The Illicit Love of a Courtesan

Jane Lark

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Jane Lark

Praise for Jane Lark

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Love Romance?

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

Jane Lark

I love writing authentic, passionate and emotional love stories.

I began my first novel, a historical, when I was sixteen, but life derailed me a bit when I started suffering with Ankylosing Spondylitis, so I didn’t complete a novel until after I was thirty when I put it on my to do before I’m forty list.

Now I love getting caught up in the lives and traumas of my characters, and I’m so thrilled to be giving my characters life in others’ imaginations, especially when readers tell me they’ve read the characters just as I’ve tried to portray them.

“Jane Lark has an incredible talent to draw the reader in from the first page onwards.”

Cosmo Chick Litan Book Reviews

"Any description that I give you would not only spoil the story but could not give this book a tenth of the justice that it deserves. Wonderful!"

Candy Coated Book Blog

"This book held me captive after the first 2 pages. If I could crawl inside and live in there with the characters I would."

A Reading Nurse Blogspot

“The book swings from truly swoon-worthy, tense and heart wrenching, highly erotic and everything else in between.”

Best Chick Lit.com

“I love Ms. Lark's style—beautifully descriptive, emotional and can I say, just plain delicious reading? This is the kind of mixer upper I've been looking for in romance lately.”

Devastating Reads BlogSpot

Chapter One

Perfectly positioned to view one of the ton’s fairest sons, Ellen’s eyes were drawn from Lord Gainsborough’s playing cards to the man seated across the table—Lord Edward Marlow, the second born son of the tenth Earl of Barrington. He was newly in town and therefore a novelty, an enigma. Every mistress and courtesan in the room had been watching him all evening and she was no exception.

Lord Edward’s long, manicured fingers moved, poising above his cards. Ellen openly stared, the low light in the room and its stale hazy air, thick with tobacco smoke, hiding her scrutiny from the watching crowd.

His hair was dark brown and gentle curls tumbled from his crown, licking his forehead and the high collar of his black, tailed evening coat, Brutus style. In the candlelight thrown by the chandelier above, his hair glistened with a variety of rich, roasted coffee bean shades.

His head lifted and she indulged her eyes with his severe yet perfect, profile. He exuded authority. The man was sleek strength and sophistication. The muscle of his jaw tight, his lips rose as if to smile, but hesitated as though some thought stopped him, and she saw doubt or indecision pass across his expression. Then his eyelids lifted and his dark, intense gaze clashed with hers, a pale blue, more like slate-grey.

Embarrassed and a little flustered, Ellen’s appraisal fell to his hands.

His fingers teased out a card and threw it to the table while she felt his gaze burn into her.

Desire stirring, she pictured the pleasure those fingers could give a woman and the air in the room was suddenly hot and thick, despite the cool winter night outside.

Ellen lifted her open fan and fluttered it gently to cool her skin as her gaze drifted back to his face. He was still watching her. One dark eyebrow rose and his broad lips smiled. Her gaze hovering on his, she mirrored his smile, her heart pounding as though she was already coupling with him. She imagined his mouth on hers and a hot blush touched her skin. The sweeps of her fan increasing, her imagination drifted on towards indecency—impossibility—picturing tangled limbs and warm flesh.

Light caught the jet-black pools in his eyes, as though he saw the pictures forming in her thoughts and his captivating smile twisted with implied agreement. It turned his features from handsome to utterly devastating.

A hot flush spread like a caress down her throat to her breasts and lower, racing across her skin.

“I shall raise you a hundred, Marlow. Will you match me?” Lord Gainsborough’s brusque challenge sliced through the silent communication she shared with Lord Edward.

His gaze tore away, his blank expression cutting her, apparently dismissing their flirtation. Instead it focused upon Lord Gainsborough.

Ellen stood behind Lord Gainsborough and slightly to his side, in her protector’s shadow, oppressed. Oppression was Lord Gainsborough’s pleasure and Lord Gainsborough’s pleasure was her life. Her gaze fell to the seam at the centre of the back of his black evening coat. The pressure of his bloated body strained it. Excess was another of his passions.

Revulsion stirred. She despised the man—her protector. Yet preference was irrelevant. She was tied to him, trapped by him. He had blackmailed her into obedience five years ago and now here she stood, her soul and conscience dead while her body lived on, fulfilling his dissolute desires. She was empty, a vessel, deaf to the voice of morality and blind to shame.

Laughter hovered behind her closed lips, ringing in her thoughts, a sound of silent madness.

Lord Gainsborough liked flaunting his pretty vessel—his precious trophy. Sometimes he let others touch, taunting them with what they couldn’t have. Wickedly she wondered how he would react if she let someone of Lord Edward’s ilk touch her. He’d be furious.

Hiding her self-deprecating smile behind her fan, Ellen glanced over its top at the gorgeous man across the table. Was it very wrong for her sinful body to want a man like that? How would it feel? How would it feel to be free from her so-called protector for an hour or two and play his games with a man of her choice? Choice was a holy grail; a cup fallen woman longed to drink from. And she would love defying Lord Gainsborough.

As though pulled by an invisible cord winding between them, Lord Edward’s gaze lifted to her while he contemplated Lord Gainsborough’s call. His eyes widened, darkening, perhaps reading hers, and what appeared to be amusement twitched his lips before he looked back at his cards.

Ellen snapped her fan shut and lowered it to her waist, turning her attention to the game. Only Lord Gainsborough and the younger Lord Edward were left in play. The others sitting about the table simply watched, and behind them stood a crowd three deep. The dense ring of silent observers were men in the formal black evening dress Brummell had made popular, with the occasional female, mistress or courtesan, draped upon their arms. They were men enjoying the hedonistic lifestyle of the sleazy gentlemen’s club, or gaming-hell as it was more commonly known. Gaming-hells, like this one, provided the thrill these men craved from high stakes games, with women and wine to increase the rush.

For Gainsborough, she knew this place fuelled something else—his desire to be envied. He brought her here to show her off. Lord Gainsborough wore her as women wore their jewels. She was an adornment—his precious, beautiful, trophy. He’d not even dislike Lord Edward’s attention—he’d relish it. Yet if Gainsborough knew she was enticing Lord Edward, she would pay a price.

“I will meet your hundred, Gainsborough, and raise you ten.”

“Are you sure you have it, boy?” Lord Gainsborough’s tone rang with condescension, ridiculing Lord Edward. It fell flat. Lord Edward was younger, but he was in his prime. She would place him at his peak, mid-twenties at the least.

Receiving no answer, shifting in his seat, her protector pulled at the cuffs of his evening coat, while the eyes of their crowd turned to Lord Edward.

“Now your brother is back, Marlow, surely you have lost your portion. Should I request security for your funds?”

That barb seemed to hit a mark. Suddenly leaning back in his chair, Lord Edward’s eyes narrowed, his nonchalant air shattering as anger flashed in their blue-black depths. For all his beauty and youth he lacked nothing in masculine strength. Ellen sensed ruthlessness in the look he threw back at Lord Gainsborough.

“Play the game, Gainsborough. I’ve no desire for conversation.”

“But you are able to honour your debts? I need not wait for you to tug your brother’s purse strings for payment?”

Ellen watched Lord Edward’s grip tighten on his cards while his other hand reached for his glass. A slowly indrawn breath and he appeared back in control.

Everyone had heard the talk. He’d been running his brother’s estates since the age of eighteen, while his brother, the eleventh Earl, wasted both time and money abroad. Now his brother was back, potentially to bleed dry the estates which were prospering under Lord Edward’s careful hand.

Lord Edward had arrived in London a week ago, angry and bitter, from the reports of the gossipmongers in the ton, and his behaviour this evening certainly concurred with the tale. His mask of serenity had slipped, revealing the man beneath the façade. He appeared out of sorts with the world, playing hard and deep, drinking heavily—and this from a man known for his dislike of vice.

His gaze lifted, meeting hers, anger and mockery in the look, as once more he caught her contemplating him. The determination in his eyes seemed to challenge her to speak. To what, agree with Gainsborough? Does he think I would condemn him? I am in no place to cast judgement.

Again his gaze ripped away from hers. “I have enough of my own blunt, Gainsborough,” he said, looking at his cards. “I have no need to beg from my brother.”

The nuance in his voice made her feel as though the words were said for her.

“I’m glad to hear it. Then I will raise you another two hundred guineas.”

Lord Edward’s narrowed eyes lifted suddenly to look at her protector.

He didn’t have it, she was certain of that. He could not afford the stakes but would stupidly bury himself in debt because of some bizarre falling out with his brother, or stubborn male pride.

Unwilling to play audience to his downfall, she lowered her gaze and saw Lord Gainsborough’s cards had changed. The ten had become an ace, and the eight exchanged with a king. Disgust twisted Ellen’s stomach. Gainsborough would win by deceit and Lord Edward would be neatly leashed with the debt a whip in Lord Gainsborough’s hand. Her protector had no decent, honest bones in his body. He manipulated people. That was Gainsborough’s art; he used, broke and discarded people like puppets. She prayed daily he would cut her strings and cast her off—set her free—even though she had nowhere else to go. But he never seemed to tire of the power she gave him. Yet she need not watch him secure another victim in his sadistic sway.

Her heart pumping hard, looking up, she found Lord Edward’s eyes on her again. An odd feeling assailed her, a sense that he saw into her thoughts. His assessment was no longer admiring, nor mocking or angry, instead his gaze intently studied hers, searching for something.

She darted her gaze down and up, trying to direct his attention to Lord Gainsborough’s cards with her eyes while simultaneously flicking open her fan and then fluttering it beneath her chin to distract attention from their silent communication.

Lord Edward’s brow furrowed. She could see he didn’t understand.

Widening her eyes, she once again looked to Lord Gainsborough’s cards, then snapped her fan shut and tapped the tip against the long sleeve of her satin glove.

Smiling, or rather smirking, Lord Edward looked down at his cards.

Ellen glanced about their audience but she saw no one watching her.

“I will meet your stake, Gainsborough, and double it to see your hand. Show me your cards.” With that Lord Edward tossed two jacks and two eights onto the green felt and then Lord Gainsborough laid a royal flush down in opposition to the pairs. Lord Gainsborough’s hand won. An exclamation rang from the gathered crowd, voicing congratulations for Gainsborough. Then comments of consolation followed, as Lord Edward’s shoulder was slapped.

Ellen held her breath, her gaze fixed on the table, her heart pounding. She was too afraid to look up in case Lord Gainsborough identified her collusion when, if, the accusation came.

It did. “You are a damned cheat, Gainsborough! Take off your coat!” From Lord Edward’s voice she could tell he was standing, facing them across the table.

Ellen stepped back as Lord Gainsborough rose, his bulk lifting from the chair. He was old enough to be her father and looked older still after years of debauchery, broken veins marring his fallen cheeks and bulbous nose. But despite his age and weight he could still move quickly when he wished. Tonight he did not wish, he stood slowly, making no effort to do Lord Edward’s bidding.

“Don’t be ridiculous, boy. I am a Viscount. I have no need to cheat.” Gainsborough’s voice welled with ridicule. He knew this game. Act the aggrieved. Turn the accusation back upon the accuser. Be above reproach, and you are. She had watched him play it numerous times.

“Yet still, I ask you to remove your coat, my Lord, and prove your innocence, if it is so.” Lord Edward’s eyes searched their audience then and settled on a man similar to him in age. “Find Madam, have her bring her brutes and we will sort this out.” The other man instantly disappeared obeying the request.

“You are talking nonsense, Marlow. I refuse to be challenged like some damned guttersnipe! Come, my dear, we’re leaving.” Painfully gripping Ellen’s arm Lord Gainsborough turned her away. “My man of business will contact you, Marlow. Then you will settle your debt.” As Gainsborough thrust the words sideward over his shoulder, his grip steered her into the parting crowd.

“You played me false, Gainsborough! You’ll wait until it’s proven!” Lord Edward’s voice resonated throughout the room, a barked order carrying no deference for Lord Gainsborough’s seniority in age and status.

Irate voices rose, supporting Lord Edward, “Yes, Gainsborough!”

“Take off your coat!”

“Prove it!”

The crowd grew, closing the avenue before Ellen. Lord Gainsborough’s hand fell from her arm as he turned back. She knew he was starting to realise he was not going to win so easily this time.

A swell of satisfaction stirred in Ellen’s chest. Revenge would be another sin to add to her list of many, but it tasted sweet, even if the victory was minor and he’d no knowledge of her part.

The crowd about them parted again for the gaming-hell’s tall, slender, aged and highly painted female proprietor to forge a path towards them. Ellen was aware of two of Madam’s burly doormen moving behind her.

“Lord Gainsborough? What is this accusation? My house is honest. Please, if you have done nothing wrong, you shall not mind removing your coat.”

Gainsborough took a breath and then snorted, scoffing at the crowd, apparently casting them all fools. But he was cornered, he could do nothing but concede.

Slipping the buttons of his double-breasted evening coat free, he looked at Ellen, growling, “Woman, help me!” before turning his back to her and holding out one arm. “Tug the sleeve loose.” He threw her a warning look over his shoulder as he spoke. She understood it exactly. He expected her to hide the cards.

Afraid. Her heart thumped. Gripping his cuff in fingers and thumb, Ellen felt the cards hidden within his sleeve, but she refused to help him. She loosened his cuff from his hand then let go and lifted hers to ease the coat from his shoulders. The cards fell to the floor and she gasped to make it appear accidental, but the sound was lost amidst the outburst of the watching crowd. They shouted in shock and disgust, a burst of masculine irritation.

This would cost her. Their battlefield had revised and her involvement was too visible, but she was not letting Lord Gainsborough crush her first assault.

Gainsborough’s anger and accusation struck her as he looked back, and she stepped back, afraid he would strike her physically, her heart pulsing as panic turned her stomach to ice.

“As I told you,” The statement of vindication turned Gainsborough’s attention to Lord Edward, “the winnings are mine, Gainsborough. The question is what should I request in compensation for not handing you to a magistrate?” Lord Edward’s steel like gaze passed from Lord Gainsborough to her and a wicked smile played on his lips. Her heart missed a beat. What was he doing?

His gaze passed back to Lord Gainsborough. “Give me the woman in consolation.”

“For an hour, no more,” Lord Gainsborough barked.

Ellen blushed. They were bartering over her as they would over horseflesh. Another piece of her died. Men had taken her self-respect as well as her body. They were arguing over the vessel, not her, not the living, breathing, feeling woman within it.

“Two hours and you may keep your stake beyond what is on the table.”

Ellen opened her mouth to protest and closed it again. What good would it do? They did not care for her. Her eyelids falling over the moisture in her eyes, she drew a breath. She’d helped Lord Edward—he was hurting her. The cost of her involvement had just tripled.

“You agree?” Lord Edward prompted.

“I agree,” Lord Gainsborough snarled.

Because there was no other choice, Ellen thought, not willingly. Her manipulator had met his match, and she’d given Lord Edward the means to make this manoeuvre. Even her satisfaction in seeing Lord Gainsborough beaten at his own game was hollow. It was earned at her expense. She was a fool.

“Madam, we need a room,” Lord Edward ordered, soiling the images Ellen had appreciated earlier. This is hell, not heaven. I want choice not coercion.

The air escaped her lungs and Ellen opened her eyes.

He stood barely a foot away, facing her, watching her intently.

He was taller than he’d seemed when seated, a good seven to ten inches taller than her. He towered over her. His appearance was no longer impressive, but imposing.

She’d thought him authoritative before, now she knew him to be overwhelmingly commanding. Fear grasped her more tightly.

“Please follow me, Lord Edward.” Madam Marietta beckoned with her fingers.

Without speaking, he lifted his arm, a look of steel daring her to refuse to accept it. Compelled by his will alone, Ellen laid her fingers on his coat sleeve. The gentle weight of his other hand covered them, as though fearing she would run he urged her to stay. The impression it conjured up in her head was a knight in shining armour, like the heroes in the fairy tales she’d read as a girl.

But this was no act of chivalry.

He was no saviour of a lady’s virtue.

He had just bartered with another man for the use of her body! He was no rescuer come to release her from Gainsborough’s evil grip. I should not long to lean on his strength.

Yet, the strength beneath her fingers and the assurance implied in the hand resting on her own sent warmth running into her blood. It suggested security—constancy. Like the scent of fresh bread stirring hunger, his touch set alive silly speculating notions in her head—dreams—desires for a happy-ever-after that could never be.

Silent, Ellen found herself guided in Madam’s wake. She knew instinctively all eyes were on her back and she felt Lord Gainsborough’s burn between her shoulder-blades, imagining them narrow with anger and calculating revenge. Her courage failing her, Lord Edward’s aura of undaunted power kept her walking as they crossed two rooms in which Madam’s customers played at tables. The attention they drew apparently did not disturb him. But when they reached the hall as if sensing her fear, his arm fell away from beneath her hand and instead his fingers gently but firmly gripped hers.

“I would rather not go upstairs, Madam. Have you a private parlour we could use down here?” While he spoke his fingers squeezed Ellen’s, as though offering the comfort and reassurance her spirit craved.

The temperate strength gripping her hand unsettled her, setting speculation whispering through her head again. He is not my rescuer.

Marietta hesitated, looked aloft, and then clearly thinking quickly, she held forth a hand encouraging them to follow her around the foot of the stairs and along a narrow hallway. There she opened a door. “This is my own sitting-room. No one will disturb you here, my Lord. Is there anything I may bring you?”

When they entered the room, Lord Edward let Ellen’s fingers go and she took the opportunity to move away.

Crossing the room, she trailed her satin clad fingers over the chair-backs as she passed them until she reached the far side.

“A decanter of port and two glasses, Madam, nothing else…” Ellen looked back, answering his pause and met his gaze. “Unless you are hungry or have another preference?”

She shook her head before finding her voice. “No, my Lord, thank you, I am in need of nothing.” What a lie, I am in need of everything.

She turned away and ran her fingers over a polished mahogany writing desk which stood against the wall. The room was different to the public areas. It was decorated in tasteful greens not the gaudy gold and reds which adorned the gambling rooms, and, she also knew, dressed the bedchambers above. There were two winged armchairs and a chaise-lounge, all upholstered in moss green velvet which matched the closed curtains. In the grate at the centre of the hearth, a low fire burned and on the floor before it a Persian rug covered the boards. The walls were dressed with painted patterns of green ivy.

The door clicked shut. Ellen turned back swiftly and her fingers gripped the rim of the desk behind her as her gaze reached across the room to meet Lord Edward’s again. Marietta had gone and he stood watching Ellen, assessing her as he’d done in the card room while she’d watched him. Then he held out his hand reminding her of a man approaching a nervous colt. Did he not realise she was used to being payment in kind? He need hardly fear she wouldn’t give him what he wanted, she was no debutante. I am a thrice damned courtesan. There was no need for courtship or kind words. She knew what he wanted. He didn’t even have to ask.

His mouth suddenly lifted to a smile, tilting at one side. “Why did you tell me?”

It took her a moment to register that he spoke of Gainsborough’s little trick. Why did she? Because she’d seen something in his eyes she’d warmed to, or just because he was handsome and she was drawn by his looks, or possibly only because it gave her opportunity to rebel? It could be any of those things, but she knew herself too well. The person she’d once been, the stranger surviving deep inside her heart of ice, couldn’t see another human being brought down to her level. He hadn’t had the money. She couldn’t see him trapped, even if he was a man.

Her misguided generosity had led her here. She was trapped. Caught in the hands of another man who’d sate his lust for her body—the woman within it was irrelevant. He wanted to use it but he’d use her too.

Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace at his back. Her beauty was incomparable. She was not blind to it. She’d been told it dozens of times. It lay in the starkly pale blue of her eyes, the dark sweep of ebony hair across porcelain coloured skin. God had made her perfect in face and figure. The look of a Goddess, her husband, Paul, had once said. Then compliments had pleased her. Now beauty cursed her.

A sound escaped his throat, drawing her attention back to him. She didn’t know if it was a prompt, but she responded anyway. “It was obvious you could not afford the stake, my Lord. I am surprised you took the bet.”

He dismissed her words with a wave of his hand as a tap sounded on the door. “Enter!” His voice carried considerable confidence for a man she’d classified no greater in age than his mid-twenties, but then he’d probably lived his whole life with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth.

“Put it there.” He pointed to a small table as a footman brought in a tray bearing the decanter and glasses he’d ordered.

“Thank you.”

The words of gratitude surprised her as the servant left and closed the door.

Lord Edward’s gaze crossed to her again. “You will take a drink?”

She nodded. She’d need the fortitude that strong liquor brought to see this through.

Turning away, he answered her earlier statement, “I’m not in such dire straits as rumour would have it. I care not if I win or lose, as proven by my letting your friend keep his money.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug as he spoke, before pouring the port from the decanter.

When he faced her again he had a glass in each hand and, walking towards her, he held one out.

She took it, looking at the ruby colored liquid. “Then why play, my Lord?”

“Because I find myself at a loose end. I need diversion. Please, sit, Miss… What is your name?”

He asked as though he’d only just realised he didn’t know it.

“Ellen, Lord Edward.” Her voice sounded cold even to her, and formal.

“Sit then, Ellen. Let us get to know one another.”

Perching on the edge of an armchair she felt like a mouse before a cat, waiting for the moment he would pounce.

He sat in the chair facing her and leaned back, his legs splayed slightly, drawing her attention to the physical strength in his muscular thighs.

The instinctive awareness which had ailed her earlier returned. She was attracted to him, despite all else. The room suddenly felt hot, she looked up blushingly to meet his gaze. The light in his eyes implied he saw her susceptibility, but he did not speak of it. “Your age, Ellen?”

“Women do not speak of their age, my Lord,” she snapped, angered by his ability to move her and apparently remain unmoved.

He smiled, a heart stopping expression. It set hers skipping against her ribs.

Am I really so shallow I will simply succumb to his looks?

“I am four and twenty, if it makes you feel better to know my own,” he answered, his tone relaxed. “There, it’s not so hard to say one’s age.”

“I cannot see why you care to know it.” She could remove a year, two, even claim to be younger than him, she could pass for three and twenty, but she was unwilling to lie. Her life had been so full of sin, adding another lie, no matter how small, felt suddenly intolerable.

He said nothing, waiting for her reply.

“I am eight and twenty, my Lord. Older than yourself, and now you have embarrassed me.”

“It matters not. We are adults, Ellen, age makes little difference.”

“Then why ask?” she bit back, annoyed by his languorous tone. He disturbed her, she felt hot and uncomfortable, afraid—yet not afraid. Her heart thumped; a hammer ringing upon an anvil in her ears.

“Because I cannot understand what you are doing with a man like Gainsborough. He must be twice your age. You cannot persuade me it is his looks or character which draw you.”

Spurred, anger flashed through her. Who was he to judge her? He’d bartered over her body. How could he accuse her of poor choice? Surely it was obvious why she was with Lord Gainsborough; she had no choice. But she would not admit it. Not to him or anyone. She would not face that humiliation. Instead she played the part of a woman who chose to be a man’s chattel.

“Because he was the highest bidder, my Lord, what other reason would you think?” Deliberately she edged her voice with a sultry cutting pitch. The role of harlot was now instinctive. She would act it for Gainsborough too once this was done, to placate his damaged pride.

“Are you telling me I cannot afford you, Ellen?” He was amused by her; she heard it in his voice. She imagined him laughing at her, inwardly.

Lord, the self-confidence of the man was infuriating.

“Your words, my Lord.” She took a sip of port from the glass in her hand.

“Yes, my words.” he repeated, his pitch sobering. He drained his glass, set it aside and stood. “But I do not need to pay, do I, Ellen?”

A dart of longing pain stretched through her core, confirming his words. No man had stirred this reaction in her since Paul. He was right. Her body craved his.

“Come.” He stepped towards her and leaned down. Mesmerised by him, she watched his movement, while uncertainty and fear warred with attraction.

His long, beautiful fingers wrapped about the bowl of her glass and lifted it from her hand.

Unwilling to look up, unable to meet his gaze, she heard the click of the base as it was placed on the table.

His fingers then closed around hers and encouraged her to her feet.

She was silent as he lifted the string of her fan from her wrist, stripped off her gloves and put them down beside her half empty glass of port. Then he moved closer and one hand pressed against the small of her back while the other curved beneath her chin, lifting her face.

“Ellen?”

She met his gaze, hearing a question and a statement in that single utterance of her name and somehow knew he wouldn’t force her, as others had done before. He was asking permission and offering admiration, she saw it in his eyes.

“You have such beauty. I swear I’ve never seen the like.” His gaze holding hers, his curled fingers trailed upwards, the tender, gentle touch following the line of her jaw and sweeping up across her brow, before brushing down her nose. Then his thumb rested on her mouth, running over her lips.

“Do you wish for this too?” he whispered.

There was no need to ask what he meant, her body sang with longing for his, her skin was already hot and sensitised by the flush of desire. The pressure of his palm at her back pulled her lower body hip to hip with his, making the level of his arousal blatant as the outline of his erection pressed against her stomach.

He’d said he wanted diversion.

She needed him for release. If only for an hour or two, she could escape.

Her lips brushing the pad of his thumb, she formed the single word of agreement, surrender, her arms lifting to his shoulders. “Yes.” No, for the first time since Paul, this was not surrender, this was choice.

The rhythm of her heartbeat lurched to an even greater pace, her gaze locked with his, captured by the invisible link she felt woven taut between them.

His hands fell, resting on her hips in a gentle brace, just for a moment.

His touch was like an expression of awe, not domination. His hands skimmed upwards across her ribs and then reaching the soft flesh of her breasts, his palms and fingers clenched her through the thin material of her gown. Time stopped, suddenly suspended as his gaze dropped to her lips and he lowered his head.

When their lips met, the rush of desire through her veins was overwhelming. Instinctively her fingers slipped upwards delving into his soft hair, clasping it. His tongue slid into her mouth and he tasted delicious. He drugged her senses, taking her away somewhere else, somewhere outside of her sordid, soiled self. His crooked thumb dipped into the low neck of her gown and brushed across her breast, stroking her casually as his mouth ravished hers. A pleasant spasm ran from her breast, spiralling down through her body to her stomach and into her womb. Her body already ached for fulfilment.

Feeling brazen to the core and every bit the wanton whore life had made her, her tongue passed across his lips, into the warmth of his mouth and her fingers fell to his shoulders, splaying and running downwards. They slid over the taut muscles beneath his evening clothes, revelling in his athletic physique and descended to his breeches.

An erotic, pain filled sound resonated from his chest and reached her mouth as heat. But abruptly his fingers left her breast, grasped her hand and removed it as he broke their kiss. Yet his eyes were still dark with longing as they met hers. She knew her look mirrored his.

The timbre of his voice thick with desire, he said, “I would like that, Ellen, but it is not what I want tonight, not yet. Let me lead. I want to see you gain your pleasure first.”

He wished to give her pleasure? The ice about her heart cracked and warmth seeped into her blood. This was more than lust, much more, it was longing beyond a physical need. She’d given herself to men for years, she knew what pleased them. None of them had cared for what pleased her. Pleasure during sex—was it still possible? If it had been like that with Paul, she’d forgotten.

His head bowed and his lips brushed her neck while his gentle fingers slipped the straps of her gown from her shoulders then followed the neckline of her dress, slackening the material and drawing it down. With his head lowered his hair caressed her skin as his fingers lifted her breasts free, then one taut peak was absorbed in the warmth of his mouth. It sent a tremor across her skin and pain and pleasure reaching inside her.

He did not just want her body, he wanted her soul. It had only ever been Paul’s. But with Edward Marlow she wasn’t sure she could keep it safe. When Gainsborough touched her—when she touched him—she detached her mind. He took her body, but only her body. This man would claim everything.

He lifted away from her again and began plucking pins from her hair, watching the dark curls fall to her naked shoulders and over her breasts.

“If someone comes in?” Ellen heard her breathless words.

“No one will.” His voice was deep. He sounded as lost in lust as her. His hands rested on her shoulders and turned her to reach the back fastenings of her dress. The small ivory buttons slipped free one by one, and he kissed her exposed skin.

“You’re so beautiful.” The whisper brushed her neck as her dress fell in to a pool at her feet. Then his fingers swept her hair across her shoulders before tugging at the lacing of her light corset.

When her corset fell away too, he began stripping off her chemise, lifting it over her head and baring her breasts before throwing it aside. Then his hands reached about her and gripped together, drawing her back against him as he kissed her neck.

“You are nature’s finest art.”

Her head tilted back, savouring his caresses and his hand slid down over her stomach and then slipped under her cotton underwear. No one had ever caressed her with such tenderness. She ached for him—he made her feel—every nerve in her body was humming for his touch—it was a rising floodtide inside her. It was torment, unbearable. It stole her awareness of everything but him. She wanted to cry out, to protest and scream. She did not. He did not stop. Oh, she was afraid of it, of this unfamiliar feeling.

There was an explosion of pleasure. It rushed through her blood, a flood, racing, ripping her apart, an unearthed power she hadn’t known existed tearing into her limbs and leaving them weak. She felt him take her weight as she nearly fell and her fingers gripped his forearms. His lips brushed the skin behind her ear and he did not cease.

“Not again, please.” Her words were breathless. She was afraid of the torrent that might flow now the dam was breached, afraid of losing control. He was still a stranger. It was too hard to trust.

His answer was to turn her and kiss her. She willingly returned it, her hands gripping fists full of his hair, as the tide of his passion swept her away again and he leaned her back a little so the chair’s seat pressed against her calves until she fell back. She knew it was by design when he knelt before her and smiled and then his gaze dropped and he began loosening the ribbon securing her drawers. He slid them off, leaving her naked—exposed—while he was still fully clothed.

His warm breath brushed her breast. His eyes were glazed and his pupils wide dark onyx pools as his gaze swept over her body.

Awareness of the room, of him, refilled her. “This is not fair.” She hesitated, unfamiliar with desire. “I want to touch you.”

Amusement and compliance shining in his eyes, he released the knot of his cravat while she pushed his coat from his shoulders.

Once he was stripped of neckcloth, coat and waistcoat, she tugged his shirt from his waistband and lifted it off over his head before throwing it aside. Then she reached for the buttons of his breeches but his hands stopped her.

“Not yet.”

Why? What else could come?

Lean muscular contours rippled across his torso, shadowed by a dusting of dark hair across his chest which narrowed to a line delving into his waistband. Instinctively she licked her lips, only to be disturbed from her admiration by a sound of humour in the back of his throat.

“Careful, you’ll make me think you’ve not known pleasure like this.” His voice was low and husky, laden with lust and unexpected humour.

His hands gripped her hips and drew them forward, tumbling her backwards, and his head bent to kiss her stomach. Her muscle tightened, caught by surprise, but she was equally overwhelmed by a feeling of tenderness—care. It pierced her disordered thoughts. It was in his touch. She knew if she asked him to stop, even now, he would.

Moisture rushed into her eyes. This man is kind and gentle. Longing swelled inside her, body and soul. Desire and hope.

But he is not my rescuer. She had to push the thought away and shield herself behind denial. Her heart could not be involved in this. It was a physical hunger. He knows the art of sex better than other men I’ve known, that is all.

His fingers slid down her thighs and up again. “Relax, Ellen,” he whispered, looking up and smiling.

She closed her eyes, took a breath and tried to, but she felt so nervous and uncertain. When his lips touched her, her fingernails dug into his flesh.

She’d thought herself incapable of embarrassment after a lifetime of humiliation, yet this intimate caress made her blush. No one else, not even Paul, had kissed her there.

She clung to him, hanging on as he urged her back into the pool of sensual delight. He knew more than Paul had done, Paul had made her happy, but never like this.

This time when the flood swelled, smashing aside her sanity, Edward did not let her escape but pushed her over another wave. It was then he freed the buttons of his breeches and filled her.

An exclamation of satisfaction left her lips.

His slate-blue-eyes looked into hers and his closed lips smiled as he pressed into her again. He smiled more and she gripped the arms of the chair.

Well, she had wanted escape. He was certainly giving her that.

The sweet sensations transported her beyond the room, body and soul, and she clung to him, watching him through a haze of lust.

He was so beautiful, hard, masculine, yet gentle.

She loved this man, she had known him only moments but still she knew she loved him. He’d possessed her body and her heart.

He released her hips and held her hands, weaving their fingers together.

How could this? How could anyone stand such..? Light exploded within her.

The man was a God, an athlete, his strength, his stamina, his gallantry all spoke of it. There was no doubt.

“You are…” She stopped, hardly knowing what she said, and then her fingernails digging into his flesh she fell over the edge of reality into an abyss of sensation far below.

A virile cry escaped his throat, erupting from deep in his chest and he hastily withdrew.

When she felt the warmth on her stomach, she was plummeted back to reality and felt cheated, insulted. She was still a whore whom he would not want to bear his child. He was no hero, just another man. For a moment she hated him, even though he’d only really shown forethought and kindness. He’d reduced the possibility of a child. What good would a bastard child bring? No good, except a memory of this one night of release and him.

Ellen felt cold, thrown from a warm hearth in to snow, soiled again, naïve and foolish. She’d given herself completely, crying out. Anyone in the hall outside might have heard her. She hadn’t just let him use her, she’d let him pluck and strum her sensual strings. He had played her like an instrument for his amusement. She’d spent years under the influence of men and still she had not learnt this lesson. Men took. He simply had a greater skill and different tastes.

Yet the delicious feelings he’d stirred up inside her still ran through her blood, overwhelming her tangled senses. Without looking at him, she accepted the handkerchief he pulled from his coat and held towards her. Then she wiped her stomach, expecting him to reach for his clothes and make himself ready to leave. Instead he did something which surprised her. He handed over her glass.

“Drink, it will steady your nerves.”

She sipped the ruby liquid and as its warmth slid down her throat, she dared herself, lifted her gaze and looked at him.

His fingers slotted the buttons of his breeches into place and then he bent over and picked up her undergarments. Seeing her watching, he smiled. There was no hint in it that he intended to simply walk away, no rake’s art, nor aversion. He looked embarrassed too. She could see his pulse flickering at the base of his throat.

Drinking down the remainder of the port in one swallow, she waited. She wanted a word from him, an acknowledgement, something. Something to confirm his life had been changed by this, by their private interlude. She wanted it to not be her imagination.

But what could change?

Nothing.

He did not have the money to free her from Gainsborough.

She could not escape.

Just because he was beautiful and gentle and she’d engaged her heart in this, it did not mean he returned her feelings. The man was in his physical prime, he could have any woman he wanted. It doesn’t make him my hero.

She had to stop this ridiculous hope from rising to lessen the pain when he walked away.

Her stubborn heart clenched in her chest. He’d been kind. He was being kind now.

How pathetic she’d become, craving so much for kindness she would love a man after little more than an hour, simply because he’d thrown her crumbs of it.

She accepted her undergarments from his hand and rose, pulling them on while he donned his shirt and tucked it in.

“My corset?” She couldn’t tie it alone with the lacing at her back. “Would you send for Madam?”

“I’ll lace it.” He smiled, a masculine blush darkening the skin across the bones of his cheeks and took the garment from her hand. She turned.

Her fingers pressing it to her ribs, his threaded the laces at her back.

The gentle tug as he worked each lace, the pressure of her corset as he pulled it tight, the brush of his fingers as he tied it off—sent warmth racing through the heightened senses of her skin.

Daft, foolish woman to make so much of this. His skill with the lacing of a corset was testament to the level of his past experience.

He bent and picked up her dress. “Lift your arms, Ellen.” And so, she was dressed.

While his fingers worked the tiny buttons at her back into place, her senses reeled and her head told her heart over and over again, this was no more than sex.

When he returned to the task of his own attire he faced the mirror to retie his neckcloth.

Ellen blushed, remembering those fingers, now adeptly crafting a fashionable knot, playing master to her body’s whim moments before.

He smiled at her in the mirror.

She caught sight of her disordered hair and her heart kicked in fear.

Panic locking the air in her lungs, she knelt and began picking up her scattered hairpins. She couldn’t leave the room looking like this.

In a moment he was on one knee beside her, helping her. He must have sensed her concern for he caught one of her hands and held it still. “There’s no need to worry, Ellen.”

For you perhaps, but not for me, for me there is every need. She pulled her hand free and continued the task, but tried to make light of her fear. “Not if you can dress a woman’s hair.”

“I can make a fair go of it.” His voice was jovial in response.

All pins recovered, they rose, her eyes meeting his. She took a breath. “Then do your best, my Lord, please.”

His hand cupped hers and looking down he tipped the pins she held into his other palm. She shivered, remembering his touch; the things he’d done. In answer his eyes lifted, and she saw an unspoken question visible, pondering her skittish start.

“Edward, at least, Ellen,” he admonished while one hand pressed her shoulder, turning her to the mirror. She looked at his reflection as he took a single lock of ebony hair in his fingers. Then, their sixth sense speaking, his gaze met hers in the glass. He smiled before looking away and concentrating on the task.

His touch was soothing, light and tender. Her body bathed in it, like rain on dry ground, her heart soaking it up.

When the job was finished their gazes collided in the mirror once more, desire burning clearly, like fire, in his. But the echo of it was in hers as she looked at her reflection too. “When can we meet, Ellen?” The question was whispered.

She shook her head in denial then tore her gaze from his, turning to retrieve her discarded fan and gloves. There could be no repetition. Gainsborough would not allow it.

Lord Edward will not help me. He cannot.

His grip caught her elbow and turned her back. “Do not deny me.”

Stiffening her spine, Ellen lifted her chin. I have to.

As though he sensed the change in her, his hand slipped away before she spoke.

“My Lord, there can be nothing more, I thought that was clear.”

Such cold, unemotional words. She set her face and eyes to match them, locking him out of her heart.

Did she imagine the sudden look of pain in his eyes? This was just sex for him, surely. He felt nothing. He would walk away unchanged. My heart is wounded. Not his. She couldn’t escape Gainsborough. Dreams were not reality. Succumbing to Edward tonight had been enough risk. She did not dare repeat it. But she did not want him to know fear held her back. Nor did she wish him to pity her. “Your agreement was with Lord Gainsborough. I am his, not yours, my Lord, Edward.”

The look in his eyes hardening, it was not pity she saw but disgust.

“I must go.”

He moved, forming a wall between her and the door.

She met his gaze and waited, without answering the accusations lying there. This was who she was. He’d known that. He could not change it, and he could hardly judge her.

His lips a tight line, he bowed his head and stepped aside. But before she had time to reach for the doorknob his fingers caught hers.

“Tell me your full name? At least tell me that.” His deep pitch was so full of emotion the ice she’d begun re-laying about her heart cracked, flooding her body with warmth. Warmth she longed to hold on to.

“Ellen Harding.” Her married name, but even that she did not normally reveal.

Withdrawing her fingers from his, she made a final plea. “Please, do not acknowledge me again if I see you, my Lord. There can be no communication beyond tonight.” But something dreadful pierced her chest as she spoke, and perhaps it showed in her eyes because his lips fell to hers, the kiss deep and fulfilling, belittling her denial. And she knew he knew it, but she could not unsay those words, she had no choice but to walk away. He cannot save me, no one can. I’m already lost.

Setting her palms on his chest she pushed him away, turned from his grip and grasped the doorknob, refusing to look back.

Masculine conversation spilled from the adjoining rooms and filled the high ceilinged space as she crossed the hall, broken by the occasional trill of a woman’s laughter rising above the lower tones. She kept walking, ignoring the sound of a door slamming behind her, and the heavy tread of quick masculine strides hitting the floorboards.

Crossing into the first room she saw Lord Gainsborough seated at another card table by the far wall. He was waiting, watching. He rose. The men about him turned to follow his look, rising too. Her heart racing she took the few steps to where he stood.

Ribald jests and jeers greeted her from the male audience who were oblivious to the reality of his little welcome scene.

Refusing to cower she met Lord Gainsborough’s glare of accusation.

She’d angered him, yes, but she could see he was equally enthralled to think another man had taken her but yards from where he sat. She knew his sadistic lusts must have thrilled at it, while his need for control revolted.

A round of laughter rang from another room. The men about them turned back to their game. Gainsborough’s hand lifted.

As she heard the front door slam shut she felt the first strike across her face. The world about her tilted, time shifting to a slower pace as her vision hazed.

“Good God, Gainsborough, no need for that!”

“My God, man!”

A dozen calls of outrage echoed in her head. Reaching out blindly to stop her fall, she felt Lord Gainsborough’s painful grip catch her and haul her back, holding firm.

“Mind your own damn business!” his bellow rang. “Out of my way!”

Chapter Two

Maintaining his vigil on Gainsborough’s townhouse, Edward leaned his back against the iron railings of the park at the centre of Grosvenor Square. The cold air of the harsh frost seeped through his loose fitting heavy wool greatcoat and leather gloves.

Clapping his hands together briefly, he ignored the misty vapour of his breath rising on the cold winter air. Then he tilted the rim of his hat forward and folded his arms over his chest.

The property was a grand, lavish statement of the man’s wealth.

Well, Ellen had told Edward bluntly she was with the man for his money. In comparison to it, Edward was a pauper. Even if he’d been heir to his father’s estates not second born, he could not have matched Gainsborough’s wealth.

But why then had Gainsborough cheated?

Edward watched the man descend the steps from his front door, his wife fixed on his arm, his eldest daughter and grandchild in their wake.

For God’s sake, his daughter was a similar age to Ellen. It made Edward sick, the whole sordid bloody affair, including the part he’d played in it. When he’d woken the morning after with a thundering head, he’d thought it a dream, and then images and senses had merged into memories he couldn’t refute.

He was not his brother. He had no appetite for vice or excess. He did not drink, gamble, or idle away his time with women. He’d never paid for sex, nor ever would. He did not condone the immorality of it. Sex simply shouldn’t be for sale. Women threw themselves at him anyway. But none of those women had responded like her. Skill, he told himself in explanation. It was her living after all. But it was more than the sex. The woman had touched his insides—somehow—changed him— drugged him.

He was obsessed—addicted.

Lust, his brain delivered the single word to justify his feelings.

Lust? Yes, but … He thought for a moment but reached no conclusion. God. Who knew? He’d never felt like this before. He couldn’t think, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t even bloody breathe without want of her. It was not him. His reputation leaned towards dull and staid.

He blamed his brother. Since Robert’s return life had become boring and Edward had been restless. It seemed the outcome was he had turned to all of his brother’s vices.

What am I doing here? She’d made it plain she was with Gainsborough by choice. She wouldn’t meet him. She’d given herself because Gainsborough had willed it.

But Gainsborough hadn’t willed her to say the man had swapped his cards. Protecting him was her choice. And every expression of her body as Edward had made love to her had told him she was lying. She wanted him. Her responses had been absolute truth.

That was the conundrum disturbing his sleep. She haunted him. He could not forget her.

Pushing away from the railings, his gloved hands curling to fists, he gave up his vigil as Gainsborough’s coachman called to the horses in the straps and flicked his whip, stirring the thoroughbred blacks into a trot. The strike of the horses’ hooves rang on the cobble, as did the iron rim of carriage wheels rolling into motion and the rattle of harness caught the frigid air.

Edward turned away. How easily he’d been tumbled from a confident man to an infatuated youth. But God help him, he could not just leave this, he wanted more of Ellen Harding. Three nights he’d played at Madam’s. Three nights there had been no sign of her. He’d hoped if he waited here, Gainsborough would lead him to where he kept his mistress.

And then what will I do?

His hands plunged into the pockets of his greatcoat, his legs slashing its skirt with long impatient strides. His eyes oblivious to the blue sky and people passing him in the street, his mind sifted through his spiralling thoughts.

He could not entice her away from Gainsborough with wealth. Edward did not even want to if he could. She’d said she wasn’t interested in anything else. Yet a wedge inside him refused to believe it. What had been between them had not been trade. Had it? God, the woman had got into his veins like a damn dose of opium. This infatuation was a curse.

It had felt right to hold her and touch her. And there was something seriously wrong about her relationship with Gainsborough.

Why did she help me if she’s happy with him? It couldn’t just be about money.

I shouldn’t have touched her. I should have asked her while I could.

He thought of his brother. He loathed lustful men. Yet he’d just proved he was no better. Twitching up the collar of his caped greatcoat to keep the chilled air from his neck, he walked on, walked away.

He’d find his cousin and some physical activity to consume his restlessness, boxing or fencing, or both. After tonight if he did not see her, he’d go home. Home? It wasn’t that anymore. Though, at least there his frustrated energy could be put to decent use, and he could forget about Ellen Harding. Robert wouldn’t turn him away no matter that they were at odds. It had been Edward’s decision to leave.

A pain lodged in his chest, beneath his ribs, as sharp as a stitch. His fingers pressed to it over his coat as he halted at the edge of the curb and a street-sweep shifted before him with a tip of his cap to brush the filth from the street for Edward to cross.

Edward withdrew a coin from his pocket and tossed it idly to the boy, who caught it in his grubby hand with a grin, kissed it, then slipped it into his pocket before lifting off his hat and nodding his thanks.

Edward turned away, a strong inexplicable sense of unease resting over him.

~

My dearest John, I think of you always, know that I love you and miss you, sweetheart.

Ellen signed the letter to her son, Mama, blotted the ink with sand, folded it and sealed it with a little melted wax, while her maid watched. Then she addressed it and kissed the seal, her heart aching as she did. She longed to see him. But that was not a possibility. She could not even consider it; if she stopped to think about him her heart would break, and so she tried not to. He was safe and that was all that mattered.

“Millie,” Ellen whispered, holding it out to her maid, “here, put it in your dress, not your pocket. If anyone asks, say you are going for threads and ribbons and bring some back in case they check.”

Millie accepted the letter, bobbed a curtsy and answered in a similarly soft voice, “I wouldn’t tell, Ma’am.”

With a sigh Ellen reached to grasp and squeeze Millie’s hand in silent thanks. “I know, Millie. I do not mistrust you.” Ellen let Millie’s hand go as a knock rang on the drawing room door.

Millie slid the letter into her bodice.

“Come in, Wentworth!” Ellen called to Lord Gainsborough’s butler—her jailer. None of the servants were her choice. She was no guest here, she was a prisoner, and therefore she was fortunate in Millie’s compassion. She did indeed trust her maid, but no one else.

“A letter.”

Ellen’s heart raced as she heard Wentworth’s statement as a question.

Millie bobbed another curtsy and Ellen realised Wentworth held a tray. It bore a letter.

Relief flooded Ellen.

Millie quickly disappeared, sweeping past the butler and then escaping out of the door.

“Thank you.” Ellen took the letter from the tray, knowing immediately what it meant. Gainsborough would call later.

Rising from her seat, Ellen’s eyes met the butler’s insolent, disparaging gaze, it spoke of revulsion not respect. He condemned her status and yet not the man who kept her. Her chin lifting, she dismissed him bluntly, “You may go, Wentworth.”

When the door shut she turned and faced her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. The black and yellow stains across her cheek and around her eye had faded marginally, she could cover them, but the cut over her eyebrow would need to be hidden beneath her fringe. Millie would have to find a new style for her hair. The sigh of vexed frustration which tugged into her lungs, tweaked the bruising at her ribs.

Her fingers pressing to her side she took a more cautious breath and turned away from her image, looking past the swathe of the blue chintz curtain into the street beyond.

She often watched life pass by, like a canary in a cage. She could go out if she wished, none of them were afraid she’d run, but where was there to go?

Turning away, her gaze skimmed across the pale blue hues of the room, stopping to rest on the small vase of snowdrops which she’d picked in the garden that morning as she moved to sit in the armchair. Her mind reached back to the woods where she’d played as a child. Snowdrops carpeted the ground there, just like snow. She’d picked them then, once, when she was sixteen. But that innocent girl in the memory was alien to her. She had forgotten family, safety and home.

Returning her attention to the letter in her hand, her thumb slipped beneath the seal. The summons was for that night at nine.

She left the letter on the low table beside her chair and picked up her book. But her eyes did not lower to the page instead they drifted upwards to the plaster cornice bordering the ceiling across the room. She leaned back and her memory slipped back too, to Edward, as it often did, longing for something that could never be. Closing her eyes she shut out the folly of her thoughts, but she could not stop the hope from filling her heart. For the umpteenth time in days she wondered where he was, what he was doing now, if he’d thought of her?

~

As the doorman took her cloak, Ellen felt a shiver race across her skin. She had never felt so concerned about being abroad in Lord Gainsborough’s company. It was silly. She’d been his mistress for years. Her presence was expected and generally ignored.

The smoke of gentlemen’s cigars filled her lungs. The scent of brandy and musky cologne mingled in the cloudy overheated air. She lifted her fan, hiding behind it, her eyes focusing on the floor as she took Gainsborough’s arm and he began to walk across the room.

If Edward was here, it was better she ignore him.

She sensed a difference in Gainsborough tonight. She was being displayed, his trophy, but that was always so. Parading all about the room, he took an age to pick a table. Then he made much of sweeping back the tails of his evening coat when he sat, and once seated, he looked up at her before calling for his cards to be dealt. He was also keeping his eye on her more than was usual.

Ellen looked at the dealer’s hands, fighting the instinct to glance about the room, and watched Gainsborough’s cards thrown across the table facedown.

Gainsborough’s fingers caught hers and set them on his shoulder, in what Ellen could only read as an unspoken warning.

So that was his message—ownership. Edward was here.

A deep bark of laughter rang from across the room. Her muscles jarred in a sharp spasm, making her jump.

He was.

Gainsborough’s fingers pressed over her hand in another warning. He’d chosen the table for the best proximity to make a statement to Edward. She could virtually hear Lord Gainsborough’s body yelling, ‘she belongs to me.’

Edward laughed again.

Stealing a single glance over her fan, Ellen saw him. He was leaning back in his chair, smiling. She had tried to carve every detail of his features in her memory four nights ago, but Edward in the flesh was more magnificent than the image she remembered. His reality captured her breath.

He looked up, his gaze meeting hers across the room. She looked away.

She could hear his voice above the general hum of male conversation, but she could not make out the words. He laughed again, a deep ringing, reckless and carefree sound.

God, I am a fool. In the hours since they’d parted she’d analysed every touch, every word, a thousand times, over and over, building a house of cards from her hope—a house on sand—it had no foundation. This was the truth.

He doesn’t give a damn, and nor should I!

She sold herself to men. He’d bought her. Perhaps not with money, but none the less his deal with Gainsborough had been a purchase of sorts. The only difference was skill. A skill which spoke of the number of women he’d already bedded.

I was just one more.

She tried not to listen to Edward anymore and concentrate on Gainsborough’s game, unsuccessfully. She felt sick. Was he laughing at her? About her? Had he spoken of the things she’d let him do?

A footman offered her a flute of champagne from a silver tray.

Lord Gainsborough must have ordered her a drink and she’d not even heard.

She lifted her hand from Gainsborough’s shoulder and accepted it, nodding to dismiss the footman. Her fingers gripped the narrow stem and she brought the rim of the glass to her lips, looking at Edward.

He’d leaned in to say something to his friend, his hand on the other man’s shoulder, but that sixth sense which seemed to stretch between them must have whispered. His gaze turned to her.

She looked at Gainsborough’s game, drinking the champagne. The bubbles caught in her throat, making her cough.

Lord Gainsborough looked up.

She offered him a taut smile, setting the glass down on the table at his elbow.

He caught her fingers and pressed them firmly back on his shoulder.

Her other hand lifted her fan and fluttered it beneath her chin.

Unable to resist, her eyes darted back to where Edward sat.

He was leaning over his hand of cards, light dancing in his dark eyes, as the man beside him, she now recognised as the one he’d spoken to the other night, smiled and made some comment. When Edward looked at his friend he saw her watching.

She looked away.

“You have me, I’m done.” Edward’s words carried over the other voices easily, louder than before.

Glancing towards him, Ellen observed him throwing his hand of cards onto the table.

He rose, his eyes turning to her as he moved in her direction.

She looked away and prayed he would not approach. Surely he would not be so stupid. She’d asked him not to speak to her again.

Her heart pounding, she pretended to fix her gaze on Gainsborough’s cards while in the periphery of her vision she followed Edward’s movement.

He walked past her, barely a foot away and said nothing, not a word.

Tears stinging her eyes, she increased the motion of her fan.

He couldn’t speak to her, she’d told him so herself. But he had not even acknowledged her presence, and it hurt.

She lifted her hand from Gainsborough’s shoulder, leaned forward and whispered, “I am in need of the retiring room, my Lord.”

His gaze spun to her and his hand caught her wrist. The grip was painful.

“Do not take over long, Ellen, I will send one of the women to look for you, if I must.” The threat in his eyes mirrored his words. He did not trust her.

She was not going to find Edward. She just needed solitude to master her emotions.

“Yes, my Lord.”

He let her go.

She walked away, snapping shut her fan and then holding it to her chest. Her heart thumping, she weaved a path through the tables, twisting and turning, making her way through the crush of drunk and over eager men who watched the games, ignoring the hands that stroked her bottom or grazed her breast.

For a respectable woman they would part like the red sea for Moses. For a harlot, like her, they deliberately blocked her way, and often only a sharp elbow in their ribs or a shove would move them.

Normally she ignored their uncouth leers. She knew what she was, what to expect but tonight she felt vulnerable and violated.

Forcing her way through the last of the crowd she reached the hall and found the corridor leading to the women’s retiring room, the same corridor she’d been led through four nights ago.

She passed the door to the room where she’d given her body and soul to a stranger and fought the potent memories it stirred. She did not wish to remember it any more.

The retiring room was empty and leaning back against the door she struggled to control her emotions.

What is wrong with me?

“For goodness sake get a grip, Ellen.”

Her heart racing and her soul aching, she took her weight from the door and turned to the small cheval mirror on a table. A stool stood before it but she didn’t sit. Instead she leaned forward, rested her palms on the tabletop and faced her reflection. The painted woman who looked back was like a china doll, fragile and hollow. She felt inhuman.

God, help me. There is nothing left of me anymore. Where are all your high and mighty, airs and graces, now? I am no better than a Whitechapel whore, panting after a man for his looks and prowess. Disgusted with her image she stood and turned away. She’d come to terms with the poor hand fate had dealt years ago—her body belonged to men and they exploited it. But Edward hadn’t used her—she’d been his yearning accomplice. She couldn’t hide behind the myth she’d spun for sanity’s sake anymore. She couldn’t pretend circumstance had prostituted her. She could no longer claim to have been forced. She’d prostituted herself for Edward Marlow.

Tears in her eyes, she wished he had not come to the club or played cards four nights ago. He’d made her life so much harder. Too hard.

She slowed her breath, fighting tears. Crying would only stain her make-up. This was her life. She’d learned to live it before, she could learn again. She had no choice.

When she left the room, feeling defiant, she walked briskly, her posture rigid and her chin high.

In a moment, hands gripped her arm and covered her mouth, muffling her scream as she was pulled sharply back into the shadow beneath the stairs.

“Hush,” Edward’s deep tenor rumbled in her ear.

Relief and recognition ripped through her—memories.

He pulled her across the narrow hall into a room, shut the door, pressed her back against it and kissed her. It was a searing and possessive kiss. Her fingers sank into his hair greedily holding his mouth to hers, oblivious to anything but him as his hands gripped her waist.

Edward broke the kiss, pulling an inch away. She met his gaze and saw desire. It matched hers. She did not deny it. She wanted him. For a moment they simply stared at each other as she breathed in the air he breathed out. His breath smelt of brandy, sweet and sharp.

A brace of candles lit the room behind him, their flickering gold light playing on his hair and skin.

They were in Madam’s private parlour, the room where they’d made love. Sex. This thing between them was purely physical.

His thumb brushed her cheek. “Why the powder, Ellen, you had no makeup the other night?”

Unable to hold his gaze her vision focused on his neckcloth and she tried to move away afraid he would see her bruises, shifting sideward and seeking to distract him. “You should not be here, Edward.”

But his hand gripped her shoulder and his eyes traced across her face as she looked back. She knew he could see the marks and her fingers clasped the doorknob behind her.

“He hit you.” It was an incredulous statement, etched in disbelief; spoken in the voice of a man who would never hit a woman. Aggression burning in his eyes, she saw his pupils flare as the cause of it clearly dawned. “Because of me! I’ll kill him!” His words were as vicious as a physical blow and reaching around her he grasped the doorknob, his fingers closing over hers.

She pressed back against the door, refusing to move and braced one hand against his chest. “No!” The justifiable ire in his eyes, made the restriction about her heart tighten a notch. Righteous anger only made him more handsome. “He’ll kill you before you could touch him. He has too much power, Edward. There is no winning against him. Leave it. Please. It is not your affair. I don’t ask it of you.”

He knew nothing about her. He could not wish to fight for her. She could not let him. She could not bear it if he failed. She did not want him dying for her.

Defiance shone in his eyes, but then, as her words visibly sank in, she saw another understanding dawn. He let go of the doorknob and his hand braced her cheek, his thumb resting against the barely hidden bruise by her lip as his gaze reached into her. “That is why you are with him isn’t it? Because you have no choice? I can give you choice, Ellen.”

Her eyelids dropped. She couldn’t bear the promise in his eyes. I wish you could—but you are not my saviour. I cannot endanger you on a selfish whim. Shaking her head, she opened her eyes. “Edward, you scarcely know me, whether I am with him by choice or not, I am still his. You will only make it worse. Please, just go, before he finds out we have spoken. There can be nothing more between us.”

His expression hardened in denial and his gaze bored through her eyes into her soul. “Give me your address and tell me how I may see you. Then I will go. I shan’t take, no, for an answer, Ellen.”

Footsteps rang beyond the door and Ellen’s heart skipped into a sharp allegro. Without thinking, she answered, “Wood Street, near St James, number four. But you cannot call upon me. My servants are Lord Gainsborough’s. I only trust my maid. Please, speak to no one of this.”

“Send me word then, through your maid, and tell me when I may see you. Contact me at White’s so your communication will not be traced to me.”

He leaned forward and kissed her after he’d spoken and she could not deny him; she could not deny what she felt. Her fingers gripped his nape and then slipped into his hair, pulling him closer. She wanted him. She wanted him for more than just sex. She wanted him because he cared.

He drew away slightly, his lips caressing hers one last time, before he whispered, “I shall go. He’ll be waiting for you. I do not want him to harm you again because of me.”

She moved aside and his hand rested on the doorknob again, but he didn’t turn it, he was motionless for a moment, as though distracted by thought. She touched his arm. “Edward?”

His eyes focusing on her, he smiled. “I will get you away from him, Ellen.”

The statement rang in her head with the note of a vow as he opened the door and left.

Breathless she turned to the mirror over the mantle, the one in which she had watched him re-dress her hair four nights before. He isn’t my rescuer. He cannot help me. Can he?

Chapter Three

Ellen watched Millie brush her hair in the mirror on her vanity chest, the maid’s long rhythmic strokes running from her crown to her waist. These nightly caresses were the only constant in her life. Usually they calmed her, but tonight she was wound tight like hemp rope. It was agony to sit still, her thoughts writhed and her fingers twisted in her lap.

Edward had promised to help her. Lord Edward Marlow. She savoured his name. Life would be so different with a kind protector.

Gainsborough had taken her tonight but she’d shut him out and clung to an alternative—Edward. Edward had created hope and on it she was building an illusion, she imagined tenderness and devotion, love, not sex.

And she was not risking those dreams. She would not contact Edward until she was certain it was safe. This opportunity was too precious.

It was days later when the chance finally came and Ellen’s fingers shook as she penned the short note, blotted and folded it, her eyes darting to and from the door where Millie stood ensuring no one could enter unexpectedly.

Ellen had lived on edge for three weeks while she waited for this moment. Gainsborough had returned to his estates today. She knew for certain he would not be back for days. It was safe, but would Edward come?

They’d not spoken at all in the intervening weeks. He’d taken no more risks. She’d seen him less than half a dozen times at Madam’s, and when he was there she’d not even dared to meet his gaze.

Holding the short note to her breast she willed him to feel the same—to come. He was life and breath to her now. She’d written nothing other than that she could meet him, where and how, and signed herself E, afraid someone else may see it.

She prayed he would come.

“Please take it to White’s, the Gentlemen’s club on St James Street, Millie. Hand it to a footman there. Say nothing to him other than that it must be placed into Lord Edward’s hand. Here.” She drew two shillings from her reticule and gave them to the maid. “Give one to the footman to ensure he does as you ask and there is one for you.” Ellen had begun stealing shillings from Gainsborough’s purse as he slept for just this cause. Millie knew she had no money. Now Millie knew her mistress was both a whore and a thief.

“Yes, Ma’am.” The maid bobbed. Millie was aware of the risk Ellen was taking too. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Millie. Go, hurry. Do not speak to anyone.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Millie confirmed, curtsying again before leaving the room.

Leaning back in the chair, Ellen looked to the moulded plaster frieze edging the ceiling, uncertain how to pass the time until tomorrow. What if Edward was no longer in town? It had been days since she’d seen him. What if he’d lost interest in her? What if he had thought better of becoming embroiled in her life? She could hardly blame him if he chose not to come. He owed her nothing.

And yet she hoped. It was a living, breathing, deep-seated sensation inside her. She had tried so hard to quell it, but she simply could not. Hope had been unleashed and it would not go back into its cage. It was a constant turmoil of emotion roiling inside her, waiting desperately for its chance to run free. She’d barely slept and hardly eaten, her thoughts reeling.

Now she must wait again and try to tame it.

~

Leaning back in the armchair, Edward shifted the ankle of one booted foot to the knee of the other, watching his cousin, Rupert, read the Times. Edward’s stomach rumbled. He had been living on nervous, restless energy for days, with no appetite for food, or anything in fact. His fingers commenced a rhythmic drum, flowing from one to the other in a line on the leather-clad arm of the chair.

A letter had arrived from his brother, Robert, yesterday, requesting both Edward’s advice and return. He’d been thinking all night over whether he should go. After all he’d heard nothing from Ellen. She wouldn’t even meet his gaze in Madam’s, so rather than torture himself he’d stopped frequenting the place, refusing to sit there and watch Gainsborough paw her. And Edward wasn’t stupid; he knew Gainsborough was staking his former claim, flaunting Ellen and telling Edward she was beyond his reach. But Edward rejected the notion. He was not accepting it.

Damn it. He’d done what she’d asked. He’d stayed away until she deemed it safe, but if she did not contact him soon…

I will what? Kick her door down? Steal her away? Call Gainsborough out? There must be something I can do other than just sit and wait? The tedium of it was excruciating.

“You are not attending, Ed!” His cousin’s sharp tone cut through Edward’s thoughts, abruptly interrupting them. “I’ve been speaking to you for an age. I said, what are your plans for today? I’m going to Manton’s in Dover Street this afternoon, to the shooting gallery, I wondered if you wished to come?”

It was a haunt Gainsborough favoured.

Edward shook his head. “I will probably go to Jackson’s.” The pugilist master’s studio in Bond Street was a good place in which to vent his recent frustration.

“And I shall leave you to it, after yesterday.” Rupert rubbed at his jaw in reminder of the blow he’d taken.

“I apologised, Rupert. I told you, I lost my concentration.”

“Believe me it did not feel as though you were not attending, it felt as though you intended to kill.”

It was true enough. Edward laughed. Gainsborough’s son-in-law had walked through the door and caused a distraction. The blow had been for Gainsborough.

A month ago Edward had prided himself in being level headed. But since Ellen Harding had possessed him, he was someone else, someone he wasn’t comfortable with. He was no longer certain of who he was at all.

He lifted his ankle from his knee, set his foot back on the floor and lifted the other leg, his fingers continuing their rhythm on the arm of the chair.

“For God sake, what is wrong with you, Ed?” his cousin challenged, peering over his newspaper. “You’re fidgeting. I asked you if you wished to meet afterwards.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’ll do later.”

With a suddenly intent gaze, Rupert folded the paper and threw it aside, leaning forward in his seat. “Ed, is something wrong? You act odder by the day.”

Yes, Edward laughed again, inwardly. He did feel very odd, as though there was a hole in the region of his chest and if he told his cousin he’d fallen head-over-heels-in-love with Gainsborough’s courtesan, Rupert would think him touched in the head. He was mad to love her. He knew that himself. But love her he did. He could not help it, nor deny it any longer. The obsession he had for Ellen Harding had to be love and not just lust. He’d certainly never encountered such all-consuming emotions before.

“Ed! You are wandering off again.”

Edward smiled at his cousin’s expression of genuine concern, “I’m tired, Rupert, that’s all,” lifted his ankle from his knee and set both feet on the floor, then pushed on the arms of the chair to stand. “In fact, I think I’ll go. A drive will clear the cobwebs from my head. I’ll bid you good-day.” He bowed. “Rupert.”

“Ed, for God sake, take care, don’t drive your damned phaeton off the road, you’ve no concentration lately.” Nodding vaguely, Edward walked away and Rupert leaned back in his chair looking exasperated and lifting a hand in parting.

“My Lord.” A young footman stopped Edward in his path to the exit with a bow. Then he held out a piece of folded paper. “I was given this for you.”

Edward felt his heart slam against the wall of his chest and took the note, then discreetly slid it into the breast-pocket of his morning coat, before exchanging it for a coin. “Thank you for your discretion.”

Within minutes, Edward was steering through the streets in his curricle, his mind not at all on the task; the paper burning a hole in his pocket.

He flicked the ribbons and sprung his bays, but the capital’s streets in the afternoon were irritatingly busy with heaving humanity, of all classes. Turning a corner he marginally missed a small boy who’d run across the road, as well as very nearly dislodging the groomsman balancing on the phaeton at the rear. Admitting defeat, Edward reined in the horses and set a more even pace, utterly at odds to the pulsing need for an outright gallop coursing in his blood.

When he finally pulled into Bloomsbury Square, where his brother’s townhouse stood, Edward called back to his groom to take the reins and wait in the street. Then he leapt down, ran up the steps to the door and rapped the knocker impatiently until Jenkins drew it open. Already drawing the letter from his pocket Edward irritably thrust his brother’s butler aside and crossed the chequered marble floor to the drawing room.

His attention on the paper in his hand he was deaf to the butler’s request for his hat and coat and blindly ignored the footman’s bow as he passed. Instead he read, his strides pacing across the room, his heart thumping in his chest.

She proposed a meeting, at one tomorrow, at the gates of Green Park. He looked at the clock. The note had been written yesterday. It was now already nearly twelve.

Thank God I went to White’s this morning.

He squatted down at the hearth, the hem of his coat dragging on the floor, touched the edge of the letter to the flames and watched it begin to burn. He let it fall into the hearth and waited until he knew it was just ash, then walked away.

She had asked him to come alone, not to trust his servants, not even to ride in his own carriage but to take a hackney. He suddenly felt incredibly cold. Perhaps I am insane to get involved in this— involved with her. He knew if he met her again there would be no turning back.

Hell, there was no turning back now. The woman was already too embedded in his blood. Whether he willed it or not, Ellen Harding was a part of his life now—a part of him. He had no choice but to go to her.

~

He’d been waiting ten minutes when he saw her. She was simply and elegantly dressed, her appearance nothing like that of a courtesan. The long dark navy pelisse she wore was to keep her warm in the chill, early March winds. Spring was still as yet unbroken.

The demure garment hung to her ankles, with double breasted buttons across her chest, and an upturned fox fur collar framed her beautiful neck and face. Her hands were within a matching fox fur muff at her waist. The dark navy hat, sitting high on her ebony hair, was decorated with jay’s feathers that swept up from the brim above her left ear. A narrow, navy veil, woven in a fine net, was drawn down over her eyes and nose.

His hands curled into fists inside the pockets of his thick, many-caped greatcoat as he watched her, waiting for her to notice him.

She had thought to hide herself, he guessed, but he would know the curve of her jaw, that mouth, the column of her neck, anywhere, even within a crowd. He had committed it to memory half a dozen times in recent weeks and lain awake night after night recalling every detail.

She looked over her shoulder, glancing back up the street, as if she half expected to be followed. Then she looked to the traffic in the road, waiting until it was clear before she crossed to the park gates. She’d still not seen him.

Within her muff he imagined her hands clasped together, her thumbs circling one another. He’d seen her tendency to fiddle when she stood at Gainsborough’s back. She was forever twisting and turning her fan; never comfortable, nor secure. The other courtesans he’d seen in London were women of excessive confidence, bold, never meek and maidenly in their manner as Ellen always seemed. With Ellen he could not even lay her lack of confidence at the door of her age. She was older than him, and yet her nervous behaviour made her seem half a dozen years younger.

She was on the path some distance before him now, her short, quick strides slicing at the skirt of her pelisse. Her gaze was on the pavement ahead of her, oblivious to the men who passed her and looked back, as nearly every man did, even with her beauty covered by a veil.

She looked up.

The moment she saw him, he could tell she’d not thought he would come. It was in the sudden drop of tenseness in her shoulders and the smile opening her mouth as if she would speak and acknowledge him from afar. But such an outburst would be folly, even though he had come as asked without acquaintance or equipage, someone may know him. Her mouth closed on the exclamation as she increased her pace, weaving through people walking the other way.

He silently cursed every man who looked at her twice. But then she was clearly a woman of standing, walking alone, the conclusion was obvious. A protective wave of masculine hormones ran through his blood, an instinctive need to defend his territory.

Angry at himself he turned to walk through the gates of the park, sensing her follow him. Fool, she isn’t yours. She was Gainsborough’s, and when he spoke to her he must not forget it.

He’d walked nearly two hundred yards before she drew alongside, and when she spoke her voice was breathless but full of joy he’d not heard in it before. “You came. I didn’t think you would.”

A vice like grip contracted tightly about his heart as his senses were filled with the scent of her, the sound of her. “You had no need to be in any doubt. My feelings are unchanged, Ellen.” His voice was harsher than he intended in response to the need and longing ripping through his chest.

“You are angry though?”

He’d chased away the pleasure from her voice. “No,” he answered, smiling, looking sideways at her, “just desperate to be alone with you.”

He ached to reach for her hand but made no move to touch her, following her lead. It was hardly the fashionable hour and a less frequented park so they would be unlikely to meet anyone he knew, but even so he was aware of her concern for caution.

She held herself slightly away from him while they walked along a path on the edge of the open grass. To their left was a dense shrubbery of evergreens. Ahead of them other couples laughed in flirtatious conversation.

“I thought because you have stopped coming to Madam’s…” her words trailed off.

“Because I cannot bear to watch you with him, that’s why. I was beginning to wonder if you had changed your mind.”

Stopping suddenly, she turned and met his gaze for a moment before looking away to watch a couple further on, as though unable to accept his observation. “This has been the first opportunity. He’s gone for several days.”

She started walking again, a little ahead of him, her eyes fixed on the distance where the white winter sky met the horizon of the city’s park.

He felt the meaning of her statement hanging in the air between them. He began walking too. She was so uncertain of herself, he realised, she didn’t even dare presume he would wish to see her more than once, despite the fact he had only a moment ago declared his feelings were unchanged.

He followed her, a step behind, his open hand hovering at her back, not touching, as if to protect her from what the world had thrust upon such slim and unsubstantial shoulders.

That living this life was not her choice, couldn’t be in doubt.

“How long do we have?”

“I must be back before dark. If I am not, the servants may tell tales.”

“But then we have a couple of hours.”

He caught her elbow and gently drew her aside into the privacy of the less dense branches of a large rhododendron bush. Inside the cavity, surrounded by its evergreen leaves, they were at least afforded some privacy. He lifted her veil, tipping it upwards over the rim of her hat. No make-up. No bruises. Only beauty. More than beauty, magnificent perfection.

His head bent and he kissed her, a kiss she freely gave. His hands settled on the curves of her hips, drawing her body closer. Already his groin was aching, heavy with the weight of his need for her.

“Ellen.” His voice was breathless as he rested his forehead against hers. “God, I’ve missed you. I can think of nothing else but where you are, what you are doing. I think I’m going mad.”

She smiled, a hesitant look, suggesting she was as much affected by him as he was by her. One hand left her muff and her fingers traced the line of his jaw then settled on his lips. She was thinking something, but she did not speak. Her hand fell.

“We could go to an inn, find a room?” For all his confidence and authority he felt like a child begging for a treat.

She nodded. He bestowed another brief kiss on her lips, took her hand in his and squeezed, then let go. “You go first.” He held out his hand. “I will follow and meet you at the gate. But you will have to take my arm from there. I will not leave you walking through the streets alone.”

An overwhelming rush of warmth raced through Ellen. He was everything her imagination had hoped; concerned and considerate. She walked from the cover of the branches before him and made a path directly to the gate. But when she crossed the road she felt his fingers touch her elbow. On the opposite path she slipped her fingers from the muff and laid her gloved hand on his arm. It felt good, normal, like any other couple in the street.

They walked at least a dozen streets before he finally turned into the doorway of an inn.

Inside she stood watching, her hands clasped within her muff, while Edward leaned to the landlord’s ear and money exchanged hands. Then she caught the landlord’s sideways glance at her. It was swift, narrow-eyed and presumptuous, obviously judging her a harlot, and implying indecent thoughts.

She longed to slap him. He made what she’d seen as beautiful seem suddenly sordid. She was not normal. She wasn’t a lady with her beau. What she was, was a whore about to be bedded. There was nothing romantic in this. Whether it was Gainsborough or Edward, the outcome and the position were the same. She’d been stupid imaging it as anything else—painting this affair as a picture of love and devotion. It was not that, no matter what Edward said or what she thought, he could not rescue her from this life and nor could he take back the intervening years of pain. She had better learn to accept this for what it was, a brief opportunity for escape, an interlude, not an affair.

Edward took her elbow, his fingers as gentle as ever, unaware of her change of heart. “I ordered food, I didn’t know if you’d already eaten. I thought just bread and cheese, and ale. I’m sorry the place is humble, but it seems clean. I didn’t think you would wish to risk looking for anywhere more luxurious. We are certain to meet no one who would recognise us here.”

She nodded.

His fingers at her elbow, he guided her into a dingy hall and led her upstairs. The paint was tarnished and chipped in places, but he was right, it was clean.

Edward stopped at the second door and bent to set a key in the lock. The door creaked as he pushed it open and then he stood back and held out his hand, encouraging her to pass.

Her breath caught in her lungs as she stepped inside, remembering what they had done before.

A single tall, thin, window in the far wall let in light and the muted sounds of the street. The room was still grey though, as the day was cloudy. It smelt a little of stale tobacco and was simply furnished, but she had hardly expected a palace. The narrow double bed stood against the back wall. In the opposite corner a single wooden chair faced a small square table, which from the ingrained ink stains, had often served as a desk. A flat topped wooden chest stood at the end of the bed. She crossed the room pulling her hands from the fur muff, discarded it on the desk and walked to look from the window, down onto the busy pavement and street below.

She felt Edward’s hand rest on her waist, his fingers urging her to turn to him. She did, her hands lifting to his shoulders as his head lowered and his lips found hers.

His hand slipped from her waist and splayed at the small of her back, while his other settled on her side, the heel of his palm resting at the edge of her breast, his fingers curving about her ribs.

All self-pitying thoughts over the inadequacy of their surroundings, or the opinion of the landlord, vanished, absorbed and diminished by his kiss. As long as she was with Edward, in whatever capacity, she found she didn’t care. Her lips parted for his tongue and her fingers gripped his hair as his hand slid between the two of them, searching for the buttons of her pelisse. His leather clad fingers were cold as they skimmed the curve of her breast which swelled above the square neck of her gown. He broke the kiss, smiled and looked down at the front fastening of her dress. Then he bit one finger of his glove, tugged it off and tossed it onto the desk.

She laughed at the roguish smile he cast her before returning his concentration to the buttons of her bodice. Once they were free he recommenced their kiss and slipped his fingers into her bodice. A rush of desire slid through her stomach.

A hard knock struck the bedroom door, then without bidding she heard the sharp, sudden creak as it opened.

Edward broke the kiss abruptly and turned, setting his body between her and the door.

Her fingers touched her lips and looking down she saw the milk white skin of her breast as a stark contrast to the dark navy of her pelisse and day dress, she felt like a whore again—I don’t care.

“Set it down and go!”

“Sir, as you wish,” the gruff landlord answered in a mocking tone.

Undoubtedly the man had deliberately entered to see more. When the door shut Edward crossed the room and turned the key in the lock, then he collected the tray and set it down on the chest.

Ellen’s shaking fingers withdrew her hatpin and removed her hat. She set it down by her muff, then pulled off her gloves and set them down too. Next she slid off her pelisse while he poured two mugs of ale and moved to light a fire in the hearth.

This situation was dream like. She did not feel like herself at all. Laying her folded pelisse over the back of the single chair, Ellen watched the flames catch the wood in the hearth. She was reminded for a moment of nights beneath the stars with Paul, around an open campfire. Life had seemed so simple then, despite their poverty and the hardship they’d endured daily. She had felt like a queen because Paul loved her, all else, all other worries, had paled into insignificance. And now?

Edward’s task complete, she watched him rise from his haunches and shrug off his heavy wool greatcoat. It was the height of male fashion. On Gainsborough it looked rather ridiculous, on Edward it extolled his muscular physique.

Discarding his other glove with hers, he then laid his coat over her pelisse before rubbing his hands together, warming his fingers.

“Had you been waiting for me long at the park?”

“No.” He smiled, clearly offering reassurance. “Have I been waiting for you for long before the park? Yes, all my life.” He let the statement fall as though it meant nothing, as though it was a joke at his own expense, but his tone implied it was more than that. Then, as if regretting his revealing jest, he immediately crossed to the tray, offering to cut her a slice of the sweet scented fresh bread. She accepted and watched him cut some bread and cheese and set it on a plate with a spoonful of plum chutney.

Could she really believe he had stronger feelings for her too?

“Thank you.” She took the plate from his hands and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, hitching up her dress a little so she could rest one knee on the mattress and face him, while her other foot dangled to the floor.

He filled a plate for himself, came around the other side of the bed and lay down on his side. His booted feet hanging over the edge of the bed, he bent his elbow and rested his head in the palm of one hand.

The pose was boyish.

A sharp pain struck her chest, running into her breast as she thought of John. Her secret. But blinking away tears she continued eating, hiding her reaction.

“How did you end up with Gainsborough?” His question was nonchalantly put, but she could see the tension in his jaw suggesting it was something he’d applied considerable thought to. It was a question she had dreaded from his lips. She could not answer it, not yet, perhaps not ever. She would have to be certain of his loyalty first.

“I’d rather not speak of it.” She closed that conversation down and in return, picked the only thing she knew about him to change the subject. “Is your brother glad to be home?”.

“And there you choose my sensitive subject.” He sat up, finishing off his slice of bread, and brushed the crumbs from his morning coat. “I believe Robert is not thrilled with the prospect of knuckling down to life as an Earl, but he hardly has a choice. As for his skill? That is my issue. Or rather Robert’s lack of skill. But then he has the knowledge of his steward so he does not need mine. Although I admit he did write to call me back to Farnborough this week, but I believe it was more to sooth my vanity than from any real need. And no, Ellen, I do not intend to go.” His fingers covered hers on the bed as he answered the unspoken question he must have seen in her eyes.

“Would you go if not for me?”

He smiled, swallowed, and for the first time she saw a vulnerable look in his eyes. “Yes.”

It was the truth, nothing more, she knew that, and she refused to risk reading anything more into it. But mentally she clung to the hope which the single word insinuated—this was more than sex. Yet she was too afraid to ask if she was right; she couldn’t bear hearing him deny it. It had hardly been a statement of undying love.

Picking up their plates, he set them back on the chest at the end of the bed. Then he moved to lie back down, opening his arms to her. “Ellen?”

She went to him, kissing him as he embraced her. She wanted to give him back the attention he’d given her at the club. Her fingers searched for his coat buttons as his slid her dress from a shoulder and he took control of the kiss she’d begun, pressing her back onto the bed.

Breathless, she refused to concede, fighting to undress him first. It was different today. There was more urgency.

Suddenly untangling their limbs, he pulled away, smiling, dark intensity glowing in his eyes as he stood and held out his hand.

“Perhaps it would be easier if we stand.”

Her stomach full of butterflies, she accepted his hand. She felt foolish and nervous. She wanted this to be perfect.

“Let me lead today,” she urged, reaching for his coat buttons again.

Laughter, interest and expectation all glinted in his eyes. “If you wish.”

“I wish, Edward,” she answered, slipping his buttons loose. Her fingers shaking, she did not look at his eyes.

When his buttons were loose he took off his coat and she stripped off her dress, feeling more uncertain.

She knew how to be a whore. She was unsure of how to be herself. But she wanted to please him. She wanted this to be right, as she’d imagined it could be.

“Ellen?” His hand on her arm and at her nape, he kissed her and her body quivered but again she grasped for control. Leading would be novel. She wished this to be different.

She broke their kiss and urged, “Let me, Edward,” pushing him back onto the bed.

A short sound of humour left his throat.

Ignoring his mockery she turned and bent over to pull off his boot.

“That’s a beautiful view, Ellen,” he jested laying his palms on her bottom.

Smacking his hands away, she said, “Instead of mocking me you could remove your cravat.”

“I wasn’t mocking,” he responded, but complied.

It felt so strange being with him, extraordinary and unexpected.

His boot fell to the floor along with his stocking as his cravat sailed over her shoulder. She pulled at his other boot while she felt his fingers tugging the laces of her light corset.

The other boot fell and her corset dropped to the floor.

She turned.

He was lifting his shirt off over his head revealing his glorious chest.

She smiled as their eyes met and he stood. She knew he’d seen her admiration and she felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly as he tossed his shirt onto the pile of clothing on the floor.

Her fingers spread over the ridges and hollows of his stomach.

He gripped her chemise and lifted it.

Naked to the waist, Ellen blushed, and smiled when he did, her gaze clinging to his as her shaking fingers freed his buttons and his tugged loose the ribbon of her drawers.

His eyes were full of longing—the same longing she’d seen there that night in the club. The air left her lungs. His desire frightened her today because it meant so much more to her now. He had promised things to her. She wished to give in return. She wanted this to be right. Forcing her courage, she stepped forward and slid her arms about his neck, pressing her breasts against his chest and her lips to his. I love you. Foolish, foolish words.

Need clutched his groin as her slim, soft body pressed flush against him. His fingers slid up the slender column of her neck and into the roots of her hair as he plundered her mouth, cradling her scalp. God, he loved her.

Her hair fell, cascading about her shoulders and pins dropped to the floor. A mewling sound suggesting satisfaction leaked from her mouth.

He gripped her hips ready to lift her to the bed but she pushed his hands away and broke the kiss.

“Let me,” she said again, her pale gaze clashing with his.

Compliant, he stood still, breathing deeply while her eyes followed her gentle touch as it explored the contours of his chest. He was entranced by her, watching her as she watched her fingertips skim over his skin.

Her dark eyelashes contrasted starkly with her pale blue eyes and her black hair lay across the alabaster of her shoulders. There was not a single blemish on her skin.

Her gentle fingers brushed over his biceps and arms before they gripped his hands and then her thumbs pressing into his palms she dropped to kneel on the rough floorboards. The air froze in his lungs.

Oh God.

He should not let her do this. He did not wish her to work her craft. But the pleasure was excruciating. She knew how to drive a man mad.

A shiver raked his skin as he watched her. He was lost.

When she let go of his hands, his fingers instinctively threaded into her hair, cupping her scalp and following her rhythm.

After a while, burning with an unbearable hunger, his thumb pressed into her mouth and urged her to stand, his heart pulsing.

“Ellen,” his hand held her scalp as he kissed her. She did things to his insides he could not explain, made him feel weak. He leaned her back until she tumbled onto the bed. But then her palms pressed against the pectoral muscles of his chest and stopped him again.

“Ah.” He conceded with a frustrated humorous grunt, rolling to his back and giving her the lead once more.

She was blushing when she straddled his waist, her eyes watching him and her cold palms on his chest.

He recalled the sensation of entering her. It had been in his dreams ever since that first night. But when she descended it was not at all the same, it felt forced, unbearably abrasive and painful.

Clarity hit him like a bucket of iced water. Hell. She was watching him clearly looking for response, busy giving him what she thought he wanted—Cyprian style. This was solicitation. She was not in the least aroused.

His body mentally and physically revolted, angry and shaking, he gripped her waist and set her aside. Then leaving her there he climbed from the bed, escaping his disgust.

Lord.

Damn.

He reached for the mug of ale and drank; his eyes focusing on anything but her. You heartless fucking bastard, Edward! He’d let her ply her trade because it suited him. It wasn’t like that. What they’d done at the club had not been like that! Had it? Not like Gainsborough and any others she’d bedded.

Bile rose in his throat. He was sickened to think she’d felt forced into this—by him. What on earth did she hope to gain by it? Or did she simply not know better?

He looked back at her. “That is not what I want, Ellen.” His voice shook as badly as his nerves.

She looked stricken, bewildered, kneeling on the bed and watching him with an expression of confused pain, her fingers clutching the covers. “I don’t want to have sex with you if you do not desire it. You owe me no debt. If all you want is help I will help you without this.” The anger in him dissipated suddenly as in a cracked tone he gave her the option honour demanded; even though his desire was a living entity inside him, belying every word. “If you would rather go, or just talk, tell me?”

The distress in her wide eyes was tragic, a scene drawn directly from a Greek play, Diana cast out by Zeus. His gaze swept her body in an instant, from the crown of her head, over her pert breasts, to the curve of her waist and her slightly parted thighs. Heaven only knew how he would walk away but he would if she denied him. His eyes lifted back to her face and he met her gaze.

He wanted to go to her, to soothe away the tears he could see there, but he wouldn’t do it, not until he was certain this was her choice as much as his. If he comforted her, coerced her with arousal, he would never know the truth.

“I want to give you what you gave me.” She answered quietly. He’d drained the last of her confidence.

A lump lodged in his throat. He took a swig of the ale to clear it and then set down the pewter mug.

“Ellen…” He went to her, sitting on the bed but not close. Not knowing what to say.

Her hands covered her face, hiding a blush which ran down her neck and a mortified sob escaped the barrier of her hands.

He could not leave her suffering. “Ellen.” He gripped her hands, pulled them down, then braced her chin and held her gaze to his. “What gives me pleasure is you wanting me.” He threw a disgusted glance at the bed, where they’d lain. “Not, that damned performance of it.” Then looking at her again, he said, “Whatever you do with me, you do because you want to, Ellen, not because you feel you should. If you don’t want anything physical between us, neither do I.”

“I want to.” Her lips clamped shut on the childlike denial. It was a boon, at least she’d meant to please him and not felt pressured.

“I’ll put it another way, Ellen, do nothing for me unless it gives you pleasure too.” Sucking in a shuddering breath, his fingers fell from her chin as he finally released the knot of anger and revulsion inside him. “I am not an imbecile, Ellen, you aren’t even aroused. Gainsborough may not care, but I do. God, it revolts me to think you would equate me with him.” He shrugged off his anger. “Do you want something to drink?”

She shook her head, then slid her slender arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his, her weight knocking him back to the bed.

This time he was more cautious, keeping his head and letting her lead the kiss, his fingers tracing across her back and buttocks. Even those gentle curves were perfection. He curled his fingers and ran them up her side, brushing the swelling curve of her breast which pressed against his chest. He felt rather than heard her reactive sigh, it was the pressure of soft flesh against his chest and warm air in his mouth.

Her leg slid across his thigh. He bent his knee.

Clenching her buttock, blood beat in his veins and hunger burned in his stomach but he was not letting his reins go, not yet.

With her cold fingers gripping him he returned her kiss waiting until he was sure she understood this was for them both. And when she pressed down and he was certain he let his primal beast roar and rip free, his hands clasping her as his thigh pressed back.

“Ellen.” He breathed her name as though in pain. Then she was battling against him for control as before. It was intoxicating, the way he caressed her. Distracting. She could not think and he took control his hands all over her.

Ellen clung to him, falling into ecstasy. It spun delicious pain into her nerves, and left her limbs limp and shaking.

“Edward!” she screamed as he tumbled her onto her back and leaned over her, his muscles taut with intent.

She was not conceding. She was not giving him control. She wanted to lead. She wanted the novelty, the feeling of power, to know she could, to know he’d let her, to feel equal. What he’d said was true, she’d been too nervous to be aroused before, thinking too much, but her motives were unchanged. She wanted this to be different. Her breathing heavy she held him back. “Let me, I want to lead.”

His dark eyes shone like glass. He clearly did not understand. She saw the question in his eyes that said, why. But again he did not deny her and rolled back. “As you wish, Ellen. Have your way.”

She was going to. She was determined to do this as she wished. ‘Whatever you do with me, you do because you want to.’ There was so much promise in those words. This was much more than sex.

She straddled his magnificent body and splayed her fingers on his sculpted chest.

He was silent and unmoving, bar the lift of his chest as he breathed.

She sank down.

He did not push her away, his fingers clasped her thighs and his jaw clenched.

She bit her lip, watching him. He appeared drunk, his gaze holding hers. This was how she’d imagined it. Just like this. Adoration shone in his eyes.

Her fingers slipped to the muscle of his abdomen. The sensation inside her swept all else away. Being with him was beautiful. Her spirit soared. Her personal litany of his possession ringing in her thoughts—release—escape—this is not just fulfilment of the flesh—this is more.

It is more!

And he was so unknown to her, nothing more than a stranger really, yet she felt so close to him emotionally as though she’d known this would happen between them all her life. It felt right.

He reached up and pulled her down.

As she returned his kiss she knew this was no longer her working a craft she’d learnt with other men or him displaying skill, this was them, bound together.

Weeks ago, in the gaming-hell, she’d been afraid of letting go—now she raced towards it with obsession. The only noise she could hear was their breath. She was transfixed by the way he could make her feel, intoxicated. Her fingernails bit into the muscle across his ribs as the brink came in a rush, chasing through her body, a flame dancing and flaring across her already heightened senses as her fingernails dug deeper.

His strong hands took control, holding her fiercely. His movement was urgent as she clung to him, her mouth against his, unable to return his kiss.

A primal cry escaped from deep in his chest and filled her open mouth. Then he was hastily lifting her from him.

She felt a shiver rake his muscle and heat on her stomach as she hugged him.

For a moment he didn’t move just lay still with his eyes closed. But when they opened he smiled and tumbled her backwards onto the bed, humour shining in his gaze before he pressed a kiss on her lips. There was gratitude in it and his hand lay lightly on her hip.

When he rolled onto his back, she pillowed her head on his shoulder and slid her leg over his, letting her hand rest on his midriff.

He drew the sheet across her and wiped her stomach. Then his hand fell on her hair and his fingers sifted through it while his other hand trailed circles on her upper arm. She fell asleep.

Chapter Four

Fully clothed, Edward lifted his weight from where it had rested on the windowsill. He could see her fingers shaking as she secured the buttons at the chest of her pelisse. He moved forward, caught her hands, set them aside and took over the task. She looked up studying his face as he did. He did not meet her gaze.

He hadn’t left her long to dress. He couldn’t bring himself to wake her any earlier. She’d looked so peaceful in sleep, young. Again he wondered at the fact that she was the older of the two of them. Age had not touched her beauty. She could pass for a debutante in her first season.

Season? A sound of humour escaped his throat bringing a question to her gaze.

He shook his head.

She was no debutante. What she was, was a courtesan who’d bluntly refused to speak of her origin. Yet his brain could not equate her with a woman of anything less than reasonable birth. It was in the tone of her voice, her posture. His mind turned to the one thing he knew—her trade was not her choice—then wondered at the cause. An over eager lover who had taken her virtue and not offered marriage?

Who was the family who’d turned its back? Or did she have none? No father, no brothers to protect her. No wonder her beauty had brought her to this.

He couldn’t think of it.

His gloved fingers skimming her cheek, her pale blue eyes met his, so starkly different to the luxurious fall of her ebony hair. He was so moved by her beauty.

She looked saddened by their need to part, but there was no other option. He’d seen what Gainsborough could do to her. He couldn’t let her take risks until he’d worked out what to do. If she’d told him how she’d met Gainsborough it may have helped, but she clearly wasn’t going to make helping her easy. He needed to think.

She turned away from his touch, picked up her hat and re-secured it, then pulled the veil across her face.

“Are you ready?” she asked, turning back.

He nodded, taking a breath, almost afraid to ask the question he longed to in case she refused. “May we meet tomorrow?”

Her expression was uncertain but she nodded none the less, blushing and turning away from him again to collect her gloves.

“Not here though, somewhere else.” She spoke with her back to him, pulling on her gloves and then picking up the muff.

Edward stepped forward, clasping her waist and then pulling her against him so that he could kiss the delicate skin behind her ear. “I could pick you up in a hackney if you wished, if you tell me where to meet you?”

She turned in his arms and pressed one gloved palm to his cheek, a shallow smile touching her lips and happiness warming her eyes again. “I can wait for you on the corner of Jermyn Street at eleven, but you must not be late.”

“I shan’t be.”

Her lips brushed his.

The doorknob rattled and Ellen jerked back and stepped away.

It was undoubtedly another ploy of the landlord’s to play voyeur. “Y’u done yet? Yu’r time’s up!”

Ellen’s chin lifted and he recognised her distaste for clandestine assignations. He didn’t like them either but until he decided how to free her from Gainsborough they could not meet openly.

“We’re leaving!” Edward barked back at the door, taking her elbow as she slid both hands into her muff.

When they left the room the landlord was standing outside, a smirk on his ugly face.

Edward’s fist balled, but Ellen’s fingers closed over it, briefly, before she walked on ahead. He assumed her silent implication said it would do no good. She was right of course.

She must have experienced years of such disparaging looks and cruel comments. In response, he saw the shell she’d developed to shield her through those years draw into place. Her shoulders stiffened, her chin lifted higher and her eyes focused ahead.

He was not sure he could be as strong. Perhaps her greater age did show after all, but never-the-less he was determined to strip her of her armour. The woman he’d fallen for was the one living beneath it.

~

Accepting Edward’s offered hand Ellen stepped up into the carriage. The driver shut the door and Edward immediately reached past her to draw the curtain across the glass and protect them from the visibility of passers-by. Private, obscured from interested eyes on the street, he pulled her close and kissed her. Hunger and longing instantly lit a fire inside her. This was how it had been each day for nearly a week.

Edward’s embrace pressed her back against the squabs and she slid her legs across his lap.

She’d learnt in the days since Gainsborough had left London that her appetite for Edward was insatiable, as was his for her. Laughing, after a few moments, she pushed him away. “You will have me in disarray before we even reach the inn and then what will people think.”

His voice escaped in a guttural tone. “You know damn well they think it anyway so I hardly give it credence.” Her fingers tenderly straightening the knot of his cravat, she then hugged his shoulders and settled her cheek against the capes of his greatcoat, while his arm lay across her back, his hand resting at her waist.

“Millie thinks I have run mad, she found me singing while I bathed this morning.” His forefinger brushed along her nose, then slipped a stray strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I told her, in Wentworth’s hearing, I have made a friend. I said we met in Gunter’s, in Berkeley Square. He knows I trust Millie. He thinks I wouldn’t lie to her. He thinks my days are spent gossiping.” She laughed again, light hearted and carefree.

His finger tilting up her chin, her eyes met his. They were almost black in the shadow of the hackney, the slate blue-grey a narrow rim around his pupils. She could not really tell what expression was on his face until he smiled. “She’s right. You are completely different than you were but five days ago. You have lost your shell, Ellen. There is no weight on your shoulders anymore.”

She smiled too. “Why need I worry about anything when I have you to worry for me?”

A kiss fell on her forehead in response, another touched her nose and then his lips covered hers. Once again she was engrossed in him, her fingers in his hair and slipping up and down his back, while his grasped her breast over her pelisse.

True to form, when the hackney carriage stopped they were jolted from the seat. Gripping his hand, exiting the carriage, she felt her lips stinging from his kisses and saw creases in her skirt. When he let go of her hand, he buttoned his greatcoat, hiding his swollen groin, before combing his fingers through his hair and then straightening the knot of his cravat.

“You look a sight, my Lord,” Ellen whispered in a teasing voice.

Laughter sounding in his throat, he gripped her arm and leaned to her ear, steering her forward. “As do you, you wicked woman. You’re a wanton.” He led her in through the inn’s public bar, “You deliberately entice me.”

She looked up as he guided her on and through another door to the stairs, and whispered back, “But I believe today, my Lord, the fault is all yours. I took control of myself but you must kiss me again.”

“So I am impatient,” he growled, but there was humour still beneath it. “Can you blame me with a beautiful woman beside me in the confines of an enclosed carriage? After all I am a man and not a saint. Madam, thy name is temptation.”

She laughed.

This was how it was between them now, she could barely remember that first day when they’d hardly known what to say. Now their conversation was a continuous play of words, as much as their love making was a mutual game of touch.

He reached around her, opened the door, stood back and gave her a shallow bow. “For today, Madam, I offer you the luxury of only the finest of feather beds.” The room smelt of lavender and clean linen, and a tray stood on a chest at the foot of the bed, bearing plum cake, a steaming pot of chocolate and an un-opened bottle of champagne. It was a lovely room, sunshine streamed in through a wide window and reflected back from the white plaster walls.

She smiled more broadly and turned to face him, her fingers moving to free the buttons of his greatcoat. “Now I know you are a liar, my Lord, you are definitely a saint and not a man at all. It’s beautiful.”

“Ellen, I am very much a man.”

He shrugged off his coat, threw it aside, then hauled her close and kissed her firmly as her fingers pulled the knot of his neckcloth loose. In a moment she broke free, twisting from his grip and tossing his cravat aside, laughing as he chased her. He tried to catch her, but she dodged from his path, placing the bed between them.

Watching her, visibly waiting for her next move, his fingers undid the buttons of his morning coat. Laughing again, Ellen kicked off her slippers one by one and thrust them across the bed in his direction. Then she set one foot onto the bed and, smiling, swept aside her pelisse and started seductively inching up her skirt.

He licked his lips, his smile twisting as he shook his head at her.

Her skirt slid over her knee and then she gripped her stocking, slipped it from her thigh and down her calf before throwing it at him too.

Edward caught it and held it to his nose, his face showing the same appreciation one would for a fine wine.

“You are intolerable, Edward Marlow.” She made a run for the tray of refreshments, but screamed in play as she found herself firmly caught about the waist and thrown gently to the bed. Then his fingers undid the buttons of her pelisse.

“And you Ellen Harding are a tease, and irresistible.” Her pelisse loose, his hand reached into the bodice of her plain yellow, low cut, day dress and freed one breast. Warmth absorbed it.

Ellen pushed him off, still laughing as she climbed from the bed, tucking her breast back within her bodice. “I would like my chocolate first, my Lord, if you please, while it is hot.” She walked away from him and pulled loose the sleeves of her pelisse, then let it slide off behind her, provocatively, as she crossed to the table. A sound of masculine amusement echoed about the room as she reached for a cup, a moment before she felt his fingers undoing several of the highest buttons of her dress. Then he eased it lower and kissed her back.

Glancing at him across her shoulder, lifting the pot of chocolate, she asked, “Do you wish for this, champagne, or plum cake?”

He smiled warmly, but left her and bent to pick up her pelisse, then laid it over the back of a chair. “The only thing I am hungry or thirsty for, my dear, is you.”

“While I, my Lord, am more discerning.”

He approached her again and his arms slipped forward around her waist, holding her close as he kissed her neck. “So am I, Ellen, so am I, and I shall try to make sure you can be for as long as I live, if you will give me the chance.”

For a moment she heard a deep sincerity in his voice, but dismissed the thought as foolish and his words as banter. She wanted nothing to mar the pleasure she’d found with him, not even childish imaginings, their connection had out stripped that. She wanted it now for what it was—an island sanctuary—a private world existing just for them. When she was with him there was nothing else, even her memories of Paul were fading, and her fears for both the present and the future receded. With Edward there was only ever love and security; she felt cherished.

Her arms rested over his at her waist as she leaned her head back to enjoy his embrace for a moment. Then he squeezed her tightly and let go.

“Go on, Ellen, I will leave you be for a moment so you may drink your chocolate and eat cake.”

“There, and now you are a saint and Marie Antoinette.”

Laughing, he sat on the chest and lifted his boot to his knee to work the damn thing from his foot. This was always when he missed his valet. But then what Cooper would think of this affair he dare not even consider. He doubted anyone would understand, yet he didn’t care what they thought.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“Yes, honestly I ate well enough at breakfast. I truly am only hungry for you.”

“You are a flirt, Edward Marlow.” Her voice rang with the happiness visible in her smile. God, he could not believe the difference in her in just five days. She was no longer hesitant, nor self-conscious. She was a different woman with him and he couldn’t stand to see her ever change back to what she’d been before. And today he had a proposal for her that would mean she never had to.

His lips tilting into a smile, he felt the expression in his heart. “And you, Ellen Harding, are everything a man desires, so how can you blame me for being in need of you.” Her smile broadening with a coquettish air, she sidled close to him as he set his one stocking clad foot to the floor beside the other booted one, then she slotted herself between his legs. His hands resting on her hips, he looked up as she looked down, not daring to pull her to his lap as she gripped her cup of chocolate in one hand and a slice of cake in the other. Her pale blue eyes, her dark hair and the whiteness of her skin awed him. It did each time he saw her. He wondered if they lived together until they were a hundred if her beauty would smite him like this even then. He could never imagine becoming accustomed to it. He thought he would always revere it as a precious thing.

A smile still toying with her lips, she swallowed a mouthful of cake and chocolate. “So why are we celebrating today, my Lord?”

“Edward, if you please, enough of your teasing, Miss. And I have cause to celebrate every day I am with you, Ellen. Why should I not splash out and find you a decent bed and an inn with some standing and good food? We didn’t even receive an odd look as we entered, did you notice?”

She drained her cup and licked the chocolate from her lips, looking gloriously happy and dishevelled. His heart lurched. He took her empty cup from her hand and set it down, then kissed each of her fingertips, before pressing a last gentle kiss into her palm. He curled her fingers about it. “To save for later, Ellen, when you are alone.”

“I am never alone now I have you,” she declared, affection shining in her eyes, saying more than she knew probably, admitting she’d been lonely before he’d filled the void.

Another smile from his heart touched his lips. She was special this woman, he would dare any man in his position to deny it. But then he thought of Gainsborough, again. God, I wish I could keep that man out of my head.

“But I did think we’d agreed to be cautious, this inn is a little—obvious—Edward, what if someone knew one of us?” If she challenged his choice of inn clearly that damn man was in her head too, like a bloody canker which wouldn’t go away.

“It’s only for a day, Ellen. I wanted to give you more than a dirty room in some seedy inn, just for once I did not wish to have to be circumspect. I’ve booked the room under Mr and Mrs Brownlow and for a whole night. No one will ask questions. No one will think it odd.”

Her fingers uncurling, they slid across his cheek, and he rested his head against her delicate embrace.

Her touch felt cool despite the fire already burning in the hearth.

Was it madness to love her so much? To place her happiness above his no matter what?

She fed him her last mouthful of cake, her pale eyes dancing with frivolity and something else as she turned his head up to hers. “I love you, Edward,” she whispered.

Edward felt his heart soar and burst like a fire cracker, while Ellen continued her declaration ignorant of the jubilation she’d engendered.

“I think I am insane to say so. I hardly know you. We have known each other barely a month, and here I am, head over heels in love with you.” Her last words were uttered on a nervous laugh as she bent to cover his lips with hers.

Words forgotten, cupping her nape Edward tumbled back to the bed, pulling her with him, his heart singing with joy.

~

“Ellen.” Edward whispered to her over an hour later, as they reclined naked beneath the covers on the comfortable feather bed.

“Yes,” she sighed contentedly, snuggling against the warmth and comfort of his body, one leg draped across his, one hand splayed on his chest. Glancing up she saw his eyes fix on the white plaster ceiling.

“I don’t know how to explain what I feel for you, but I think I should try. I feel…” He paused, apparently searching for words.

She rose a little, rolled to lay her palm on his chest and rest her chin on top of her hand, while he pulled a second pillow beneath him, and then set his hands behind his head. His gaze met hers. “It is akin to insanity, isn’t it?” He laughed. “That first night,” One hand slid from beneath his head and fell atop her hair, then played with a single lock, twisting it through his fingers. It was a wonderfully tender caress, “ever since it, you’ve been like a drug in my veins. I can’t bear thinking of you with him, Ellen. I don’t want to let you go.” He took a breath. She felt it pull into his lungs, beneath her palm. “I know you are afraid to leave him…”

“Edward,” Instantly she pulled back, shifting to kneel beside him and pressed her fingers over his lips, “stop. I did not tell you I loved you because I wished you to make false promises to me.” Leaning back on her heels, her fingers slipping to rest gently at his hip she added. “Nor do I want Lord Gainsborough discussed in our bed. Forget him.” She held his gaze. “Besides I have known you barely a month, it is probably just an obsession. I was being silly.”

“Whatever it is, it’s a feeling we share, I…” Leaning forward she covered his mouth again.

“Edward.” It was time for blunt words. “I know you can offer me nothing other than this. I don’t expect it. Honestly. I cannot leave Gainsborough anyway.” It was not a lie. She was trapped, but it hurt to say it aloud. She had hoped for more, but that was a dream, she didn’t expect him to make it reality. He couldn’t.

She turned away, getting up before he could see the tears she felt in her eyes.

Rolling over he followed her across the bed and then his fingers clasped her wrist, but his grip wasn’t over-tight, it just asked her to stay. “Stop running.”

She slipped her hand free, slid off the bed and bent to pick up her undergarments then turned to face him, her clothes in her hand and held to her chest. His eyes absorbed her naked body with his usual reverence. That dark awed look of his always sent a coiling spiral of heated desire through her tummy. His gaze lifted and met hers, intent and asking ‘why?’

“What are you afraid of?” he challenged, his tone accusing.

She didn’t answer, just watched his nude, nubile body shift into motion as he cast aside the cotton sheet and followed her off the bed to stand before her. Then his forefinger lifted and tipped up her chin and her gaze. “Stop running from me. I am trying to say I love you too, and I can offer you something. I can offer you marriage. I want you to be my wife and not go back to him, Ellen. Marry me.”

A sharp pain struck her heart and her eyes glanced up to the ceiling, unable to look at him as she caught a breath into her lungs and stepped back. She prayed for strength, fighting tears as her anger flared. She shook her head. Offering the impossible was no help. She could not accept him. It hurt.

Was the man wearing blinders? Surely he could see it was no answer?

Her fingers, clutching her underclothes more tightly, she looked at him again. “Is this what you intended celebrating? Shall we break open the champagne, Edward? Or should I remind you what I am? I am not a woman men marry! And I cannot leave him!”

Furious, she turned and collected her dress from the floor. He moved to touch her, but she knocked his hand away. “Don’t, Edward!”

She couldn’t marry him. In the fiction of dreams—yes. In reality—no!

Perplexed Edward dropped back to sit on the bed, his fingers running through his hair. She slid on her drawers and tied them, then pulled on her chemise, ignoring him, her lips fixed in a stiff line, anger oozing from her.

For some inexplicable reason his offer of marriage had made her seethe. He could only assume she thought he wasn’t serious. He was. He’d thought long and hard enough about it to be sure. He’d considered just offering her protection, but his ingrained honour-bound sensibilities had baulked at the idea.

He refused to keep a woman for the sole purpose of sexual pleasure. He loved her. He couldn’t place her worth beneath his. Guilt had struck him even at the thought. His new-found happiness was based upon re-building her self-esteem not shattering it. He refused to insult her.

No, he’d decided he wanted to keep her, and if he wanted to keep her he could only offer her an honourable route—marriage. After all he was a second son with no fear of insulting the ton’s bloodlines. Heirs were his brother’s worry. The blessing of being a second son was that you could walk away from status if you chose. He’d chosen.

His only problem was an independent income; he’d been living off Robert’s estate all his life. He’d need to find some other way to support her. But having managed Robert’s land for years he presumed he could easily find a position as a steward. His mind made up, he’d been walking on air anticipating her gratitude, expecting to be hugged and cried over, with happy tears. Not Ellen, no, only Ellen could see a marriage proposal from the son and brother of an Earl as offensive.

He stood up, impatient, and struggling to understand her unjust response, caught her shoulders and stilled her. “Ellen, I’m serious. Think about this. Surely you would rather be with me? I don’t want you as my mistress. I want you as my wife.”

Anger was apparent in every taut muscle beneath his touch. She turned away, her eyes full of pain, and continued dressing. “I know you mean well, Edward,” she said as she moved, her words clipped and tight, “you are honourable and good, and for that reason alone I would not accept you. You need a decent woman for a wife. Not me.” Her arms in the sleeves of her dress, she slid it over her head and then turned back, meeting his gaze as her dress dropped, sheathing her slender frame. “But even, despite that, I cannot. He’d kill you.”

“Thank you!” he thrust back, lifting his hands, palms upwards, expressing his frustration as he reined in his fermenting ire. “It’s nice to know you have no faith in me. I am able to protect myself, and you, Ellen. And if I cared about your status I would not have made the offer.”

In answer his shirt was thrown at his chest. “Just get dressed, Edward.”

“I wouldn’t let him reach you!” he yelled, throwing his shirt to the bed before bending to collect his underwear from the floor. Pulling it on, he looked back to see her sitting in a chair, putting on her stockings.

Intensely angry, he pulled on his breeches and buttoned them, then bent to collect his stockings and boots and sat to put them on, grumbling as he worked. “Stubborn, bloody, woman. I cannot see what is so important to you that you would stay with him. I saw the bruises he gave you with my own eyes. Why would you stay with a man like that?”

When his eyes lifted back to her she was fully clothed standing a few feet away and watching him. As their gazes met she walked forward. He sighed and she picked up his crumpled shirt from where it lay beside him.

She rolled it up while he watched her and then set it over his head.

He slid his arms into the sleeves, his eyes not leaving hers, waiting for an answer.

“Because I have to. There is nothing you can do about it except believe me. Just accept it, Edward.”

Frustrated, he stood and his hands bracketed her waist, but the storm of his anger began blowing out. “Then for God’s sake tell me why? If I understood perhaps I can find a way to help you.”

She pulled away again, turning her back and reaching for his waistcoat and his morning coat. “You can’t. Just leave this, Edward. Please.”

His brow furrowed as she turned back with his clothing, her gaze pleading. He put his morning coat aside and drew on his waistcoat. He was confused. When he’d decided to marry her, he’d thought it the perfect solution. She obviously did not.

“Ellen, if you are worried over my brother’s opinion I don’t care for it. We could move away, somewhere no one will know your past and Gainsborough would not even think to look for you.” His waistcoat secured, he looked back up.

She was standing before him with a well of tears glittering in her eyes.

Cut by her pain, his frustration burned completely out as her forehead fell against his shoulder as if every good thing he’d given her in the last few days had ebbed away. “Ellen.” He embraced her. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

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