His friend and frequent guest of the château, the Baron Rockwell, had warned of Lord Devon. The Viscount had a keen though subtly expressed interest in virgins.
“The more a man charms you, the less you can trust him,” he told Millie.
“I suppose you would know a rogue better than anyone.”
He blinked, taken aback once more. Was she acting this way because she was cross at him for not intervening in her engagement?
“I take it you must be close cousins,” Marguerite said, “for you quarrel as easily as an old married couple.”
Millie appeared chastened. “Forgive me, Madame Follet. I fear I have given you a poor sampling of my manners. Your pardon as well, cousin. I should be flattered that you wish to preserve my honor. I ought not have responded as I did to your highhandedness. Perhaps it is best I depart.”
At last Millie had come to her senses, he thought.
But Marguerite objected. “No, no! I will not see it happen. You, my dear, will change your attire. I will send Bhadra to assist you. You, Andre, will return to the dining room and finish your dinner. It is settled. The both of you will enjoy your time here as you had initially intended.”
“Settled?” he echoed. “Nothing is settled.”
“It is. Your aunt entrusted Miss Abbott to me with the expectation that she will have a marvelous time, and I will see it done.”
She took Millie by the arm and began to guide her toward the door.
“Do you mean to say you are refusing my request for the use of your carriage?”
“C'est cela.”
He stopped her. “Marguerite, pray be reasonable. You do Miss Abbott no favors by permitting her to stay.”
“Andre, she is my guest, not yours. Your aunt—”
“Katherine is far too enamored with this place and in want of discretion.”
Marguerite arched her slender brows. “Andre, this is most unlike you. And because we are good friends, I will dare to say that I find your position rather selfish.”
She astounded him. She deemed him selfish when he was willing to sacrifice his long-awaited weekend at the château to protect his cousin?
His look of vexation did not daunt Marguerite. She continued, “Oui. You have partaken readily of the pleasures here but would deny the opportunity to another?”
He tried a different approach. “I ask you, as a friend, I beg of you to see the soundness of my actions.”
“Your aunt is my friend as well, and I am loath to disappoint her.”
They had all lost reason, he decided. All three women. Women he had hitherto thought sensible—especially Millie.
“I do not mean to disparage you or the château, Marguerite,” he said, unrelenting, “but it is not worth the risk for Miss Abbott.”
“Sir, you presume too much on my behalf,” Millie said.
Marguerite put a gentle hand upon his arm. “It is trés amusing to see you fret in the manner of an old woman, but I assure you that all will be well.”
His vexation trapped all words. If she were not the hostess, he would have a few choice words for her.
Marguerite turned to escort Millie from the room, but he stopped them. Addressing Millie, he said, “Do not be a fool. I am willing to chaperone you home, but I may not be so generously inclined later.”
She straightened. “I thank you for your kind offer, Alastair, but it is not necessary.”
His nostrils flared. The chit should be grateful for his selfless gesture!
“Stop such idiocy, Millie. You do not fully comprehend what transpires here.”
“I have been well informed by both your aunt and Madame Follet.”
“And the wiser course would be for you to reconsider!”
“How is it the wiser course for me but not for you?” she cried.
“Are you truly asking such a daft question? I had thought you more sensible than that.”
She flushed with indignation. “I intended to draw attention to your hypocrisy with my question.”
“It is not my hypocrisy but that of society’s. The consequences fall much more harshly upon the female sex.”
“But here at Château Follet, the sexes are equal,” declared Marguerite. “It is a quality you appreciate, mon chéri, and benefit from.”
“But how will Millie benefit?”
“In the same manner you do, but of course.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
Why were these women asking such ridiculous question? Did they truly require him to state the obvious?
“Certain ruin awaits her if she is discovered.”
“That has yet to happen with a guest.”
“She won’t like it here.”
Millie breathed in sharply. “Surely that is for me to determine.”
“I assure you this is no place for you. My dear aunt has not been here in some time and forgets the nature of the acts here would appall you.”
“I am not easily frightened or appalled.”
“Millie, don’t be a dolt.”
“I object to your condescension, sir!”
“It is for your own good. You know no one here. What man do you expect will pair with you?”
He saw her eyes widen and regretted the harshness of his words, but it was warranted if he was to talk sense into her.
She looked ready to attack him or cry, possibly both. “You think no one will desire me?”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is what you meant!”
He fumed because her accusation was not entirely untrue. “The men here—their expectations are different.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “If I am not selected, then I will take pleasure in watching others.”
Her response stunned him into silence.
“Andre, I protest,” Marguerite intervened. “Miss Abbott has a right to be here as much as you do, and I dare say, if you do not leave her be, I shall have to ask you to leave.”
Astonished, he allowed Marguerite to usher Millie out the room. He released the oath he had been withholding. He was tempted to take the Follet carriage, with or without consent. He cursed again. Without a carriage, he could not transport Millie from the château. He could put her on his horse, but their progress would be slow, if not treacherous at night. It was no way for a lady to travel.
He would simply have to convince Marguerite or Millie that it was wrong for her to stay.
Good God, what was Katherine thinking letting Millie stay at the Château Follet? Alone. And how had Millie consented to such a thing? Did she realize what transpired here? Perhaps if she did, she would more readily depart with him.
He had always known Millie to be a sensible young woman. She was not frivolous, did not play the sort of games in which others of her sex engaged, and spoke with refreshing candor and maturity. For her to risk her honor in such a fashion was unlike her. If she were discovered, she would be ruined. Her family would be ruined.
Damnation. He ought not care. If she chose to be reckless and foolish, it ought to be none of his affair. Birthday wishes be damned. He had come to enjoy himself, to indulge in wicked carnality. As the Marquess of Alastair, he could afford to do as he pleased. Millie had not that luxury.
Chapter Six
SEATED AT THE vanity in only her shift and stays, Mildred did not know whether to laugh or cry. She must have looked a ridiculous sight to Alastair with her gravy-soaked dress. After all that effort to escape the dining hall, he had found her, on hands and knees, hiding behind a sofa. How sadly undignified! She shook her head. The whimsical hand of Fate could not have contrived a more aggravating, unsettling coincidence. Yet, despite the disconcerting appearance of her cousin, she would rather see her time at the château through. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, to indulge her most wanton cravings, to allow those urges the light of day before they were condemned to darkness for the remainder of time.
But could such a thing come to pass now that Alastair was here?
<
br /> His overbearing manner had riled her, yet she regretted having been so impertinent with him. His intentions were honorable. Nevertheless, she could not help but deem him hypocritical. He, of all people, should applaud a woman coming to Château Follet. That she should be his cousin ought have no bearing on the matter.
She put her head in her hands. What an impression she must have made to the guests at the dinner table! Especially to Lord Devon. He must think her a blundering idiot. What if no one wished to partner with her? How embarrassed would she be to have that happen in front of Alastair? Oh, this was turning into quite a mess! Perhaps she should leave the château with him.
But if she should be fated to become Mrs. Haversham, this was her last chance to know the pleasures of the flesh, to understand that look of rapture upon Lady Katherine’s countenance when she recalled her past at Château Follet. Lady Katherine had facilitated a rare and precious occasion and would be disappointed if such a gift were not made use of. Not seeing her time through here would disappoint Lady Katherine.
As Bhadra dressed her, Mildred reasoned that Alastair would soon forget her in favor of other company, such as the beauty who had sat beside him at the table. His roguish nature would prevail, and he would tend to his own interests. He could commend himself for making an attempt at propriety, but what more could he do? He would not wish to oppose Madame Follet.
Mollified, Mildred turned her thoughts to Lord Devon. Did she dare hope that he would choose her for a partner? She marveled that he seemed to have taken an interest in her, but would his attentions last beyond dinner, especially after he had had the chance to converse with other, lovelier women?
Mildred studied herself in the mirror. She was not striking, but neither was she homely. And she possessed other qualities that must improve her presence, even if her countenance and figure were of middling beauty.
What was it that Alastair had said? That no man would pair with her? In the past, his bluntness rarely ruffled her, but this one hurt. It was her own worst fear made verbal. And while it was a good possibility that no man would take an interest in her beyond making polite conversation at the dinner table, Alastair need not have been so cruel.
Upset that her thoughts had turned once again to her cousin, Mildred started pacing before Bhadra had finished fixing her coiffure.
Lady Katherine had seemed confident that she would find a partner. Perhaps her ladyship had made an arrangement with Madame Follet? But what if she had not?
Mildred reviewed herself in the looking glass. Perhaps if she applied a little more rouge, her appearance would be improved enough to interest the likes of Lord Devon?
No, she needed more than rouge. She needed a lovelier gown, but she had soiled her best dress.
Realizing she was thirsty gave her an idea. She would dampen her gown. The women at the French courts had started such a practice. No man could fail to take notice.
“Remove all but one of the petticoats,” she told Bhadra, hardly believing what she was about to do. She wondered what her cousin would think, then reminded herself it mattered not. She did not require his approval, nor would he wish to be bothered for it. His vehemence had surprised her.
“Pay him no heed,” she told herself, then told Bhadra of her wishes.
She shivered after water had been applied to the whole of the gown. It was not the most comfortable of sensations, but the effect was provocative, even upon an imperfect form.
“You look lovely, miss,” Bhadra said.
“Thank you.”
Mildred drew in a fortifying breath, though her nerves, dancing erratically within her, could not be easily calmed. When she felt she had enough command of herself, she headed back down to the dining hall.
Chapter Seven
WITH ANOTHER CURSE, Andre made his way back to the dining hall, where he took his place once more beside the redhead. She seemed pleased at his return and gave him her whole attention. He attempted to reciprocate, but as her conversation was not the cleverest—she confined herself to marveling at the repast, commenting upon the château decor, and other subjects he found rather tedious—he tried to appreciate her other qualities. She had a slender form, a complexion of alabaster that required no powder, and a lovely cleavage about her lace-trimmed décolletage.
But his attention kept wandering to the other end of the table, where Millie had previously sat next to Lord Devon.
“You say you prefer the town over country?”
Andre turned to Miss Hollingsworth. “Your pardon?”
“The town,” she said. “I take it you prefer the many forms of amusement available in London: theaters, clubs, or gaming halls.”
He glanced once more toward the other end of the table. Millie had not returned yet.
“Though I suspect, for men, the countryside also holds much appeal in the way of hunting and fishing. We women are less fortunate. We must prefer the town for its superior offerings of entertainment and shopping, yet the streets can be so dirty and the air so polluted. If you were of the gentle sex, would you say London’s benefits outweigh its objections?”
Finding her question far too inane, he made no reply.
At that moment, Marguerite returned. He was glad to see that Millie still had not. Perhaps his cousin had come to her senses after all. She could remain in her room the rest of the night till Katherine returned to retrieve her in the morning.
“Surely you must have a preference?” Miss Hollingsworth persisted.
“I should prefer the Château Follet,” he answered, hoping to conclude this particular tête-à-tête and reminding himself that soon it would not matter that he found her dialogue dull. All that mattered was how lovely she would look sans clothing.
“Above all,” he added with a subtle smile.
She flushed, and her brows rose with interest. “I, too, am partial to Château Follet above all other places.”
Now his brows rose with interest. He had hoped to meet a woman so inclined.
“Have you been here before?”
“Twice. And you?”
“More than twice.”
“Then you must be quite experienced.”
Desire glimmered in her eyes, causing warmth to rise through his loins.
“Ah, Miss Abbey!” he heard Lord Devon remark.
Turning, Andre saw his cousin returned to the dining hall—and nearly fell from his chair.
What the devil had she done to her gown?
The fabric clung to her curves, outlining the swell of her hips and adhering to her thighs. She had wet the dress in the fashion of French harlots. Every eye was ogling her—especially those of Devon, who sprang to his feet to pull a chair for her. Millie smiled and thanked him.
Andre felt his jaw tighten. He looked at Marguerite, but she was busy chatting with her other guests. He looked back toward Millie, who conversed with Devon with an air of ease. Devon was leaning far too closely toward her.
“I had hoped to meet a man of experience upon my trip here.”
Andre turned to Miss Hollingsworth. What the devil had she said?
“How long do you stay?”
“Three nights,” he replied before glancing once more toward Millie and Devon.
Would Devon truly choose to pair with Millie for the evening? There were plenty of women to choose from, and who might happily receive the company of Lord Devon. The son of an earl, Devon had breeding, a charming smile, and the most stylish clothing that Saville Row had to offer. He could have his pick of women, most of whom were more attractive than Millie, but he seemed intent upon her. Rockwell had said the man could sniff out a virgin a league away.
Andre started, for something touched his knee. It was Miss Hollingsworth. She was cutting the quail upon her plate, but a small smile hovered over her lips. He should be much encouraged by this, but his first thought was whether or not Devon had his knee similarly pressed to Millie’s beneath the table.
It ought to be no concern of his, Alastair reminded himself. Milli
e had decried his interference. He had had no hand in this foolishness Katherine and Millie engaged in. He was not responsible for his cousin’s virtue.
It was too much the coincidence. Katherine knew of his plans to be at Château Follet, had quaintly requested that he take someone into his concerns, and, lo and behold, here was his cousin. Was it a test to see if he would make good on the birthday present?
He was not afraid to disappoint his aunt, especially if he was being set up. But what of Millie? She had seemed genuinely horrified to see him. She was far too good for Devon. What if the cad should hurt her? She would surely learn her lesson then and think twice of disregarding her cousin’s counsel in the future.
If the worst should come to pass, she and Katherine had no one to blame but themselves.
Chapter Eight
LORD DEVON’S LOOK of appreciation as he eyed her over from head to toe was all Mildred required to shore her resolve to see her night through at Château Follet, regardless of her cousin’s presence.
During the remainder of dinner, she had caught the solemn stare of Alastair more than once and determined that she would stop looking his way. If she were to enjoy herself, she had to pay him no heed. He would surely forget her soon enough, especially as that scarlet beauty beside him clearly took an interest in him, as most women were wont to do.
“You have not touched your pudding,” Devon remarked.
“In truth, I am too nervous to eat very much,” she answered, though she could not recall the last time she had passed on dessert.
“Ah, that is to be expected your first time here,” he said with reassurance.
She returned a grateful smile.
“Perhaps another glass of port will ease the nerves?” he offered, waving at one of the footmen.
Mildred felt the gaze of her cousin upon her but resisted looking at him. She hesitated at a second glass, for she had already consumed a full glass of wine and was not accustomed to partaking of more, but Devon was already instructing the footman to refill her glass.
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