Night of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  To the Right Honorable Viscount Banfield,

  I regret to inform you that your brother owes me a substantial amount of money after a generous investment I made in the publication of his recent book. I thought I might solicit my original investment and humbly expect the full one thousand two hundred pounds to be delivered into my hands by the end of this month. If you choose to ignore this letter, or the amount owed, I will ensure your brother’s crass association with the Duchess of Winchester will be made known in every last respectable circle. Her husband, from what I am told, is an excellent duelist well known for—

  Derek didn’t even bother reading the rest of Lord Trent’s letter. He doubted he’d get anything more out of it. One would think after his own antics prior to their father’s death, he’d be used to handling his brother’s tomfoolery.

  One would think.

  Glancing at the closed door of the study, Derek Charles Holbrook, Viscount Banfield, tore the parchment in half. Tossing the torn missive into the flames of the hearth beside him, he watched the paper blacken and curl until it frayed into grey ash that collapsed against the coals.

  He groaned. One thousand, two hundred pounds? Christ. He’d have to sell every horse in the stable, including the harnesses, the saddles, the whips, the hay, and all the help.

  Air. He needed air. He needed—

  Jogging across the study, he unhinged the iron latch and folded out the windows facing the open fields and frost-covered gardens below. A cold breeze laced with heavy flakes of snow drifted into the study. He dragged in a deep breath in a valiant attempt to focus.

  Old lanterns creaked and swayed against the wind, dimly illuminating the vast walking grounds that were blanketed in white just beyond the ancestral home. An ancestral home that had been dependent all these years on Mr. Grey’s generosity. A generosity Derek would never intrude upon by asking for more money even if he needed it. Because aside from the unending honor of marrying Clementine, he was also getting three million to do it.

  He was still recovering from the amount.

  Whilst his father had once been dubbed the ‘Laughing Viscount,’ Derek was now being dubbed the ‘Golden Viscount’ by snide audiences due to the ridiculous amount of money he’d soon be marrying into. Of course, those snide commentaries only made him hit his chest in pride, because he was golden. Hell, he was getting something not even three million could buy: Clementine.

  Unseeing, Derek gripped the window frame, white-knuckled, as a cold breeze picked up strands of unbound shoulder-length hair and whipped it around his face. Swirls of heavy snowflakes stung his skin, fluttering the gold and crimson brocaded curtains that had decorated the window long before he was born.

  Unbuttoning his evening coat, Derek latched the window shut. He pulled out a black ribbon from his inner pocket, then raked back and tied his hair tightly, adjusting his queue. Striding back over to the writing desk, he sat and eyed the pile of eight financial ledgers sitting crookedly atop each other. If he paid his brother's debt in full using whatever money he had, he wouldn’t be able to pay the gamekeeper or the land agent who were both awaiting funds.

  He'd done a piss-awful attempt of teaching Andrew about cause and effect. After their father died, he tried to be everything to his brother. Only it made Derek realize he’d taken his father’s noblesse oblige too far.

  He pushed all of the ledgers aside.

  Seeing his square tin of ginger hard candies, he grabbed it and opened it. Empty. He’d already eaten them all and knew full well there was nothing left in the confectionary box where he usually stored extra. He groaned, tossing it back onto the desk and rose to his feet. He’d have to ride out to Stanwick’s confectionary shop again and deal with all the women there. Women who didn’t know how to keep their eyes and giggles to themselves. There was nothing wrong with a grown man liking candy.

  The sound of running steps from down the corridor made him lift his head.

  The door of the study rattled. “Derek?” Andrew called out. The door rattled again. “For God’s sake, why is the door locked? What are you doing in there? Flogging the bishop?”

  Derek glanced back at the locked door outlined by candlelight and rolled his eyes. As if he had time to masturbate anymore. Stripping off his evening coat, he flung it onto the chair and stalked over to the paneled door. Turning the key, he unlatched the bolt and yanked the door open, doing his best not to start yelling.

  Andrew snapped out a letter with the wax seal facing up. “It’s from Miss Grey. For it to have arrived at this time of night and by courier, no less, means it must be of unmitigated importance.” Andrew grinned, those notorious dimples appearing on each of his lean, shaven cheeks. “Does she ever write anything naughty to you? And if so, do you oblige? Do you two fornicate through letters? Is that how you two—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—” Derek snatched away the letter. “Her father reads all of the letters I send before she does. So I can’t readily frisk her with my own words. I have to keep it tame. Which is damn difficult, I assure you.” Smoothing the parchment against the palm of his hand, knowing she had touched it, he carefully tucked it into his inner waistcoat pocket for later.

  Andrew pointed. “Aren’t you going to read it? She sent that by courier.”

  “She always sends her letters by courier.”

  “So you mean I could have left it on the side table and gone to bed?”

  Derek huffed out a breath. “We need to talk.”

  Adjusting his coat to better display an expensive embroidered blue waistcoat, Andrew propped himself against the doorframe. “Of course. What would you like to talk about?”

  “Your life.”

  “Am I in trouble again?”

  “What do you think?”

  Andrew hissed out a breath. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it.”

  Like hell he didn’t. It wasn’t the first married woman Andrew had gotten involved with. “I just finished going through all of the correspondences for the week. Lord Trent claims you’re involved with the Duke of Winchester’s wife. Is that true?”

  Andrew groaned. “I haven’t even been here a day. I was going to tell you.”

  It took every ounce of muscle in Derek’s two arms not to grab his brother by the lapels of that coat and shake him until his brass buttons fell off. “Can I ask why I’m always the very last to know anything?”

  “You’re not the very last. Mother is. Besides, it happened months ago. It isn’t even worth talking about.”

  Derek swiped his face to maintain composure. “So you bedded her.”

  “I thought we were in love. But then I found out…we weren’t.”

  “Andrew, what the hell are you doing? Aside from the fact she is married, her husband is the Prime Minister’s left hand!”

  “I know! Don’t you think I know?! She called on me, after we met at a gathering her husband hosted and we…it happened.”

  Derek slowly shook his head. “I don’t even know how Lord Trent knows about your involvement with the duchess, but he plans to expose you if I don’t pay the investment he made into your career. And I’m not paying him. Even if I had the means to – which I don’t – I wouldn’t. Because you would learn nothing if I dig you out of this mess. It’s all I ever do for you these days. Dig, dig, dig. I might as well be walking around with a bloody shovel.”

  Andrew squinted. “He says I owe him money?”

  “Over a thousand. What in God’s name are you doing with all the money I’m sending you from the estate every month? You get more than enough to— Why are you borrowing money from titled men? Can you answer me that? Why?”

  “I already paid him. Hell, I had to borrow money from another titled man to do it.”

  Jesus. “If you paid him, then why is he saying you didn’t?”

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “Because he’s a damn Boretto man in desperate need of attention, is what.”

  “Last I knew I don’t speak Italian. What the hell is a Boret
to man?”

  “You’re older than I am. How could you not know what a Boretto man is?”

  “Don’t chastise me or I’ll put your head under my arm and twist.”

  Andrew sighed. “It’s an older gent who fancies young men.”

  Derek’s lips parted. “Lord Trent is a sodomite?”

  “Has been for years.”

  “And how the devil do you know that?”

  “Aside from a few unwanted advances? Brayton told me.”

  “Brayton? Who the hell is Brayton?”

  Andrew touched his head. “Sorry. Lord Brayton and I started sharing living quarters about a week ago after Trent had asked me to take him in given there appears to be a family feud of some sort. I haven’t known this Brayton long, seeing he just got into London, but bloody hell you should see the man. He makes criminals with pistols cross the street. Apparently, he was living in various monasteries around the world and got tired of it. He hasn’t been around women in twenty years. And it shows. It’s hilarious.”

  Only in London. “So you don’t owe Lord Trent any money?”

  “No. That three-legged ingénue is merely upset that I refused his offer of becoming his mistress.” He sighed. “He gets jealous of my associations with women all the time. It results in stupid threats, but he never follows through on any of them. Leave it to me. I’ll talk to him.”

  Derek stared. “Are you and he involved?”

  His brother gave him a withering look. “I’d sooner stick my cock into a hornet’s nest. Do I look a male pillow to you?”

  “I’m getting tired of being the last to know everything. We’re not brothers. I’m your goddamn criminal lawyer.” Derek shifted from boot to boot and glared. “Who else are you associating with these days? Who else do you owe money to? Because I’d like to write this all down. For future reference.”

  Andrew searched his face. “You seem…tense. Did something happen? Are you all right?”

  It was clearly time to let this go. Because Andrew always did what Andrew wanted to do. And as long as the city wasn’t burning, who was he to care? Derek adjusted the ribbon on his queue. “I’m just tired. I’ve been putting in a lot of hours trying to organize all the ledgers before April.”

  “Why before April? What happens in April?”

  “You aren’t the only one who has secrets. Mr. Grey finally let me set the date for the wedding.” He flashed a smile. “I’m getting married this April. And you’re the first to know it.”

  Andrew snapped straight. “Oh, damn. You don’t say? Well…congratulations.” He hesitated. “Are you still concerned about your lack of experience? Or did you finally gain some?”

  Derek awkwardly stepped back. “I ended up hiring a woman when I was back in London.” He had to. He couldn’t very well be a virgin to a virgin and unleash all of his passions on her like a wild animal in need of raw meat.

  His brother angled closer. “You hired a prostitute?” he demanded loud enough for his voice to echo throughout the corridor and beyond. “Whatever happened to your vow of never touching another but Miss Grey?”

  Derek shoved him and glanced toward the corridor behind them. “Jesus. Quiet. Are you trying to announce my sins to the world?”

  “You needn’t worry. Mother retired over an hour ago.” His brother quieted his voice. “You didn’t pick up a random woman off the street, did you?”

  “What do you take me for? An idiot in need of the pox? I went over to a high-end establishment on Moon Street. They ensure the women are clean and more importantly, they let me bring my own condom. Because I sure as hell don’t trust theirs. They barely wash them.”

  Andrew pulled in his chin. “I went there myself not that long ago. Hopefully, we didn’t ride the same goddamn horse or I’ll—” He shuddered. “Her name wasn’t Nancy, was it?”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “No. Her name was Elizabeth.”

  “Thank God. Or I’d gag.” Andrew’s mouth quirked playfully as if he’d already moved on. “You should have bypassed the grotto and gone straight to the duchess. It would have been free and she comes with a long list of instructions.”

  Unbelievable. There could be a knife to his brother’s throat and he’d still make a joke of it. Andrew was definitely their father’s son. Because when the weight of responsibility threatened to choke him, Derek didn’t have it in him to laugh quite as easily. That was who he used to be. He’d long since learned that being stupid at the wrong time came at a high price.

  Turning on his heel, Derek strode back to his desk and shook his head. “Let me know when you’re interested in being serious.” Trying to distract himself, he dug out Clementine’s letter from his waistcoat, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment, square by square. “I’ll acknowledge you in the morning. I have a letter to read.”

  It had been almost eight months since he’d heard anything from her. Eight. He was beginning to worry that his last letter had been overly amorous. Of course, they all were. He called her ‘beautiful’ and ‘dearest’ and gushed on and on about how he couldn’t wait to see her. He even signed it ‘My whole heart goes out to fetch you.’ He couldn’t help it. He had been sharing all of his personal thoughts with her since he was eighteen. And the best part? She genuinely listened. Even if she didn’t always reply in a timely manner.

  Andrew seated himself on the edge of the mahogany desk with a long hefty breath, clearly intent on staying. “Women exhaust me.”

  “Are you certain you aren’t exhausting them?” Derek tossed back.

  Andrew snorted and straightened the haphazard pile of ledgers with the back of his hand. “It’s not like you would understand. You’ve never been involved with a woman.”

  “You forget who you’re talking to. I was kissing women long before you even knew what a kiss was.” Derek sat and turned Clementine’s letter over in his hand, admiring the way she wrote his name and address.

  “I can’t believe you actually hired a prostitute. You waited seven years and couldn’t wait another few months?”

  Derek tried not to feel guilty. “I just didn’t want to bumble my way through my own wedding night.” He bit back a knowing smile. “It was a hands-on five hour tutorial on what would make Miss Grey moan. Very educational.” He tilted back in his leather chair. “Now if you don’t mind, I need a few moments to read this. All right?”

  He snapped the letter straight. That elegant script he adored and knew all too well lured him into her world. The suffocating burdens of the estate and everything expected of him by the world fell away as he imagined Clementine’s voice. It was a voice he hadn’t physically heard since 1823, but one he still remembered as if she’d spoken to him yesterday.

  Dear Banfield,

  Your last letter took some time to reach me, given I was traveling again. It must have been lost as there are half a dozen postmarks, and signs of enough wear to indicate it might have traveled to the moon. I was happy to receive it, along with all of your warm thoughts. I was very sorry to hear that your poor mother’s cat died after being mauled by a neighbor’s dog. It would seem not even our cats are safe in this world. Please pass along my condolences, which I will be able to offer in person soon. As you well know I will be leaving New York in a few weeks, for which I am most grateful. I have never been all that fond of Broadway Society as the people here seem to think their money makes them right. By the time you receive this letter, I will already be en route to London and if the weather is fair and willing, Father says we should arrive in early April. I look forward to seeing you again after all these years. There is certainly a lot for us to discuss.

  Sincerely,

  Clementine Henrietta Grey

  He grudgingly folded the letter. Twice. All of her previous letters had been much warmer and chattier. He couldn’t quite make it out, but it was as if she had cooled to him. He’d waited eight long months to hear from her – eight – only to receive a mere ‘Sincerely’ and a ‘There is certainly a lot for us to discuss.’ In his opinion
, there wasn’t anything to discuss. He was going to damn well tongue the lips off that woman the moment they were alone.

  Opening the drawer filled with all of her letters, he set her latest atop his regulated pile and paused at seeing the oval miniature portrait she’d sent. Painted blue eyes peered up at him. Black ringlets of long hair framed her pale face, accentuating the detailed brush strokes against the small canvas. The first time he’d seen it, he’d stared at it for hours unable to believe she’d grown even more beautiful.

  Andrew leaned across the desk. “Why not pull her portrait out and set it on your desk?”

  Derek slammed the drawer shut. “I stare at it enough already.”

  A bright mockery invaded that stare. “Admit it. You were soft for her from the moment you and she met.”

  That was a fucking understatement. Over the years, he’d grown to not only mindlessly yearn for her but had come to genuinely love her for always letting him write whatever words he needed to. Good days. Bad days. And everything in between. Her letters, though not as many as his own, insinuated she had become everything he had always imagined her to be. Intelligent, witty, overly proper and kind. Everything that made his blood zing. The memorable ten weeks they spent together back in ’23 carried him through every single one of these seven years. On their last day together, when she set her own pale cheek and a gloved hand against the carriage window in quiet farewell, it hinted at what their married life would be: absolutely darling. Like her.

  Andrew rumbled out a laugh. “Oh, come now. There is no need to look so depressed. Being soft isn’t always a bad thing. It simply means—” He let out a whistle and veered his forefinger down onto the desk. He hit it. “You’re no longer in control. She is.”

  Derek leaned back against his leather chair. “That is exactly what I’m afraid of. I’m marrying a woman worth eighteen million. How the hell does a man impress a woman who has everything?”

  His brother shifted against the edge of the desk and methodically removed a piece of lint from his trousers. “By giving her the one thing no amount of money can buy: a cock full of Banfield seed.”