Pleasure for Pleasure

by Eloisa James

  Josie was sitting in the middle of the arbor, not on the stone bench, but with her back against the statue of a leaping dolphin, caught in mid-flight. Her lap was full of cascades of roses, their sweet and delicate smell strong in the night air.

  “Didn’t you scratch your hands plucking those roses?” he said, drifting silently to the wall and then remembering, too late, that he should have given her some indication of his presence.

  But she didn’t scream.

  She just looked up and smiled. His breath burned in his chest at her wide-spaced, arched brows, tip-tilted eyes, the swirl of her hair.

  “How extraordinarily odd,” she said. “For a moment I thought that Dionysus had appeared in his woods.”

  Mayne ran a hand through his hair. Lord knows, from her point of view, he likely was as old as any Greek god. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment; isn’t Dionysus the Greek name for Bacchus, the god of wine?”

  “The god of wine and nature, the one who carries a staff wound with ivy, and whose maenads dance through the night.”

  He walked forward, his trousers brushing roses and releasing a rich burst of flavor into the air. “I have no doubt but that you are one of the maenads. Will you dance all night?”

  “I am a terrible dancer,” Josie said with a chuckle. “I believe you noticed?”

  He sat down next to her on the flagstones. The ballrooms of Almack’s seemed a different world. Above them the dolphin cast his arched shadow across the paving stones.

  “This was your aunt’s rose arbor, wasn’t it?” she asked him.

  “It was,” he said. “According to my father, she loved this place next after her turret. She planted the roses before she grew very ill. Even when she was extremely frail, she would have the servants carry her to the arbor in fine weather.”

  “It’s enough to make me believe in fairies. And I assure you that I am the kind of person whose imagination is decidedly impoverished.”

  “I don’t believe that. Not with all the novels you read.”

  “It’s the truth. When we were young, we would all play house, of course. Annabel was brilliant at making up stories, and Imogen would chime in. I haven’t a shard of imagination myself; I like things to be very clearly explained.”

  Mayne leaned his head back against the pedestal and looked up at the sky. It looked close enough to touch, like soft velvet, so worn that stars shone through. “Cecily truly believed there were fairies living here, in the woods. She hung the glass balls to delight them.”

  “I thought that must be it. How lovely that you’ve kept up the tradition.”

  “My father would have wished it,” Mayne said. “He died quite suddenly, but I know he would have asked me to do it.”

  She said nothing, but she picked up his hand. To Mayne’s horror, his throat felt a bit tight. Her hand was soft and warm, curling around his.

  “Would you dislike being left a widow, Josie? We seem to be rather short-lived in my family.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “I’m much older than you are.”

  “Women die far more often than do men,” she said. “In childbirth, for one.”

  “A melancholy thought.”

  “And you’re not so much older than I am. How old are you?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “When I was eighteen,” Mayne said after a moment, “I had seduced two married women and been spurned by three.”

  “I have been spurned by most of the ton,” Josie said cheerfully, “and if I seduce you, you will be my first married man.”

  He turned his head and looked at her, all devil in his eyes. “I’m not certain I heard you correctly.”

  “I’m quite certain that you did.”

  “An angel’s face,” he said, “but a devil’s tongue.”

  “An expression of desire within the bounds of matrimony is a virtuous thing to do. Besides, I always meant to seduce someone and then marry him.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “Actually, this marriage can be annulled.”

  He was silent, looking at her. Her nightgown unbuttoned down the front with tiny pearl buttons that shone faintly in the moonlight. Holding his gaze, she reached up to the first button and undid it.

  “Josie,” he said.

  “I always planned to scheme my way into marriage with an impudent act,” she told him. “In truth, I hadn’t intended to be quite so impudent”—she undid another button—“but I can see quite well that you will annul this marriage on the morrow, saying that you are too old.”

  “I am too old for you.”

  “Are you fifty years old?”

  He made a sound like a startled laugh. “No.”

  “Forty?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How many years past thirty?”

  “Almost five.”

  “Thirty-four is a very good age for a man.”

  If Mayne were indeed Dionysus, she thought, he would seduce her, of course. Dionysus was no respecter of maidens and their maidenheads.

  The annoying thing was that Mayne was just holding her hand, as if she were a child of seven.

  Yet something about the wild, underwater night had clarified everything for Josie. She wanted Mayne. It was a terrifying kind of hunger, the sort of embarrassing emotion that leads one into tricking a man into marriage.

  “Mayne,” she said, making up her mind.

  “Garret,” he said. He had let go of her hand and was strewing rose petals around their feet in an absentminded fashion.

  “I am,” she said, pausing to make the statement impressive, “a virgin immaculata.”

  Mayne responded in a very gratifying way. His mouth fell open and he blinked at her like a village idiot. “You are?”

  Josie grinned at him. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “It is?”

  “Well, I think it is.”

  “You mean, like Mary, Virgin Immaculata?”

  “I suppose so,” she said uncertainly.

  Mayne’s face had an odd expression, as if he were about to burst into laughter. “Are you distressed by this…development?”

  She frowned at him. “So what did I just tell you about myself?”

  “Let’s see,” he said. “I believe you just said that you’re a sanctified virgin. Along the lines of being a living holy tabernacle. My mother, being French, is Catholic and quite fond of Mary. Virgin Immaculata is a reference to Mary, who was born without original sin.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “I always thought that I would marry a saint,” Mayne said. Now she could see the deep amusement on his face. “And how happy my mother will be. You do know that she’s an abbess, don’t you?”

  And it was funny. Before she knew it, Josie was giggling, and then, when Mayne started laughing, howling along with him.

  “You marry a saint!” she gasped, laughing helplessly.

  “Stranger things have happened.” He picked up a handful of rose petals and sprinkled them over her hair. “Though you look particularly pagan this night.” There was something in his eyes that made Josie want to laugh and fall silent all at once. “Of course, I would be most disconcerted to discover that a deity had reserved you for his own child.”

  Her laughter died. A silken rose petal slipped past her cheek.

  “I’ve a mind to reserve you for my own enjoyment.”

  “But you didn’t,” Josie said. This was the moment for the greatest clarity of all. Perfect candor was called for. “You married me thinking that I wasn’t a virgin, Garret. And—And I am.”

  “Because you tossed a shovelful of manure over the man before he forced you.”

  She nodded. “You didn’t have to marry me. We can annul the marriage.” Although she had no intention of allowing him to do such a rash thing. But from what she’d seen of men, it was best to allow them to think things through slowly.

  “You would do better to marry someone along
the lines of young Skevington,” Mayne said. “Or Tallboys.”

  If she allowed Mayne to slip away tonight, he would never be hers. The truth of it was in her heart, along with a deeper truth about the way she felt, a truth that she refused to examine at the moment.

  It would have been horribly unnerving, in the darkness of a bedchamber, to think of exposing herself in such a way. But in the warm evening air, her body felt sleek and beautiful, curved in a dangerous, potent way. And Mayne’s eyes seemed to make a promise to her again and again.

  “How warm it is tonight,” she said, and undid another button on her nightgown.

  Mayne’s eyes fell to her hands and then moved back to her face. There was a look in his eyes, a very small smile, that made her remember for one second how much experience he had with seducing and being seduced, and how little experience she had in the same arena.

  But it was as if Dionysus himself were whispering in her ear. She uncurled herself and stood up, walking over to the low wall. Then she turned.

  Mayne had risen to his feet, of course. He would never stay seated in the presence of a woman. But he didn’t follow her. He stayed where he was, leaning against the dolphin. His black curls were falling over his eyes like rumpled silk. His eyelashes shadowed his eyes so that she couldn’t see anything but the long clean lines of his cheeks, the restless aristocratic beauty of him. Somehow even that wasn’t terrifying, just entrancing.

  Josie felt as if she were wearing nothing more than gossamer cobwebs.

  “You resemble a maenad more by the moment,” Mayne said. And yet he made no move in her direction.

  The key, Josie thought to herself, would be to say something that would make it absolutely clear that if he wished to seduce her, perhaps now would be the time.

  “If you felt inclined to make an advance to me,” she told him, “you could do so.”

  Definitely that look in his eyes was laughter.

  “But Madame Countess, if I made an advance to you, and if that advance were successful, we would no longer be able to annul our marriage,” he pointed out.

  Josie was gaining more courage every moment, from the look in Mayne’s eyes, from the stillness around them, from the oddly curious sense of power she felt. “I would not wish you to feel obliged to do anything to which you were not naturally inclined,” she said, allowing laughter to steal into her voice. For in truth, she felt like laughing. Laughing and…something else. She felt fluid and seductive, as unlike her normal self as possible.

  She walked back to him, feeling her hair on her shoulders. Feeling the sway of her hips and the tilt in her lips. Knowing that she was walking toward him with precisely the kind of promise that he had taught her.

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her, all shadowed eyes and secret smile, and it was as if the whole world held its breath.

  Josie reached up and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  One had to suppose that kissing Mayne was like drinking aged brandy, that golden liquor Rafe used to be so fond of. After all, he was older than she, and more knowledgeable, and surely he knew everything about kissing?

  But somehow she felt as if she were the one with experience. He tasted startled and uncertain, whereas she was absolutely confident. She poured herself into that kiss, winding her arms around his neck and rejoicing in the feeling of her breasts against him. She was a pagan goddess, curved, beautiful, a perfect shape in every way.

  He groaned against her lips.

  “Garret,” she whispered, feeling as if small sparks might be flying in all directions. “That small building in the corner was your aunt’s, was it not?”

  “Josie, are you absolutely certain that you wish to seduce me?” he said, sounding drunk and responsible at the same time. “Skevington is planning to ask for your hand in marriage. My uncle can wipe the record of our marriage from his books as if it never happened. You do not have to marry a man like me.”

  “What do you mean by a man like you?” she asked, genuinely curious.

  He pulled back and looked at her. “A man of thirty-four. A man who has slept with many, many women. I don’t have any diseases, Josie, but that’s by the grace of God. I do nothing and I am nothing, Josie. You must understand that. I lost my way, a few years ago, and I haven’t found it. If there is a way to find.”

  “Not to deflate your tale of woe, but I can find your way for you.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “All you have to do is worship at my feet,” she said smugly, trying to choke back her giggle.

  “I gather you think I’m bleating like a sheep?” Mayne said, a little smile playing around the corner of his mouth.

  “You’re a born horseman,” she told him. “You have stables, and horses, and more than enough money. Of course I think you’re being a fool.” Then she added: “Not to be harsh.”

  “Skevington will worship at your feet,” Mayne said.

  “Actually, I don’t want to be worshipped.”

  He waited.

  “Do you know what I want most, Garret?” She pulled his shirt free from his trousers. “I want to be desired.”

  “You are that.” He said it a bit hoarsely.

  “You often look bored,” Josie told him. “You drift about, looking discontented and bored with life. But then, one day, you looked at me. As if I really were me.”

  “And?”

  “You suddenly looked like a wolf,” she whispered. His shirt felt like warm velvet under her fingertips. She wanted to run her hands under it. “You flared into life, and it was me who made you feel that way.”

  “It’s foolish, grotesque in a man my age,” he said. But he wasn’t pushing away her hands.

  “Stop being a fool and talking of your age,” Josie said. “I’m tired of that and it has no place between us, don’t you see? What’s between us made me follow you to Cecily’s turret, had you wearing my dress and kissing me when you were engaged to another woman, made me marry you, though I knew full well that I wasn’t ravished. I took you.”

  Something was changing in his eyes. She shivered like an aspen in a storm as he touched her. “You took me,” he stated.

  “You thought you were rescuing me, but that was just your man’s foolishness.”

  He was a stubborn one, this husband of hers. She could see him steeling himself to make one more attempt. So she contented herself with stepping even closer, so that she could smell the clean male scent of him.

  “I’m not going to fall in love.” He said it desperately, with the fervor of a man who knows he’s lost a battle but won’t quite give up. “We have to be honest with each other, Josie. I was in love with Sylvie. I don’t believe I have more of the emotion in me.”

  A whisper of chill wind touched Josie’s back. “You were in love…or you still are? Would you prefer to win her back, Garret? Because if you have that hope in your heart, we should not continue.” And she looked at the ground, because she couldn’t bear to see love for another woman in his eyes.

  “Sylvie and I have no future together,” he said.

  So he was still in love with her. But Josie took the pain of that and pushed it away. She, Josie, wasn’t in love with him, so why should she care?

  “All right, then. You can take the mementos of your brief engagement and put them in a box. In the attic.”

  She could feel him laughing before she heard his response: “Would I be allowed to visit them now and then?”

  “Yes,” Josie said. “I’ll find you occasionally, in the twilight of the attic, turning over a faded blue ribbon that Sylvie wore in her hair.”

  “What a lovely picture,” Mayne said.

  “Actually,” Josie said, getting into the spirit of the thing, “you might want to take a ribbon of hers, perhaps the one she wore the night you first kissed her, and wear it next to your heart, Garret. Then when you die and we’re laying you out in state, I’ll find the ribbon, and almost throw it away, but then—”

  “With sobs that would break the heart
of Beelzebub himself, you’ll tuck it back next to my heart and go to your grave knowing that your husband loved another.”

  “I like that,” Josie said, thinking about it. “Especially the part where I almost throw your ribbon away but stop myself.”

  He pulled her a little closer and she could feel his body, hard against hers. “There is one problem.”

  Josie was rethinking about the heartrending scene at the coffin. “I think I will throw away that ribbon, Garret, so be warned. I may even burn it.”

  “I don’t have any ribbons,” Mayne pointed out. “Not even from the first night I kissed Sylvie.”

  “You must have something.”

  “Nothing.”

  “A shame,” Josie said. He was looking at her now, and there was something in his eyes that made nonsense of the idea of Sylvie’s ribbons. Yes, he was in love, but…

  “I’ve often thought that desire and love are very similar,” she said, telling him because he might as well know now how scandalous she was. “Who’s to say that desire is not the same as love?”

  “I’ve felt many a stroke of desire, Josie, and only a few of love.”

  She shook back her head, letting her hair fall behind her, free and wild. “I suppose you’re right. If desire were love, there’d be no unmarried streetwalkers.”

  He laughed, but she could feel him drawing even closer. His hands were spread on her back, their bodies just a hair’s breadth apart.

  “Do you desire me, Garret Langham, Earl of Mayne?”

  His eyes were dark in the moonlight. “You’re no streetwalker, Josephine Langham, Countess of Mayne.”

  “If I were, I would be more practiced at seduction,” she said. “Shan’t you give me lessons?”

  “In seduction?”

  “You are an expert.” She raised her hands to her hair again, feeling as pagan as any fairy queen. “If you return to the house, I will take it that you do not desire me enough for this marriage.”

  She turned her back and began walking toward the small house nestled into the corner of the garden.

  “Josie!” His voice was like liquid velvet, wild and sweet.