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

miss,” Molly said from the doorway, “but several packages have arrived for you.”
    â€œI hope they’re from Clarridge and not Dragomilov.” She gave one of the pillows a final plumping. “Well, let’s go open them, shall we?”
    Three packages awaited her on the drawing room table. Régine took the long rectangular one over to the settee and quickly unwrapped it, revealing a bottle of absinthe.
    She opened the accompanying card. “‘To the woman who is as mysterious and enchanting as the Green Fairy. Clarridge.’” She smiled at Molly. “Ah, he must’ve seen the Mucha poster.”
    â€œEveryone in Paris has seen the Mucha poster.”
    â€œI’ll give him high marks for originality. Most men would’ve given me champagne.” Indeed, many had, and she’d appreciated every expensive bottle. But it was gratifying when a man took the time and thought to come up with something unique.
    Régine opened the second box, and its card. “‘This reminded me of you.’ Again, signed Clarridge.” Her fingers parted the tissue paper with the eagerness of a child opening presents on her birthday. She gasped when she lifted his second gift out of its box.
    Done in bronze, the small sculpture depicted a voluptuous naked siren draped along a rock by the ocean. Her long hair trailed down her shoulders and over her hip in sensuous whiplash curves that seemed to caress her glorious leggy body, blending with the waves undulating up and around her perch. She stared down pensively into the sea, which was a smooth, flat oval base suitable for collecting calling cards or Régine’s hairpins.
    â€œThis is an absolutely stunning work of art,” she said, “worthy of Rodin himself.”
    â€œMust’ve cost his lordship a pretty penny,” Molly added.
    Régine needed both hands to pass her the heavy figurine. “Display this on the hall table, where all can see it the minute they walk in.”
    â€œRight away, miss.”
    Régine managed to contain her growing excitement and waited until her maid returned before opening the third box. She read Clarridge’s card. “‘Every queen must wear a crown.’”
    Her fingers trembled as she gently lifted the jewelry case out and unlatched the lid. When she lifted it, she let out a breathless, “Oh, my God. Will you look at this?”
    Molly craned her neck. “What is it, miss?”
    Régine removed the elaborate Byzantine gold headdress studded with rich cabochon emeralds and glowing golden topaz, with three long strands of baroque pearls on each side that would hang down to frame her face with soft, translucent light.
    â€œWhat magnificent craftsmanship,” she said. “La Belle Otero will turn green and want to scratch my eyes out when she sees it.” The vulgar, flamboyant Caroline Otero was Régine’s chief rival.
    She walked over to the mirror and settled the heavy crown atop her head, reveling in the way light danced off the warm gold and the pearls whispered against her cheeks with the slightest motion.
    She turned her head this way and that, admiring the richness of metal and gems. “I feel as regal as the Empress Theodosia.”
    â€œYou look like an empress, miss.” Molly cocked her head thoughtfully. “This Lord Clarridge fellow put some thought into choosing these gifts. Anyone could see that Dragomilov’s diamond necklace was fine and very expensive, but more a reflection of his own wealth and generosity. But these gifts? They’re not about Clarridge or his fortune. They’re a reflection of how the man sees you .”
    Not a mercenary harlot who sold her body for gold Louis, but a green fairy, a sea siren and an empress.
    She carefully removed the heavy headdress. “Sweet of him, and I am charmed, but such an attitude is not terribly realistic in my world. One must be clearheaded and never fall in