A Courtesan's Comfort: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Three

by Felicia Greene

  The rooms for guests were certainly splendid. James Hildebrande and his family considered the Hall a Paradise. Marcus, his mind drifting to the cramped rooms that housed the servants, wondered if he should quietly mention to his friend that certain parts of the Hall could do with modernisation.

  Nonsense. He couldn’t suggest such a thing without awkward questions. A small seed of worry flowering in his breast, Marcus joined the gaggle of guests that stood marvelling at the warm weather in front of the house.

  ‘Bennington!’ James’s grateful shout robbed him of any tranquillity he could have gathered. ‘I was expecting you earlier!’

  ‘I apologise.’ Marcus attempted to smile as his friend approached, James’s usual brazen handsomeness highlighted by the clear contentment on his face.

  ‘My goodness. You look terrible.’ James slapped his friend’s arm with a burst of laughter. ‘Should I be congratulating you on pursuing debauchery by yourself, given my wedded bliss?’

  Marcus managed to laugh. ‘No more debauched than usual, Hildebrande. A night spent reading.’

  ‘So much effort wasted.’ James’s smile softened as his wife, Catherine, approached. ‘Reading will never find you a lady of this quality.’

  ‘Sir Marcus.’ How wonderful to see you.’ Catherine looked at her husband with tolerant amusement. ‘Have you told him where everyone is to picnic, James, or has our poor guest been left in the dark?’

  ‘Picnicking?’ Marcus’s heart sank a little further. ‘How wonderful.’

  Wonderful remained far from his mind over the course of the day. It wasn’t that the activities were unpleasant—picnicking was a peaceful way to spend one’s time, especially far away from the Hall and any servants lingering within it. Marcus managed to laugh with James and speak to the other guests, walking away to admire hedgerows or roses whenever a maid approached with a basket of bread or jugs of wine, sighing with relief whenever he was left alone with his thoughts. If he managed to pass these hours of revelry without being recognised, dinner was safe.

  Elsie’s mother and father wouldn’t be in the dining room during the service. If the serving maids came from Weston Hall, as Elsie’s father had said, then he could eat dinner completely unnoticed. Marcus, lying on the grass with his hands behind his head, closed his eyes as he hoped for a pleasant evening.

  Pleasant was all he could hope for, without Elsie. It was clear now, clearer than ever, that any excess of joy could come only from her presence. Knowing she was in the Hall, somewhere within the tangled labyrinth of the servant’s quarters, was as persistent and distressing as toothache.

  Using a headache as an excuse to sleep through the afternoon, with Peterson waking him with coffee at six o’clock, he dressed for dinner with a slightly lighter heart. By the time he was standing in the candle-lit picture gallery that led to the dining room, surrounded by smiling ladies and gentleman, he almost felt like his old self.

  ‘Oh, Lord. There’s Miss Westbrook—that harridan.’ James bowed politely to a frosty-looking young woman in spectacles, who barely managed a curtsey in response. Marcus smiled pleasantly, trying to place the woman’s face. ‘I’ve never seen a lady so dedicated to removing all forms of enjoyment from London life.’

  ‘Oh, goodness. Her.’ Marcus looked again at Miss Westbrooke’s rigid back as she melted into the crowd. ‘The one that protests outside the pubs and pleasure-houses.’

  ‘We’ll be next, no doubt. I imagine she’s working her way up to the Cappadene Club.’ James rolled his eyes. ‘Her brother is an old gaming partner of mine. Politeness insists I invite her to these gatherings.’

  ‘Well, if she’s so dedicated to not enjoying herself, there’s little you can do about it. Women must have their head.’ Marcus imagined Elsie with a slight smile, recalling her fierce independence. ‘She must do as she wishes.’

  ‘She’s damned inconvenient.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Marcus paused. ‘But there’ll be a gentleman that will enjoy that.’

  ‘One can only hope. Poor chap.’ James shook his head. ‘She won’t enjoy him. That’s for certain.’

  ‘You are so jaded.’ Marcus turned to the dining room door. ‘Are we to eat?’

  ‘Yes. They’re probably adding another cherry to the tower of fruit, or whipping a syllabub. Last touches, you know.’ James moved closer to the door, peering in. ‘Look! One of the gardening chaps is adding a rose. What artistry, my man! Well done!’

  Marcus froze. Without leaning into the dining room, he knew who would be there. He knew who would be making sure the rose was placed perfectly—a good job, done well.

  ‘Bennington!’ James turned to him excitedly. ‘Compliment the man. He’s made the whole room sing with a single bloom.’

  Marcus looked down at his shoes. Knowing that it wasn’t enough—that nothing could be enough, short of fleeing—he looked back up.

  Elsie’s father stared at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

  ‘Marcus.’ James nudged him. ‘Is something wrong?’

  A face was silhouetted in the window. Elsie, her arms full of blooms.

  Elsie, watching Marcus stand silently in front of her father.

  ‘Bennington?’ James turned to Mr. Harcourt, already employing his smoothest voice. ‘Forgive me, sir. My friend appears to have lost the use of his voice.’

  There was a short, blistering moment of silence. Mr. Harcourt’s hands slowly clenched into fists, before relaxing again as the man bowed his head.

  ‘Quite alright, Your Grace.’ His voice hit Marcus like a blow. ‘No harm done.’

  Behind him, Elsie’s face vanished.

  Elsie ran out into the cloud-covered evening, roses falling from her hands, the glowing windows of the dining room illuminating her retreating back. The laughter of the guests, the clatter of cutlery and conversation, had become as alien as the twittering of birds.

  How had she ever thought that such a foolish, desperate tactic would work? She should have chosen any other man—a man off the street. Someone who wouldn’t break her father’s heart with the sheer fact of his presence, and his name.

  But no-one would Marcus would do. She had listened to her heart at the expense of her reason, and now she would suffer the consequences.

  ‘Miss Harcourt!’ Marcus’s voice. Elsie’s heart still leapt at the sound of her name in his mouth, even in the midst of her despair. Footsteps sounded on the garden path behind her. ‘Miss Harcourt, I—’

  ‘Everything is lost.’ Elsie stared furiously into the flowerbed, the leaves of the bushes and trees shivering as the first drops of rain began to fall. ‘Everything.’

  ‘I did not know your father would be in the room before dinner. I—I tried to—’

  ‘My mother and father now believe me to be the plaything of a nobleman.’ Elsie shut her eyes, the prickle of rain on her back a welcome chill. Anything to distract her from the pain of the moment. ‘A nobleman playing a trick.’

  ‘But you know that I am playing no trick.’

  ‘I know that I was foolish beyond measure to think a plan such as this one would work.’ Lord, why was she so angry? There was no use in being angry; now was the time for sadness, for reflection, and all she could feel was rage. ‘It required a very particular sort of idiocy.’

  ‘I am as much to blame for this as you are.’

  ‘I include you in the idiocy.’

  ‘Come now.’ Marcus’s face darkened. ‘That was uncalled for. I simply did what you asked.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’ Elsie angrily tucked a wet strand of hair behind her hair as a crack of thunder sounded overhead. ‘Why did you obey me? Why did you go along with such a silly idea? Why did you—why did you bring me books, and take every hour at the Club that I had, and—and read to me, and feed me, and listen to every foolish thought I’ve had for months? Why, when we both know that—’

  ‘That what?’

  ‘That… that I am nothing but spoiled go
ods. A fallen woman of no name and still less reputation, carrying a child out of wedlock. Someone who is in no way deserving of the—the charity of a man as good as you, however sincerely you give it.’ Elsie bit her lip, rain dampening her skin. ‘You must tell me that it is diversion, or pity, or—’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or say nothing at all.’ Elsie’s lip quivered; she bit down harder. ‘Because I could not bear the other answer.’

  ‘The other answer?’

  ‘That… that you cared for me.’ Elsie hung her head. ‘That you cared for me, but could not demonstrate your care due to my—my moral failure.’

  They stood in silence as the rain pattered and splashed, the thunder growing more frequent. Elsie waited for Marcus to insist they move out of the rain, to fuss over her as he usually did, but he didn’t move. For a long, silent moment, he was perfectly still.

  When he stepped toward her, she jumped.

  ‘You—you honestly thought that the reason I did not…’ Marcus stopped, the rain dampening his brow. ‘You thought that the reason I did not press my attentions upon you was—was because I could not find you attractive? That I considered you used?’

  ‘How could I think anything else?’ Her own tears were mingling with the rain; Elsie blinked furiously, but it didn’t do any good. She was weeping in front of Marcus Bennington as if she were beyond all redemption. ‘It is what men believe of ladies. Ladies like me.’

  ‘I never told you such a terrible thing. I would—I would never dream of thinking such a terrible thing.’

  ‘How would I know?’ Elsie paused, trying to catch her breath as another sob escaped her. ‘You—you have never told me otherwise. And… and sometimes, you seem so angry when you look at me.’

  Marcus’s eyes burned into hers. With a harsh, broken sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl, he strode towards her as distant lightning split the sky.

  Elsie had no time to cry out, to prepare, before his lips were on hers.

  It was no gentle kiss. It was harsh, exacting—hovering on punishment. It was the complete opposite of the gentle, peaceful, quiet courtesies that Marcus had lavished upon her for the last months—and from first to last, it was exactly what Elsie needed.

  She sighed into the kiss; Marcus’s moan hummed through her, his lips wet from the rain. His hands cupped her face, stroking along her cheekbones with the same need for contact as his mouth.

  He pulled away. Elsie stumbled forward, as shocked at the end of the kiss as she had been at the start. ‘Why did you—’

  ‘Kiss you? Forgive me.’ Marcus ran his hand through his wet hair, thunder cracking loudly overhead. ‘Oh, God, forgive me.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Elsie pushed at him weakly, her fists useless against the solidity of his shoulders. ‘Asking for forgiveness from God for kissing a fallen woman, a sinner—’

  She stopped as Marcus’s hands closed over her fists. His palms were warm despite the rain.

  ‘I am asking you for forgiveness, because I did not ask you if you wanted to be kissed.’ His voice was low, dark; as full of hidden power as the thunder. ‘Stop assuming the worst of me. For the love of God, stop it.’

  ‘I do not assume the worst of you.’ Elsie moved closer, unable to stop herself. The warmth of his skin, the scent of him, was everything she needed. ‘I assume the worst of myself.’

  ‘I have not allowed myself to assume anything about you. Anything at all.’

  ‘Assume that—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Assume that I want you to kiss me again.’ Elsie swallowed. ‘Very much.’

  She closed her eyes as Marcus covered her mouth with his.

  She was ready this time, prepared—but oh, no-one could be truly prepared for such a fierce, passionate onslaught. The way he tasted her, taking possession of her mouth with a sigh of lust so forceful, it made her quiver… who could possibly prepare for such a thing?

  Her body begged for his touch. Elsie gripped the front of his shirt, the damp fabric cool against her fingertips as she leaned forwards, letting Marcus take her weight. He could take her, every inch of her, here in this garden—she wouldn’t stop him. She would plead for more.

  ‘Do you know why I look angry, when I look at you?’ Marcus’s eyes were wild in the storm; Elsie shook her head, clinging to him. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because I—I—’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Because I wish it was mine.’ Marcus’s hand moved to her stomach. Elsie gasped at the brazen intimacy of the gesture; his palm was hot against her flesh. ‘Do you understand? I look at you, and I wish that it was my child in you. That lust, that need… it is not your burden to bear.’

  ‘It is no burden to think of it. To imagine it.’ Elsie clung to his shirt, wild-eyed, her gown sodden with rain. ‘Do you think I have not imagined it?’

  ‘That the child is mine?’ Marcus’s voice caught in his throat. ‘Truly?’

  ‘You have behaved as an attentive husband would, these last weeks.’ Elsie didn’t know if she was laughing or crying; the rain confused everything. ‘How could I not have imagined it? It has—it has sustained me.’

  ‘Nothing has sustained me.’ Marcus began kissing her again. His kisses moved over Elsie’s cheeks, along her jawline, down the line of her throat. When his teeth grazed her shoulder, she thought she’d die of the pleasure. ‘I have never had enough of you. I can never see enough, or speak enough, or—or touch enough.’ He laughed shakily, but there was no humour in the sound. ‘God help me.’

  ‘See me, and speak to me, and—and touch me now.’ Elsie moved her hands to his hair; his curls were so soft, scented with rain as she tangled her fingers deep. Marcus’s teeth moved against her shoulders again, even more harshly than before. ‘Please.’

  ‘I thought all was lost.’

  ‘It is, but—but don’t let me go. Not now.’

  ‘I would give you everything. You know it.’

  ‘But you cannot give me everything.’ Elsie shook her head, the rain chilling her. ‘You… oh, you can…’

  It was a wild idea. A craven thought, that no logic could defend. Still, she was beyond the point of being able to conceal it.

  ‘Make it yours.’ She whispered the words, half-fearing God would strike her down for saying them.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Please.’ Elsie took Marcus’s hand in hers, bringing it to her belly. Pressing his palm to the damp folds of her gown, she rested her head against his chest. If she closed her eyes, she could hear the rapid beating of his heart; his hand moved over the swell of her stomach, settling there. ‘Make it yours.’

  It was a foolish desire. Something that hovered between hope and need. Beyond need, if she were honest with herself—it went down to the root of her, a craving more powerful than anything she had ever known.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Now.’ Elsie swallowed. ‘Please. Now.’

  If he stopped running, even for a moment, it would stop being true. Marcus gripped Elsie’s hand in his, not caring how tightly he held it as he ran through the service corridors of the Hall. The occasional curious face appeared in a doorway, or an exclamation came from someone standing too close—he ignored them all.

  All that mattered was Elsie in his arms. Her voice in his ear, saying what had inflamed his lust and tenderness in equal measure. Make it yours.

  It was madness. Madness of the purest kind. But he had been reasonable for so long—so very long, and all he had gained was sadness. Now was the time to see where insanity would take him.

  Where could they go? Not to the bedroom James had given him, with all the reminders of who he was supposed to be. Not the kitchens, not the storerooms full of flour-sacks and potatoes, not the room full of boots waiting to be polished…

  ‘Here.’ Elsie’s breathless, laughter-filled voice stopped him in his tracks. Marcus turned to see her pointing to a small, plain door. ‘Where the groundsman sleeps, when it’s snowing and he can’t ge
t to his cottage.’

  ‘Is he in there now?’

  Elsie smiled. ‘Is it snowing?’

  Everything she said sparked with that lively, irrepressible humour. A flame in her that Marcus coveted. Smiling, he pushed open the door to the new room.

  It would do. He knew it before he had taken his first breath in the space; it smelled clean and warm, with rosemary hanging by the window. A fire crackled in the grate, as if in expectation of a visitor.

  ‘The scullery maid thinks of everything.’ Elsie’s voice was suddenly quieter. Softer. ‘She’d light a fire in every room of the house, if they’d let her.’

  The bed was small but clean—freshly made, with starched white sheets and a woollen blanket. Marcus, suddenly nervous, stroked his finger along the wool.

  He turned to Elsie. It took only one look into her wide, yearning eyes to not be nervous anymore.

  ‘You are shaking.’ He tried to speak reasonably, but his voice trembled. ‘Go closer to the fire. Get warm.’

  ‘Come with me.’ Elsie bit her lip. ‘Warm me.’

  There was no disobeying her. Marcus, near-overcome at the sight of her waiting for him, went to her with a harsh, needful sigh.

  Warmth was irrelevant. As soon as he touched her, he was aflame; as soon as his lips were on hers, he burned. A kiss that set ablaze every moment of looking, of longing, sparking his core with lightning as he took her in his arms. Elsie’s sigh as her mouth met his, the delicate way her tongue stroked against his own, was a reward that only increased his desire. Her cheeks were damp from rain, her neck; Marcus kissed her skin, tasting the rain on her, feeling her quiver against his lips.

  Her gown was sodden. It was practically a kindness to remove it; Elsie tried to help him, her fingers clumsy and stiff as she struggled with the bodice. After the third failed attempt, Marcus couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘I kept you in the rain too long. You have grown clumsy.’

  ‘I am always this clumsy.’ Elsie’s brow furrowed as her fingers slipped again. ‘Imagine what a terrible lady of pleasure I would have been.’