The Courtesan - Julia Justiss Mills & Boon M&B

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a man cannot help but yearn, you know. Now, how are you finding the play?”

      Though his avowal left her still a bit uncomfortable, she was addressing herself to his question when raucous laughter from Mae’s group drowned out her words.

      Whether because she wished to impress her former lover with her gaiety or because she was in unusually high spirits, Mae, it seemed to Belle, was behaving more outrageously than usual. Giggling at Sidmouth’s extravagant compliments, she allowed him to remove her glove and kiss her wrist, while Lord Mannington, who’d stolen her fan, drew the ivory sticks down over the heavy swell of one breast and was now toying with the nipple. Given the loudness of their laughter and the lewdness of Mannington’s gesture, Belle knew their box was certain to draw the attention of everyone in the theater.

      Her cheeks heating to consider what the stern-faced captain would surely be thinking, were he once again watching them from his seat, Belle made another entry to her mental list: When in public, screen Mae’s companions.

      Then the actors returned to the stage and Belle directed her attention to the play.

      JACK STOOD FOR SOME TIME, observing with distaste the antics of the group along the rail of Lady Belle’s box while trying to glimpse the couple behind them. Having little success, he gave up and stalked out of the theater.

      Just as well that he returned to his rooms, he told himself. Tomorrow would begin early. Although it would be wiser, he thought as he hailed a hackney, to dispense with this ridiculous plan of challenging Lady Belle.

      He’d been disappointed, but not surprised when, unable to resist approaching Belle, he’d been refused entry to her box. He was, after all, a stranger. When the man she’d hailed so warmly was admitted, however, he was surprised—and considerably disturbed—to discover that he was jealous.

      Not just a little jealous, but suddenly, furiously, pistols-for-breakfast jealous of a man he’d never met, for sitting beside a woman he didn’t really know. A woman he couldn’t and shouldn’t possess.

      Faith, he was becoming more of a moonling than Aubrey!

      Except he knew himself too well. Unlike Aubrey, when he wanted something, he would never be content to simply gaze at it from afar.

      And that just wouldn’t do. Despite her breath-stopping beauty of form and face, Lady Belle was nothing but an expensive harlot, perhaps a bit more refined in manner but with morals no better than those of her companion, whose suggestive dress and vulgar behavior in the theater box tonight clearly proclaimed her profession.

      Only an idiot would actively seek out such a woman—and chance letting a tart like Belle, who was alleged to have indulged in public lewdness and fornicated for the titillation of leering onlookers, get her harpy’s claws embedded any further into his mind and senses.

      In the morning, he decided as he arrived back at his rooms, he would tell Aubrey that he’d changed his mind.

      But after he’d drunk a glass of brandy and retired for the night, he could not sleep. An indeterminate amount of tossing and turning later, he crawled back out of bed.

      Cursing himself for a fool, he dredged his supplies from a saddlebag and began polishing his sword.

      AS SOON AS the final lines were spoken, Belle left Mae with her friends, who’d persuaded her to attend an after-theater party, and proceeded down the stairs, hoping to cross the lobby before the bulk of the audience exited.

      She’d just refused Egremont’s offer to escort her home when a young lady in a fashionable evening gown hurried toward them—and halted abruptly, directly in front of Belle.

      Stopping short to avoid colliding with the girl, Belle was about to edge around her when she felt Egremont stiffen.

      “Helena, what are you doing here all alone?” he said.

      “I wanted to look into her eyes when I confronted her,” the girl replied, sending Belle a glance so full of loathing that Belle’s breath caught in her throat. “And why are you with her?” Helena asked, transferring her furious gaze to the earl. “Papa’s been dead barely a month. I thought you were his friend!”

      Bellingham’s daughter, Belle realized, dread knotting her stomach.

      Egremont took the girl’s arm. “You’re upset—and no wonder, after such a shocking loss! Let me see you home.”

      Twisting free of Egremont’s grip, the girl turned back to Belle. “Is there no man you do not try to bewitch?”

      “Helena, ’tis highly improper for you to be here unescorted,” Egremont said softly, “or to speak with—”

      “My father’s whore?” the girl shrilled.

      Out of the corner of her eye, Belle noted the lobby filling with people—people who slowed, stopped, gazed with openmouthed fascination at the new scene being enacted before them. Nausea growing in her gut, Belle’s mind fled to the mental fortress from which she could watch events unfolding around her, her sense and spirit detached from whatever indignities might be inflicted on her body.

      “Given my new expectations, Lord Egremont,” Miss Bellingham said, “’tis unnecessary to be concerned for my reputation. I doubt I shall receive any respectable offers of marriage, no matter how blameless my conduct.”

      “Excuse me,” Belle murmured, edging away.

      “I’m not done with you!” the girl cried, seizing Belle’s wrist and yanking her close.

      Belle flinched, half expecting a blow. Instead, Miss Bellingham continued hotly, “Was it not enough that you lured my father from his hearth and family, embarrassed my mother before the ton and her friends? That we had barely enough to maintain a household while you were lavished with gowns and jewels? Is your greed so vast that you must bewitch father into bequeathing you the very bread out of our mouths and the roof from over our heads?”

      She’s heard about the will, Belle realized.

      As if from a distance, Belle watched herself calmly wrest her arm free. “Miss Bellingham, I appreciate how grief disorders the spirit, but you are mistaken.”

      “About what?” the girl demanded. “The extent of your avarice? The fact that you—”

      “I advise you to consult your solicitors,” Belle interrupted. “Lord Egremont will see you home.” She stepped around the girl, Watson advancing to take a protective position at her elbow.

      Ignoring the amused and accusing and censorious faces, Belle walked out of the theater and down the steps to her waiting carriage. Not until the door closed behind her, shutting out the murmurs and the avid gazes, did she relax, sagging against the cushions while nausea roiled in her belly and her heart thundered.

      She didn’t blame Miss Bellingham. Indeed, the girl had shown considerable spirit in confronting her father’s harlot in public, knowing news of the scandalous meeting would surely become the ton’s latest on-dit. Perhaps she hoped that publicizing the provisions of Bellingham’s will would make it more difficult for Belle to entice a new protector, ruining Belle’s future as she perceived Belle’s supposed greed had destroyed her own.

      Or perhaps Miss Bellingham was so filled with rage over the injustice of her situation that she no longer cared that addressing a courtesan would soil her own reputation. That Belle could understand even more readily.

      Though she tried to dismiss the disturbing confrontation, the emotions she’d repressed while the incident was taking place refused to be banished. A familiar sense of anguished humiliation made her stomach churn, heated her face, summoned tears that trembled at the corners of her eyes.

      Enough! she told herself, struggling to rein in her disorderly feelings. ’Twas just that Miss Bellingham’s unexpected attack had caught her off guard, leaving her prey to this atypical excess of sensibility.

      She had just about succeeded in squelching the reaction when, with a jerk that nearly unseated

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