Page 1 of His Brazen Tart
Chapter 1
London, 1819
There was nothing Sir Piers Lovelace hated more than a society ball. Having lived on the fringes ofle bon tonhis entire life, he had a front-row seat to the inane rituals of actors living on an enduring stage. Here the lords and ladies were, wearing their expensive costumes and masks of courtly apathy. Even within the confines of a ballroom, removed from the gazes of those considered beneath them, they performed like trained pets—preening and competing for the honor of standing in the center of attention.
To think he had once coveted their titles and status, longing for respect and honor and the perfect lady on his arm to complement it all. Piers snorted into his champagne glass, annoyed with the boy of years’ past. The boy who had so foolishly dreamed of a life that held no meaning. If his plans had come to fruition, he would count these people as his peers, perhaps even his friends. He might have become like the poor bastard he watched just now, standing beside his beautiful but empty-headed wife, looking as if her prattle made him wish for a swift and convenient death.
Piers had grown into a man, one who’d learned his lesson the hard way.
Now, he only attended these events when matters of business or the cajoling of a good friend prompted him to don his own costume. The finery of black evening kit and white linen were his armor, concealing his true self. He had once walked about society without a care, believing they accepted him. In his folly, he had exposed himself to ridicule and embarrassment.
Never again.
He was here for one purpose, and recalling that snapped Piers to attention. Gathering his wits and squaring his shoulders, he returned his thoughts to the matter at hand. While he detested such soirées, they had their uses. Tonight was about business, not pleasure, though this particular venturedidhave its share of carnal rewards.
He spied an acquaintance nearby and began weaving toward the man. Dominick Burke was as rare a sight at society functions as Piers was, but the reason for his attendance became clear soon enough. Standing at his side with a wide smile and smitten eyes was Lady Isabelle Grant—the ridiculously wealthy heiress who had hired Nick to service her as a secret courtesan.
Piers had been skeptical, albeit curious, after hearing rumors of a secret agency in whichmenwere paid to pleasure and cater to wealthy clients. Surely such a thing was not done in staunch, proper England—and certainly not in London where gossip ran rampant, and exposure could mean social ruin for anyone involved. While the agency known as the Gentleman Courtesans operated in secret, paying close attention to his friend’s movements and habits had uncovered the truth. Nick had grappled with a gambling problem for years, one that saw him cast out of his family to scratch out a living for himself. Piers regularly found his friend bleeding funds over the card tables week after week, yet Nick could afford stylish new clothing, a phaeton and pair, and many other luxuries. That might not have been so intriguing if not for the fact that Nick’s change in fortune was partnered with sightings of him with various women on his arm—rich women of experience and a certain worldliness.
Over a game of cards and a shared decanter of brandy, Piers managed to pry the secret out of Nick, proving his suspicions right. Despite not being in dire need of funds himself, he had convinced Nick to introduce him to the proprietor of the agency. The idea of entering an arrangement that was explicitly free of attachment intrigued Piers. After one disastrous attempt at securing a wife, he had sworn off marriage to anyone, ever. A few mistresses had provided him release and an outlet for his singular urges, but the messy entanglements of emotion always brought his liaisons to a screeching halt. No matter how honest he was about what he would and would not give to the women sharing his bed, their softer sentiments always complicated matters. This left Piers navigating the tricky territory of ending such affairs with as much grace as he could manage.
It had grown increasingly frustrating. How was a man to have a detached, physical affair without being confronted with demands for more? He was not fond of using whores, as one never knew if he might walk away with some foul disease. But only prostitutes could be relied upon to hold up their end of the bargain, accepting their fee and dismissing the patron once he’d spilled his seed on the sheets.
Or, so Piers had thought. Now that he had immersed himself into the covert world of gentleman courtesans and the women who kept them, he knew better. Over the course of six months, he had engaged in three diverting affairs with women who only wanted him for one thing. In return, he received tidy sums to add to his growing pile of wealth and bedmates who never batted an eyelash when he donned his clothing to leave them.
Tonight, he would meet his fourth client—a widow who had given the proprietor a very specific list of qualifications. As it turned out, Piers fit every one of them, which made him look forward to this new contract. His past clients had been worldly but did not have much experience outside their marriages, making them as innocent as blushing virgins. The lady who had been described to him was of a different sort. Thinking of all the things he could do to a woman whose qualifications for the perfect courtesan had consisted of attributes such as ‘dominant’ and ‘wicked’ sent a spark of heat through Piers’ veins.
Mrs. Joan Durbin would soon find out just how wicked he could be.
Nick beamed a boyish grin as Piers approached. The man was as different from Piers as night and day, with their only shared trait being an uncommon height that made them stand out in the crowd. Nick was a lighthearted sort, always smiling and making a grand joke of life in general. Piers’ propensity for youthful folly had died a swift, painful death years ago, leaving him stoic and somber. He rarely ever smiled, as he was never faced with a reason to. Nick’s dark brown hair contrasted with bright green eyes—both of which had women swooning in his wake everywhere he went. Piers’ mother had been shocked by the thatch of white-blond hair he’d been born with, and even more surprised that it hadn’t darkened with age. He was a beacon, visible even in the dark with such pale hair, and brows and lashes that were only a few shades darker.
“There you are,” Nick remarked when Piers stood at his side, champagne glass lifted to his lips. “I had begun to think you wouldn’t show.”
Nick’s companion paid them no mind, speaking with a nearby acquaintance. So, Piers fell into easy conversation without worrying they would be overheard.
“Nonsense,” he replied, a smirk ticking the corner of his mouth. “I would never leave a woman who is desperate for my company to languish.”
Nick gave Piers a loaded, sidelong glance. “I take it you haven’t met Mrs. Durbin yet. You wouldn’t describe her as ‘desperate’ if you had.”
Pursing his lips, Piers gazed about the ballroom. “No. Thus far, I have yet to lay eyes on anyone fitting Mrs. Durbin’s description.”
Benedict Sterling, founder and proprietor of the Gentleman Courtesans agency, typically arranged first meetings between the gentlemen and their new clients. However, Piers had been in this business long enough not to need his hand held. When Sterling had mentioned being committed elsewhere for the evening, Piers assured him that he could manage the introduction himself. With a detailed description of Mrs. Joan Durbin set in his mind, he had arrived to the ball hoping to find her quickly and get past the pleasantries so he didn’t have to linger for longer than was necessary.
Nick inclined his head. “Do you see that cluster of gentlemen over there … the ones pushing and prodding like a pack of dogs circling a juicy beefsteak?”
Finding the phalanx of males Nick indicated, Piers frowned. “Of course.”
An elbow jabbed him in the ribs and Nick leaned in, his voice lowered. “A word of advice, friend. Anytime you find yourself looking for Mrs. Durbin, simply locate a swarm of shameless men in the vicinity. In their midst is where you’ll inevitably find her.”
Piers’ scowl deepened at this revelation. Mrs. Joan Durbin was contractually obligated to him, yet had chosen to spend her time entertaining the attentions of other men. If it weren’t clear enough already that he was dealing with a different sort of woman than his usual client, the fact had been made plainer.
“I see,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes as he spied a flash of dark hair in a gap between shifting men. It was followed by a wide, white smile, and rouged lips. Just as quickly, the view was stolen from him as another man filled a space left by one who retreated in defeat.
Apparently, Mrs. Durbin was a popular figure amongst theton. It was no surprise that Piers hadn’t known this, since for the past few years he had avoided society whenever possible.
“Pardon me,” Piers murmured. His steps were slow but purposeful as he observed the scene before him with a strange mixture of curiosity and irritation. Piers didn’t like to be kept waiting, and he disliked having to wade through a sea of desperate, weak-chinned fops even less.
He lingered on the edge of the crowd, his height allowing him a bird’s-eye view of his new keeper. Fingers tightening around the stem of his glass, Piers clenched his teeth and sucked in a sharp inhale at the sight that greeted him. Mrs. Durbin might be the most ravishing woman he’d ever laid eyes upon.
