A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man

by Celeste Bradley

  She held up the last gift dear Robert had given me. It was a necklace simply crusted in diamonds. I suspect he’d thought it would change my mind and then he’d not had the nerve to ask for it back when it didn’t achieve the desired effect.

  I sighed. “Isn’t it vulgar? Wherever shall I wear it?”

  The Swan blinked at me for a long moment until she realized that my indifferent tone was entirely in jest. Then she kicked me right off my cushion in revenge.

  “Oh, this is magnificent! How could you keep it until last? It’s glorious! It’s positively royal!”

  I clapped my hands. “I know! I shall be the envy of every woman in London! I’m going to wear it absolutely everywhere! Balls, soirees, walking in Hyde Park!” I took it from her and clasped it about my neck. “Do you think it’s too formal to sleep in?”

  She giggled at my silliness and we poured ourselves more wine. We were deep into a discussion over whether or not to call for another bottle from my cellar when she sat up straight and gasped. “Oh, I nearly forgot! I have something for you!”

  I sat up and blinked blearily at her while she felt about her for her reticule. “It was waiting for me this morning when I awoke.” Then she practically dove into her little bag, frowning most severely as she searched. “Ah! At last!” Triumphantly, she pulled her hand from her bag and held an envelope high.

  It was thick and expensive and heavy in my hands, yet not embossed with any sort of identification. I opened it. Something slipped out into my waiting palm.

  It was the darkly gleaming wing feather of a blackbird.

  My heart thudded in my chest at the sight of it, then slowed to a wicked, sensual beat that resonated through my entire being.

  Sir would be coming to my bed tonight.

  * * *

  I smiled gaily at the man who handed me another glass of champagne and then dropped my head back and downed the entire contents, to the cheers of the circle of gentlemen surrounding me. Several began to vie for the honor of fetching my next one.

  The Blackbird was officially available and the competition was growing playfully fierce. This was the third event I had visited this evening and the third time this scene had been played out. I was having the time of my life, for I had no one to please but myself.

  I had not intended to make such a circuit of the night’s balls and soirees, but it seemed I quickly lost interest in each event. Once I had greeted the host and danced with a few of the most promising bachelors and tossed back varying quantities of champagne, the sameness of the society made me long for the next adventure.

  After all, I was not yet in need of a new lover. Prolonging their anticipation would only increase their interest. Why not revel in my popularity for a time?

  So I flirted, I teased, I frankly taunted, but gave preference to no one. And all the while, in the back of my mind, I relished the thought of my coming night with Sir.

  * * *

  My little house was warm and welcoming as I shed my wrap. Sylla shook out the velvet cloak with practiced hands and draped it over her arm. “Did ye meet anyone nice, miss?”

  I stripped off my gloves. “Of course. All men are at their nicest, Sylla, when they want you.”

  “Well, then, ye must’ve drowned in it, miss,” Sylla said stoutly, “for a man would have to be mad not to want ye.”

  I gave her a quick hug. My loyal Sylla, who had followed me into my life of sin without hesitation.

  “Such nonsense.” Sylla stepped back with a smile. “Off to bed w’ ye, miss.”

  I glanced toward the parlor but the open doorway was dark. Disappointment swelled within me. He had not come.

  Up the stairs and down the hall, my bedchamber awaited. I knew Sylla would have the fire lighted and the bed turned down, so I bid her good night. I was perfectly capable of undressing myself.

  As I entered my carefully decorated chamber of seduction, draped in crimson velvet and creamy ivory silk, I sighed that it would go to waste tonight.

  “You are more beautiful than ever.”

  His husky whisper came from behind me. I did not turn. Instead, I closed my eyes, letting the delicious awareness of him radiate upon my skin like sunlight.

  Sir.

  When I felt the heat of his big body close behind me, and his big, warm hands slid down my bare arms, I let my head fall back upon his shoulder.

  Our fingers twined as he wrapped our arms about my waist and pulled me closer into his warmth. I felt his breath on my neck as he pressed his cheek to my hair.

  We stood thus for a long moment, simply breathing each other in. My body melted into his like warmed wax. I felt something swell and bloom within me, a part of my heart left dormant for five years.

  My friend. My teacher. My Sir.

  Each breath of him was a rediscovery, at once familiar and yet new. He was not there to be a teacher at that moment, he was there to be my lover.

  The sweet warmth began to transmute to heat. I felt his hands tighten on mine even as I let out a sigh and shifted my backside against him. His erection swelled instantly, pressing into my bottom. I felt a low rumble in his chest, like faraway thunder. His powerful lust was an oncoming storm. I could feel the darkness gather above my head. It would soon envelop me, overwhelm me, devastate me.

  I smiled and turned my face up to the rain.

  * * *

  As always, Sir was gone when I awoke.

  I had little time to contemplate this, however, for the very next day, calamity struck the Swan.

  Her lover, the wealthy but capricious Mr. D____, betrayed the Swan’s deepest confidence, then when gossip began to fly, he most publicly discarded her. I had never cared for the man, but the Swan had been serenely confident in her ability to renovate his character.

  The tattle sheets went mad, of course.

  Her lover’s quick dismissal of her only fueled the gossips. She went from being universally adored and admired to instantly reviled and rejected. In short, the Swan became a not very amusing joke overnight.

  She did not alert me to this misfortune herself, the idiot. Instead, I discovered the melodrama already entirely unfolded along with my morning news sheet next to my breakfast custard and toast. I froze there, reading in horror, my breath arrested in my lungs and my toast arrested halfway to my lips. I read the entire thing through—I shan’t repeat the gleefully merciless taunts regarding “the Goose”—then I rang for Sylla and flung myself into action.

  First, I thought to throw on some old gown and take a hack to the Swan’s house instead of waiting for my carriage to be brought round. Then it struck me that in the public eye, everything is meaningful. I decided to make a terrific procession of it all. If all eyes were upon us, then let them see me rally in support of my friend!

  I told Sylla to round up all the extra footmen that I kept on register for my large parties and have them kit themselves out in full Blackbird livery. I told my groom to be sure the horses were shining and spotless and at the last moment even went so far as to order the black feather bridle headdresses that I usually reserved for the most formal outings. “Full bells and brasses,” I told him sternly.

  Now for myself. I needed to sweep from my carriage in full sight of Society, or at least as might be out and about on a Tuesday afternoon. Driving by way of Hyde Park would do for starters. Then, back through Mayfair to light upon the Swan’s doorstep with full fanfare.

  And then what? What could I do to help her?

  I had no idea, truly. She had always guided me before. Perhaps now she could help me help her.

  * * *

  The Swan was, in short, a revolting mess. Reddened eyes, raw, swollen nose, and so pale that she looked nauseatingly cadaverous. I had not realized before how truly clever she was with her cosmetics, for it was clear now that she possessed no real eyebrows at all. Her golden hair was tangled and dry and her cheekbones quite sunken from lack of nourishment.

  I stripped off my gloves and tossed them atop my reticule on a side table. �
�You need breakfast,” I told her sternly. “And a bath.”

  “Go away,” she mumbled into her pillow. “You can gloat from your own boudoir.”

  I put my fists on my hips. “Oh, shut it, you lunatic. Now which will it be first, soap or kippers?”

  * * *

  I swiftly formed a plan, though the Swan held out little hope. “Sir must escort you about!” I proclaimed, sitting across from the freshly bathed Swan in her dressing gown, watching her grudgingly nibble on a piece of toast. I leaned back in my dainty gilded chair and folded my arms. “In his mask.”

  She chewed slowly, then swallowed. “He will not participate.”

  “He will,” I declared, although in truth I was none too sure. “You have been friends for many years, after all.”

  The Swan tilted her head. “Yes, but I believe he is quite fond of you. It would not surprise me if you could persuade him to do what I could not.”

  I reached for a piece of her toast and munched it, thinking. “Then again, wouldn’t his lady protectors recognize him?”

  The Swan blinked at me. “Ah. Well, if they did, they surely would not admit it.”

  “True!” I lifted my toast triumphantly. “Then that is what we shall do. The haut ton will be abuzz, wondering who your masked lover is! I think I shall even spread it about that he is royalty from another kingdom, hiding from assassination.”

  The Swan rolled her eyes, but I noticed that she reached for a slice of fruit without prompting.

  Unfortunately, although Sir would have been the perfect escort, he refused. Although the Swan had warned me, I could not believe it.

  I gaped at him from across my bedchamber, where he had awaited my arrival home from the Swan’s. “But why not? She needs your help!”

  He was retying his cravat with swift movements. I folded my arms and watched with narrowed eyes. Served him right for being half undressed already, the presumptuous lout!

  “I need not explain myself.” His voice was low as always but there was a bite to his tone I had not heard before. “It is enough that I have said no.”

  “It is enough when I am satisfied with your explanation,” I retorted. “An explanation you are not about to provide me, I take it.” I threw out my hands. “Why do you come to me if you refuse to share yourself with me? I thought we were friends. Or am I naught but a bed warmer after all?”

  He dropped his hands from his cravat and glared at me. I could see his frustration, even behind the mask. “You are—”

  I waited, my eyes narrowed. “What am I?”

  “Exasperating.” He took a step toward me. “Exciting.” The tension about his lips eased and his black eyes began to heat. “Entirely delicious.”

  I bit my lips but could not stop the smile. “And you, Sir, are also all of the above.”

  When he came close enough to take me into his arms, I spread both hands over his chest and looked up into his masked eyes. “Are you quite certain you cannot help her?”

  His eyes searched mine. “I am. Will you someday forgive me?”

  I reached up to trace a fingertip over his lower lip. “I don’t know,” I murmured. “I am not the forgiving sort.” It was the truth. I always told Sir the truth.

  As he nodded in resignation and dropped a quick kiss on my forehead before he left, I thought what a pity it was he did not have the same trust in me.

  * * *

  Sir would have made the perfect escort. However, the plan was still a good one. Furthermore, if there were ever two women in the world who did not need a man’s permission, it was myself and the Swan!

  On the evening of her resurrection, the Swan was glorious in sapphire silk. Her recent despair had made her thinner, but now that she was once again glossy and polished, her slenderness only emphasized her extraordinary bone structure and grace. She seemed a being from another world, a fairy creature who only deigned to walk the earth through some moonlit magic.

  For a brief moment, I felt a bit dark and just a bit … round. Then I banished my envy to take joy in her rise from the ashes. I took both her hands and spun her eagerly in a circle. She laughed at my silliness but I could see the worry still shadowing her eyes.

  “Stop that,” I ordered. “This will work. You will be London’s premier courtesan once again, desired by many, envied by all.”

  She shook her head at my ferocity. “What manner of creature are you, tiny Ophelia? Any other woman in your position would have been happy to watch me burn to the ground in order to claim my spotlight as her own. Yet here you are, going to such lengths to return me to my former status.” Her perfect brows gathered. “I fear you are not a normal woman.”

  I tilted my head. “It took you five years to determine that? Goodness, most people realize it in the first ten seconds.”

  She gave me a shy smile. “I realized it in five. I simply didn’t know how much that mad girl in the dressmaker’s shop would come to mean to me in time.”

  I gave her a fey smile and a hug. Then I stepped back. “Wait! You have not yet seen my costume for this evening’s rout!” I flung off my cape with a flourish and a flutter of black silk, then cocked a knee and gave her a jester’s bow. “My lady, may I be your escort this evening?”

  Her surprise was everything I could have hoped for. I laughed aloud at the shock upon her lovely face, then gave a quick pirouette. “What do you think? Do I not make a most delicious fellow?”

  Her eyes traveled up my body, blinking at the way the stockings revealed the shape of my legs up to the knee, where the pegged breeches continued to outline every inch of thigh. Perhaps they were a bit shamefully snug across the buttocks, but in for a penny, in for a pound! Besides, I doubted that anyone observing the fact that I wore a deep-cut weskit with nothing beneath it but the sheerest lawn chemise would spend much thought on the tightness of my trousers. I tugged at my cravat knot, for it was tied about my bare throat, emphasizing my lack of shirt and creating a most singular focus on my bare cleavage. My scarlet silk surcoat was a dandy’s extravagance for an event where true gentlemen would be clad all in black, but I adored the color. After all, I was going to stand out no matter what the color of my tails!

  The Swan exhaled at last. Then a slow, wicked grin lit her faerie features. “You will cause chaos in every corner of the room. How delicious!”

  I bowed again. “Why, thank you, milady. And may I return the compliment? Although I do think you might let your hair down your back. Then you will look entirely escaped from some wild place of magic.”

  She raised a hand to her perfect chignon. “Really? Loose and free?”

  I gave her a teasing leer. “As if you had just rolled out of bed.”

  “Out of bed with you?” She bit her lip. “Oh, they’ll simply die.” Before she could think better of the idea, she yanked the pins from her hair and tossed them aside. Leaning her head back, she shook free the rippling river of gold.

  I took two narrow strands from either temple and quickly braided them back from her face, binding them off with a trailing blue ribbon. A white rosebud plucked from the arrangement on the table and tucked into the knot completed the illusion. “There,” I said with great satisfaction. “You look like a gift from the gods.” I narrowed my eyes. “Or perhaps a gift to the gods.”

  She grimaced. “Sacrificed upon the altar of Ophelia’s madness.”

  I gave her a remonstrative pinch. “Shut it. Nerves are not permitted. This will work.”

  She nodded, then flashed a devil-may-care smile. “Or if it doesn’t, we shall at least be gossip fodder for eternity.”

  “Precisely. All or nothing.” I reclaimed my cloak from where it dangled from the dressing table mirror and grabbed up her silk and ermine cape. “Shall we?”

  However, when we reached the bottom of her front steps, we found a gleaming black carriage parked before us. The rich ebony sides bore no mark or emblem, but this was no hired hack. As we stared at it, the door opened, pushed by a gloved hand from within.

  “Ladie
s, if I might offer conveyance?”

  I gazed up into the familiar masked face and felt my face split into a wide smile.

  Sir.

  Eighteen

  The Swan’s return was an outrageous triumph. Even I could not have predicted how successfully Sir’s dark enigma would capture the imaginations of all, haut ton and demimonde alike. Trailing behind them both, content to play third wheel, I settled for playing the clown, as well. I flirted with all the women present, even the stuffy dowagers. I begged them to dance with me, but none dared, though I am vain enough to think that some were tempted.

  The gentlemen would not dance, either, though I bowed low and kept my voice deep as I asked for their hands. I openly mocked them, after all. Still, I enjoyed my evening mightily, circling the ballroom as I looked for some mischief and all the while keeping my eye upon Sir and the Swan. They did look most handsome together, she so tall and graceful to his height and strength. I felt a twinge of envy at how well matched they were.

  Well, it was perhaps a tad more than simple admiring envy. My easy joy in the Swan’s success slowly faded as I watched them pass the evening together. It was more than a superficial suitability.

  When a man and a woman hardly know each other, there is a distance between them. It is not much of one, but I could always tell. It always took time to warm the air between a couple, requiring often and repeated exposure to pull aside the countless tiny social barriers and gender miscommunications.

  The Swan and Sir had no such distance.

  I could not help but watch Sir slip his hand into the curve of her waist as they waltzed, nor could I miss the blazing fact that he did so with a familiarity only the bedchamber could give a man.