A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake. Diane Gaston
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said or did, she was not going to be pleased by him. He would never win her over. That was the point.
Legrand continued to try, attempting to impress her with his wealth and his success as a merchant. Cecilia could almost feel sorry for him, except he was willing to pay for a woman’s favours, merely to impress his compatriots.
Conversation inevitably came to an end and Legrand began spouting flattery. ‘Madame, your beautiful skin makes me long to touch you. You are the most ravishing of Paris courtesans. I would have paid double for this night with you. Triple. And considered it worth every franc.’
Cecilia wished her price had been negotiated higher. This was something to discuss with the manager, who might be underselling her services.
‘You flatter me, monsieur,’ she said, dipping her head and fluttering her lashes the way Vincent had shown her.
His expression turned eager. ‘Please, I beg you, madame. Sit with me.’
‘With pleasure.’ Cecilia girded herself and moved to the chaise.
Legrand put his arm around her. ‘This is much better. Much better.’
She pretended to sigh. ‘Would you pour me more champagne?’
‘More champagne?’ He sounded both surprised and disappointed. ‘As you wish.’
‘For you as well.’ She smiled sweetly.
He opened the second bottle of champagne and poured two glasses, handing one to her.
She tapped her glass against his. ‘To this lovely night.’
He puffed up with hope. ‘This lovely night.’
He drank the contents in one gulp and put his arm around her again. As Cecilia slowly sipped hers, he stroked her arm, then became bolder and put his hand on her thigh.
‘May I kiss you?’ he asked while he performed the greater indignity of kneading her thigh.
She took her time to drink the last of her champagne, then smiled. ‘Of course you can!’
He placed his dry, thin, fleshless lips against hers and held her in both arms.
She made herself remain still for a moment, before starting to cough. And cough. And cough.
He released her. ‘What can I do? More champagne?’
She nodded, still coughing.
His hand shook while he poured another glass of champagne. She grabbed it from his hand and drank as if desperate for it.
When she’d composed herself again, she apologised. ‘Forgive me, monsieur. I—I tried...’ She let her voice trail off.
She positioned herself for another kiss and Legrand eagerly complied. This time he opened his mouth.
She made a sound and again pushed him away. ‘Did you clean your teeth, monsieur?’
‘My—my teeth?’ He looked befuddled.
‘I am sorry, but your mouth—the taste, the smell—it makes me cough.’ She reached for her champagne again.
He cupped his hand near his mouth and exhaled, trying to smell his own breath.
‘I cannot kiss you, monsieur.’ She frowned. ‘I am so sorry.’
He moved towards her. ‘We can proceed without kissing.’
She allowed him to touch her, to fondle her breasts, to run his hands down her body before pushing away again. ‘It is no use, monsieur. I am certain you are a very fine gentleman and I am so very impressed by your wealth and your importance, but I must feel something for the men I bed. They must stir me and you—you do not.’
He looked as if she’d slapped him.
This was the dangerous moment. When the man was filled with lust, but spurned. This was when Hercule might be needed.
‘I am very certain this has never happened to you before,’ she said. ‘You are such a fine gentleman. I do not know what is wrong with me.’
He puffed up again. ‘Never happened before. Never. Women like me. Many women.’
‘I am certain they do,’ she said soothingly.
He gave her a hopeful look. ‘Perhaps we can proceed anyway? I will not hold it against you if you do not—do not get pleasure from it.’
‘Monsieur Legrand!’ She pretended to be horrified. ‘You wish me to bed you without feeling on my part?’
‘Well...’
She shook her head. ‘No. That is not what I do. Remember the bargain?’ The rules set forth for a night with Madame Coquette were very specific. ‘I must want to couple with you and now, I simply cannot. I will have another coughing fit and I know you would not wish me to have another coughing fit.’
‘No...’ He rubbed his face. ‘I told all my friends.’
‘You told your friends that you had arranged a night with me?’ she asked.
He nodded, looking horror-struck.
She reached over and patted his hand. ‘It is not your fault. It is entirely mine.’ She always tried to take the blame. She had no wish to humiliate the men, although with some of the more unpleasant ones, it was tempting.
‘No one will believe that.’ His lower lip jutted out like a hurt child. ‘Some of them are here tonight. In the card room. If they see me leave early—’
‘You must not leave early, then!’ she reassured him. ‘We will stay the whole night, until just before dawn. Will that do?’
He seemed to be considering it. ‘Just before dawn. That might work. My wife will expect me home about then.’
The men always had a poor wife waiting at home.
‘And you must tell your friends whatever will impress them,’ she added. ‘I will never say anything but that my time with you was incredibly passionate. I will say I was impressed by your skill—because I am sure I would be, if it were not for my awful cough. Because of the smell.’
‘You would be, that is very true.’
She patted his hand again. ‘I am very sure I would be.’
He flushed with pride, as if he really had given her incredible passion.
Cecilia was always surprised how easy it was to talk these gentlemen out of bedding her by complimenting their supposed prowess. What the man’s friends thought of his night with her was always more important to them than the act itself.
‘What will we do all night?’ he asked.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a deck of cards. ‘We can play piquet!’
November 1818, three months later
Oliver leaned against the wall in the billiard room of Vitium et Virtus, watching Frederick and Jacob knock the balls in the pockets of the green baize table. The day’s weather was cold and drizzling, but the fire in the fireplace kept the room comfortably warm. Frederick was meticulously lining up his next shot, taking long enough that Oliver began tapping his foot.
‘Just take the shot, Fred,’ he said impatiently. ‘This fuss does you no good.’
Frederick ignored him and continued to study the ball some more before placing his cue and executing a perfect shot, sending Jacob’s cue ball and the red ball into the pockets.
‘That’s the game,’ groaned Jacob.
Frederick looked up and grinned. ‘Does me no good, Oliver?’
‘You would