One Night as a Courtesan. Ann Lethbridge

sense of anticipation, even though he knew he was doomed to disappointment.

      “Dig those dabblers deep into your pockets, gents,” Mrs. B. said, gesturing to the woman onstage. “I’m not taking any less than one hundred guineas.”

      Tall, with the fine-boned elegance of a gazelle, the woman on the pedestal gazed into the auditorium from behind a peacock-feathered mask. The light behind her showed every curve and shadow of her body through the sheer tunic that stopped at her knees. Toffee-colored hair, glinting with gold, cascaded down her back, a single strand covering the rise of one full high breast. Mysterious eyes glittered behind her mask and a smile curved a lush mouth designed for kisses.

      In a room swirling with cigar smoke and heavy with the smell of male stimulation, she glowed with an aura of innocence.

      Erotic, to say the least. To Alistair’s surprise, his body hardened with a jolt of instant and powerful lust.

      Arousal like nothing he’d experienced for years.

      Translucent skin drawn taut over the delicate bones of her shoulder and jaw spoke of deprivation and hunger.

      Protective anger flashed through him. Out of place and unwanted. Nonsensical. Self-derision curled his lip. She was naught but a clever little whore who aimed to tantalize.

      Harry nudged him. “Now, that’s a fine wee lass. I’d not have expected to see such quality in a place like this.”

      Alistair narrowed his eyes at the big Scot, who raised his hands palms out. “I’m just sayin’.”

      “I’ll take her for fifty,” someone at the back of the room called out.

      The hair on the back of Alistair’s nape rose at the thought of another man with his hands all over that delicate body.

      Percy leaned over the arm of Alistair’s chair. “A virgin can’t give me the pox. Go on, coz. Get her for me. Don’t be so tightfisted.”

      Alistair’s fingers tightened around the stem of his glass instead of curling around his cousin’s neck. “I can’t imagine why I brought you.”

      “I brought you,” Percy muttered.

      Harry shot the young man an amused glance. “The laddie is out of his depth in this company, your grace. Let me take him away if you’ve no desire to leave just yet. My penance for ruining your night…?”

      The brawny fellow had more to him than first appearances suggested. Alistair dragged his gaze from the girl onstage. “Not interested in bidding yourself, then?”

      “I’m interested in quite a different sort of woman,” the Scot said, his face softening with the expression of the besotted male. Envy turned the brandy in Alistair’s gut to acid.

      “More ale,” Percy yelled to a passing waitress. He reached out and pinched her bottom.

      Percy was clearly about to make a complete idiot of himself, and everyone would probably blame the Dissolute Duke. Alistair glanced around at the gathered company of roués and rakes. Personally he didn’t care what became of his cousin, but if Godridge wanted to play the knight errant, why the hell not?

      “This kind gentleman is taking you home, Percy,” Alistair said.

      “I want the virgin,” Percy muttered, shifting beyond Alistair’s reach.

      From the look on the other men’s faces around the room, so did they. Alistair’s skin drew tight across his shoulders.

      “Seventy-five guineas.” An elderly lord close to the stage waved a languid hand. The old bastard had a wife and a penchant for young females.

      Harry grabbed Percy’s arm. “Up you come, lad.” He hauled the boy to his feet and grabbed him by the upper arm.

      Percy swore, flailing wildly in the big man’s grip. “I don’t want to go home.”

      The men around them laughed uproariously.

      “You bastard,” Percy hissed at Alistair. “You want the virgin for yourself.”

      “Get him out of here,” Alistair said, “and I’ll be forever in your debt, Godridge.”

      The Scotsman grinned. “’Tis my pleasure, Duke. No debt incurred.” The casual arm around Percy’s shoulder would prevent the little worm’s escape.

      Alistair stared after the Scottish laird. Perhaps there were some knights in shining armour left in the world. Too bad Alistair wasn’t one of them.

      Turning his attention back to the stage, he lifted a finger. “One hundred.”

      Was he mad?

      Julia watched Mrs. B. rub her hands together as the bidding got under way.

      “Come on now, gents,” the woman cried. “Don’t be shy. You ain’t likely to see a piece like this again for a long while.”

      “A hundred and fifty,” the balding gentleman not far from Julia’s feet said. He leered up at her, and there was something unpleasant in his gaze. A kind of avarice. He reminded her of her husband. A cold shiver slid down her back. Not him. Don’t let him win.

      She peered through the smoke into the dimly lit room, seeking a friendly face.

      “One fifty-five.” A young man. A dandy by the look of him. And cheerfully drunk. Yes. He was the one she wanted. Her heart began to pound so hard it hurt.

      “One seventy-five,” came from the back of the room. A youngish man with dark blond hair pulled back severely from his face. Sprawled alone at a table, he looked more dangerous that any she’d seen so far. He had a bold face, with strong planes and hard angles and a cruel twist to his lips, and his light-colored eyes showed no emotion. He clearly didn’t care if he won or lost.

      Her heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn’t drag her gaze from his beautiful features. The face of a fallen angel. The cynical mouth twisted in mockery. His piercing gaze locked with hers for a moment and he seemed to see right through to her innermost fears and take delight in them.