The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark
bold, never meek and maidenly in their manner as Ellen always seemed. With Ellen he could not even lay her lack of confidence at the door of her age. She was older than him, and yet her nervous behaviour made her seem half a dozen years younger.
She was on the path some distance before him now, her short, quick strides slicing at the skirt of her pelisse. Her gaze was on the pavement ahead of her, oblivious to the men who passed her and looked back, as nearly every man did, even with her beauty covered by a veil.
She looked up.
The moment she saw him, he could tell she’d not thought he would come. It was in the sudden drop of tenseness in her shoulders and the smile opening her mouth as if she would speak and acknowledge him from afar. But such an outburst would be folly, even though he had come as asked without acquaintance or equipage, someone may know him. Her mouth closed on the exclamation as she increased her pace, weaving through people walking the other way.
He silently cursed every man who looked at her twice. But then she was clearly a woman of standing, walking alone, the conclusion was obvious. A protective wave of masculine hormones ran through his blood, an instinctive need to defend his territory.
Angry at himself he turned to walk through the gates of the park, sensing her follow him. Fool, she isn’t yours. She was Gainsborough’s, and when he spoke to her he must not forget it.
He’d walked nearly two hundred yards before she drew alongside, and when she spoke her voice was breathless but full of joy he’d not heard in it before. “You came. I didn’t think you would.”
A vice like grip contracted tightly about his heart as his senses were filled with the scent of her, the sound of her. “You had no need to be in any doubt. My feelings are unchanged, Ellen.” His voice was harsher than he intended in response to the need and longing ripping through his chest.
“You are angry though?”
He’d chased away the pleasure from her voice. “No,” he answered, smiling, looking sideways at her, “just desperate to be alone with you.”
He ached to reach for her hand but made no move to touch her, following her lead. It was hardly the fashionable hour and a less frequented park so they would be unlikely to meet anyone he knew, but even so he was aware of her concern for caution.
She held herself slightly away from him while they walked along a path on the edge of the open grass. To their left was a dense shrubbery of evergreens. Ahead of them other couples laughed in flirtatious conversation.
“I thought because you have stopped coming to Madam’s…” her words trailed off.
“Because I cannot bear to watch you with him, that’s why. I was beginning to wonder if you had changed your mind.”
Stopping suddenly, she turned and met his gaze for a moment before looking away to watch a couple further on, as though unable to accept his observation. “This has been the first opportunity. He’s gone for several days.”
She started walking again, a little ahead of him, her eyes fixed on the distance where the white winter sky met the horizon of the city’s park.
He felt the meaning of her statement hanging in the air between them. He began walking too. She was so uncertain of herself, he realised, she didn’t even dare presume he would wish to see her more than once, despite the fact he had only a moment ago declared his feelings were unchanged.
He followed her, a step behind, his open hand hovering at her back, not touching, as if to protect her from what the world had thrust upon such slim and unsubstantial shoulders.
That living this life was not her choice, couldn’t be in doubt.
“How long do we have?”
“I must be back before dark. If I am not, the servants may tell tales.”
“But then we have a couple of hours.”
He caught her elbow and gently drew her aside into the privacy of the less dense branches of a large rhododendron bush. Inside the cavity, surrounded by its evergreen leaves, they were at least afforded some privacy. He lifted her veil, tipping it upwards over the rim of her hat. No make-up. No bruises. Only beauty. More than beauty, magnificent perfection.
His head bent and he kissed her, a kiss she freely gave. His hands settled on the curves of her hips, drawing her body closer. Already his groin was aching, heavy with the weight of his need for her.
“Ellen.” His voice was breathless as he rested his forehead against hers. “God, I’ve missed you. I can think of nothing else but where you are, what you are doing. I think I’m going mad.”
She smiled, a hesitant look, suggesting she was as much affected by him as he was by her. One hand left her muff and her fingers traced the line of his jaw then settled on his lips. She was thinking something, but she did not speak. Her hand fell.
“We could go to an inn, find a room?” For all his confidence and authority he felt like a child begging for a treat.
She nodded. He bestowed another brief kiss on her lips, took her hand in his and squeezed, then let go. “You go first.” He held out his hand. “I will follow and meet you at the gate. But you will have to take my arm from there. I will not leave you walking through the streets alone.”
An overwhelming rush of warmth raced through Ellen. He was everything her imagination had hoped; concerned and considerate. She walked from the cover of the branches before him and made a path directly to the gate. But when she crossed the road she felt his fingers touch her elbow. On the opposite path she slipped her fingers from the muff and laid her gloved hand on his arm. It felt good, normal, like any other couple in the street.
They walked at least a dozen streets before he finally turned into the doorway of an inn.
Inside she stood watching, her hands clasped within her muff, while Edward leaned to the landlord’s ear and money exchanged hands. Then she caught the landlord’s sideways glance at her. It was swift, narrow-eyed and presumptuous, obviously judging her a harlot, and implying indecent thoughts.
She longed to slap him. He made what she’d seen as beautiful seem suddenly sordid. She was not normal. She wasn’t a lady with her beau. What she was, was a whore about to be bedded. There was nothing romantic in this. Whether it was Gainsborough or Edward, the outcome and the position were the same. She’d been stupid imaging it as anything else—painting this affair as a picture of love and devotion. It was not that, no matter what Edward said or what she thought, he could not rescue her from this life and nor could he take back the intervening years of pain. She had better learn to accept this for what it was, a brief opportunity for escape, an interlude, not an affair.
Edward took her elbow, his fingers as gentle as ever, unaware of her change of heart. “I ordered food, I didn’t know if you’d already eaten. I thought just bread and cheese, and ale. I’m sorry the place is humble, but it seems clean. I didn’t think you would wish to risk looking for anywhere more luxurious. We are certain to meet no one who would recognise us here.”
She nodded.
His fingers at her elbow, he guided her into a dingy hall and led her upstairs. The paint was tarnished and chipped in places, but he was right, it was clean.
Edward stopped at the second door and bent to set a key in the lock. The door creaked as he pushed it open and then he stood back and held out his hand, encouraging her to pass.
Her breath caught in her lungs as she stepped inside, remembering what they had done before.
A single tall, thin, window in the far wall let in light and the muted sounds of the street. The room was still grey though, as the day was cloudy. It smelt a little of stale tobacco and was simply furnished, but she had hardly expected a palace. The narrow double bed stood against the back wall. In the opposite corner a single wooden chair faced a small square table, which from the ingrained ink stains, had often served as a desk. A flat topped wooden chest stood at the end of the bed. She crossed the room pulling her