Free A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man by Susan Donovan, Celeste Bradley Page A

that freedom would be a permanent flavor upon my tongue.
    When my uncle’s sullen driver pulled the carriage to a halt before the baroness’s house, we hopped down before he stirred himself to open the door and waved him on his way. “We shall be hours inside,” I told him breezily. “I have coin to hire a hack for the way home.”
    With an indifferent grunt, he nodded and drove away. When we turned, we saw that the baroness’s door stood open and that a gaunt, supercilious fellow in livery regarded us suspiciously from the top step. I grabbed Sylla’s hand and we fled, laughing like naughty children. The baroness would have to do without my intrusion today! I had no fear of discovery, for Aunt Beryl would never dare question her.
    The Swan lived a scant few blocks and a million degrees of Society away. Even I knew that outside the streets and squares of the elite lay the small, intimate corners of the demimonde. Her home was every bit as luxurious as the baroness’s and quite a bit more tasteful, I imagined.
    The Swan’s housekeeper led us to sit in a very pretty parlor done up in the colors of ivory and palest periwinkle. I thought to myself that if I ever had a home of my own, I should like it to be exactly like the Swan’s. With a few more cushions and a dash of brighter color, of course.
    The Swan met us there in a matter of moments. After greeting us graciously, if coolly, she sent the housekeeper away to prepare a tea tray and directed Sylla to await me in the kitchens if she liked.
    Sylla glanced at me and I nodded. When she was gone, the Swan seated herself across from me and regarded me with cynical appreciation. “I did not expect you to come.”
    I felt as though I had passed some sort of test. “I mean what I say, madam—er, miss…”
    “I fancy ‘Your Grace,’ myself,” the Swan said dryly.
    I raised a brow. “Why not ride full canter? Why not ‘Your Highness’?”
    Her cool reserve faltered as her lips twitched. I knew then that the relentlessly elegant woman before me possessed that most prized of virtues—a sense of humor.
    She sat back then, lounging with feline grace upon her sofa. “I allowed you here to plead your case,” she reminded me. “Go on, then. Convince me.”
    I took a deep breath and recounted every single rationale that had brought me to her parlor. I wished independence, freedom, a life of my choosing, a destiny of my own.
    At length, she held up a hand. “You are forgetting something,” she told me.
    I reconsidered every reason and argument I had prepared for this moment. Yes, I had expressed them all.
    The Swan smiled softly at my confusion. “My dear little girl, what of love?”
    I frankly gaped, I fear to say. “Love?”
    She laughed outright then and the exquisite illusion shattered. I realized at that moment that the Swan was no more than a few short years older than myself.
    “You might be missing the point, just a bit,” she said, still chuckling. “Or am I mistaken? You do wish to become a courtesan?”
    I frowned, blinking at her. “But men pay you for sexual favors. What has love to do with such a cold contract?”
    She twinkled at me. “Done properly, there is naught cold about it. In fact, my lover finds me quite warm, indeed.”
    “But you are a prost—”
    Her hand came up as quickly as a slap, but she simply held it before me, palm outward. “That word has nothing to do with me. A courtesan is not a commodity, she is an artist of love.”
    I lifted my chin. “I do not believe in love.”
    Relaxing back into her lazy sophistication, the Swan smiled benevolently at me. “Ah, but love believes in you, little girl.”
    “I am not a child.” I bridled. “I am eighteen years of age.”
    “Ah, you are practically a spinster. Perhaps you had best take that loathsome gentleman up on his offer before you shrivel away.”
    Her teasing did not upset me for nothing could deter me from my course. “I have every intention of taking a lover as