Page 23 of The Courtesan’s Protector (About An Earl #4)

EXCERPT OF THE LADY ONCE KNOWN AS

ABOUT AN EARL BOOK 5 (JULY 8, 2025)

V iscount George Lockhart rarely wore a mask to the Donville Masquerade. Why bother? He was known as what he was, after all-a rake. That was the mask he wore publicly and it had been all his adult life.

And now it was over. He would ride to his father’s country estate tomorrow, a few weeks after that he would be married. It would fulfill an obligation, but…well, the whole thing felt so terribly empty.

He sipped his drink, and settled into a brood that made the sparkling hell a little less interesting. Or perhaps it was just that he was so jaded that the sex and sin around him didn’t mean much. It didn’t fire his blood anymore, or at least not the same way.

Sadly, neither did his future bride. He sighed as he thought of her. Miss Westinghouse, and he did only ever think of her as Miss Westinghouse, was beautiful. No one could deny that. She had a friendly face, dark blonde hair and pretty green eyes. If asked, he would have easily described her as beautiful, for she was. And he felt nothing about it. There was no zing of desire when he caught a glimpse of her across a room or when she smiled at him. There was no soft connection like he saw with his cousin and her husband or any of his recently married and blissfully in love friends.

George hadn’t ever expected such a thing, of course. If someone had asked him a year ago about love he would have scoffed at the idea. It was harder to do so when one was so utterly surrounded by it as he was now. Still, though, deep feelings hadn’t been a criteria when it came to his choice in a spouse.

He hadn’t had criteria really, because he hadn’t thought much of it. Until one day a few months ago when his beloved mother had pulled him aside and told him a secret. One that broke his heart. One that drove him to do what she wanted most for him: marry. She’d already chosen the potential bride, the contracts had been signed within days and here he was now. About to make the biggest promise of his life.

“Fuck,” he grunted and slugged back the rest of his drink.

“You look like you could use another, friend.”

He glanced up at the voice that had interrupted his brood and found Marcus Rivers approaching with a drink in hand. The proprietor of the hell was quite possibly the most interesting person George had ever met. He had swagger and confidence and an edge that could cut like a knife. He held sway over this den of inequity without raising much more than an eyebrow most nights. And he, like every other person George knew, it seemed, was desperately in love with his wife: Annabelle.

“Rivers,” he said as the other man sat at the table beside him and together they looked over the writhing crowd of passionate attendees. Couples kissing, touching, playing games that had more to do with sex than chance. There was laughter on the air and desire along with it.

“You don’t look very happy for a man who is about to take a bride,” Rivers said after a moment.

George snorted. “I’d say you were a mind reader, but I don’t think I’ve kept my expression schooled well tonight.”

“If it’s not something you desire, then I’m sorry about it, Lockhart,” Rivers said. “Truly. Your world doesn’t always allow for deeper feeling or passion, I know.”

“You’ll be extra sorry, soon, I think, for I know I’m one of your best patrons and I won’t be attending the masquerade much anymore. If at all.” George shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair to her, would it?”

Marcus gave a slight smile. “Ah, I knew you were a good man under all that rakish charm. So you intend to be a faithful husband, do you?”

“I would like to be better than I was raised to be, I think,” he said softly, thinking of his father’s mistresses over the years and how the existence of them had hurt his mother. The earl had slowed down in his later years and the two of them seemed to have come to an accord, but it didn’t erase the betrayals. The hurts. The humiliations.

“Then this is your last night? Your last hurrah, it seems,” Rivers said.

“Indeed.” George drank the second drink as quickly as he had the first. Already he felt the little tingle of his senses dulling. Just enough to take the edge off.

“Then I suggest you go enjoy it rather than sitting at my table looking like a man about to be led to the gallows,” Rivers said. “There is pleasure aplenty to drown your sorrows in.”

He got up and George joined him. Rivers clapped him on the arm and said goodnight before he slipped off into the crowd. George let out a great sigh and looked around, this time with more purpose. Rivers was right. He could brood anywhere. The reason he’d come here tonight was to drive out his troubles in the body of some willing lady. He had to go on the hunt for the last time.

He drew a breath and looked around the room. There were women galore to choose from. Unlike him, most of them were masked, but he knew there were all kinds here, from the highest duchess to the cyprians using the safety found in this place to establish their relationships and settle themselves. Some he recognized as women he had indulged with before, but none drew his eye, even if he’d enjoyed his time with them. It was intensely frustrating, to be here for his final meal before the execution and find himself not hungry.

At least until she walked through the crowd. A woman in a deeply cut red gown and plain black mask, dark hair bound up loosely, curls bobbing around her cheeks and shoulders in a tempting waterfall that made a man want to trace the same path with his lips. He leaned forward, almost not of his own volition, tracking her graceful movements. Did he know her? It felt like there was some connection there, something instantaneous and hot that made him think he might have bedded her before. But no. He searched his memory and couldn’t find her there in the tangled, foggy collection of merging bodies and mouths.

It was just that she drew him to her. Like a siren. He stepped a little closer, ignoring anything and everything else in the room but her. She was not as focused. Her dark eyes drifted from one place to another and beneath the edge of her mask, he could see her cheeks were pink with high color. Arousal or shock? Perhaps both. There was a tremble to those full lips that gave him the impression. Perhaps it was her first night here, perhaps she’d never seen such shocking things as the debauched pleasures going on around her.

He knew only one thing: he was going to find out. And if she was an innocent to the Donville Masquerade, he was very happy to be her introduction to all it had to offer.

He moved toward her, drawing a hand over his clothing to smooth it. One step, another and he noted the moment she became aware of his approach. Her eyes met his. Stunning eyes. Brown, but they sparkled in the candle and lamplight of the hell, filled with life and emotion. Her lips parted as that same gaze drifted over him from head to toe and made his body react along the same line as her stare.

He hadn’t had such a strong reaction to a woman in a very long time. It was as intoxicating at the liquor burning in his body.

“Good evening,” he said as he reached her.

That pretty gaze flitted away, toward the door and escape for a moment before she pushed her shoulders back and swallowed hard. “Good evening,” she said, but her voice barely carried and was rough.

He smiled in the hopes it would soothe her. “It’s a little overwhelming your first time, I know.”

She blinked and there was no mistaking her surprise at the statement. “How-how do you know it’s my first time here?”

He leaned a little closer. “You have the look about you. A little like a rabbit trying to avoid a trap.”

“And would that make you the hunter, sir?”

He shrugged. “Anyone can be a hunter in the Donville Masquerade…” He hesitated in the hopes she would provide a name. It wouldn’t be her real one, but it would give him something to moan into her ear if this night ended as he hoped it would.

She worried her lip, forcing him to look at the fullness again. Wonder what it would taste like if he nipped it gently as she rose beneath him in pleasure. “I can’t-it’s-”

He cocked his head. “Not your real name.”

“Oh. Yes.” She let out a shaky sigh. “I suppose I do reveal myself as naive, don’t I? My name…or at least my name here…is Aphrodite.”

His brows lifted. “The Greek goddess of physical love?”

Her cheeks brightened further. “I didn’t pick it.”

He drew back at that statement. He’d thought this woman was a lady based on her hesitation, but now he wondered if she was a lightskirt. And perhaps not one here of her own volition if she hadn’t even chosen her own secret name.

“If you’re in trouble,” he said softly. “You have those here who would help. I can bring you to Rivers. He and his wife would never let you be harmed.”

She shook her head. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”

“You said you didn’t choose your name, I thought you might have been forced to come here,” he explained.

“That is a surprisingly protective reflex, sir,” she said and her tone was now speculative, as if she had seen something in him she hadn’t expected. “But no, I wasn’t forced in any way. A friend encouraged me to attend, one who is far more experienced in the ways of the world than I. She chose my name, much to my chagrin once she told me what to use.”

She smiled and he caught his breath. He could hardly focus at the brilliance of it as he nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I wonder, then, if you might dance with me.”

She looked over her shoulder toward the dancefloor where couples were paired off, grinding together in ways that never would have been accepted in any ballroom in Society. Mouths merged, hands roved, it was all foreplay. In some cases, more than foreplay.

“Yes,” she whispered, this time with a little more neediness to her tone. It called to him, beckoned to his own desire.

He held out a hand and she looked at it. It was ungloved, of course. The Donville Masquerade was a place for skin on skin. She looked at her own ungloved fingers for a moment and then took his hand. There was a shock of electricity that rippled up his arm when she did, a fascinating power that made his body tingle. At least he knew this last night would be explosive.

They moved to the dancefloor together and she shivered before she lifted her hand to his shoulder. He held her stare as they began to move, his hand dipping low on her hip, tracing the line of her there as his thumb stroked against silk.

She gasped at the contact and stumbled slightly, but he kept her upright as they turned in the milling crowd.

“What-what is your name?” she asked. “Or the name you give here.”

So she didn’t recognize him. Not a lady of his rank, then, or at least not one who moved regularly in his circles. He started at that thought, for he’d never been so interested in the origins of a lover at the masquerade before. Why was this woman different?

“If you are Aphrodite,” he said softly. “Then let me be Ares.”

She stared up at him. “Her lover?”

His nod was slow and meant to give his exact meaning. “If she would allow it.”

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