Ashford jumped to his feet, his boots stomping an agitated path around the tight confines of their niche in the shrubbery. “Fools, are we? Fools to want women who do more than lie like a stick in bed? To want passion and beauty instead of a woman chosen for her pedigree or the amount of her dowry? Fools to want love when we cannot find it at home?”
“Be quiet! How do you think young girls feel when their fathers arrange marriages for reasons of bloodlines, land, or money? When they are told nothing about what happens between a man and a woman, except to endure, find happiness in their children, and act as if their husbands’ mistresses did not exist?”
Gabe stopped pacing and stared at her, seeing not the exquisitely dressed about-to-be-courtesan but the poor little mite he had rescued from Pierrepont House. The much-abused young lady whose freedom he had guaranteed with a rather exorbitant payment in coin of the realm. Truth to tell, she was bought and paid for. No wonder he was incensed when he saw Longmere bowing over her hand.
Freedom, that’s what she wanted.
All he had offered was escape from Pierrepont and the leering eyes of his gaming partners. A temporary refuge. And now Lady Arabella would buy her freedom with her body. And her soul.
Fine. Then why not test her expertise, for it certainly wasn’t kissing. He pulled her to her feet, crushing her hard against his chest. He ran his hands down her back, cupping her bottom, lifting her into his erection, grinding into layers of clothes that seemed to melt away. Ah God, how could he feel like this when everything was so wrong? One head rejoiced while the other spun in agony. What in the name of God and the devil was he doing? If he came in his trousers, there wasn’t a place dark enough in all Vauxhall Garden to conceal his shame.
Gabe shoved her away so hard Belle staggered, catching herself in time to collapse onto the marble bench, hand to her mouth, staring at him in horror. “Not much of a whore, are you?” he taunted. “Frightened by the very first contact. And as for kissing . . .”
The grand finale of the fireworks burst over their heads with multiple booms and flashes of color that illuminated Belle’s wide blue eyes. She shot to her feet and ran out of their private niche so fast her white and silver skirts flew out behind her. As her footsteps clicked against the bricked path, Gabe thought he heard her sob, but the sound was soon lost in the rustle of many feet and the murmur of voices as many of Vauxhall Garden’s guests prepared to leave, while others gravitated toward the orchestra for one last concert of the evening.
Felice was waiting for him.
Felice could wait ’til dawn streaked the sky. ’Til summer turned to autumn. Her appeal had dropped to zed.
But what now? Debauching Lady Arabella was as out of the question now as it had been the night of the gaming debacle. But Belle Ballard?
He and his conscience would debate the matter.
Chapter 10
The wind howled, rain pounded against the shiny new window panes of Juliana’s private apartment, with a few droplets falling down the chimney to sizzle into steam on the coal fire she’d ordered to fend off a sudden late August chill. A frown wrinkling her forehead, the headmistress of The Aphrodite Academy sat curled up on her blue and green brocade sofa, staring at the glowing coals, but clearly seeing, hearing nothing.
Darius Wolfe was able to walk right up behind her, even as he wondered about his welcome. Had she missed him? Was she still flagellating herself for living all those years in a ménage à trois? But with Geoff such a strong personality, how could she have done anything else?
And then there were all the other activities—the ones his Jewel had agreed to and the ones she had not. Unwelcome visions played across his mind—the multitude of women who had pleasured Geoff, Darius, and each other, while Lady R watched, her face as set as Egypt’s Sphinx. The moments of bondage and sadism they had both watched until the sight of Geoffrey, Lord Rivenhall, basking in the exquisite agony of being tortured, forced them from the viewing gallery into the solace of each other’s arms.
A strange man, Geoff, his life wholly devoted to the sexual arts while Darius concentrated on increasing the value of the already extensive Rivenhall holdings four-fold. What had his Jewel endured when he wasn’t there to shield her from her husband’s excesses? Had she enjoyed it or been irrevocably damaged, as he was beginning to fear? Or did she simply need time to make sense of it all? To find some compromise between a world of being immersed in all aspects of sensuality and a world where “good” women were given no instruction in how to find pleasure in marriage.
And now that he was back, hat in hand, after weeks of wrestling with these questions, was he better able to understand the conflict raging inside her? Would she welcome him or thrust him away?
More likely hand him his head in a basket for frightening her half to death, creeping up on her like a thief in the night . . .
“Jewel?”
A sharp gasp as her head swung around, amber eyes large with the light of battle. How dare you sneak up on me like that? But she didn’t say it. Fright and anger drained away to something that looked remarkably like relief. Darius stifled a smile. She was his. No matter how long he had to wait.
He walked around the sofa and sat on the far end of it, leaving a goodly space between them.
“You used the tunnel,” Juliana said flatly as she eyed his perfectly dry clothing.
“I did, and bless Geoffrey for keeping it such good repair.”
“One of his many amusements.”
Darius caught the faint hint of bitterness. The first crack in the façade of Saint Geoffrey? “Indeed,” he murmured, fearing to disturb the fragility of the moment with anything more to the point. A wise man would change the subject. “You seemed lost in thought when I came in. May I know what troubles you?”
His Jewel sighed. The fireplace hissed as more raindrops turned to steam. “Arabella Pierrepont,” she said at last. “One night at Vauxhall—one night in summer, with most of the ton off to Brighton or their country estates—and I’ve had a half dozen offers for her. Some from men I did not invite to meet her.”
“Ashford?”
“Ashford has informed me he will top any other offer. Name the price and he will pay it.”
“This is what has you frowning into the night? Have you lost your wits, woman?”
“Oooh!” Juliana cried. “Miserable creature, how can you be so oblivious? Did we not quarrel over precisely this matter when it was you who maintained they should marry?”
She had him dead to rights. He had insisted Ashford and Lady Arabella could still marry, rising above the inevitable vicious gossip until a new and better scandal came along. And his Jewel had insisted it was quite impossible, the girl totally and forever ruined. And now Ashford was taking the girl as his mistress, fulfilling all her expectations . . .so why was Jewel looking as if one of her girls had died?
“You have changed your mind?” Darius inquired.
Her response was so soft he had to lean close to hear it. “No . . . but that doesn’t keep me from wishing I were wrong. Marriage would be such an excellent solution.”
“Romantic.”
His darling Jewel snorted—there was no other word for the sound he heard. “Romance is for fools. And people with such remarkable imaginations they can talk themselves into believing anything.”
“So if I said I loved you, you would scorn me as a featherbrain with no substance?”
“For heaven’s sake, Darius, we both know you’re sharp as a whip.”
“Then you accept that I love you?” Hell’s hounds! He’d promised himself he wouldn’t pursue this topic tonight. It was enough if she accepted him back into her life in the role of companion.
“No.” Cold, grim. Speak no more about it. Keep your distance. “The days when we shared a bed and a shocking array of sexual adventures are long gone. “But I fear our Belle loves Ashford,” Juliana continued, veering away from dangerous ground. “I will be doing her a great disservice if I pair the two of them. It will
kill her when Ashford marries, as he inevitably must. When he fathers an heir while her children remain bastards.”
“And think of the anguish to each if you place her with another man? For clearly Ashford cares, else he would not have made the offer he did.”
“Yet they quarreled. She came back in tears from her meeting with him at Vauxhall. Not at all what I had in mind.”
“Better and better,” Darius offered with an impish grin. “With that much passion on both sides, it would be cruel to keep them apart.”
Their eyes caught and held, the message clear. Sadly, his Jewel shook her head. “Tell me, Darius, when is the Seacrest expected to arrive from India?”
He swallowed a sigh and began a full report of her far-flung investments. At least she had not demanded his immediate departure.
“Lady R said I could choose,” Holly chortled. “She says Lord Deverell’s a rake whose interest won’t last, but he has enough brass to make it worth giving it my all while it lasts. Or there’s this Cit whose da–father–owns a bank. He might last a good while, she says, cuz he’s not some bee like Deverell, flitting from flower to flower.”
“I suggest you wait,” Cecy declared. “There’s bigger fish in the sea. You heard Lady R say she never expected to do more than introduce us at Vauxhall. Better offers will come along.”
“What about you, Belle?” Holly asked. “I’ll wager Ashford has his eye on you. And tears or no tears, you’re a ninnyhammer if you refuse.”
“I am to meet with Lady R in ten minutes.”
Cecy clapped her hands. “It’s Ashford, I know it’s Ashford. That’s ever so romantic, do you not think so, Belle? The man who rescued you—”
“Stop!” Belle screamed the word, then clapped both hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled around her fingers, “so very sorry. There is no way, simply no way, I can explain why it will never do.”
“Oh, Gawd,” Holly said, eyes wide. “You love him.”
“You poor dear,” Cecy added, eyes bright with sympathetic tears.
“I will manage,” Belle assured them. After a few moments before the mirror, adjusting her gown and her hair, pinching her pale cheeks to rosy pink, she left their sitting area for the long walk to Lady R’s office.
Not Ashford, her head insisted. Never Ashford.
And besides, after Vauxhall she must be the last female he would ever want.
But men were strange . . .
No, a thousand times no! Ashford would never insult her so . . .
In the end, after all Belle’s vows to the contrary, she accepted him. All her grand schemes gone for nothing because she could not let another woman have him. All the pain of being his mistress when she wanted to be his wife. All thoughts of using her protector to feather her nest for the future, out with the slops. Ashford would use her, leaving her with nothing but a shattered heart and soul.
Ah, no, she could not allow it! He must never know how much she cared.
And yet . . . he had made an offer worthy of marriage settlements, which assured her a comfortable living for the rest of her life. According to Lady R, Ashford had even put it in writing, in papers that would be signed before she moved into her new home. For a moment Belle’s eyes shone. She was to have her very own cottage in St. John’s Woods, not far from the Regent’s latest project, a fine new park and elegant residences north of Mayfair. Would Cecy and Holly be set up in the same area, so she would have a familiar face or two among all the other Cyprians who lived in an area not known for accommodating married couples?
A week, Lady R said. A week for the solicitors to finish the paperwork, for the cottage to be cleaned and staffed. Belle shivered. Fool! Was this not what she wanted? Her own house, her own servants, freedom to come and go as she pleased?
As long as she was ready, waiting, and willing when her lord and master deigned to pay her a visit.
Well, she would see about that. Belle Ballard might be bought and paid for. Lady Arabella Pierrepont was not.
She had been wrong, of course. Belle stared at the legal papers laid out on the desk before her. Every last page in the name of Lady Arabella Serena Pierrepont. Shame coursed through her.
“Miss Ballard?” Lady R’s voice held a hint of steel.
They were seated in the office of a Mr. Thaddeus Leath in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, with the solicitor looking even more concerned by Belle’s procrastination than her mentor. “Lord Ashford has been more than generous, Lady Arabella, I assure you,” he said. “I have, in fact, never before seen a contract which makes the female totally independent of her–ah–benefactor’s largesse.”
“Enough, Leath,” Lady R snapped. “There are nuances here which have nothing to do with money.”
Belle scarcely heard them. She thought she had come to terms with the inevitability of the moment. Of accepting the pain of becoming Ashford’s plaything instead of his wife. Balancing that pain against the wonder of having him for her own. Even if it were only for the minimum of two years specified in the documents she was supposed to sign.
“An absurd amount for two years,” Leath had muttered as he laid the papers before her.
“I believe Ashford has something more long-term in mind,” Lady R returned smoothly. “He is, however, as generous with his terms as he is with his money.”
Belle felt frozen in place, like a leaf encased in ice at the edge of a winter pond. Lady Arabella Pierrepont. Bought and paid for. Twice over. She hung her head, fighting the urge to jump up and run from the room. What was the point in becoming Belle Ballard if Lady Arabella Pierrepont must sign all those papers? With Lady R’s name appearing next to hers since she was not yet of age.
Which likely made this whole charade illegal, Belle thought, squeezing her eyes shut. Nonetheless, money would change hands. With these papers she was being sold to the highest bidder. Like a mare at Tatt’s or a cow at a village fair.
Exactly what she had agreed to all those months ago in Lady R’s office. She had no one to blame but herself.
If my students wish to live lives of power, elegance, and influence on the great men of the realm, I can take pride in having taught them how to do it. Her mentor’s words whispered through Belle’s head. Which freely translated as: Sign the documents or live in obscurity, and very likely poverty, for the rest of your life.
False pride, that’s all it was. Did it really matter if Lady Arabella Pierrepont, instead of Belle Ballard, agreed to become a whore?
Of course it did. But pride was not something she could afford. Wondering if her crushed spirit would ever recover, Belle picked up the quill and on every line indicated by Mr. Thaddeus Leath’s pointing finger, she signed with a flourish, Arabella Serena Pierrepont.
It was done. She was, irrevocably, a courtesan.
Kept woman. Fille de joie.
Whore.
Chapter 11
Belle saw little of what seemed like an endless journey from one side of the great city of London to the other. She sat, all alone, in Lady R’s carriage, her mentor’s admonitions and encouraging words ringing through her head until she was ready to scream for them to stop. She had no more control over her life than a–a slave. She might as well be on her way to some sultan’s harem.
Belle’s scowl deepened, even as her common sense whispered, You have all that money in the bank. New clothes in the trunk strapped to the carriage. And it’s Ashford, you ninny. Ashford.
Oh, dear God, what had she done?
You’ll be the finest courtesan in London. Sparkling, witty, wise. A precious gem shining at the top of the heap. Ashford will be dazzled. Satisfied his money is well-spent.
Belle winced. A courtesan must have defenses . . . and against Ashford she was powerless. He would snap his fingers and she would perform—
No! She had to become steel. Like a man’s shaft—a sword on the inside; soft, malleable silk on the outside.
Belle ventured a tentative smile. Yes, she could do this. She could be everything Ashford w
anted and still keep her soul. She could return his generosity . . . and not die of anguish when he left her. Or worse, when he married and did not leave her.
She sat tall on the carriage’s lavender velvet squabs, head high, her sky blue eyes sparking as if sunlight had penetrated the dim interior of the carriage. She was a courtesan, quite possibly the highest-priced female commodity on the London market. Ashford’s chosen one. Pride demanded she give good service. The best, the very best.
As the carriage wound its way through the heart of Mayfair and headed northwest toward more sparsely populated neighborhoods, fears, doubts, and determination gave way to growing excitement. Today she was embarking on a new life. For the very first time she would be on her own—allowed to think for herself, manage her life as she would. Ashford might think he was in charge, but . . .
Belle’s lips curled in a secret smile. Pressing her nose to the glass, she unashamedly examined the passing scenery as they moved into St. John’s Woods. Though not quite country, there was more green here—more trees, more meadows, the occasional glimpse of a small stream, yet but a short drive from Hyde Park or the new Regents Park. Oh yes, she would like it here. And if her cottage matched the ones they were passing, each set back among tall trees, with flower-bordered walkways and colorful baskets of geraniums hanging from the eaves . . .
It did.
In fact, her cottage was surely a bit larger, a bit more well-landscaped than all the others. And with four servants lined up to greet her: housekeeper, cook, housemaid, and her own personal maid.
Ah, Ashford, what can I ever do . . .?
Well, that had to be the most stupid thought to flit through her mind in some time. As Belle inspected each room of her new home, she was still struggling with an urge to giggle.
The crisp air of an early September evening drifted into the carriage as the horses moved at a spanking pace toward St. John’s Woods but did little to clear the muddled thoughts running through Gabe’s mind. He’d made a mull of his meeting with Belle at Vauxhall, and not all the pounds sterling he had applied to the problem were going to fix it. He had won a virgin would-be courtesan by his willingness to pay and because he rather thought Lady Rivenhall liked him, but as for Belle . . . Gabe groaned. Fortunately, he had always enjoyed a challenge.
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