely report the outcome!
Evelyn’s shoulders sagged in relief as she realized hardly anything had been revealed at all—at least, nothing that could prove very incriminating. Nothing that had anything to do with
the Gentleman Courtesans, or the nature of her relationship with Hugh.
Affecting a nonchalant shrug, she sank onto the love seat facing the sofa her mother and sister occupied. “I cannot believe you read this drivel. There was nothing of any substance there.”
Beatrice gave her a knowing smile. “Playing coy was never your strong suit, Evie. Do you think we could not decipher that you were Mr. Radcliffe’s companion that evening at the theater? Honestly, how many spinsters with new inheritances with a surname that begins with ‘C’ do you think are in this city?”
Evelyn snorted. “It was an outing with five friends, one of whom happened to be Mr. Radcliffe. You are making much of nothing, Bea.”
“Except, when we arrived from Devon yesterday afternoon, shortly after sending off my note to inform you we would be calling today, I was paid a call by Mrs. Moore,” her mother declared.
Evelyn groaned, pressing her fingertips to her pounding temples. Damn it all, Mrs. Albina Moore was one of the worst gossips Evelyn had ever known. It would not surprise her in the least if the old matron turned out to be the secret author of that ghastly gossip column.
“That’s right,” Beatrice confirmed with a smug glance. “She told us that she had just spotted the two of you in Berkeley Square sharing ices across the street from Gunter’s. When I asked if she were certain it was you—for I have never known you to be comfortable enough in male company for such an outing—she insisted it was you and that you were even wearing your favorite bonnet; the one with the periwinkle ribbon and the cluster of lavender muslin flowers.
Folding her hands in her lap and avoiding her sister’s gaze, Evelyn fought to maintain her neutral expression. None of what Beatrice revealed had to mean anything. There wasn’t a woman her age in London who did not attend the theater with friends or enjoy ices with a male companion from time to time. None of those details were enough to condemn them.
So why did she feel as if she stood at the gallows with a hangman tying a noose about her neck?
“Mr. Radcliffe is a friend, nothing more,” she said, waving a dismissive hand through the air.
Her mother scoffed, raising her chin. “Since when do men find themselves amongst your small circle of friends? You could hardly look at one when you were a debutante without tying your tongue in knots.”
The reminder of her shortcomings made her feel as if she’d been punched in the gut. She knew her mother did not mean it as an insult, and besides, it was the truth. Yet, it never stopped hurting to know that not only did she think herself a hopeless social misfit, but so did everyone else, including her family.
Hugh doesn’t think of you that way.
The thought instilled her with a sense of pride, and she raised her head, meeting her mother’s stare. “I am not eight-and-ten anymore, and my circle of friends has grown since then.”
“I am glad to hear it,” her mother declared. “Though, if you are going to court the attentions of a gentleman, I do wish you’d find someone more suitable than the youngest Mr. Radcliffe.”
Evelyn snapped her spine straight, her hackles raising swiftly at the insult to Hugh. “And just what is wrong with Mr. Radcliffe?”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “Darling, I know the man is nice to look at, but you cannot think he will do for a husband. Not only has he been cast out of his family, he has tarnished his good name by working for a living.”
Her nostrils flared as she tried to get a hold of her temper and failed. The need to defend Hugh was one she could not ignore, even as she knew it would only work against her argument that there was nothing going on between them.
“He is a very talented painter, and I find it quite hypocritical the way people of the ton praise art while deriding the profession of artistry. His family ought to be ashamed of themselves for the way they have treated him.”
Beatrice raised her eyebrows, staring at Evelyn as if worried she’d lost her mind. “My goodness, such vehemence on behalf of a man you are only friends with.”
“I would feel the same way if any of my other friends had been cast out of their own families,” she argued. “It wouldn’t mean I want to marry any of them.”
“The rest of society won’t know that,” her mother interjected. “It is why you must shun his company. No good can come with being associated with him.”
“The same society filled with people who probably couldn’t even pick me out of a crowd?” she challenged. “Why should I care what they think?”
“The writer of this column picked you out of the crowd,” Beatrice pointed out. “Likely because of whom you were with. That is exactly the point I am trying to make, Evie. The sort of attention you do not like will fall down on your head if you aren’t careful.”
Her stomach twisted at the thought, and she recalled that feeling of being the center of attention as they’d sat in Benedict’s theater box, the anxiety it had caused. Hugh had insisted it had nothing to do with her, but now she had been involved in gossip due to her mere proximity to him. It was not ideal, but it still did not have to mean anything. The gossips would grow bored with them once they realized nothing concrete would ever come of their association. Some new thing would capture their attention, and she and Hugh would fade away from their thoughts.
“I am five-and-twenty now,” she reminded them. “Free to live my life as I please, thanks to Grandfather’s foresight in securing my inheritance.”
Her mother nodded in agreement. “That you are, my dear. But do not forget that doing as you please is all well and good until the consequences become apparent.”
She smiled and pretended to be unaffected by that untimely advice. She feared the consequences had already reared their heads, as she found herself losing her heart to Hugh at an alarming rate. But, she could not dwell on that for now.
“There is nothing to concern yourself with,” she assured her mother. “As I said we are merely friends. Besides, you both know I have decided I quite like my life the way it is and never wish to marry.”
That was not entirely true, but this was another thing her family simply did not know about her. They thought her independent and pleased with her isolation and loneliness. For a time, she had convinced herself that she was, but coming to love Hugh had reminded her of all the things she’d never have. A husband and children, the sort of future that did not see her living out her last years with Patience at her side and a string of regrets behind her. They did not know she envied her sisters for having the sort of charm and grace that made men take notice, for being born with all the things she lacked.
As she offered to send for tea, and steered the conversation toward more mundane matters, Evelyn did her best to push those morose thoughts into the darkest corner of her mind. There was no need to dwell on them now. She’d gotten her wish and would not grow old and die as an untouched maiden. For the nonce, she and Hugh could carry on as they had been, and Evelyn would enjoy every perfect moment of it. After all, they had only just begun.
Chapter 9
“The best matches of any Season are often the most unexpected …”
The London Gossip, 2 April 1819
“I would say it is nothing to worry yourself over,” Hugh said, peering at Evelyn from around his canvas.
He studied her for a moment before dipping his brush back into the pigment he had mixed to match the hue of her skin tone, then going back to his work. Evelyn sat perched on a pedestal in the center of his studio wearing nothing more than a white gossamer scrap of material held over her shoulder by thin straps. A long swath of vibrant blue silk had been draped to hang from her elbows like a shawl, the tail end of it falling to the floor in an artful cascade arranged by Hugh. Her hair had been pinned atop her head in a strategic tousle, several loose strands left to hang about her face and neck.
He had asked her to pose for a portrait, something to occupy their afternoons now that he had completed Virtue and Vice. While she’d been flattered that he wanted to devote an entire painting to her, she’d bee
n unable to help wondering what he found so special in her. As a woman who had never attracted attention of any kind to herself, Hugh’s insistence that she had become a muse of sorts for him baffled her.
Still, she hadn’t had the heart to resist when he had told her his vision for the portrait—a piece that would obscure her face enough that anyone looking upon it wouldn’t recognize her unless they knew her as well as he did. And, truly, she would have agreed to anything that would put her in his company for any length of time outside the bedroom. She was a pitiful thing, desperate for any part of him that he was willing to share beyond his contractual obligation, wanting to spend every spare moment in his company.
“I am not used to being the subject of gossip,” she replied, doing her best to remain as still as possible. “I am not sure whether to be flattered or insulted that my status as elderly spinster has made the pages of The London Gossip.”
She could see his furrowed brow over the top of the canvas, his eyes focused with intense concentration. “Choose flattery. Only the most important of society can warrant a mention in that God-awful column.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, I was only mentioned due to my proximity to you—a fact my mother and sister couldn’t resist latching onto. Don’t you worry that we are attracting too much attention, that someone might discover what we’re about?”
“Of course not,” he muttered. “Every week, the gossips go into a lather over the latest pairings on the dance floor, which man has danced with any given debutante more than once in a night, and who has been walking in Hyde Park together. We are hardly the only ones...and really, the fact that we are assumed to be courting can work to our advantage. People won’t see or believe the truth because, firstly, the idea of a man being a courtesan is unheard of. Secondly, most people are unable to see the truth even when it’s right in front of them. As I said, it is nothing to worry over. Evie darling, turn your head a bit to the right and...yes, just like that.”
Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1 Page 17
