Jack’s glance was supercilious. “I haven’t yet decided.”
It was then, when he stood back to usher her through the watergate, that Sophie realized that they had been walking in the wrong direction. A leafy lane stretched before them. Not far ahead, the lane ended by the banks of the Thames. Sophie halted. “Ah…Jack…?”
Jack looked down at her and held out his hand. “Your uncle’s returned. He spoke to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Eyes wide, Sophie studied his face. “He told me there’s no reason we can’t marry.”
“Precisely.” Jack smiled, closing his hand about the fingers she had automatically surrendered. He drew her closer and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Which is to say that by common consent, general agreement and the blessing of Fate, my wait is, at long last, over.”
“But shouldn’t we..?” Sophie glanced back at the dark shrubbery of the Gardens, slowly receding in their wake.
Jack cast her a reproving glance. “Really, my dear. You don’t seriously imagine that I, such as I am, could consider Vauxhall a suitable venue for a proposal, do you?”
There seemed no sensible answer to that.
But Sophie had no time to ponder the implications. They had reached the water’s edge. She glanced about, somewhat surprised at the bustling scene. A stone wharf lined the river and extended out in a jetty where a small flotilla of pleasure craft bobbed gently at their moorings.
“If habits linger, he’ll be at the end.”
A most peculiar sensation started to creep along Sophie’s nerves. She clung to Jack’s arm as they wended their way between Garden patrons haggling with the boatmen, and others embarking for a slow ride home. The craft were of a variety of sizes, some holding no more than a couple, while others could comfortably carry a small party. Still others had canopies erected over their bows under which lovers could pursue their acquaintance in privacy, screened by drapes which let down about the sides.
It was towards one of these last that Jack led her.
“Rollinson?”
Sophie suddenly felt quite light-headed.
The beefy boatman in charge of the largest and most opulent craft turned from desultory conversation with his crew to peer up at Jack. “There you be, Mr. Lester!” He grinned, displaying a row of decidedly haphazard teeth, and tipped his felt hat to Sophie. “Got your message. We’re here and ready, sir.”
“Very good,” Jack replied.
Sophie found it hard to follow the rest of their conversation, at least half of which was conducted in boatman’s cant. She glanced about, trying to interest herself in the scene, rather than dwell on what their presence here probably meant. If she thought of that, she might feel obliged to protest.
As it was, she was not to escape making some part of the decision on her fate. Their itinerary agreed upon, Jack leapt down to the wooden planking of the boat’s hull, which floated a good yard below the jetty.
He then turned to study Sophie, one brow rising. “Well, my dear?” With a graceful gesture, he indicated the boat and the curtain cutting off the bow. His slow, slightly crooked smile twisted his lips. “Will you trust yourself to me tonight?”
For an instant, Sophie stared down at him, oblivious of those about them, of the sly yet careful glances cast her by the boatmen. All she could see was Jack, waiting for her, a very definite glint in his eyes. For an instant, she closed her own. What he was suggesting was perfectly scandalous. Drawing in a deep breath, she opened her eyes and, with a soft smile, stepped to the edge of the jetty.
The familiar feel of Jack’s hands about her waist was reassuring, soothing the peculiar jitteriness that, all of a sudden, had afflicted her. He set her down beside him, one arm slipping about her to steady her as he helped her across the rowing benches. Parting the heavy damask curtain that screened the bow, he ushered her through.
Sophie entered a private and very luxurious world of moonlight glinting on water. The curtain fell closed behind them, sealing them in. With a slight lurch, the boat got under way. Jack’s arm came to urge her to a seat as the boat nosed out onto the river. Once clear of the craft by the jetty, the boat pulled smoothly, powerfully, upstream.
As her eyes adjusted to the deep shadows beneath the canopy, Sophie, fascinated, gazed about. She was seated amid a pile of huge silk cushions spread over a satin-draped platform, heavily padded, that was constructed to fit snugly across the bow. The platform all but filled the area behind the curtain, leaving barely enough room for a wine cooler, which, she noticed, contained a bottle, already open and chilling, and a small fixed buffet holding glasses and small dishes of unidentifiable delicacies. Jack turned from examining the buffet’s offerings to look down at her.
“I think we’ll leave the caviar for second course.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. She didn’t need to ask what he fancied for the first. His eyes, even in the shadows, gleamed as they rested on her. Clearing her throat, suddenly dry, she asked, a trifle unsteadily, “You planned this?”
His smile was smugly triumphant. “To the last detail,” Jack averred, coming to lounge on the cushions beside her. “It’s customary, you know.”
“Is it?” Sophie stared at him.
“Mmm-hmm.” Jack leaned back, gazing upward to where the canopy overhead was drawn partially back, revealing the black velvet of the sky sprinkled with jewelled stars. “Seductions are never so satisfying as when they’re well-planned.”
Sophie bit her lip and eyed him warily.
His gaze on her face, Jack laughed and, reaching up, drew her down to lie among the cushions beside him. Sophie hesitated, then yielded to his gentle strength. Propped on one elbow, Jack smiled down into her wide eyes. Then he bent his head and kissed her, long and lingeringly, before whispering against her lips, “I’m not teasing, Sophie.”
A thrill of desire raced through Sophie, all the way down to her toes. She opened her lips on a feeble protest—and Jack kissed her again. And kept kissing her until she had no breath left to speak.
“No, Sophie.” Jack dropped soft kisses on her eyelids as his fingers deftly unbuttoned her gown. “I’ve had more than enough of wooing you, my love. You’re mine, and I’m yours. And nothing else matters.” His voice deepened at the last as he looked down at her breast, the firm ivory flesh filling his palm.
Sophie arched lightly as his thumb circled the rosy peak. Unable to speak, barely able to breathe, she watched him from beneath heavy lids as he caressed her. Then he lowered his head and she stopped breathing altogether, her fingers sinking into his shoulders as his tongue lightly teased, knowingly tantalized.
“Besides,” Jack murmured against her soft skin. “We’ve only one thing left to discuss.”
“Discuss?” The word came out weakly on a slow exhalation, the best Sophie could manage, her mind struggling against the drugging haze of his caresses.
“Hmm. We have to discuss what I’ll accept as suitable recompense for my torture.”
“Torture?” Sophie knew about torture. She was being tortured now, his hands touching her so skilfully she was gripped by an urgent longing. “What torture?”
“The torture of having to woo you, sweet Sophie.”
Sophie stirred, consumed by the sweetest ache. “Was it torture?”
“Torture and worse,” Jack vowed, his voice deep and raspy.
Sophie sighed. “What do you consider suitable recompense?” She just managed to get the words out before he stole her breath again with a caress so artful she thought she could faint. She didn’t, but the sensations didn’t stop, darting through her like lightning, spreading like warm fire beneath her skin.
Aeons filled with pleasure seemed to have passed before she heard his soft murmur.
“I know what I want as my reward for wooing you. Will you give it me?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a soft whisper on the breeze.
Jack raised his head, a smile twisting his lips. “I haven’t yet told you what I want.”
 
; Sophie returned his smile with one of her own. “It had better be me—for that’s all I have to give you.”
For the first time in his rakish career, Jack was lost for words. He looked down into her eyes, passion-filled and mysterious. “Sophie.” His voice was hoarse, dark with his turbulent passions. “You’re all I’ll ever want.”
“Then take me,” Sophie murmured, wondering, very distantly, how she dared. She reached up and drew his lips to hers before her sane self could resurface and disturb the glorious moment.
Thereafter, her sanity or otherwise was not in question; desire caught her and held her until she glowed with its flame. Jack fed her fires, never letting her cool, until she ached for him to join her. When he did, it was as if the sun shone brightly out of the night-dark sky. Sophie surrendered to joy and delight and rapturous, delirious pleasure. For one timeless moment, she felt that she had flown so high she could touch the stars gleaming in the firmament. Then she softly drifted back to earth, safe, forever, in Jack’s strong arms.
The gentle rocking of the boat, and Jack’s heavy weight, drew her slowly back to reality.
Surprisingly, Sophie found her mind oddly clear, as if the sensations that had held her body in thrall had proved so overpowering that her wits had disengaged and retreated to a safe distance. She could feel the cool caress of the river breeze on her naked skin and her lover’s touch as, propped now beside her, he gently stroked her hair from her face. She opened her eyes and looked up. He was a dark shadow as he hung over her, solid and comforting in the moonlight. Sophie listened for the shush of the water under the hull—and made a discovery. “We’re not moving.”
Jack’s smile gleamed in the moonlight. “We’re moored. Off a private park. The men left us nearly an hour ago.” He reached up to spread out her curling hair, released from its moorings. “They’ll come back later and take us home. My carriage will be waiting at the steps.”
Sophie blinked. “You really did think of everything.”
His smile grew broader. “I always aim to please.” He shifted slightly, drawing her more comfortably into his arms and tucking a silk shawl tenderly about her. “And now that I’ve pleased you, how soon can we be wed?”
Still slightly dazed, Sophie stared up at him, marshalling her wandering wits.
“Not that I’m trying to rush you, my love, but there are any number of reasons why an early, if not immediate, wedding would suit us best.”
As he turned her hand over to press a kiss into her palm, and the touch of his lips stirred the embers that were only now dying within her, Sophie abruptly nodded. “I see your point.” She stopped to clear her throat, amazed she could think at all. “My father’s due back for a quick visit next month—can we wait until then?”
Jack raised his head to look down at her. “It might be hard.” He smiled, his usual crooked smile. “But I suspect we can wait until then.”
Sophie sighed, deeply content. She put up a hand to brush back the dark locks from his forehead. “You’ll have to marry me; you’ve thoroughly compromised me. We’ve been away for far too long.”
“I always intended to marry you. From the moment I first saw you in Lady Asfordby’s ballroom.”
Sophie studied his face in the moonlight. “Did you really?”
“From the moment I saw you dancing with that upstart Marston,” Jack admitted. “I was smitten then and there.”
“Oh, Jack!”
After the necessary exchange of affection brought on by that revelation, Sophie was the first to return to reality. “Dear Heaven,” she exclaimed weakly. “We’ve been gone for hours.”
Jack caught the hint of concern dawning in her voice. “Don’t worry. Horatio knows you’re with me.”
Fascinated, Sophie stared at him. “Did you tell my aunt, too?”
“Good God.” Jack shuddered. “What a horrible thought. If I had, I’d lay odds she’d have given me instructions. I don’t think my pride could have stood it.” Jack dropped a soft kiss on one delectable rosy peak. “Your aunt, my love, is just plain dangerous.”
Privately, Sophie agreed but was far too distracted to find words to say so. Sometime later, her mind drifting in dazed consideration of the future he had spread before her, the home, the family—everything she had ever wanted—with him by her side, she returned to his point. “Speaking of marriage, sir, you have not yet asked me to marry you.”
“I have—you quibbled and refused.”
Sophie smiled into the night. “But you’re supposed to ask me again, now that my uncle has given me permission to receive your addresses.”
Jack sighed lustily, then shifted to move over her, one elbow planted on either side, his expression arrogantly commanding. His eyes, deep dark pools within which passion still smouldered, transfixed her.
“Very well, Miss Winterton. For the very last time—will you marry me? I realize, of course, that you are only a lady of expectations and not an heiress. However, as it transpires, I neither need nor want a wealthy bride. You, my beautiful, desirable Sophie—” Jack bent his head to do homage to her lips “—will do just wonderfully. You, my love, fulfil all my expectations.” Another kiss stole her breath. “Every last one.”
A soft smile curving her lips, her gaze misty with happiness, Sophie reached up to slide her arms about his neck. Her acceptance was delivered, not in words but in those actions which, to her mind, and Jack’s spoke best.
* * *
AS THE WEBB CARRIAGE rocked into motion, leaving the shadows of Vauxhall behind, Lucilla sank back against the squabs. On the opposite seat, Jeremy and George yawned and closed their eyes, their faces wreathed in seraphic smiles. Behind, in the smaller carriage, Toby, Ned and Clarissa were doubtless still exclaiming over their exciting evening. Lucilla, however, was not impressed.
She had just been informed that Jack would be returning Sophie to Mount Street by a different route.
It was several long moments before she trusted herself to speak.
“And you told me not to meddle.” With an audible humph, she cast a disgusted glance at her spouse.
Horatio was too wise to answer. He smiled serenely, glancing upriver as the carriage rattled over the bridge.
* * * * *
The Secrets of a Courtesan
Nicola Cornick
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the Regency world of Fortune’s Folly, a town set in the wild Yorkshire Dales where scandal, danger and romance are but a step away!
Eve Nightingale has run away from London and created a new life for herself in the little Yorkshire market town, but when her former lover, the handsome and charismatic Alasdair, Duke of Welburn, arrives in Fortune’s Folly, all her secrets are in danger of exposure. Can Eve and Alasdair rekindle the love that once united them or will they be driven apart forever?
It’s a very great pleasure to see The Secrets of a Courtesan in print for the very first time. This prequel to my Brides of Fortune series has previously only been available in ebook format and I have had so many requests from readers wanting a print copy. Here it is, especially for you!
Very best wishes,
Nicola
For my sister-in-law, Julie.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
PROLOGUE
April 1809
Letter from Lord Hawkesbury,
Home Secretary, to Alasdair Rowarth, Duke of Welburn
Rowarth,
I write to you in absolute confidence, requesting your assistance on a matter of national security. Mutual acquaintances tell me that you are an utterly sound fellow. I am sure this is the case because I knew your cousin at Eton. So, Rowarth, here is the situation. For some time now this department has been investigating the criminal activities of one Warren Sampson, a mill owner who has acquired land around the villages of Peacock’s Oak and Fortune’s Folly in the
North Riding of Yorkshire. Sampson is suspected of encouraging civil unrest and sedition and it is imperative that we put and end to his influence. Imperative, I tell you. The man is a blackguard, an utter scoundrel. And now we may have found a way but it is a matter of considerable delicacy. It involves a certain Mrs. Eve Nightingale or, as you may remember her, Eva Night…
Pray, call on me at your earliest convenience so that I may acquaint you with your task.
Yours in haste,
Hawkesbury
CHAPTER ONE
Fortune’s Folly, Yorkshire—May 1809
EVE NIGHTINGALE had never believed that her past would catch up with her. She had run too far and hidden herself too well to be found. And then she saw Alasdair Rowarth, Duke of Welburn, in Fortune’s Folly Market Square one morning in spring and knew that everything that she had striven for was in danger.
Eve had been shopping, browsing amongst the market stalls, taking her time to chat to the sellers and enjoying the sunshine. The winter had been long and bitter with so much snow that for a time the village, so high in the Yorkshire dales and fells, had been cut off from the outside world. Now that spring had finally arrived it had brought an influx of visitors, for Fortune’s Folly was a spa of some note, not as famous as the local town of Harrogate, but with health-giving mineral waters that were said to be far less disgusting to drink. And on this May morning the square was full of townsfolk and visitors taking the air, gossiping and strolling, perusing the goods in the shop windows, the ladies’ parasols a forest of bright colors against the sun, the gentlemen elegant in jackets of blue and green superfine. There was a sense of brightness and hope in the air after such a long and gloomy winter.
Eve had just placed a quart of milk and a piece of creamy Wensleydale cheese in her marketing basket when she felt a strange prickle that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It was the unmistakable sensation that she was being watched. She turned slowly and met the dark gaze of a gentleman who was standing on the opposite corner of the street.