The Courtesan's Bed by Sandrine O'Shea

couldn’t say that she was sorry for the woman, but she felt no particular satisfaction, either.
    â€œShe was sailing for New York to visit her family,” Darius said, “when the ship encountered a violent storm and went down. There were survivors, but my stepmother was not among them.”
    Did Lady Blackwall experience the same desolation and despair as Régine when she realized her life was ending and no one was coming to save her?
    â€œI will never forget her particular cruelty toward me,” Régine said, “but I know the heartbreak of a daughter who loses her mother, so Kate and Emma have my sympathies.”
    He inclined his head. “I’ll tell them.”
    Régine delicately stifled a yawn. “This is all very interesting, but I’m afraid I don’t share your fascination with your family, so if we can get back to the reason you have tracked me to Paris…”
    Darius leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and drawing closer to her. “I need to hear your side of the story.”
    â€œMy side of the story?” Now the anger that Régine had been suppressing for so long roared through her. “You mean the truth as opposed to your father’s lies?” She rose in one quick movement and strode over to the tall window, where she looked out over the street and fought to control herself. She turned. “Do you know what I am, Clarridge?”
    He rose and looked at her in silence, as though trying to find the right words that wouldn’t offend her. “You’re a courtesan.”
    She plunged her hand into her pocket and grasped the rosary. “You needn’t mince words, monsieur. I’m a whore. I sell my body for money. Oh, I am very, very good at it, as my popularity and many a satisfied ex-lover will attest. But I’m not respectable. Most women like your sainted stepmother and her daughters would put their dainty aristocratic noses in the air if they passed me on the street, and wouldn’t give me a sou if I were starving. Not that I care. But that is the reality of my existence, and I place the blame squarely on your father’s shoulders.”
    A flush of anger or possibly shame stained Darius’s lean cheeks. “My father took advantage of you, true. He admitted as much to me when I demanded to know why you had been dismissed. But there were other paths you could’ve taken, Régine. You didn’t need to resort to prostituting yourself to survive.”
    She burst out laughing. “Oh my poor, privileged little lordling…how astonishingly naïve you are for such a sophisticated man.” She walked back to the settee, sat down and insolently draped her arms across its back, displaying herself to mock him. “Well, have a seat, monsieur, because I’m going to give you an education I’m sure you never got at Oxford.”
    He sat down. And while he listened, Régine told him about her parents’ untimely deaths while mountain climbing in the Alps, and her own need to support herself, since none of her few remaining relatives possessed enough charity to offer her a home. So she embarked upon the only avenue open to an impoverished, genteel young lady of good family. She became a governess. She related how the head of the employment agency had warned her about lustful aristocrats and their sons.
    When she first came to Blackwall Manor, everything was fine. As long as Kate and Emma excelled at their lessons, she was safe.
    And then the master of the house noticed her, and she was no longer safe at all.
    Darius turned white and his eyes blazed. “Did he force you?”
    â€œHe would never be so crude. The clever marquess seduced me, slowly, skillfully, until I truly believed we were destined to be together. Foolish of me, I know, but I was an innocent girl of only eighteen who fancied herself in love, without anyone to guide me and point out the folly of such a