A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake

He reached the garden door of his town house and went inside, brushing the raindrops off his coat and hair. He greeted his cook and housekeeper as he passed the kitchen and made his way up to the hall where his butler stopped him.

‘Sir, you have a caller,’ the butler said.

‘A caller?’ Oliver rarely had callers. He was not on society’s circuit of people whose favour one must court.

His butler, only a decade older than he, leaned closer. ‘A lady. She declined to give her name.’

Oliver’s brows rose. ‘You do not know her?’

Irwin typically had an excellent eye for faces and names, especially ladies’ names.

He shook his head. ‘She has been waiting over an hour.’

‘An hour?’ What lady would wait an hour for him? ‘Why did you not simply say I was out?’

Irwin appeared affronted. ‘I did say you were out. She insisted upon waiting.’

Oliver was always very careful that the ladies with whom he associated knew precisely the nature of the relationship. He did not want any of them to consider him so important they’d waste an hour waiting for him.

Irwin inclined his head towards the drawing room. ‘She waits in there.’

Oliver shrugged. He might as well discover who it was.

He opened the door, startling the woman who sat upon the sofa facing the fireplace. She stood and turned to him.

For a moment Oliver could not breathe.

‘Cecilia.’

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