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.