The Courtesan's Secret Read online

  With the way things were going now, Sophia flirting rather too obviously with both Iveston and Blakesley, Louisa was more than a little inclined to regret the whole thing. The whole thing as it pertained to Sophia. Certainly she was not at all inclined to regret her devotion to Lord Dutton. Never that.

  Louisa’s attention was drawn by the sight of Amelia’s graceful curtsey to the Duke of Calbourne, her bosom and creamy cleavage very nicely displayed for a gentleman to consider for the second time that evening. The Duke of Calbourne hardly graced any of them with a glance, never mind noticing Amelia’s bosom; his attention was all for Sophia.

  It was beyond annoying.

  “Lady Dalby,” Calbourne began, his eyes nearly devouring the woman. Naturally. “What a pleasure to see you here tonight. Lord Iveston, may I wish you well on your natal day? You’re looking well.”

  “Yes, we were just commenting on that,” Sophia said with a gently tipped smile. “You don’t think Lord Iveston looks flushed, your grace?”

  Upon which, Lord Iveston flushed pink and ducked his blond head.

  “The pink of health,” Calbourne responded, looking not at Iveston but at Blakesley. Most odd. Blakesley looked as he always did; bored and superior and more muscular than pure elegance would allow.

  But Blakesley’s sharp blue eyes never left her face. Most gratifying. Blakesley could be counted upon for that singular brand of attention; she was not at all surprised to find that she had grown quite comfortable with it. Perhaps even dependent upon it?

  It did not bear scrutiny as it did not pertain even remotely to her goal of ensnaring Lord Dutton. All thought and, indeed, all action had been sublimated to that goal these two years past. Blakesley understood that perhaps better than anyone.

  He was a most understanding, most accommodating man.

  “Exactly so, your grace,” Sophia said smoothly.

  “Lord Iveston looks exactly as a man should,” Amelia ventured.

  Which effectively stopped the conversation. All female eyes looked at Amelia and all male eyes looked to the floor.

  “Charming,” Sophia said softly, eyeing Amelia, whose bosom was flushing in quite the same shade as Lord Iveston’s cheek.

  “Quite charming,” Blakesley said. “Quite the nicest compliment a man could receive upon his natal day, Lady Amelia. You are to be congratulated.”

  “I’m not at all certain I can allow any congratulations that are not directed at me to be tolerated,” Lord Iveston said, his very attractive mouth turning up in a wry smile. “My stellar good looks were being remarked upon. I must insist that all future conversation remain exactly there.”

  Lord Iveston, from a first impression of being rather awkward socially, was proving himself quite the sarcastic equal of his brother Blakes. How entirely pleasant for Amelia. Iveston would make such an agreeable husband for her.

  Louisa looked at Blakesley and found him almost smiling at Iveston, who was definitely smiling at Amelia. How completely lovely.

  “Very sensible,” Calbourne said. “I must agree, of course. All conversation should and must remain solely on Lord Iveston. Don’t you agree, Lady Dalby?”

  An odd turn, it must be admitted. Why should Calbourne care and why should he care that Lady Dalby agree?

  “I promise you, your grace,” Sophia said, “nothing has or will be said which will offend your dictates. All conversation will remain precisely where you and Lord Iveston have placed it. I trust you are satisfied?”

  “As I am ever satisfied in your presence, Lady Dalby,” Calbourne said, bowing briefly, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.

  Most definitely odd, even for a duke.

  “I sense a wager has been agreed upon,” Blakesley said. It was so like Blakesley to say precisely whatever was on his mind. It was one of the qualities which made him such a dangerous companion. Louisa, against all caution, had always liked that about him. “Shall I guess what it concerns or would that be in poor taste?”

  “I am quite certain that you could not behave in poor taste if you tried, Lord Henry,” Sophia said.

  “Shall we put it to the test?” Blakesley rejoined. “And, better still, shall we wager upon it?”

  Whatever had got into Blakesley? This was not the sort of conversation that helped anyone achieve anything. The entire tone of the evening was going most determinedly sour. What the devil was the man thinking to speak out so, without any consideration for how it would affect her? It was quite his worst quality.

  “I am always interested in an interesting wager,” Sophia said blandly, her glance touching lightly upon Louisa’s face. As was to be expected, Louisa blushed.

  She was quite disgusted with herself. At that moment, in fact in most of the moments of her life, she would have given anything to be dark-haired, with the quiet complexion that came with it. Her own complexion, as lovely as it was, fairly shouted to every passerby whatever her current emotional state happened to be. It was mortifying in the extreme.

  “I can’t think why I should allow these innocent girls to be privy to such debauched talk.”

  Aunt Mary couldn’t seem to understand that her role was to stand quietly and allow Amelia and Louisa to be about the business of finding husbands. Where was the liquor in this room?

  “Don’t say you never wager, Aunt Mary,” Louisa said, trying to keep the cutting edge of irritation out of her voice, somewhat unsuccessfully, “for I have heard you wager with Lady Edgeware over the size of Lord Ferndon’s—”

  “Louisa!” Aunt Mary snapped loudly.

  “Next foal,” Louisa finished innocently.

  At which point, Blakesley laughed, an abrupt bark of laughter that he quickly swallowed. Louisa smiled in spite of her irritation with Aunt Mary; she did so enjoy making Blakesley laugh.

  “A wager among ladies can never be coarse,” Aunt Mary said primly. Being prim was not a natural fit for Mary, Lady Jordan, even when she was sober. It hardly became her. “This, however, this intersex wagering is common in the extreme.”

  “Intersex. Is that a word?” Lord Iveston mused.

  “Oh, I am quite certain it must be,” Sophia said pleasantly.

  “Perhaps that should be our wager? On whether intersex is a proper word or not?” Blakesley said in exaggerated innocence. Innocence, rather like Aunt Mary’s primness, was not a natural fit for Lord Henry Blakesley.

  “But who would judge the propriety of intersex?” the Duke of Calbourne asked, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

  “Common,” Mary muttered under her breath. She was not so bold as to openly rebuke a duke.

  “I should think that would be obvious,” Sophia said.

  “It is,” Mary said sharply. “Extremely obvious.”

  Sophia merely laughed at Aunt Mary’s sharp tone and sharp look. In that instant of pure, inexpressible annoyance, even Mary’s nose looked sharp. It was an unfortunate truth that Louisa had seen that particular sharp look many times before. It was not an accident that her father had expressly picked Aunt Mary to be her chaperone. Her father knew exactly how sharp Mary could become. What her father didn’t know was that Mary became beautifully fuzzy when filled with liquor of any variety and that it was ridiculously simple to encourage Mary to become fuzzy. If only she would start on that process immediately. Louisa couldn’t help looking around the room for a bottle.

  “It’s in the next room,” Blakesley said under his breath.

  He’d moved within their circle of conversation so that he was just to her right, which had moved Lord Iveston to almost touching distance to Amelia. Blakesley was always doing nice things like that, no matter what came out of his mouth. She rather suspected that he was less cynical than he led one to believe.

  “Then let’s move to the next room,” Louisa murmured back. “I shan’t have a hope of making any meaningful . . . conversations . . . if she continues on this way.”

  She had been on the verge of stating that she hoped to make progress with Dutton, but she had never be
en so forward in her marriage goals with Blakesley before tonight and she saw no reason to begin now. She was well aware that Henry Blakesley was no one’s fool, but being blatant about her own objectives seemed unnecessarily blunt, not to mention counterproductive. It would be just like Blakesley to throw a hammer into her plans just for the sport of it. He did find the most odd things amusing.

  “About that,” Blakesley said softly, his breath moving the hair next to her ear. She did so hope he wasn’t disarranging her hair. She had been quite particular with her maid about arranging that particular curl to fall just so. It wouldn’t do at all if she appeared too rumpled, and of course it would be even worse if she appeared too prim. Dutton positively loathed prim, though Mrs. Anne Warren was rather more prim than rumpled and Dutton seemed to not loathe her in the least.

  Louisa was becoming more certain by the hour that she loathed Anne Warren.

  “Yes?” she said, but the conversation of the group swept them back in, cutting off his chance to answer her.

  “Darling,” Sophia said to Mary, at which point Mary’s nose looked something like a dagger in its sharpness, “you misunderstand me. Obviously, none of us can arbitrate the officiousness of the word. We shall have to depend upon a completely neutral party. One who has nothing to gain from the outcome.”

  “Which is to be?” Calbourne asked.

  “Oh, something simple and very pleasant, I should think,” Sophia said. “Shall you not decide it, Lord Iveston? It is your day and your celebration. You should have the honor of setting the terms.”

  “I don’t wish to offend Lady Jordan,” Iveston said.

  Upon which Amelia looked at Aunt Mary with only barely concealed panic in her blue eyes. If Mary was foolish enough to insult their host and heir apparent to one of the finest dukedoms in England, then Louisa was not in any doubt at all that Amelia would . . . Amelia would . . . well, she was positive Amelia would get some delicious revenge upon their aunt, maintaining her own reputation in the bargain. Amelia was quite clever that way, almost devious, but in the most appealing way imaginable.

  Mary seemed, thankfully, to understand the situation sufficiently to respond in the appropriate way.

  “You could not possibly offend me, my lord. Please, have your fun and enjoy your day.”

  “You are certain?” Lord Iveston asked.

  He clearly had a devious streak of his own for he was obviously rubbing it in. Louisa could not possibly have been more delighted. Aunt Mary should be punished for trying to throw a hammer into the works.

  “Determinedly,” Mary answered. It was not the most pleasant answer, but it served. That was all she cared about.

  That, and Dutton. Where was he?

  “Then I propose that once we have an answer to our intersex question,” Iveston said. He clearly enjoyed saying intersex whenever possible. He might be, even though a future duke, a bit crass for Amelia. Not that Amelia would ever let something as minor as that get in the way of her plans. Louisa was not at all certain that Amelia thought it was possible for a duke to even be crass. “I propose,” he said again, “that the wager be whomever is for intersex should have to drink a glass of port wine without taking a breath and whomever is against intersex should abstain for the entire evening.”

  “Perfectly logical,” Calbourne said, almost completely drowning out Aunt Mary’s grumbling that dukes and almost dukes of today’s age were completely common and most decidedly immoral. No one bothered about anything Aunt Mary said, drunk or sober, which was such a relief, truly. No wonder she had got herself nothing but a beggarly baron for a husband.

  “Now, who shall be our arbiter?” Iveston said, looking to Sophia, though why Sophia should decide Louisa had no idea. Men simply deferred to her at every opportunity. It was almost ludicrous.

  Louisa would love to know how she did it.

  “I think my escort for this evening should do nicely,” Sophia said, tracing a finger over the edge of her bodice. Louisa had the unpleasant experience of watching the gaze of every man within a range of six feet go straight to Sophia’s completely obvious bid for attention. “I do not see him at the moment,” she said, turning this way and that, giving glimpses of what had to be admitted was a flawless cleavage. Poor Amelia let her breath out in defeat. “Oh, there he is.”

  It was to be expected that everyone in their small group would turn at her prompting to see to whom she was referring. Louisa naturally assumed that Sophia would have attended this event with her son, the Earl of Dalby, but Louisa did not see Dalby, no matter how she looked.

  Instead, across the crowded room, she saw Anne Warren, her red hair gleaming in the candlelight and her skin looking entirely too perfect. But what was worse was that Mrs. Warren, that upstart, was talking pleasantly and entirely too comfortably with Mr. George Grey, that Indian.

  Mr. Grey turned as if summoned, which was impossible as he was at least forty feet away and there were at least thirty people between them, not a one of them Lord Dutton, it should be mentioned. Yet turn he did at Sophia’s remark and his gaze, dark and dangerous, went directly to Louisa.

  Louisa felt her stomach tumble in almost the same instant that she heard Blakesley mouth an oath under his breath.

  Blast. It always was the wrong man, wasn’t it?

  Ten

  MR. George Grey, his evening attire completely appropriate, if one discounted his disheveled hair and glittering earring, which Louisa was not at all disposed to discount, placed the tips of his fingers against Mrs. Warren’s white-gloved elbow and led her across the room to their party.

  Of course he did. George Grey, even in evening dress and still looking far too savage for any sensible woman’s peace of mind, seemed determined to irritate her by his rather too close attention to her; the fact that he was cordial and in the company of Anne Warren only proved the point that he was a troublesome man and Louisa should and would avoid him at all costs.

  That she would also be avoiding Anne Warren was an added bonus.

  The wager be damned, she was not going to stay and pretend to make polite conversation with a woman who had the temerity to draw Lord Dutton’s attention. She might be able to tolerate an Indian of slovenly manners—he was, after all, related to the Dalby earldom—but that was quite as far as Louisa was willing to bend. She did not and would not make the same allowances for Anne Warren. It was a particularly popular on dit, and therefore as close as possible to being a well-known fact, that Mrs. Warren’s mother had been firmly in the demimonde, and on the dreary and unprofitable side of it, at that.

  Louisa was not supposed to know such things, but again, having Lord Melverley for a father made all sorts of knowledge almost impossible to avoid. It was equally true that Louisa Kirkland had no intention or inclination to avoid any knowledge of any kind. A point which may, upon reflection, have indicated a very strong resemblance to her father.

  It was with the greatest relief and profound satisfaction that Louisa prided herself on rarely wasting time in reflection of any sort. Action was the order of this day and any day.

  She was just turning to Lord Iveston to make her excuses when Lord Dutton entered the room. She knew he entered the room, the exact instant in which he entered, by the complete and immediate absence of blood in her veins and breath in her lungs. Dutton did that to a girl.

  She absolutely adored that about him.

  Truth be told, and why not be truthful about it? She was going to marry him, after all. She adored everything about him. His smoldering gaze, sardonic grin, lean form, leonine walk; the sum total of his being called to her, and while she was completely certain that his charms called to every woman of his acquaintance, she was the woman who was going to capture him.

  Of that she had no doubt whatsoever.

  Mr. Grey and Mrs. Warren reached their group and were introduced properly, which Louisa barely noticed as she was too busy studying the beautiful line of Dutton’s leg and the perfection of his tailoring. As she was trying to think of a digni
fied way to exit her current clique and make her way to Dutton, he spied her and almost immediately made his way to her.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  “Try not to faint, will you?” Blakesley said.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she whispered, throwing out her bust and hoping that the candlelight would cast the most flattering shadows upon her rather ordinary bosom. “I never faint.”

  “You’ll do something if you keep straining your bosom like that,” he said, and none too quietly either.

  “Be still!” she hissed, though she did relax a bit and allow her bosom to fall a little closer to its natural position. At least Mrs. Warren’s bosoms were no larger than hers.

  “Why is it that women think men are only interested in the heft of a woman’s bodice?” Blakesley murmured almost directly into her ear. She did hope he wasn’t spoiling her perfect curl.

  “You are being contrary tonight,” she whispered back, hiding her mouth behind her fan. It would not do at all if Dutton thought she felt anything beyond the most tepid friendship with Henry Blakesley; the field was clear and she was determined that Dutton know it. “Of course men are positively consumed by the exact dimensions of a woman’s bodice. What else does a man want, if not that?”

  “Oh,” he drawled just before he made his bow to Mrs. Warren, “a sweet disposition?”

  She had never heard anything more absurd in her life. Louisa just barely managed to paste a pleasant look upon her face by the time Dutton reached them. She certainly hadn’t bothered to produce any sort of pleasing look for George Grey or Anne Warren.

  It was patently obvious, at least to her, that men, as defined by George Grey, Indian, did not require any sort of pleasing countenance whatsoever. He had been staring boldly at her and did not look at all displeased by what he saw.

  Which was entirely appropriate. She looked, at the risk of sounding immodest, spectacular. Her dress was perfection and her hair, well, her curls tonight were arranged to give just the sort of demure innocence that was the apex of fashion and tasteful seduction. If Blakesley didn’t breathe the whole, careful arrangement into disaster, that is.