Behind the Courtesan

Chapter One

What men and women of the ton neglect to consider is that behind every courtesan is a woman, who, given another opportunity, would have been a duchess. Or perhaps a queen...

Somewhere on the road to hell

England, 1805

Lions have lionesses, Maharajahs have their many wives and sheikhs, their harems. It seems no matter what manner of species one belongs to, all males think it their gift and right to have more than one female at their beck and call. It is no different with the men of the ton.

Sophia Martin snorted and threw the leather-bound book to the damp carriage floor. It was all about sex. Family, duty, king and country all came second for males seeking sexual gratification.

Drawing a long deep breath, she held it for four counts and then exhaled. Whenever her anxiety grew too great, she would take a deep breath. So many times in her life it had worked. Not now. Not when she faced her largest hurdle to date.

Blake.

Brambles danced thorny cartwheels in her stomach until her breath once again came in short pants and her damp hands crushed the velvet of her lavender gown. What scared her most—being near a new baby, surrounded by happy families, or returning to the place where her life first fell to pieces? Already the condemnation reached out to greet her, to suck her in and spit her out, defeated and deflated. She half imagined sharpened pitchforks awaited her.

Why had Matthew requested that she attend the birth of her niece or nephew? Why had she said yes? The whole situation seemed a cruel reminder of that which she would never experience. Tears pricked her eyes and made them burn as her hand drifted to her abdomen. Too late to change her mind now and far too late for regret.

Once the carriage stopped rocking and creaking, the silence became oppressive. She waited for the driver to leap down from his perch to hand her down.

Nothing happened.

Sophia stood, her body stooped so she wouldn’t hit her head, and opened the carriage door. The first thing she saw was the reason the driver hadn’t done his job. The dirt yard of the tavern she remembered from her childhood was churned to wet, dark mud that would cover her soft kid boots and more if she were to jump down on her own.

Not an option. “Johnson.” She called the driver’s name through clenched teeth.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Get down here and do what I pay you for.”

A snort reached her ears followed by his chuckled reply. “You don’t pay me enough to slog through that.”

Had she known her frugality would make the difference between assistance and abandonment, she would have loosened her purse strings somewhat. It’s what she got for hiring the only man interested in driving a courtesan to the middle of nowhere during the wettest winter in years. Now she regretted not taking the Duke of St. Ives up on his offer of a carriage and driver but at the time, anonymity was foremost in her thoughts. No one could know where she had gone. “I’ll pay you a further guinea if you get down here and help me.”

Johnson snorted again and the carriage rocked slightly but still he didn’t climb down. “Not for all the gold in London, lass.”

“You can’t expect me to...to...” Her bottom lip quivered. She closed her teeth down on it in an effort to remain calm.

“Don’t much care how. I could sit up here all day.”

“Drive around another way,” she hissed.

“Ain’t no other way. Rain’s washed everything to the same kind of sludge.”

Cursing under her breath, she looked to the door of the tavern where a small crowd gathered for what was turning out to be their morning’s entertainment and wondered how they had all reached their destination. What she longed to see were boards or a paved walkway to the door but it seemed none of her wishes mattered that day.

“An ale she falls flat on her face,” a voice cackled from the open doorway.

“Two she falls on her arse.”

The pair roared with uncouth laughter.

The urge to huff and scream overwhelmed her, but she tamped down her fury for the moment. She gritted her teeth and said, “I’ll buy you both three if I can get some assistance.”

One dirty face looked to the other and for a moment hope blossomed. Then, “No deal, lass.”

“Four?” Useless tears stung her eyes once again and exhaustion made her heavy skirts drag at her legs and back.

This time they didn’t reply, only guffawed and continued to watch.

“What have we got, boys?” The voice that now echoed from the inn didn’t laugh. She sucked in a breath and started counting. She hadn’t expected to see him so soon. She wasn’t ready.

Sophia straightened as fully as the low ceiling allowed. Slow drizzle made it difficult to see from where the voice would emerge, but before long, a man—familiar and yet not—emerged, his bulk filling the entire door frame.

“Little Sophie, is that you?”

Even from across the courtyard, she felt his gaze like a sudden pressure to her chest. It had been an age since anyone had called her Little Sophie. She pressed her lips together and tried to ignore the sarcastic tone to his question.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a hand, Madam?” he called from the dry stoop of the inn.

“If it isn’t too much trouble.” Sophia waited and watched as Blake slipped his worn leather boots from his feet and yanked his woolen socks off. He then rolled his rough work pants to his knees, revealing long muscular calves—much to the amusement of the cackling animals.

Sophia was so cold her lips wouldn’t do what she wanted and her teeth began to chatter against one another. “You needn’t undress. Just come and fetch me.”

“I’ve already lost one pair of shoes to that mess and the stepping boards. I won’t lose anything else to it. I don’t know what the fuss is anyway. I’m sure your fine carriage is more comfortable than my inn.”

The pits of hell couldn’t be any more uncomfortable, though at least there she’d be warm.

As Blake took his first step into what had to be ice-cold mud, Sophia gave in to curiosity and studied the man he’d become. Brown wavy hair cropped short, a hint of gold shining through as a lone ray of sunshine pierced the clouds overhead.

What drew her eyes more than anything else—and kept them fixed—were Blake’s arms. A workman’s muscles now bulged from shoulder to elbow where over a decade ago he had been skin and bones.

Instant and unexpected warmth curled through her torso as she imagined those strong arms holding her close.

Sophia shook her focus free, disgusted at herself.

“Your chariot, Madam.” Blake held those arms out in front of her and waited, yet to meet her eyes with his.

“I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m really heavier than I look.” Would his fingers curl about her back and legs? Was he as warm as he looked?

Blake raised one dark brow, his gaze contemptible as he took in her gray half boots, her ruined, travel-stained gown, lingering on the swell of skin rising above her neckline to finally—finally—meet her eyes. The swirling color nearly swallowed his pupils whole, fairly stealing her breath away.

Until he spoke.

“If I can handle the cows in the paddock, I think I can handle you.”

The guffaws of laughter and back-slapping made Sophia’s cheeks hot. Her anxiety made her words harsher, more childish, more defensive. “You cannot speak to me like that!” she huffed. “Where is the owner? Perhaps he will be a gentleman and rescue me.”

“I doubt it, Duchess. Now will I carry you or would you like to go over my shoulder?”

She lifted her chin. “You wouldn’t dare.” Blake’s mouth curved into a grin to rival Lucifer’s and he took a menacing step forward. Too late she recalled the words wouldn’t, couldn’t or can’t only ever served as a challenge. Clearly what occupied the space between his ears hadn’t developed as much as his body had.

“Make your decision.”

But Sophia didn’t really hear his words. She was caught up imagining what those long fingers and strong hands were capable of. She must be delirious. There was no other explanation. Surely a decade and a half away from the place she once called home made them veritable strangers?

Within a breath the world around her tilted and she found herself upside down, her cheek rubbing against the ratty wool of Blake’s hard back as she struggled and tried to slip from his shoulder.

His hold tightened. “Cut that out, or we’ll both be swimming in filth.”

With his command, Sophia struggled in earnest until a large, warm hand closed over her bottom. Shock held her immobile, unable to utter a syllable, unable to tell him to remove both of his hands, the other of which now gripped her thigh to hold her legs still. His touch wasn’t harsh, it wasn’t repulsive or lecherous, but it was unwanted and unasked for. It had been years since a man had touched her without her permission and be damned if Blake got away with it either.

Gritting her teeth, Sophia tried to find somewhere to put her hands, tried to find some purchase in case the buffoon decided to drop her. She looped her thumbs into the top of his worn trousers. If he let her slide into the mud, she was going to take some of his pride with her.

“What are you doing?” he yelped and jumped a little, his deep voice no longer gravelly. “Your hands are like ice.”

“If you drop me, Blake, your trousers are coming too.” If he wanted to put on a show for those watching, she would ensure she wasn’t the only clown in the act.

The back beneath her cheek lurched with poorly concealed laughter.

“This is not amusing,” she fumed, scrabbling to hold on.

His body shook. “It has been the highlight of my day.”

She protested with a violent wriggle to shore up her position. But then the unthinkable happened. The body beneath hers went rigid as she started to slide. Blake’s grip became bruising with the effort to hold her. She was jostled as he fought to keep his footing, but it was no use. One moment one of London’s most sought after courtesans hung over the shoulder of a brute, her hands tucked indecently into the waistband of his trousers, and the next they were both flailing for purchase, uselessly sliding, slipping, until they landed in the mud only two short feet from the doorway. Only one thought hovered in her mind in that indescribable moment...

Mud was infinitely softer than stones or pitchforks or condemnation, but the sting was just as sharp.

* * *

Laughter built inside Blake’s chest until he could no longer contain the guffaws. It was the last sound she would want to hear but the situation was just too ridiculous.

The noises she made suggested her mouth had filled with something even fouler than her disposition, which made the men in the tavern wild with hoots and calls of a lewd nature.

“You did that on purpose,” she cried, flinging mud from her hands with a wild, angry shake.

“I did not,” he replied, but a smile still stretched his face. He knew she wouldn’t believe him but he truly hadn’t intended to drop her. “The last thing I needed today was to go traipsing through the mud with your royal highness.”

“Cease your taunting and help me up.”

Had she no use for manners in London? She hadn’t said please once since he’d glimpsed her fine carriage through the tavern’s window. He had thought, since she had fled one black night without a word, that she would slink back with her tail between her legs to beg forgiveness and acceptance. But then she had probably forgotten all about him the second she stepped into her new life as a prostitute.

Blake’s laughter died as he looked at her—really looked at the woman the girl had become. Night black hair still framed a familiar face, but that’s where the distinctive marks she used to have stopped. The handful of freckles Blake had teased her about mercilessly were gone, no laugh lines creased her eyes, no dimples marked cheeks so pale the skin was nearly transparent.

Well, that’s what happens when you laze abed all day and indulge only in night-time activities.

The sour thought brought him up short and instantly brought with it anger. This wasn’t the Sophie Martin he used to fish with as ten-year-olds. The girl he had known would have laughed in the mud until she couldn’t breathe. She certainly wasn’t the same young girl he’d fallen in love with, only to be betrayed and left without a word or thought. Now she was a woman whose choices made her a pariah.

“Since you have already soiled your gown with my mud, help yourself.”

She attempted to wrestle herself free but sagged back into the mire awkwardly. “Blake, why are you doing this to me?” she whispered.

Damn it. Were those tears she worked so hard to disguise? Even now, as hate warred with the familiar sound of her voice, he still couldn’t bear to see her upset. Cursing under his breath, he hauled himself to his feet and offered her his hand.

“No tricks?” she asked, her voice low, her eyelashes glittering with moisture.

“You have my word.”

Hesitantly, Sophie placed her hand in his, and for a moment, shame washed through him. The shock of seeing her again had obviously muddled his senses.

Blake scooped her into his arms and juggled her against his chest, both of them dripping with foul mud. He carried her inside, ignoring the men crowded in the doorway making suggestions about what he could do with “Her Highness.” He tried to ignore her feeling of insult that hardened her like pine in his hold, though he knew he was to blame.

“I’m sorry, Sophie.” He set her on her feet outside the private dining room.

“Do you think coming back is easy for me, Blake?” The naked emotion in her voice and downcast eyes only made him feel worse. He was despicable.

He’d waited in tense anticipation from the moment Matthew had announced she might return, and now he’d made a right mess of it all.

His apology was lost as she forged on. “When I left here, I promised I would never, ever return.”

She made it sound as though the village was plagued. “Why did you come then? If it’s so hard, why didn’t you stay in London?”

“I came because Matthew asked.”

“You’ve never answered his summonses before.” The accusation was out before he could catch it. It was none of his business.

Her face fell and she turned away from him, hand on the door. “Things are different now.”

“You could at least appear happy when he arrives.” He didn’t want to know how things were different. They were still the same for him. Same tavern, same work, same existence, same everything. Blake turned to leave and send word to her brother, but then she spoke again.

“I was nervous. Worried, if you must know. Perhaps even scared.”

“Oh?” he said, her admission paling in the light of years of being ignored. Now she wanted to pour her heart out? Now she wanted to confide in him? Pent-up anger spurred him to say yet more things he didn’t mean. “Were you scared of me? Of facing your brother? Or returning to the country without your maids and footmen?”

A sharp intake of breath made her shoulders rise in outrage. “Have you forgotten where I came from? I am perfectly capable without servants, thank you very much.”

As if he could ever forget. There were only two women in his life he had loved unconditionally and they had both abandoned him without word or regret. That kind of betrayal wasn’t likely to ever be forgotten. Or forgiven. “You were a girl then. What happened to her?”

“The same thing that happened to the bastard son of a duke. We grew up.”

He gritted his teeth hard, the pain easing the urge to hold his hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t utter another word. “I grew into what my life should have been. I was born a nobody and I will die a nobody just as the circumstance of my birth decreed.”

“And my birth?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What did my first breath mean to the world? Was it written on Destiny’s tablet that I would become a courtesan?”

“No.” Sadness weighed him down. The kind of sadness he’d only ever known in connection with her. “You made your decisions. No one else.”

“Yes, I did. Regardless of what you think you know, my life is full and happy. I learned to accept my lot a long time ago.”

If she looked him in the eye and told him she was happy again then he would know she had become a liar as well as a nobleman’s plaything.

Fury reddened his vision until he saw only the woman she could have been. The wife she would have made. The love they could have shared. He blinked and his dream Sophie vanished into Sophia. He didn’t have to be nice to Sophia. He didn’t have to respect or like her so she could break his heart again when she left. Let her go to her brother’s. “Is that what you call lying on your back for pretty things?”

The crack of her palm across his face echoed off the walls. Then she opened the door at her back and fled into the warmth and safety of the parlor.

He sagged there in the dim light as he rubbed a hand over his stinging cheek and cursed his tongue. He as good as called her a whore. Despite what he told himself in his mind, she was still Sophie. Little Sophie he’d carried on his back when the walk was too far or the river too deep. He’d wiped blood off her skinned knees, held her up so she could pick the sweetest apple from the highest branch, had his first kiss with her in a field of spring flowers, but he could never forgive her for leaving without a word. He couldn’t forgive the fourteen years of silence that followed or the rudeness now.

And to be honest, he didn’t want to.