A Wicked Enchantment
"You followed me."
Even in the darkness she could see him lift a wry black brow. "How very astute of you to notice."
"Yes, well, I truly wish you hadn't. Just right now I wish to be left alone."
The brow dropped. "Indeed. Off to lick your wounds, my lady?"
He invaded her space, not because he moved toward her, but because of the sensual way he looked at her. Even in darkness she could see his eyes flame. "Or are you afraid of me?" And this time he did lean toward her.
"Why should I be afraid of you?" He shrugged broad, powerful shoulders. "No reason."
Her heat increased. Ah, but she was afraid of him, though she refused to let him see it.
"And I repeat, sir, what concern is it of yours if I run away or not?"
"Because I refuse to let you do so."
Other Romances by
Pamela Britton
My Fallen Angel
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HARPERTORCH
An Imprint of Harper Collins Publishers
10 East 53rd Street
New York, New York 10022-5299
Copyright © 2001 by Pamela Britton ISBN: 0-06-101430-3
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperTorch, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
First HarperTorch paperback printing: March 2001
HarperCollins®, HarperTorch™, and & ™ are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Michael
and the precious gift you gave me—
Codi Jaunita Rose Baer—
our little miracle
I love you both so very, very much!
Acknowledgments
PART ONE
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
PART TWO
6
7
8
PART THREE
9
10
11
12
13
PART FOUR
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
People say that you find out who your true friends are in a time of crisis. I realized in 1999 that I truly have the best friends a gal could ever want. You all make me cry when I think of the support you gave me through my tough times. If this book could have two dedication pages, this one would be yours. You all know who you are, even though I'm going to try and list you. Know that this book would not be in existence without your help. You brought me laughter at a time when I didn't think I could laugh anymore. You let me cry on your shoulder when I needed your support. But most of all you gave me your love. God bless you all.
Michelle Pomar, Jennifer Skullestad, Cherry Wilkenson, Rose Lerma, Susan Edwards, Nanet Fisher, Patty Mahaney, Lori Mattocks, Amy De- Carlo, Linda Simi, Robin Richert, and Julie and Melissa Craycroft. And to my on-line buddies: Caroline Fyffe, Tracy Cozzens, Adele Ashwoth, Susan Grant-Gunning, Brenda Novak, Terri
Weedeman (may you rest in peace), Rose Davenport (for the quick read) and my new editor, Monique Patterson. Your help on this manuscript was invaluable, hon. Thank you so much.
Spammy
PARTONE
Man is the hunter; woman is his game.
—TENNYSON
Prologue
England, 1781
Losing one's virtue, Lady Ariel D'Archer decided, was not the glorious experience she'd expected it to be.
Of course, she hadn't exactly lost her virtue yet, but they were close. At least Ariel thought they were.
"Ariel," Archie moaned, his lips trailing wet, slobbery kisses down the side of her neck, his breathing loud in her ear. Too loud. He sounded like a team of horses.
Ariel stared up at the ceiling of the room they occupied, trying to understand where exactly things had gone wrong. Certainly she loved Archie. His stolen kisses in her family's garden had proved that. But something had changed since the time she'd agreed to meet him at the inn for a secret tryst. Something, she feared, that had to do with the way his elbow dug into her side. Or the way his weight pressed into her body, nearly suffocating her.
"Archie," she managed to gasp as more of his weight pressed her into the feather bed. "I can't breathe."
"I know, my love," Archie answered, in between more kisses, his lips moving lower and lower. "You steal my breath away, too."
Steal his breath away. . ."No," she croaked, for the lower his lips traveled, the more of his weight he put upon her. "I truly cannot breathe."
"Yes, yes, my love. I know." His hand moved. Ariel realized in an instant why. The mint-green dress she wore slid around her breasts, exposing the chemise beneath.
"Archie," she gasped, shocked.
"Ariel," he answered with a groan.
But her surprise was forgotten with the need to breathe. "Move, please," she begged. She tried pushing him off her.
"I am moving," he moaned. "My whole world is moving." His lips latched onto her through the fabric of her chemise. Ariel didn't think that could taste at all good, then she realized she really needed to do something. She'd begun to see spots.
"Archie," she cried, heaving with all her might.
He grunted, moved. Ariel inhaled a deep gust of air. Oh, heavens, that felt better.
His hand moved to her skirts, the edge of the fabric slowly lifting. He kissed her as he did so.
Ariel waited for the feeling to come to her, that marvelous feeling Archie's kisses always seemed to evoke. But it'd disappeared somewhere between their carriage ride here and his pressing her down upon the bed. Suddenly she wasn't at all sure they should be doing this, at least not before they were wed. Archie just seemed so. . .so exuberant.
But that was as it should be, she told herself. Wasn't it?
"Oh, Ariel. My darling Ariel. I cannot wait to have you."
His hand moved her skirt up higher, stroking the bare skin above her petticoats. A hangnail scratched her. She jumped. Archie didn't seem to notice. He was too busy sucking at her flesh like a calf searching for its mother's nipples.
And then he found her nipple.
"Archie?" she questioned, wondering if all men did such things. "Archie 'tis my nipple."
"Aye, and a beautiful one it is, too."
"Thank you," she murmured, somehow sensing that was not the proper response.
His hand moved to the apex of her thigh.
"Archie," she gasped his name again.
"I know, my love. I know. Soon we will be one. Soon I will be inside you." He began to press himself against her. Rhythmically. Rub. Rub. Rub. Ariel blushed upon realizing he did exactly what Lady Haversham's poodle did to her that day in the lady's sitting room. This couldn't be right, could it? And what exactly did he mean by inside her? She'd seen animals do obscene things like that, but surely humans didn't do the same.
He lifted himself off her. Ariel breathed a sigh of relief. He began to fiddle with his breeches. Ariel watched, wondering what he was doing. And
then her eyes widened. She felt her face flush as he pulled his breeches down.
Gracious, heavens, humans did mate like animals.
"Hold tight, my love," he gushed, his hands reaching for her.
"No, sir, you are the one who will hold tight."
Ariel jerked, surprise, shock and a good amount of relief filling her at the sound of the voice. "Papa!" she gasped, covering herself with her arms.
"Pull your dress up, Ariel," he said. The musket he held was aimed at Archie. Ariel gulped. Her father did not look pleased. Not at all. That he was furious there could be no doubt. He wore no uniform, but he still looked every inch the admiral. Blue eyes pierced her like they were a sword. A tick. . .His jaw ticked, his aged skin was pale, his cheeks were flushed with rage. Still, not for eighteen years had she been his only daughter. She met his gaze bravely, not ashamed of what she'd been about to do. Well, perhaps a tad.
"Put yourself away, sir, before I put it away for you." He waved the musket. "Permanently."
Archie seemed to pale. He didn't look at her as he quickly did as asked.
"Papa, we're to be married," Ariel felt the need to explain.
"Quiet, Ariel. I will discuss your impending marriage with his lordship. Leave the room."
Ariel did as told, eyeing her father as she passed, but his blue eyes didn't leave Archie. Truth be told, she felt rather glad for that. Her father could pierce a person with darts from his eyes. And if she was honest with herself, she was rather glad for the interruption. She needed time to analyze what had happened between her and Archie, or rather, what had almost happened.
She swallowed, squeezed past her father, who all but blocked the doorway. With shaking hands she closed the door. Her maid stood outside the room, but she was too engrossed in her own thoughts to be angry that her trusted confidant had gone to her father. Archie loved her. What they'd been about to do was a natural result of that love. So his caresses didn't stir her blood like his kisses had earlier. And it seemed a bit more, well, messier than she'd imagined. Women all over the world had to endure such messiness else there would be no children born.
The door to the parlor across the hall lay open. Ariel settled herself in a chair to wait. Her father would no doubt be angry that she hadn't waited until she and Archie were married, but Archie would assure him that they would be wed. She forgot about wet kisses and heavy breathing as she recalled the way he'd singled her out from the beginning of her debut. That the most handsome man in London had wanted her was something Ariel still couldn't believe.
The door crashed open. Her father stood there. "Come," was all he said.
"What of Archie?"
Was it possible, or did her father look even more angry? "He will not be accompanying us home."
"You haven't killed him, have you?" Ariel gasped.
"No, I have not, more's the pity."
Ariel felt the first inkling of apprehension, especially when Archie did not even bid her good-bye.
She watched for him, craning her neck around as her father's coach and four rumbled away a few moments later.
"He will not be coming after you, Ariel."
She whipped back around to face her father. "But of course he will, Papa. He loves me."
"No, he does not."
She shot him a look of impatience. "But of course, he does," she argued. "He's told me at least one hundred times."
"Ariel," her father said sternly, "Men will say whatever it takes when they want to steal a woman's virtue."
"He was not stealing it."
"No? Then you are a fool, Daughter, for the man does not love you. He told me as much tonight."
"You're mistaken." She tilted her chin proudly.
"No, I am not."
But Ariel refused to believe otherwise. Archie was not a lecherous villain out to steal her virtue. No man could pretend a look of love such as she'd seen on his face.
But when her lover did not come for her the next day, or even the next, she began to have her doubts. And when her father came to her room to speak to her, those convictions wobbled even more.
"Ariel, I need to know if you want me to force him to wed you."
"Force?" she croaked.
He nodded. "Aye. Though he might rebel at the notion, I have ways to make him do exactly as I want."
"You will not need to force him," she said firmly, her eyes meeting his bravely.
"Yes, I will," he snapped. "It is time you stop fooling yourself about this. He has no intention of marrying you, not when he is about to wed Lady Mary Carew."
Disbelief filled her. "Lady Mary is a friend. He told me so."
"He lied."
"No, Papa. That I refuse to believe." And she did. Archie would never lie to her.
"Then you are naive. The man is a wastrel. All society knows it. That I've raised a daughter too empty-headed to realize that is a source of great shame. Thank God no one witnessed this debacle other than the innkeeper."
She felt her cheeks color. Her hands clenched. "You are wrong, Papa. He loves me, no matter what you say."
No one dared tell the earl he was wrong, least of all his daughter. He advanced upon her. For the first time in her life she thought he might strike her. She braced herself for it, even welcomed it. She would show him how brave she could be. She was not empty-headed. She was like him. Strong and powerful. Archie loved her. She would stake her life upon it.
"I pray you are correct, Daughter, for if you are not, it will not go well for you. I will not help you to restore your reputation. Either choose Archie now or have no one at all."
"You will not need to force him."
But days later Ariel realized how wrong she was. Worse, word had somehow filtered out that Lady Ariel D'Archer, daughter of the earl of Bettencourt, had been found in a compromising position with Lord Archibald Worth.
She was ruined.
Her father, a man never given to talking much, refused to speak to her at all. And as days passed into weeks, she realized that nothing could change the path her life had taken. People she'd once thought of as friends now turned their back on her. Family members who once called to visit now shunned her like a bad disease. Even her father's maids raised their hands and tittered whenever she walked by. All alone she was. And betrayed. So betrayed.
Four weeks after her ruination Archie married Lady Mary Carew.
Ariel cried until she could cry no more. She vowed then and there that she would never again be so foolish.
1
Two years later
If being ruined meant she could avoid balls, Lady Ariel D'Archer much preferred to stay ruined.
Forever.
"Are you sure you will be alright if I leave you alone?"
Ariel turned to her cousin Phoebe, the one and only cousin who still deigned to talk to her, and pasted a bright no-no-no-I'm-having-a-glorious-time-can't-you-tell smile upon her face as false as old Lord Hampton's teeth. "Quite, my dear. Now do go before your darling husband grows impatient and dances with someone else."
Phoebe frowned up at her, almost as if she could sense her lie. "I am sorry I made you come tonight, Arie." She looked at the people surrounding her, innocent blue eyes clouding, freckled nose wrinkling. "I did believe people had forgotten."
Forgotten the scandal that had caused Ariel's withdrawal from society two years ago? Not likely, Ariel thought. Society fed on such on dits. That she was the daughter of an earl made no difference. Ruined was ruined, as Ariel had tried to tell her naive cousin. But she hadn't been able to resist her beloved cousin's pleading tone and so had accompanied her to town. Now, as she stood at the edge of the dance floor, she wondered at the wisdom of her choice. 'Twas obvious she shouldn't have come. Thank goodness her father didn't have to witness her humiliation. Then again, if her father had been in town, he'd no doubt have forbidden her to come at all.
"If you like, I could have John bring the coach around."
"Leave?" Ariel asked, black brows lifting. "And miss all this?" S
he motioned to the heavily decorated room. Flowers dotted every available surface, huge vases of them; no doubt some poor gardener was lamenting the loss of his precious blooms. The scent of those petals filled the air, barely but not quite masking the smell of overheated bodies, scented gowns and the candle wax that spotted the floor and guests. "Perish the thought."
"Are you quite sure? It would be no problem for John to come back for Reggie and me."
Ariel turned to her longtime friend and shook her head. Powder from her wig poofed around her like mist from a bag of flour. Gracious, but she'd forgotten how annoying society's fashions could be. Her own silly wig itched her near to distraction, the single gray curl that rested near her neck making her long to scratch beneath it.
"I'm quite content to stand here, my dear," she answered. Next to standing on a bed of hot coals, this would be my second favorite thing to do, she silently added. "Now go. Reggie has been patient enough."
But her cousin still looked unconvinced. Ariel took matters into her own hands by spinning her around and giving her a gentle shove toward the bespectacled man waiting by the dance floor. He gave her a tight smile. Ariel returned it.
"Go," she repeated.
Phoebe went, though not without one last backward glance. Her gray wig looked askew, Ariel noted. Ah, well, the whole night felt askew.
Her cousin so wanted this night to be a success. Ariel should have known it would go differently.
She watched Phoebe go, sighing. She tried to tell herself she didn't look as conspicuous as a tick on the bum of a pig. Still, she took a small step back, the potted palm next to her affording her a bit of concealment, though not as much as she suddenly wished for. She should have stayed in the country. Truly, after the first few months of her exile she hadn't missed society one iota. Who would miss pasting black patches upon one's skin? Or drafty hooped skirts? Or so much powder in one's hair, one looked like a giant breast of chicken just as it was shoved into the baking oven? No. No. She'd not missed it. Not at all.
Enchanted by Your Kisses Page 1
