A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

  Claiming the courtesan’s child...

  It’s been more than three months, but Oliver Gregory still remembers the exquisite night he shared with a beautiful woman in Paris. Discovering her working at the discreet London gentlemen’s club he owns comes as a shock...even more so when he realizes she’s pregnant!

  Oliver knows the pain of being an outcast and will do all in his power to ensure his child is not born illegitimate. Cecilia will return to his bed...as his wife!

  Hidden among the masked revelers of an underground Regency gentlemen’s club where decadence, daring and debauchery abound, the four owners of Vitium et Virtus are about to meet their match!

  Welcome to...

  The Society of Wicked Gentlemen

  Read

  A Convenient Bride for the Soldier

  by Christine Merrill

  September 2017

  An Innocent Maid for the Duke

  by Ann Lethbridge

  October 2017

  A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

  by Diane Gaston

  November 2017

  And look for the concluding story

  from Sophia James

  A Secret Consequence for the Viscount

  December 2017

  Author Note

  I’ve always considered myself very lucky to be among my fellow Harlequin Historical authors. These ladies have been a fount of information, support and, on the rare times we can gather together, sheer fun. So, I was thrilled to be invited to write a book for The Society of Wicked Gentlemen series. It was every bit as enjoyable as I thought it would be. We made a most efficient team, quick to answer each other’s questions and to collaborate on our stories. Readers, enjoy The Society of Wicked Gentlemen! We loved telling their stories!

  A Pregnant Courtesan

  for the Rake

  Diane Gaston’s dream job had always been to write romance novels. One day she dared to pursue that dream and has never looked back. Her books have won romance’s highest honors: the RITA® Award, the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Holt Medallion, the Golden Quill and the Golden Heart® Award. She lives in Virginia with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. Diane loves to hear from readers and friends. Visit her website at dianegaston.com.

  Books by Diane Gaston

  Harlequin Historical

  The Society of Wicked Gentlemen

  A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

  The Scandalous Summerfields

  Bound by Duty

  Bound by One Scandalous Night

  Bound by a Scandalous Secret

  Bound by Their Secret Passion

  The Masquerade Club

  A Reputation for Notoriety

  A Marriage of Notoriety

  A Lady of Notoriety

  Three Soldiers

  Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

  Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress

  Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy

  Linked by Character

  The Diamonds of Welbourne Manor

  “Justine and the Noble Viscount”

  A Not So Respectable Gentleman?

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  To Christine, Ann and Sophia,

  my fellow Society of Wicked Gentlemen authors.

  It has been a pleasure!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Lord Hunter's Cinderella Heiress by Lara Temple

  Prologue

  Paris—1816

  ‘He is dead?’

  Cecilia Lockhart stood in the doorway of the shabby Paris room where her husband insisted she should be grateful to lodge. Sounds of babies crying, a man and woman quarrelling, and an old woman wailing could be heard from behind closed doors. The scent of cooking meat, urine and sweat filled her nostrils.

  A captain of the 52nd Regiment of Foot stood stiffly in the hallway, unable—or unwilling—to look her in the eye.

  ‘Killed,’ he said. ‘By a Frenchman. In a duel.’ His tone was disapproving. Why not? Duelling was forbidden in the regiment. ‘He apparently had a great deal to drink.’

  Of course he had. What day did Duncan not have a great deal to drink?

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Did he cheat at cards? Insult the French army?’ Why did she bother to ask? Cecilia did not care about the reason.

  The captain stiffened. ‘The Frenchman apparently found Lieutenant Lockhart in bed with his wife.’

  Oh.

  Why that detail should have stung, she did not know. It was merely one more humiliation.

  Another slap in the face.

  She almost laughed at her little joke, but this stern, disapproving captain would never have understood.

  ‘What happens next?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll bury him,’ the captain replied. ‘You may return home. Do you have enough money to make the trip?’ He asked the question without sympathy, perhaps worried he would have to take up a collection among his fellow officers on her behalf.

  ‘I need nothing.’ Not from these men anyway. ‘Do what you must, and thank you for informing me.’

  He nodded and turned away. She closed the door and leaned her forehead against it. The baby cried. The old lady whined. The couple cursed each other. And the captain’s receding footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs.

  But for Cecilia it was as if the sun had burst through a sky of dark clouds.

  She was free. Her husband was gone, never to return.

  Never to slam his fist into her flesh ever again, nor throw her against the wall. No more bruises to hide. No more pain.

  She had little money, no friends—Duncan had seen to that—and no one in England who would welcome her home. In a moment she might panic at being alone in this foreign country, among people who, a few short months ago, would have considered her the enemy. But for now she felt as light as air.

  Free.

  Chapter One

  Paris—August 1818

  Oliver Gregory strolled along the River Seine as the first fingers of dawn painted the water in swirls of violet. The buildings of Paris, tinged a soft pink at this time of day, were even more beautiful than in the brightness of a noonday sun. London at dawn would seem a dark maze of streets and shops.

  And Calcutta... Calcutta, the city of Oliver’s birth, defied description, except in words whispered in memory—Hindi words.

  Oliver struggled to remember those steaming, frag
rant, exotic days of his childhood and the smiling woman swathed in brightly coloured silks holding him in her arms and calling him her pyaare bete, her sweet boy.

  In the quiet of dawn he could bring it all back. He feared forgetting even more than the depths of depression that followed. Lately his decadent lifestyle provided no ease from the blue devils.

  He’d crafted his life to distract him from the sadness of loss. What better setting than a gentlemen’s club devoted to pleasures of the flesh? Oliver was one of the owners of Vitium et Virtus—Vice and Virtue—the exclusive gentlemen’s club he and his three friends started when they were mere students at Oxford. Vitium et Virtus specialised in decadent pleasure, whether it be beautiful women, the finest brandy or a high-stakes game of cards.

  To think he’d just left a Parisian club that made Vitium et Virtus look tame. This club featured sexual gratification through pain, whether self-inflicted or inflicted by another. Vitium et Virtus included some fantasy games with one of their tall, beautiful, dark-haired women playing dominatrix, but this French club went way beyond, so far Oliver nearly intervened to stop it. He knew some people found pleasure in pain, but these Parisians flirted with death. He had no intention of bringing those ideas to their club.

  His mind flashed with an image of a nearly naked man swallowing a snake. And another man running over hot coals.

  Memories from India again.

  A cry jerked him back to the present near-dawn morning. In the distance a swarm of street urchins accosted a woman, pulling at her clothes, their demands shrill in the early morning air. He’d seen street urchins in Calcutta rush a man and leave him with nothing, not even the clothes on his back. The dark rookeries of London posed similar dangers.

  Oliver sprinted to her aid. ‘Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Stop! Stop!’

  The woman lifted her arms. ‘No! No!’

  The children scattered.

  When he reached her, she placed her hands on her hips. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

  ‘You are English?’ He was surprised.

  She merely gestured in the direction the children had disappeared. ‘They’ve run away.’

  ‘They were attacking you.’ At least that was what he’d thought.

  She gave him an exasperated look. ‘They were not attacking me. I was giving them money so they might eat today!’

  ‘Giving them money?’ He turned to where he’d last seen them and back to her. ‘Is that wise?’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Wiser than having them starve or be forced to steal.’

  He could not argue with that. ‘Forgive me. I thought—Can you call them back?’

  ‘No, they will be too frightened now. They are gone.’

  He shook his head. ‘I am sorry.’

  She frowned. ‘Another time—tomorrow—I will be back.’

  She turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait.’ He strode to her side. ‘What is an Englishwoman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’

  Now mischief sparkled in those dark eyes. ‘Why, I was giving coins to street children until you chased them away.’

  She was lovely! Those beautiful eyes were fringed with dark lashes, and her brows, delicately arched. An elegant nose and full, luscious lips adorned her oval face. Her bonnet covered her hair, but as the sky grew lighter, Oliver saw her dress was dark blue and her hair a rich brown.

  ‘What is an Englishman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’ she asked, mocking his tone.

  Oliver smiled. ‘Attempting to rescue damsels in distress.’

  She laughed. ‘You must keep searching, then. I assure you I am not in distress.’

  ‘But I am at your service.’ Oliver bowed.

  She kept walking, and he kept pace with her.

  She finally spoke again. ‘Enjoying the delights of Paris now that the war is over?’ Her tone was a mockery of polite conversation, but at least she’d not dismissed him.

  ‘Actually a bit of business.’ Although his business was pleasure. ‘And you?’

  ‘Moi?’ She fluttered her lashes. ‘I live here.’

  He was pretty astute at perceiving the character of a person, a skill he’d honed so he’d know right away the degree to which a person might accept him as an equal or as a lesser being. She was guarding her own privacy, not giving him any information at all.

  He pretended to peruse her. ‘I would surmise there is quite a story about why an English lady such as yourself lives in Paris.’

  She looked suspicious. ‘Why do you say I am a lady?’

  His mouth widened into a smile. ‘It is not difficult. The way you carry yourself. The way you speak.’

  She shrugged at that. ‘Well, I am not telling you anything.’

  And he would not press her. He understood the need to keep one’s privacy, but he also did not wish to say goodbye to her. The sky had lightened, turning the water blue and the stone path to beige. He suspected she would soon leave this path and be gone.

  ‘I have a proposal,’ he said impulsively. ‘Eat breakfast with me.’

  She laughed derisively. ‘Why would I do that? I do not know you.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am Oliver Gregory. My father is the Marquess of Amberford.’ He never explained further. People who did not already know his father usually assumed he was a younger son. ‘Now you know me.’

  She laughed again, this time with more humour. ‘I know your name. Or at least the name you deign to give me.’

  ‘I assure you it is my name.’

  Her brows rose and she nodded with exaggerated scepticism.

  He spread his palms. ‘I am telling you the truth.’

  She cocked her head. ‘It does not matter.’

  ‘So,’ he tried again. ‘Will you have breakfast with me? I promise to be amusing. We can sit in the open at a café if that will ease your discomfort.’

  Her expression sobered and she stared at him for several seconds, as if deciding how to respond. ‘At a café?’ she repeated.

  ‘Wherever you wish. You choose where you would like to eat.’ He’d dined at Le Procope, a café that had been in existence for two hundred years. Would she choose some place as grand? He was suddenly very eager to find out.

  ‘Very well,’ she finally said. ‘But you must also give me some coins for the children. They will be even more hungry tomorrow.’

  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a leather purse. He loosened its strings and poured out several coins. Then he extended his hand. ‘Here.’

  She scooped up the coins and slipped them into her reticule. ‘I know of a place we can breakfast.’

  She walked him past La Fontaine du Palmier, the monument to Napoleon’s battles in Egypt, in the Place du Châtelet, to a small café just opening its doors. They sat at a table out of doors. With the sun came warmer temperatures and a blue sky dotted with white puffy clouds. A perfect day.

  ‘The pastries are lovely here,’ she said.

  ‘Pastries.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Everywhere in Paris I’ve been served pastries and I do not possess a sweet tooth.’

  ‘Some bread and cheese, then?’

  ‘Ah, oui. C’est bon.’ He smiled. ‘With coffee.’

  The waiter arrived and greeted her warmly. Obviously she was known to him. She gave him their order, selecting a pastry and chocolate for herself, bread, cheese, and coffee for him.

  He watched her as she settled herself in her chair. She removed her gloves and rearranged the colourful Kashmir shawl she wore that reminded him of India. She wore a dark blue walking dress and looked as if she’d just spent an afternoon promenading in Hyde Park. Was it only the children who caused her to be on the banks of the Seine at dawn?

  ‘Tell me what your business has been that brought you to Paris,’ she asked with som
e evident interest.

  Oddly enough, he did not want to tell her of the business that brought him to Paris lest she disapprove. He’d come to explore the decadence of Parisian gentlemen’s clubs to see what they might include at Vitium et Virtus. This trip had not been as productive as the previous one when he’d found a satisfyingly buxom, Titian-haired French songstress eager to come to London to work in their club. He usually did not care if a lady disapproved of his activities. For the ladies who did disapprove of him, the gentlemen’s club was the least of their objections.

  ‘Exploring opportunities,’ he responded vaguely.

  ‘Opportunities?’ Her eyes, lovely as they were, showed little interest.

  He challenged her. ‘You are making polite conversation with me.’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘Yes. I am. But tell me what opportunities anyway.’

  Those eyes distracted him. In the sunlight they appeared the colour of fine brandy and just as liquid. A man could lose himself in those eyes.

  He glanced away. ‘Business, you know, but nothing came to fruition.’

  The waiter brought a pot of coffee, a pitcher of cream and a sugar dish, placing it in front of him. He placed a chocolate pot in front of the lady, produced two cups and poured for them.

  When he left, Oliver added only some cream. He took a sip of the coffee and nodded to her. ‘This is excellent.’

  Her captivating eyes appeared to concur. ‘It always is here.’ She sipped her chocolate and made an appreciative sound.

  He faced her, fingering the handle of his cup. ‘The topic of business is always a boring one. Perhaps there is something else you would like to ask me?’

  Her eyes flickered in surprise, then fixed on him with a challenge of her own. ‘Do you mean why you do not look like an Englishman?’

  He was not certain if she was asking or not.

  Who was he attempting to fool? Women always wanted to know why his skin was so dark, why his hair was so dark. She simply was more direct than most and much quicker.

  ‘See. You are wondering why the son of a marquess looks like something spawned on a foreign shore.’

  ‘Am I?’ Her brows rose. ‘Or is this what you desire to tell me?’