“Well…” Eleanor said.

“And by blaming you for every rule the two of you broke, he could walk away from you and marry someone else. Because you made him uncomfortable, Eleanor. All that passion, and he’s nothing more than a dry husk after all.”

“You mustn’t say that,” she protested. “You’re talking about my fiancé.”

He made a rude gesture. “And then I came along, and we’re like tinder and spark, the two of us. But you measured me by his ashes and thought I was crediting you with being the courtesan of my dreams.”

“You did say…” Eleanor whispered, feeling herself turn even pinker.

“I said that it was the best sex I ever had. I didn’t say you were the best lover I ever had.”

She scowled at him.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” he said, drawing his hands slowly over her breasts. She looked down at his hands. They were large, and darker than her skin. They shaped her breasts, played with them with exactly the right mix of tenderness and strength.

“What should I have done?” she asked.

“Are you genuinely curious, or are you going to fall into a pit of despair and decide that you are the worst courtesan in all of England?”

“I’m not a courtesan,” she pointed out.

“No. You’re an utterly delectable woman, with the most gorgeous breasts in Christendom.”

His voice was darker, lower. “What should I have done?” she persisted.

“Touch me,” he said. “You kept your hands on my shoulders, more or less.”

“Oh.” She colored. “I didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think I’d like to be touched, because that fool Astley had a poker up his arse about it. But I don’t. I want you to touch me everywhere.” Suddenly his hands were around her waist, picking her up, easing her back down.

She squeaked, but it was so much easier this time. She felt soft and wet. He thrust into her with a groan that sent a bird flying from the bushes beside them.

Neither of them moved for a moment. Their breath was harsh.

“Would you like me to touch you like this?” she said, circling his nipple with one finger.

“Hmm. That’s not terrible but it’s not great either,” he said. “What else might you do with that finger?”

He was teasing her again, so she pinched him as a rebuke, and his breath caught—and she learned something.

He recovered fast, though, and pulled her tighter, whispering, “Any more of that and this will be a very short encounter, princess.” She didn’t want that, and neither did he. So he gave her one of the kisses that made her feel as if she were both drowning and catching on fire, all at once.

“I want you to lick me all over,” he said, hoarse in her ear. And he started to move.

It took a minute for what he was saying to sink into her mind, and then she suddenly imagined herself on her knees before him, as he had been before her, making him groan and cry out, as he had to her.

“I’d like that,” she whispered.

His fingers were gripping her hips, but she could feel the fire clamping down so soon, too soon. “Oh, Leopold,” she said helplessly, running her fingers through his hair. “I can’t touch you now, I can’t because…” But whatever she was going to say was lost in a wave of pure, violent pleasure.

She came back to herself slowly to find that he was still there, still…with her.

“A courtesan would never come before her client,” Leopold said in her ear. “And if she did, she’d have to come again, just to make up for it.”

She would have laughed but she was too tired.

“There are other things I’d like you to do,” Leopold said, his voice like a velvet whip. And he started to tell her. In detail.

She came twice more before he finally conceded that perhaps she might, just might, achieve some modicum of skill such as a real courtesan had.

But she didn’t care what he said, because he cried out when he came, cried her name in such a way that she threw away all those fears.

She was no Whore of Babylon.

“Eleanor,” he said again, afterwards. And held her very tightly. Just that: “Eleanor.”

It was enough.

Chapter Twenty-four

That night at supper Lisette talked of nothing but the treasure hunt to take place two days hence. Her plate looked like a small boat adrift in a sea of foolscap, on which were scrawled notes and lists. For the most part Villiers, Eleanor, Anne, and the duchess simply allowed the monologue to burble forth. There was unspoken agreement in the room that Lisette’s enthusiasm was like a fever, and should be treated with extreme caution.

“Everyone in the county will be here, of course. You will have a particularly enjoyable time, Eleanor,” Lisette said, beaming. “Not only will Sir Roland and his parents attend, but I invited the Duke of Astley to return and he said that he may well do it. His late wife’s great-aunt is only an hour’s ride from here, and he thought to return for the treasure hunt.”

Eleanor’s mother frowned. “That is a remarkably inappropriate idea. It has been barely a week since his wife died.”

“It’s for charity,” Lisette said blithely. “No one expects him to stay in the house weeping.”

“They may not expect tears, but they expect a modicum of observance,” the duchess said acidly. But her comment didn’t have the usual force to which she normally gave even the smallest impropriety. The surgeon had pulled her tooth, but the pain lingered, and she was treating it with laudanum. Which had the pleasant effect of making her lose about half of what made her a duchess, as Eleanor saw it.

Her Grace was a far more agreeable companion in her current state.

Lisette ignored her, simply plucking a paper from the mess in front of her. “I wrote all the clues for the treasure hunt last night. Shall I read them aloud to you?”

“Absolutely not,” Anne said without particular inflection. “Are the children meant to read the clues to themselves? I very much doubt that they are literate.”

“Of course they can read,” Lisette said. “They receive classes in reading, writing, and deportment every day except Sunday.”

“How do you know?” Eleanor asked.

“I’m on the Ladies’ Committee of the orphanage,” Lisette said, glancing at her with a trace of irritation. “I’ve been reading the schedule of their activities for years. The Committee insists that all the girls learn to read. I myself have urged the acquisition of a musical education, though to this point they do little more than sing.”

“Mrs. Minchem may have claimed the children were being taught reading, but did they learn, or did they spend all their time making buttons?” Eleanor asked.

“Please,” Lisette said with a little shudder. “I can’t bear such disagreeable subjects. Mrs. Minchem is gone, and I hope we can simply forget these unpleasant events.”

Eleanor found herself looking at Lisette with real dislike, and bit her tongue. Certainly Lisette should have made those tours of the orphanage. But likely, Mrs. Minchem would have kept the disturbing truth out of sight anyway.

“How are the orphans doing now?” Villiers asked, breaking into the cool little silence that followed Lisette’s speech. Not that Lisette had even noticed; she kept scribbling on the pieces of paper spread around her plate.

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