The Duke's Courtesan

by Beck Robertson

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Lenore Dupont is a beautiful and successful courtesan, a discreet and high-class companion to the many gentleman of Regency London. But when she is introduced to the dashing James Durham, who requires her services for a sly subterfuge, she is bowled over by his rakish good looks and gentlemanly manners, and he in turn is entranced by her ravishing and sensual French beauty. When discovers that he is not the perfect gentleman he first appeared to be, she is outraged despite her feelings for him. Even though she is a courtesan, she will be no one's fool, not even a Duke's. But can their love really flourish in this stiff, buttoned-up society? When long buried secrets surface and passion is powerful enough, almost anything is possible ...

Release date: January 16, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 92

Sample

Chapter One

She took the white-gloved hand proffered to her from between the cream velvet curtains of the carriage, and stepped up into the elaborate-looking coach, not knowing who or what she would find inside it. Holding her embroidered white silk skirts up, to prevent her hem from getting caught in her boots, she climbed the narrow steps, gripping the gloved hand firmly. Reaching the top, she ducked her head down so as to enter through the open door of the vehicle. Once inside, she caught her breath, smoothing her skirts down, as her curious eyes alighted on the owner of the hand.

The man who sat inside the carriage was extremely handsome, but he wore a self-satisfied look on his face, like he knew it too. Quickly she took in the cap of dark curls, the fine, straight nose, and the bright blue eyes that sparkled with wicked mischief as he grinned back at her. Her eyes flicked to his burgundy velvet frockcoat and the snug-fitting cream-coloured breeches he wore that displayed his well-muscled legs. She felt her cheeks grow a little warm. Clearly he knew the effect he had on women.

Not that that mattered to her: he could have been old, fat, and hideous and still she wouldn’t refuse him. Not when his coachman had given her a purse stuffed with 50 gold coins for her troubles. Why, that was more than she had earned for the whole of March so far.

No, there was only one reason she was here, and it certainly wasn’t for his fine features. And though she would remain impervious to his charms certainly she would pretend to him that she wasn’t immune to them. She was good at that, good at pretending; after all, she was one of the most successful courtesans in London.

‘Your grace.’ Lenore nodded, smiling at him, the expression perfectly calculated to be both demure and laden with promise. That look was practically her trademark; it would take a rare man to resist it and she hadn’t met one who could yet.

‘Mademoiselle Dupont.’ He grinned, taking her slender, pale blue-gloved hand into his broader one and giving it a kiss.

‘Enchanted to meet you,’ he murmured into her fingers, looking up at her from under his dense, black eyelashes. Lord, what a charmer: was he like this with every woman he met?

‘Likewise, sir.’ She smiled back at him, her lips curving upwards at the corner invitingly. As Madame du Monsignor had informed her excitedly that a duke was waiting for her outside in a golden carriage, she had thought to hastily dab a little rouge on her lips and cheeks before hurrying down the stairs of Madame’s house of delights. House of delights was one way of putting it; a more polite way of saying brothel or whorehouse. Albeit a whorehouse located in Belgravia, one of the most desirable and exclusive addresses in London, and intended to entertain high-class gentlemen of the society set instead of every drunken oaf who cared to stumble in off the street.

‘Please, take a seat,’ he said, gesturing around the carriage. She did as he bid her, sitting down on the bench elegantly, arranging her skirts beside her and ensuring she revealed a hint of shapely ankle as she did so. Well, it was her job to be decorative, after all.

‘Oh thank you,’ she said. ‘What a lovely coach you have, sir, if I may say so.’ She glanced about her. The comment was true: the inside of the carriage was even more elaborately turned out than the outside, with its plush cream and gold interior, the quilted seats adorned with powder blue velvet cushions.

‘What a lovely face you have, madam … if I may say so,’ he replied, winking at her as she turned her head, pretending to be coy.

‘Oh, I am just a plain, ordinary girl.’ She waved him away dismissively.

‘Plain and ordinary, never. You are spectacularly lovely, madam. Perkins chose well, I can see, I could not have wished for a better companion tonight.’

Internally, she rolled her eyes. Men were all the same. She was used to it by now; they’d say anything, promise anything, to get a tumble and a feel between the sheets, and then, when they got what they wanted, they’d be off. It was just as well she charged them for the privilege. Careful not to let her expression betray her thoughts, she turned to him with a bright smile, flashing her pearly white teeth prettily at him. Another carefully rehearsed move.

‘Why thank you, sir.’ She giggled, simpering like a nincompoop. That was all right; most men seemed to like empty-headed skitterbrains as long as they had pretty faces. And despite her false modesty to him, a pretty face was the only thing she could be certain she possessed in this world.

‘Would you care for a glass of champagne, Miss Dupont?’ he asked her, arching one black eyebrow at her, his expression hinting that he found something amusing. He gestured to an ice bucket on the floor, in which rested two champagne flutes and a bottle.

‘Oh yes, please,’ she responded, feeling a little flustered. The way he had looked at her it was almost as if he knew what she had been thinking. But he couldn’t possibly have seen through her act, none of them ever did; all they ever saw was what they wanted to see.

And what their eyes alighted upon was certainly not displeasing. With her wavy raven locks, delicate snub nose, snowy complexion, and almond-shaped emerald eyes, she had always possessed the ability to hold men spellbound. All men tended to think of when they saw her was one thing, and as long as they paid, and paid well, she was more than happy to give it to them.

This one was paying her, and handsomely. He had sent his coachman to come looking for an elite girl at Madame du Monsignor’s house. The coachman had said his master required a lady who could speak in a passable French accent, and who was skilled in etiquette, for companionship only. So he liked them classy and French, did he? Well, she had grown up in Paris. Indeed, it was Paris where she had first learnt to be a courtesan, amid the stormy streets of the revolution, before boarding the ship and setting sail for London with Madame du Monsignor when she was still j. . .