The Duke (23 page)

She had needed to give him a taste of what she could do for him, so that perhaps he might cease seeing her as bait and see her as a human being, or at least as a woman worthy of a role as his real mistress. And she had needed to show him that he was not as loftily high above her as he liked to pretend. So she had all but seduced her keeper. Why should she fear? Her position as his coddled, high-priced mistress was probably sealed now. She would be rich. He had liked it so much, he would probably want her to stay on as his ladybird even after he had finished with Dolph. But he was never going to respect her now. Not after that.

She didn’t even respect herself and she must have become a true whore by now because somehow she wasn’t even sorry. The feel of him under her hands, the strength and heat and velvet of him. The taste of him. The response in him to her kiss, her every touch...

She had set out to make a conquest of him, only to discover the terrible loneliness of her own heart, reflected in his vulnerable need—the emptiness inside her that cried out for his strength and tenderness. And in the end all questions of power were forgotten. To kiss him, to serve him, to give him such pleasure was pleasure enough for her, and that was a very dangerous state of affairs, indeed.

Robert.
She shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut tightly as the water trickled through her fingers back into the bowl, impossible as love to hold. She abandoned the wash basin, doubling over silently, holding her stomach and fighting a gigantic wave of panicked loneliness for him that was like a physical pain.

He must not know. She must not feel this. A courtesan could not love or she would be destroyed.

She made her way over to her bed and lay down, throwing her forearm over her eyes to stop the tears from coming.

It was then that the first notes rose from downstairs, tentative, searching, like his first kiss that night at Harriette’s. She held her breath, listening. The enchantment grew as his music spread, enfolding her. She heeded, holding on to every note as if her life somehow depended on it.

He played like a master. The sonata was intricate beyond anything she could have executed, tender, mournful and slow, then crashing into a grandeur and complexity that could only have been Beethoven and, as the moments passed, she knew that Robert was speaking to her, only to her, and a helpless laugh of joy escaped her lips as her tears broke free in a kind of separate release; for the first time, in this unforeseen way, with half a house between them, the frigid star of the demimonde finally allowed a man to touch her.

contents
-
previous
|
next

More than a fortnight later Bel stood before the looking glass in her Bond Street mantua maker’s shop. The brisk Frenchwoman checked the fit of the latest evening gown she had created for
La Belle
Hamilton, a resplendent concoction in ice blue silk with a heart-shaped neckline that plunged in the valley between her breasts. There was no mistake about it—this was a gown for a Cyprian.

Bel’s gaze followed her hands as she smoothed the high, clean line of the gown’s skirts over her waist and hips. She could not help but muse that by all appearances she was indeed becoming the thing she pretended to be, and yet, in this role, she had unearthed a richer joy than any she had ever known.

All she could think of was Robert.

“He love this one, mademoiselle,” the woman murmured, her dark eyes gleaming with suave pride in her creation.

“Oh, yes,” Bel agreed in admiration of the woman’s skill. She could hardly wait to see the look on Robert’s face when he glimpsed the daring décolletage.

“Spezial occasion?”

“The Argyle Rooms.”

“I thought was for dinner party?”

“No, that will be the pink one. This is for the Cyprians’ Ball.”

Ever since the night of their interlude in the library, something new and miraculous had sprung up between them, lifting like a green, tender shoot of some as-yet unknown flower. She had forgotten what it was like to feel safe. To be happy.

Their charade continued—routs, concerts, soirees, Vauxhall, Picadilly Saloon, the theater, the opera, the park. Robert did not speak of Dolph or Lady Coldfell anymore. Bel avoided mentioning them, too, knowing that the first of August would come all too soon and, with it, the termination of the agreement she and Robert had signed. Before that date arrived, she wanted an invitation from him to stay on indefinitely as his mistress.

It was the perfect solution in her vastly imperfect world— perhaps it was the
only
solution. She could never return to respectability, nor did she relish the prospect of putting herself back on the open market when their scheme was done. How likely was she to find a new keeper whom she could trust half as much as her stuffy honor-bound duke? Besides, she dared to believe she was learning to make Robert happy.

She had heard through the gossip mill that he had laughed aloud for no apparent reason the other day in the House of Lords, right in the middle of a session. Then he had voted at the wrong teller’s booth, to the amusement of his peers, and had to stand up before the Woolsack and recast his nay for an aye.

Last week Mick Braden had come to visit her, but Robert had refused to let him in—an incident which had made her feel protected rather than put upon, to her own surprise.

There had been no repeat of their intimacy in the library, but everything between them had changed. Slowly but surely she knew that they both were lowering their masks, dissolving each other’s pretenses and becoming quite solid friends.

In addition to all this, she now had about seven hundred fifty pounds in the bank toward the three thousand she needed to spring Papa from the Fleet.

She snapped out of her musings, realizing her Parisian mantua maker had asked her a question. “How eez Madame Julia? So beautiful! I have not seen her of late.”

“Expecting again,” Bel murmured in a confidential tone.

The woman stopped and looked up, jaw dropping. “
Mon Dieu!
Is five children now?”

“Six—this one by Colonel Napier.”

The mantua maker muttered under her breath and bent her head, speaking around a pin.
“You
be careful, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, I will, believe me,” Bel vowed. Harriette had instructed her thoroughly on the proper use and insertion of the small sponge tied with a bobbin of thread, her sole defense against pregnancy, along with the intelligent use of a calendar.

The method had been developed on the Continent and was assured not to impede the full pleasure of both parties. In England this mode of contraception was even recommended by wise accoucheurs to wives in delicate health for whom pregnancy would have been dangerous. Condoms made from the innards of goats were also available, but Harriette said no self-respecting peer deigned to use one, which was just as well, because Bel found the whole notion disgusting. If all else failed, there were home remedies that she had been taught to concoct which could end a pregnancy—ergot, aloes, lead preparations.

“Les six enfants!”
the Frenchwoman was mumbling. “How she keeps her figure,
je ne sais pas.”

When the mantua maker had finished pinning the gown in a few places, Bel went back into the dressing room, gingerly took it off and changed back into her dashing military-inspired afternoon dress. Over a white muslin sheath, it had a dark blue broadcloth spencer with tight-fitting sleeves, brass buttons, and gold epaulettes.

She carefully made out her bank draft for the exorbitant ballgown, pleased with the knowledge that Robert had deposited another two hundred fifty pounds in her account-not, thank God, to pay her for what she had done to him, but simply because her clothing allowance was part of their agreement.

As she left the shop and walked out to her elegant black
vis-à-vis,
she thought with pride of the one hundred pounds she had already invested in the funds. It would grow slowly at the five percent interest rate, but at least it was begun. She did not forget to show her thanks to her protector, either, by buying him the occasional present, some small but thoughtful trinket. Before coming into the dress shop today, she had picked up an elegant silver hunt flask on which she had had the silversmith engrave a wry and risqué dedication:

To Robert with a kiss: That His Grace may wet his lips for future games of vingt-et-un.

From your Belinda, happily conquered.

June, 1814.

This little token would go along nicely with the case of fine French black-market brandy that his privateer brother, Lord Jack, had just sent him, she thought, as William, the young groom, opened the carriage door for her. She handed him her small package of sundry things she had bought in the shops and asked him to stow it in the boot.

As she happened to glance across the busy street, she saw Dolph Breckinridge sitting in his phaeton, smoking a cheroot and staring at her. He did not acknowledge her gaze with a tip of his hat or one of his unnerving smiles; he merely continued to stare, making no move to come closer. With the primal sensation of prey being stalked, she felt a chill run down her spine as she realized he had been sitting outside, watching her and her mantua maker through the shop window.

“We’d best get you home, miss,” William said, bristling as he, too, noticed Dolph, but Bel shook her head, steeling herself. She hadn’t run from the warden of the Fleet and she certainly wasn’t going to run from Dolph Breckinridge. She refused to go scurrying back to Knight House. Her errands weren’t finished yet.

“No, William. Take me to Harriette Wilson’s, please.” Robert’s latest deposit meant she owed Harriette another cheque for twenty percent. She hoped her mentor was not entertaining a client at the moment, for it had been a while since they’d had time to chat.

Dolph sat where he was and just watched her ride away, making no move to follow. She heaved an uneasy sigh of relief and looked forward again, rather weary from so many late nights out. She needed a respite from the social whirl, but tonight they were scheduled to attend a party after the outdoor concert in honor of the visiting Prussian war hero, General Blucher. She shrugged off her weariness. The thought of going anywhere with Robert filled her with happy excitement.

She gazed out the window as the prancing black geldings drew her
vis-à-vis
through the busy city streets. She held an expressionless look as people watched her pass, their stares following her carriage as though they knew what she was.

They probably did.

She stole a wary glance behind and saw Dolph following in his phaeton, though a delivery wagon and a barouche had slipped between them. Unnerved, she looked forward again. At length William brought the
vis-à-vis
to a smooth halt in front of Harriette’s house. Dolph stopped his vehicle a short distance down the street and continued watching her. William jumped down from the driver’s seat and went to the door to make her arrival known and to see if Harriette was free. Seeing one of the big, mean footmen answer the door, Bel felt safe enough to leave her carriage, though Dolph was not far off. She climbed out of the
vis-à-vis
and strode quickly to the door just as Harriette came out to greet her.

She didn’t point Dolph out because it was embarrassing to be the object of an unstable man’s obsession. Instead she forced a blithe smile as Harriette appeared in the doorway of her house. The petite queen of the demireps gasped, throwing aside her usual droll manner to exclaim in wild envy over Bel’s carriage and horses.

“You haven’t seen them?” Bel asked with a smile, crossing the pavement to her. “I thought I showed you already. Oh, I’m very fine, aren’t I?”

“La grande cortesane!”
Harriette cried with a tinkling laugh, giving her a fond embrace. “Oh, you and your carriage are so gorgeous I can barely stand it. Now, come right in and have tea.”

Gladly Bel obeyed as Harriette tugged her inside.

“Ah, my little protégée, you have taken the Town by storm,” Harriette exclaimed a short while later as they settled cozily across from each other on the couch, teacups balanced on saucers in their laps. It was the same room where Robert had made his bold proposition weeks ago. “Hawkscliffe, no less! If I were closer to your age I’d have to hate you. As it is, I feel an almost motherly pride in your achievements—Hawkscliffe and
La Belle
Hamilton! The world talks of nothing else. So, tell me,” Harrietts said, slanting her a shrewd glance, “how is your duke?”

“He’s fine. I think he’s in better spirits generally than when I first went to him—”

“No, you little simpleton, I mean,
how is he
in bed?”

“Harrie!” Bel laughed, blushing crimson, for not even Harriette knew the truth about the nature of their liaison.

“High stickler like him, I figure he’s either a perfect bore in the sack or riddled with perversities. So, which is it?”

Flabbergasted, Bel opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out.

“Oh, come on, spill it, Bel! You know I won’t tell a soul.”