Page 33 of What a Courtesan Wants
Chapter 9
This evening, this writer will attend a performance ofArtexerxesat The King’s Theatre, where I shall keep my eyes peeled for surprising attendees and pairings, as well as scandalous goings-on in the boxes. If you are to be in attendance as well, you would do well to beware my opera glasses.
-The London Gossip,21 September 1819
“Well, what do you think, Magnus?”
Lucinda stared up at the unmoving visage of the late earl, spreading the skirts of her gown with gloved hands and giving a little twirl. The ridiculousness of spinning like a little girl while talking to a dead man’s portrait forced a giggle from her. After dinner—during which she’d been too nervous to eat—she had submitted to the ministrations of her lady’s maid. Mary had been thrilled to dress Lucinda in something other than muted black, gray, and lavender, humming while helping her change clothing and dress her hair.
The gown wasn’t too far out of fashion to pass muster, its deep violet hue making her eyes appear brighter. The new India shawl she’d purchased from Rowland-Drake this afternoon draped her arms, its silver paisley print and delicate fringe complementing the embroidery of her bodice. Her hair had been swept atop her head with clusters of curls falling about her face and adorned with a violet ostrich plume. She had allowed her maid to use light cosmetics—just a bit of rogue on her lips and a touch of kohl around her eyes.
“I do miss the opera,” she said to Magnus’s painting while sinking onto her customary armchair and taking up the cordial that had been prepared for her. “Do you remember how we used to linger in London after the Season had ended so we could attend the performances?”
She had requested the drink to fortify her nerves while she awaited Aubrey’s arrival. He would come any minute now to fetch her to his carriage, and then on to King’s Theatre, where the Dowager Countess of Lanhope would make her reappearance into society.
“In truth, I don’t think I realized how much I missed all of it,” she confessed between sips of her cordial. “Being around other people, talking to them, thinking about something other than illness and death.”
Thinking about Aubrey.
Lucinda didn’t speak that thought aloud, which was absurd. Magnus wasn’t really here with her, so it made no difference whether she spoke of the things on her mind and heart. Yet, as she glanced up at the face of the only man she’d ever loved, a tiny pinprick of guilt niggled at her. It made no sense, but she felt protective of her thoughts and memories of Aubrey, wanting to keep them separate from anything having to do with Magnus.
“Well, my love, I am doing what you urged me to,” she said, raising her glass to him with a shaky smile. Her chest swelled and her eyes stung with tears. “And it only took me two years to find the courage.”
Taking another long drink, she blinked back the tears that threatened to smudge her kohl. Closing her eyes, she could imagine him standing over her, reaching out to cup her chin the way he’d always done. She could hear his voice in her head, deep and sure as he murmured,“I am proud of you, pet. So very proud.”
He’d said it to her so many times over the years—on the day they had married, when she had finally begun coming into her own as a countess, when she’d found the strength to demand respect from the people who had shunned her for her humble origins. Would he be proud of her now for shedding her widow’s weeds and opening herself to the possibilities of life again? Would he approve of Aubrey, a man who was so like him, yet still so different?
You must promise me that after you’ve finished mourning, you will try.
He’d said the words with such passion, forcing Lucinda to verbally give him her word that she would not let herself wither away and die along with him, no matter how much she wanted to.
“I am trying, my love,” she whispered with a deep, shaky breath. “It is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I am doing my very best.”
At that moment, someone scratched at the door, prompting Lucinda to her feet. Sweeping her fingers beneath her eyelids to ensure no moisture lingered there, she did her best not to look as sick as she felt. A footman appeared in the doorway to announce Aubrey, who was ushered in a moment later looking more dapper than she’d ever seen him.
Her heart took up residence in her throat at the sight of him—tall, dark, and devastating in a black evening suit. He wore a damask waistcoat of deep burgundy with glinting gold buttons, and a cascade of frothy cream-colored linen fell from his throat, winking with a ruby stickpin. Holding his hat under one arm, he perused her from head to toe as if truly seeing her for the first time. She felt his gaze like a caress, sweeping over her whimsical coiffure and her cosmetic-enhanced face, down the swell of her bosom against her bodice and the fall of her skirts over the rest of her. His gaze snapped up to meet hers as he started into the room, the fluid motions of his body giving off the subtle air of strength and power beneath his finery. Her belly clenched as he drew near, his woodsy scent wafting up her nostrils, heady and masculine. She very nearly told him to forget about the opera before begging him to carry her upstairs and start stripping out of those fine layers.
But, she merely placed her hand into his, arrested by the sight of him lowering his head to kiss her gloved hand. She cursed the white silk separating them, wanting the sensation of his lips on her hand, running up her arm, her throat, then seeking her mouth. The inevitability of a kiss lingered between them each time they saw one another, but something always drew Lucinda back at the last second, an insurmountable fear she could not understand nor overcome.
“You look ravishing,” Aubrey murmured, his dark stare boring into hers with the intensity of a pair of hot coals, his grip on her hand tightening.
“A-and you,” she managed, her throat suddenly tight. “You are very handsome this evening.”
Aubrey smiled, but the ease of it never reached his eyes. He looked like a panther licking its chops before devouring its prey, desire making his eyes gleam with a visceral light. Heat spread in her belly, her nipples stiffening beneath her bodice.
The footman had left them alone, fastening the door behind him—a fact that did not occur to her until the moment he reached out to touch her. His hand fell onto her shoulder, his thumb stroking along her collarbone, then the hollow of her throat where her pulse thrummed.
“You are anxious.”
“Yes,” she replied breathlessly. “Very much so.”
She shivered when his stroking thumb moved lower, toward the swell of her breast lifted at the perfect angle by her bodice and stays.
“I brought something to help with that. It will take your mind off all the people staring at you. A pleasurable distraction, if you will.”
Lucinda couldn’t help staggering in his direction when his hand moved away, her body pulling toward his as if with a magnetic force. She felt bereft without the touch of his hand against her bare skin, but as he reached into his breast pocket, curiosity overwhelmed her. He pulled free a light, delicate-looking chain, which forked into two tendrils. At the end of each of the chains were steel clamps that made her nipples tingle and wetness gather between her thighs.
“You know what this is,” Aubrey stated, running the chain between his fingers in a teasing motion that made her knees grow weak.
