How to Wed a Courtesan--An entertaining Regency romance Read online

  “Whatever has happened can be smoothed over. I’ve come back a wealthy man, Lottie. Far wealthier than Somersville or any other duke or earl in London.”

  Her face remained impassive as she scanned the room filled with items of great wealth. All obtained for her.

  At last, she lifted her sad eyes to him. “I never cared about money. I would have rather had you all these years, so I did not have to make the choices I did.”

  “I did it for you,” he protested. “For us.”

  Her lips pulled into a mirthless smile. “You did it for yourself.”

  Author Note

  In How to Wed a Courtesan, Evander is trying desperately to win back Lottie’s affection. One way he tries to do this is through flowers.

  However, flowers were not always readily available year-round in England, especially during 1816, when this book takes place, which happened to be a particularly rainy and cold year. Which brings us to the hothouse flower.

  Hothouse flowers were grown in something like a greenhouse, though it wasn’t the type that you and I are used to today. These structures would have been built of brick or stone with large multipaned windows in them. Glass was taxed heavily then, which meant that owning a hothouse for plants would have been extraordinarily expensive, and it was why hothouse flowers really could only be purchased by the very rich.

  What was terribly romantic about those hothouse flowers was how much the meaning of flowers were incorporated into bouquets back then. The emotion flowers are meant to evoke has always fascinated me, and I had a wonderful time with Evander utilizing these wonderful bouquets to his ultimate advantage. I hope you enjoy the play of flowers in this book as much as I did when I wrote it.

  MADELINE MARTIN

  How to Wed a Courtesan

  Madeline Martin is a USA TODAY bestselling author of historical romance novels filled with twists and turns, steamy romance, empowered heroines and the men who are strong enough to love them. She lives a glitter-filled life in Jacksonville, Florida, with her two daughters (known collectively as the minions) and a man so wonderful he’s been dubbed Mr. Awesome. Find out more about Madeline at her website, madelinemartin.com.

  Books by Madeline Martin

  Harlequin Historical

  The London School for Ladies

  How to Tempt a Duke

  How to Start a Scandal

  How to Wed a Courtesan

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com.

  To John Somar, who inspires so many of my heroes and whose consideration and patience are unmatched. It’s with him that I have been lucky enough to find my own happy-ever-after.

  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 Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from A Cinderella for the Viscount by Liz Tyner

  Chapter One

  June 1816, London, England

  The ring on the table required an answer.

  Lottie turned away from it so abruptly that the hem of her skirt snapped against the Brussels weave carpet in her parlour. Her pulse beat heavily in her ears.

  This was what she had wanted. Years ago. When she’d been a girl. But she was no longer that girl. She was a woman.

  One who understood the effects of love.

  One who had sacrificed far too much.

  She hadn’t even opened the box yet. Not that it mattered. The jewel within was of little consequence. She had a good deal of wealth. She could purchase her own bloody ring.

  What mattered was what it stood for.

  Everything.

  She’d had a ring on her finger once before and its presence there had scored her heart with what ought to have been eternal love. How wrong she had been.

  Evander’s timing had been planned to perfection. Lottie had completed all her lessons that day—instruction to the women of the ton, who came to her to learn the art of seduction and flirtation. After all, why else would they come to a former courtesan.

  Not that Lottie had wanted their life. What vicar’s daughter did? But then she’d had little choice in the matter. She’d offered too much to Evander in her youthful infatuation and ruined her prospects for anything else.

  It rattled the soul to know what one must do to get by. To protect those one loved.

  That was why her decision was so hard now. When the fantasy of love warred with bitter reality. When desire arose despite obligation. When society stood in the way of dreams that could never be.

  There was no other man in her life. Her protectors were a thing of the past. Their financial support was no longer necessary now she had established herself as an educator of the ton’s ladies.

  Those rumoured to be under her instruction received extraordinary attention at balls and soirees, and their suitors were endless. Those on the outside assumed her lessons were of a sensual nature. In truth, Lottie’s focus was always on the lady—on teaching her to accept herself.

  All of which comprised the reason she should send the ring back to Evander. The Earl of Westix did not need a woman of ill repute at his side, mingling her tarnished reputation with his esteemed reputation.

  She snatched the box off the cool marble tabletop, just beneath yet another glorious bouquet of the hothouse flowers Evander insisted on sending. Irises and white tulips this time. Just as beautiful as they were unwanted.

  The box with the ring in it was cold against her palm and she found herself prising it open, doing to the little box what she had only recently been able to do to her heart.

  Nestled within a nest of glossy black satin was a small diamond ring, winking up at her. She staggered back, as if at a blow to her chest.

  Her expectations had settled on something large and grand—an opulent bauble befitting the Earl, who had seen the world and gained a fortune. This stone was a modest little thing, almost a chip. Once upon a time, it had been the most beautiful ring she ever seen. She’d thought it lost for ever when she’d thrown it across the drawing room at Comlongon Castle, and had bade the bit of jewellery good riddance. Yet here it was once more, begging for a piece of herself she could not give. A piece of herself which could not exist.

  Because all that was left were memories of better times, of beautiful places, of a love that was innocent and precious, of things that could never be.

  And things she could not stop herself from wanting.

  Chapter Two

  August 1809, Bedfordshire, England

  Music tinkled with refined elegance through a ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers, where candles shone from gilt sconces
and reflected their golden light throughout the room. It was beautiful in a way that was nearly indescribable to a girl like Lottie, who had spent her life in a small village in the vicar’s cottage with her father.

  The borrowed gown she wore—pale blue satin, with gems sewn into the delicate fabric—sparkled as if it too was as otherworldly as the scene glittering before her.

  ‘Is it everything you thought it would be?’ a familiar voice asked.

  She spun around and beamed up at Charles, the only son of the Duke of Somersville, a man whose station meant she ought never to associate with him. Except that his manor was near Binsey, the village where she’d lived. They’d spent every summer together before such a thing as class had ever entered Lottie’s thoughts.

  And now he would be leaving on his Grand Tour, trekking across the world as his father once had, gone for who knew how long. This was Charles and Lottie’s last hurrah together, and he had declared it would be grand.

  That was why he had insisted she accept his aging aunt’s offer to visit her sprawling estate in Bedfordshire.

  Lady Hasgrove was a wealthy widow who had always found Lottie’s companionship agreeable. This ball her neighbours had put on, two nights after Lottie’s her arrival, was undoubtedly part of his scheme, and it was proving to be nothing short of magical.

  ‘This is more than I ever thought possible,’ Lottie confessed, unable to stifle her awe. And how could she in such an exquisite setting?

  He chuckled. ‘I knew it would please you.’ His blue gaze, clear and brilliant, quite similar to her own, flitted about the room. ‘Any suitors as yet?’

  She laughed at that. ‘Surely you jest? I’m hardly the type of woman to draw men. And you know I did not come to Bedfordshire to—’

  ‘Lord Folton, I demand you introduce me to this divine creature.’

  They both turned at the sound of Charles’s title to find a tall, lean man, impeccably dressed in a tailored black jacket and a green waistcoat that made his eyes the most stunning shade of jade. His auburn hair was combed neatly to the side and he wore a smile that revealed straight white teeth.

  Lottie’s heart stuttered off its beat.

  The men of the ton were all handsome, with their fine clothes and manners and the air of sophistication they bore. But the one standing before her put them all to shame.

  Charles lifted his brows at Lottie, as if to gloat because he’d expected this. No doubt she’d hear of it later.

  ‘Miss Rossington, this rapscallion is Evander, Baron Murray. His father, the Earl of Westix, and mine are in the same adventure club.’ Charles shifted his attention to the gentleman. ‘Murray, may I present my dearest friend, Miss Charlotte Rossington?’

  ‘Miss Rossington.’

  The Baron’s attention focused on Lottie and her breath froze in her chest, trapping her in a moment of sheer bliss.

  He lifted her gloved hand to his lips as he bowed to her. ‘Enchanté.’

  His smooth voice and the genuine interest in his searching stare sent tingles racing over her skin.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ she said, in a voice far softer than usual.

  ‘Would you believe this divine creature hasn’t a single name on her dance card yet?’ Charles nudged Lord Murray.

  Heat scorched Lottie’s cheeks, but before she could chide Charles for his blatancy Lord Murray spoke up. ‘I wish I could fill the whole of it with my name.’

  ‘You can fill at least the first space.’ She glanced up at him through her lashes and found him grinning down at her in a way that made her pulse race.

  ‘The set has already begun.’ Lord Murray glanced up with a pensive expression. ‘It would appear we have quite a wait until the next.’ He gave a beleaguered sigh. ‘I supposed we’ll have to keep one another company until it begins. More’s the pity.’

  A wink followed his lamentation, indicating that he was no sorrier for it than she. In truth, she wanted to know everything about this man. His father was the Earl of Westix, that was what Charles had said. The name was indeed familiar, as Lord Murray’s father was oftentimes brought up alongside Charles’s.

  ‘Shall I fetch you a glass of lemonade?’ Lord Murray asked.

  As much as Lottie enjoyed the refreshment, she did not relish losing Lord Murray’s company after having just become acquainted.

  She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘It’s for the best. Lady Pensville is notorious for watering down her drinks.’ Lord Murray gave an exaggerated grimace.

  Lottie, who had always been raised to be honest and generous with compliments, while being silent on complaints, covered her mouth with her hand in horror. ‘You shouldn’t say such things.’

  He lifted his shoulder with an uncaring shrug. ‘Well, it’s true. You can try it, if you’d like to see for yourself.’ He indicated the linen-covered table, where a large crystal punchbowl sat. The liquid within did appear rather clear.

  ‘Well, now you’ve recommended it with such alacrity...’ She laughed and shook her head.

  ‘Ah.’ He held up his forefinger. ‘You’re afraid you’ll have to lie and tell me you enjoyed it, aren’t you?’

  There was something taboo about his nonchalance, the way he so casually broke the rules she had tiptoed around her entire life, that it left her giddy.

  ‘Are you blushing?’ he teased. ‘I dare say you must have the moral compass of a vicar’s daughter.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s because I am a vicar’s daughter.’ She grinned at the mention of her father’s profession.

  ‘If all vicar’s daughters were as lovely and sharp-witted as you, every man in England would attend church.’

  ‘Every man in England should attend church,’ she argued.

  ‘Yes, but then they actually would.’

  She laughed at such a brazen statement.

  ‘I assure you, Miss Rossington, I do not jest.’

  ‘Do you always speak what’s on your mind?’ she asked, genuinely curious and inexplicably drawn to his cavalier demeanour.

  ‘I do.’ He lifted a brow at her. ‘Everyone should.’

  She caught herself before issuing forth a scoff at that. ‘Even women?’ she countered.

  He leaned closer, bringing with him a pleasant sandalwood scent. ‘Especially women. How are we ever supposed to understand you if you never share what is going on in those pretty heads of yours?’

  She twisted her fingers absently as she considered this. Her father had always permitted her to speak her mind with him, and obviously she’d always done so with Charles. However, she had been cautioned from doing so among others, lest she come across as a hoyden.

  ‘Like now, for example.’ Lord Murray studied her, his head tilted to the side in an almost dreamy fashion. ‘You’re thinking something poignant. I can see it in the lovely crystal blue of your eyes. And yet you are saying nothing.’ He leaned as close as he could, which scandalously bordered on the inappropriate, and whispered, ‘Tell me.’

  All the air seemed to be sucked from the room in that moment. Lottie wrestled to keep her wits about her with this charming rogue. ‘I was instructed in my youth that men do not care for intelligent women.’

  A spark glinted in his eyes and he straightened, relinquishing the space around her once more so that she might draw a proper breath. Or at least as much as the bodice of her gown would allow. Being borrowed, it was made for another woman’s body and was a bit on the snug side.

  ‘If you are as intelligent as you are beautiful, perhaps I ought to propose this very night.’ He grinned at her—a boyish smile that hooked itself into the deepest part of her chest.

  ‘If you are as honest as you are charming, I might just consider such an offer.’ She had never been coy, but he encouraged a daring boldness in her. And she liked it. Just as she liked his appreciation for her int
ellect. That was a rare thing indeed.

  He laughed. ‘You truly are enchanting.’

  ‘Coming from a man of blatant honesty, I take that as the highest compliment.’

  ‘As well you should,’ he said, nodding favourably. ‘As well you should.’

  The music in the hall tapered to a close and the people around them shifted in preparation for the arrival of those returning from the country dance.

  ‘Dare I ask what the lady thinks of me?’ Lord Murray turned his attention away from her as he posed the question.

  ‘I am not so bold with my honesty,’ she replied airily. ‘I suppose you shall have to wait for my assessment.’

  He turned back to her with an exaggerated look of pain. ‘You slay me, madam.’

  ‘Patience is a virtue.’

  She recalled the words her father often said to her, more as a reminder to herself than to Lord Murray. For she was impatient and always had been. Even now, a restlessness stirred within her. She longed to know more about him. And wondered how she might see more of him.

  It was foolish, of course.

  Lord Murray was the first man to ask her to dance—the first who had even paid her a modicum of attention. She would be a ninny to cast her heart his way when she knew nothing of him.

  For his part, Lord Murray was not at all put off by her answer. Instead, his eyes twinkled with a mischievousness she enjoyed more than she ought to admit.

  ‘Yes, but dancing is preferable by far to patience.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we?’

  She slipped her hand into the warm crook of his elbow, near enough to him now to make out the warm sandalwood notes of his shaving soap she’d caught earlier.

  He led her through the opening notes of a cotillion. ‘Do you attend balls often?’

  ‘I must confess, this is my first.’

  His mouth fell open as they danced apart and towards other partners. When they returned to one another, he appeared much chagrined. ‘Then I suppose any hope of finding you at a ball in London would be impossible?’