One Night as a Courtesan. Ann Lethbridge
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Widow Julia Partridge is desperate. To repay a debt, she’s forced to sell herself in an auction at the most exclusive bawdy house in London. Julia only has to get through one night with one man—though she never imagined that man would be Alistair Crawford, the dissolute Duke of Dunstan! Alistair has the face of a fallen angel…and a reputation for vice to match. Yet when he turns his attentions to Julia, he unexpectedly arouses more passion in a few moments than she’d felt in her entire marriage…
One Night as a Courtesan
Ann Lethbridge
This story is dedicated to my steadfast hero, Keith.
About the Author
ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent many memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
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Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Mills & Boon Historical at www.millsandboon.co.uk or your local bookstore.
Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to [email protected].
Dear Reader,
People often ask where my ideas come from, and for once I have a really good answer. When I visited Bath and heard about Jane Austen’s aunt being arrested for stealing lace, shoplifting in fact, I knew I would write this story when the right heroine came along. A very respectable woman, the aunt was eventually found innocent of the crime, but spent some very uncomfortable days in prison.
In this story, Julia is in a very different position, being down on her luck, but she seemed like someone who would try to solve such a problem her own way. You will also see that you have met some of the characters in this story before. Harry, from The Laird and the Wanton Widow, Undone, and Garrick, just before his story starts in Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress.
Want to know more about me and my books? Visit me at http://www.annlethbridge.com
Chapter One
Tossed out on his ear, by Jove. Alistair Crawford, Duke of Dunstan, glowered at the Marquess of Beauworth’s front door as it closed. Not only had Beauworth’s Scottish cousin Godridge interrupted the game of cards Alistair had been sure of winning, Beauworth had actually welcomed his relative and shown Alistair the door
His lip curled in derision. No doubt about it, families were an utter bore.
He took the three steps down to the pavement with a leisurely stride. His coachman drove around the corner to retrieve him like some lost puppy. Farkey had an odd sixth sense around Alistair’s comings and goings.
Very much aware of the velvet pouch in his pocket and the fortune in jewels it contained, he started for his coach. His stepmother’s furious words still rang satisfyingly in his ears. If it wasn’t for Godridge, he and Beauworth would be celebrating their recovery.
Damn it all, the night was young. Why should he head home? There was nothing there for him. Nor did he need Farkey to ferry him around. The poor old fellow would be better tucked up in his nice warm bed. Alistair signaled the coachman to return home.
Past midnight, his evening barely started, and here he was at a loose end. White’s? Too stuffy. Or Brooks’s? The stakes were high enough. The members, on the other hand, were far too predictable. Dull. Something earthier appealed. Something of a darker nature to beat back the ennui. He turned his steps east. A gambling den where men killed at a sideways glance might suit his mood. He might even wager the cursed family jewels and send his stepmother into a nervous decline.
In the end, the jewels had done his father no favors, disproving the legend. But Alistair had no interest in marriage. He had no desire to shackle himself to a grasping female anytime soon.
“Dunstan!” a panting voice called.
Alistair groaned and walked faster.
“I say, coz,” the voice persisted.
Bloody families. Couldn’t they take a hint? With a sigh. he turned to meet his cousin, the Honorable Percy Hepple.
“Percy,” he said when the young man stood puffing in front of him. The boy could use a bit more exercise. Not that Alistair cared a jot. The lad could also use a bit of advice on his dress. With his nipped-in waist, or nipped in as far as it would nip, his towering shirt points and strangely wilted cravat, he looked every bit the bumptious dandy newly on the town. Not the kind of man with whom Alistair kept company.
“This is fortunate,” Percy said, grinning, his moonish face shifting until his cheeks resembled apples. “Very fortunate.”
“For whom?” Alistair looked around.
The irony flew over the lad’s head and on down the street.
“For us.” Percy beamed. “You will never guess where I am going?”
“No,” Dunstan said. “Why bother when no matter what I say, you intend to tell me.”
“Going to Mrs. B.’s.”
“Thank you. I shall be sure to avoid that particular brothel this evening.” He eyed the fair young man’s paunch. “The slightest thought of it has me revolted.” He took a step in his original direction.
Percy caught hold of his sleeve.
Jackass. Dunstan eyed the hand clutching his black superfine coat through his quizzing glass and Percy recoiled, snatching his hand back as if it had been burned.
“Tonight is her annual auction,” Percy said, his voice pitched an octave too high.
“And?” Dunstan let his quizzing glass fall. He’d seen the invitation. Discussed the possibility of attending with Beauworth, but they’d both agreed