Night of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Painting was the only time she ever felt in complete control of not only the world around her but her own breath. It was like seeing the stars for the first time whilst laying out on an open field with the breeze floating around her. And knowing that she was re-creating a stunning moment she would remember for the rest of her life, she painted and painted and refused to stop the brush until it was all over the canvas where it belonged.

  Sunlight glimmered beneath his closed lids making him open his eyes and squint. Realizing he was alone in bed, Derek scrambled to sit up, his heart pounding. Her clothes were gone. She was gone. It was as if she had never been.

  She had left without saying good-bye. Without—

  Gritting his teeth, he grabbed up the pillow she had been sleeping on and whipped it off the bed, not wanting the scent of her anywhere near him. Seven goddamn of his years gone in a breath. “Fuck.”

  Swiping his face that was in need of his daily shave, he pushed himself off the bed and standing naked beside it, stared at the linens, images of his body pushing into hers making it difficult for him to breathe. For all he knew she was going to submit herself next to this friend in Persia.

  The very thought made him jump forward, savagely grip the linens and rip them off the bed. He mindlessly tugged everything off the mattress, stripping everything in between ragged breaths. Anything and everything that had touched her body. He flung it all into a large pile on the floor and even grabbed up all of the pillows and flung them all onto the linens.

  He had three million now.

  He could afford new linens.

  Letting out uneven breaths, he swung toward the back of the easel that faced him. The easel he had set up for her. She hadn’t even taken the time to gift him the one thing he had asked of her. A moment of their embrace.

  Ready to grab the canvas and throw it across the room, he stalked toward it and then jerked to a halt. The small table beside the easel and the floor around the easel were countless small bottles of paints pulled out from his wooden boxes. They had all been scattered. The wooden pallet was dabbed with various oil paints, colors smearing into one another from use and the jar of mineral spirits he had left out was murky and clouded. Eight different brushes sat in it.

  His breath hitched as he quickly rounded the easel, making sure he didn’t step on anything that was laid out on the floor. As the canvas came into view, with the morning light angling in from the lattice window, he paused, his lips parting.

  It was so life-like and so evocative it startled him.

  On a linen covered four-posted bed, with a red velvet curtain bundled and draped off to the side of it, lay his Clementine naked in his arms, her hair beautifully spilled over the side in a wave of black silk that gleamed like real tresses in candlelight. Her nudity was covered by his own nudity, the linens tangling and rippling around their legs and waists. Their faces were dipped close to each other, barely a wisp away from a kiss, their lips delicately parted and about to join. Their eyes were half-closed, their expressions both romantic and soft.

  It was so good Michelangelo most certainly would have wept. Or altogether take himself in hand and pleasured himself.

  Derek brought a shaky hand to his lips and plastered his entire palm hard against his mouth in an effort to remain standing. He was never going to love another woman again.

  Saturday afternoon

  When a gentleman beautifully proved his golden worth to a lady by defending her honor before his own mother whilst assuring her that she was free to walk away from a seven year engagement, even after a shared night, it was up to that lady to prove her own worth in the only way she knew how. Even if it meant leaving her ruffled chaperone, Mrs. Langley, in the safety of the carriage so she could walk into a bachelor-infested townhouse that smelled like ale had been burnt on the stove.

  Or at least Clementine hoped it was ale that had been burnt on the stove.

  A muffled thump, along with several pronounced thuds, vibrated the painted walls, echoing its way from upstairs to the wooden floorboards beneath her slippered feet. Clementine swung toward the wooden narrow staircase, the sash on her bonnet swaying. The brass chandelier above her head quaked with each solid thud. Several of the melted stubs of wax threatened to tilt out of their narrow sconces.

  It was like someone was trying to dismantle the house.

  Tightening her hold on her beaded reticule, she glanced up toward the buxom female servant who was hurriedly coming back down the stairs after having delivered her card.

  “Is everything as it should be?” Clementine asked the woman.

  The young brunette came to a halt on the landing, letting out a melodious laugh that showcased surprisingly beautiful teeth. “Nothing is ever as it should be in this house.” The maid ushered Clementine toward a small receiving room off to the side. “You and that gorgeous gown of yours ought to wait right in there. I’m afraid Mr. Holbrook isn’t about, but Lord Brayton, after receiving your card, insisted on seeing you. Consider yourself lucky. He never sees anyone. Not even from his own family.”

  Oh, dear. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else living with Mr. Holbrook.”

  “Oh, now, everyone right down to the butcher knows the two share living quarters due to their lack of finances. It’s sad, really. Two men from well-to-do families and nothing to show for it.”

  Clementine stared at the young woman, abashed. “You really shouldn’t belittle the circumstance of the very men who hire you.”

  The maid pulled in her chin, her green eyes brightening as she set a roughened but dainty hand against the apron of her grey wool ensemble. “Oh, I’m not the rude sort, I dare say. I was raised better.” She puckered her lips, clearly not sorry. “But Mr. Holbrook owes me money, Miss Grey, and Lord Brayton thinks himself cheeky, so between the two, I have no trouble saying it. At all.” The woman sighed, dropping her hand. “His lordship will be down shortly. I apologize for the lack of formality, which a lady like yourself is no doubt accustomed to, but I’m the only remaining servant. I have a boy, you see, so every decision I make is for him. He rather likes it here.”

  The maid edged in, the scent of scones and cinnamon teasing the air, and lowered her voice. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Grey, I’ve got a long list of duties that include cleaning up all the trays. These men are messier than my six-year-old. Good day.” The maid patted her food-spattered white cap back into place and hurried past. She heaved up a large wooden tray from a dilapidated side table that was piled with chipped, dirty dishes, then clumped down the darkened corridor and disappeared around a corner.

  The ticking of a slanted hall clock now pierced the deafening silence.

  Her father would have grabbed her hard by the ear if he knew what she was up to. From all of his riled commentaries, she knew that Derek’s younger brother was involved with incredibly disreputable individuals and wasn’t known for being a gentleman himself. Which meant she had exactly forty-five minutes to deliver her letter, swing over to a random shop to buy something and get back to the hotel with her chaperone before her father returned from his afternoon ride.

  Taking in a calming breath, she eased it out and made her way into the small receiving room. When she reached the middle of the narrow room, she paused.

  The green curtains hanging around the row of windows had been drawn tight, shutting out the day’s remaining light as if the lone servant had never gotten around to opening them. Which was no surprise. Several lit candles sat on sconces, illuminating the darkened atmosphere.

  She lingered, pitying what Derek’s mother said she would find. There were no chairs or sofas or tables, merely one painting depicting a battle scene and a large well-worn leather trunk that had been set on the floor, its lid flipped back. It was filled with swords and daggers.

  Curiosity getting the best of her, she wandered to the trunk. Several large moon-shaped curved blades with silver casings were assorted side by side, clearly arranged by size. Her lips parted in astonishment. They looked Arabia
n and were carved with various symbols she’d seen on Prince Nasser’s own ceremonial sword.

  “They’re from Persia,” a deep voice rumbled from behind her.

  She jumped and spun toward the doorway.

  A very large, very broad-shouldered man loomed, dressed in the most unconventional attire of only a waistcoat, shirt, matching trousers, and boots. No cravat and no coat. The commanding stance he held and furrowed brow made him look all the more intimidating.

  Ice-blue eyes pierced the distance between them, emphasizing a long jagged scar that menacingly traced its way from the left side of his ear to the bottom of his unshaven jaw. “Good afternoon,” he rumbled, skimming her appearance. “I’m Lord Brayton.”

  He wasn’t like any aristocrat she’d ever seen. He looked rough. And she highly doubted that sizable scar had been delivered at a dinner table with a butter knife. “Good afternoon. I’m Miss Grey.”

  “You most certainly are. ’Tis a most unexpected and…pleasant surprise.”

  Her brows came together. “Pardon?”

  “I have heard so much about you.” He stepped into the room, shrinking the already small room with his presence. “Allow me to provide more light.” He strode toward the drawn curtains on the other side of the room.

  Clementine turned, her eyes pinned to his massive body. And she thought Derek was blessed. She cringed as his backside came into clear view. It was rather startling seeing a man strut about without a coat. The way his waistcoat sat just above his waist was scandalous. As were his tightly fitted black wool trousers, which were kept taut and straight with the foot straps he’d buttoned beneath large black leather boots.

  He paused before the window and whipped the faded green velvet curtains apart in one swift motion. Soft, gray morning light poured into the room as the blurred movements of the street outside were displayed through the glass panes. He turned and strode back toward her, drawing steadily closer.

  She eyed the door and its distance to measure an escape if it was necessary.

  Fortunately, his massive body stopped a respectable few feet away, enabling her to breathe well enough to stay. “How do you do, my lord?” she managed.

  “Very well, thank you.” His dark brows came together, emphasizing the curved scar on his face. He folded his arms across his chest, the broad outline of his shoulders straining the fabric of his linen shirt and black waistcoat. “I would ask you to sit, Miss Grey, but I’m afraid Holbrook sold most of the furniture.”

  “There is no need to apologize. Standing will be satisfactory, thank you.”

  He eyed her. “After hearing so much about you, I didn’t expect you to be so...” He paused and stared her down for a moment. “Pretty,” he concluded, dropping his arms down to his sides.

  Apparently, Andrew had confided things he shouldn’t have. And now this man thought he had a right to comment. “No gentleman ought to comment on a woman’s appearance.” She pointed at him. “I’m not entirely alone. My chaperone is waiting outside for me. So don’t you dare think you can waltz right into me with an advance.”

  He smirked. “Thank you for the warning, Miss Grey. I’ll do my best to, uh…control myself around you.” Weighing her with a critical squint, he took another step toward her, closing the distance between them. “Is there a reason why you’re calling? Do you require assistance of some sort?”

  “Assistance? No.” She peddled back and scrambled to open her reticule by tugging and loosening the braided cord. “I’m here to deliver a letter.” She pulled out the neatly sealed ivory parchment she had written and hesitated, noticing that he was observing her rather intently. Fully extending her arm, she held it out as far from herself as possible with the tips of her gloved fingers to ensure he didn’t have to step any closer than was necessary. “Would you please give this to Mr. Holbrook?”

  He glanced at it but didn’t take it. “What is this about?”

  “A plea that he show more respect to his brother. Can you please give this to him?” She still held it out by the tips of her fingers, praying she wouldn’t have to go near him.

  “Do you expect me to cross the room for it, Miss Grey?” he asked. “Surely, I’m not that intimidating, am I?”

  She winced. Closing the distance between them, she walked up to Lord Brayton and sheepishly held out the letter toward his massive, scarred hand. A hand that appeared to have sustained more blade-related wounds.

  He slipped it from her hand and tucked the letter into his waistcoat pocket. “I’ll ensure he gets your letter. He should be back within a few hours.”

  A breath escaped her. “Thank you.” Her brows came together, curiosity getting the best of her. “You wouldn’t happen to know what their argument was about, would you?”

  He shrugged. “Holbrook wouldn’t say. Which means it was personal. Things certainly haven’t been easy for that boy. The girl he wanted to marry rejected his offer of matrimony, leaving him in a financial quandary given he’d been overseeing all of her bills. I tried to assist him, but he prefers prison as opposed to hanging his pride. And then there is the business of his livelihood. Or lack thereof. He only sold fifteen books in the past twelve weeks.” He cleared his throat. “I bought all fifteen and handed them out to people on the street. He doesn’t know it.”

  Something told her she could trust this man to far more than a letter.

  Since Andrew wasn’t about, she considered calling again at a later time, but preferred to do it this way as it wouldn’t require an explanation. She quickly dug into her reticule, pulling out the thick roll of bank notes she had saved up since she was ten.

  She held it out. “I am entrusting this to you, Lord Brayton. Please see to it Mr. Holbrook gets it. Feel free to take out a thousand for yourself for delivering it. There is certainly enough for you to do that.”

  He searched her face, his features softening. “The man is fortunate you care enough about his struggles.”

  She held it further out. “It is his brother I care for. I am merely hoping this will help.”

  Reaching out a hand, he took the wad of bank notes of ten thousand and glanced at it, letting out a whistle. “I have no doubt it will. I will ensure he gets every penny of it.”

  A breath escaped her. “Thank you.” She fidgeted. “Please tell him I would have preferred to give it to him in person but I’m leaving London in the next few days.”

  He stuffed the banknotes into his pocket. “Are you? That isn’t what I heard.” He grabbed her face hard. “Come here. I have a message for you.”

  She winced against the roughness of his hands and panicked, trying to shove at him. “What are you—”

  He kissed her on the forehead, startling her.

  The familiar musky and sweet scent of davana ittar on his large hands, which she knew only belonged to Persian nobles, overwhelmed her. He smelled like Nasser.

  She scrambled back in disbelief, her fingers swiping at the moist area on her forehead. Nasser had officially infiltrated every last corner of her life by sending over-muscled men with titles to kiss her. What next? “Why is a grown man working for the Persian crown living with Banfield’s brother?” she demanded.

  Lord Brayton’s blue eyes held hers. “You and I are like family. There is no need to panic. His Royal Highness simply asked that I investigate Banfield so he might better understand how to approach terminating your engagement. Unfortunately…there has been a change of plans since you and he last spoke in New York.”

  Dread seized her, wondering what Nasser had been doing all along behind his red velvet curtain. “Setting aside that I am not by any means pleased with His Royal Highness for treating Lord Banfield as if he were a criminal in need of investigation, what exactly do you mean there has been a change of plans?”

  He set a scarred hand to his chest. “His Royal Highness wishes to announce that you will be marrying Lord Banfield, after all.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?” She almost staggered. “What happened to the original plan?”
>
  “It was tossed. He isn’t pleased with you. In fact, he is miffed.”

  She stiffened. “Why? What did I do?”

  “He expects you to call on him at once.”

  This didn’t bode well. Was it because of the night she gave to Derek? Oh God. “I cannot call on him. My father would be on to us within a breath and Lord Banfield and all of London would know of it in less than fifteen minutes. These Brits gossip like old women trapped together in a windowless room.”

  “His Royal Highness will not tolerate disobedience,” he coolly offered. “To disobey him, in his eyes, is treason.”

  To Nasser everything was treason. “Pardon me for throwing a fit, but how is my marrying Lord Banfield going to allow me to leave the country? I would legally become the property of the very man I am trying to leave. By law, Lord Banfield would have the right to send constables after me.” And a part of her knew if given the chance, he would.

  His ice-blue eyes darkened with emotion. “Have you told Lord Banfield of the agreement you and His Royal Highness made? Have you betrayed what you swore to protect?”

  She huffed out an exasperated breath. “No. Of course not. He knows nothing. No one does. Not even my father. I would never betray him. Ever.”

  Those tense features softened. “Good. His Royal Highness wishes to see you at once. You have permission to call on him anytime. In fact, I suggest you call on him in the next hour. His schedule is fairly light today.”

  She felt a groan of frustration grip the back of her throat. One would think dealing with a prince would be more of an honor, not a curse. “I am not meeting him in broad daylight. This isn’t Boston and I have no tea. Unless he and I are leaving London promptly afterward, I am not calling on him.”

  “Don’t agitate him, Miss Grey. He isn’t always as charming as he appears.” Lord Brayton stepped back. “His Royal Highness wishes to extend an invitation to buy your wedding gown. From his understanding, you never bought one.” He turned and strode away.