by Cheryl Holt
He’d aroused her to a fevered pitch, and of their own accord, her hips bucked against his palm, as if intent on pulling him deeper.
He chuckled. “You are just what I’ve been needing.”
“How could that be? I don’t have any idea what’s occurring.”
“Don’t worry. Your body will take you down the proper road.”
The tempo increased, and with his thumb, he caressed a spot she’d never noted before. It was extremely sensitive, and she arched up, trying to escape the stimulation.
“What are you doing to me?” she asked, panting and stammering.
“I’m giving you sexual pleasure.”
“Well, I don’t want it!”
She felt peculiar on the inside, as if she was about to explode. There was a tension building, and she knew there had to be an end point, but at what cost? Would she survive it?
Suddenly, he bent down and nuzzled at her breast, biting her nipple through the fabric of her dress as his thumb flicked out again and again.
She shattered and cried out, being so overwhelmed that she couldn’t fret over whether someone might be out in the hall and overhear. She’d never experienced anything remotely similar. In a life that was all drudgery and tedium, he’d opened a door to an entirely new land where exotic conduct was allowed and encouraged.
“What was that?” she queried as her pulse slowed and she could talk coherently.
“The French call it the ‘little death.’” He was grinning, looking like the devil himself. “Would you like me to make it happen again?”
“Yes!” she gushed, before she could tamp down the eager word.
“If you’re very, very nice to me, I will. But only if you’re very nice.”
“How nice do you mean?”
“You have to agree to do this whenever I ask. Will you?”
“I might.”
“I’ll be here but a few weeks. I’d like to see how thoroughly I can rattle your staid existence.”
He drew away and stretched out as she frowned at the ceiling, terrified over what she’d set in motion.
How was she to go on as plain, humble Mary Barnes, when he’d shown her his magic?
After what they’d just done, she could never tell him to stay away, and she was already calculating how quickly they could arrange another tryst. Questions riveted her: When could they meet? Where? How often? For how long?
The passion with which she yearned for future assignations frightened her. Was she bewitched? Was the carnal behavior addicting—like a dangerous drug?
Would she spend the rest of her life waiting for him to sneak to her room?
The fact that she hoped he would, that she was agog over the prospect, was complete proof that she’d gone mad.
Fatigue crept over her, and she yawned, as he laughed.
“Are you tired?”
“Yes.”
Her limbs were all rubbery, and she was glad there was no need to stand, for at that moment, her legs couldn’t have supported her.
He tugged a knitted throw over them, then snuggled close, and he wrapped his arms around her as if he actually cherished her.
It was the sweetest, most romantic thing she could imagine, and gradually, her eyelids fluttered down.
She dozed, and when she woke, it was dark, the moon shining in the window. She was all alone. Lying very still, she listened for any sound, and it was so quiet that she wondered if he’d really been there with her.
She rolled onto her side, toward the spot where he’d been, and she smoothed her hand across the pillow and mattress, but none of his bodily heat remained. There was only the very slightest disturbance in the air, and it hovered like a cloud to remind her that nothing would ever be the same.
She shut her eyes again. She slept.
Chapter 6
“YOU want what?”
Phillip Dudley stared at Mary Bames, then furtively glanced over at his sister, Clarinda. A worried frown marred his handsome brow.
“You heard me, Mr. Dubois,” Miss Barnes said. “I need an antidote for that Spinster’s Cure you gave me.”
“For the Spinster’s Cure?”
“Yes. You shouldn’t be allowed to roam the countryside dispensing such dangerous medicine.”
Phillip imagined the sheriff descending, a dank cell in the local gaol, a fast trip on a prison ship bound for the penal colonies in Australia.
“I can assure you, mademoiselle”—his French accent was exaggerated—“that I only offer beneficial remedies. They have been developed and tested by the world’s preeminent physicians.”
“Ha! It’s magic, that what it is. You trot around, selling your wares, but you leave a trail of bewitched women in your wake. How can you live with yourself?”
At her injecting the word magic into the conversation, he was unnerved. They weren’t too far past the time when rural villagers burned people at the stake for dabbling in the dark arts, and he couldn’t have her spouting nonsense.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d be hounded out of the county by an angry mob wielding tar and feathers.
He assumed his most patronizing, most sympathetic demeanor. “What has happened?”
Miss Barnes blushed. “I drank the tonic.”
“And it worked?”
“No. Well, yes.”
He scowled. “What do you mean?”
“There is a man I had in mind, whom I’d like to wed, so I ... I ... swallowed the tonic while I was looking at him—just as you instructed.”
“He wishes to marry you now?”
“No. Another fellow stepped into my path, so I was gazing at the wrong man!”
“So this man—this wrong man—is the one you saw?”
“Yes, and he’s completely smitten. I don’t know what to do.”
“Why must you do anything?” Phillip asked. “Is amour not sweet? Is amour not grand?”
“No, it’s not grand! There’s no reason for his fascination, and if he can’t put it aside, it will bring catastrophe down on my head.”
Phillip glared at his sister, urging her to chime in with a discerning remark, but as usual, when he wanted her to speak, she had nothing to say.
“Mademoiselle,” he cajoled, “of course there is a reason. How could he fail to be enticed? You are very beautiful.”
“Cease your drivel, and tell me how to proceed. He can’t be besotted with me!”
“Miss Barnes,” Clarinda interjected, “the potion Philippe gave you isn’t magical.”
“Have you ever drunk any yourself?”
“No, but I assist him in combining the ingredients. He uses fortifying herbs and female restoratives. There’s nothing mysterious about it.”
“Then how could it have rendered such a change in behavior?”
“It couldn’t have,” Clarinda insisted. “My brother’s remedy was devised to ... to ... enhance your feminine appearance. You’re simply growing more fetching, and this gentleman has noticed.”
“No, no”—Miss Barnes seemed very disturbed—“it’s much more sinister than that.”
“Sinister? No!” Phillip scoffed. “Love is in the air, ma petite amie. You should be celebrating.”
“He’s a great lord!” Miss Barnes wailed. “He’s here to marry my sister.”
“Oh,” Clarinda and Phillip murmured at the same time, a dozen silent messages flitting between them.
“I’m desperate,” Miss Barnes said, “to stop whatever it is this tonic has started. Have you an antidote?”
“Yes,” Phillip lied.
How could there be an antidote for a potion that was fake? Then again, human beings were very strange. She believed that the Spinster’s Cure was real, that it would work, and it had—in her view, at least. So maybe if she believed she had an antidote, that would work, too.
He went to his wagon, opened the door, and sifted through the bottles. Eventually, he took out a huge dollop of sleeping powder and stirred it into some red wine, which he poured into a flask.
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He handed it to her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It is a treatment for love sickness,” he said. “I prescribe it to those who have fallen in love, but whose love remains unrequited. It calms the broken heart.”
“But how will it help?” Miss Barnes retorted. “I am not in love with anyone.”
“It is not for you. It is for the man in question. He must drink it.”
“How am I to make him?”
“How can I know, mademoiselle? I am only a simple peddler. Perhaps you can slip it into his soup?”
“For pity’s sake,” Miss Barnes grumbled. “Do you promise its potent effect? Will his interest wane?”
“Absolument!”
“How fast?”
“Now that, I cannot predict. But it will fade soon. Je guarantie!”
“Thank you.”
She turned and walked away, the bogus potion tucked under her arm, as he and Clarinda stood, mute, watching till she vanished around the bend in the road.
“Is she the first disgruntled customer you’ve ever had?” Clarinda inquired.
“No, but I was so sure she’d be an easy mark.”
“What did you give her?”
“A sleeping draught, mixed with wine.”
“So in the middle of his wooing her, he’ll nod off? Is that your plan?”
“Have you a better one?”
“No.”
“WILL you marry her?”
“I suppose. Why not?”
Jordan sipped his brandy, staring over the rim of the glass at Paxton. They were alone for once, sequestered in the dining room and enjoying their after-supper liquor, while the women awaited them in the parlor. Jordan was weary of visiting and in no hurry to join them.
Since Mary never ate with the family, he felt no compunction to fraternize. She was the only female in the house whose company he relished. If she wasn’t present, then socializing didn’t seem worth the bother.
“Felicity is so immature,”Paxton mentioned.
“Yes, she is.”
“Couldn’t you set your sights a tad higher?”
“If I chose somebody else,” Jordan explained, “it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. I need an heiress, and these rich girls are all the same. They’re convinced they’re special because of their fortunes, so they put on airs they don’t deserve. One is as bad as the next.”
“I’ve never thought a woman should have her own money. It throws the world out of balance.”
“But if they were all poor, why would we marry any of them?”
“Why, indeed?”
They both chuckled.
“What will you do with her after the wedding?” Paxton asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
“You won’t let her live in Town, will you?” Paxton was aghast at the prospect.
“I might—if she doesn’t pester me too much.”
“What if she objects to Lauretta and the others?”
“My relationship with Lauretta isn’t any of her business.”
“You might think so now,” Paxton counseled, “but I’m told that after the ceremony, wives tend to develop the most absurd notions about fidelity.”
“Her opinion will never matter. It’s ludicrous to presume that she could have any influence over me.”
“She might disagree. She might imagine that her wedding ring gives her the right to complain.”
“She would be wrong.”
Paxton sighed, as if he felt sorry for Jordan. “I don’t know why you refused that girl your father picked for you. She’s a duke’s daughter.”
“You know why.”
“To aggravate him as much as possible?”
“Yes.”
Jordan’s feud with his father was long-standing and bitter. In Lord Sunderland’s eyes, Jordan had never been good enough. Despite what he did, despite how hard he tried, he always came up lacking.
His older brother, James, had been the perfect, adored son, but James had drowned in a boating accident when Jordan was ten. Suddenly, Jordan had found himself to be the heir, a position he’d never anticipated or wanted.
Jordan had been in the boat with his brother, and Sunderland blamed Jordan for James’s death. Jordan had fought to save James, but there was no persuading their father. Once, shortly after the tragedy, Jordan had heard Sunderland asking a friend if Jordan might have murdered James!
Why was Jordan the one who survived? Sunderland had moaned.
Looking back from an adult perspective, Jordan understood that Sunderland had been crushed with grief. He probably hadn’t meant what he’d said, but his cruel words still stung, and they colored all of Jordan’s subsequent interactions with his father.
They bickered constantly, usually over finances.
Jordan actually owned a house and property north of London. It had been James’s, so Jordan inherited it when James died. As Jordan had been a minor child, Sunderland had managed the estate for him, but Sunderland had bankrupted it with his inattention. The house was a dilapidated ruin, the fields lying fallow.
In his more morose moments, Jordan wished he could flee to the rural haven, but the place wasn’t livable, and he’d never had the resources to make necessary repairs. Nor would Sunderland refurbish what he’d wrecked. He contended that renovation was a waste of expense because Jordan would bungle his ownership through sloth.
Until his father passed on, Jordan didn’t have a single farthing to call his own, and Sunderland used his fiscal advantage to extort all sorts of concessions.
When he’d shown up with a signed marriage contract, the bride already selected and a demand that Jordan wed her immediately, Jordan had had enough. He’d tossed the document in Sunderland’s face, which had promptly caused the man to cut off all funds.
But Jordan would win in the end. He’d snagged his heiress, and soon, he’d have all her pretty money in his bank account. For the rest of his life, he’d never have to worry about his finances again.
In the process, he’d bind himself to a merchant’s daughter—a fact likely to send Sunderland to an early grave.
He went to the window and glanced off across the park, admiring the vibrant hues of the forest, when he noticed Mary returning from a walk.
Instantly, he wondered if she’d been off trying to kiss the buffoon who resided on the adjacent property. At the notion that she might have been, he was extremely irritated.
Was he jealous? Why would he be?
He couldn’t figure it out. She claimed she’d drunk a tonic that had stirred his heightened regard, and maybe she had. There was no rational reason for his fascination, so why not accept a supernatural one?
Paxton came over to stare out the window, too, and he saw Mary just as she slipped in the rear door.
“She’s an interesting baggage, isn’t she?” Paxton said.
“Very,” Jordan mused. “I feel sorry for her.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Gad! Lauretta insisted you were ill. Are you?”
“No.”
He had no business dabbling with Mary Barnes—only disaster could result—but his conduct seemed unavoidable, like a bad carriage accident. In a life where he’d had very little joy, she made him laugh, and he was determined to spend more private time with her.
“Have you seduced her?” Paxton asked.
“Not yet.”
“But you will?”
Jordan shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Is that wise?”
“Beneath the plain clothes and stern hairstyle, she has the most amazing, erotic allure.”
“But to ruin her? That’s a tad cold—even for you.” Paxton frowned. “If you proceed, and your affair is uncovered, what will become of her? Victoria would throw her out. With you about to wed Felicity, she’d hardly have any other option.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Jordan agreed.
“So you’d forge ahead anyway?”
“I’m d
ebating.”
Paxton looked as if he’d continue his admonishment, but he stopped.
“I was about to scold you,” he admitted, shocked.
“How odd.”
“Wasn’t it, though? I don’t know what came over me.”
“Maybe you should dabble a bit yourself,” Jordan advised. “It will help to pass the time. Have you found any intriguing housemaids?”
“No.”
“You can use Lauretta if you’d like. I don’t care.”
“Actually, she offered herself just the other night.”
“She must have wanted something from you. What was it?”
“She’s terrified that you’re about to toss her over. She begged me to probe your feelings.”
Jordan snorted. “I have no feelings.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“I’d rather copulate with a scorpion.” Paxton shuddered. “Besides, I’ve set my eye on someone else.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Stewart.”
“Cassandra, the purportedly frigid widow?”
“I don’t think she’s quite as frosty as she’s made out to be.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Jordan lifted his brandy in a toast. “May we both succeed in our amorous endeavors.”
“May we both get precisely what we deserve,” Paxton retorted.
“If we do, we’re in a lot of trouble.”
Jordan walked to the door that led to the hall and away from the parlor where the ladies awaited him.
“Where are you going?” Paxton inquired.
“I’ve suddenly remembered a previous engagement.”
“Mary Barnes?”
Jordan grinned, but didn’t reply. A few hours with Mary would be much more amusing than listening to Felicity drone on and on.
“Make my apologies, will you?”
He left quickly, not giving Paxton the chance to dissuade him.
In a matter of seconds, he was climbing the stairs in the far section of the manor, headed for Mary’s small, isolated bedchamber.
“HELLO, Mary,” Jordan said, chuckling at how he startled her.
He slipped inside, shut and locked the door. She was sitting on her bed, wearing her nightgown and robe, her hair down and brushed out. A tray of bread and cheese was balanced on her lap.
