The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark
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and set them on his shoulder, in what Ellen could only read as an unspoken warning.
So that was his message—ownership. Edward was here.
A deep bark of laughter rang from across the room. Her muscles jarred in a sharp spasm, making her jump.
He was.
Gainsborough’s fingers pressed over her hand in another warning. He’d chosen the table for the best proximity to make a statement to Edward. She could virtually hear Lord Gainsborough’s body yelling, ‘she belongs to me.’
Edward laughed again.
Stealing a single glance over her fan, Ellen saw him. He was leaning back in his chair, smiling. She had tried to carve every detail of his features in her memory four nights ago, but Edward in the flesh was more magnificent than the image she remembered. His reality captured her breath.
He looked up, his gaze meeting hers across the room. She looked away.
She could hear his voice above the general hum of male conversation, but she could not make out the words. He laughed again, a deep ringing, reckless and carefree sound.
God, I am a fool. In the hours since they’d parted she’d analysed every touch, every word, a thousand times, over and over, building a house of cards from her hope—a house on sand—it had no foundation. This was the truth.
He doesn’t give a damn, and nor should I!
She sold herself to men. He’d bought her. Perhaps not with money, but none the less his deal with Gainsborough had been a purchase of sorts. The only difference was skill. A skill which spoke of the number of women he’d already bedded.
I was just one more.
She tried not to listen to Edward anymore and concentrate on Gainsborough’s game, unsuccessfully. She felt sick. Was he laughing at her? About her? Had he spoken of the things she’d let him do?
A footman offered her a flute of champagne from a silver tray.
Lord Gainsborough must have ordered her a drink and she’d not even heard.
She lifted her hand from Gainsborough’s shoulder and accepted it, nodding to dismiss the footman. Her fingers gripped the narrow stem and she brought the rim of the glass to her lips, looking at Edward.
He’d leaned in to say something to his friend, his hand on the other man’s shoulder, but that sixth sense which seemed to stretch between them must have whispered. His gaze turned to her.
She looked at Gainsborough’s game, drinking the champagne. The bubbles caught in her throat, making her cough.
Lord Gainsborough looked up.
She offered him a taut smile, setting the glass down on the table at his elbow.
He caught her fingers and pressed them firmly back on his shoulder.
Her other hand lifted her fan and fluttered it beneath her chin.
Unable to resist, her eyes darted back to where Edward sat.
He was leaning over his hand of cards, light dancing in his dark eyes, as the man beside him, she now recognised as the one he’d spoken to the other night, smiled and made some comment. When Edward looked at his friend he saw her watching.
She looked away.
“You have me, I’m done.” Edward’s words carried over the other voices easily, louder than before.
Glancing towards him, Ellen observed him throwing his hand of cards onto the table.
He rose, his eyes turning to her as he moved in her direction.
She looked away and prayed he would not approach. Surely he would not be so stupid. She’d asked him not to speak to her again.
Her heart pounding, she pretended to fix her gaze on Gainsborough’s cards while in the periphery of her vision she followed Edward’s movement.
He walked past her, barely a foot away and said nothing, not a word.
Tears stinging her eyes, she increased the motion of her fan.
He couldn’t speak to her, she’d told him so herself. But he had not even acknowledged her presence, and it hurt.
She lifted her hand from Gainsborough’s shoulder, leaned forward and whispered, “I am in need of the retiring room, my Lord.”
His gaze spun to her and his hand caught her wrist. The grip was painful.
“Do not take over long, Ellen, I will send one of the women to look for you, if I must.” The threat in his eyes mirrored his words. He did not trust her.
She was not going to find Edward. She just needed solitude to master her emotions.
“Yes, my Lord.”
He let her go.
She walked away, snapping shut her fan and then holding it to her chest. Her heart thumping, she weaved a path through the tables, twisting and turning, making her way through the crush of drunk and over eager men who watched the games, ignoring the hands that stroked her bottom or grazed her breast.
For a respectable woman they would part like the red sea for Moses. For a harlot, like her, they deliberately blocked her way, and often only a sharp elbow in their ribs or a shove would move them.
Normally she ignored their uncouth leers. She knew what she was, what to expect but tonight she felt vulnerable and violated.
Forcing her way through the last of the crowd she reached the hall and found the corridor leading to the women’s retiring room, the same corridor she’d been led through four nights ago.
She passed the door to the room where she’d given her body and soul to a stranger and fought the potent memories it stirred. She did not wish to remember it any more.
The retiring room was empty and leaning back against the door she struggled to control her emotions.
What is wrong with me?
“For goodness sake get a grip, Ellen.”
Her heart racing and her soul aching, she took her weight from the door and turned to the small cheval mirror on a table. A stool stood before it but she didn’t sit. Instead she leaned forward, rested her palms on the tabletop and faced her reflection. The painted woman who looked back was like a china doll, fragile and hollow. She felt inhuman.
God, help me. There is nothing left of me anymore. Where are all your high and mighty, airs and graces, now? I am no better than a Whitechapel whore, panting after a man for his looks and prowess. Disgusted with her image she stood and turned away. She’d come to terms with the poor hand fate had dealt years ago—her body belonged to men and they exploited it. But Edward hadn’t used her—she’d been his yearning accomplice. She couldn’t hide behind the myth she’d spun for sanity’s sake anymore. She couldn’t pretend circumstance had prostituted her. She could no longer claim to have been forced. She’d prostituted herself for Edward Marlow.
Tears in her eyes, she wished he had not come to the club or played cards four nights ago. He’d made her life so much harder. Too hard.
She slowed her breath, fighting tears. Crying would only stain her make-up. This was her life. She’d learned to live it before, she could learn again. She had no choice.
When she left the room, feeling defiant, she walked briskly, her posture rigid and her chin high.
In a moment, hands gripped her arm and covered her mouth, muffling her scream as she was pulled sharply back into the shadow beneath the stairs.
“Hush,” Edward’s deep tenor rumbled in her ear.
Relief and recognition ripped through her—memories.
He pulled her across the narrow hall into a room, shut the door, pressed her back against it and kissed