Page 3 of A Courtesan Countess Worth the Scandal
“I would rather return to the moment in time where I met her and burn out my eyes so I would not be seduced,” Liam lamented.
How did everything go so awry?
He had been so very in love with Élodie, only for her to end up resembling a hellish fiend that he did not recognize. It was why he had returned to London in the first place, to spend time with his friends from Eton, and escape the messy end of his marriage.
“I propose we toast to new beginnings.” Denninson raised his snifter. “I have no immediate business to attend to, and neither do you or Carlton. What do you say we have ourselves a tour of the Continent, where it is safe to tread, and forget all of this unpleasantness?”
Carlton lunged forward, almost spilling the contents of his glass. “I would relish such an excursion! I know I said I adore the English ladies, but I have grown rather tired of the same… female selection. Why, what I would not give to lay in the arms of an olive-skinned Spaniard, or a raven-haired Greek, or an Italian temptress.”
“I did not mean a tour of that ilk,” Denninson chided, with a roll of his dark-brown eyes. “But I suppose you may entertain yourself in such a manner, while Westwood and I have a more cultural education.”
Liam tipped his head in a floppy nod. “I need distraction. Please, my friends, get me as far from these shores, and any whisper of that woman’s name, and I shall owe you a lifetime of gratitude.”
“In that case, I shall make the arrangements anon, dear Westwood. We will ensure you do not have to think of England, or that woman, for as long as it takes to forget her.” Denninson’s expression softened for a moment. He did not show emotion often, but these three men were as close as brothers and, sometimes, Liam was permitted a glimpse of Denninson’s gentler side.
Liam smiled gratefully and raised his glass. “To escaping our troubles!”
“To escaping our troubles,” Denninson and Carlton chorused in reply, clinking their glasses against Liam’s.
After four months of trying to rid himself of the memories of that terrible night at Keswick Manor, and what had happened after Élodie had pursued him down the hallway, he finally felt as though he could breathe again. And, perhaps, when he returned, he would never have to remember that she had existed, ever again.
I will not think of any woman, for the rest of my days—
Now that he’d been well and truly singed by love, he knew he would never allow himself to get close to a feminine flame again. Otherwise, it might well reduce him to ashes.
Chapter Two
Five Years Later
Nora Black sparkled like champagne amid the attentive congregation who had gathered at Fontaine’s… a gentlemen’s club, tucked away down a quiet street in London’s Soho. Indeed, she was quite the conversational juggler, able to keep the attention of several clusters of gentlemen at once, though she was careful to give just enough practiced devotion to the Lord she was accompanying, to ensure payment at the evening’s end.
“Where did Lord Westleigh find such a pretty creature as you?” One of the gentlemen, his eyes glassy with liquor, tried to take hold of her arm.
With a skill she had honed over years of service, entertaining the gentlemen of London, she twirled out of the way of his touch and seamlessly slipped her arm through Lord Westleigh’s… the gentleman who had asked her to escort him for the evening.
“Ah, you mustn’t lay a finger on me, Sir, or I’ll have to charge you a sovereign per accidental graze.” She flashed a winning smile that made the other men in this particular circle chuckle.
The inebriated gentleman gawped at her. “I… I d… do not have such money.”
“A tragedy, sir. With you at my side, I wouldn’t have to worry about finding a drink. I could merely inhale the fumes from your breath and find myself rather merry.” She squeezed Lord Westleigh’s arm, as his acquaintances gave the drunkard a few genial shoves.
“Miss Black is a riot, Lord Westleigh. You must bring her along more often,” another acquaintance said, with youthful eagerness. Nora had noticed him staring at the somewhat-bold neckline of her crimson gown, but she knew he did not have the money to afford her company.
Poor lad. You can look, but don’t dare to touch.
She selected her clientele very carefully, choosing only those who appeared to be generally good men. They were the ones who liked to woo and court a lady, even a courtesan such as herself, which gave her the power to refuse anything she did not feel like participating in. These “suitors,” as she liked to call them, showered her with gifts and compliments, and took her to amusing parties and soirees, hoping to earn a place in her favor, rather than seeking to purchase it outright.
“I do hope he does, Sir,” Nora addressed the man who had spoken. “Otherwise, you would all have to dance with each other and, while that would make for a very comical sight, I wouldn’t be there to witness it. And I do so like to see the queerest antics London has to offer.”
She coiled a strand of raven-black hair around her forefinger. “You would also be forced to speak of business and inheritance and who has the ugliest tailoring, instead of poetry and jests, and I fear you’d all be asleep before the clock even struck midnight.” She peered up at Lord Westleigh and found him laughing affectionately. “Or, Heaven forbid, if I were not here, you might have to bring your… wives!”
Feigned groans rippled through the group of gentlemen, all of them in cheerful spirits thanks to her humor and her ability to say precisely what was on her mind without rebuke. They enjoyed her honesty. For them, it was a refreshing change from the stiff, stifling restrictions of polite society.
“Not our wives. Anything but our wives!” one lamented, grinning.
“I do not yet have one,” said the young fellow who had been eyeing her bosom.
She flashed him a wink. “I should hope not, Sir. You must be of age before you can garner yourself a bride, or you would cause quite the scandal. Tell me, when do you finish your time at Eton? Two, maybe three years?”
