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Authors: Betina Krahn
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celebrated in Italian opera."
He studied her with rising incredulity. "And you find that objectionable?"
"Don't you see, she insists that I become a courtesan, like her."
"And what is wrong with that? I would think being the grand romance of a wealthy and generous nobleman might have definite advantages for a young girl."
"For some other 'young girl,' " she retorted stubbornly. "I haven't the slightest wish to be 'the hunger in a man's eyes' or 'the fire in his soul'. "
He stared at her for a long moment, then peeled himself from her tense form and rolled from the divan to stand. Jerking his vest down, he gave her a turbulent look.
"I need a drink."
She closed her eyes and fairly melted into the ruby velvet cushions beneath her. It had worked!
Hearing a scrape of glass raking metal, she sat up and braced on her arms.
The blood drained from her head, clearing her vision but leaving her flushed and a bit unsteady. She scooted to the edge of the divan, tucked her skirts securely down about her ankles, and prayed she didn't lose her nerve.
She had come this far…
Shortly he returned to the divan with two tall, fluted goblets filled with a sparkling golden wine that contained tiny bubbles. She hesitated, then accepted the glass he offered her, giving it a suspicious sniff. "This is
'champagne,' isn't it?" She made a face and held the glass well away from her nose without tasting it. "My mother is mad about the stuff. It's terribly romantic ."
"And, I take it, you are not." He took another sip and eyed her over the rim of his glass.
"I haven't a romantic bone in my entire body," she said with a perverse bit of pride. "I can't abide staying up until sunrise and then sleeping all day with squashed cucumbers drying on my face. And I loathe wearing bosom enhancers and being stuffed into dresses that don't have any shoulders…
and milk baths and risqué stories and oysters on the half shell and the smell of cigar smoke… He choked on a swallow of wine and stared at her. She realized how strident she sounded and halted to take a steadying breath. "I simply have no desire for a life of extravagant love and soaring passions."
"You haven't?" he said, lowering his empty glass, watching her keenly for telltale signs of pretense. "I thought all young girls wanted to fall madly and thrillingly in love… to capture a man's eye, his heart, and his fortune."
"As you pointed out, I am hardly a 'young girl' anymore." She gave him an adamant look, as if expecting a rebuke or rebuttal. When none came, she softened a bit, confessing matter-of-factly: "That… and… I don't have the juices for it."
Pierce wasn't sure what sort of tale he had expected to hear from her, but he certainly wasn't prepared for the blend of innocence and matter-of-factness that she displayed toward carnal matters. And there was something oddly unsettling about her sitting there in her ruined dress and bedraggled hair, forswearing girlish dreams of love and all the pleasures, intrigues, and agonies of human desire. Her story of being forced by her mother to take a wealthy lover was plausible enough; he had known others who found their way into the demimonde in that very fashion. But none of them had resisted their pampered fate for long—or protested it out of a professed lack of feminine desire. Juices. Good God. Did she honestly believe she had no passion or desire in her?
There was a new spark in her blue eyes when she looked up again, and her next words threw him into even greater confusion.
"What I need, your lordship, is a lover . Someone my mother would accept as a suitable protector. Someone with wealth and sophistication and a noble pedigree." Her face began to glow with expectation. "You wouldn't have to do much… just come to my mother's house, declare your undying fascination with me and behave as if utterly besotted." In the ensuing silence, a few additional duties occurred to her. "And be generous. And attentive, at least at first." She
He studied her with rising incredulity. "And you find that objectionable?"
"Don't you see, she insists that I become a courtesan, like her."
"And what is wrong with that? I would think being the grand romance of a wealthy and generous nobleman might have definite advantages for a young girl."
"For some other 'young girl,' " she retorted stubbornly. "I haven't the slightest wish to be 'the hunger in a man's eyes' or 'the fire in his soul'. "
He stared at her for a long moment, then peeled himself from her tense form and rolled from the divan to stand. Jerking his vest down, he gave her a turbulent look.
"I need a drink."
She closed her eyes and fairly melted into the ruby velvet cushions beneath her. It had worked!
Hearing a scrape of glass raking metal, she sat up and braced on her arms.
The blood drained from her head, clearing her vision but leaving her flushed and a bit unsteady. She scooted to the edge of the divan, tucked her skirts securely down about her ankles, and prayed she didn't lose her nerve.
She had come this far…
Shortly he returned to the divan with two tall, fluted goblets filled with a sparkling golden wine that contained tiny bubbles. She hesitated, then accepted the glass he offered her, giving it a suspicious sniff. "This is
'champagne,' isn't it?" She made a face and held the glass well away from her nose without tasting it. "My mother is mad about the stuff. It's terribly romantic ."
"And, I take it, you are not." He took another sip and eyed her over the rim of his glass.
"I haven't a romantic bone in my entire body," she said with a perverse bit of pride. "I can't abide staying up until sunrise and then sleeping all day with squashed cucumbers drying on my face. And I loathe wearing bosom enhancers and being stuffed into dresses that don't have any shoulders…
and milk baths and risqué stories and oysters on the half shell and the smell of cigar smoke… He choked on a swallow of wine and stared at her. She realized how strident she sounded and halted to take a steadying breath. "I simply have no desire for a life of extravagant love and soaring passions."
"You haven't?" he said, lowering his empty glass, watching her keenly for telltale signs of pretense. "I thought all young girls wanted to fall madly and thrillingly in love… to capture a man's eye, his heart, and his fortune."
"As you pointed out, I am hardly a 'young girl' anymore." She gave him an adamant look, as if expecting a rebuke or rebuttal. When none came, she softened a bit, confessing matter-of-factly: "That… and… I don't have the juices for it."
Pierce wasn't sure what sort of tale he had expected to hear from her, but he certainly wasn't prepared for the blend of innocence and matter-of-factness that she displayed toward carnal matters. And there was something oddly unsettling about her sitting there in her ruined dress and bedraggled hair, forswearing girlish dreams of love and all the pleasures, intrigues, and agonies of human desire. Her story of being forced by her mother to take a wealthy lover was plausible enough; he had known others who found their way into the demimonde in that very fashion. But none of them had resisted their pampered fate for long—or protested it out of a professed lack of feminine desire. Juices. Good God. Did she honestly believe she had no passion or desire in her?
There was a new spark in her blue eyes when she looked up again, and her next words threw him into even greater confusion.
"What I need, your lordship, is a lover . Someone my mother would accept as a suitable protector. Someone with wealth and sophistication and a noble pedigree." Her face began to glow with expectation. "You wouldn't have to do much… just come to my mother's house, declare your undying fascination with me and behave as if utterly besotted." In the ensuing silence, a few additional duties occurred to her. "And be generous. And attentive, at least at first." She
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