Free The Courtesan's Daughter by Claudia Dain Page B

slipped into drunken mumbling.
    “Dear Caro,” Anne said. “You know nothing of the life I lived before coming to live with you.”
    “You’re a widow. Your husband died at sea.”
    “Yes, true, but how did your mother find me? I’ll tell you how. She and my mother were friends of a sort. They were both courtesans, though my mother did not fare as well as yours.”
    “What? I don’t believe it!”
    “Believe it,” Anne said crisply. “Also believe me when I say that the courtesan’s life is not what you imagine. Not at all.”
    “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re just saying this to try and change my mind.”
    “I am trying to change your mind, that’s certainly true, but all the rest is true as well. You think being a courtesan is easy? Try your hand at it now, while they are gaming. Try and find a man who will pay a month’s income for the promise of your kiss. If you cannot, beg on your knees to your mother that she will forgive you your willfulness. Marry the next man she buys for you. Do anything to avoid that life. I beg you, Caro. ’Tis no fit way to live.”
    “You don’t think I can, do you?” Caro said. “You don’t think any man would want me that much.” And with that dire pronouncement, Caro sailed into the dining room.
    Anne followed nervously behind her, murmuring, “That is not at all what I meant!”
    When the yellow salon was empty and all hope of further conversation dashed, Lord Dutton stopped snoring, sat up, and said to the sparkling crystal chandelier above him, “Sophia really does provide the most delightful entertainments.” And with that, he straightened his cravat and sauntered into the dining room.

Eleven
    CARO surveyed the dining room like a seasoned general, which spoke more to her determination than experience. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to seduce a man, but it couldn’t be that difficult, could it? Richborough had to have been some sort of horrid abberation, mustn’t he?
    She really didn’t want an answer to that question. She didn’t even want to think about that question. She just wanted to prove to herself and to, as long as she was being honest, the whole of London, that she was desirable, even on the most base of levels.
    That’s where men dwelt as a matter of preference, wasn’t it, on the most base of levels?
    Another question she didn’t want an answer to.
    Caro considerd possible targets, mentally classifying the occupants of the room as either friend or foe. Ashdon was sulking, frowning down into his cards: foe. Anne was right behind her, breathing warnings and pleadings into her ear: in this instance, foe. Her mother was talking softly to Lord Staverton, her hand on his arm in gentle comfort: most definitely foe. Lord Dutton, having ceased his snoring, was leaning against the drapes and studying her with an interested gleam: a possible friend. More than friend? Dutton was a very attractive man, though rather a wastrel. At least he was a solvent wastrel. Such could not be said of the insolvent Ashdon.
    Her gaze went back to Ashdon, for what reason she could not imagine since he had already been itemized. The cards were being shuffled, and Ashdon was straightening his waistcoat over what appeared, based on her very casual observation, to be an extremely taut belly. The churning in her own belly to that most casual and disinterested of observations clearly placed him, unreservedly, in the foe-to-the-death classification. She need waste no more time on Lord Ashdon. She would ignore him like the insect he was and make her move on some other gentleman currently taking up space in the Dalby town house. She would never waste another thought for the indolent and insulting Lord Ashdon.
    Caro walked straight over to where Lord Ashdon sat, indolently, and stood behind his chair.
    Lord Ashdon ignored her.
    “How much have you lost?” she said to the top of his head. His hair was very glossy and very thick, which was only proper as he was a