Forsaking Hope (Fair Cyprians of London 2)

Before she could decide upon an action, he was striding across the room, one hand outstretched as if he feared she was about to do just that, and he was determined to stay her at any cost.

“Who brought you here? Surely not my friend Millament who obviously thought you…someone else.” With a look of horror, he glanced over his shoulder at the bed behind him, muttering, “Dear Lord, forgive the error! Please, let me usher you to the drawing room. I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person when I’ve searched for you for so long.” There was both unutterable relief as well as uncertainty in his expression. And his concern for her reputation was as keen as if…

She was still the innocent governess he remembered.

Hope stood her ground, calmly putting her hand on his wrist when he would be too forceful in implementing genteel manners as she prepared to utter the most difficult words of her life.

“I was here the other night, if you recall, Mr Durham.” Her shoulders dropped an inch, but she didn’t drop her gaze from his face. He needed to know the truth. The truth of what she really was. And that she wasn’t the incarnation of all his fanciful day dreamings in which she was the angelic creature he’d set upon a pedestal. That’s certainly how it looked as if he’d interpreted it, and it was not an easy image to destroy.

He paused, seemingly suspended between the greatest excitement and a slowly dawning reality of what she was trying to tell him. Very slowly dawning, she could see.

She clenched her gloved hands, concealing them in the folds of her skirts. Better get it over with. After all, she’d come here to destroy his illusions.

Taking a deep breath and pushing back her shoulders, Hope put both her hands upon his forearms and looked up into his eyes. It was an strangely intimate gesture given that the only physical intimacy they’d shared was when he’d held her on the dance floor following their almost kiss after she’d been thrown from her horse. Yes, that had been a day of intimacy she’d remember forever; two images of sweetness and purity that had sustained her through the many tawdry episodes since. For wasn’t sleeping with a prince tawdry if she didn’t love him—even if she’d lined her pockets—or rather, Madame Chambon’s—with five hundred pounds to give him the pleasure?

“Miss Merriweather?” It was a question. She’d not given him much to go on, and he’d not wish to draw the association.

Lord, but it was hard to wipe the smile—uncertain thought it was now—from his handsome face. However, she had no choice.

“Yes, Mr Durham. It is me.”

It was time to redraw the lines of their relationship. If he were a man who enjoyed transient pleasures like most of her clients, then he’d be in heaven very shortly.

The trouble was, she knew he wasn’t—un

less he’d changed.

The shadows had deepened in the few minutes she’d remained standing near the door. Mr Durham continued to gaze at her, his rapture tinged with increasing puzzlement.

Hope knew she was at the peak of her beauty and powers in what she could offer a man. Madame Chambon had turned her into a rare prize who could entertain the most discerning client as much with her wit, her scintillating conversation, and her sharp mind as with her body. She’d had to pass many a test before she’d been accepted into the inner sanctum. Half of Europe’s royalty had been her reward and, before her retirement in a few years, she could hope for a handsome annuity as the favourite courtesan of one of those who’d formed a special fondness for her. It was the way it worked for the lucky girls at Madame Chambon’s, and the best Hope could aspire to.

Did Mr Durham know how it worked? The rules?

She forced herself to remain strong while she awaited the moment of revelation.

He shook his head. “You say you came here…before?”

Was he pretending he didn’t remember their night of madness? Of impassioned lovemaking?

Of course he was. He simply couldn’t reconcile it with the Miss Hope Merriweather he’d daydreamed of kissing in the shadows outside the ballroom where they’d hurried to be alone for a few moments.

Fate hadn’t favoured them, for Annabelle Hunt had issued from the brightly lit ballroom and, like a homing pigeon, discovered them making plans. In the church vestry. Tomorrow. Before you catch your train. He’d gripped her hand and whispered the suggestions, though Hope had not had the opportunity to confirm anything before Annabelle had insinuated herself between them.

Shortly afterwards, Mrs Merriweather had bundled up her daughter into a warm cape and hurried her to their carriage. Why could she not be happy for Hope? Mr Durham was the finest catch in the neighbourhood and exactly what Hope imagined she’d want for her girls. Why would her mother object to Hope establishing something more than polite friendship between herself and Mr Durham, the future lord of Foxley Manor, before he returned to Cambridge while Hope was to begin her working life as a governess?

Hope put her hand up to her hair and twisted a ringlet around her forefinger. Her curls were natural, her hair a glossy dark mahogany; a fine contrast to her unnaturally pale skin and sparkling blue eyes. Men loved the combination. She could tell Mr Durham did too, but then, he’d loved her when she’d been simple Miss Hope, the penniless vicar’s daughter.

How innocent they’d both been in those days.

Clearly, Mr Durham had changed a great deal since then. She could see it in the shadows of weariness beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the nervous tic that worked at the corner of his mouth. This was not the carefree young man she remembered. This was a man who had endured much.

Very softly, he asked, “What are you trying to tell me, Miss Merriweather?”

And very softly, she replied, “That I am no longer the innocent Miss Merriweather you once knew.”

The inference was implicit, but she realised she needed to spell it out otherwise he’d continue to hold out hope that she couldn’t really be the fallen creature she so brazenly presented. Why did men have to make goddesses out of earthly creatures who were every bit as susceptible as they were to life’s dangers and temptations?

“Nor am I an innocent governess who has lost her way.” She gave a soft laugh, adding, “Though I daresay it could be argued that indeed I have lost my way.” She shrugged. “No, Mr Durham, I did not leave you to follow a path of virtue, and I do not stand before you as the woman you remember.”