His Brazen Tart: A Gentleman Courtesans Novella (The Widows Four Book 2), page 1
His Brazen Tart (A Gentleman Courtesans Novella)
The Widows Four Book 2
Victoria Vale
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
The Gentleman Courtesans
More by Victoria Vale
About the Author
Chapter 1
London, 1819
There was nothing Sir Piers Lovelace hated more than a society ball. Having lived on the fringes of le bon ton his entire life, he had a front-row seat to the inane rituals of actors living on an enduring stage. Here the lords and ladies were, wearing their expensive costumes and masks of courtly apathy. Even within the confines of a ballroom, removed from the gazes of those considered beneath them, they performed like trained pets—preening and competing for the honor of standing in the center of attention.
To think he had once coveted their titles and status, longing for respect and honor and the perfect lady on his arm to complement it all. Piers snorted into his champagne glass, annoyed with the boy of years’ past. The boy who had so foolishly dreamed of a life that held no meaning. If his plans had come to fruition, he would count these people as his peers, perhaps even his friends. He might have become like the poor bastard he watched just now, standing beside his beautiful but empty-headed wife, looking as if her prattle made him wish for a swift and convenient death.
Piers had grown into a man, one who’d learned his lesson the hard way.
Now, he only attended these events when matters of business or the cajoling of a good friend prompted him to don his own costume. The finery of black evening kit and white linen were his armor, concealing his true self. He had once walked about society without a care, believing they accepted him. In his folly, he had exposed himself to ridicule and embarrassment.
Never again.
He was here for one purpose, and recalling that snapped Piers to attention. Gathering his wits and squaring his shoulders, he returned his thoughts to the matter at hand. While he detested such soirées, they had their uses. Tonight was about business, not pleasure, though this particular venture did have its share of carnal rewards.
He spied an acquaintance nearby and began weaving toward the man. Dominick Burke was as rare a sight at society functions as Piers was, but the reason for his attendance became clear soon enough. Standing at his side with a wide smile and smitten eyes was Lady Isabelle Grant—the ridiculously wealthy heiress who had hired Nick to service her as a secret courtesan.
Piers had been skeptical, albeit curious, after hearing rumors of a secret agency in which men were paid to pleasure and cater to wealthy clients. Surely such a thing was not done in staunch, proper England—and certainly not in London where gossip ran rampant, and exposure could mean social ruin for anyone involved. While the agency known as the Gentleman Courtesans operated in secret, paying close attention to his friend’s movements and habits had uncovered the truth. Nick had grappled with a gambling problem for years, one that saw him cast out of his family to scratch out a living for himself. Piers regularly found his friend bleeding funds over the card tables week after week, yet Nick could afford stylish new clothing, a phaeton and pair, and many other luxuries. That might not have been so intriguing if not for the fact that Nick’s change in fortune was partnered with sightings of him with various women on his arm—rich women of experience and a certain worldliness.
Over a game of cards and a shared decanter of brandy, Piers managed to pry the secret out of Nick, proving his suspicions right. Despite not being in dire need of funds himself, he had convinced Nick to introduce him to the proprietor of the agency. The idea of entering an arrangement that was explicitly free of attachment intrigued Piers. After one disastrous attempt at securing a wife, he had sworn off marriage to anyone, ever. A few mistresses had provided him release and an outlet for his singular urges, but the messy entanglements of emotion always brought his liaisons to a screeching halt. No matter how honest he was about what he would and would not give to the women sharing his bed, their softer sentiments always complicated matters. This left Piers navigating the tricky territory of ending such affairs with as much grace as he could manage.
It had grown increasingly frustrating. How was a man to have a detached, physical affair without being confronted with demands for more? He was not fond of using whores, as one never knew if he might walk away with some foul disease. But only prostitutes could be relied upon to hold up their end of the bargain, accepting their fee and dismissing the patron once he’d spilled his seed on the sheets.
Or, so Piers had thought. Now that he had immersed himself into the covert world of gentleman courtesans and the women who kept them, he knew better. Over the course of six months, he had engaged in three diverting affairs with women who only wanted him for one thing. In return, he received tidy sums to add to his growing pile of wealth and bedmates who never batted an eyelash when he donned his clothing to leave them.
Tonight, he would meet his fourth client—a widow who had given the proprietor a very specific list of qualifications. As it turned out, Piers fit every one of them, which made him look forward to this new contract. His past clients had been worldly but did not have much experience outside their marriages, making them as innocent as blushing virgins. The lady who had been described to him was of a different sort. Thinking of all the things he could do to a woman whose qualifications for the perfect courtesan had consisted of attributes such as ‘dominant’ and ‘wicked’ sent a spark of heat through Piers’ veins.
Mrs. Joan Durbin would soon find out just how wicked he could be.
Nick beamed a boyish grin as Piers approached. The man was as different from Piers as night and day, with their only shared trait being an uncommon height that made them stand out in the crowd. Nick was a lighthearted sort, always smiling and making a grand joke of life in general. Piers’ propensity for youthful folly had died a swift, painful death years ago, leaving him stoic and somber. He rarely ever smiled, as he was never faced with a reason to. Nick’s dark brown hair contrasted with bright green eyes—both of which had women swooning in his wake everywhere he went. Piers’ mother had been shocked by the thatch of white-blond hair he’d been born with, and even more surprised that it hadn’t darkened with age. He was a beacon, visible even in the dark with such pale hair, and brows and lashes that were only a few shades darker.
“There you are,” Nick remarked when Piers stood at his side, champagne glass lifted to his lips. “I had begun to think you wouldn’t show.”
Nick’s companion paid them no mind, speaking with a nearby acquaintance. So, Piers fell into easy conversation without worrying they would be overheard.
“Nonsense,” he replied, a smirk ticking the corner of his mouth. “I would never leave a woman who is desperate for my company to languish.”
Nick gave Piers a loaded, sidelong glance. “I take it you haven’t met Mrs. Durbin yet. You wouldn’t describe her as ‘desperate’ if you had.”
Pursing his lips, Piers gazed about the ballroom. “No. Thus far, I have yet to lay eyes on anyone fitting Mrs. Durbin’s description.”
Benedict Sterling, founder and proprietor of the Gentleman Courtesans agency, typically arranged first meetings between the gentlemen and their new clients. However, Piers had been in this business long enough not to need his hand held. When Sterling had mentioned being committed elsewhere for the evening, Piers assured him that he could manage the introduction himself. With a detailed description of Mrs. Joan Durbin set in his mind, he had arrived to the ball hoping to find her quickly and get past the pleasantries so he didn’t have to linger for longer than was necessary.
Nick inclined his head. “Do you see that cluster of gentlemen over there … the ones pushing and prodding like a pack of dogs circling a juicy beefsteak?”
Finding the phalanx of males Nick indicated, Piers frowned. “Of course.”
An elbow jabbed him in the ribs and Nick leaned in, his voice lowered. “A word of advice, friend. Anytime you find yourself looking for Mrs. Durbin, simply locate a swarm of shameless men in the vicinity. In their midst is where you’ll inevitably find her.”
Piers’ scowl deepened at this revelation. Mrs. Joan Durbin was contractually obligated to him, yet had chosen to spend her time entertaining the attentions of other men. If it weren’t clear enough already that he was dealing with a different sort of woman than his usual client, the fact had been made plainer.
“I see,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes as he spied a flash of dark hair in a gap between shifting men. It was followed by a wide, white smile, and rouged lips. Just as quickly, the view was stolen from him as another man filled a space left by one who retreated in defeat.
Apparently, Mrs. Durbin was a popular figure amongst the ton. It was no surprise that Piers hadn’t known this, since for the past few years he had avoided society whenever possible.
“Pardon me,” Piers murmured. His steps were slow but purposeful as he observed the scene before him with a strange mixture of curiosity and irrita tion. Piers didn’t like to be kept waiting, and he disliked having to wade through a sea of desperate, weak-chinned fops even less.
He lingered on the edge of the crowd, his height allowing him a bird’s-eye view of his new keeper. Fingers tightening around the stem of his glass, Piers clenched his teeth and sucked in a sharp inhale at the sight that greeted him. Mrs. Durbin might be the most ravishing woman he’d ever laid eyes upon.
The dark hair he’d spotted from a distance shimmered in the light of crystal chandeliers, a sharp contrast to smooth, alabaster skin. The lady’s eyes were a startling shade of indigo, made all the more intriguing by a heavy fringe of dark lashes and the arching black brows above them. Rouge enhanced her cheeks and mouth, and a beauty mark showed at the edge of her upper lip. Piers wondered if the mark were naturally hers, or if her lady’s maid had applied a patch. He would know soon enough. His groin tightened at the thought of licking along the seam of her narrow, puckered rosebud of a mouth, then seeking the corner where that spot teased him.
The chit caught his gaze and pursed her provoking lips. One eyebrow winged upward in an undeniable challenge as she refused to demur. Shoulders squared, with the indecent exposure of her cleavage rising with every breath, she all but dared him to interrupt her little audience.
His annoyance didn’t abate in the face of arousal as he cataloged her every feature. In fact, his lust surged as he realized that a change of pace was exactly what he needed. Mrs. Durbin’s request for a dominant bedmate had led him to expect a shy widow with a submissive nature. Of course, more time would be needed to properly assess the wants and needs of his client, but Piers had spent enough time in secret clubs and illicit parties to know what he had been presented with here.
He couldn’t help the smug smile that played along his lips as he returned Mrs. Durbin’s audacious glance, issuing a silent challenge of his own. Piers was very familiar with women like this one—those who flirted with danger and chased the heady thrill of the dark and wicked whims of a man like him.
His new keeper was no shrinking violet, no shy submissive. She was a brat; one who had just earned her first punishment from him. The moment she agreed to the parameters, he was going to show Mrs. Durbin what she would earn with her insolence.
He could hardly wait to get her alone.
Joan had immediately picked Sir Piers Lovelace out of the crowd upon her arrival. It helped that Mr. Sterling had given a thorough description of her new paramour. It wasn’t every day one came across a man of such stature and with that bright shock of white-blond hair drawing every eye in the room. She had stayed away on purpose, wanting the chance to observe him before they came face to face.
Having been widowed for three years, Joan had decided to hire a courtesan on a whim. While she certainly did not need to pay a man to warm her bed—as evidenced by the pitiful fools clamoring for her attention this evening—she had grown bored of conventional affairs. A string of lovers had come and gone after her bastard of a husband cocked up his toes, but Joan found she had developed a sort of itch … a longing for something more. She hadn’t been able to put a name to what she desired at first, only knowing that the pampered lords she’d consorted with didn’t have what it took to deliver. They were too eager and besotted with her, treating her like a pretty doll to be petted and fawned over. While it had been nice at first to feel appreciated, since her husband had treated her as a burden and an annoyance, Joan came to realize this was not what she wanted. There was nothing exciting about men with soft hands and weak chins trying to seduce her with flowery speech and gentlemanly overtures.
As a young girl, freshly brought out amongst society, Joan had wanted nothing more than the perfect prince. She had fallen prey to the delusional dreams of one not yet experienced in the ways of the world. Her mother’s training and the constricting precepts of the ton had tricked her into believing she shouldn’t crave anything more than that. It wasn’t appropriate for her to laugh too loud, smile too widely, or speak any higher than a demure murmur. Therefore, it was also wrong for her to desire passion and wild abandon.
Joan had done everything right. She had married for the sake of a fortune and status, and as a result had been miserable for five long, oppressive years.
Somehow, even her horrid marriage hadn’t destroyed those foolish dreams of romance and love. Once it had become appropriate for her to cast off mourning attire, she threw herself into the social whirl, hoping that a second marriage might wash away the bitter taste of her first. Gregory Durbin had left her a fortune, as well as several assets that only added to her accumulated wealth year by year. Since she had no need to marry for money or security, Joan had decided her second marriage would be for love.
That being a widow placed her in a shallower, less desirable pool of marriage prospects had been driven home in the worst of ways. The suitor she’d thought herself in love with had spurned Joan, leaving her angry, frustrated, and jaded. After nursing her broken heart back to some semblance of health, Joan had approached life with a new outlook and a determination to do as she pleased.
Following the rules had gained her nothing, so what need did she have to observe them?
Now, Joan chased excitement. She spent her evenings in salons and gaming hells, cavorting with people of scandalous reputations. She wore revealing gowns because her mother and husband had done their best to shroud her like a nun. She took lovers to her bed whenever she wished, because as a bedmate Gregory had been woefully lacking and Joan wished to know what it was to actually enjoy intercourse.
And she had been happy for a time. Now, she was disinterested in what the men of her circles could offer. Such apathy had led her to investigate the existence of the Gentleman Courtesans. The rumors of such an agency had been flying about London for a few years, but Joan hadn’t believed them until an acquaintance offered her one of their cards. Lady Banbury had been filled with riveting stories of her time with her paramour. The organization operated in secrecy, and one of the only ways a woman could gain an introduction to the proprietor was by presenting a certain calling card at a dress shop in London.
Joan hadn’t made use of the card at first, as she had not yet given up on the idea of a second marriage. Instead, she offered the card to one of her dearest friends, fellow widow Lady Miranda Hughes. One year later, Miranda had remarried and no longer had a use for the calling card, which Joan had promptly taken back. Still, it remained tucked into a book on her escritoire for months before Joan remembered it.
Stumbling upon the card again had piqued Joan’s interest in a way nothing had in a long while. The notion of being the one in control—the one to choose a lover based on a list of very specific qualifications—excited her. That elusive feeling she craved could be hers if Sir Piers Lovelace lived up to the high praises of the proprietor who had matched them.
Thus far, Joan was duly impressed. She had asked for strength and sophistication, and Sir Piers radiated both with very little effort. His powerful frame was shown to perfection by his perfectly tailored coat and breeches. The man had the form of a Corinthian, but moved through the crowd with the grace of a prowling cat. His face was downright angelic—composed of angular lines and cut through with a sharp, straight blade of a nose. His mouth was firm but beautifully shaped, with a bow in the upper lip and a pleasing curve to the lower one. That she couldn’t determine his eye color from this distance intrigued her, and Joan found herself wondering what she would discover when he finally drew near.
Wafting her fan at her flushed face, Joan gave half an ear to the men trying to draw her attention. It amused her to pretend she wasn’t aware of Sir Piers’ presence, but now that he had discovered her, she couldn’t stop stealing glances from the corner of her eye. He’d begun drawing closer, sending Joan’s pulse fluttering and her insides erupting with warmth.
