THE DUKE’S COURTESAN
An erotic novella
Beck Robertson
Lenore Dupont is a beautiful and successful courtesan, a discreet and high-class companion to the many gentleman of Regency London. But when she is introduced to the dashing James Durham, who requires her services for a sly subterfuge, she is bowled over by his rakish good looks and gentlemanly manners, and he in turn is entranced by her ravishing and sensual French beauty. When discovers that he is not the perfect gentleman he first appeared to be, she is outraged despite her feelings for him. Even though she is a courtesan, she will be no one’s fool, not even a Duke’s. But can their love really flourish in this stiff, buttoned-up society? When long buried secrets surface and passion is powerful enough, almost anything is possible …
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Chapter One
She took the white-gloved hand proffered to her from between the cream velvet curtains of the carriage, and stepped up into the elaborate-looking coach, not knowing who or what she would find inside it. Holding her embroidered white silk skirts up, to prevent her hem from getting caught in her boots, she climbed the narrow steps, gripping the gloved hand firmly. Reaching the top, she ducked her head down so as to enter through the open door of the vehicle. Once inside, she caught her breath, smoothing her skirts down, as her curious eyes alighted on the owner of the hand.
The man who sat inside the carriage was extremely handsome, but he wore a self-satisfied look on his face, like he knew it too. Quickly she took in the cap of dark curls, the fine, straight nose, and the bright blue eyes that sparkled with wicked mischief as he grinned back at her. Her eyes flicked to his burgundy velvet frockcoat and the snug-fitting cream-coloured breeches he wore that displayed his well-muscled legs. She felt her cheeks grow a little warm. Clearly he knew the effect he had on women.
Not that that mattered to her: he could have been old, fat, and hideous and still she wouldn’t refuse him. Not when his coachman had given her a purse stuffed with 50 gold coins for her troubles. Why, that was more than she had earned for the whole of March so far.
No, there was only one reason she was here, and it certainly wasn’t for his fine features. And though she would remain impervious to his charms certainly she would pretend to him that she wasn’t immune to them. She was good at that, good at pretending; after all, she was one of the most successful courtesans in London.
‘Your grace.’ Lenore nodded, smiling at him, the expression perfectly calculated to be both demure and laden with promise. That look was practically her trademark; it would take a rare man to resist it and she hadn’t met one who could yet.
‘Mademoiselle Dupont.’ He grinned, taking her slender, pale blue-gloved hand into his broader one and giving it a kiss.
‘Enchanted to meet you,’ he murmured into her fingers, looking up at her from under his dense, black eyelashes. Lord, what a charmer: was he like this with every woman he met?
‘Likewise, sir.’ She smiled back at him, her lips curving upwards at the corner invitingly. As Madame du Monsignor had informed her excitedly that a duke was waiting for her outside in a golden carriage, she had thought to hastily dab a little rouge on her lips and cheeks before hurrying down the stairs of Madame’s house of delights. House of delights was one way of putting it; a more polite way of saying brothel or whorehouse. Albeit a whorehouse located in Belgravia, one of the most desirable and exclusive addresses in London, and intended to entertain high-class gentlemen of the society set instead of every drunken oaf who cared to stumble in off the street.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he said, gesturing around the carriage. She did as he bid her, sitting down on the bench elegantly, arranging her skirts beside her and ensuring she revealed a hint of shapely ankle as she did so. Well, it was her job to be decorative, after all.
‘Oh thank you,’ she said. ‘What a lovely coach you have, sir, if I may say so.’ She glanced about her. The comment was true: the inside of the carriage was even more elaborately turned out than the outside, with its plush cream and gold interior, the quilted seats adorned with powder blue velvet cushions.
‘What a lovely face you have, madam … if I may say so,’ he replied, winking at her as she turned her head, pretending to be coy.
‘Oh, I am just a plain, ordinary girl.’ She waved him away dismissively.
‘Plain and ordinary, never. You are spectacularly lovely, madam. Perkins chose well, I can see, I could not have wished for a better companion tonight.’
Internally, she rolled her eyes. Men were all the same. She was used to it by now; they’d say anything, promise anything, to get a tumble and a feel between the sheets, and then, when they got what they wanted, they’d be off. It was just as well she charged them for the privilege. Careful not to let her expression betray her thoughts, she turned to him with a bright smile, flashing her pearly white teeth prettily at him. Another carefully rehearsed move.
‘Why thank you, sir.’ She giggled, simpering like a nincompoop. That was all right; most men seemed to like empty-headed skitterbrains as long as they had pretty faces. And despite her false modesty to him, a pretty face was the only thing she could be certain she possessed in this world.
‘Would you care for a glass of champagne, Miss Dupont?’ he asked her, arching one black eyebrow at her, his expression hinting that he found something amusing. He gestured to an ice bucket on the floor, in which rested two champagne flutes and a bottle.
‘Oh yes, please,’ she responded, feeling a little flustered. The way he had looked at her it was almost as if he knew what she had been thinking. But he couldn’t possibly have seen through her act, none of them ever did; all they ever saw was what they wanted to see.
And what their eyes alighted upon was certainly not displeasing. With her wavy raven locks, delicate snub nose, snowy complexion, and almond-shaped emerald eyes, she had always possessed the ability to hold men spellbound. All men tended to think of when they saw her was one thing, and as long as they paid, and paid well, she was more than happy to give it to them.
This one was paying her, and handsomely. He had sent his coachman to come looking for an elite girl at Madame du Monsignor’s house. The coachman had said his master required a lady who could speak in a passable French accent, and who was skilled in etiquette, for companionship only. So he liked them classy and French, did he? Well, she had grown up in Paris. Indeed, it was Paris where she had first learnt to be a courtesan, amid the stormy streets of the revolution, before boarding the ship and setting sail for London with Madame du Monsignor when she was still just 18 years old. So naturally it was she who Madame called for when the coachman came hunting. And according to Madame, the man had been very clear that it was only companionship that his master, the Duke, required.
Well, she could certainly fulfil those requirements and more too. Companionship she would provide, and she would make certain she didn’t disappoint. Not that it would be entirely unpleasant with this one, she had to admit. Although why a man as attractive as he was would need to pay a courtesan for the pleasure of her company was beyond her comprehension. No, it had to be more than just polite company he wanted.
‘Your champagne, madam,’ he said, thrusting the elegant, square-footed flute at her, a pale gold liquid filling the conical bowl of the glass up three-quarters of the way. She eyed the tiny bubbles as she took the stem of it from him.
‘Why thank you, your grace,’ she said, keeping her eyes locked on his
as she brought the glass to her lips. As she parted her lips to allow the champagne to wet the scarlet of her mouth, she was aware of the heat of his gaze on her face, watching her.
‘Oh, you must call me James, please. I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you?’ He grinned rakishly at her, his eyes flicking over her figure appreciatively.
She had taken care to wear her best white silk evening gown, the high, tight bodice of it cinched just under her bust, displaying the swell of her full breasts to their best advantage. The bodice, sleeves, and hem were embroidered with tiny golden roses and she knew the colour of it showcased her delicate ivory complexion perfectly. Casting her eyes downward, she noted the swell of his breeches. He was clearly aroused as he stood there looking at her like that. She smiled with satisfaction.
‘As you wish, sir … Er, I mean, James,’ she said, taking another sip from the glass. It was delicious, quite possibly the most delightful champagne she had ever drunk, and she had drunk quite a lot in her time. A girl of her calibre could get used to being wined and dined by noblemen who came to seek comfort and witty conversation with a woman of easy grace and even easier virtue, and they would travel the length and breadth of the country and sometimes even further beyond to seek Madame’s renowned house of delights out. Word travelled fast in this business.
‘So, how does Miss Dupont find me?’ he asked, sitting down on the seat opposite her and looking at her quizzically. ‘Disappointed that I’m not as rakishly handsome as a lady of your beauty should expect of her escort? Or merely a trifle underwhelmed that I’m only a duke when a woman of such countenance is surely used to the company of a prince at the very least.’ Amused, she laughed, tipping her head back to expose the delicate white flesh of her throat. Another skilful move, designed to put him in the mood for more than just conversation. Which was what he wanted, surely?
Not that she minded; she could do a lot worse than bedding a handsome duke. And not just a duke: she could tell that this one was part of the ton, the elite of London society. The carriage they rode in – she had not ever seen a carriage so fine in her life, with the two white, plumed horses that stood at its front, quite magnificent in their regalia, and the stiffly liveried coachman, similarly bedecked in his cream and gold frockcoat. Oh yes, he had it all, and he obviously knew it. She decided to have some fun with him, tease him a little.
‘You are certainly very witty, James,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement, ‘and I must say I find you not wanting for charm either. Which leads me to be curious …’
‘Oh?’ He slanted an eyebrow at her.
‘Yes, I’m wondering why a man such as yourself, an obviously attractive and charming man, and a duke no less, would need to look to a common courtesan for mere companionship and conversation?’
He smiled.
‘You seem surprised, madam. But surely you are used to being ardently pursued by suitors. A woman as striking and as charming as yourself can be no stranger to men desiring her company, surely?’
So he wanted to play, did he? Well, she could play games; games were, after all, a courtesan’s speciality.
‘Oh, I’m no stranger to being pursued, of course.’ She smiled. ‘But I’m also no stranger to the hearts of men and what they … might hope to gain from such companionship.’
‘Really, and what might that be?’ His interest was piqued now. Her smile broadened.
‘Why, some may wish to take advantage of a simple girl like me.’
‘Take advantage of? Why, how very dare they?’ he exclaimed, donning a look of mock horror. As if he didn’t know full well why he had hired her. Well, if it was the innocent act he wanted from her, needing to assuage his guilt over hiring a courtesan for the evening, then that’s what she’d give him.
‘Well, it’s not that I’m entirely averse to appeasing their desires, of course,’ she demurred, ‘but perhaps I should be ashamed for being so … unrestrained.’ Pretending to be shamefaced, she dropped her head demurely. As she had predicted, he rushed gallantly in to defend her.
‘Of course you shouldn’t be. And it’s better to be unrestrained and enjoy life than be so reserved one doesn’t partake in life’s pleasures, don’t you think? Far too many of us walk around buttoned up so tightly our shirt collars are in danger of strangling us.’
Nodding, she batted her eyelashes, shooting him a surreptitious sideways glance.
‘Yes, but still I feel it is unfair for them to put me in a compromising position where I may not refuse them, for some of them do take advantage of me. They usually expect more than just company, sir … James.’
This was the part where they would usually fall upon her, begging her to know what awful liberties had been taken by previous scurrilous rakes, all the while swearing that they wouldn’t be like all the rest. They all were, of course. All of them, every last one of them without exception, ended up sweating and puffing into her neck, crumpling up the silk of her skirts. Though she wouldn’t mind if this one wanted to rumple up her skirts – in fact, she might even enjoy it. She was shameless thinking like that about a man she had just met: her Catholic mother would surely have been disappointed if she knew her daughter had grown up to be a wanton harlot. Her mother had been devout, Madame du Monsignor had told her, and she knew that she would be ashamed of her daughter’s chosen profession if she were alive today.
If she were alive today. If her mother hadn’t died, things might have been so very different. For a start, she would never have been given away by her mother’s sister, Katie, who was struggling to feed the hungry mouths of her own nine children. Tired and weary, in the middle of a revolution where the very fabric of the social order was being ripped apart, and with a husband turned to drink because he couldn’t make enough money to feed his family, Katie had, in her desperation, left her in her cradle on Madame du Monsignor’s doorstep, a small note of explanation in the basket.
That was what Madame du Monsignor had told her, at least, and why would she have any cause to disbelieve the shrewd but kindly Madame, whose house was the only home she had ever been able to call her own?
But if she hadn’t been found and taken in by Madame du Monsignor then she would never have become a courtesan. Not that she blamed the woman, who had simply done the best she could, given the circumstances. And now the madame was the closest thing to family she had.
The duke took her hand in his own larger one, and gave it an affectionate squeeze. His touch made a sudden charge travel through her body and she gave a little shiver at the sensation.
‘My dear, you mustn’t worry about my intentions. I assure you I merely requested your services for the pleasure of your company and your good manners,’ he said, his eyes earnest as he looked into her own. Puzzled, she pursed her lips as she regarded him. He looked sincere, but surely he couldn’t be sincere? No, of course not: he just wanted her to play a little harder to get; that was all.
‘Well, if it’s my company and good manners you seek, I hope I don’t disappoint you on either count, sir,’ she murmured demurely.
‘Please do call me James,’ he urged her, releasing her hand.
‘James,’ she corrected herself. ‘I’m sorry, you will have to forgive me for being a skitterbrain, for it’s not every day a girl has the privilege of meeting a duke.’ That should help things along; no man could resist a gentle ego massaging.
‘Ugh, what I wouldn’t give to be free of that ghastly title and all the responsibility that comes with it,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Which brings me to the other reason I requested your charming presence, m’lady.’
‘Oh?’ She looked up at him curiously. Well, this was a strange way for a man to declare his passion. By the time they got around to thoughts of lust they weren’t usually so formal. She wished he would hurry up and get it over with, though. If she had to keep staring at his rakish good looks she might jump on him herself. And that wouldn’t do; it would be far too unseemly to do so uninvited, even for a courtesan.
> ‘Let me explain,’ he said, shifting in his seat, and leaning forward. ‘I am the Earl of Mountford, and as such I have certain responsibilities. My parents, the Duke and Duchess of Durham, insist that I must take a wife, and are urging me to choose a suitable woman to begin to court.’
‘Well, that shouldn’t be a problem for a wealthy, attractive man like you,’ she said, not understanding.
‘No. Well yes, actually, it is.’
A playboy, was he? She knew it; she just knew it. She could always pick a cad out at a thousand paces.
‘It is?’ She looked at him quizzically.
‘Yes. I don’t wish to marry until I fall in love.’
‘Oh … yes. Uh yes, yes, of course I understand,’ she said, feeling utterly bewildered. What on earth was he talking about? Nobody in his position ever married for love. And anyway, what did it matter? He was a man; surely he could just marry and then follow his heart wherever he wanted it? It was different for women: they were told who to marry, and then they had to make the best of it. They were expected to be a good and faithful wife. The only other alternative for a woman was to be a spinster, or a nun, or become a scarlet woman, a girl like her, someone who had to bear the stain of public disgrace.
‘Well, of course you understand, you’re a woman. I am sure you understand matters of the heart much better than I do. And as you said, I am sure you are used to the desires of men’s hearts also,’ he said, his tone matter of fact.
What did he mean by that? Well, all right, she had said those words but somehow she didn’t like him saying them. Was he implying she was of easy virtue? And why did it bother her so much that he might think that? She was a courtesan, after all, paid to pleasure men. It had never bothered her before; why did it bother her now?
‘I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,’ she replied, knitting her brow slightly as she looked at him.
‘I should explain, Miss Dupont. I mean to ask you a special favour – one which, if you could perform it for me, would help me to extract myself from the rather terrible predicament that I find myself in.’
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