The Courtesan's Daughter Read online

  “You bought me a husband?” Caro sputtered.

  “Yes. Isn’t it delicious?” Sophia said smoothly, smiling in delight. “And he’s all yours. Now, I was thinking that the wedding could be six weeks from Tuesday. Wouldn’t Denmark be lovely for your honeymoon? ”

  “Mother, I am not going to marry a man you had to buy for me!”

  “Why ever not?” Sophia said. “How else do you think marriages are made if not on a solid financial foundation?”

  “Not everything is about money!”

  Sophia laughed. “And you thought to be a courtesan? Darling, you obviously don’t have the necessary commercial interests that drive such an enterprise. Best you marry and see to producing lots of lovely grandchildren for me.”

  “I am not going to marry him,” Caro said stiffly, staring her mother down.

  Sophia was not in the habit of being stared down and she gave every appearance of being disinclined to learn.

  “But I’ve already paid for him,” Sophia said. “He’s yours, darling, all you need to do is simply collect him.”

  “Then you’ll have to return him, or whatever it is one does with unwanted . . . merchandise!” Caro snapped.

  “Well,” Sophia said, a mild scowl forming between her brows, “I certainly never anticipated this. I suppose I shall have to tell him, or would you rather?”

  “No, I think you should do it. I should die of shame to look at him.”

  “Now, Caro, are you completely certain this is what you want, because I don’t think I can possibly arrange to buy another husband for you. This took quite a bit of effort and planning and just plain good fortune on my part.”

  “Mother, please. Just do it. Make him go away. I’d like us both to pretend that this never happened.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Sophia said, shaking her head ruefully and walking toward the bedroom door. “But I will not tolerate any more of your ridiculousness about becoming a courtesan. I forbid you mention it again, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Caro said serenely. “I promise to never mention it again.”

  Which, of course, wasn’t at all to the point.

  Six

  “I’M sorry, Lord Ashdon, but she just won’t have you,” Sophia said.

  The daughter of a courtesan would not have him? Was this the world as it was meant to run? It was most definitely not.

  “Pardon me, madam?” he said crisply, standing almost at attention in her famed white salon. As the story went, Sophia had once been gifted with a rare and priceless porcelain cup, fully two hundred years old, out of the depths of mysterious China. The blanc de Chine cup was worth a tidy fortune and the room had been designed to showcase it. Only those few who had danced their way into the next level of intimacy were allowed into the white salon. The parquet floors were waxed to a dark sheen, like a lake at midnight, while her furnishings were all of milk blue damask and ice white velvet, ice floes on a winter lake, pristine and coldly beautiful, much like the famed lady herself.

  She turned to face him, a smile of delicate chagrin on her fine-boned face, her dark eyes sympathetic. Did the daughter look like the mother?

  He had seen her once or twice, at the opera, on Bond Street, but that was all. He knew her name: Caroline. He knew her lineage: questionable. He knew her dowry: substantial.

  And he knew her mother. Or of her, be it better said.

  Who lived within Society who did not know Sophia in one manner or another?

  She had arrived in London in 1781, from the American colonies it was rumored, though he had trouble believing that. Sophia Grey had charmed and beguiled the most sophisticated, the most debauched men of her day, and a girl from a colonial backwater could hardly have done that. Others said that she was Parisian, the daughter of an old aristocrat fallen into bad ways and hard times. That he could more readily believe because her French was flawless and her manner continental. There was about her that inbred arrogance of the aristocrat, a bone-deep belief in her own superiority and her own sublime worth. It was that arrogance, coupled with her aristocratic beauty, which had resulted in her fabled price.

  His father had sent her a sapphire bracelet for the privilege of an introduction. Westlin had been allowed fifteen minutes in her salon before being ushered to the door by Fredericks. She had kept the bracelet.

  That had been just the beginning.

  Her daughter now was playing the same game, using the same tricks? He was not good enough for her? That was not how this game would play. He would make certain of it.

  “She says she won’t have you, Lord Ashdon,” Sophia repeated softly. “I cannot explain it for it defies explanation, does it not?” Sophia sat down on the small white sofa and bid him do the same with a graceful gesture of her hand. He remained standing. “You are released from your obligation.”

  “What do you mean, she won’t have me?” Ashdon asked.

  Sophia raised one silken eyebrow slightly. “She refuses the match, sir. I do not know how to put it more plainly. Indeed, it is quite plain enough. I would avoid the vulgarity of plain speaking if I could, but I would not have you exist on false hope. A diet of false hope inevitably turns bitter on the tongue.”

  “Other things also taste bitter on the tongue, madam. Rancor. Revenge.”

  “You think I have set my table for revenge? You are wrong, sir. I seek only my daughter’s security and happiness.”

  “Security and then happiness. In that order?”

  “What other order is there? How to find happiness without security?”

  “And your daughter, your Caroline, does not seek either happiness or security?”

  “On the contrary, sir, she seeks them both. Though not, I fear, in you.”

  He could indeed feel the gall of bitterness roiling in his mouth, but he kept his tongue tamed and commanded himself to swallow his outrage whole. That he did not gag on it was a minor miracle.

  “What did you tell her?” he calmly asked.

  “Tell her?” Sophia poured out the tea into delicate black Wedgwood cups. She poured for him, though he had not been invited to stay to tea. “I simply told her that a marriage had been arranged for her. I told her your situation and your name, that is all. What happened next is hardly to be credited.”

  “If you don’t mind, madam, just what did you tell her of my situation?”

  “Only the truth, Lord Ashdon, which certainly should never cause harm, yet in this case . . .” She shrugged and handed him his cup. He sat stiffly opposite her and took it. “She did not react with either maturity or sophistication, I’m forced to admit. A negligence in her upbringing, I don’t doubt. She has no desire to marry a man who, according to her words, I had purchased for her use.”

  That Ashdon managed to keep his cup from clanking against his saucer he considered remarkable. High points for poise were surely his.

  “In point of fact,” Sophia continued, stirring her tea with silent swirls of her tiny spoon, “she has decided upon another course entirely. I have been very negligent as a parent, I fear, for my daughter to have reached such a state.”

  Ashdon looked for tears to glisten in her dark eyes. He saw none.

  “Of course, none of that is your concern,” Sophia said softly, smiling wistfully at him. He didn’t believe she had one wistful bone in her treacherous body. “Since the default was on my end, and because you have behaved with such honor throughout, no surprise to me since I know your father so well, you may rest assured that your debt to the Dalby name is cancelled. You have done your part. The fault lies entirely with Caro. I would be less than a lady if I held you accountable for her deplorable behavior.”

  Less than a lady? There was the certain truth.

  His tea was growing cold in the cup. He let it.

  “Deplorable behavior? Perhaps you are being harsh,” he said. “She is young, obviously willful. A strong and equally determined husband could set her to rights. Not an unusual situation, from what I hear.”

&
nbsp; “I suppose that’s true,” Sophia said slowly, taking a sip of her tea, her eyes lowered against his scrutiny.

  “If you will allow, I could meet with her, talk to her, try to assure her that—”

  “That you have not been purchased for her pleasure?” Sophia said sweetly. “But how could you convince her of that when she is convinced it is the truth? Oh, I am sorry. I see I have offended you. Please forgive me. I am distraught. If you only knew, if you only suspected what her plan is, you would forgive me readily.”

  Ashdon carefully relaxed his jaw. His back teeth squeaked in thankfulness.

  “She has plans for security and happiness, did you not say?” he asked. “What plans are those which do not include a reputable husband? ”

  “The most disreputable of plans,” Sophia said, putting down her cup with a shaking hand and folding her hands tightly in her lap. He could almost believe her truly distraught. But he did not believe her; he would not. She was a dissembler, a deceiver, a player upon men’s emotions with no tender emotions of her own.

  “Madam,” he said, leaning forward in falsely earnest concern, “I would see our arrangement through. My honor demands no less of me. The debt is paid. I must uphold my end, no matter the difficulties. Tell me, what is it that disrupts this tidy arrangement? If it be nothing more than a daughter’s sharp willfulness against the wisdom wrought of experience, then let me enter the battle for your daughter’s future at your side. Let me convince her.”

  “I am not certain she can be convinced,” Sophia said, her voice colored by the faintest shade of hope.

  “Then let me only talk to her,” Ashdon said. “I can perhaps speak in ways that a mother cannot.” Of that he was most certain, most decidedly certain.

  Sophia tilted her dark head, the late afternoon sunlight illuminating her skin so that it glowed like pearl. Oh, let the daughter be like the mother; that would make this task that much sweeter.

  “That is true, isn’t it?” she said. “As a man, you could explain to her the folly of her plan. You might have an authority with her, the voice of male perspective, which I do not possess.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Let me only help you. Let us together manage what is best for your daughter.”

  “You are too good,” she said, smiling. Did he imagine it? Was there some cold, sharkish rapacity to her smile? In the next instant, she melted, softened. He had imagined it.

  “Tell me, what is her plan? How does she thwart your best intentions for her future happiness?” he asked.

  “Lord Ashdon,” she said, her smile disappearing slowly. “I must ask. Just this morning you were less than enthusiastic about an alliance with my daughter. What has changed in these few hours?”

  Changed? Nothing, of course, except that the plans formed over the course of his lifetime spilled out if he made a single misstep. It was too late for missteps now and Sophia herself had seen to that.

  “It is only the welcome bonds of honor, madam, nothing less. We have an arrangement, no matter its beginnings. I must hold to them, by all good faith and fair dealing. I have no other course open to me.”

  No other course, how very true that was.

  “How noble of you,” she said in a gentle undertone, considering him. He met her gaze, looking as innocent and guileless as he could manage. “And to be so good-humored in your pursuit of honor. A rare blending of virtues, I assure you.”

  “Thank you, madam,” he said, bowing slightly from the neck.

  “I had supposed, you know”—and here she laughed slightly but without embarrassment—“that you might have managed to accrue a few more lost wagers in the few hours since we first met. Debt can be a sharp motivator. I am so glad that is not the case.”

  “Hardly,” he bit out.

  “Then, what is the time? Coming up on five? And you are still solvent?”

  “Completely,” he said, not bothering to smile.

  “A man of honor, then. I do so hope you can convince my daughter to agree to this marriage. As I’m sure you are aware, honor is so rarely found in these modern times. One scarcely knows whom to trust.”

  “Madam,” he said, “you may put your trust in me.”

  “Thank you, Lord Ashdon. That is such a relief to know. A woman alone must be so very careful, must she not? ”

  “Most assuredly.” A woman alone. If there was ever a woman who was not alone it was Sophia Dalby. “Now, as to the problem?”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I don’t know quite how to tell you this, Lord Ashdon, and I don’t quite know how you will manage it, but Caro has come up with the most ridiculous plan for her future, a plan she is completely certain will result in her complete happiness.”

  “Don’t most women make plans for their complete happiness?”

  “How wise you are,” she said, rising to her feet and walking away from him. Her walk invited erotic contemplation. He refused the invitation. “Yes, that is true. But what is not as often true is the decision Caro has made.”

  “Which is?” he said, rising to his feet and walking to stand with her at the large window that gave a slanted view of Hyde Park. It was a spectacular view.

  “Which is this, sir,” she said, giving him her profile to study. “Caro has declined a suit of marriage from you to pursue the life of a courtesan.”

  Ashdon felt his lungs freeze in his chest, felt his ribs curl in to jab his heart, felt his eyes glaze over with red fog fury. The daughter of a whore had refused to marry him so that she could pursue a whore’s life?

  It only took a moment, a long moment, for the red to fade and for his lungs to expand. She wanted to be a whore?

  Very well, then. That made everything so very much clearer.

  “Lord Ashdon? Do you still believe you can convince her?” Sophia’s voice came to him from out of a pink-tinged haze. Destiny, what else to think?

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m quite sure I can.”

  Sophia smiled, a slow curve of her lips, her dark eyes sparkling. “I so enjoy it when things are well managed. To a successful endeavor, Lord Ashdon,” she said, taking a delicate sip from her cup.

  Ashdon felt only the faintest tingle pass over his skin, a warning of . . . something.

  Well managed? Indeed.

  Seven

  THERE was a rout being given at Devonshire House, to which Sophia and her marriageable daughter were naturally not invited, but the Countess Dalby was hosting an intimate dinner for twenty-four, to which Ashdon had not been invited. Things being what they were, Sophia sweetly begged Richborough to give up his seat at table in the cause of Caroline’s matrimony to Ashdon. Richborough complied, sullenly. Ashdon arrived, promptly.

  It was a fine start to the evening’s events.

  Caro was wearing white; white blond over white crepe, a white pearl-encrusted cross at her throat and a diamond pin in her dark upswept hair. She looked spectacular.

  Anne Warren, at her side for comfort, support, and true friendship, was wearing a bodice of tucked ivory poplin with matching skirt covered in ecru lace, the colors a perfect compliment to her dark red hair and ivory skin. Anne’s fair skin shone and her greenish eyes glistened. She looked wonderful, but Caro, a mother’s prejudice notwithstanding, looked spectacular. Sophia only hoped Ashdon had the wit to see what it was she had tossed into his lap.

  At times, she doubted it.

  In that, he might, unfortunately, take after his father. Westlin had been rather a dolt in regard to her, a point that still rankled. She’d told Ashdon that she never thought of Westlin. A small, inconsequential lie. She thought of Westlin often, especially since Dalby’s death in 1795. That Westlin was still alive, well, that just gave her more time to get her due revenge upon him, didn’t it?

  Ashdon was dressed smartly and looked every inch the pampered aristocrat. He was, she was pleased to say, a very well-featured man. He had good height and was broad through the shoulder; his coat fit him to perfection, his cravat and cuffs sparkling. He had that rumpled hair that w
as so popular now and that it was dark and softly wavy seemed to favor the look. His eyes were the clear and vivid blue of his deceased mother’s. His nose, long and a bit wide, was his father’s. Pity, that. His mouth was good, perhaps a shade too wide, but his bones were fine and chiseled and his teeth were good.

  If she thought of him as something like a stallion she had purchased to stud, she supposed she should be forgiven for that.

  All in all, he was a likely looking man of approximately thirty years, and aside from a gambling habit, which was hardly unusual, Caro could do a lot worse. But in point of fact, she hardly intended for Caro to do any worse at all.