The stark reminder of her lonely future vanquished the last of Felicia's reservations. "You're right," she quietly said.
"Of course I'm right. Now, let's see that you look ravishing for your Mr. Suffolk."
"He's not mine," Felicia corrected, thinking Flynn was the least likely man to belong to anyone.
"He is today." Claire's smile was conspiratorial. "And who knows, poppet, with your beauty and charm…"
"How romantic, but you haven't met Flynn. He's not a romantic."
"He didn't send you gloves or a book now, did he? And your diamond bracelet is the kind of romance any woman would love."
"He does this for all the ladies in his life."
Claire's shrug discounted Felicia's comment. "You're going to be the loveliest woman he's ever seen, and if you have any sense, you'll stop making excuses and enjoy yourself. Now take off that robe and put these on before he arrives and finds you in that plain thing."
Felicia smiled. "You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"
"Just hurry," Claire briskly replied, shaking out the garments. "He'll be here soon."
Felicia gave herself up to Claire's ministrations and to her edifying homilies on love and lovers, allowing the happiness she felt at the promise of seeing Flynn again fill her senses. And when she saw herself in the cheval glass, adorned in lilac lace fit for a queen, she felt as though she had been transported and transformed and indeed might be some fairy queen bedecked for her lover-on a very warm summer day, she facetiously noted, the sheer corset and petticoat the merest of coverings.
"Now just a light peignoir, my lady. Something to cover but not conceal," Claire added with a cheerful wink. "This white lace is nicely demure."
"It's hardly demure. It's so sheer, one can see right through it."
"He'll love it." Claire held out the lacy robe. "And think, poppet, when have you ever been so happy?"
She was indeed happy, and Flynn would be here soon unless these lavish gifts were intended as a polite goodbye. Although lingerie or certainly this much lingerie suggested a shamelessly serviceable gift instead. Felicia smiled. She rather thought Flynn had something in mind. "Tell me again I'm doing the right thing," Felicia murmured, slipping her arms into the peignoir, needing reassurance after a lifetime of dutiful behavior.
Claire rolled her eyes. "After all our struggles? After almost losing the villa? How can you even ask? He's a gift from heaven."
"I'll have memories at least in my old age."
"Life is to be lived every day, child. You'll have memories tomorrow."
Recall of the previous night made her smile. "It is rather nice to give in to impulse on occasion."
"Which you should do more often," Claire observed, pleased her young charge had at last tasted the joys of love. "Now eat your breakfast," she briskly ordered. "You need some food after your sleepless night. I made your favorite Savarin chocolate and toasted baba. While you're eating, I'll check that Daniel has the champagne ready-and the cognac," she added, curtailing Felicia's reminder. "And then, I'll be right back."
Too excited to eat after Claire left, Felicia moved from gift to gift, smelling each bouquet of roses, touching each item of lingerie, sliding the fine fabrics through her hands and wondering if all miracles were so incredibly sweet. And she would stop to admire her glamorous image reflected in the mirror from time to time. So must all paramours look, she cheerfully thought, displayed to advantage in scanty bits of lace meant for a lover's eyes only. Even lilac satin, high-heeled slippers had been included, so from the tips of her lilac toes to the top of her ruffled curls she was elegantly attired in wanton splendor.
And if she wasn't so dizzy with excitement at seeing Flynn again, she might take issue with the blatant sexual nature of his gifts. She wasn't sophisticated enough to completely ignore the impropriety, but she was infatuated enough not to care. In the grip of a mad and glorious exultation, nothing mattered but wondrous amour.
At the sound of racing footsteps on the stairs, she spun around and laughed with joy. He was here!
A moment later, the door crashed open and hit the wall with such force the paintings quivered. But no lover met Felicia's horrified gaze.
"So this is how you've earned the money to pay me, you whoring slut." Cousin Dickie's mouth was lifted in a sneer, his obese body seemingly larger than life in the sudden hush. Moving into the room, he surveyed the profusion of gifts with a withering glance. "I always thought you were a tart with your big breasts and cheeky impudence."
"I'm sorry, my lady." Daniel stood in the doorway, his attempts to stop Dickie unsuccessful. "I told him to leave, that you had the money to pay him, but he wouldn't listen."
"Never mind, Daniel. It's not your fault. I'm expecting a guest. If you'd see that he's comfortable in the drawing room, I'll be down soon." Turning to her cousin, she coolly said, "You're not welcome here. Kindly leave or I'll call the gendarmes."
Ignoring her, Dickie picked up a black lace corset and held it between his thumb and forefinger as though it were odorous. "Really…" His voice was oily. "And what would you tell them? That you earn your money as a whore? You might wish to reconsider," he unctuously noted. "And I'm not sure such illicit wages will serve as proper payment for my share of the villa. I'll have to check with my lawyer." He dropped the scrap of black lace. "Are you waiting for another customer?" The lechery in his eyes sent a chill up her spine. "Perhaps you could entertain me in the interim."
"I'd rather kill myself." Felicia held her peignoir tightly closed. "Or better yet you."
"How fierce you sound," he murmured, a loathsome smile on his fat face. "I'm intrigued."
"While I'm repelled as always in your presence. You'll have your money by the end of the day, and that's all you'll get. I want you gone now and out of my life."
"Wouldn't you, now?" Dickie's prominent eyes had a reptilian cast. "I was just thinking," he murmured, as though she had not spoken, "with your new-found wealth, I may have to raise my price."
"I have your lawyer's agreement. You can't."
"You have no idea what I can do," he silkily drawled. "What if I were to tell your brother about your new livelihood. How do you think Ann would like a whore for a sister-in-law, dear Felicia?"
"Mind your tongue when you speak to my wife!"
The deep voice slashed through the warm spring air, fury in every syllable.
Felicia's eyes flared wide. Cousin Dickie pivoted, prepared to do battle.
Until he saw the tall, powerful man in the doorway with eyes chill as the grave. His face turned ashen. "Your… Grace…," he stammered, his body frozen in place. "I had… I mean… I didn't-I had… no idea."
"And now you do." Harsh, grating words struck like a blow.
"She's your wife?" Dickie blurted out, incredulity overcoming fear. The Duke of Grafton was the most eligible bachelor in the western world.
"You heard me," Flynn growled. "My wife. Now get the hell out of my sight. And if you're still in Monte Carlo twenty minutes from now, I'm going to find you and kill you." Without another glance for the red-faced man making for the exit, Flynn moved toward Felicia. "Forgive me, darling," he gently said, as though he had not just threatened a man's life. "I'm sorry I was late." And like a child rescued from a fiery dragon, Felicia rushed into his arms. Gathering her close, he gazed down at her upturned face, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Before that rude encounter, I meant to mention you look good enough to eat in those…"
"Unmentionables." Her lashes fluttered in demure parody.
"Ah-" Amused understanding sparkled in his eyes. "We must be discreet away from the Hotel de Paris. If I were to take care with the exact wording, might I do-"
"Anything at all…"
His grin was sinful. "Then, I hope you have considerable leisure, because anything at all quite boggles the mind."
"I have all the time in the world," she murmured. "Now that you've scared Dickie away." She eased away slightly and surveyed him with a mild gravity. "B
ut you needn't have gone so far, Flynn. Dickie will talk. There's sure to be gossip."
"We could marry and deter scandalous rumor," he lightly proposed.
She gently shook her head. "I appreciate your gesture, but such a sacrifice is unnecessary. I live outside society, no one knows me, my family is distant and unconcerned-"
"Don't you wish to marry me?" A faint frown drew his brows together.
"Be serious, Flynn."
"I am."
"Of course you're not. You were about to leave Monte Carlo this morning. You'd hate to be married."
Her blunt directness forced him to question his motives. "Maybe I wouldn't."
She laughed. "Maybe? There, you see. You'd be out the door and halfway to Asia before a week was up."
"Have you considered you might be opposed to marriage?"
"What if I am? I've reason enough."
"This wouldn't be the same."
"Flynn! Stop. You don't know what you're saying. Think for a minute, are you actually willing to give up your freedom?" Her expression sobered. "Because I'd require fidelity."
A sudden silence fell.
And then he smiled. "I'm willing to risk it if you are."
"Losing your freedom, you mean."
He nodded.
"We should be madly in love to even consider this."
"I am." Until that moment, he had not known.
"How can you be sure?"
"Nothing's sure, darling. But if you don't take the risk, you'll never know. And if this isn't love, I don't care, because it's better than all the amusements and journeys in the world."
She grinned. "It is, isn't it? It's even better than cherry creme chocolates."
His smile was pure sunshine. "That might be a draw. But if you say yes, I promise you chocolates for breakfast every day."
"Ummm, tempting."
"You don't really want to live without me, do you?"
His question cut to the core, and the simple truth was she didn't. "Can you tell?"
He faintly dipped his head.
"Because you know women."
"No, because your happiness is mine."
"Before last night, I hadn't known what happiness was."
He smiled. "Nor I."
"Tell me we're not making a huge mistake."
"I can do that. We're not. Marry me and I'll make you happy."
"So sure?"
He was a gambler who always played for broke, and he had never been so sure. "I guarantee it."
"One question more before we leap into the abyss. You're not just Mr. Suffolk, are you, Your Grace?"
"Does it matter?"
"Not to me. I fell in love with Mr. Suffolk."
"And so I'll always remain, although you may be addressed as the Duchess of Grafton on occasion."
"You aren't!" The Duke of Grafton was the byword for vice and beauty and wildness and of course a king's ransom in wealth. "I see why you don't tell women if they don't know."
"I don't tell anyone. So if you don't mind being a duchess, my vanity would be assuaged with a simple affirmative to my one and only proposal of marriage."
"If not for Dickie, you might not have-"
He stopped her words with a kiss, and when he raised his mouth a lengthy time later, he softly commanded, "Just say yes."
Her mouth quirked into a grin. "Convince me." And he did with finesse and skill and in the end with a wild abandon that destroyed Madame Denise's lilac-colored creation and momentarily stopped the world.
The Pleasure Game by Thea Devine
Chapter One
Sherburne House, Hertfordshire, England Spring season, 1812
She was spoiled and she knew it, and she wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, and she was very well aware of that vice, too.
She had said she wanted Marcus Raulton, a careless comment publicly made, even knowing his libertine reputation superseded the attraction of his wealth and station, and now the pitch was in the fire and Drastic Measures were About to be Taken.
Her father had overheard.
Blast it all.
What demon of misfortune had put him within earshot the very moment she was making idle party conversation with her dearest friend, Ancilla, she would never comprehend.
But the end result was a disaster: her father believed she wanted Marcus Raulton, that she was in hot pursuit of Marcus Raulton, and he meant to do everything in his power to stop her.
No wonder he had been in such a tear to return to Sherburne House this weekend. He wanted her out of London, and he wanted to see Jeremy-Jeremy Gavage, of all people. Her father had not been in a hurry merely to take care of business as she had just painfully discovered.
No, he had been intent on sticking his nose in her business-and enlisting Jeremy's help in the process.
How fortunate she had eavesdropped on him!
Otherwise she wouldn't have known, wouldn't have gotten wind of this crack-brained scheme of her father's to have Jeremy distract her. It was enough to make any woman insensible with rage. It was ludicrous; it was insulting, as if she weren't old enough to know what she was doing.
That was the whole of it: her father still thought her untouched and unsophisticated-still ten years old in his mind no doubt.
Blast the fates.
No wonder he had called upon Jeremy to try to contain her.
He certainly couldn't. She had trained her father well, in the absence of a mother's constraining influence. He knew that she would do the exact opposite of what he wanted. So why should he risk confirming his worst suspicions by asking her if her sights were set on Marcus Raulton. He probably wouldn't have believed her anyway, and for him, it was easier to try to restrain her than to dissuade her.
And so his appeal to Jeremy, who had his own ax to grind after his disastrous liaison with that nasty Marguerite deVigny.
She felt herself boiling up again. Jeremy. Tall, dark, elegant, reserved, indulgent Jeremy. Her neighbor her whole life. The boy who had been like a son to her own father. Who had taught her to ride, who had endured her clumsy flirting, who had been the object of her affections when she was twelve. Who had destroyed all her romantic illusions when he had taken up with the Lady Marguerite three years before.
Grown-up, wounded Jeremy, who was perfectly willing to pretend to-what had he said?-lust after her to keep her away from Marcus Raulton.
She ground her teeth. There had to be some heavenly retribution for men like that. Men who would letch and leave and count the experience as no more than a roll of the dice.
Ah, forget about heaven when there was a fury right here on earth. It would serve them right if she exacted vengeance on them. Both of them. Her father and Jeremy.
Jeremy… She couldn't even picture him. But that was only natural: she hadn't seen Jeremy in over three years. He had spent those years abroad licking his wounds over the fair Marguerite, and now he was back home to see to overdue business concerns and, by the sound of it, meddle in hers.
Well, he ought to mind his own business, she thought testily. But no-he had no compunction at all about pitching himself right in the middle of her business without even trying to see her.
She might be a pudge-pot, for all he knew. She might be totally at her last prayers. The rumormongers were saying so anyway. Out two years, going on three, and no offers. Surely there was something amiss with the beautiful Lady Regina Olney, they whispered, that no man wanted her. Oh yes, she was well aware of the gossip. And the sly little snipes in the society columns of Tatler:
What Beauty of the previous two seasons, not yet caught in the parson's noose, still fully expects to rope in the Eligibles this season, just to prove she is still attractive enough to do it?
And so Jeremy too had assumed that she had the sensibility of a turnip, and that she would just gratefully fall into his arms when he came to rescue her from Marcus Raulton.
Because, of course, she had no discrimination whatsoever.
About anything.
&nb
sp; Their faith in her was positively overwhelming. Oh, revenge would be so sweet: she had her pride, after all. It was only a matter of deciding what-and how.
Maybe-a thought occurred to her-just maybe this ridiculous scheme of her father's would quiet the gossips. Maybe they would think she had been waiting all this time for Jeremy to come to point.
Wouldn't that be perfect, to turn the tables on Jeremy and use him to distract her father all the while she pretended to pursue Marcus Raulton?
She contemplated that lovely idea for a long moment. Exactly the thing. Overlay the forbidden with a healthy helping of respectability. Make everyone think it had been Jeremy for whom she had been waiting.
And… and… oh, this was most excellent: somehow put him in the untenable position of aiding her pursuit of Raulton.
How delicious was this?
But she had to think it through and plan it thoroughly and completely.
Wasn't she her father's daughter?
Poor Jeremy. He hadn't dealt with her in years. He had no idea what he was in for.
Oh, God she was as bad as her father.
And the Season had only just begun.
London, Spring 1812
The next big event this early in the Season was the Skef-finghams' ball.
This was the one it was most likely that Raulton and Jeremy might both attend, and so Regina had carefully dressed in her favorite pearl-encrusted jonquil yellow crepe, the matching pearl necklace and earrings that had belonged to her mother, and a lustrous strand entwined in her raven black hair.
But this was too soon, she thought edgily, plucking at a curl. They had been back in Town a mere two days, and they had already been to dinner at the Tatums' the night before, and now this. It was too much, especially on the heels of the tiring trip to and from Hertfordshire and the fact she hadn't yet wholly formulated A Plan.
"You look all the thing, my dear," her father told her, wrapping her shoulders in a matching gauze shawl. "Are you ready for this?"
She was ready for nothing, let alone a crush of dozens and dozens of conveyances crawling up to the Skeffingham house at the far end of the elite enclave, Bromley Close. Its gates were thrown wide now, and an openly curious crowd gawked as carriage after carriage drew up and discharged passengers dressed in the height of fashion who vanished inside the front door of the stately three-story brick residence as if the footman had waved a magic wand.
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