Promise of Pleasure

by Cheryl Holt

  “Yes, you do. Just remember: You must drink it while staring at your true love. While staring at him! Il est tres important! Do not forget!”

  “I won‘t, I won’t,” she grouched, deciding it was pointless to argue.

  “When it works, and you are blissfully wed, you will return and pay me double what I am owed.”

  “I’ll be sure to,” she fibbed, intending that they would never cross paths again.

  She hurried off, the tiny vial hot on her skin, and she thought about tossing it in the ditch, but for some reason, she didn’t.

  She tucked it into her reticule to keep it safe and sound on the long walk home.

  PHILLIP Dudley who—when he was running a scam—went by the alias Philippe Dubois, peered down the road, watching Miss Barnes scurry away.

  He was a charlatan and confidence artist. His expertise was honing in on a mark’s weakest spot, on manipulating it, and he earned his living through deceit and chicanery.

  “Did she say her surname was Barnes?” his pretty, sensible sister, Clarinda, asked as she climbed down from the wagon.

  “Yes.” His French accent was suspiciously absent.

  “Isn’t that the name of the top-lofty family over on the estate?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Is it wise to scam her then? She could bring a load of trouble down on us.”

  “The rich are the only ones with money for frivolities.”

  “Money!” she scolded. “I didn’t see any coins change hands, and I was spying on you the whole time. You have to stop giving away your concoctions. How are we to eat if everything is free?”

  “Consider it an investment. She’ll reflect on what I told her, she’ll fret over it, then she’ll drink the tonic—after which it will fail to work, so she’ll come back for other remedies.”

  “For which she’ll pay dearly?”

  “Of course. We’ll be able to stay in the area for weeks—maybe months—on the cash she’ll fork over.”

  “I don’t know, Phillip. She might be a Barnes, but she seemed impoverished to me. You saw her dress. She’s nearly a pauper.”

  “But in affairs of the heart, finances don’t matter,” he sagely counseled. “She’s lonely and alone, and she’s desperate to be loved. She’ll try potions; she’ll try curses; she’ll try blessings, and I happen to have them all in ample supply.”

  “The poor, gullible fool,” Clarinda grumbled.

  “Isn’t she, though?”

  “Who’d want a man that badly?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “WHERE are my ribbons?”

  “What ribbons?”

  “The ones I asked you to buy from that peddler,” Felicity said.

  “Oh ... ah ... he didn’t have any.”

  Mary glanced away. After her ludicrous discussion with the smug vendor, how could she be expected to recollect something as silly as hair ribbons?

  “Why didn’t you get some at the milliner’s?”

  “I completely forgot. I’m sorry.”

  Mary looked around the parlor. She was seated on a sofa with Victoria and Cassandra, waiting for the butler to announce supper. Redvers was present, as were his guests, Mrs. Bainbridge and Mr. Adair.

  Mary had tried to refuse the invitation to dine, but Victoria had insisted, claiming Redvers had requested it, which made the event all the more wretched.

  Why would he care if she attended? Why torment her?

  With the group attired in their finery, she was conspicuously out of place. She had two dresses—a brown one and a gray one—with the brown being the newer of the two, so she’d worn it to the meal, but she couldn’t bear to appear so frumpy. Especially in front of Mrs. Bainbridge, who constantly smirked at Mary’s plain clothes.

  Since Mary hadn’t purchased Felicity’s ribbons, Felicity would pitch a fit, and Mary hated to have Redvers witness it.

  She loathed him yet she was fascinated by him, and she wanted to strut over to Felicity, to stare into her arrogant face and say: He may be about to propose to you, but would you like to know what he did with me out in the woods yesterday afternoon?

  “Where is my money?” Felicity snapped. “Or are you intending to keep it?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Mary retorted. “Why would I keep your money?”

  “Go get it! This instant!”

  Blazing with humiliation, Mary stood and left, her head held high. Over in the corner, she thought Redvers might have flashed her a sympathetic glance, but she was sure it was her imagination.

  She trudged up to her room and sat on the bed. Tears flooded her eyes.

  She was so unhappy! How much longer could she continue on like this? Why couldn’t she alter her plight? She’d always tried to be a good, kind person. Where was her reward? Was there no justice in the world?

  She opened her reticule, and as she did, she noticed the vial of Spinster’s Cure. She clasped it in her palm, running her thumb over the smooth glass.

  Why not? a voice whispered. Why not try it?

  How could it hurt? Her life was so dreary. Even the tiniest beneficial effect would be better than none.

  Clutching the vial, she took Felicity’s coin, as well as the one Redvers had given her and stormed back to the parlor.

  For once, her civility and reserve had vanished. She was spitting mad, and she felt as if she might do any wild thing.

  She went straight to Felicity and flung the coin into her lap.

  “What . . . ?” Felicity sputtered. “How dare you!”

  “Mary!” Victoria scolded.

  “Here’s your precious money,” Mary seethed. “I hope you choke on it.”

  “Mary!” Victoria repeated more loudly. “Where are your manners?”

  Mary whirled on Redvers, tossing his coin in the same discourteous fashion.

  “Here’s yours, too,” she said. “Why don’t you use it to embarrass some other poor, unfortunate girl?”

  There was a stunned silence. Mouths dropped in shock. Mrs. Bainbridge snickered.

  “We’ve finally pushed her over the edge,” Cassandra mumbled. “I always suspected we might.”

  Mary spun and marched out, unaware of what an imperious, aggrieved spectacle she presented.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Victoria huffed.

  “I’m not hungry,” Mary replied without slowing, “and even if I was, I wouldn’t eat with any of you!”

  After two decades of misery, it was the only truly rude behavior she’d ever exhibited toward Victoria, and all in all, she was quite satisfied with herself. On the morrow, she’d have to grovel and apologize, but for now, she was unfettered and unconstrained.

  She kept on down the hall, then out to the terrace at the rear of the house. Harold was lumbering down the garden path, eager to arrive in time for supper.

  She plopped down on a bench, watching him come, letting him get closer and closer. When she could make out the striped pattern on his vest, she tugged the cork from the vial and raised it to her lips.

  Harold waved to her, and she glared at him—hard—then poured the liquid into her mouth. She’d started to swallow, when suddenly, a shadow fell over her.

  Harold was blocked from view.

  “Hello, Miss Barnes,” Lord Redvers said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Redvers?” she wailed, coughing and sputtering, trying to unswallow the elixir, which was impossible.

  He was directly in front of her, his wide shoulders taking up her entire line of sight. She lunged from side to side, desperate to peer around him, but she couldn’t see Harold anywhere.

  There was only Redvers, and no one else.

  Chapter 4

  CASSANDRA Barnes Stewart shuffled her deck of cards, the noise sounding inordinately loud in the quiet room.

  It was very late, everyone abed, yet she sat at a table in the parlor all alone, the light of a single candle keeping her company. She was too wide awake to sleep, and she leaned back in her chair and
gulped an unladylike swig of brandy, savoring the burn as it slid to her belly.

  She smirked, disgusted by how much she’d changed from the innocent child she’d been.

  Once, she’d been as proper and fussy as Felicity. Once, she’d been sixteen and had stupidly supposed that events would turn out exactly as her mother had planned. Cassandra had swallowed Victoria’s folderol about husbands and status and making the right marriage.

  That is, until Cassandra’s wedding night. Leave it to Victoria to send a bride to her marital bed to naively suffer the consequences.

  Cassandra’s spouse had been cruel and sadistic, but he’d had the good grace to die after two years of despair.

  He’d also crassly wasted Cassandra’s dowry, so she was twenty-two and penniless and living with her mother again. Her plight was little better than Mary’s, whom she’d frequently scorned for no crime other than being impoverished.

  Cassandra and Felicity had never been close, but she couldn’t stand to observe as Redvers sniffed around Felicity, and before the ceremony, Cassandra would have a private chat with her sister. Felicity deserved to know what was coming, though she wouldn’t believe the truth. What girl would?

  Footsteps traipsed down the hall, a sign that her solitude was about to be interrupted. When Redvers’s friend, Paxton Adair, strode through the door, she frowned.

  What was he doing awake? She had to socialize with him during the day. Must he inflict himself on her in the dark of night, too?

  “Hello, Mrs. Stewart.” He nodded in a lazy, smug way that carried a hint of derision. “May I join you?”

  For the briefest instant, she thought about denying his request, but courtesy prevented her from being rude.

  “If you wish.”

  He entered and sauntered over; he walked so gracefully—like an athlete or a dancer—that it was impossible not to watch him. He pulled out a chair and sat across from her, the glow of the candle accenting the planes of his perfect face, his golden hair, and his mesmerizing brown eyes.

  He looked angelic, but appearances could be deceiving, and she’d heard stories about him.

  As a gambler and drunkard, he prided himself on his low reputation. He exuded devious intent, always scheming to the detriment of others, and she had no desire to add her name to his growing list of victims.

  “I’ve removed my coat,” he mentioned. “You won’t swoon, will you?”

  “I’m hardly the type.”

  “Good. I can’t abide a timid woman.” He noted her brandy glass and raised a brow. “Where is the bottle?”

  She indicated the sideboard, and he went over and poured himself a glass.

  Since he’d arrived with Redvers, she’d avoided him like the plague. They’d scarcely conversed, which was fine by her.

  He was tall and lithe, his shoulders wide, his legs long, and he was too handsome, when she didn’t like handsome men. They made her nervous; they reminded her of how her life might have gone if she’d chosen a different path, if matrimony hadn’t been held out as such an imperative, lofty goal.

  “Did you have trouble sleeping?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it a common affliction for you?”

  “Yes,” she said again.

  She didn’t enlighten him as to the fact that, before her wedding, she’d slept like a baby. It was only afterward that insomnia had become a constant companion.

  He gestured to her cards. “Do you like to play?”

  “It passes the time.”

  “It certainly does.”

  He took the deck and shuffled it as he silently studied her, his probing gaze digging deep, and she didn’t like how she was being assessed. He seemed to be calculating the odds or plotting her downfall. He seemed to peer straight to the center of her cold, black heart.

  She’d once been a fairly happy, animated person. Now, she didn’t feel anything. Not joy. Not anger. Not humor. She was dead inside.

  “I’d heard,” he said, “that your husband left you broke and miserable. Is it true?”

  “How tactless of you to inquire.”

  “I’m not much for fussy manners. If I want to know something, I ask. Isn’t my method better than gossiping about you behind your back?”

  He had a point, but she wouldn’t concede it to him. “Manners are exhibited for a reason, Mr. Adair. Perhaps you should reconsider.”

  “Or perhaps not.” He flashed a roguish grin. “I also heard that he was a perverted ass. Was he?”

  “He could be.”

  “You poor girl.”

  His sympathy appeared genuine, but with him it was impossible to tell. He was a master at deception, a complete fraud.

  She shrugged. “I survived. It’s more than some women can say.”

  “Yes, it is. And now, you’ve run home to your mum. What is your plan? Will you fritter away the rest of your life, hiding in the country with her? Having met Mrs. Barnes, I offer my condolences.”

  He gave a mock shudder, which made Cassandra smile.

  “It could have been worse,” she said. “I could have had nowhere to go at all. At least my mother was willing to take me in.”

  “And if she’d slammed the door in your face, what then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He relaxed in his chair, pretending to be intrigued by her responses. He seemed to be flirting with her, but then, he flirted with everyone.

  London drawing rooms were purportedly littered with inconsolable women whom he’d loved and abandoned. He had a way of looking at a female that made her ponder things she had no business pondering, and Cassandra was perturbed to discover that she wasn’t immune to his significant charm.

  After the welcomed end to her marriage, she’d told herself that she would never again entertain romantic notions. Yet Adair merely stared at her, and her pulse was fluttering like a debutante’s.

  “I don’t understand,” he commented, “how you could leave Town and move back here. Aren’t you bored out of your mind?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “What do you do to amuse yourself?”

  “I walk. I read. I sew.”

  “How about if I shoot you and put you out of your misery?”

  She chuckled. “It’s not that unbearable.”

  “You’re very pretty,” he said, the compliment not unusual. She’d always been beautiful.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you living like a nun? Or have you a dozen secret lovers?”

  She’d just taken a sip of brandy, and at his voicing the audacious remark, she swallowed wrong, and she coughed and sputtered.

  “You are the most impertinent man I’ve ever met.”

  “Have you?” he pressed.

  “Have I what?”

  “A lover.”

  “Gad, no.”

  “Would you like one?”

  The conversation was becoming more bizarre by the second. Did adults actually conduct themselves so brazenly? She was a widow but still had scant idea of how grown-ups behaved.

  “Are you offering your services?” she asked.

  “Yes. Depending on how long Redvers dithers over your sister, I may be here an entire month. It’s an eternity for me to go without carnal companionship, and I’d hate to have to start chasing after the housemaids.”

  “So if I agreed, I’d be doing you a favor?”

  “Yes. When I’m without a paramour, I get cranky.”

  “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “No. We definitely wouldn’t.”

  He picked up the deck, shuffled it, then dealt them each a card, facedown. “Let’s play. High card wins.”

  “Wins what?”

  “Are the stones in your necklace real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then if I have the high card, I win your necklace.”

  “You can’t have it. And besides, I’ve heard that you cheat, so why would I gamble with you?”

  “Maybe—deep down—you’d like to give me
exactly what I want.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  He scooted his chair so that it was right next to hers, and he leaned in, effectively blocking any chance she had of escape.

  She probably should have been afraid, but she perceived no danger. He was challenging her, or daring her, and she sensed that she could tell him to desist and he would. To her amazement, a flicker of excitement kindled in her belly.

  He was so close, and she suffered from the most insane impression that he was about to kiss her.

  Would she let him? Should she let him?

  Although she’d been wed and widowed, she’d never been kissed. Her deceased husband had had no amorous tendencies. There had been one thing he’d sought from her, and he’d taken it without seduction or delay.

  What would it be like to be kissed by a man who was eager to? By a man who knew how?

  “I’m going to win your necklace,” he said, “then I’ll go after your clothes—until I have them all.”

  The image of herself being stripped, a garment at a time, was so shocking and so intriguing that she trembled.

  “You are mad,” she charged.

  “Why would you say so?”

  “I would never remove my clothes for you.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  His hand had been carefully placed on her knee, and he dipped under her chin to nibble at her nape. Goose bumps cascaded down her arms.

  She groaned in agony, not knowing what to do. She wanted him to leave her be, but her entire body was ablaze.

  “I’ll be here a month,” he murmured. “A whole month.”

  It sounded like a promise; it sounded like a threat. It would be heaven; it would be hell. She pushed him away and stood.

  “I don’t want this from you,” she insisted.

  “Liar.”

  He smirked, his wicked smile hinting at the paradise she’d dreamed of as a girl but had never found as a married woman.

  She spun and fled.

  “REDVERS?”

  “What?”

  Lauretta Bainbridge loitered in the doorway that separated his bedchamber and his dressing room. She’d checked her reflection in the mirror, so she knew she looked fabulous, but he hadn’t noticed.