The Courtesan's Book of Secrets. Georgie Lee
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A chill shot through Rafe as Cornelia leaned in close to his ear, her verbena perfume as shocking to his senses as her warm breath on his neck. ‘He isn’t as astute as his mother and much more inclined to pay.’
Rafe nodded, hating to admit even to himself the logic of her choice. The Earl was known in society for many things. Astounding feats of genius were not one of them. ‘You’ve improved a great deal since Paris.’
‘I learned from the best.’ She flicked her fan over her chest and the memory of her in his bed, the white sheets wrapped around her naked body as she curled herself around him, flashed through his mind. His manhood tightened and he shifted on the sofa, determined to maintain a steady course.
‘Since I taught you so much, allow me one favour.’ He leaned in to her and she looked up at him through her dark lashes. The beautiful blue irises surrounded by clear white fixed on him, sending another jolt of need through his body. Curse the minx for this hold she had over him. ‘Give me the page with my father’s name on it. I have no money to pay you and you can gain nothing by hurting me. Consider it a thank you for everything I taught you.’
‘My dear Rafe.’ She laid one gloved hand along the side of his face, her lips moist, parted and so temptingly close. ‘I see poverty has not robbed you of your sense of humour.’
She patted his cheek, then rose, the sweet sway of her hips not lost beneath the high-waisted dress as she strolled away. A cold dunk in a pond couldn’t have done more to wilt his need and he drummed his fingers on the velvet cushion, the bitterness he’d tasted in Paris filling his mouth again.
* * *
Cornelia struggled to walk a smooth, straight line as she left Rafe, her whole body shaking with excitement and rage. She hadn’t been this close to him since their last night together in France. The tart scent of tobacco smoke and wine clinging to his coat from a long night in the hells had nearly been her undoing. It reminded her of too many evenings with him in the card rooms of Paris, and then in their apartment afterwards, his hard chest pressed against her breasts, his skilful touch making her insides ache.
A shadow wavered in the corner near a heavy sideboard, reminding her of the dark hallways of Château de Vane and the cold bite of Rafe’s betrayal. She shivered, all desire to rush back across the room to him gone. Instead she continued forward, savouring the memory of Rafe’s surprised eyes. She’d struck a blow, even if it had taken every ounce of self-control to remain calm while he sat so close and to not break her fan over his head for abandoning her in Paris.
She eased her grip on the delicate accessory to keep from crushing it. How dare he brazenly approach her after what he’d done and expect her to hand over the register pages. She was no longer the naive daughter of a country Baronet in need of his guidance. She was the Comtesse de Vane, even if the title was worth little more than the tin heraldic shield hanging above her mantel.
Joining the circle of women surrounding Lady Daltmouth and a poet, Cornelia shifted back and forth in her slippers. She tried to focus as the poet extolled the virtues of womanhood, nodding along with the other ladies, but his words were a meaningless jumble. Rafe’s mere presence in the room made her jittery. If this continued, she’d be unable to put together a coherent thought by the end of the poet’s stanza. Taking a deep breath, she focused as she exhaled, settling herself the way Rafe had once taught her to do before engaging in a high-stakes card game.
Curse him, he seemed to be everywhere in her life.
As she exhaled the second breath, Cornelia focused on the Dowager Countess. She sat like a petite queen on a low gilded chair, scrutinising the people around her, the small lines at the corners of her eyes relaxing or hardening depending on whom she took in. Cornelia followed her gaze around the circle, noting the lesser nobility who flocked to her salon. After the late Earl’s cowardly retreat at the Battle of Saratoga, there were few in the ton willing to show the Daltmouths favour. This collection of people was the Dowager Countess’s answer to their snub, an attempt to create an alternate society of mushrooms and nobles of questionable lineage. Cornelia had counted on this cultivation when she’d left a card at the Dowager’s Mayfair town house yesterday morning. Her effort was rewarded when tonight’s invitation arrived with the Dowager’s gold engraved card.
Lady Daltmouth’s haughty, scrutinising look fell on Cornelia, dipping down the length of her sheer blue overdress. One sculpted brow rose a touch, but the lines of the Dowager’s face remained smooth. Like many of the other matrons, Cornelia imagined the older woman disapproved of her choice of dress so soon after the Comte’s passing. Let the Dowager think what she wanted, Cornelia refused to mourn the old dog.
Her silent judgement given, Lady Daltmouth turned to the poet and cut him off mid-sonnet.
‘I think you’ve extolled the virtues of your work enough for one evening, Mr Keans.’ She rose and crossed to Cornelia, sending the flock of ladies surrounding her scurrying out of her way. She stopped in front of the younger woman who offered a deep curtsy before rising.
‘Comtesse, I see you have a preference for French fashion,’ the Dowager announced.
So, it wasn’t the lack of black, but the tighter cut of Cornelia’s dress the Dowager disapproved of. ‘Oui, madame.’
The Dowager’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘I hope you did not bring back too many other French customs such as papist beliefs.’
Cornelia looked down at the short woman, careful to keep her face free of any emotion. ‘No, my lady. I kept my Protestant faith. It wasn’t my beliefs which interested my late husband.’
A surprised gasp escaped from someone behind the Dowager, whose mouth twitched up in one corner. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Good evening, Comtesse.’
She swept past her and across the room in the direction of her son, who watched her pending approach with dread. His face drooped in relief when his mother passed him to speak to one of the many tall footmen stationed around the room. It was then Cornelia noticed the impressive height of the liveried young men. They were all exceptionally tall, almost as tall as Rafe, and scandalously handsome.
Well, well, well, it seemed Lady Daltmouth wasn’t such a strict Protestant after all.
Cornelia opened her fan, her amusement fading. It was time to focus on less appealing sights.
She sauntered into the Earl’s line of vision, offering him a coy smile when his eyes met hers. His face rumpled in confusion and he turned to look over first one shoulder and then the other.
She curtsied, tilting forward a touch to give him a better view of her chest and drive home her invitation. His piggy eyes flicked to her breasts with the same greed she remembered lighting up the Comte’s watery eyes from across many card tables. Despite the queasy roll of her stomach, she maintained the look of pleasure as he approached, his girth making him waddle more than walk.
‘Comtesse, we’re honoured to have you grace our little gathering,’ he gasped, winded with the exertion of crossing the room.
The hypocrite. He wouldn’t have deigned to speak to her if she was still the Honourable Cornelia Trofton.
‘It’s I who am honoured to be at such an intellectual gathering.’ She fluttered the fan over her breasts, drawing attention to them and the sensual painting. ‘You’re so clever to bring together so many intelligent men.’
‘Yes, of course.’ His thick fingers ruffled the lace of his cravat. ‘I’m quite the cultivator of the intellect and the arts. How I enjoy Mr Langello’s poetry.’
‘I believe Mr Langello is the composer,’ Cornelia corrected, lowering her fan a touch to reveal more of her décolletage.
‘Yes, of course,’ Lord Daltmouth said to her breasts. ‘It’s Mr Keans who writes poetry in praise of womanhood.’ His tongue slid over his large lower lip and she squelched the urge to slap the greedy look from his face.
‘I’m not very familiar with Mr Keans’s work. Please, tell me