Night of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Renewed amusement overtook his face. “I don’t usually shop for gowns.”

  She almost smacked a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me. Of course you don’t. I merely thought that…well…maybe you pay attention to the shops your mother or female cousins go to. Women talk about these things all the time.” That was one way to amend being stupid.

  Still amused, he shrugged. “If they ever do talk about gowns, I certainly don’t listen. I’m not a man of fashion. Never have been and never will be.”

  She wasn’t too surprised by that admission. As dashing as he was, he certainly didn’t appear to be devoted to the latest trend. His queue was proof of that. And his clothes, which were simple in its fabrics and stitching were also proof of that. It was unexpectedly endearing given he was a titled man. It was like he only wore a coat because he had to. Unlike most men who wore it because they wanted to announce to the world they were coming. She perused his wool coat and paused in astonishment, realizing the seams on the shoulder of his coat were uneven, as if the tailor had missed an inch.

  His amusement faded as he also came to a halt. “Is something wrong with my coat? Why are you staring at it?”

  She sighed, knowing she oughtn’t let him publicly walk around in it. She reached out and gently tapped at the seam of his coat on his upper arm. “The seams are uneven.” She pulled back her hand feeling the tension of his shoulder, which had instinctively flexed in response to her touch.

  His hand jumped to the seam as he glanced down, staring at it with a lowered chin. His large fingers pulled at the fabric. “I thought this was the best coat I had. It’s why I wore it. I…” He dropped his hand, averting his gaze and said nothing more.

  Sensing she had humiliated him, she inwardly winced. “I normally wouldn’t have noticed, but with us being in such close confines and walking side by side, it—” She hesitated, realizing she was only making it worse and quickly said instead, “It’s a grand coat, actually. I love the fabric and the color. It suits you.”

  He snapped his gaze back to her. “You’re just saying that.”

  “What if I am? Can’t you take a compliment when it’s given?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance.

  She pushed her reticule up her wrist, thinking of a way to keep them talking. “So…” Five hours of this was going to be her undoing. “Might I ask what you’ve been busy with? Anything you didn’t mention in your letters?”

  He adjusted his queue with a quick hand. “Nothing I can think of. What about you?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve started painting again. I haven’t painted anything in years.”

  His brows went up. “Is that so? I used to paint when I was younger. Much, much younger. I abandoned it when I realized I had far more talent holding a fencing sword than a paintbrush.” He shifted toward her. “So are you good with the oils?”

  “So good Michelangelo would have wept,” she confided.

  He threw back his head and let out a peel of laughter that echoed in the corridor.

  She lowered her chin. “Don’t laugh. I’m quite serious. If I were a man, my art would be displayed in every museum around the world. Even in your king’s palace. I’m incredibly good.”

  His laugh faded into a mere smile. “Are you now?”

  “Yes. I am.” She’d known about her talent since she was seven. She could replicate anything that was real or in her head. It wasn’t anything she’d learned. She simply knew how to do it and her father, realizing her talent, eagerly set her before a canvas to practice every day. While her father would always puff out a chest in pride, her mother would only squint at it and point out all the flaws. It made her stop painting for a while. “My father always loved my paintings,” she admitted. “He would hire renowned painters from Milan to come out and teach me. Unfortunately, none of the painters lasted beyond a few weeks as it was obvious I knew far more about painting than they did.”

  Banfield rumbled out another laugh. “I adore your sense of pride and accomplishment.” He set his hands behind his back. “I will have to give your talent the admiration it deserves. When can I see some of your paintings? Did you bring any with you from New York?”

  She hesitated. “Sadly, I don’t have anything to display. I haven’t finished anything recently, and those I did finish throughout the years are all scattered around the world.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As you well know, we always travelled abroad a lot. As a result, almost all of them were left behind at various homes we visited. There was simply never any room to travel with them. It bothered me when I was younger, but now I revel in knowing that my paintings hang in various homes all over the world. Like a true artist.”

  He observed her for a long moment, the rushing sound of rain against the windows and roof surrounded them in the vast corridor. “What if I were to ask you to paint something for me? I would love a painting depicting you as Venus standing in Rome. Life size. Hair down and minimal clothing.” His tone indicated he was serious.

  He was clearly asking for a classical half-nude. She felt her face grow hot. It became so hot she could have easily melted butter on her cheek. Why did he always have to make her feel so physically self-conscious? “You’re being indecent.”

  His gaze fell to her lips. “You have always made it difficult for me to be anything but.”

  The corridor seemed to shrink and press itself against her skin. It was like being fourteen again. “Can we just get back to the tour instead of standing in the corridor like unwanted pieces of furniture?”

  He shifted his jaw. “Of course.”

  They started walking again.

  When they arrived at the entrance of the receiving room, he extended his hand. “After you.”

  Gad it was hot. “Thank you.” She entered, her skirts trailing behind her. She did everything she could to keep her own hand from fanning her face. It was obvious controlling Banfield was going to be like trying to keep the devil out of fire. Nasser had better be in London or this was going to get problematic.

  Clementine suddenly paused in the middle of the room, overwhelmed by remembering all that had once been so many years ago. A well-lit room whose pea-green silk walls were decorated with countless country paintings made her pause. There were a few new additions hanging in between all the old ones. They weren’t by any means good, as the shadowing of the trees and streams were crooked and not at all well blended, but there appeared to be a genuine attempt to re-create a homage to landscape art. An array of old but distinguished furnishings in the room, from the gold and blue porcelain vases to the upholstered gilded chairs and couches whispered of the times she and Banfield had quietly sat in this room playing cards.

  Half the time, he made up all the rules. One of his favorite games was plastering a playing card to his forehead in which they had to play ‘commerce’ without it falling. If he won a hand without the card falling, he got to hold her actual hand for a full minute. They spent a lot of time holding hands because of it.

  She’d always had very muddled feelings about their relationship. She still did. A part of her wanted to stay. She wanted to give herself a chance to explore what she was capable of as a wife, but a much larger part of her had seen what strong passions could do to a marriage. She refused to ruin him or herself.

  “Who painted all of the new additions in the room?” she finally asked.

  “I did,” he offered from behind, his low voice surprisingly close. Too close.

  She turned and stumbled toward him, realizing his boots were standing on the hem of her gown. “What—”

  His large hands jumped to her corseted waist as he stepped off the hem. “Forgive me.” Tightening his hold on the curve of her waist, he lowered his head to hers. “I was admiring your perfume. It’s…” He searched her face, his mouth softening. “How are you?”

  His large hands skimmed her waist as he heatedly lowered his gaze to her lips. He leaned in closer, the scent of freshly starched linen and his hair t
onic piercing the air between them.

  She froze, fully aware that his arms were not only drawing her body against his own muscled frame but that his rugged face was hovering above her own face.

  His lips edged down toward hers. The scent of spiced ginger from his mouth now teased the remaining space between them.

  Heaven forbid he unleash what he was holding in and kiss her. She’d be pregnant in a day. She slapped both hands over her mouth, bumping his arms and kept her palms firmly and rigidly in place. So he had no access to her lips. At all.

  He stilled, the heat of his mouth grazing her forehead. “Are you trying to be adorable?” he rasped. “Or is this your way of telling me you’re not interested?”

  She felt faint against the heat of his breath fanning her face. Her hands trembled against her own mouth in an attempt to stay calm, her gaze staying trained on the brass buttons of his waistcoat. “We shouldn’t,” she managed through her hands.

  His broad chest rose and fell unevenly. “You don’t have to keep your mouth covered. I promise I won’t lunge.”

  A whooshing breath escaped her as she lowered her hands. She stepped away and almost staggered knowing she had avoided being kissed. Ending up pregnant wasn’t what she had in mind.

  He still lingered very close.

  She edged back. “Can you please move away?” She delicately half-motioned him toward the direction she wanted him to go. “You’re standing a bit too close for my liking.”

  He glared. “Why not ask me to leave the house while you’re at it?”

  She awkwardly stepped back to ensure there was more space between them. “Please don’t take that tone with me. You have no right to touch or kiss me.”

  “No right?” he echoed, angling toward her. “I’m pretty sure I just signed marriage contracts.”

  He would have to remind her of that. Of course, it wasn’t a church document.

  He shifted his shaven jaw and veered away toward the nearest chair. He set a hand onto the gilded back, observing her. “I wasn’t even going to kiss you.”

  He was such a liar. “What were you going to do?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Oh, he knew.

  “I didn’t mean to stand on your dress,” he casually added.

  She set her chin. “Thank you for apologizing for your indecent behavior.”

  He pointed at her. “I wasn’t apologizing for trying to kiss you. I was apologizing for stepping on your dress.”

  He was such a rake. “I thought you said you weren’t trying to kiss me.”

  “I’m not a very good liar.”

  “No. You most certainly aren’t.” She turned and wandered closer to one of his paintings on the wall as a way of trying to distract herself from the conversation they were having. She paused and stared up at what appeared to be a family sitting in the shade of a battered oak tree by a smeared stream that lacked dimension. She inched closer to the gilded frame. One of the children appeared to have a third arm. She pinched her lips together in an attempt not to laugh. Who says she didn’t have a sense of humor? “Was there a reason you painted an additional arm on this poor child?”

  “Christ, don’t look at that,” he waved her away from it. “I…some of the paint splattered and I decided to make use of it. As I said, I wasn’t very good and thankfully I haven’t touched the paints since 1818. I honestly don’t know why my mother pulled them out of the attic last year and put them in here as if it were a Nicolas Toussaint Charlet. It’s ghastly.”

  She turned toward him, astounded and impressed he even knew the works of Charlet. Few did. “Try not to be so hard on yourself. It isn’t that bad.”

  “Liar. When my mother moves out into her own home next week, so do the paintings.” He gestured toward the open doors. “Allow me to show you the rest of the house. Perhaps the uh…cigar room would be more to your liking? ’Tis far better than smoking in an enclosed carriage, wouldn’t you say?” His tone went dry.

  That had been him in the window, after all. She winced. “You must be appalled knowing I smoke.”

  He widened his stance. “Appalled? No. There really isn’t much in this world that surprises me anymore. I have a brother and eighteen cousins. It’s all been done.” He flexed each hand. “The ton, however, won’t be quite as understanding. Which means you’ll have to stop smoking.”

  It was a good thing they weren’t getting married. “I can assure you, I was well past the gates and out of everyone’s sight when I did it.”

  He shifted from boot to boot. “You shouldn’t be smoking, Clementine. At all.”

  She paused. He called her Clementine. As if he’d always called her Clementine. Her throat tightened knowing she was going to hurt him. God. How was she going to… She needed a cheroot. Badly. She could feel her fingers twitching from need. “If you don’t mind, could you please escort me to the cigar room? The one you mentioned? I haven’t smoked all morning and am absolutely beside myself.”

  His mouth went tight. “Didn’t you already smoke one in the carriage?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t get a chance to finish it.” She fingered her reticule. “It won’t take long. It’s not like a cigar. Cheroots are rolled small. A few puffs and they’re gone.”

  He hesitated.

  “Please?” she added in the sweetest tone she could muster. “I desperately need one.”

  He sighed. Turning, he grudgingly extended his hand to the open door.

  She almost smiled knowing that a domineering, six foot well-muscled man was capable of succumbing to a mere pleading tone. This man truly had Beelzebub in one hand and an angel in the other. “Thank you, Banfield.” She sashayed out into the corridor and glanced back at him. “I appreciate your understanding.”

  He strode out after her, his eyes skimming the backside of her gown as if he were suddenly aware she had a backside. “I didn’t say I understood, dearest. In my opinion, smoking is a disgusting habit.”

  Oh, no. The man went from calling her Clementine to dearest in two short breaths. She only prayed he didn’t fall on his knee and announce his love next.

  He now held her gaze. “Instead of smoking, why not lick ashes out of the hearth?”

  Trying to tap away the tension between them, she said, “I’ve tried. It doesn’t taste the same.”

  He jerked to a halt. “You had better be teasing me.”

  She sighed. “Oh, do calm down. I was. Have you no sense of humor?”

  His brows came together. “I am fully capable of humor, but when you say things in that overly serious tone it’s very difficult to know the difference. Next time smile or quirk a brow or something. You’re too damn serious.”

  Sadly, she’d always been serious in nature. She couldn’t help it. She hadn’t exactly been raised by comedians. Her father had been ridiculously driven and dry and her mother had been more of a funeral director with wild screaming monkeys attached to each shoulder.

  “Genteel ladies here in London don’t smoke,” Banfield added. “Which means…we’ll have to do something about this.” He continued down the corridor. “The best way to get rid of a bad habit is to get rid of whatever is causing the habit. You will therefore hand over whatever cheroots you have after you finish this one. I’ll take the whole casing or whatever you have in your reticule.”

  Oh, now that was going too far. “Forgive me, but everything in my reticule belongs to me, Banfield. Not you.”

  He glanced back at her, his smoldering brown eyes intently holding her gaze. “I am about to be your husband. I therefore have the right to confiscate whatever I want. Especially if I feel it’s in your best interest.”

  The way he said it made her feel as if he was about to do far more than take away her cheroots. “Why not take the shoes from my feet while you’re at it?”

  “Your shoes aren’t the problem, Clementine.” Putting his hands into his pockets, he casually resumed walking. “Whilst I’m permitting you to indulge in smoking this once, out of common co
urtesy, you need to understand that people here in London will judge you for it and it’s my duty to protect your good name. I only hope you aren’t too attached to the idea of smoking.”

  She was. She tried to quit smoking many times, as she knew it wasn’t something respectable women did, but had quickly discovered it wasn’t all that simple. She loved it too much. Much like her father loved his cognac too much. Her own weakness made her more forgiving of his. “I smoke every day. I genuinely enjoy it.”

  “And I genuinely enjoy drinking brandy, but I can also function without it.”

  A gasp escaped her. “How dare you insinuate I also drink?” She wasn’t her father.

  He lifted a brow. “As my mother says, a well-bred lady should always strive for perfection. And begging your pardon, but smoking does not define perfection.”

  “Begging your pardon, but if perfection defined me, I’d be a nun living in Madrid.”

  He swung toward her, the heat of his massive body startling her into leaning back. “Don’t disrespect my opinion. I’m giving you a privilege few get. Because no one ever gets the chance to smoke in this house. No one. Not even my guests.”

  “Then why even have a cigar room?” she drawled, angling toward him to prove she wasn’t in the least bit intimidated. She accidentally bumped him with her arm and winced. “Sorry.”

  He glanced at the arm she had bumped and edged closer. “I didn’t build the cigar room into the house. My grandfather did.” He straightened, his brown eyes playfully sparking. “Our first argument. How utterly charming. How quaint.”

  Her throat tightened. “We aren’t arguing.”

  He quirked a brow. “You mean you’re arguing with me about arguing?”

  She pinched her lips. He thought he was so clever.

  He slowly grinned, the edges of his eyes crinkling. “Do I get a kiss for being clever? Or are you going to make this poor man wait until his wedding night?”

  Something told her he wasn’t going to take her ending their engagement well.