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Chapter One
“I have only one rule for our thirty days together,” Isabelle said.
Dorian Montgomery nearly shivered as her voice caressed him like fine Chinese silk whispering over his soon-to-be naked body. His immediate physical reaction pulsed between his legs, but he reminded himself he’d waited this long, there was no need to throw her to the floor and spoil the anticipation of their first fuck. He forced his mind back to her statement while he had some ability to function.
All relationships had rules. Dorian wondered if her rules involved diamonds or rubies. “And what would that be?” he asked.
Across the room, she lounged on an Adams sofa built with sturdy lion’s claw feet. She wore a flowing white rail covered by a sheer, blousy robe. The bodice dipped low. Naturally, her breasts were displayed with seductive prominence. The silken belt hung loose. She held a drink in one hand. She swirled the liquid, dipped her finger inside and licked away the golden elixir with a slow lap of her tongue.
“Don’t fall in love with me.”
He laughed. Yes, she would be as entertaining as all the gossips implied. Isabelle St. Hillaire. The Westminster Whore.
Her story mixed doses of reverent legend and ribald rumor. Supposedly, the then tender, young virgin had prayed at the Abbey for guidance when she received her first offer to be a kept woman. In the years since, no one knew where she had mastered her trade. Certainly not from the select English dandies she took to her bed.
“Trust me, sweet. I will not.” Dorian reached inside his navy cutaway jacket. A peacock could not have been displayed in such resplendent finery as he wore today. Yesterday, he’d been chosen as the Westminster Whore’s next lover.
And final lover, if rumors were to be believed.
Today, he was here to settle the arrangement in the time-honored tradition of purchased goods. He had to pay cash for her services. In advance.
He displayed a thick leather wallet bulging with all that she demanded. Currency. Crisp Bank of England notes, as she requested. She seemed uninterested in the funds.
Everyone knew it was strictly a business transaction. He bought a mistress. A courtesan of unparalleled reputation. Her exclusivity was one reason she was so damn desirable. One lover a year. For thirty days.
This year’s bidding had been a hopeless frenzy as she’d received multiple gentlemen callers with their written offers. Some had already purchased expensive baubles, which they gifted to her and she accepted with the demure blush of a would-be bride. Dorian offered only himself and the accumulation of the last two years’ bids. He hadn’t stayed to watch the hopeless fawning and posturing, although walking out as if he didn’t care whether he won her had been much harder than he had anticipated.
He had spent the next day with friends, trying to douse the flames of anticipation and to kill the dread of being turned away again.
Lust like he had never experienced tore through his groin even now, while he was fully clothed, knowing that he would get to satisfy those longings before the night was over. Every inch of his skin tingled and between his legs his cock felt heavy and uncomfortable.
Rumors had circulated through Brooks’s, White’s, Carlton House—anywhere men gathered and gossiped—this year would be the last year the whore took a lover. One muckraker hinted that she would return to Italy when it was all over—a certain truth in the swirl of speculation surrounding her. Shealwayswent back to Italy.
If he had to guess, she would attempt to make her final escape and remain quietly as far from England as she could comfortably live—put the past behind her.
If that was her plan, he hoped she’d saved her money or she’d be on her back again next year. He knew from experience it was hard to give up a lucrative business venture, but for the right things, it was always possible to give up the “what is” for the “what could be”.
Talking his business partner into managing the day-to-day affairs of their shipping company for thirty days while Dorian went off on his own had taken some persuasion. It wasn’t as if Dorian wasn’t already gone several months a year to their offices on the Continent and in Asia.
When Dorian mentioned Isabelle’s name, his married partner raised one questioning eyebrow and muttered, “So she’s back in London.”
“It’s spring.”
“A waste of good money,” he said then walked away.
Married or not, his partner was well aware of Isabelle’s reputation and what it might be costing Dorian.
For the moment, Isabelle ignored the leather wallet and the money that belonged to her. Her gaze searched the length of his body. Not his eyes though. She hadn’t yet looked into his face. Dorian refused to blush at his evident excitement, his arousal only partially hidden by his trousers. Nor did he change his pose. He would be as much hers as she would be his.
When he’d read the missive from her informing him that he was expected at her townhome, he’d sat in his chair for nearly an hour staring at the note and its feminine handwriting. Shock paralyzed him. He’d foolishly hoped Isabelle would be his this year. He’d believed that last year and the year before too. For several years, he’d watched in morbid fascination as the fools panted after her. For the last three years, he’d joined the fools with his silent pursuit. In the past, he’d been outbid. This year, he offered over three thousand pounds more than last year’s winning bid.
And he’d won her favors.
He’d wanted her in the hopes she might be his equal or at the very least be interested in some of his varied and prolonged pleasures.
She’d arrived in London a month ago and he’d been without a woman since that day. For what he was paying, he wanted to enjoy every ounce of pleasure she could coax from his body. He was primed and ready to fuck her. He hoped she could keep up.
Dorian’s steps rang hollow in her spacious drawing room. With a few strides, he stood over her. A small table containing a book of poetry and candleholders nested against the settee.Byron,he scoffed. A courtesan with a romantic bent. How novel.
