Night of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Derek burst into laughter. “You ought to be arrested for your way of thinking.”

  Andrew grinned. “I learned from the best. Something tells me she’ll be pregnant in less than two weeks. If it’s a boy, name it after me. If it’s a girl, still name it after me. Call her Andrewlina.”

  Derek swiped his face at the thought, rose to his feet and walked toward the window before swinging back. “She won’t even be here in two weeks. I’m telling you, the wait is burning me alive.”

  “Tickle her portrait and you’ll be fine.” Sliding off the desk, Andrew tugged on the sleeves of his coat. “Unfortunately, I have to retire. I’m heading back to London in the morning. I promised Brayton I’d show him around the city.” He sighed. “What time is it?”

  Derek glanced at the clock on the mantle of the hearth. “After midnight. I have to get up early and finish going through the ledgers. Again. I’m going to hire a new bookkeeper because none of the ledgers are making sense.” Trudging over to the desk again, Derek opened the drawer where he kept all of Clementine’s letters and rifled through them, plucking out his favorite. The one where she described New York during the winter. He tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, to take upstairs with him, then pulled out her small portrait, tucking that in his pocket, as well. He liked sleeping with her portrait. It was better than a pillow. He closed the drawer and pointed at his brother. “You didn’t see that.”

  Andrew walked toward him. “By God. You’re more than soft for her.”

  Derek edged back. “Maybe. What of it?”

  His brother shrugged. “I’m not poking you in the rib about it. I’m incredibly happy the arrangement turned into something meaningful for you. Most men end up grouching about whatever their parents arrange. So uh…” He cleared his throat. “I actually have my own announcement to make. I was going to wait until morning, but I can’t.” Andrew edged in, a boyish excitement overtaking his features. “Out of all the people in my life, you’re the only one who never shuts the door. No matter what I do. Hell, if it weren’t for you, Mother would have disowned me by now. You keep all of my secrets. Every last one. Even the worst of them.”

  Now he was scared. He leaned back. “Are we talking about the worst here?”

  “Far from it.” Andrew glanced toward the open doorway and lowered his voice. “I’ve finally met the woman I was destined to meet. I’m talking about a woman who reaches deep into your being and dredges out things from your soul you didn’t even know existed.”

  It was as if his brother was referring to Satan. “Do I know this woman?” he drawled.

  “No. But I was hoping you’d be willing to meet her. Do you have time to come out to London in the next two weeks and host a luncheon for her and her mother? It would mean the world to me.” He sounded hopeful.

  By the Saints. His brother had never asked him to meet any of his women. Maybe this was it. Maybe his brother was finally going down the respectable path of being a married man. Amen. Derek grinned, reached out and shoved that head. “I’d love to meet her. Why the hell didn’t you tell me about her sooner? Who is she?”

  “I don’t think our mother should know about her quite yet.”

  Derek’s grin faded. “So you’re saying Mother wouldn’t approve.”

  “You know how she is. Prim and proper this and prim and proper that. Like everyone else in our circle. She would never understand. You’re the only one I can trust in this.” Andrew hesitated. “If I show you something, do you vow not to tell Mother or anyone else about it?”

  This was anything but promising. “I really don’t think—”

  “Do you vow?” Andrew pressed. “On your golden name?”

  He was too soft. Derek thudded a fist to his chest. “It stays here. What is it?”

  Eyeing him, Andrew pushed up his coat sleeve and linen shirt, exposing the skin beneath. Raised uneven welts that created the word MENTULA were burned across his inner arm. It appeared fresh and was Latin for…

  Fear scrambled Derek’s mind and innards. A shaky breath escaped him as his gaze snapped to his brother’s face. “What the hell are you doing to yourself? What is this?”

  Pulling down the linen sleeve and the coat, Andrew grinned. “It’s my promise to her. I let her burn it into me. Hurt like hell but it was worth it.”

  “You let her burn the word PENIS into your arm?”

  Those eyes widened. “Penis? No, no. Mentula is an endearment. I asked.”

  Derek snorted. “It is not an endearment but an insult. Have you ever read the texts of Priapeia?”

  Andrew glared. “So you’re better read than I am. What of it?”

  “What of it? Jesus, I’m trying to— What rational woman burns a man’s arm with the word penis and claim it’s an endearment?”

  “She—” Andrew cleared his throat. Twice. “A few weeks ago, I hired this incredible birch mistress out of an exclusive brothel I’d never been able to get into until now. Her name is Elsa. And I love her.”

  Derek’s eyes widened. “You’re in love with a birch mistress you just met?”

  “Ey, now, real passion, when one finds it, burns fast. Not everyone can be like you and let things simmer for seven years.” Andrew pointed to the sideboard. “Can I have a drink?”

  Saint’s blood. Maybe he needed a drink. “You’re one and twenty, Andrew. You don’t need my permission to drink.”

  “Amen for that.” Striding over to the sideboard, Andrew pulled out a decanter of brandy and a glass. He filled it, tossed it back and set the glass down with a hard chink. “You would like her. I know you would. Much like you, she loves to fence and is incredibly good at it.”

  Derek dragged in a breath. He’d never met a birch mistress, but he’d heard more than enough about the strength of their arms to make his cock shrivel and invert. He had to get his brother out of this. Any woman burning the word penis on a man’s arm meant she would most likely slice it off next. “We need to talk.”

  Andrew swung toward him, his features hardening. “Don’t give me that.”

  Derek sighed. When it came to his brother, he always had to appeal to sensibilities the boy didn’t have. “Andrew, setting aside your own safety, and whatever is left of your arm, society would damn well turn its full wrath and judgment against our mother, Miss Grey, and every female ever born and related to the Banfield name. Including all of our female cousins, many of them who are looking to get married. What are you doing?”

  Andrew was quiet for a moment. “I was going to ask her to marry me.”

  Christ. “You can’t marry a-a…birch mistress. Never mind what society will think, our poor mother would ask for a blade to fall upon. She can’t even say the word ‘kiss’ without going into convulsions.”

  His brother closed his eyes. “Elsa isn’t a whore. She doesn’t have sex with men. Even I haven’t had that privilege. Men hire her for torture. Nothing more.”

  He couldn’t believe his brother was rationalizing torture. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  Andrew opened his eyes, a calm settling over his features. “No. I’ve found it. Through physical pain, I have finally learned to better understand and appreciate my own blessings.”

  Mother of heaven. Andrew didn’t know what he was talking about. No one knew him better than he did. As a boy Andrew would wail if a splinter so much as touched his finger and refused to even wrestle, saying it was too rough for him in nature. Never mind the woman being a prostitute, his brother was about to permanently shackle himself to the art of pain. He had to do something. He had to— “No. I’m sorry but this is…no. This is not who you are. And I won’t have some woman erasing your mind by making you think burning the word mentula on your arm is normal. Because it’s not. Hell, if I had to guess, she is taking advantage of you. You’re the brother of a titled gentleman bringing in close to a thousand a year. And that measly thousand, as you damn well know, will become a full ten thousand once I marry Miss Grey and increase your yearly annuity. Does this woman know thi
s?”

  Andrew didn’t meet his gaze. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Did you or did you not tell her about your finances?”

  “Yes. I did. All right? I did. What of it?”

  Shite. “Is that why you’ve been borrowing funds? Because you’re giving her funds?”

  Andrew still didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m assisting her with sizable debts.”

  A cold knot formed in Derek’s stomach. His brother always gave too much of himself to the world. And sadly, too many people took advantage of that. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You can’t let women— You’re done with this.” He pointed at his brother, his ability to stay calm waning. “You are not to see her again. Or I will bloody have her arrested for what she did to your arm. Do you understand? I want her name and the address of this establishment. Now.”

  Andrew’s startled face snapped toward him. “Why? What do you plan to do?”

  “I plan to take a carriage to London and talk to whoever the hell she is working for. Because it’s fairly obvious by her endearment and the money she is confiscating from you that she is taking advantage of your affections. Like all the others.”

  Andrew angled toward him, intently searching his face. “She isn’t like the others.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve been financially swindled by a woman. I can easily name ten others. Remember Miss Lester? That shop girl you fell madly in love with and who needed a hundred pounds? After you gave it to her, did you ever see her again? No. She disappeared and never even bothered to give you a reason why or a thank you.”

  “This is different.”

  “No. Forgive me, Andrew, but it’s rather obvious your heart needs a new chest if you think it acceptable to be burning and whipping yourself in the name of impressing a woman. Because I know you. You weep at the sight of blood. Marry a birch mistress, indeed.”

  Those dark eyes flared. “Yes, well, unlike your spoiled ruby American heiress, she doesn’t hold out a hand. She bloody smacks it.”

  Derek shifted his jaw, feeling a muscle ticking angrily in it, and edged toward his brother until they were boot to boot and almost nose to nose. “Are you insulting my woman? To my face, no less?”

  “You insulted my woman first.”

  Derek didn’t move. “End it. Or I will.”

  His brother stared him down. “I thought you, of all people, would stand by me in this.”

  “You thought wrong. I’m not supporting your damnation.”

  Andrew shoved past, slamming Derek with his shoulder. He stalked toward the open door of the study. “Tell Mother I’ll see her in two weeks. I’m heading back to London tonight. I’m not staying here. I can’t.”

  Derek swung toward him, his throat tightening. “Andrew, how can you not understand my concerns? When it comes to women, you’re— irrational.”

  A hand snapped up. “Yes, I suppose it must be nice to know Miss Grey is all yours without you having to try.”

  That stung. Derek stalked after him. “Don’t you bloody toss that at me! I’ve stood by you in everything. You damn well know that! But you can’t expect me to—”

  “No. I suppose I can’t.” Andrew came to a halt. “Which is why it’s time I stand on my own. I’m asking that you not send me any more money from the estate. Because I will admit, you are right. I’m not handling my finances well and spend far more than I should. But I’m done with that. I’m asking that you hold onto all my money for a full year. Invest it for me. That way, when Elsa and I are ready to start a family next year, I will have a sizable investment to work with.”

  Derek quickly made his way toward him. “How the hell are you going to live if I invest all of your money? You’ll need something for monthly expenses.”

  “My novels will pay for that.”

  Derek’s eyes widened. “How?! You haven’t sold any in months. It would be like me wanting to make money off the paintings I used to do when I was twelve.”

  Andrew set his shoulders. “I appreciate the moral support. I wish you the best at your wedding, and I’m sorry I won’t be there.” He swung away and disappeared out into the corridor, his steps angrily hammering farther and farther away.

  Derek seethed out a breath and jogged out into the corridor, skidding to a halt. “Now you’re just being bloody spiteful. I’m trying to give you sound advice. I’m trying to—”

  “Like always, Derek, you are only trying to run roughshod over my life and everyone else’s. Why are you trying to control us when you know that isn’t who we are?” Andrew kept walking. “Go back to your superior way of thinking and your superior way of life that includes your superior American princess. I’ll simply head back over to the large steaming pile of shite I made for myself and roll around in it.”

  “Why are you always so goddamn— Where are you going? We need to sit down and talk about how marrying this woman is going to—”

  “Going to what?!” his brother yelled, swinging toward him, his eyes ablaze. “Plunge me into hell because I’m looking to make a respectable woman out of someone you and the rest of society thinks is a whore? Well, what if I were to tell you that I was the real whore here? Not Elsa, but I? And what if I were to tell you this particular whore wants a better life outside of all the beds he’s been rolling around in since he was eighteen? What then?”

  Derek swallowed. “I never called her a whore. Not once. And you damn well know it.”

  “Invest the money for me,” Andrew bit out. “In the meantime, don’t bloody call on me with your lectures. You’re not my father.” His brother swung away and disappeared.

  Derek fell against the nearest wall and stared up at the gold-painted ceiling far above his head. They were alike in so many ways. The only difference was that he’d been fortunate enough to have been born heir and handed everything he could ever want. An impending great fortune of three million, a title, good health, the respect of everyone in his circle, a brother he could always confide in, a mother who thought the world of him, cousins who thought the world of him. And Clementine. A beautiful woman who was about to change his life by gifting him with the one thing he’d always wanted: a family of his own.

  Not the one his father had envisioned for him. No. But the one he envisioned. Where his son could cry in his arms whenever he needed to without being scolded. Where his daughter could come to him and admit to wanting to be a scientist without being scolded. And where his wife embraced him, not because of an arranged marriage that required her to, but because she wanted and needed to be in the only place she had ever truly belonged: in his arms.

  London, England – in a carriage on its way to the Banfield House at Grosvenor Square

  April 26, 1830, late afternoon

  The precise moment as to when Clementine Henrietta Grey’s life had become a jaded fairy tale would have been at birth. She was, after all, the eldest and only child out of eleven to have been born breathing. As such, her father ensured every breath she took was of immense value. He certainly had the means to afford it.

  Her father, Mr. Rupert William Grey, was renowned throughout all of New York, Madrid, Moscow, Paris and Hamburg as ‘The Commander of all Political Assets,’ capable of putting any man into governmental power. He had held that golden chalice of esteem since 1810, after he had turned a sizable investment of half a million into an astounding two million. It wasn’t planned. After getting drunk one afternoon, he signed papers he shouldn’t have, letting his broker overinvest in the wrong stock. Fortunately, it resulted in the largest payout the stock exchange had ever seen. He’d been investing in stocks and large parcels of land all over New York City and the world ever since, growing his sizable fortune one crisp dollar at a time until it came to be what it was today: eighteen and a half million.

  Ever since her father’s financial assets had more than tripled over the years, everyone’s interest in her had tripled over the years. Men from all over the world had been calling on her father in a desperate effort to appeal for a matrim
onial arrangement that might put Grey assets into their lint-filled pockets.

  But her father, bless his dear misguided heart, was determined to marry her off to a mere third generation viscount in desperate need of money. Her father was deeply sentimental. He had adored his now deceased friend, George, the former viscount, and wanted their families to become one. He had always claimed the Banfields were the definition of happiness and perfection and what a family needed to be.

  She respected her father’s sentimentality, but knew happiness and perfection was a matter of opinion. Her father claimed to have had the perfect marriage. Yet almost every silk wall in their house had to be repeatedly replaced over the years from all of the objects that had been smashed against them. He and his wife ruthlessly argued about everything for years.

  Until the woman died.

  Clementine remembered that night. Her mother’s sobs and shrieks could be heard throughout the house, much like the year before and the years before that, as her father had quietly assured Clementine yet again that there would finally be a brother or a sister for her to hold. He assured her that out of the countless babes that had been lost this one would survive and allow them to create the happy family they always deserved.

  Her father had been overly hopeful. Neither the babies or the happiness had survived. And though it was ghastly to even whisper it, Clementine was glad her mother didn’t survive. She had never liked her mother. The woman was cold in both mind and heart and had wobbled around pregnant year after year, bitterly blaming her father and the rest of the world for the fact that she was a woman. Was it part of life for a woman to get married and get pregnant? Yes. Yes, it was. Could a woman aspire to be more than a wife and a mother? Yes. Yes, she could.

  She simply had to plan for it.

  Thunder cracked overhead, causing Clementine to jump against the cushioned seat of the carriage. Her heart skidded, and, for a gasping moment, she was crawling beneath the breakfast table as a brick came crashing through the window of their New York home.