The Duke's Courtesan

by Beck Robertson

  Now what on earth was he talking about? More confused than ever, she looked at him.

  ‘Let me explain. In an effort to dissuade my dear lady mother from her imminent quest to find me a bride, I have told her that I have fallen passionately in love with the woman I intend to marry.

  ‘I … I still don’t understand,’ she faltered. What was he trying to say?

  ‘My dear, I need you to pretend to be my intended. I have told my mother that the woman I plan to marry was before the revolution a French countess, fled to England for her safety. So you must play the part of a noble and high-born Frenchwoman to perfection. But looking at you and the way you carry yourself, I do not think that will be much of a problem.’

  ‘I cannot pretend to be an aristocrat,’ she blurted out in protest. ‘No one would ever believe I was high born.’

  ‘Oh no, my sweet girl, I beg to differ.’ He grasped her hand earnestly. ‘Your carriage, your speech, your grace are as naturally refined as a princess, and that ivory complexion – why, a complexion as lovely and as unblemished could surely only belong to a lady of noble birth.’

  ‘But what will happen when your mother finds out?’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘Surely then you will be forced to marry anyway?’

  She didn’t understand. It couldn’t possibly work, how could it work? Pulling back the cream-coloured draperies of the carriage, he looked out into the balmy July evening. Dusk was falling and a soft, velvety blue light seemed to powder everything. He looked so handsome in profile like that, for a second she almost wished she really was his fiancée.

  ‘My sweet girl, if you play your part, and you play it well, I will reward you most handsomely, I promise you.’

  ‘You already have rewarded me handsomely, sir,’ she said, remembering the heavy purse of gold the coachman had given to her.

  ‘More handsomely than that. There will be another purse of gold in it for you; two purses of gold, in fact.’ Staring down at her lap, she fidgeted with the soft blue calfskin of her gloves for a moment as she pondered his proposal.

  ‘All right, I’ll … I’ll do it,’ she said tentatively, raising her eyes to meet his. ‘But your mother will not fall for it. I know she will not; she will know I am not a high-born woman.’

  ‘She won’t find out,’ he said, the jut of his jaw confident as he stared through the carriage window at the London skyline.

  Chapter Two

  As Lenore disembarked from the carriage, she stared up at the imposing Mayfair townhouse incredulously, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of it. It was simply enormous. It must be over five storeys high at least; more of a palace than a house. This, it seemed, was the London residence of the Duke and Duchess of Durham, and it was certainly aristocratic in its splendour.

  ‘What do you think? A bit ostentatious, isn’t it?’ James said, bending his head to whisper in her ear, as she stared at the heavy oaken front door, and the lighted white marble porch that flanked it, bedecked in little gold and silver-coloured lanterns.

  ‘Oh no, I think it’s beautiful,’ she said, turning to him, quite amazed by his disregard. How could he think that? It was simply wonderful; all that elegance, those lights.

  ‘If you say so. In truth, I much prefer Madame du Monsignor’s house,’ he murmured, as the coachman hurried ahead to knock on the door.

  ‘But why?’ She looked at him, surprised. Madame du Monsignor’s house was elegant enough, true, but it was nothing compared to this splendour.

  ‘Because it has you in it,’ he said, his lips brushing the top of her earlobe as he whispered to her, making her shiver in pleasure. He had to stop doing that, complimenting her and standing so close or she’d –

  Just then the door swung open. A liveried footman, clad formally in a stiff, starched red and gold coat, bowed to welcome them.

  ‘The Duchess of Durham welcomes you to her home, madam. Your grace …’ The footman nodded in acknowledgement, bowing first to her and then to James. She bobbed a curtsey, remembering to pluck her silk skirts up elegantly as she did so.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she murmured to the footman, who smiled at her.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Grenville, my good man. How are you?’ James took her by the elbow as he ushered her confidently into the elegant hallway.

  ‘Very good, sir. The duchess waits to receive you in the drawing room.’ The man gestured to a high, white-painted door set just off the entranceway.

  Lady Durham peered down at Lenore imposingly from her regal position on the high-backed French-style gilt scrollwork chair, her little white Bichon Frisé dog posed stiffly by her side on a matching seat. The two looked almost regal, like a bizarre king and queen sitting on their thrones, and she had to stifle a giggle at the image.

  ‘So, you are to be my son’s intended,’ the woman said, her tone slightly disdainful as she squinted at her, like she was trying to scrutinise her for possible flaws.

  ‘Y-yes, madam, as your son wishes me to be, and I am most honoured for it,’ she murmured weakly, nodding at the woman.

  Lady Durham sniffed, her aquiline nose wrinkling elegantly. ‘Meek and insipid little thing, aren’t you?’ she said dismissively.

  Her cheeks burned. Of all the things she had been called in her life, she had never been called meek or insipid before.

  ‘Pretty face, though, I can see what he saw in you,’ the older woman said, her tone matter of fact. ‘Very fine features you have, girl,’ she added, almost as if she were talking about a horse or a piece of livestock.

  ‘Mother, please,’ James protested, but his mother held a thin, bony arm up to silence him.

  ‘Oh James, hush now, you mean to say you’re not marrying the girl because she’s pleasing to look at?’ Lady Durham raised a thin eyebrow at her son, before turning back to look at her.

  ‘Men, they are all the same,’ she said airily, ‘but I am sure you have already found that out.’ Her tone seemed somehow laden with hidden meaning. What did she mean by that? The woman couldn’t possibly know she was a courtesan, could she?

  ‘I … I wouldn’t know, Lady Durham, this is only my second real courtship.’

  ‘Really? How strange. I find that most peculiar.’ The woman frowned, clearly puzzled.

  ‘Mother …’ James insisted again.

  ‘It’s all right, James,’ she assured him, ‘let your mother speak.’

  Lady Durham smiled. ‘You handle him well, I see. That’s reassuring, at least. Men need handling well, trust me, child. But I find it rather strange you’ve not courted much before, a girl as striking as you, and surely you must be at least 25?’

  ‘I am 24, ma’am, but the first man to whom I was betrothed died fighting Napoleon’s troops before we could be wed.’

  The woman nodded, looking thoughtful, as she continued to appraise her.

  ‘I see. How tragic.’ The way she spoke the words sounded like she meant them not at all. Sniffing, Lady Durham continued her enquiries haughtily. ‘Your face looks familiar to me somehow. Are you quite sure you’ve not been out much in London society?’

  She shook her head vigorously in reply. ‘No, my lady. I have not been received since I landed on these shores from Paris.’

  ‘And you were a countess?’ The woman peered at her sternly, her steel grey eyes piercing.

  She gulped; don’t show her how nervous you are. Where was she supposed to be a countess of again? She couldn’t remember what he had told her in the carriage,

  ‘Yes, m’lady, I’m … I’m –’

  ‘Lenore’s mother was La Comtesse de Grasse prior to the revolution,’ James said, interrupting his mother as, chivalrously, he came to her rescue.

  ‘I see,’ Lady Durham said, her thin lips pursed tightly.

  ‘It’s an honour to be your daughter-in-law, my lady,’ she ventured, attempting to placate the woman. She’d never met anyone who had such an icy manner they could actually lower the physical temperature by a good few degrees. Why, her demeanour was so cold she
was practically freezing the room.

  The woman didn’t raise a smile.

  ‘Oh, you’re not my daughter-in-law yet. My son may well yet tire of you. He is only 26 and men are fickle,’ she said, the words uttered as casually if they had been a request to pass a condiment at dinner.

  ‘That’s quite enough, mother,’ James interjected, the anger on his face visible.

  ‘You can be quiet,’ the woman said, turning to her son to berate him. ‘Why, you were almost betrothed your whole childhood to the Lady Marchmond, were you not?’

  ‘I was not betrothed to her, mother,’ he insisted, looking visibly more irritated by the second at his mother’s outpourings. The woman appeared not to notice his ire, sniffing as she continued.

  ‘Strange you should turn down such a match,’ she said. ‘Why, the girl’s father has one of the largest estates in all of Northumberland. That kind of wealth can be quite … persuasive. It certainly was to your father when he married me.’

  ‘I had no wish to marry the Lady Marchmond, mother. She and I were good friends in childhood and that is all, but she does not suit me,’ James insisted fiercely, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. His mother chose to ignore him, glowering down at her instead, as if she were a naughty schoolchild to be scolded.

  ‘And what wealth will you bring to us, young lady?’ Lady Durham squinted at her, her grey eyes sharp as she regarded her.

  ‘I … I …’ she floundered, looking desperately to James for help. Why wasn’t he helping her out?

  ‘Mother, please don’t be so crass,’ he said, chiding her.

  ‘It is simply a question, James – a question that I, your mother, surely have a right to know the answer to. Tell me, child, what lands do you bring us? You have a good dowry, I trust?’

  ‘Lenore has a dowry, yes,’ the duke said crossly, ‘but Grasse itself has been seized by the forces of Napoleon Bonaparte. Not that I give a fig for it. I marry for love, mother, not for money.’ He stared at his mother defiantly, and for a moment Lenore felt an almost irrepressible urge to cheer him for his boldness in front of the surly duchess.

  ‘Oh lord, left to your own devices you’d marry the scullery maid if she made the right eyes at you.’ His mother clucked her disapproval. ‘Thank goodness your brother has better sense. William’s marrying the Countess of Wessex, no less,’ she announced, as if it were the most splendid thing that anyone could ever imagine possible.

  To be fair, if accumulating wealth and rank were your goals, as they appeared to be most of society’s, then it probably was a pretty amazing achievement. Who was Lenore to criticise, anyway? She was no one, nothing but a common harlot. She would never be a lady, much less a countess; pretending to be James’s fiancée was the closest she would ever come to a title. Not that she really cared: being a member of the aristocracy certainly hadn’t seemed to make Lady Durham any more amenable.

  ‘Well, we should be thankful for small mercies, I suppose. At least you have a title,’ the woman said haughtily, turning her head away, as if she couldn’t bear to look upon either of them any more.

  Chapter Three

  In the safety of the carriage she turned to him, her expression nervous.

  ‘How did I do?’ She bit her lip as she regarded him. Oh God, had she completely ruined things? She hoped not, and not just because she wouldn’t get the gold he’d promised her. For some peculiar reason that she couldn’t quite fathom, she actually didn’t want to disappoint him.

  ‘You … were amazing, Lenore,’ he said, shaking his head in wonderment at her as she stood before him.

  ‘I was, really?’ She looked at him warily. Was he being sarcastic? But the piercing blue eyes that regarded her were earnest.

  ‘Better than amazing, actually. More regal than a true countess born,’ he said, smiling at her. She felt pleased, pleased she hadn’t disappointed him, and pleased that she had been able to fool Lady Durham into thinking she was a noble lady. Not that she would ever be able to fool him into thinking that: he knew quite plainly what she really was.

  ‘What happens now?’ She gazed at him in enquiry.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, turning as he bent down and rummaging in a side pocket of the carriage. ‘Here it is,’ he said, tossing a small, red velvet pouch at her. Caught off guard, her hands fumbled as she caught it, almost dropping it. The pouch felt heavy, as if it was full of money.

  ‘There are 30 pieces of gold coin in there,’ he said, looking pleased with himself, before he reached down to rummage in the pocket of the carriage again.

  ‘No, please, you don’t have to fetch another,’ she protested, realising what he was doing. ‘Really, one is quite enough. You have rewarded me handsomely.’ She lowered her voice, remembering her manners. Whatever was she thinking? She had been practically shouting at him. A real lady would never behave in such a manner.

  Luckily, he hadn’t seemed to notice.

  ‘But I must,’ he insisted, as he retrieved the second purse and pressed it in her hands. ‘I am forever indebted to you, Lenore,’ he murmured, clasping her hands between his own broader, stronger ones. Her heart beat faster and she felt a pulse in her throat. His proximity made her nervous. Why was he having this effect on her?

  ‘You … you truly don’t have to thank me. It was a pleasure to be of assistance,’ she whispered, as he brought his lips to her hands and kissed them gently. Even though she was still wearing the powder blue calfskin gloves, she shivered with desire. Didn’t he know what he was doing to her?

  ‘Lenore, you are a miraculous woman, and you saved me from that – that spiny, sharp-featured thing, the Lady Marchmond, who would have been my dear lady mother’s choice of bride for me,’ he said, his lip curling in distaste at the thought.

  She bit her lip, trying to suppress the urge to laugh. It was funny to see him so angry like that; he looked even more attractive when he was surly than he did when he was being jovial.

  ‘You didn’t want to marry her then, I take it?’ She couldn’t help but giggle at his obvious disgust.

  ‘No I did not,’ he retorted indignantly. ‘She is as dry as a stick and has no sense of humour at all.’

  ‘But she is a noblewoman,’ Lenore reminded him gently, ‘and you are a lord. One day you will have to take a noblewoman as your wife, surely?’

  ‘I wish I could take a woman like you as my wife,’ he growled, pressing his face into the soft leather of her gloves. Her stomach gave a funny little flip, as if it were turning over. Had he really meant to say that?

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped, not knowing quite what to say, ‘but you must not think of such things. I am not a noblewoman and you are a duke,’ she protested. He stared at her hand lying between his and sighed.

  ‘Yes, so it seems, such is the way of things,’ he said flatly, still studying her hand intently.

  ‘But you are more noble and more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever met, Lenore, and what is more, you have a good heart too,’ he said, his eyes full of sincerity as he looked up at her from under the dark sweep of his eyelashes. Her heart swelled with pride at the words, and she blushed, her cheeks burning at the praise.

  ‘Will you grant me the privilege of seeing your hand ungloved, Lenore?’ he asked her, his expression strange. Bewildered, she nodded at him. He sounded so odd, almost as if he was being strangled. What on earth was the matter with him? And why did he want to see her hands ungloved?

  His thick fingers fumbled as they gently peeled off her soft leather glove. It was strange the way he did that; it felt almost as though he were undressing her. Carefully, he laid the glove on the seat beside her, as if it were a very precious thing indeed.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he sighed as he turned her hand over in his still gloved hand. ‘You have beautiful hands, perfect, just like the rest of you.’ He smiled, bringing her fingers up to his lips, and kissing the bare flesh of them gently. She gave a little cry. Oh, it felt so good to feel his mouth on her like that. She clamped her other hand over her mouth,
attempting to stifle the sound, lest she should give away the effect he was having on her sensibilities.

  ‘Th-thank you,’ she whispered, ‘but I am just an ordinary girl, and not at all grand like the ladies you are used to.’

  ‘You are as splendid as a queen,’ he murmured into her fingers. She felt like she might cry. Oh, why did he have to be a nobleman? She had never met a man who had made her feel this way before. If ever there was a man she could possibly give her heart to this was surely him. Her hand flew to her mouth in shock. What was she thinking? She mustn’t, mustn’t ever think like that. She was a courtesan: she could not afford to develop feelings, least of all for a duke.

  ‘What is it, my dear?’ He looked up at her, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up with concern.

  ‘Nothing,’ she choked out, turning her head away from him. She was a silly fool; they had only just met, and there she was making puppy eyes at him. But if only he would stop looking at her like that, like he genuinely cared.

  Suddenly he was by her side, pressing close to her, and murmuring into her hair.

  ‘Lenore.’ He sighed. ‘Lenore, you are so beautiful, my sweet, please do not cry.’ He held her close against the deep burgundy velvet of his frockcoat, pressing her to him. Aghast, she realised she was sobbing, the tears silently coursing down her cheeks. She must stop; he mustn’t see her like this. She was a courtesan, for goodness’ sake. She must always put on a bright smile, a charming face. She was paid to entertain, she could never, never forget that. She was not paid to sob like a wretched thing into the velvet frockcoat of a handsome and charming nobleman.

  Steeling herself, she pushed him away, fixing him with her brightest and most dazzling smile.

  ‘James, you mustn’t mind me,’ she said, smiling away the tears. ‘It’s just been so overwhelming – the evening, the carriage, your mother’s house. I’ve felt, well, just overcome.’