Page 6 of What a Courtesan Wants
“With the Season now behind us, London has become frightfully dull. But, never fear, I believe there will be no absence of scandal, which will fill these pages until such time as a new Season resumes.”
-The London Gossip,17 August 1819
Lucinda trudged up the front steps of her townhouse in St. James Square, untying the ribbons of her bonnet as she did so. The warmth of the summer afternoon had left her thirsty after her walk, so she requested lemonade be sent to her private drawing room, then handed her hat and gloves off to a footman. The small but fashionable residence had become hers after the death of the earl. She’d vacated Lanhope House, the massive family dwelling in Grosvenor Square, where the new earl now lived with his wife and children.
Thinking of her stepson made her wrinkle her nose in distaste as she flopped onto a settee and kicked off her slippers. Felix had never liked her, and neither had his sisters, Florence and Mary Ellen. They thought Lucinda nothing more than a social-climbing harlot who had sunk her claws into their father to gain a title for herself. It hadn’t mattered to them that their father had been happy for the first time since the death of the first countess. They hadn’t cared what Lucinda did or said to prove her love for the earl. The three of them had openly despised her and were even more passionate in their dislike now she’d been widowed.
Her husband had settled this townhouse on her, as well as a grand sum of money and a collection of pieces selected from the family jewels. They had accused her of manipulating him into the obscene inheritance, insisting she had only married him because she’d known he would someday die and leave her his wealth.
In truth, she would have married him if he were a chimney sweep, and she hadn’t known about his illness until after they’d already wed. She had truly loved him, and his loss had been a crushing blow. She hadn’t left her bed for days following the morning she’d rolled over to find his dead body lying beside her. Lucinda had wept so much and so often she didn’t think she could conjure tears ever again.
Glancing at the portrait hanging over the hearth, she sighed, the tension and anger caused by thinking of her stepchildren melting away. Lord Magnus Bowery, eighth Earl of Lanhope stared down at her, devastatingly handsome with dark hair showing silver strands at the temples and piercing blue eyes which the painter had portrayed with stunning accuracy. She had insisted he sit for the painting, though he despised likenesses of himself. It was a good thing she had, because soon after its completion he’d fallen ill for the last time and hadn’t recovered. It was the most recent likeness of him in good health that existed in the world, and she’d won a heated battle with the new earl over its ownership.
“I had a good walk, Magnus,” she said, smiling up at the painting. “The weather has been very pleasant this week. I’ve taken to spending my afternoons right here in the square instead of Hyde Park. I can hardly abide the stares and whispers anymore. Everyone thinks me ridiculous for continuing to wear mourning, but … well, it doesn’t seem right to shed the black just yet.”
Her stepchildren had helped fan the flames of that particular talk, telling anyone who would listen that Lucinda only persisted with deep mourning to earn the sympathy of theton. Felix, Florence, and Mary Ellen were the reasons she preferred taking air in the enclosure of the square instead of venturing out to one of the peerage’s favorite haunts.
“St. James Square has changed a bit in the past year,” she said conversationally, as if he sat right here before her. “The famous architect, Mr. Nash was commissioned to spruce up the park, and he’s done a fine job. You would like it, I think.”
Sighing, she lowered her gaze from the painting. She didn’t ever expect him to answer her, of course, but the silence of her world was one of many things she’d had to grow used to in the past year. Magnus had possessed a hypnotic voice, deep and warm. His laughter had often echoed through the corridors of Lanhope House, loud and unrestrained. She even missed the rattling of his snores when he slept at night, even though it had kept her up at times. What she wouldn’t give to lie next to him and hear those guttural sounds—evidence that he was still with her, alive and mostly well. The silence greeting her the day she’d awakened to find he had died in his sleep had persisted, stifling the very air around her.
“I miss you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with the tears she held at bay. “So much, Magnus. Every day.”
Glancing at the portrait again through bleary eyes, she caught sight of the slight smile that had been captured by the artist—the barest curve at the corners of his lips.
I am a selfish man, pet,he said to her the night he’d confessed that what seemed like a simple cold was really a symptom of a grave disease of the heart and lungs.Knowing I will not live to be an old man, but still wanting to spend what is left of my life with you. But, I cannot help myself. You bewitched me from the first.
In truth, she had been the one bewitched, falling under his charming spell. He had told her he would die someday, but he’d seemed to defy that dire prediction with his every waking moment. He’d been a vibrant man, one who enjoyed riding and fencing—always active, always seeking some new form of diversion. He had made love to her with the stamina of a man half his age and carried her about in his arms as if she weighed no more than a child despite her voluptuous proportions.
Even his bouts of illness seemed like singular events in an otherwise healthy existence. It would begin with sweating and shaking, then a fever and chills. Wracking coughs would overwhelm him, making it difficult to breathe and sending him to his bed for days or weeks at a time. Lucinda would remain steadfastly at his side, mopping his brow, feeding him broth and various tinctures, and rubbing salves on his chest. He would always come back to her stronger than ever, making her forget he’d been diagnosed with an incurable illness—at least for as long as it took for him to grow sick again.
With a shaky sigh, she swiped at her watering eyes and composed herself as a servant entered the room with her lemonade. The footman cast her a pitying glance but said nothing, backing from the room after setting the tray with her perspiring glass on a side table.
In the end, she’d been blessed to have eight wonderful years with Magnus. She was thankful for them, being all too aware that she might have had none if fate had not thrust them together. He’d changed her life and enriched it beyond measure, and she would never be the same.
Taking up her glass, she pressed it to her flaming cheek, taking a deep breath to keep the sobs welling in her chest at bay. She didn’t want to turn up at Madame Hershaw’s with a blotchy face and reddened eyes. She’d received a note this morning inviting her to Mr. Sterling’s secret office in the back of the modiste’s establishment, where she would meet Mr. Aubrey Drake in person for the first time. Trepidation niggled the back of her mind as she was forced to confront the fact that she was now moving forward in a very real way. She’d shut herself away from society and her friends following Magnus’s death, and now she would take this first step toward … something. Perhaps not happiness; she couldn’t fathom being happy without the man who had brightened her world. But, perhaps being touched again, being dominated and losing herself in pleasure would give her back a lost piece of herself—the wanton part that reveled in carnality. It seemed like the easiest part of herself to reach for first—the basest and most instinctual part. Connecting with her friends and her parents after Magnus’s death had been too difficult, too complicated. Loss had changed her, and no one seemed to know how to talk to her any longer, or how to avoid saying something that might upset her. But, the needs of her physical body were easy enough to satisfy.
“I know you would not hate me for it, my love,” she said to the painting between sips of lemonade.
Years before his impending death, he had urged her to find happiness without him.
You are so young, pet. When your time of mourning has passed, the men of London will clamor after you. Let them court you. Open yourself to the possibility of finding love again.
Never,she had argued, arms crossed over her chest like a petulant child.There can be no other for me but you, Magnus. I will hear no more of this.
He had taken tender hold of her chin and looked into her eyes, his gaze brimming with sorrow.I am going to die, pet. Not today, but someday. I cannot go knowing you might grow old alone. So, you must promise me that after you’ve finished mourning, you will try.
She had promised him, because she’d never been able to deny him anything. That promise hung over her head each day, a reminder of the sort of future he had wanted for her. But, how could she even think of moving on when she still missed him so much it hurt? How could she let someone else into her heart when he still owned every bit of it?
Perhaps that was too much for her to think of just now. First, she must open herself to closeness with another person, and perhaps think of finally casting off full mourning attire. The rest of it may never come, but she had promised Magnus she’d try. For him, she would rediscover those lost pieces of herself, crumbled and scattered on the wind like fallen leaves. If she didn’t force herself to do it now, she might never take this first step. She would die alone and untouched, mourning a man who had passed on long before her. It wasn’t what Magnus had wanted for her—and even if she wasn’t ready to think of love or marriage again, she could at least open herself to the possibility of life’s pleasures.
Lucinda could not deny that the cravings of her body had become impossible to ignore as of late. If nothing else, she could sate those needs with someone who knew what he was about. Thinking of Aubrey Drake—the sinewy bulges of muscle beneath sumptuous dark skin, the stretches of long limbs, that promising bulge of his cock against his breeches—Lucinda shivered. This arrangement would be perfect, for a courtesan could be counted upon to occupy a certain place in her life. He would pleasure her, then leave when she was finished with him. She would never have to worry that he’d try to urge her toward the altar like the men of theton—either wanting her for carnal reasons, or because they knew the earl’s death had left her a very wealthy woman. Yes, Aubrey would fit quite nicely in her life without encroaching too far into the rest of it.
Finishing off her lemonade, Lucinda put her slippers back on and then left the drawing room. She had only a little over an hour before she needed to be at Madame Hershaw’s. Entering her bedchamber, she found her lady’s maid bustling through the open door of her dressing room.
“Oh, welcome home my lady! It is almost time for your appointment. Would you like to change into something a bit more …”
Lucinda glanced into the mirror of her vanity and cringed. Black wasn’t altogether unflattering on her, but the heavy bombazine did nothing for her full figure. She looked a lumpy, solemn fright, her upswept hair accentuating the dark circles under her eyes.
