A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man (21 page)

“This is thoughtful of you,” she said from the kitchen.

He was about to reply when he felt someone giving him the stink eye. He turned to see a rotund gray tabby cat perched on the back of a wing chair, tail swirling.

“Oh, that’s Miss Meade,” Piper said, returning to the living room. “Ignore her. She’s a she-devil.”

Mick raised an eyebrow, suddenly aware of the nature of the trap he’d just entered. It was a vixen’s lair if ever he saw one—silky and colorful and strewn with candles, a gleaming table set for two, the bedroom door left ajar and hinting at a bed worthy of a harem girl.

His curious gaze moved to Piper and her glossy lips, succulent cleavage, and round hips. That look in her eye told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

She was an enchantress, and Mick was falling under her spell. Happily. Enthusiastically. The only thing that bothered him was how different Piper seemed from the girl with the duct-taped eyeglasses and ink-stained lips from just a couple weeks before. Where had she gone?

“Would you like something to drink?” She gestured to the pillow-strewn sofa and the coffee table set with champagne flutes, an ice bucket, and a bottle of what looked like good stuff.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Piper Chase-Pierpont?”

She laughed, throwing back her head. Her shiny hair went cascading down her nearly bare back, her eyes sparkled, and she dragged her fingertips down the length of her own neck.

Fuck me.

Aside from that silent declaration, Mick’s mind had gone blank.

*   *   *

She fed Mick another slice of mango, slipping her fingers just beyond his lips and into his hot mouth, the fruit’s juices dripping down her arm. She watched him chew, his blue eyes incandescent with lust.

That’s when Mick grabbed her wrist and licked the inside of her forearm, from the crook of her elbow to her wrist.

Piper knew it was time. His belly was full. His head was buzzing with champagne. He’d been touching her every opportunity he got. Things were moving at a perfect pace.

She leaned toward him, aware that her bosom was about to spill from her dress.
I’ve become such a tart!
“Do you want me, Mick?” she whispered.

His lips twitched but he said nothing, and a sharp panic raced through her. She’d never even considered he might say no. What would she do with all the whipped cream?

“I’ve wanted you for a long, long time,” he finally answered, which sent relief flooding through her.

“Good.” Piper stood, her belly directly in his line of sight, showcased nicely in tight black knit. “Why don’t you pick out some music for us? I’ll be just a minute.”

Piper strutted on her heels toward her bedroom, knowing his eyes were glued to her behind, then shut the door without a backward glance. Once inside, her knees buckled and she began to slide down the inside of the door.

This was no fantasy. She was really going to do this. In moments, Mick Malloy’s hands and mouth would be all over her and she’d be returning the favor. Piper would finally be getting what she’d been denied for too long. How in the world was she going to keep her head screwed on straight?

Focus, she told herself.
She
was the one who had to set the pace and direct the passion. It was up to
her
to establish the rules for the rest of the week.

With a deep breath, Piper pulled herself to her feet and went to the closet. As she took off her dress and put on the evening’s costume selection, her hands began to shake. What was it that the Swan had said to Ophelia? Oh yes …

“Don’t think of it as nerves. Think of it as the hot fuse that lights the fireworks—flame to gunpowder.”

*   *   *

The candles were lit. The lights were dimmed. The bed was turned down. She heard Marvin Gaye (
oh God, no
) floating from the living room speakers.

Forget the nerves—Piper was scared to death.

Lust,
she reminded herself. The First Sin of the Courtesan was lust, so lust was to be the theme of the evening. Her goals would be simple: drive Mick mad with desire, break down his barriers with visual teasing, wild dirty talk and mad skills, tease him until he begged for release, then, finally, give it to him.

She’d stashed a cheat sheet in the bedside table, just in case.

Piper took one last glance at herself in the new bedroom mirror, making sure the contraption was laced tight enough to accentuate her waist but remained loose enough to draw air. If she passed out, she wanted the cause to be an overabundance of orgasms, not a lack of oxygen.

She ran her hands down her hips and studied herself. This was one of seven lingerie combinations Brenna had helped her select, one for each theme night. She’d advised Piper to start off soft and feminine so she’d have some room to branch out as she approached the latter—and wilder—sins. Piper had to admit that Brenna possessed an expert eye for these things.

Tonight’s selection, a pink jacquard corset with white satin trim, was chosen for its sweet and dainty quality. But the attached garters, matching thong, sheer white thigh-highs, and the extreme low-cut boobalicious design of the ensemble were anything but. Piper turned her head to examine the sparkle of her dangly gold filigree earrings. She fluffed her long, loose hair. She slipped into her white, three-inch-high kitten slippers topped with little dollops of snowy feathers.

Piper crawled onto the bed. She situated herself in the middle of the gauzy paradise. Bent one knee. Spread her hair out on the pillows. Tossed an arm over her head.

“Mick?” she called, hoping her carefully planned summons would be audible through the closed door and over Mr. Gaye’s familiar lament that he was hot just like an oven. “Could you come in and help me with something?”

She waited. One second. Two. Three.

Where
was
the man?

Then the door opened.

Seventeen

London, 1818
The jewel-toned parlor of my beloved little house

My darling Robert left England, sailing away to his new diplomatic post in Copenhagen. After our five years together, I shed more than a few tears at his going but that did not sway my decision to stay behind.

Poor Robert. He begged so prettily to wed me. He was such a fine young man, gentle and sweet and intelligent. He would go far in the world and no doubt do great things. He had dreams of high rank and courtly glory and I believed him more than capable of achieving them.

Yet, no matter how I had enjoyed the process of building his career and playing hostess to some of the most powerful political names in England, those were his dreams, not mine. I had not established myself so securely in this marvelously liberated world merely to shackle myself into marriage in the end!

So, once I had waved my handkerchief most sincerely at his parting ship and spent my tears into it after, I returned to my house and sent a message to the Swan.

She joined me promptly, sweeping elegantly into my comfortable parlor followed by her maid, Elise, who carried a hamper. “I bear claret and chocolates,” the Swan announced with playful grandeur, “to help you through this trying time.”

We indulged ourselves quite shamelessly with wine, confections, and confessions. This ritual dissection of the affair was sometimes my favorite part!

She sent me a considering glance. “You do not seem heartbroken.”

“Should I be?”

The Swan shrugged gracefully. “I had thought you quite enamored of him. Your devotion never wavered, despite all those lucrative offers.”

I smiled. “I adored Robert. Yet our days—and glorious nights!—were never meant to last forever. We both knew that.” I did not tell the Swan everything. I did not tell her how the last year had been tainted by Robert’s injured feelings. I had refused his offer of marriage then as well and had begged him to speak no more of it. Robert pretended to be a man of the world, but that injury to his romantic heart had never entirely disappeared. There had been silences and, sometimes, hard words.

The entire affair had, in my mind, become rather too much like a marriage. He resented my refusal and I resented the inclination to feel guilty, simply for being precisely as advertised.

We had parted with tears and protestations of deep feeling, but deep down, I believe we were both relieved. I wanted no part of such emotional exploitation. I wanted only the freedom to live as I chose, and to love whom and when I chose.

The very notion of such ownership left me feeling quite violently allergic.

Then the Swan announced that it was time to assess the jewels. I rather unsteadily fetched my jewel case and spilled its bounty into her waiting lap. After tossing back the rest of her glass of wine, the Swan fished a jeweler’s loupe from deep within her bodice and held it to her eye. “Hmm.”

I sprawled on a cushion and watched with great amusement. Her pithy commentary was more entertaining than any theater performance.

“Aren’t you pretty?” she cooed to an emerald ring. “You ought to keep that one.” She rummaged further. “Oh heavens, how dreary.” It was a necklace of jet. “Did he peel this off his grandmother’s dead throat, do you think? I forbid you to wear it until you are at least eighty! Better still, sell it at once. Aha, a sapphire bracelet!” She waved it drunkenly at me. “You don’t look nearly as good in blue stones as I do. Shall I trade you a ruby for it? It’s quite rosy, a perfect match for your nipples. Yes? Excellent. Sweet heaven, what is
this
?”

She held up the last gift dear Robert had given me. It was a necklace simply crusted in diamonds. I suspect he’d thought it would change my mind and then he’d not had the nerve to ask for it back when it didn’t achieve the desired effect.

I sighed. “Isn’t it vulgar? Wherever shall I wear it?”

The Swan blinked at me for a long moment until she realized that my indifferent tone was entirely in jest. Then she kicked me right off my cushion in revenge.

“Oh, this is magnificent! How could you keep it until last? It’s glorious! It’s positively
royal
!”

I clapped my hands. “I know! I shall be the envy of every woman in London! I’m going to wear it absolutely everywhere! Balls, soirees, walking in Hyde Park!” I took it from her and clasped it about my neck. “Do you think it’s too formal to sleep in?”

She giggled at my silliness and we poured ourselves more wine. We were deep into a discussion over whether or not to call for another bottle from my cellar when she sat up straight and gasped. “Oh, I nearly forgot! I have something for you!”

I sat up and blinked blearily at her while she felt about her for her reticule. “It was waiting for me this morning when I awoke.” Then she practically dove into her little bag, frowning most severely as she searched. “Ah! At last!” Triumphantly, she pulled her hand from her bag and held an envelope high.

It was thick and expensive and heavy in my hands, yet not embossed with any sort of identification. I opened it. Something slipped out into my waiting palm.

It was the darkly gleaming wing feather of a blackbird.

My heart thudded in my chest at the sight of it, then slowed to a wicked, sensual beat that resonated through my entire being.

Sir would be coming to my bed tonight.

*   *   *

I smiled gaily at the man who handed me another glass of champagne and then dropped my head back and downed the entire contents, to the cheers of the circle of gentlemen surrounding me. Several began to vie for the honor of fetching my next one.

The Blackbird was officially available and the competition was growing playfully fierce. This was the third event I had visited this evening and the third time this scene had been played out. I was having the time of my life, for I had no one to please but myself.

I had not intended to make such a circuit of the night’s balls and soirees, but it seemed I quickly lost interest in each event. Once I had greeted the host and danced with a few of the most promising bachelors and tossed back varying quantities of champagne, the sameness of the society made me long for the next adventure.

After all, I was not yet in need of a new lover. Prolonging their anticipation would only increase their interest. Why not revel in my popularity for a time?

So I flirted, I teased, I frankly taunted, but gave preference to no one. And all the while, in the back of my mind, I relished the thought of my coming night with Sir.

*   *   *

My little house was warm and welcoming as I shed my wrap. Sylla shook out the velvet cloak with practiced hands and draped it over her arm. “Did ye meet anyone nice, miss?”

I stripped off my gloves. “Of course. All men are at their nicest, Sylla, when they want you.”

“Well, then, ye must’ve drowned in it, miss,” Sylla said stoutly, “for a man would have to be mad not to want ye.”

I gave her a quick hug. My loyal Sylla, who had followed me into my life of sin without hesitation.

“Such nonsense.” Sylla stepped back with a smile. “Off to bed w’ ye, miss.”

I glanced toward the parlor but the open doorway was dark. Disappointment swelled within me. He had not come.

Up the stairs and down the hall, my bedchamber awaited. I knew Sylla would have the fire lighted and the bed turned down, so I bid her good night. I was perfectly capable of undressing myself.

As I entered my carefully decorated chamber of seduction, draped in crimson velvet and creamy ivory silk, I sighed that it would go to waste tonight.

“You are more beautiful than ever.”

His husky whisper came from behind me. I did not turn. Instead, I closed my eyes, letting the delicious awareness of him radiate upon my skin like sunlight.

Sir.

When I felt the heat of his big body close behind me, and his big, warm hands slid down my bare arms, I let my head fall back upon his shoulder.

Our fingers twined as he wrapped our arms about my waist and pulled me closer into his warmth. I felt his breath on my neck as he pressed his cheek to my hair.

We stood thus for a long moment, simply breathing each other in. My body melted into his like warmed wax. I felt something swell and bloom within me, a part of my heart left dormant for five years.