THE VIRGIN COURTESAN by Michelle Kelly Page A

the younger girl had grasped the point, that Juliana had begun to feel she knew everything there was to know about the sex act, despite never having actually participated in it.
    ‘Of course, you could end up like Miss Fenton,’ Rose had added. Lavinia Fenton, a courtesan who had become a Duchess, had been a rare breed indeed. The majority of courtesans—however glittering their youthful careers, however highly lauded by the fashionable demi-monde, however sensuous their skills—ended up destitute through debt or drink sodden or both. Juliana was determined that would never happen to her. She would do what she must until she found a way out and had enough money to set herself up in a little cottage or similar. So she had worn Rose’s plunging gown with the blond lace, curled her hair and perfumed and rouged herself until she looked exactly what she was about to become: a successful young courtesan.
    Lord Salter was in his fifties, a wealthy landowner. After a series of flirtatious afternoon teas, trips to the theatre and a musicale, and intimate soirees full of promise, he had sent a stage for her. He would be a generous patron, Rose had assured her. As well he might. After all, Juliana was not like other courtesans. Rose had let it be known, discreetly, that Juliana was still a virgin.
    ‘Good idea,’ the older woman had winked at her, ‘as long as you’re certain you can fool him when it comes down to it.’ Only after a few ‘lessons’ had Rose realised that Juliana’s professed virginity was no trick. Juliana had, like most of the young ladies she knew, been expecting to wait until marriage or, at the very least, a concrete betrothal. Thank the Lord that Mortimer hadn’t achieved his aim before they were interrupted. One thing she had to thank her father’s widow for, at least.
    The stage rattled on. Taking a peek out, Juliana saw that it was near dark and jumped at the sudden hoot of an owl. They were some way outside London now, in woods Juliana was unsure of. Quite why Lord Salter couldn’t simply receive her at his town house, which would be far more usual, she had no idea. She began to wish she had accepted the gin that Rose had offered her before she left. But on an empty stomach, she had not deemed it wise.
    The coach came to an abrupt halt, causing Juliana to drop her fan. Cursing in a most unladylike manner she went to see what the problem was, then froze in horror as she heard the words every night traveller dreaded.
    ‘Stand and deliver!’
    A highwayman. Though the laws against them were stricter than ever and the penalty, death, still they were known to menace English roads. Desperate and dangerous men, most of them, in spite of the romantic tales of ‘gentleman highwaymen’ that went around. No woman who repeated such tales had ever actually encountered one, Juliana wagered.
    Nevertheless, as the coach door was flung open, the first impression Juliana got, in spite of her fear, was of a tall and handsome man, with a full sensual mouth under his mask and strong lean thighs in his breeches.
    ‘Your purse, madam,’ he insisted in tones that struck her as well cultured for such a devil. Then she saw the pistol in his hand and heard the terrified pleading of the stage coach driver, and his face swam before her, then vanished into darkness.

Chapter Two
    Juliana woke with her head spinning and her vision foggy, clutching desperately at the threads of her memory as she tried to ascertain where she was.
    She was in a less than comfortable bed in what appeared to be a plain but functional room. Not Lord Salter’s then. Yet as she came to awareness she realised she was dressed only in her chemise. Where was her dress? Her purse?
    With a start she remembered the highwayman and sat bolt upright, heart hammering. He stood at the other end of the room with his back to her, poking at a fire in a small grate. Juliana glanced at the door. Of course it was barred, and furthermore the scoundrel had wedged a