by Cheryl Holt
“We’ve been through this before. We’re not gambling over my clothes.”
“Yes, we are. And I’ll cheat to win them, too. I have the fondest desire to see you naked.”
A rush of images swarmed in her head, of her shedding her garments piece by piece, his rigged deck guaranteeing she was bared for his prurient perusal.
“You are so wicked.”
“I am.” He grinned. “But so are you. You just don’t know it yet. Let’s get you back to the house.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that they should linger a tad longer, but if they tarried, there’d be no way to end in any appropriate place.
He stood and urged her to her feet, and after he’d straightened her dress and hair, there wasn’t any reason to dawdle. But try as she might, she couldn’t make herself leave.
He was assessing her, his scrutiny particularly acute. He seemed as if he was about to offer a pertinent remark, and she wished he would. She wished he’d explain what they were doing, what was happening, what he wanted from her.
He hugged her, then he pushed her toward the stairs.
“Get going,” he said. “I’ll watch to be sure you arrive safely.”
“Are you coming?”
“In a few minutes.”
She nodded, but didn’t reply. There were so many words trying to burst out that she was afraid to open her mouth and hear what they might be.
She spun and hurried off, darting down the path. At the last second, when she would have disappeared from view, she glanced back.
He was leaned against the newel post of the gazebo, looking sexy and debonair and wonderful, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he’d forgotten all about her.
He gestured with his fingers, encouraging her to keep on and giving every indication that he was glad the tryst was concluded. Perhaps he had kissed her till he was tired of it, and if that was the case, if he decided not to dally with her again, she would be very sad, indeed.
She turned and ran.
Chapter 11
“BONJOUR, Miss Barnes.”
Mary glanced up and cringed. In her trek back from the village, she’d been so distracted with thoughts of Jordan that she’d forgotten Mr. Dubois and his wagon of tonics.
Were the potions real? Or were they fake?
One of them had seemed to work and one of them had not.
She marched over.
“Hello, Mr. Dubois.”
“How is your amour proceeding? I trust all is well?”
“No, all is not well. If I had paid you, I’d demand a refund.”
“But I thought your man had fallen in love with you.”
“The wrong man. You gave me an antidote.”
“Ah, yes, I do recall. And ... ?”
“I got him to drink it, and all he did was fall asleep.”
“And when he awakened? What happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing happened.”
“So he hasn’t fallen out of love with you?”
“He was never in love with me. He’d merely developed an interest that was peculiar. And he’s still just ... just ...” What was the point of the idiotic conversation? She didn’t believe in his tonics! “Never mind. I simply think you should be more careful as to the claims you make. That’s all.”
He studied her, then took her palm and scrutinized it. She snatched it back, but not before he saw something that had him clucking his tongue.
“C’est terrible.”
“What is?”
“If the antidote had no effect, we can’t dampen his attraction. It is written in your hand: Fate has intervened.”
The way he pronounced the word fate made a chill run down her spine.
“What do you mean?”
“I told you that if you swallowed the Spinster’s Cure while looking at your true love, you would end up married to him. We have altered your destiny—and his. We can’t change it now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s marrying my sister.”
“Is he?” he pompously mused.
Why did she listen to him? What was she hoping to achieve? Nothing could be gained by ascribing any merit to his prophesies.
“It was marvelous to see you again, Mr. Dubois,” she lied. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”
She started to walk on, but he had an infuriating habit of wheedling her into staying. Somehow, he maneuvered her so that she was at the back of his wagon and staring at his display of bottles and jars.
“I can give you a stronger antidote,” he said. “You could slip it to him again. It might work better the second time.”
“Why would I want that? I can’t have him dozing off in my—”
At realizing she’d almost divulged that Jordan had been in her bed, she blanched.
“Oh no, cherie,” he murmured in dismay. “Have things progressed so far?”
“I barely know the man in question.”
“Perhaps you should speak to my sister, Clarinda.”
“About what?”
He leaned nearer and whispered, “She can instruct you on how to prevent a baby.”
“A ... baby! Why would I be worried about having a baby?”
She kept her expression blank, her gaze direct and firm, as he patiently watched her. Evidently, he anticipated a sordid confession. He was a doctor of sorts, and she wondered how many females had shared tales of tragedy and woe. She wasn’t about to become one of them!
“A pregnancy will not disappear,” he counseled, “simply because you pray it away.”
“Mr. Dubois, you overstep your bounds. I am virtuous as the day is long.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you needn’t be alarmed. But just in case, Clarinda is here most of the time.”
“Mr. Dubois!”
He assessed her again, and ultimately, he nodded, complicit in her litany of falsehoods. He grabbed a jar, dumped some powder in a pouch, and offered it to her.
“What now?” she asked, exasperated with him, with herself.
“If he is to marry your sister, as you insist he will, your heart will break.”
“And this powder will aid me in what fashion?”
“It will cause your affection to wane. Mix it in your tea. Drink three cups.”
She didn’t want her affection to wane. She wanted it to burn brighter and hotter till she was consumed by the flames. Not that she could admit it.
She scoffed with derision. “You need to keep your stories straight, Mr. Dubois.”
“How, cherie?”
“On the one hand, you tell me that your Spinster’s Cure has fixed my destiny and that I’m to wed my besotted swain. On the other, you give me a remedy to ease my despair when he marries my sister. Which is it to be? Will he be mine or not?”
She’d flummoxed him, which delighted her. Obviously, a customer didn’t often get the best of him, and she was tickled to have been the one.
“I don’t want you to be hurt, Miss Barnes,” he said very gently.
His concern seemed genuine, and she couldn’t help warming to him.
She smiled and patted his arm. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Dubois.”
“For your sake, I hope so. I’ve met your grand gentleman, remember? I think he could break any woman’s heart—espe—cially yours.”
“I’m sure he could.”
“If my tonic has in any way been—”
“Trust me: Your tonic had nothing to do with it.”
Noise sounded down the lane, and she glanced over to see Harold’s carriage approaching. There was a pudgy, frumpy woman—whom Mary didn’t know—sitting with him on the seat.
Mary hadn’t taken that walk to his house, hadn’t reminded him of the village social or Sunday church.
She’d conveniently neglected to ponder him at all, and his sudden appearance provided a much-needed dose of reality.
She could daydream and pretend to infinity, but Jordan Winthrop would never be hers, and she had to accep
t the fact that he was about to be Felicity’s husband.
He’d been very blunt, had raised no expectations. He would be at Barnes Manor until he received Felicity’s money, then he would go, and Mary would have to pick up the pieces and move on.
Harold would be where he’d always been—at the center of her world—and she couldn’t forget it.
Though she didn’t realize she’d exhibited any reaction, she must have, because Mr. Dubois scowled at Harold, then at her.
“Who is this man?” he asked. “I’ve seen him in the village, and I do not like him. Why does he bring such a frown to your pretty face?”
“You had spoken to me about fate and destiny. Well, he is my destiny.”
“He is your ...” He stammered to a halt, then shook his head. “No, that can’t be right.”
“I’m afraid it is,” she insisted.
“He is all wrong for you. I can tell from here.”
“Mary,” Harold called, “what are you doing?”
“I’ve been in the village, Harold. I’m on my way home.”
“You know I don’t like you to be out by yourself.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“And you’ve stopped to confer with a roadside peddler. Honestly, Mary. You have better sense.”
Mr. Dubois snorted.
“Get in,” Harold said. “I’ll give you a ride to the estate.”
“Thank you.”
“Why I bother advising you is a mystery.” He turned to the woman. “Do you see what I mean, Gertrude? She never listens to a word I say.”
“Mother Talbot was correct about her,” Gertrude intoned. “What type of female would refuse to be guided by a man of your maturity and wisdom?”
Mary fumed, incensed that he’d been discussing her in a derogatory manner, that he and this Gertrude person were talking as if she wasn’t standing in front of them.
“Harold,” she said, “who is your companion? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“She’s my cousin, Miss Gertrude Talbot, up from Ports-mouth.”
“Hello, Miss Talbot.”
“How do you do?”
Miss Talbot’s spine was ramrod straight, and she sounded like an insufferable snob. She and Harold would get on famously.
“Mother is under the weather,” Harold explained, “so Gertrude has come to assist.” As if embarrassed by the admission, his cheeks flushed. “Gertrude, this is Miss Mary Barnes, the neighbor I’ve mentioned.”
“Miss Barnes”—Gertrude’s lips pursed as if she was sucking on a pickle—“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’m sure Harold has been a veritable chatterbox.”
“He definitely has been.”
He and Gertrude exchanged a significant look that hinted at numerous confidences, and Mary’s fury grew.
How dare he gossip to Mary’s detriment!
Jordan was always kind and funny. He treated her like an equal. He valued her opinion. He made her laugh, he made her happy, and after spending so much time with him, Harold seemed more fussy and pedantic than ever. She felt as if she was choking on her future.
Mary peeked at Mr. Dubois and muttered, “If you could give me a potion to avoid this fate, you might convince me that you’re a miracle worker.”
He snorted again and spun to his shelf, then sneaked a bottle into her reticule.
“I don’t have anything powerful enough to counter this disaster, but I suggest you try some of this. As needed. In liberal amounts.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s my Woman’s Daily Remedy. It’s loaded with alcohol. Drink plenty.”
He added a second item, and she raised a brow in question.
“It’s another dose of Spinster’s Cure,” he said. “Swallow it while staring at your fancy lord again.”
“Why would I?”
“You have to find a conclusion that’s better than this one.” He glowered at Harold and actually shuddered. “Good luck, Miss Barnes.”
You’ll need it hovered in the air.
“Mary, are you coming or not?” Harold griped.
“Yes, Harold, I’m coming.”
She walked over to the carriage, and Mr. Dubois helped her up, giving her fingers a supportive squeeze.
Harold clicked the reins, and they lumbered off. They were silent, the moment extremely awkward.
“I’ve been meaning to stop by”—Mary was eager to break the tension—“to inquire about the dance on Saturday night. Are we still going? I hope your mother isn’t too ill that you won’t be able to attend.”
“Yes, we’re going, and I’ve invited Gertrude to join us, so she can meet some of the other neighbors.”
“How nice.” Mary forced a smile. “I’m certain you’ll enjoy yourself, Miss Talbot.”
“I’m certain I will, too,” Gertrude replied, and her expression could only be described as malevolent. Her dislike of Mary was blatant and unsettling.
Mary yearned to be anywhere else in the kingdom, and she peered over her shoulder, seeing Mr. Dubois in the distance. He waved, and she waved back, which brought identical scowls from Harold and Gertrude.
“Really, Mary,” Harold scolded, “the company you keep. It boggles the mind.”
Mary bit her tongue and blindly gazed at the side of the road, not speaking again the entire way.
“How long have you known Lord Redvers?”
“Oh, it’s been ages.”
Felicity studied Mrs. Bainbridge. “Would you consider yourself to be close friends?”
“Of course. Why?”
Felicity frowned. Mrs. Bainbridge was so old and so worldly. Felicity wanted to come straight out and ask her if she was Redvers’s mistress, but she couldn’t decide how to delve to the heart of the matter.
How did a girl probe for details about her betrothed’s amours? Was there an appropriate method for discovering what she was dying to learn?
“Will you continue your acquaintance after he’s wed?” Felicity queried.
“If Lord Redvers’s wishes it.” Mrs. Bainbridge chuckled. “And I’m positive he’ll wish it. We’re rarely separated.”
Felicity’s suspicions were definitely aroused.
Why would Redvers travel with Mrs. Bainbridge unless there was mischief occurring?
If Mrs. Bainbridge was a harlot, then Redvers’s bringing her to Barnes Manor was an insult to Felicity.
Was she being humiliated by him without her being aware? Did everyone suspect Mrs. Bainbridge’s true role? Were people snickering at Felicity behind her back?
“You seem awfully confident of his affection,” Felicity dared to say.
“Don’t I, though?”
“You should know that, if I become his wife, I intend to occupy all his time. I’ll demand that he dote on me.”
Mrs. Bainbridge laughed. “Be sure to tell him so, will you? He’ll be delighted to hear that you expect him to be a devoted spouse.”
She sauntered off, leaving Felicity to stew all alone on the terrace.
It was obvious that she’d failed to make her point clear. Mrs. Bainbridge had to accept that Felicity wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense from Redvers. Nor would she allow Mrs. Bainbridge’s association with him to tarnish Felicity.
Felicity had big dreams regarding her life in London. She would be the belle of every ball, the most sought-after guest, the most gracious hostess. She had it all planned out, and she wasn’t about to have Mrs. Bainbridge interfering.
She went into the house to speak with her mother. Victoria could handle any situation, and she’d know how to handle this one, too.
Felicity found her in her sitting room, busy with correspondence.
“Mother,” Felicity started, pulling up a chair, “I must ask you a question.”
“What is it?”
“Yesterday, Cassandra was being particularly horrid. She said the worst things to me.”
“About what?”
“She claims that Mrs. Bainbr
idge is Lord Redvers’s ... ah ... his ... his ... mistress.”
She hissed the last word, embarrassed to say it aloud, but some topics couldn’t be avoided.
“She said that, did she?”
“Yes, and it’s upset me terribly.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
Victoria returned to her writing, effectively dismissing Felicity.
“Mother!”
Victoria glanced up. “What?”
“It can’t be true.” When Victoria didn’t leap to agree, Felicity tentatively added, “Can it?”
“Felicity, you’re very young, and you have little understanding of what matrimony actually entails.”
“I’m not a child,” Felicity huffed.
“No, you’re not, but you don’t seem to realize that the status and identity of Lord Redvers’s companions is not—and never will be—any of your business.”
“Was Cassandra correct? Is Redvers involved with Mrs. Bainbridge?”
“How can it matter if he is or he isn’t?”
“Is he?” she snapped.
“If you insist on knowing—yes.”
“How long have they been carrying on?”
“Several years, I’m told.”
Felicity was stunned. “You knew, and you let him bring her here?”
“Why would I refuse? Mrs. Bainbridge has no bearing on your relationship with him.”
“No bearing! Are you insane?” Felicity jumped up and stamped her foot, her voice rising with indignation. “I’m insulted, Mother! I’m offended to the core of my being!”
“Calm yourself,” Victoria ordered. “I will not deal with you when you’re acting like a spoiled toddler.”
“He will be my husband,” Felicity seethed, “and I will not permit him to—”
Victoria seized Felicity’s wrist and yanked her down into her chair, pinching her arm hard enough to leave a bruise.
“Listen to me, and listen well,” Victoria threatened. “When it comes to females, men are like beasts in the field. They wander where their interest takes them. They have no concept of loyalty or fidelity. You’ll have to get used to it. Every woman does. You should consider yourself lucky.”
“Lucky!”
“You’ll learn this lesson early in your marriage. It won’t be a painful surprise later on.”
“He will not shame me,” Felicity vowed.
