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‘How much does it cost for a kiss, Athena? And don’t try telling me again that you’re not for sale.’
He was drawing her closer. She could feel the heat of his body now. See the texture of his skin, his lightly stubbled jaw that her fingers ached to touch …
‘Let me tell you,’ he was saying softly, ‘that on closer inspection I’d have paid twice the usual rate—for this.’ His eyes never leaving hers, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his.
It was a fleeting caress, but even so Rosalie had never experienced anything like it. A sweet, melting sensation was pouring through her nerve-ends. A moment later his strong arms were cradling her even more securely and he was kissing her properly, his mouth possessing hers, his tongue stroking her soft inner moistness in a sensual dance that stirred the blood in her veins to white heat.
He was masterful. Dangerous. Exquisitely provo-cative. The worst of it was that she wanted more, and he knew it.
LUCY ASHFORD, an English Studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favourite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period.
Lucy has written several historical novels, and this is her third for Mills & Boon. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near to beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, all of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.
You can contact Lucy via her website—www.lucyashford.com
Previous novels from Lucy Ashford:
THE MAJOR AND THE PICKPOCKET
THE RETURN OF LORD CONISTONE
AUTHOR NOTE
Those of you who have read THE RETURN OF LORD CONISTONE might remember Lucas Conistone’s best friend, Captain Alec Stewart—yes, the brave officer with a ready smile and an eye for rich and pretty heiresses!
Readers have asked me, ‘What happened to Captain Stewart? Did he find his heiress?’ I wondered too—especially as I knew that England’s soldiers often faced a harsh return to reality once Waterloo was fought and won.
Alec is the son of an earl, but life is still throwing problems at him—notably in the alluring shape of Miss Rosalie Rowland, who is no heiress, and who accuses Alec of ruining her beloved sister.
How does Alec face this new challenge? Here is his story.
The Captain’s Courtesan
Lucy Ashford
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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Chapter One
Spitalfields, London—February 1816, 8 p.m.
‘The Temple of Beauty?’ echoed Captain Alec Stewart, lifting his dark eyebrows as he eased his foil into the nearby sword rack. ‘How old are you, Harry—twenty? And still wet around the ears, my young pup. The Temple of Beauty is nothing but a den of harlots, take my word on it.’
For the last half an hour, this dusty old hall at the heart of the east London mansion known as Two Crows Castle had echoed to the click of gleaming blades, to the muttered curses of Lord Harry Nugent, and the curt admonitions of his tutor. Now the fencing lesson was over and Harry collapsed on a bench to mop the sweat from his brow and make his plea once more.
‘Oh, Alec, do please say you’ll come! It’s my birthday after all. And the girls are as sweet a bunch as you’ll find in London!’
Alec laughed aloud. ‘Trust me, they’re whores.’ Pouring out two brandies, he handed one to his pupil. ‘I’m not coming. But—happy birthday all the same.’
Harry Nugent, inordinately rich and a truly hopeless fencer, sighed and sipped just a little of his brandy, which was rough. He let his gaze rove with a certain amount of trepidation around this lofty hall, where the chill February wind rattling at cobwebbed windows sent shadows from the candles leaping across the smokestained rafters. Then he glanced at his fencing master, who, tall and loose-limbed, looked as though the exertions of the past half-hour had affected him not one jot.
Harry took a deep breath. ‘Alec!’
‘Hmmm?’
‘It’s really not right, you know, Alec, that you should live in a wreck like this and make your living by running a sword school. You’re a war hero, man!’
Alec shrugged. ‘War hero or not, I’ve scarcely sixpence to scratch with, Harry. Anyway, I quite like it here.’
Harry watched as his fencing tutor idly pulled another fine rapier from the rack and tested its balance. Alec was one of the best swordsmen in London and used to hold an enviable reputation as a captain in the Light Dragoons. Once, they said, he was light-hearted, never serious, even on the night before battle. London’s ladies used to adore him; he’d had his pick of the ton’s heiresses, and for a brief while was betrothed to one. But now … Now, he was a stranger to London’s social scene and his once-merry brown eyes were etched with cynicism.
‘Even so, to live like this!’ Harry couldn’t stop himself blurting it out. ‘You should take up the matter with your father, you really should! Everyone says so!’
Alec made a gentle feint with his rapier. ‘Do they indeed say that?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you have fun discussing me with your friends around London’s clubs and watering-holes, Harry?’
‘No!’ protested Harry Nugent, rather flustered. ‘Well, we say nothing we wouldn’t say to your face, Alec!’ He spread out his hands in entreaty. ‘You needn’t actually—you know, do anything with any of the girls tonight. Just join us at the Temple for a bit of fun! And perhaps,’ Harry went on innocently, ‘a night away from this place would do you good. Your brother said—’
Alec’s well-shaped, flexible fingers suddenly went very still around the hilt of his rapier. If Lord Harry Nugent had fought at his side at Waterloo, he’d have known to be wary of that look.
‘When, exactly,’ said Alec in a deceptively soft drawl, ‘did you see my esteemed brother?’
‘Why, it was mere chance, at Tellworth’s tables in St James’s last night!’
Still in London, then. ‘And what in particular did he say?’
‘He said …’ Harry hesitated ‘… he said you are a little too fond, like all former soldiers, of the brandy bottle—which we all know is a lie!—and that is why, he says, you tend to avoid decent company.’
‘Decent company, eh? And will my delightful brother be at Tellworth’s again tonight, do you think, my fresh-faced, intriguingly honest Harry?’
‘Not as far as I know …’ Suddenly Harry’s face brightened. ‘I say, Alec, are you thinking of making your peace with the fellow? That’s surely what your father wishes, ain’t it? Now, that really would be capital!’
Alec reached across and ruffled the younger man’s fair curls. ‘Make my peace?’ he echoed. ‘Harry, let me tell you something. If I come across my brother tonight, I shall take very great pleasure in slicing whichever expensive coat he’s wearing into precise, inch-wide strips.’ The rapier in his hand gleamed as he thoughtfully practised a coup de pointe. ‘I don’t much care for his taste in clothes, you see.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Harry. ‘Oh, Lord.’
‘No bloodshed, though. For which my brother should be profoundly grateful.’ Decisively, Alec put the weapon away and started to propel Harry gently towards the door. ‘Enjoy the Temple of Beauty, my young and innocent friend. And if you really consider there’ll be any girls there who aren’t whores, then you’re an even greater gudgeon than I thought. Now, here’s your …’ he blinked at the wide-brimmed creation ‘… I think it’s what you’d call a hat. And your coat.’
‘Very well.’ Harry nodded. ‘Same time next week, Alec? And Alec—do you think I’m making progress?’
Silence. Then, levelly, ‘Your technique, Harry, never ceases to amaze me.’
‘Oh. Oh, I say.’ Harry left, looking rather pleased. Alec shut the door on his departure a little too hard and brushed the ensuing shower of ceiling plaster from his shoulders.
The damn place was falling to pieces. Rather like his life.
Alec was the younger son of an earl, and had served in the army for seven years. He’d returned home with a reputation for gallantry, and his future should have been bright indeed.
But here in London, the very air was tainted. Tainted by his own brother.
‘Beg pardon, Captain!’ A small but tough-looking man with a black patch over one eye had entered the hall. ‘I’ve got three fellows here, wantin’ to speak to you.’ Hovering behind Garrett were some men who were plainly ex-soldiers, though their uniforms hung in rags from their half-starved bodies. And—they saluted Alec. That got him. In spite of their pitiful condition, they saluted him.
‘They’re old ‘uns from the Fourteenth, Captain,’ Garrett explained. ‘Want to know if we’ve got any room to spare.’
Two Crows Castle was full to bursting. Alec sucked in a deep breath. ‘Garrett, I really don’t see how we can—’
‘We could squeeze some extra pallets in the top attic, Captain!’
‘Right.’ Of course. How could they turn away these brave men, any one of whom might have fought at his side on the bloody battlefields of Spain? ‘Right,’ he repeated, ‘see to it, Garrett, will you?’
‘Straight away, Captain!’ Garrett saluted and turned smartly to escort the ex-soldiers to their new quarters upstairs. ‘Look sharp now, lads!’
‘God bless you, Captain!’ they were trying to say to Alec. ‘You’re one of the very best! A Waterloo hero and more!’
Alec waved them away. Then he sat down and raked his hand through his dark hair.
A hero and more? In his father’s opinion, far from it.
‘My own son.’ The Earl of Aldchester had looked stricken—no other word for it—as Alec had stood before him a year ago in the luxurious drawing room of his Mayfair mansion. ‘Alec, I cannot believe you have come here to try to destroy my new-found happiness with the woman I love!’
Alec had been in his uniform, the famous blue jacket and white breeches of the Light Dragoons. It was February 1815, and all the army’s senior officers had been quietly warned that the Emperor Napoleon was bent on escape from Elba, but Alec had other matters on his mind, for he’d just heard that his father was planning a June wedding.
‘Please believe me, sir.’ Alec had stood very straight, hating every minute of this interview. ‘It’s your happiness that I wish to preserve …’
The Earl had got slowly to his feet, suddenly looking every year of his age. Once, Alec knew, he’d dreamed of a military career for himself, and historic paintings of famous British victories a hundred years ago—Blenheim, Ramillies, Malplaquet—were hung around the walls of his beautiful house. He would await Alec’s brief periods of leave from the army with almost painful eagerness. ‘Ah, this fellow Wellington!’ he used to say. ‘At this rate, my son, he’ll be snatching the Duke of Marlborough’s title as the greatest British general ever!’ He used to listen to Alec’s accounts of Wellington’s campaigns with his eyes full of pride.
But he hadn’t been so proud though on that ominous encounter last February.
‘You surely realise,’ the Earl had said heavily, ‘that I used to live for the times you came home to me. For your news of the war. But—to come to me instead with scurrilous tattle …’
‘Father,’ Alec had said quietly. ‘Father, I only wanted to ask you if you have known her for long enough. If you are sure that she can be trusted, in every way.’
‘Trusted?’ The Earl looked wretched. ‘Trusted? Oh, Stephen warned me, so often, that you were jealous of my marriage and that you were afraid of losing my favour!’
‘Sir, that is not so, believe me!’
‘Enough.’ The Earl sat down again abruptly. ‘Enough. You must see that what you have just tried to say to me means that I can no longer receive you in this house as my son.’
Fateful words. Irretrievable words. And his father had sounded quite broken as he uttered them. Indeed Alec’s voice betrayed his own emotion as he replied, ‘Sir, I am sorry for it. And please believe me when I say I will always hold you in the deepest esteem. But I must beg you, one last time, to listen—really listen—to what I have to say! Sir, this marriage must not take place!’
His father had stared at him. Almost dazed. ‘I just don’t understand. Perhaps if you were to meet her. Meet her properly, I mean, and talk to her.’ He was on his feet again, pacing to and fro. ‘Yes, that’s it. And then you would realise for yourself how badly you have misjudged her.’
‘I will not change my mind, sir. I’m sorry.’
The Earl sagged with despair. Then his eyes grew hard. ‘Very well. So be it. One last thing, then. My future wife requires a London base for her mother. She once mentioned that the Bedford Street house I’ve let you use for the last few years would be suitable. And now I must ask you to vacate it, as soon as possible. Needless to say, your allowance will cease forthwith.’
Alec stood very straight, his face expressionless. ‘There’s the matter of the home for old soldiers in Spitalfields, sir. I trust, however sorely I’ve displeased you, that you’ll continue with your plans to fund it?’
‘Do you know,’ said the Earl, his voice breaking a little now, ‘I’m beginning to think that it’s associating with men of that kind that’s made you lose all sense of family duty!’ He gazed at his younger son in utter anguish. ‘I suggest that you run it yourself, since you obviously care more for your—your lowly battle comrades than you do for me!’
‘That is not so, sir—’
‘Enough!’
Alec, his jaw clenched, had given a curt bow and left.
His brother had his wish at last. This was a breach between son and father that surely could not be healed.
Soon afterwards had come Alec’s recall to duty, for Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and under his leadership the swelling French army had swept northwards to meet the allies in the last and bloodiest battle of the long war: Waterloo.
Then Alec had come home. Only he had no home, of course. His father had married in the summer while Alec was away fighting, and Alec’s new stepmother’s relatives had delightedly appropriated the smart house that he had once occupied.
So Alec had made the decision to move into the home for old soldiers in Spitalfields himself. It had once been a grand mansion, built by a rich Huguenot silk weaver called Ducroix, but the house, like the district, Spitalfields, had fallen on hard times; the name the locals had given to Ducroix’s pretentious home—Two Crows Castle—seemed more than ever like an ironic jest.
Before their estrangement, it had been his father’s idea to buy it and refurbish it. ‘I cannot enjoy my wealth when I see injured and destitute soldiers begging at every street corner,’ he’d explained to Alec.
The Earl had bought the lease, but the refurbishments had never started. And now it was up to Alec to try to keep the crumbling mansion habitable by using the money from his army pension, together with a small inheritance from his mother and the income he earned from fencing lessons. Quite simply, he felt he owed it to these men. They had given their all for their country and were left with nothing, often not even their health.
Alec had not heard from his father since that day of their terrible argument and refused all invitations from the ton. He had built a new life for himself and in a way he was content.
Or would have been, had he not got his damned brother to deal with.
Garrett’s return broke abruptly into his abstracted thoughts.
‘That’s them sorted up there, Captain,’ Garrett said with satisfaction. ‘Makes six lads in the attic now, bit of a squash, but they was all in Spain, so they’ll have plenty to talk about.’ He eyed Alec warily. ‘And I’ve some more news for you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Apparently,’ Garrett went on in a rush, ‘that brother of yours was seen in the Park this afternoon, large as life in his fancy curricle. And he had a lady with him.’ Garrett hesitated again. ‘A prime ‘un, Captain. Dark hair, blue eyes …’
Alec felt an ominous pulse throbbing in his temple. Steady, now. ‘Do you know,’ he said softly, ‘I feel a sudden urge to speak with my brother, Garrett.’
‘So I thought, Captain. That’s why I asked around about his lordship’s intentions for the rest of the day. And he’s decided, all of a sudden it seems, to visit some place in St James’s tonight. The Temple of—the Temple of …’
Alec went very still. ‘Not the Temple of Beauty?’
‘Aye, that was it. The Temple of Beauty, in Ryder Street. Now, I know he’s got that grand house of his barricaded against you like a fortress, but he’s likely to be heading to this Temple place alone …’
And he would not be expecting to meet his younger brother. Alec did not hesitate. ‘I’m going out, Garrett. Expect me when you see me.’ He was already pulling on his greatcoat.
‘Sure you don’t want company, Captain?’
‘Quite sure.’ Alec was flinging open the door when he came to an abrupt halt, for outside in the passageway a large, golden-haired dog was watching him expectantly.
Alec swung round, eyes ominously narrowed. ‘Garrett, do you know what this creature’s doing here?’
‘He’s been hangin’ about outside for days, Captain. No food, no ‘ome. Thought we might manage to fit him in.’
Alec raked his hand through his dark hair. ‘Do you realise how much dogs this size eat?’
Garrett remained imperturbable. ‘He’s nowhere else to go, Captain. His name’s Ajax.’
‘Ajax. Then, Garrett, you’ll oblige me greatly by finding Ajax somewhere else to go!’
‘Very well. Gently now with that door, Captain!’
Too late. As the door slammed shut after Alec’s rapidly departing figure, flakes of ancient plaster pattered down from the ceiling. Garrett, with a sigh, fetched a broom to sweep them up, then ruffled the dog’s head. ‘Blasted place is fallin’ to bits … Don’t worry, lad. Our Captain’s all heart. Most of the time.’
Ajax gazed up at his new friend and wagged his tail happily.
Chapter Two
The Temple of Beauty, Ryder Street, St James’s Later that evening
The first-floor dressing room was crowded and smelled of cheap perfume. Rosalie Rowland edged her way towards the nearest door and opened it a few inches, hoping for a breath of cooler, fresher air.
Oh, fiddlesticks. She shut it again quickly.
Men. Dozens of them, queuing from the ground floor all the way up the staircase. Men, tall and short, rich and poor, plump and thin, all filling the air with the smells of tobacco and strong drink. Men, queuing to see—amongst others—her. On stage tonight, in the upstairs hall of the notorious Temple of Beauty.
Rosalie fought down a renewed wave of panic. If she didn’t catch her death of cold in this— costume that was as flimsy as a bride’s veil, she’d catch something horrible from the dirt. Not that such a minor detail bothered the proud proprietor, Dr Perceval Barnard, or his wife. Or the other girls, who chattered and giggled as they clustered to paint their faces in front of the looking-glasses hung askew on the walls.
‘On stage in ten minutes, Greek goddesses!’ squawked Mrs Patty Barnard. ‘Make sure you’re all looking ravishing, now!’
‘Think she means—ready to be ravished,’ drily put in dark-haired Sal close by. Within minutes of Rosalie’s arrival here earlier today, kind Sal had promptly taken her under her wing. And people to watch out for, Sal told her, most definitely included Patty Barnard, a shrill, domineering forty-year-old, whose dyed red hair dazzled the eye.
Mrs Barnard didn’t hear Sal’s comment, but her sharp eyes shot to Rosalie. ‘You. New girl. Pull your gown lower. Our gents haven’t paid to see a bunch of Vestal Virgins!’
Rosalie kept her expression demure. ‘Certainly it’s the last place on earth they’d expect to find any, ma’am.’
The rest of the girls sniggered. Mrs Barnard looked at her, frowning, uncertain, then swung round to the others. ‘Girls, stop squabbling over those Grecian arm-bracelets. There should be sufficient for you all … Charlotte, my dear, what a truly exquisite Aphrodite you make!’
And the normal hubbub of chatter and preparation resumed.
The Temple of Beauty was, Dr Barnard liked to declare, a gentlemen’s club. But there were no rules for membership, merely an initial payment for the evening’s entry, after which the clients could indulge in the usual pursuits of dining, drinking and gaming. Many other clubs in London offered the same. But here, at the stroke of ten, all the patrons moved as one to join the queue for the upstairs hall, because the Temple of Beauty was known throughout London for its classical tableaux featuring scantily-clad girls in costumes who posed in what Dr Barnard called ‘attitudes’ for around ten minutes while the gentlemen in the audience, already mellow with food and wine, feasted their eyes.
‘I have an exclusive clientele, my dear, most of them highly educated in the Greek and Roman myths,’ Dr Barnard had earnestly assured Rosalie yesterday morning when she’d called about a post. ‘And I pride myself,’ he went on, ‘on my own knowledge of those ancient times of glory!’ He’d waved an expansive hand towards his crowded bookshelves, though his lecherous appraisal of her face and figure had rather spoiled the effect of his lofty words.
Rosalie had dragged her eyes from an oversized volume called The Myths of Apollodorus and gazed back at him brightly. Now she looked anew round the crowded dressing room. Greek goddesses? Well, the chief of his girls, Charlotte—’the star of our firmament!’ was how Dr Barnard had introduced her to Rosalie earlier—looked more like a Covent Garden streetwalker than a heavenly deity. Tonight, as Patty Barnard adjusted Charlotte’s dyed locks fondly, Sal hissed to Rosalie, ‘D’you think our Mrs B. would find Charlotte quite so exquisite if she caught her romping in bed with ‘er husband whenever Mrs B.’s back’s turned?’
Rosalie felt laughter bubbling up. But it faded, as she glanced at herself in the mirror and thought, just for a moment, that she saw another face—pale, wistful—gazing back at her.
Her sister. Oh, her sister might have stood here. Might have looked into this very mirror …