The Duke's Courtesan

by Beck Robertson

  Gently he removed the ring from its satin cushion, holding it out to her, his fingers trembling.

  ‘Please marry me, my darling?’ he said, looking up at her, his eyes shining fiercely as he entreated her, the blue velvet of his frockcoat only serving to make them seem deeper and more intense than usual, as if they were inky pools of water. She wanted to savour the moment for ever; her soul thrilled to hear him speak those words.

  ‘Lenore, please, I cannot live without you,’ he urged her, looking stricken by her lack of response. She smiled at him. Oh, the poor man; she was cruel to torment him like this when he was being so heartfelt.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ she said, keeping her eyes on his face as a smile broke across it, wreathing his handsome features in gladness.

  Removing her glove to expose the naked flesh of her hand, he slid the ring tentatively onto her finger, then looked up at her again, seeking her eyes.

  ‘You will truly be mine for all time, for ever? My darling, my very own wife?’ he said, searching her eyes urgently, as if he were unsure.

  ‘I will, my love, but hush, there is more. You must listen to me,’ she said, putting her finger to his lips.

  ‘What is it? What more can there possibly be than the happiness I feel in this moment?’ he exclaimed joyfully, getting to his feet, and swooping down to cover her mouth with kisses as she sat there against the carriage seats.

  Reaching up to his handsome face, she cupped it, drawing him to her, unable to resist his proximity. The taste of him was like desire itself and she yielded to his hands as they played across the front of her dress, over the creamy flesh of her breasts, down to the gentle swell of her thickening belly, down further to her thighs where they started to push up her skirts.

  Tenderly, he kissed her neck, moving down to plant soft kisses on the tops of her breasts as she threw back her head, sighing in pleasure at his touch.

  ‘Oh, I have been mad with longing for you,’ he growled throatily as his hands pushed the cream lace of her skirts higher, his mouth seeking hers out again as their tongues twisted together in lust and she groaned into his mouth.

  ‘I too for you,’ she moaned, as his thick fingers worked between her thighs, pushing into her softness. Burying his head between her legs with a groan, he lapped at her, as if he would slake his desire for her there. Twisting the dark strands of his hair between her fingers as he pleasured her, she boldly pulled him into her, arching her back up and thrusting herself at his mouth, the burning feel of his lips against her tender, intimate flesh exquisitely unbearable.

  ‘You drive me wild,’ he murmured into her as he grappled with his breeches, struggling to free himself, and moving up her body to position his cock at her entrance.

  ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, as he thrust into her. ‘Yes, yes,’ she breathed as he took her, locking her arms about him and holding him tightly against her, never wanting to let him go.

  A thousand white lights, gleaming so brightly that they might have been shot through with diamonds, flashed and winked before her eyes as he brought her to orgasm, and she moaned in abandonment, her skirts about her waist as he forced her to endure the whole ecstasy of it, never stopping in his ceaseless thrusts. Then, still riding her, he claimed his own release, moaning into her hair as he did so, his body hard, every muscle in it tense as his swollen cock exploded inside her.

  Pulling back from her then, he looked earnestly into her eyes.

  ‘Lenore,’ he said, holding her face as if it were so fragile it might break, ‘truly you have made me the happiest man alive. Were my mother to disinherit me and I were to become a pauper, a humble blacksmith working at the anvil to earn a crust, why, I should not care a jot, so happy have you made me by agreeing to be my wife.’

  She smiled broadly at the image. If any other man of noble birth had told her he would trade his riches, his wealth, his status for the life of a blacksmith if it meant he had her heart, she would not have believed him. But he was so sweet, so tender, and so sincere in his earnestness that she did not for a moment doubt his sincerity. She had never met a man who could set her heart aflutter like this and she knew for certain she would never meet another. And she was to be his wife. Oh the marvellous, unbelievable, wonderfulness of it all.

  ‘Why, you impress me, your grace,’ she said, her expression amused, ‘although I must confess I find it hard to picture a man of such splendid magnificence as yourself as a blacksmith.’

  ‘I would do it, I swear to you,’ he promised her hotly, and she pressed her finger to his lips to silence him again.

  ‘I know you would, my love, but there is no need to make such promises to me. For even if your mother were to disinherit you, we should not be penniless.’ He looked at her bewildered and she smiled into his eyes.

  ‘I have an inheritance, a considerable sum left to me by my parents, who I recently learned were of different financial means than I thought they were. So different, in fact, that they were once considered as noble as you are now, my love.’

  ‘Then …’ His face broke into a smile. ‘Then I was right …’ He paused, his grin broadening. Now it was her turn to look confused.

  ‘Right? What do you mean, my love?’

  ‘You are a great and noble lady,’ he said, simply.

  Epilogue

  They were wed two months later, the ceremony a perfect fantasy. As she walked down the aisle of St George’s Cathedral, the church bedecked in red roses and fragrant white lilies, she passed Madame du Monsignor, sitting in the front row, dabbing at her eyes with a crisp white handkerchief. Pausing briefly, she flashed a smile at the woman, who looked up at her and returned the smile through joyously teary eyes.

  Madame had been so kind to her; she was the only mother she had ever known, and it would be strange not to be under her roof any more. It would be strange too, to leave behind the Belgravia mews house where she had lived since she’d first come to London when she was 18, and move into the big, five-storey town house that James had bought them, though she was excited all the same.

  As she made her way to where he stood waiting for her, she couldn’t resist flashing a triumphant grin at the Lady Durham, who sat on the opposite side of the church to Madame, and who was watching the proceedings with a slightly chastened expression on her sharp features.

  The moment she had informed James’s mother that she was in fact not just a mere courtesan but a former member of the French nobility, a countess so high-born that she brought with her a dowry of £50,000, had been priceless.

  Now it had been made clear she was descended from nobility, the woman had been practically falling over herself to suck up to her. It was Lenore, my dear this and Lenore, my dear that now. The last time she had visited the duchess in her London home, she had been received as a guest of the highest status and all the serving staff had been sent to attend on her every whim.

  Oh yes, the woman had certainly changed her mind about the suitability of courtesans to marry her son. But James hadn’t changed; he had always been loyal and faithful. He had wanted to marry her even when she had nothing to bring, no dowry, and no reputation. She gazed at his handsome face, as he stood there waiting for her to join him. He looked at her with such love in his eyes, she knew without a doubt she was marrying the right man, the man who would love and cherish her for a lifetime.

  She wore a gown of cream and gold lace, the high waistband cleverly concealing her swelling bump, her long white velvet train trimmed with rich red ribbon, a diamond and ruby-encrusted necklace encircling her slender throat, and matching ear bobs hanging from her lobes. In her hair she wore a crown of lilies and red roses to match the flowers adorning the church, and draped about her shoulders was a cream lace cape trimmed with a thin red satin ribbon festooned with tiny seed pearls. She felt truly regal, as regal as a countess.

  Reaching the altar, she took James’s hand as he turned to proffer it to her.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he mouthed at her silently. Smiling, she blushed as the rever
end peered over his glasses and down his long, thin nose at them.

  With perfect piety, the clergyman intoned, ‘James Alexander Durham, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep only unto her, so long as you both shall live?’

  Smiling, James spoke, no hesitation on his lips. ‘I will.’

  How her heart soared to hear him say those words. The reverend turned to her then, his expression solemn.

  ‘And you, Lenore Marie Dupont, will you have this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep only unto him, so long as you both shall live?’

  She paused for the merest of seconds in order to savour the moment, before replying.

  ‘I will,’ she said simply, looking into James’s dear face as he smiled at her joyfully.

  As he slipped the delicate gold band on her finger, its surface inscribed with the coronets and roses of his house, she gasped with delight inwardly. This was truly it: they were joined as one now, to be man and wife for ever, and there was not a soul she would rather be joined to for the rest of her life.

  * * *

  They spent their wedding night at the Kensington house he had bought for them to start their wedded life together. Content, she lay naked in his arms amid the white silken sheets of the chestnut-coloured four-poster bed they shared, curtains of filmy white and gold chiffon swathed all around them. Her heart felt like it would burst with perfect happiness; this was more than she could ever have hoped for.

  ‘I have dreamed of this moment, my love,’ he murmured into her hair, as if he had been reading her thoughts, his hands gently stroking her swollen belly.

  ‘I too,’ she said, smiling as she twisted around to look up at him. ‘I must confess I have dreamed of it too, ever since your coachman called upon Madame du Monsignor’s house to select this simple French girl.’

  He grinned, and his hand moved to her face to cup under her chin tenderly.

  ‘And never did he make a wiser selection than you, my dear. But you have reminded me, I must give Perkins a rise in salary immediately.’ He swooped in to plant a kiss on her lips. Giggling, she pushed him away, pretending to be offended.

  ‘Oh? So you admit you bought a courtesan in order to have your wicked way with her?’ The amusement sparkled in her eyes as she looked at him. Growling in mock anger, he moved on top of her, pinning her arms above her head, though he was careful not to crush her with his full weight. His arousal, plain and obvious, was pressing into her thigh.

  ‘And did you want me then too, at the very first, want me like this?’ He thrust up against her as he murmured the words in her ear. Lacing her hands about her new husband’s neck, she pulled him close to her.

  ‘Yes, my darling, I did,’ she murmured, tipping her face up to kiss him as her lips entwined with his, and their bodies united in perfect harmony.

  Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2014

  ISBN 9781783755530

  Copyright © Beck Robertson 2014

  The right of Beck Robertson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

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