A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

She won the first move.

  * * *

  Halfway through the game, in which he was ahead, she leaned back and put her hand on her abdomen. ‘Oh!’

  He dropped his dice. ‘What is it?’

  Was something wrong?

  She looked at him with wonder in her eyes. ‘The baby moved! I felt the baby move.’

  She took his hand and pulled him from his chair to come closer to her. She placed his hand on her abdomen.

  She smiled. ‘Can you feel it?’

  He knelt on the floor next to her. Her hand covered his, holding it in place. There was the faintest flutter beneath his fingertips. He kept still and the flutter happened again.

  He met her gaze, feeling a connection as strong as they’d experienced in lovemaking.

  ‘It is real,’ she whispered. ‘A real life inside me.’

  A real life. Had this life come from that extraordinary night they shared in Paris? Was this new life a part of him?

  He did not dare believe it.

  He stood abruptly. She pulled her hand from his, her expression wounded and confused.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next two weeks settled into a routine. Oliver dined with Cecilia, walked to Vitium et Virtus with her and even played backgammon with her, but he kept himself at a distance. He wanted what he could never possess. He wanted a family with her. He wanted the baby to be his. He wanted them to be together.

  Everything she did not want and could not guarantee.

  At least there had been enough to keep him busy. Vitium et Virtus was preparing for their annual masquerade ball, the last event before the club closed for Christmas. All members were invited and were encouraged to bring guests, making for larger crowds than the club was accustomed to.

  The Queen’s death made it the only ball anyone could attend, because no one hosted such a lavish party while the country was in mourning—except for Vitium et Virtus, that is.

  In previous years Oliver would have been delighted to flout any of society’s rules. That was expected at Vitium et Virtus. But the old Queen had been the mother of the country and it seemed unnecessary, disrespectful and simply juvenile to defy the decree to mourn her.

  It was not only up to him, though. Both Jacob and Frederick expected Vitium et Virtus to hold the masquerade. All the members counted on it. Oliver supposed the club did have a reputation of irreverence to uphold.

  He decided to honour the Queen by dedicating the ball to her. The Queen loved the bucolic life, so Oliver gave the masquerade that theme. The male workers of Vitium et Virtus dressed as peasants or farmers. The singers dressed as milkmaids; the dancers, shepherdesses and the girls in the game room, peasants. Their costumes were, of course, idealised versions of these characters about whom many bawdy songs were sung. Their skirts were short, showing plenty of ankle, and were made from colourful printed fabric. His workers wore their hair unbound, tied back only with brightly coloured scarves. The singers carried milk pails, the dancers, shepherd’s crooks.

  Cecilia’s costume, a dress of red and white stripes with a huge white apron flounced across her middle, was not as revealing. Her skirts reached the floor, although the neckline dipped low enough to show a tantalising glimpse of bosom. She wore her hair unbound, too, reminding Oliver too much of that night in Paris when her mahogany tresses were splayed across the white bed linens.

  Masks, of course, were required and, because of the numbers of non-members attending, many attendees covered their faces more carefully. Oliver knew that the more the attendees’ identities were disguised, the looser their behaviour would become.

  This was a night to stay vigilant.

  Once he would simply have joined in and relished the bacchanalia, but ever since Nicholas’s disappearance, he’d regarded the club more seriously. No harm to anyone should come from attending the club. Or from working there. Fleurette had been hurt and Oliver had put a stop to that, but he’d not been able to stop the harm that had come to Nicholas.

  Yes, tonight he would be vigilant.

  The guests started arriving. Snyder and Mr Bell were busy collecting the vouchers that had been issued for admittance. That task was not too onerous at the moment, but when the guests all arrived at once it would be more difficult.

  Oliver walked from the ballroom to the game room, checking on things, watching things. Making certain food was plentiful and the drinks flowed.

  The singers and dancers made a show of entering. They would perform during breaks in the dancing. Discordant sounds came from the orchestra as they tuned their instruments. More guests arrived.

  Oliver stepped into the hallway and glanced over the stair railing down to the entrance.

  What an incongruous sight. Vitium et Virtus masquerade balls typically were a potpourri of finery, of outrageous excess, a contest of who might have the cleverest, most outlandish costume of all. This view from above reminded him more of a county fair. Although costumes were exaggerated—hats were larger, trousers baggier, aprons and caps puffier—it looked more like everyone had come from farms and villages for a market-day festivity. Instead of costumes of brilliant reds, yellows, and blues, or dominoes of the deepest black, the guests’ costumes were mostly shades of brown and grey.

  Not very festive.

  Amidst the stream of faux farm workers entering the hall, he spied Cecilia, who appeared like a flower blossoming out of the bare earth. As she made her way through the crowd, she greeted the arrivals and spoke to them, probably encouraging them to come to the game room and try their luck at the faro and hazard tables.

  Although, she was not Cecilia at the moment. She was Coquette, seductively slinking through the crowd, lightly touching men on their arms, leaning close, smiling at them.

  He watched her climb the stairs, hips loose, dark hair flowing down her back.

  His senses flared. This version of Cecilia was a man’s dream.

  His dream.

  He remembered how she’d looked when she’d asked to come to his hotel that night. He remembered how she’d relished their lovemaking, how he’d relished it.

  God help him, he wanted her all over again. He wanted her now. He did not want to let her go, alone to raise a child who could not claim a father’s name.

  She reached the top of the stairs and started for the game room, but turned back and walked up to him instead. ‘Is anything amiss, Oliver?’

  He was taken aback by the question. ‘No...why do you ask?’

  ‘You looked—I don’t know—distressed.’

  Not distressed. Aroused.

  He attempted a smile. ‘Much to think about tonight.’

  Her brows knitted. ‘Let me know if I can help.’

  Impulsively, he put his arms around her and pressed her to him. ‘Save a dance for me.’

  She nodded, her eyes wide. He released her and she backed away, turned and melted into the crowd.

  * * *

  Cecilia wound her way through the growing crowd, her body still throbbing from Oliver’s sudden embrace.

  Gentlemen greeted her as Coquette, forcing her to act as Coquette.

  She smiled. ‘Come see me in the game room,’ she said, making the invitation sound seductive.

  There would be large quantities of wine and spirits flowing tonight and likely a great deal of money wagered. No doubt there would be sexual excesses of all types. She’d heard from the other workers that Oliver used to indulge in every excess, that he’d been linked with the many women eager to bed him.

  She could understand why.

  She flushed with the memory of making love with him, of feeling his body against hers in that sudden embrace. A mere touch of his hand brought it all back. How his hand felt on her naked flesh, how his lips tasted, how it felt when he entered her—

  She must
stop thinking of this.

  She’d glimpsed him as she climbed the stairs to the first floor. She felt his unease. The masquerade was supposed to be the foremost event offered at Vitium et Virtus, but she could sense no excitement or enjoyment in Oliver to attest to that impression.

  She certainly did not expect to enjoy it.

  She’d attended masquerades in Paris as required by the manager at Maison D’Eros. The men in Paris took a costume and a mask as licence to behave in as debauched and depraved a manner as possible. She’d endured many an unwanted kiss and incessant groping at a masquerade. The neckline of her dress tonight was too low for her comfort, especially since her breasts seemed to have grown larger. Wearing her hair down made her feel as if she were getting ready for bed.

  In any event, the gentlemen who frequented the game room at Vitium et Virtus were typically well behaved once they understood she was not available for licentious purposes. Tonight, though, she suspected they’d behave just as badly as their Parisian counterparts.

  She stood at the hazard table, encouraging the players to roll the dice, pretending to be excited or disappointed, depending upon the roll. One of the gentlemen who wore tight buckskins and tall boots, with just a loose shirt and vest, threw his arm around her. She waited a moment before manoeuvring her way out of it. Another clodhopper patted her derrière when he stepped up to the table. She pretended to be amused. She sidled away, but the man moved closer, this time stroking her behind.

  She glanced up and saw Oliver in the doorway. Had he seen that bit of intimate contact? Her face burned at the thought. But why? Was that not why she was hired? So the men would remain at the table and wager their money?

  Oliver called loudly so everyone in the room could hear, ‘The dancing will begin in the ballroom.’

  The card players did not even look up.

  The announcement gave Cecilia an opportunity to escape the man with the busy hands.

  ‘Oh, dancing!’ she cried. ‘I adore dancing.’

  She hurried out the door and away from groping fingers, hands and arms.

  When she stepped into the hallway, Oliver was there.

  ‘May I watch the dancing for a while?’ she asked. ‘I need to get away for a bit.’

  ‘I saw,’ he said.

  He brushed against her as they walked to the ballroom, and her body flared in response. Odd that the men groping her in the game room left her cold, but even the barest of contact with Oliver could arouse her.

  When the first set began, he touched her arm.

  ‘Save a waltz for me,’ he murmured into her ear before she left his side and mingled with others who watched the dancers perform the figures of the quadrille.

  Cecilia had never been to a London ball, but she’d always imagined it to be an exciting, glittering affair, with beautiful gowns on graceful ladies and gentlemen in exquisitely fitting formal attire. This ball seemed colourless and affected. It made her sad.

  She glanced over at Oliver, who frowned as he watched the dancers. Was he feeling the same? Too often it seemed as if she could feel what he felt.

  * * *

  When the set ended, he walked through the crowd towards her. Her insides fluttered.

  ‘The next set is a waltz,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Shall we?’

  She put her hand in his, her fingers tingling. ‘As you wish.’

  He escorted her onto the ballroom floor.

  To her surprise, the Duke and Duchess of Westmoor stood near them.

  ‘How do you fare?’ the Duchess asked her. ‘Is Oliver taking good care of you?’

  The Duchess’s tone was light-hearted, but did she know more than she let on? Did she know about the baby? Would Oliver have told her?

  ‘I am well, thank you,’ Cecilia answered politely. ‘And you?’

  She and the Duke were already facing each other. Her hands were on his shoulders and the Duke’s were on her waist.

  ‘I am very well,’ the Duchess answered, smiling at her husband.

  Oliver regarded them both with a fond expression. ‘Will it not cause a scandal that the Duke and Duchess are seen dancing the waltz at Vitium et Virtus?’

  The waltz was still considered scandalous by some, because the man and woman faced each other, touched each other and danced alone rather than doing figures in groups of four or more.

  The Duke laughed. ‘Nothing matters but we are together and happy.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, we are in costume and masked. Who will know us?’

  Another joke. Certainly both she and Oliver had instantly recognised them.

  The music began.

  With hands held, Cecilia and Oliver began the dance with a short march, then faced each other. Cecilia curtsied; Oliver bowed. Then Cecilia put her hands on his shoulders; his hands touched her waist. As the music played its sweeping tune, Oliver led her twirling around the room.

  Cecilia forgot the Duke and Duchess. She forgot the colourless dancers. She faced Oliver, his hands in near embrace, music transporting them. His black mask intensified his green eyes. She felt his gaze upon her more acutely than his hands at her waist. Her body hummed with wanting him.

  How glad she was that he was her baby’s father. How she wished she could repeat the lovemaking that had created that child.

  ‘Your thoughts?’ he asked, his voice deepening.

  She shook her head. ‘The dance.’

  He gazed down at her, his eyes warming her. Thrilling her. She wished the music would never end.

  When it did end, it took her a moment to realise it. She leaned towards him and his head dipped down. But the noise of the other couples leaving the dance floor woke her to where she was. She took her hands from his shoulders and stepped back.

  ‘I—I should return to the game room,’ she said.

  Before he could respond she turned and fled.

  It was a bit difficult, but she turned herself back into Coquette, entered the game room and forced herself to approach each of the tables of card players to ask after their comfort. She brought several men drinks and replenished others with a carafe of brandy. At least busying herself helped pass the time. Helped calm herself.

  She walked to the faro table, passing out more drinks and encouraging the players to increase their wagers. A short, thick-set man with dark hair and dark, beady eyes stood watching the play. She’d not seen him before, she did not think, but there was something familiar about him.

  ‘May I get you a drink, sir?’ she asked the man.

  His eyes shifted as if in alarm, but he finally smiled. ‘Some brandy, perhaps, would be very nice, my dear.’ He spoke with a lisp.

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said, turning away and walking to where the drinks were. She brought another carafe of brandy and a glass and returned to the faro table.

  ‘Here you are, sir,’ she said in Coquette’s cheerful voice.

  She poured him some brandy and refilled the glass of the man beside him.

  ‘Thank you, Coquette,’ the man said.

  ‘Coquette?’ the stranger piped up. ‘Have we met before, Coquette?’

  She suddenly knew him. He was Sir Nash Bowles. The man who had beaten Flo. He remembered her from Paris, she was certain.

  Her hand trembled, but she poured him more brandy and made herself smile seductively. ‘Perhaps we have met, sir. I have been many places. Met many gentlemen.’

  He nodded, but looked thoughtful.

  Did he remember her as Madame Coquette? The courtesan? What would Oliver think if he knew of Madame Coquette?

  She could not worry about that. Bowles posed a danger to Flo.

  Cecilia strolled to the hazard table and emptied the carafe in other glasses before returning it to the bar and sauntering out of the room. Once in the hallway, she dashed to the ballroom, searc
hing for Oliver.

  She found Flo. ‘Have you seen Oliver?’

  Flo was arm in arm with some gentleman. ‘He was here a while ago.’

  Cecilia leaned down to whisper in Flo’s ear. ‘Stay here. Stay with this man. Do not go in the game room.’

  Flo’s brow creased in confusion, but she nodded and clutched the man’s arm tighter.

  Cecilia wound her way through the crowd, which was becoming louder and more raucous. She finally spied Oliver at the door of the ballroom. She had to fight the crowd to reach the doorway again, but he’d already left. She caught up with him on the landing as he was descending the stairs.

  ‘Oliver!’ she called.

  He turned, and she ran down the stairs to him.

  She tried not to raise her voice. ‘Bowles is here! I saw him in the game room.’

  His gaze caught hers. He bounded back up the stairs, and Cecilia ran behind him. They hurried to the game room, but Bowles was no longer there. They searched in the ballroom, but how could they find him among so many like-costumed men?

  From the ballroom, she glimpsed him in the hallway.

  ‘There!’ she cried to Oliver, pointing to the door.

  They went after him, but as they reached the stairs, he had crossed the entrance hall to the front door.

  ‘Stop him!’ Oliver cried, but no one was near. Snyder was not at his post.

  Oliver raced down the stairs. Cecilia hurried after him, but he was out the door before she reached the hall. Where was Snyder? She searched for him, but he was not near. What else was there to do but follow Oliver outside? The street was busy enough even at this late hour. She searched up and down the pavement to no avail. When she passed the entrance to the alley leading to the rear of the buildings on Jermyn and Bury Streets, she heard a man’s cry. The alley was dark, but she entered it, walking carefully until she could make out two men in the darkness.

  One man was beating on the other with his fists.

  ‘Stay away, Bowles!’ she heard Oliver shout. ‘Did you not think me serious?’ He held one of Bowles’s arms in one hand and punched him with the other.

  ‘No!’ she gasped, but her voice was too soft to carry.