Night of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Rounding the table, he veered in and lingered by her chair. He rugged features softened, as did his voice. “Clementine.” His voice cracked. “What do you want from me? Tell me. So I can do it. I don’t want to lose you.”

  He wanted to genuinely love her. She could see it in his face and his eyes. And that was more than enough for her to want to love him in turn.

  She rose and lifted her gaze to his, her misery making it almost impossible for her to breathe. She turned toward him, her skirts brushing his trouser-clad thighs. “Derek, it isn’t any one thing you must do. It’s what we both must do. I’m transitioning into a new way of life I wasn’t prepared for. And it’s obvious you yourself are transitioning into a life you aren’t prepared for. All I ask from you during our marriage is that you…please stop treating me like an object. Get to know me. Not as a woman but as a person.”

  He nudged her chin upward with the curve of his hand, his brown eyes intently searching her face. “How am I to know you as a person if you aren’t even willing to tell me things? You told me last night there are things you can’t tell me. Where does that leave us?”

  She swallowed, knowing he was right. “And that is why I am sending you to Lord Brayton. Because the one secret you want is not mine to give.”

  He hesitated, his expression turning to anguish. “I see.” He released her and stiffly stepped back. “I’m uh…I’m going to talk to Lord Brayton in the hopes he’ll be able to answer some of my questions. Because although I want to trust you, right now…I don’t.” Without meeting her gaze, he rounded her and strode out of the room, his steady footfalls leading down the corridor announcing that addressing Lord Brayton was next.

  Sometimes there was such a thing as a calm before the storm.

  She had seen it too many times.

  Her heart popped. She scrambled around her chair and the table and bustled toward the entrance of the breakfast room. Peering out, and noting he was gone, she dashed straight for the nearest footman so she could be ready to leave in time knowing there was only one way to prevent two men from hurting each other: getting between them.

  An hour later - 11 Berwick Street

  Derek thudded the ceiling of his coach with a gloved fist, signaling it to stop when the hackney he’d followed all the way from his brother’s quarters in an effort to talk to Lord Brayton, pulled to a halt in what appeared to be a quaint neighborhood of merchants.

  Derek leaned toward the window.

  On the other side of the street, a gruff-looking, well-muscled man who would have easily sent fear into a constable holding a pistol, hefted himself out of the hackney, those broad shoulders over-stretching his wool coat. Lord Brayton effortlessly landed onto the cobbled street just before the pavement leading toward a long row of townhouses. Tugging down a dark wool cap over his brow, he dragged up his coat collar, extending it high enough to hide what appeared to be a long jagged scar on the side of his face.

  Derek paused in astonishment. Someone had clearly taken a blade to the man’s face.

  Lord Brayton trudged past one of the black iron fences that belonged to a whitewashed townhouse with shutters framing all of the large windows. Moments after twisting the bell, a butler opened the door, took his card, and let him inside, the door closing behind them.

  Damn it. He knew he should have gotten to the man sooner.

  Using the tips of his gloved fingers, Derek quickly angled his top hat forward as the footman opened the door to his carriage and unfolded the steps. Derek rose and without using the steps, landed onto the cobbled stone. “Return within a half hour. If I’m not outside, go down another street and come back in another fifteen minutes after that.”

  The footman inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”

  Adjusting his morning coat, Derek crossed the street and stepped onto the pavement. He strode up the small set of stone stairs, toward the door Lord Brayton entered and paused. The polished brass numbers ‘11’ beside the door glinted in the sunlight as he reached beneath it and twisted the bell.

  He glanced behind him toward the narrow cobbled street, waiting.

  The clattering of carriages and the occasional shouts of various vendors selling wares in the far distance floated in the late spring air that smelled, not of countless flowers in bloom, but rather, of acrid coal smoke from surrounding chimneys.

  He turned back toward the door and twisted the bell again.

  The door swung open.

  A portly, gray-haired gent in well-ironed, dark blue livery observed him from beneath the thick, fuzzy tufts of his brows. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

  Derek cleared his throat. “Ah, no. Forgive me, but I don’t. The name is Lord Banfield. I apologize for the intrusion.” He gestured toward the foyer behind the man. “I would actually like to speak to the gentleman who just entered. It should only take a few minutes. Can I please step inside to speak with him? Because I would rather not do this in public.”

  The butler lowered his round chin onto his stiff collar before holding out a gloved hand. “Five pounds will see you into the foyer. And ten pounds will see you straight to the gentleman himself.”

  Derek shifted toward the man in disbelief. “Are you asking that I pay you to see him?’

  The man sniffed. “Was I not clear in that, my lord?”

  Something told him this wasn’t the first time this man held out a crooked hand. “Where is your mistress, sir? I’m asking to speak to her regarding your outrageous behavior. Does she know you’re soliciting money from her guests?”

  Those thin lips retracted. “Judging by your tone, and that you have been watching this house and the gentleman who entered it from a carriage you were hiding in across the street, perhaps I ought to not only close the door but call for Scotland Yard. You don’t appear to be friendly and I doubt your intentions are either.”

  The old man had been watching him. “I’m not looking to hurt him.” Yet.

  “Have you seen the size of the man? I doubt you would be able to.”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “Given you aren’t worried for his safety, may I please speak to Lord Brayton? It’s important.”

  The man’s bushy brows popped up. “It would be rude of me to allow anyone to intrude on his appointment. You do realize that, my lord, yes?”

  It was obvious where this was going. It’s not like he was financially struggling. Far from it. He was officially worth three million and could probably buy his way into heaven. Derek unbuttoned his morning coat and pulled out his leather pocketbook. Flipping it open, he yanked out one of many bank notes he had: a fifty pound one. A month ago, he would have panicked at the idea of parting with so much money. Now? It was like handing over a shilling.

  Derek held it out between gloved fingers.

  Those eyes widened as the older man glanced up. “I will ensure you are given a glass of our best port to go along with your visit. Is there anything else you require?”

  There was no doubt money was power. It was downright dangerous. “No need. I only require entrance.” He still held out the bank note. “Now take the money.”

  The butler took the bank note. “Thank you. You are beyond generous, my lord, I…thank you.” Tucking it frantically into his pocket, he pulled the door wide open and cleared his throat. “Shall I take your coat and top hat, my lord?”

  Derek stepped into the foyer, removing his top hat. “No, thank you, sir. I’ll hold onto my hat. I don’t plan on staying long.” He made a promise to himself and he was keeping it. Resolve and go. Not punch and go. Resolve and go.

  The door closed, darkening the quiet foyer.

  The sweet smell of mulled wine floated in the air and a clock chimed in the distance, somewhere upstairs, before clicking back into silence. The butler glanced toward the stairwell beyond, as if to ensure no one was coming, then sidled up to him and imparted in a low tone, “I will notify madame that you are here. Lord Brayton is in the parlor to the right. Whatever you do, I ask that you not rile him.” With that
, he strode past and hurried up the stairs.

  If his brother was still sharing quarters with the man, how bloody dangerous could he be? Derek shifted his jaw and slowly made his way into the adjoining room and across the wooden inlaid floors of the parlor. He paused at finding Lord Brayton seated in a single gilded chair set in the middle of the receiving room.

  Lord Brayton’s ice blue eyes veered toward him.

  Derek paused, realizing that the room was eerily devoid of carpets, side tables, lamps or anything else that might have made it look mildly welcoming. More disturbing was seeing four life-size, marble statues of well-muscled, nude men lining the section of the empty receiving room across from where Lord Brayton stoically sat.

  They all seemed to be staring at him with cold intent waiting for him to make his move.

  The calling bell rang in the distance.

  Derek adjusted his coat and approached Lord Brayton, intent on saying what he needed to say so he could get out, because it was rather obvious based on the statues alone that this house was designated for things he didn’t even want to know about. “I’m Holbrook’s brother, Lord Banfield. We haven’t formally met but I was hoping to have a quick word with you.”

  The man rose to his booted feet and straightened, his massive muscled framed looming to what appeared to be a full height of six feet and five inches. His dark brows came together, emphasizing the long jagged scar that ran from the left side of his ear to the bottom front of his jaw. “I know who you are. How did you know I was here?”

  “I tried to wave you down earlier when you were getting into the hackney but you didn’t hear me. So I followed you.”

  Brayton stepped toward him. “Is there a problem?”

  Although the man was incredibly big and looked like he could chew lead bullets for breakfast, after the sleepless night Derek had, not even Hercules was going to stop him from putting this to rest. He veered in close and imparted in a very cool tone, “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them.”

  Those gruff features hardened. “You’re incredibly bold to be coming up to my face like this. I point at a person and they die.”

  Derek leveled him with a hard stare. “If you think I’m intimidated by the fact you ate too much beef growing up, you ought to take your treasonous British arse back to Persia…spy.”

  Brayton stared. “Don’t take your bedchamber problems out on me. I got my own.”

  Derek whipped his top hat aside, sending it rolling off to the side and fisted his right hand hard. It trembled from the effort he took to keep it from flying. He swore to himself, for Clementine’s sake, he would try to understand this situation. He swore to it. “This isn’t about my bedchamber problems. This is about my wife. My wife didn’t grow up in a sheltered home like other ladies. As such, things affect her more greatly. Which means I have to protect her in a way not even her own father did.”

  “Nasser knows that.”

  What else did this Nasser know? “Does he also know I love her? Does he know that? Does the fucking bastard know that?”

  Those features darkened. “I don’t take kindly to a mere civilian addressing the prince as if he were worthy of disdain.”

  Apparently, thunder was trying to send a storm. “A mere civilian? You’re calling me, a viscount, a mere civilian? You’re clearly standing in the wrong country, boyo. Setting aside what I think of this entire situation, herein is the problem I’m really having. Whenever I ask my own wife what her association is with Nasser, I get the same answer: no answer. In fact, she panics. Never mind that a part of me is jealous knowing she is devoted to a man I know nothing of, I’m actually more worried about her safety and state of mind than I am about losing her to another man.”

  Searching his face, Brayton said, “Her safety and peace of mind is assured. His Royal Highness is heir to the throne of Persia.”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “A royal bloodline hardly assures me of anything. Royalty is well known for greater perversions than your average honorable man. And I doubt he is honorable. An honorable man does not convince a young, engaged woman to join him in Persia. Nor does an honorable man violate a respectable woman by obligating her to keep secrets she can’t even share with her own husband. What the hell does he want from her? Does he want her body? Her mind? Her soul? All three? What? Because I’m trying to understand.”

  “I cannot speak for what His Royal Highness wants.”

  “I’m asking you to help me understand my wife. Because she needs me. And I therefore need to understand this situation.”

  Brayton shifted his scarred jaw but remained indifferent. “If you do not understand your own wife, my lord, perhaps it is time to give her to someone who will.”

  What the hell was this? What did they want from her? Derek felt his breath burn in his throat. “She belongs to me. Do you understand? Not Nasser but me.”

  Those ice blue eyes held his gaze. “If she belongs to you, then why are you standing here trying to convince me of it?”

  Derek’s nostrils flared. It was like a game. “I suggest you tell this Nasser, wherever the hell he is, he better not ever show his face to me. Or I will duel him and kill him.”

  Brayton stared. “You would have to go through me first.”

  Derek stared back. “How about now?”

  “Don’t make me laugh. Your cock is hanging over the wrong shoulder.”

  “I’m so glad you noticed its size. Are you jealous?”

  A muscle ticked angrily in that jaw. “His Royal Highness intends to call on you in the next few days to discuss this entire situation and why he ultimately did not make your wife his wife, even though she pleaded to be with him up until a few days ago. Sadly, I think I understand the poor girl. You’re like a dog chewing its own leg. Hell, I’d run, too.”

  Derek stepped back, feeling the very blood leave his own head. The beautiful girl he first met who had cradled him at his worst hour was no more. Everything she told him was a lie. She had planned to marry her so-called friend all along.

  Brayton cleared his throat and thumbed toward the entrance. “You have a shadow.”

  A what? Derek swung toward the entrance and froze.

  Clementine lingered, her silk pleated bonnet crookedly affixed on her head as if she barely had time to put it on. Her gloved fingers clutched her reticule as she stared at him. “There is more to it than what he just said.”

  Derek shifted his jaw, his body tensing. He always thought himself capable of forgiving her anything, but not this. Not lying to him and agreeing to belong to another. He could hardly breathe. “You lied to me. You told me to trust you. You told me to—”

  “If you think you understand me and this situation, Derek, you’re wrong. I never lied to you. I simply couldn’t tell you what we agreed on. I couldn’t—” Lowering her gaze, she opened her reticule and with trembling hands pulled out her silver casing of cheroots. “Dearest God, this whole situation is nothing short of a mess. Please just…just allow me to smoke something. So we can talk.”

  Stalking toward her he veered in and grabbed that silver casing and shoved it into his own pocket. “We’re done talking.”

  She reached into his pocket. “Stop acting like this. I want my cheroots, Derek.”

  He jumped away, keeping her from getting them. “Why? So you could stick it in your mouth and keep lying to me?” He stepped back in and breathed out, “You can have your Nasser, Clementine. Because I’m about to tell you something that may surprise you: I don’t want you. In fact, we’re getting a divorce.” He stalked around her and out into the corridor.

  She scrambled in front of him, keeping him from leaving. Her features twisted. “Derek, you can’t— I…we’re married.”

  He leaned in. “Don’t remind me. And don’t you dare come home. Go to your father.”

  Her expression stilled and her own gaze narrowed. “Everything always has to be on your terms, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? Well sometimes, Derek, your terms they…they
stink. From the moment we met, you-you…expected me to mold myself into your arms as if I always wanted to be in them. And I’m sorry to say I didn’t. I’m sorry to say Nasser was a far better friend to me than you ever were. Because you only see me as something to possess. Whilst he sees me as someone to understand.”

  It was as if she were proud of the fact that she had gotten involved with another man. His shock yielded to fury. “Fuck him already and be done with it!” he roared, unable to keep it in. “Because I’m tired of loving someone who will never fucking love me!”

  Her eyes widened.

  Lord Brayton stalked toward them, his gaze narrowing. “I suggest you and your fancy tongue full of emotions calm down before I send you through a window.”

  Derek rigidly pointed at the man. “If you come up to me, Hercules, I’ll—”

  “Och, och, what is all this yelling?” a French accented female voice called out from down the corridor. “A man who feels the need to raise his voice to the point of breaking my windows clearly knows nothing about control.” There were several quick claps as if she were hoping to use her own hands to command attention and silence.

  Derek paused as the clicking of self-assured heels echoed toward them.

  An older woman pertly hurried toward them, her elegant ivory morning gown rustling with her quick movements. Her silver hair, which had been meticulously arranged in fashionable curls around her pale, aged face wobbled with each determined step.

  The flirtatious scent of mint pierced the air as she came to a sweeping halt before them. The woman’s blue eyes observed him. “Is your tongue always this foul?”

  Derek swallowed, desperately trying to even his ragged breathing. He couldn’t believe he had roared and sworn at Clementine. He never thought himself capable of it.

  Clementine stared at the elderly French woman. “Why…it’s you.”

  “Ah. We meet again. We know the same people. How beautiful.” The woman stared at Derek, her pleased expression fading to contempt. “I am Madame de Maitenon,” she offered in a firm, refined French accent, “and in this house no man will raise his voice to a woman or use vile words even if that woman deserves it. Now apologize to her.” She waggled a finger in Clementine’s direction. “Make it worthwhile. Impress her and me. Or I will call for the authorities and have them resolve this.”