Diane Gaston - A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake

Now when she met the children she would be reminded of him for ever. She’d see him running to rescue her. She’d see his smile and remember his laugh.

How would she be able to sit in Notre Dame, listen to the bells, witness the Mass, without remembering him at her side, seeming to understand the special aura of the place? When she gazed at her favourite paintings in the Louvre, would she not think of him standing next to her, listening to her enthuse about what she loved about the work?

As she’d walked back to her room, she fingered the pearl next to her skin. The memory of him would always touch her if she wore the necklace.

How good it was that the memory of her day with him was a happy one. She so much relished having a happy memory to replace the unhappy ones from her past.

On her way she stopped at an apothecary to buy the items necessary to keep from getting with child. She returned to her room afterwards.

Her room was about half the size of Oliver’s sitting room in the hotel, but it was as clean and as cheerful as she could make it, with a pot of flowers she’d impulsively bought from a vendor and the lace curtains on the window it had taken weeks of saving to afford. She reached behind her to untie her laces so that she could pull her dress over her head and folded it carefully.

Next she removed her corset and set about using the items from the apothecary.

When first married to Duncan, she’d pined for a baby, but it did not take long for her to pray a child would never happen. She’d learned what to do to prevent it. Too many times, though, she could not clean herself afterwards. Still, she did not become enceinte. She’d concluded his punches had damaged her and she could not conceive. At the time she thought it a blessing.

After completing her task, Cecilia climbed on her bed and burrowed under the quilt she’d crafted from scraps of cloth collected during her years of marriage. Sewing the quilt had helped her endure. It was her prized possession, her badge of honour.

Her mind drifted as she lay on her bed. She’d slept only briefly the night before. In Oliver’s arms. Most of the night she’d gazed out of the window, keeping herself awake so that she could be sure she’d rise before him and make her escape.

She’d waited until the first light of dawn appeared, then slipped out of his embrace where she’d felt warm and safe. As quietly as she could she searched for her clothing, scooping it into her arms and tiptoeing to the sitting room to dress. On a table had been a stack of Oliver’s calling cards. She took one as a souvenir of the man with whom she’d spent this wonderful day. When she was fully clothed, except for her shoes, which she still held in her hands, she peeked in the bedchamber one last time, for one last look at him.

So handsome. His face was relaxed in sleep, which only accentuated the perfection of his features. His dark hair was in wild disarray. She stared at him a long time, committing his image to her memory.

As if she could ever forget him.

He’d proposed more days together. He’d tempted her especially when her body had still been humming with the pleasure he’d brought her. But she knew she’d reached her limit with one day. One glorious day.

More time was too great a risk. More time making love with him would only bind her to him, a cord that could bring delight, but also great pain. More time and she’d likely fall under the spell of his charm. More time and she might convince herself that she needed him. Before she knew it, he would be able to control her every move. He’d change. Become brutal.

She’d never go through that again.

Even so, as she lay on her small bed, she yearned to be held by Oliver again. He’d opened a door that she’d thought closed for good—one that Duncan had slammed on her—and how was she to lock those feelings away again?

She would, she vowed. She must.

* * *

That night Cecilia entered the club through the rear door. The Maison D’Eros was located near the Palais-Royal, which, at this late hour, became quite a different place from the one she’d strolled through with Oliver. She was glad Oliver would never know she was a part of this world. At night courtesans, departing from the theatre, promenaded with their patrons. Prostitutes strolled, hoping to attract clients.

Cecilia might have been one of those unfortunate creatures had she not been rescued by Vincent, her one French ally. When Vincent found her that first desperate night at the Palais-Royal, she’d spent her last sou. Her search for employment had been futile. No Frenchman wished to hire an English lady for any reason—except the most wretched and shameful one. So she’d been reduced to that circumstance that night.

Until Vincent took pity on her.

Dear Vincent, the one man she felt comfortable with. Vincent was like a bosom beau and unlike anyone she’d ever met before. A man who adored womanly things, but preferred men to women. He was the very safest sort of ally. He took her under his wing and brought her to the Maison D’Eros, talking the manager into letting her serve drinks for tips.

‘You must flirt with the rich gentlemen so that they buy more drinks and pay you more tips,’ Vincent had told her, then he showed her how to do it. She managed it by pretending she was someone else, not Cecilia Lockhart. The men started calling her Coquette, so she became Coquette.

Coquette was brave. Coquette could tease men and put them in their place. Coquette could laugh at their silly jokes and admire their braggadocio. Coquette could sing bawdy songs and dance seductively. Coquette spoke only French.

Soon men were begging for her favours and Vincent devised another plan.

‘I have a way you might become the rage of Paris! Paris’s most selective courtesan!’ he’d said to her one night.

She’d been scraping by on her tips. ‘I told you, Vincent, I do not wish to be a courtesan. Bedding strange men is abhorrent to me.’

He’d sighed. ‘Abhorrent to you, but my greatest pleasure.’ He’d placed his hand to his heart for a moment. ‘But, never mind. You will not have to bed anyone.’

‘How can one be a courtesan without the bedding?’ she’d asked.

He’d explained it to her.

And so Coquette became Madame Coquette, Paris’s most selective courtesan, selling her favours a mere two nights a week—without selling her favours at all.

Tonight Vincent greeted her in the back room wearing a purple coat, a deep blue waistcoat and a bright yellow neckcloth—his work costume. His blond hair curled around his boyish face and his lips and cheeks were tinted a pale pink.

‘Madame Coquette, chérie!’ He kissed both cheeks in his flamboyant manner. ‘You look ravishing.’

‘As do you, mon cher.’ She kissed him in kind.

‘Who do you entertain tonight?’ he asked.

‘Monsieur Legrand.’

Legrand was a wealthy merchant who had made it a point to ingratiate himself with those in power during the restoration of the monarchy. It was said he courted favour with the Duke of Wellington, but now, with the Occupation near to its end, he’d turned to Frenchmen who were likely to come to power. Procuring a night with Madame Coquette was, no doubt, part of how he intended to impress.

‘Legrand,’ Vincent repeated. ‘He is no challenge at all. You will wrap him around your little finger in no time.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘But Hercule will remain nearby, will he not?’

Hercule, large, strong and intimidating, was employed as a flash man to make certain none of the working girls suffered mistreatment. He stayed within shouting distance in case things did not go as planned.

‘But of course.’ Vincent threaded her arm through his. ‘Time to turn yourself into Madame Coquette.’