The Courtesan's Bed by Sandrine O'Shea Page A

liaison.”
    She studied his son, seeing the best of Penbry Granger. “Your father is a very good-looking man, very distinguished and commanding. Many of the younger maids in the house couldn’t take their eyes off him and fancied themselves in love with him. As did I.”
    Darius regarded her with surprise.
    Régine lowered her arms and folded her hands in her lap, knotting her fingers together tightly. “So when he came to my room that night and several nights thereafter, I welcomed him into my bed, little realizing that I was making a horrible, life-changing mistake.”
    She took a deep breath. “And then your stepmother found out. I suspect that one of the maids betrayed me in a fit of jealousy. I foolishly thought that your father would proclaim his love for me and we would go away together, and if not that, at least he would set me up in my own establishment as his mistress, so we could continue our idyllic liaison. But of course, I was the one sent packing with nothing but train fare to London in my pocket. I thank my lucky stars that at least he didn’t leave me with child.”
    Darius stared down at the carpet. “Why didn’t you find another position as governess?”
    Régine’s laugh sounded so harsh and brittle. “Your stepmama sent me off without that precious letter of reference. Do you know what that means, for a servant to be turned out without a reference? It’s a death sentence. The employment agency washed its hands of me. What lady of the house would employ a beautiful governess who will seduce her husband or her sons, as I seduced my last employer’s husband?”
    Compassion softened Clarridge’s gaze. “Why didn’t you come to me at Oxford? I would’ve helped you.”
    She rose abruptly, went to the drinks table and poured herself a large glass of brandy. She took a fortifying sip. “I wrote you a letter telling you of my plight. And you never answered.”
    He looked as though a dagger had just pierced his heart. He rose and stared at her. “But I never received any such letter.”
    His words hung in the room between them.
    â€œAs God is my judge, I never received it!” He dragged his hand through his hair. “I would’ve helped you, if I had known what happened. You know I would.”
    He never received my letter. The room tilted and swayed. Régine steadied herself and took a large swallow. Her eyes watered, whether from the spirits or the cruel twist of fate, she couldn’t tell. “Ah, too late now.”
    Seven years too late.
    He stood before her. “I’m so very sorry.”
    She raised one shoulder in a careless shrug. “ C’est la vie, as the French say.” She turned and poured him a brandy with surprisingly steady fingers and handed him the glass. “I can’t complain. I live a life of luxury and want for nothing, which is preferable to living in a two-room London tenement with a dozen other poor, hapless souls.”
    Clarridge took the glass and rocked back on his heels. “Is that how you lived after my stepmother threw you out?” He sounded both astonished and appalled.
    â€œNot at first.” She returned to the settee before her knees buckled. He returned to the chair. “The employment-agency head took pity on me and referred me to a Bond Street shop that sold fabric. The owner gave me a position and a small room over the shop. The work was hard and exhausting, but honest, and his customers liked me. I hadn’t been there two weeks when he made me a proposition. In addition to serving his customers, I would also serve him as his mistress. When I refused, he grew furious and threw me out.”
    She sipped her brandy, savoring its bracing bite. “I found myself a bed in a rat-infested two-room tenement.” She shuddered in revulsion at the memory. “The stench, the filth…”
    Seated across from her on the edge of