The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  She dropped her head on his shoulder and collapsed. Stroking her back, slowly allowing her to ease back into reality, he waited before he placed his mouth next to her ear and said softly, “I have no intention of spending the rest of my life without you. I love you and whether you admit it or not, you love me.”

  Her breath caught, but the only other sound he heard was the rhythmic ticking of the Alpine clock on the mantle.

  “Tell me you love me, Priscilla.”

  She buried her face in his jacket. “I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

  He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the ring he’d brought with him, a gold band fashioned of delicate swirling leaves and roses and studded with small emeralds and rubies.

  “Sit up, love.”

  She did and when she saw what he held, she took in a small breath. “It’s exquisite.”

  “I thought you would like it. It belonged to my grandmother.” He slipped it on her ring finger, but it was much too loose. “I’m afraid, Grandmama was a very sturdy woman. A trip to the jeweler is in order.”

  “No.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t keep it. I can’t marry you.”

  Bewilderment ripped through him. “For God’s sake, why not? First you say we can’t marry because you don’t love me. Then you tell me you love me, but we still can’t marry. Are you planning to offer any explanation?”

  For a long moment she was quiet. “No.”

  “Christ.” He raked his fingers through his hair. Things had gone badly and he hadn’t the vaguest idea why. “You’ve been thoroughly compromised, my dear. I don’t believe you have a choice.”

  “I’m of age and I’ve made my choice.”

  He lifted her off his lap, set her next to him and began buttoning his trousers. “I give you fair warning. I will do everything in my power to wear you down. If that doesn’t work, I’ll let Mrs. Hutton know you’ve been compromised. I’ll post a notice in the damned paper, if I have to.”

  He heard the quick intake of her breath; saw the look of shock on her face. He stalked across the room, unlocked the door and turned to give her a parting bow. The expression she wore could only be described as mutinous. “Fight me all you wish. One way or another, Miss Hawthorn, you will be my wife.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Bloody hell, Rand!” Stratton brought his Phaeton to a halt. Still reeling from his visit with Priscilla, he wasn’t in the mood to be social, but he couldn’t very well pass his best friend by without a word. “I damn near ran you over. Why in the devil are you walking?”

  Dressed in dark blue breeches and a charcoal waist coat and jacket, Rand strolled over and leaned against the gleaming red and black Phaeton. “I’ve been walking for more than thirty years. I do it all the time. Besides, it’s a beautiful day and I felt like walking.”

  “Rot! Given the choice, you never walk when you can ride. Where’s your mount?”

  “The farriers down the street. Ruck’s. I was on my way to see Miss Lamont and damn it all if Hudson didn’t hit a loose cobble and lose a shoe,” he explained referring to the gray stallion that was his favorite mount. ”Knowing that April was expecting me, I didn’t want to be late--it would have been terribly rude--so at the risk of getting my boots dirty I decided to toddle on until I could catch a hack.” He looked down ruefully at his dusty black Hessians.

  “I doubt rudeness was your first concern.” The viscount gave his tiger a curt nod. “Harry pop on over to Ruck’s and keep an eye on Hudson. Once he’s shod, make certain he gets to Mr. Danfield’s house.” He looked over at Rand. “Your place on Green Street?” he asked referring to the townhouse where he had housed his previous two mistresses’.

  Rand nodded and gave directions to the lad.

  Happy to escape his lordship’s black mood and fritter away the next few hours at the farriers, the boy jumped off the Phaeton and sped away.

  “Get in.”

  “I do appreciate it.” Rand climbed up beside Stratton. “You seem in an exceptionally bad humor. What’s the occasion?”

  Stratton grimaced. “Is it necessary that you know every detail of my life?”

  “I suppose not. Though I am quite curious, given your demeanor. Have you not found enough wood to chop? Do I need to knock you senseless and cart you over to Covent Gardens?”

  “Go to the devil, Rand.”

  “I’d rather not. Too much chance of running into my father.” Rand pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to dust off his boots. “Seriously, my friend, what ails you?”

  Stratton knew Rand would wring the truth from him sooner or later and decided to save time. “She won’t have me.”

  “You proposed marriage?”

  He nodded grimly. “The damnedest thing is, she won’t tell me why.”

  Rand shook the dust off his handkerchief, folded it and placed it back in his pocket before responding. “What do you intend to do?”

  Stratton shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t intend to give up on her, do you? That wouldn’t be like you at all.”

  “No, but if she would give me a reason for her refusal, I would have a better idea of how to proceed.”

  “You haven’t a notion?”

  “I’m completely baffled. She wouldn’t tell me. She’s hiding something, but I’m damned if I know what it is.”

  “How odd. Miss Hawthorn doesn’t seem the type to harbor any deep, dark secrets. I suppose you could still compromise her. It wouldn’t be particularly gallant but it would be effective.”

  Stratton stared at him in stony silence.

  Rand’s eyebrows slowly crawled up his scalp. “Christ! It’s gone that far and she still won’t have you?”

  The viscount didn’t even attempt to deny it. Rand knew him too well.

  “You’ll have your Miss Hawthorn. We only need to consider how to best go about it.”

  Stratton pulled up in front of a well kept, painted brick townhouse. “There’s no we in this. Not now. It isn’t your problem.”

  “We’ve been friends too long for you to say that.”

  “Damn it, Rand. Keep out of it. I don’t want you buggering things up.”

  “I shall keep out of it for the next few hours. After that, I make no promises.” Rand climbed down from the Phaeton, swept off his hat and gave an exaggerated bow. “I thank you for the ride, my lord.” He touched his fingers to his forehead in a salute then turned toward the house.

  Philip had been watching Stratton from the back seat of a hired hack from the time he had left Miss Hawthorn’s residence. The black expression on the viscount’s face was enough to tell him that events had proceeded as he intended.

  After dropping Mr. Danfield off at his mistresses home, Stratton flicked the ribbons and took off at a swift gait. The sporty carriage would have sent the viscount back more than enough to pay off Philip’s gambling debts. He was sick to death of being dunned by his creditors and having to beg his tightfisted cousin Percy for enough blunt to pay his tailor. Sick of hired hacks and second rate lodgings. But more than that, he was growing nervous. If he didn’t get a hold of some serious blunt his life wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s damn.

  He wasn’t confident that Stratton was the answer, but Miss Hawthorn might very well be. It didn't set well with him but he would do what he must. He rapped on the roof with his cane and they continued on, half a block behind the Phaeton. The trip ended a short while later on Bond Street where they became ensnared in a quagmire of carriages. When it became obvious that Stratton and the Phaeton were lost, Philip mentally cursed the jarvey and gave the man Melissa’s address.

  By the time he reached her townhouse, she was in a frenzy.

  “So he dropped Mr. Danfield off to see his mistress,” she said to Philip. “What earthly good will that bit of information do me? Have you even delivered the note yet? You’ve had all morning to see to it.” She paced across the sitting room, her red and gold embroidered dressing gown fluttering b
ehind her as she walked. “You’re supposed to help me lure Lord Stratton into marriage, not report on Mr. Danfield’s sexual activities.

  As she continued to pace, he decided to delay his news. Instead, he draped himself over the closest chair, prepared to enjoy the show. Melissa rarely lost control but when she did it was well worth watching. Her breasts heaved tightly against the thin silken gown as she swept by him, her face was flushed and her eyes flashed with anger.

  “I don’t understand him.” She stopped and threw her hands up in the air. “What could he possibly see in her?”

  “She’s lovely.”

  “She’s passable, Philip,” she muttered. “No more than that. She’s passable. She’s been on the shelf too long.”

  He shrugged. There was little point in arguing with her.

  “And his aunt! You should have heard her on our ride home the other night. She wouldn’t shut up! And everything she uttered was complete drivel. I wanted to scream!" She turned on her heel and paced back across the room. "And he did nothing about it until we were practically at my door. He’s far too accommodating with her. I’m beginning to think he’s henpecked. If he weren’t so plump in the pockets I wouldn’t give him a second look.”

  Her expression was taut as she glared at him. He couldn’t help laughing. She had known how to flirt from the time she first put her hair up. She excelled at it. She did not want to admit failure. “Could it be that you’re losing your touch?”

  “I am not losing my touch!” She whirled around, her fingers curled and she rushed toward him.

  Realizing his comment had pushed her too far, he rose from his chair and snatched her wrists. “You little devil,” he said. “Take hold of yourself!” She struggled for a moment, and then went perfectly still. “That’s better, my dear. May I assume you will behave yourself now?” Her eyes were smoldering with anger but she nodded. He released her, carefully adjusted the cuffs to his sleeves and returned to his chair.

  Several moments passed before she sank into the chair across from Philip and said, “Lady Fitzberry invited me to tea. I suppose I can bear it. Perhaps she’ll choke to death on a biscuit. That would keep her quiet.”

  His mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “As well as put the household in mourning, completely ruining our plans.”

  She shrugged. “It would almost be worth it.”

  He gazed at her a moment. “I feel compelled to mention that both Lord Devlin and Lord Baker will arrive next week. Lord Baker has just come into his title as viscount as well as a considerable sum of money.”

  She sniffed disdainfully. “Lord Baker is wall eyed and half his teeth are missing.”

  “And Lord Devlin?”

  “He stutters.”

  Philip threw up his hands in exasperation. “Maybe so, but he isn’t bad looking, his coffers are full and he would overlook a paltry dowry to have you in his bed. A stutter seems a small enough thing to overlook.”

  “I don’t have the inclination to do so.”

  “Melissa, you are behaving like a spoiled child. Lord Baker I can understand as he is a somewhat revolting character, but Devlin? Is a slight stutter such a hindrance?”

  “It’s appallingly annoying. I couldn’t carry on a conversation without wanting to strangle him.”

  “You have to consider others in addition to Lord Stratton. One never knows what will happen. What about Tristan Simpson? Granted he’s only a baron, but he’s also very well-heeled and I hear he’s looking.”

  “Don’t be absurd. He’s also without an arm.”

  “Good God, Melissa! Can’t you overlook it? He’s a war hero. As jaded as I am, even I can appreciate that.”

  Her mouth hardened. “If I marry a man young enough to bed I want one with a strong healthy body, a pleasing face and the ability to speak clearly,” she said through clenched teeth. “Can you not understand that?”

  He sighed. “Forgive me for my shortsightedness. What you must understand, is that despite all your charm and beauty as well as the fact that Miss Hawthorn sent him away this afternoon, things may not go as you wish.”

  “He went to see her?” She straightened in her chair and leaned forward.

  “He did. Left in quite a temper, too. I believe the little note I sent her did the trick. Practically ran Mr. Danfield over with his Phaeton, and that isn’t like him at all.”

  “Damn you, Philip. You might have mentioned this before now. I’ve been in turmoil the entire day.” She frowned at him as she thought. “I can’t imagine why you’ve taken on such a disagreeable manner regarding our little scheme. It’s likely things will work out, after all. You’re certain she doesn’t know the missive came from you?”

  “Don’t be insulting. I’ve been at this kind of thing more than half my life and I know what I’m doing. She hasn’t the means to find out and she’s certainly not going to ask anyone else to look into it. Miss Hawthorn is far too circumspect for that.” He crossed one leg over the other. “But don’t count your chickens, just yet. It’s always possible she will tell him the truth of it if he persists. He isn’t a man who gives up easily.” He took in her darkening expression and added quickly, “Don’t go into another rage. As enjoyable as it was to watch for a while, one is quite enough.” His fingertips rapped against the arm of his chair. “The bastard who bought my vowels is behaving in a most unpleasant manner.”

  “Imbecile. I don’t know why you even go near the tables. One of these days, you’re going to get your throat slit and it will be your own doing.”

  “Would you miss me?”

  Her only response was to roll her eyes skyward.

  He chuckled. “I’m crushed. You do realize, don’t you, that as long as I’m helping you, my longevity is in your best interest?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. So what do you intend to do?”

  “No need to concern yourself. It has naught to do with you.”

  She looked away. “I wasn’t concerned. I could care less.”

  “The insults never stop, do they? You’re growing tedious.”

  Her expression tightened and she stared at him for a long moment. “What do you suggest I do next?”

  “I suggest that you gird you loins and put in an appearance at Lady Fitzberry’s tea. I realize female friendships hold little appeal for you but you must be popular with the ladies as well as the gentlemen. Did Lady Fitzberry seem to like you?”

  “I suppose." The corners of her lips turned down and she heaved a sigh. "If I must, I’ll befriend her for the time being. However, once I’ve achieved my objective, I’ll make certain she’s shipped back to wherever it is she came from.”

  “That’s most generous of you, Melissa.” Philip’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “Will she be allowed to attend the wedding or does she need to leave once the engagement is announced?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how long she remains useful.”

  Brows raised, he burst into laughter. “You are truly a piece of work, my dear. If it weren’t for one small matter, we could have used you against Bonaparte.”

  Eyes flickering, she glared. “And what would that one small matter be?”

  “Your loyalty. You have none.”

  She opened her mouth to argue then realized she couldn’t.

  “I’m having the best time,” Cecelia told Priscilla as she reached for her third ginger biscuit. “Thank you so much for coming with me. I’m afraid most of my shopping trips lately have been perfectly ghastly.”

  Priscilla forced her lips into a smile. Cecelia did appear to be enjoying herself and the last thing she wanted was to ruin her fun. They were having tea at Madame Claudette’s while Madame and her assistant were gathering bolts of silks, satins and muslins to be considered for Cecelia’s wardrobe. It was impossible to look at Cecelia without thinking of Stratton. Priscilla had wanted to cry off the invitation to go shopping, but she had promised and difficult as it might be, she would keep her word.

  “Good heavens,” Priscilla told her.
“There’s no need to keep thanking me.” She poured milk into her tea. “One can only spend so much time shopping for oneself. It’s become more of a chore than a pleasure. But you’re tall and willowy and your coloring is vastly different from mine. I quite enjoy the change.”

  Cecelia pushed back a copper ringlet that had escaped its clip. “Tall and willowy,” she repeated. “It sounds rather nice when you say it. I suppose I’ve grown used to being tall, but I can’t say I always like it. Especially when I’m dancing with someone who’s much shorter than me.”

  Priscilla sipped her tea. “Who in particular?”

  Cecelia thought a minute. “The Mercer brothers are both shorter than I am. As is Thomas Kent.”

  Happy to be talking, rather than dwelling on her own misery, Priscilla said, “The Mercer brothers are shorter than almost anyone, including me, and they’re both considered quite a catch. Thomas Kent is betrothed to a young lady several inches taller than he is and she doesn’t seem to mind. If their short stature doesn’t bother them why should being tall bother you?”

  A flush tinted Cecelia’s cheeks as she considered this. “You have me there,” she conceded. “But my hair color isn’t at all fashionable.”

  Priscilla smiled. “I’ve seen the men crowded around you. They don’t seem to find anything unfashionable about your height or your hair color.”

  “Or my dowry,” Cecelia finished.

  “Ophelia Corsairs has a sizable dowry as does Katrina Howell and potential suitors seem to avoid those two like the plague,” Priscilla said. Then she brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh my, that just slipped out. That was terribly rude of me wasn’t it?”

  Cecelia grinned. “But terribly true.”

  Priscilla couldn’t imagine why Cecelia was unhappy about her appearance. Her vibrant coloring matched her personality and she wore her clothing with far more style and grace than any debutant had a right to. “At your age I still looked as if I belonged in the schoolroom,” she said. “If I hadn’t been affianced at the time I would have been devastated by the lack of male attention I received.”