The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom
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“We’ve always been at sword-point in one way or another.”
“I did not love you before.”
He held his breath. “Do you…love me…now?”
She shivered and her voice caught on a sigh. “Yes.”
She loved him? But how could she? He’d flaunted her as a courtesan, warned her she could not trust him. But he’d never told her that she had taken his breath away the first time he’d ever seen her.
“Dianthe,” he said, his voice cracking over the force of his emotions. “I…not a single one of your relatives would thank me for loving you, and a few would call me out. And they’d be right. I want nothing more than to despoil you.” He held her closer, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her scent.
“Do not try to be noble,” she said. “Finish what you’ve begun…!”
Praise for Gail Ranstrom
A Wild Justice
“Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”
—The Romance Reader
Saving Sarah
“Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”
—The Romance Reader
The Missing Heir
“Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end…”
—Romantic Times
The Courtesan’s Courtship
Gail Ranstrom
MILLS & BOON
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Once again, with love, to my family.
Thank you for all the years of love, laughter and friendship. I couldn’t ask for more.
My gratitude and love to Rosanne, Margaret, Cynthia, Lisa, Eileen and Suzi, who always tell me the truth, even if I don’t like it. And especially to Sandi F., through thick and thin.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
August 18, 1820
F ragmented shadows skittered across the dark pebbled pathway in Vauxhall Gardens, confusing in their quickly changing patterns. A sigh. A moan. The wind? Even the shadows menaced. Dianthe was not timid, but she had never liked being alone in the dark. Objects seen or imagined disappeared with the next shift of the wind. She stumbled, certain her friends had come this way to watch the fireworks over the river just moments ago. Had she made a wrong turn in the dark?
The bushes nearby rustled and a prickle of fear raced up her spine. Was it the breeze off the river, or were Hortense and Harriett doubling back for her? Or could it be that strange man shrouded in a scarlet cloak who’d run into her earlier? She hadn’t been able to see his face, but he’d seemed surprised when she’d turned to glare at his hand on her arm, as if he had thought she was someone else.
She stubbed her toe again and seized the trunk of a tree to keep her balance. Eerie dappled moonlight filtering through the leaves and branches cast another kaleidoscopic mix of shadows and light, but this time there was no mistake. The object she’d stumbled upon was a woman. She looked like a forgotten doll lying facedown and partially hidden beneath a fragrant honeysuckle bush.
Dianthe recognized her—the girl’s white dress, actually. It was almost identical to her own, right down to the pink satin ribbon that trimmed the neckline and hem. She’d seen the young woman earlier in the evening, near the entrance.
Hortense, who had been returning from the privy, had stopped and stared. “My goodness, Dianthe, she could be your twin. Even her hair is your light blond,” she’d said. That had been hours ago.
Dianthe knelt beside the girl and touched her shoulder. “Miss? Are you ill? Do you need help?” she asked, fighting rising alarm.
“Miss?” she asked again, shaking the girl’s shoulder gently. A faint moan sped Dianthe’s heartbeat. She tugged at the woman’s shoulder and turned her over, her hands coming away wet and sticky. A dark gleaming stain spread in a ragged pattern over the bodice of the young woman’s gown. Dianthe was shocked by the look of panic and despair on the girl’s face.
“Oh…’tis you. S-stop…him,” she whispered in a faint, wavering voice. “Don’t let…him get away with…this. Promise me.”
“What?” Dianthe asked. “Get away with what, miss?”
“M-murder. Promise….” The woman was agitated, though her voice was growing weaker by the moment. “Be careful, Dianthe…he saw you and will come for you next.”
“Do I know you, miss? Who will come? And who was murdered?” she asked.
“The others…and…me,” she said with a soft sigh. “Stop him…before…”
A chill of fear and dread raced along Dianthe’s nerves. No, that didn’t make sense. The girl expelled another sigh and seemed to settle into her arms.
Dianthe shook her again, and her head lolled to one side. “Miss!” she said, her voice tight with anxiety. “I promise, miss! I promise! Just say something. Please!”
The girl’s eyes were open. Why wouldn’t she answer? “Miss?” Dianthe asked again, louder this time, and fighting the onrushing panic.
She leaned forward, her hair tangling on the branches of the honeysuckle bush and coming loose from her coiffure. An object lay on the ground beside her and, without thinking, she picked it up. Moonlight flashed off the edge. A knife!
Aghast, she recoiled and fell back on her bottom, growing dizzy with disbelief. No, it wasn’t true. The young woman’s eyes were still open—she couldn’t be dead!