Cavern of Pleasures Boxset: Georgian Regency Romance

by EM BROWN

  Constance clapped her hands. “What delightful happenstance!”

  “A truly extraordinary event,” Abigail said with a raised eyebrow at Constance.

  Constance cleared her throat. “Ah, the tea!”

  While the tea was poured, the dialogue stayed tended towards the more innocuous topics such as the unfortunate rainclouds in the sky, the inn in town that the gentlemen were lodging at, and the vistas to be seen of the countryside. They had finished their tea when Lord Bennington arrived home. Greetings were exchanged. Mr. Holmes inquired as to the hunt. Lord Bennington replied that he had fired off a few shots, but they did not find their mark.

  As the men conversed, Abigail pulled Constance aside.

  “This is your doing, is it not?” Abigail whispered.

  “What a thing to accuse your bosom friend of,” Constance deflected.

  “My only question is whether Mr. Edwards is here for your attentions or mine?”

  “His preference appears to lie with you.”

  Abigail paused. That he might be partial to her provided some gratification, but she was too seasoned to be truly flattered.

  The women took their leave to attend to their toilette while Lord Bennington guided Edwards and Holmes on a tour of the various antlers decorating his house. After changing from her riding habit to a simple but comfortable gown of muslin, Abigail headed back downstairs. She had hoped her days in Bekshire would afford a respite from the distractions of London, but she meant to put a stop to the mischief her friend intended. Constance was already with the men when Abigail found the group in the hall viewing a mounted stag’s head with thirteen-point antlers.

  “My most exceptional kill,” Lord Bennington described. “Might easily have been he who had gotten me. Looked me dead in the eye. I think he would have charged me, but my trusty blunderbuss was quick on the draw and did lay the beast down with but one shot.”

  As they strolled down the hall, Lord Bennington recalled the details of every kill from the firearm used to the weather of the day. Abigail had heard the stories before and found herself sauntering near the rear of the party with Mr. Edwards.

  “Do you favor hunting, Mr. Edwards?” Abigail asked him.

  Though she had not taken any extraordinary pains with her dress, it seemed that Mr. Edward’s eyes had lighted upon seeing her.

  “I am not averse to the sport,” he replied.

  She eyed him carefully. “You prefer a different sort of hunt perhaps?”

  He looked at her. “My lady?”

  “I have inquired after you. You have quite the reputation in Bath.”

  He did not blink. “You flatter me, Lady Debarlow.”

  She raised her brows at his response. She had expected a prompt denial of the allegation or an attempt to hide some manner of smug acknowledgement.

  “That I have merited such attention on your part,” he elaborated.

  “You do not deny it then?”

  “What part of my character would you have me deny?”

  Was he sincere in asking her? she wondered. Perhaps we was merely stalling, but if he was flustered, he hid it well. She glanced ahead and saw that they had fallen further back from the rest of their party.

  “Your reputation as a rakehell, sir,” she supplied.

  He studied her as if she were the one under judgment and responded without wavering, “I do not deny that such a brand has been attached to my name.”

  “Justly?” she demanded. She would not allow him escape answering frankly by toying with words.

  He held her gaze with his. Her heart palpitated—to her disconcertion. He should be the one flustered, not she.

  “Justly.”

  There was no sound of shame or arrogance in how he spoke. He spoke as if stating no unremarkable fact, as if he were confirming the price of a loaf of bread. His answer did not bring her the satisfaction she had expected. At the least he was a rogue who admitted his colors.

  “You have a long list of prey,” she persisted.

  “As long as yours, perhaps?” he returned.

  Her chin went up in defense. “Touché. But I am not afforded so kind a term as rakehell.”

  “A grievous inequity,” he concurred.

  Abigail considered her own words. She had never considered herself a huntress in her pursuit of men, but perhaps her stripes did not differ vastly from his.

  “You do not take offense at my metaphor of the hunt?”

  “Would it change your perception of me? Would you not still think me an ogre who targets the unsuspecting and defenseless, then touts the sum of his preys like so many trophies he has amassed? Would you cease to advise your friends of the fair sex to stay their distance from me?”

  Such advice would fall upon deaf ears, Abigail thought wryly of Constance. She could not help a small smile.

  “If I had a daughter, I would counsel her to stay away from men like you,” Abigail acknowledged, “but I do not know you well enough to consider you an ogre.”

  “Your want of prejudice is gratifying, Lady Debarlow,” he bowed. “Even were you to consider me a monster, I venture to say that you would not fear me.”

  It was her turn to hold his gaze. “I fear no man.”

  The other three had stopped at the last of Lord Bennington’s trophies. Abigail and Mr. Edwards attended to Lord Bennington’s words as if they had been listening the whole time.

  “Come, you will have supper with us,” Lord Bennington declared when he had finished his tale of how he had nearly come across a moose. “I regret there will be no fresh venison on the table tonight, but perhaps if we are fortunate tomorrow...“

  Abigail noted the satisfied smile upon her friend and expected that Constance would find a way to have Mr. Edwards seated next to her.

  “You are generous, Lord Bennington,” Edwards spoke. “But we should not trespass upon your hospitality further. I am sure the repast at the Red Cock Inn will suit us perfectly well.”

  “Nonsense. Please accept my invitation or I should be discouraged.”

  That put an end to any more objections. Lord Bennington rarely passed an opportunity to regale newcomers with this hunting exploits. Abigail wondered that Mr. Edwards would refuse dinner. Perhaps he was not completely aware of Lady Constance’s plans for him. As Abigail predicted, Constance insisted Mr. Holmes sit beside her brother that they may better converse about their favorite pastime. She then sat herself beside Mr. Holmes, leaving Abigail and Mr. Edwards to sit across from them on the other side of Lord Bennington. But as his lordship dominated the dinner conversation, Abigail and Montague exchanged few words. After dinner, the men retired to the drawing room to round off the evening with brandy and tobacco.

  “Has he seduced you yet?” Constance inquired of Abigail, her eyes flashing at the thought.

  “Mr. Edwards, I presume?” Abigail returned as the two women enjoyed a bottle of port.

  “Of course! Lest you prefer Mr. Holmes?”

  “My dear, you have no shame...”

  Constance tossed her curls. “For which you adore me. Come, tell me what he has done.”

  “He has made no effort as far as I can tell. Perhaps he did not fully comprehend your instructions?”

  Constance pursed her lips. “Instructions indeed. I told him nothing.”

  “And you expect me to believe that?”

  “How can he have made no attempts. I thought he had a repute in Bath.”

  “Which I had emphasized to him as well.”

  Constance frowned. “Abbey, you did not!”

  “He took it quite well. Wasn’t abashed in the faintest.”

  “Well, how the devil is a man to work his charms upon you if you accuse him of being a debaucher?”

  Abigail laughed. “If he is indeed accomplished in the art of seduction, he will not allow that to stop him.”

  Constance brightened at the thought.

  “But perhaps you have misread his partiality for me.”

  Constance shook her h
ead. “He is biding his time – a sign of his patience – a virtue in bed. There is naught more disappointing than a lover who rushes.”

  “Constance, you know my mind to be set on Tremayne.”

  “Yes, but a small, little illicit affair of short duration could hardly hurt your campaign with the Viscount.”

  “I do not know Mr. Edwards well enough to trust his discretion.”

  “And if you could?”

  Abigail sighed. “I might entertain his attentions, but—“

  “Then that shall be my mission.”

  “You cannot prove him trustworthy or not.”

  “No, but perhaps the right incentive could be found.”

  “You are incorrigible!”

  Constance beamed. “For which you adore me.”

  They sipped their port, each lost in her own thoughts for the moment. Abigail knew it to be fruitless to persuade her friend from pursuing Mr. Edwards – not with his presence so near. Perhaps it would do no harm to learn a little more about Montague Edwards.

  Chapter Seven

  MONTAGUE COULD NOT refrain from thinking of the Baroness – nay, from wanting her. Every thought of her prompted his cock to stiffen. He remembered vividly the vision of her when she had entered the Bennington drawing room, tendrils of her hair protruding chaotically, her hat askew upon her head. The disarray had only lent a more earthly quality to her appearance. The blood pulsed in his cock. In contrast to the masculine cut of the riding habit, her evening dress had emphasized the feminine properties. Once again, he had been drawn to the display of her neck and collar – territory that he wished to traverse once more.

  Laying in his bed at the inn, Montague ran his hand against his shaft. Lady Debarlow had looked magnificent in both her gowns, but neither compared to what he had seen her wearing in the Cavern of Pleasures. He had felt an attraction to her that first night at the Bennington ball, and his witness of her at Madame Botreaux’s only made her more desirable. What a wicked, wanton woman was the Baroness Debarlow! He rubbed his cock more vigorously as he imagined himself in place of the Viscount. Only he would not wish to simply stand in submission to what she wished to do.

  “She is not a true dominant,” Penelope had said.

  “You know this to be true?” Montague had asked.

  “I have witnessed her in both situations.”

  Montague felt his head reeling.

  Penelope put a hand upon his arm. “Come, let us begin your training.”

  THE MARE BENEATH HER pranced with increasing unease, and Abigail realized that she should have turned around a half hour earlier when first the horse became skittish. The mare had been reluctant to leave the comfort of her stables, but Abigail wanted to have the wind rushing at her once more, to cool her body and wash away that uncomfortable longing between her legs when she thought of Montague Edwards.

  Lord Bennington had not allowed the grey clouds to stop him and his guests – Holmes and Edwards – from their hunt. Constance had declined to go for a ride, and Abigail welcomed the solitude. She did not want to spend the hour fending off her friend’s crusade. The grey clouds, however, had darkened considerably and a gentle roll of thunder caused the mare to shake her head and Abigail to pull the reins tighter.

  “Let us turn to home,” Abigail told Andromeda with a reassuring stroke.

  A few drops of rain preceded a deluge. Abigail quickened her pace, but it would do no good to rush home upon such wet grounds. A sudden flash of light followed by a clap of thunder caused the mare to rise onto her hind legs. Abigail lost hold of the reins and tumbled to the ground. The fall took the air from her and jarred her limbs. After the apex of the impact had passed, Abigail rose to her feet and looked about for Andromeda. The mare had disappeared. Abigail hoped but doubted that Andromeda had enough presence to return home. Rubbing her bruised backside, Abigail hobbled up a hill to see if she could spot Andromeda. Where could the mare have run off to?

  The steady rain blanketed the countryside as far as the eye could see. Abigail dragged herself and her now sodden skirts back down the hill. There was naught to be done but to head back. When she reached the Bennington house, she felt that she was more water than human. She wiped away an endless stream of rain from her eyes. Her clothes, heavy with wetness, had made the walk home no simple matter. The mud had seeped halfway up her gown and clung to her shoes. Her white stockings and petticoats, too dirtied to be washed, would have to be tossed. She made her way to the stables, hoping to find Andromeda dry and warm. How she would laugh with relief at the wretched creature!

  But her heart sank as she walked in.

  The hunting party must have returned shortly before her. Mr. Holmes and Mr. Edwards were headed out of the stables as she entered. Though they, too, were soaked to the bone, they did not appear as ragged as she.

  “Lady Debarlow!” Mr. Edwards exclaimed upon seeing her.

  She must have looked miserable sight, but she little cared. She only noted that Andromeda was not among the horses in the stables.

  “Andromeda,” she said to the stable boy. “Have you seen her?”

  The lad shook his head.

  “Lady Debarlow, what has happened?” Mr. Edwards asked with noticeable concern.

  Abigail pictured Andromeda, alone and frightened, with the rain beating down upon her and the lightening flashing above her.

  “Oh, what a fool I am!” she scolded herself. “I should never have taken her out in this weather.”

  “Your horse?”

  She nodded. “The lightening and thunder had frightened her. I fell and she fled. Where I know not. She could be anywhere. The poor, stupid animal! But it is I who am to blame. I was selfish and had insisted upon riding.”

  She turned to the stable boy and gestured to the grey. “Have Orses saddled. I must go in search of Andromeda.”

  “My lady,” Edwards intervened, “you would be more fool to venture out in such conditions.”

  She looked out at the dark skies. “But it is my fault that she is out there.”

  “I cannot permit you to go.”

  Her chin shot up and her eyes widened. Had she heard the man correctly?

  “I know your thoughts, my lady,” he intercepted. “I am indelicate and audacious to make such an assertion over your will. As recompense for my offense, you will allow me to go in search of your horse.”

  He turned to the stable boy. “Do as Lady Debarlow bids. Have the horse saddled.”

  Abigail stood in silence, not knowing whether she should be indignant that he was assuming a responsibility that should have been born by her or grateful for his chivalry.

  Edwards turned next to his friend. “Latimer, please see Lady Debarlow into the house.”

  Still undecided as to how she should react, she accepted the arm proffered by Holmes and allowed him to guide her out of the stables. She turned to see Edwards mounting the grey. With a quick spur of his legs, he urged the horse out into the pouring rain. The thunder had softened, signaling the nascent retreat of the tempest, but it would be no easy matter to find Andromeda. Now she had sent two souls out to suffer the unkind elements.

  “It will take more than a storm to fell Montague,” Holmes offered as if reading her thoughts.

  Abigail nodded but bit upon her lower lip nonetheless. Upon entering the house, she realized how cold she felt. She went up into her room to shed her sodden garments. Seeing herself in the mirror, she saw how horrendous she looked with her hair plastered to her face and her riding habit tarnished with mud. She considered a hot bath to warm herself, but she was anxious to see when Mr. Edwards might return.

  After her maid had peeled the layers of wet clothing from her, Abigail donned a simple grey muslin with black ribbons at the waist and elbows. Her maid had pinned under-ruffles beneath the sleeves and tucked an ivory colored fichu into the low neckline. Still feeling chilled, she wrapped a shawl about herself. She was about to slip her feet into a pair of silk brocade slippers when Constance burst into the room
.

  “What a relief you are arrived safely!” her friend exclaimed. “I was enjoying a peaceful slumber in the library when I was awoken by the thunder. “Did I not remark how ominous the skies looked?”

  “I should have heeded you,” Abigail acknowledged. She looked out the window to see the rain still splattering the glass.

  “Mr. Holmes said that Mr. Edwards has gone out in that dreadful weather to find Andromeda?”

  “I was thrown from her and she bolted away.”

  Constance rushed to her side. “My dear! Are you hurt?”

  “A bit bruised but largely unharmed. I only wish I had stayed here as you did.”

  She paced the room, glancing out the window every few seconds to see if the storm had subsided.

  Constance peered out the window. “That Mr. Edwards must be mad to be out in such foulness. Perhaps you are right not to mind his attentions.”

  “He would not have me venturing out.”

  Constance said nothing but Abigail felt her gaze.

  “He is returned!” she cried, spotting a dark form through the grey of rain.

  Whirling on her heels, she hurried down to the stables as Edwards approached, astride his horse, his hand holding the reins as he led Andromeda. She ran to take the mare from him.

  “Forgive me,” she mumbled to the horse as she rubbed its side.

  “I found her wedged between the hillside and a large bush,” Edwards said as he dismounted. “She would not emerge at first, but with a bag of oats, I coaxed her to me. I think she is now more wearied than fearful.”

  She removed the reins and harness as the stable boy undid the saddle. Once Andromeda was safely returned to her stall, Abigail turned to Edwards, who had stabled his own horse.

  “I am grateful, sir,” she said and let loose the sigh of relief she had been holding inside of her. “Thank you.”

  Despite being soaked from head to toe, he executed a bow as if they stood comfortably at a ball before a dance. “Your servant.”

  When he looked up, she was struck by the subtle verdant shading of his irises. How had she not noted the hue before? A strand of his hair had adhered across his forehead. Without thinking, she reached to brush it aside. He caught her wrist just as her fingers swept the forelock back in place. Her heart stopped. She could not pull her hand back, but she doubted that she could move even were he to release her from his grip. She knew what he was about to do and yet a mixture of hope and apprehension swelled within her.