Title Sinful Tales of Desirable Ladies

by Lucinda Nelson

  “I won’t be blackmailed,” she answered, hotly.

  “It is not blackmail. It’s an exchange.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then you and I will walk out together.”

  “Sounds a lot like blackmail to me,” she said.

  “Loraine!” Her aunt’s voice was getting more frantic.

  “Damn it!” Loraine bit out. She didn’t have time for this. In one smooth motion, she closed the space between them, grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him.

  It was a tight-lipped, quick kiss, but she felt something electric go through her nevertheless.

  She didn’t know what it was, but it made her disgusted with herself.

  “There, you’ve had your kiss,” she said, finding that her voice was a little less steady.

  She stepped away from him, towards the edge of the bush. He hadn’t moved, or said anything. When she looked back at his face, she saw that he was smiling. There was so much victory in that smile that it almost made her feel violent.

  “Stay,” she said, one last time, before stepping out.

  Her aunt saw her right away and came walking towards her at speed, across the grass. “Where have you been?” She demanded, sounding shrill. She craned her head around, looking back towards the bushes, as if she expected to see someone there with her.

  “I was hiding,” Loraine admitted.

  “Hiding? Hiding from who?”

  “From a gentleman who was crowding me,” Loraine explained, because it was the only explanation that would placate her aunt.

  And indeed, Aunt Esther looked entirely horrified. Then, just as suddenly, her expression turned unsurprised.

  “Pigs,” she spat. “Utter pigs.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Loraine said. “Might we go inside? I feel the chill.”

  “Of course, my darling. Are you alright? Shaken?” Aunt Esther linked their arms and led her back towards the house, crooning her sympathy as they went.

  When they reached the doors, Loraine cast one last glance over her shoulder. Just as he’d agreed, he was nowhere to be seen.

  ***

  Lord Philip Everton, Marquess of Blackhill

  Having secured the kiss he’d been after, he felt like he was wearing it on his mouth like a badge of honor long after she left.

  When she’d kissed him, he’d felt a buzz that surpassed the liquor in his body. He thought that it must be excitement, at the prospect of his revenge beginning to bloom.

  Philip had every intention of following her back inside and seeing if he could have another moment alone with her. But when he returned to the ballroom, he found his friends running towards him. They crashed into him in the garden doorway.

  “What the devil are you running for?” Philip asked.

  Bradley was pink in the cheeks, while Theodore was laughing loudly and unabashedly. “He broke a vase,” Theodore said.

  “Not just any vase,” Bradley retorted, looking around him anxiously. “My cousin’s vase. A favorite of hers.”

  “I am sure she will forgive you,” Philip said, dismissively.

  “You do not know my cousin,” Bradley answered, looking almost afraid, which made Philip laugh too. “There’ll be hell to pay for this. We have to leave before she finds it. I’m sure she’ll suspect that it was me who did it.”

  “I’m not ready to leave just yet,” Philip replied.

  But Bradley was having none of it. “We have to go,” he said again. As he said this, Philip saw a red-faced woman charging through the crowd, looking absolutely furious.

  Even Philip had to admit that she did have quite a frightening countenance. “Very well,” he said, quickly. “But we’d better move fast, because I think that’s her.”

  She spotted Bradley at that moment and started moving faster, with a tightening and angry grimace.

  Bradley jumped into action and Theodore and Philip were forced to follow. When they were free of the estate, having successfully evaded Bradley’s raging cousin, Philip’s mind returned promptly to what had happened in the gardens.

  The kiss still felt warm on his lips.

  ***

  Miss Loraine Beauchamp

  She felt truly awful. Not only had she failed to make even a single friend at the ball, but she’d somehow allowed a gentleman to blackmail her. Loraine had never been so furious with herself.

  It was a fury that kept her lying awake that night. Aunt Esther had practically trained her in avoiding the advances of gentlemen. And on her first night back in England, she’d managed to fall prey to one. A slimy, cunning one who hid behind his handsomeness.

  God how she hated him for making her look a fool. Though no one had been there to see, Loraine knew the truth. Perhaps she should have just stepped out with him and let her aunt think the worst.

  But the thought was unbearable.

  Loraine tossed and turned most of the night, her pride and self-image extremely stung. But when the dawn came, she felt less restless.

  She’d managed to self-soothe, by reminding herself that it was a lesson she’d learnt. That mistakes happened, and that she’d certainly never allow such a mistake to happen again.

  Loraine had become quite good at self-soothing over the years. She’d had to. Aunt Esther had a way of upsetting Loraine even more when she tried to comfort her, so Loraine had stopped seeking out her comfort.

  Mrs. Barrow was a great source of comfort, except that she always criticized Aunt Esther’s influence. That made seeking comfort from her tricky, because Loraine couldn’t do so without reprimand for having listened to Aunt Esther in the first place.

  In the morning, Loraine felt tired but refused to stay in bed. She’d waited so many years to come back to this house and even exhaustion wouldn’t keep her from making the most of it.

  She asked Mrs. Barrow if she would bring her tea in her old bedroom and went there. She sat on the ground with a cup of tea and looked around.

  They’d left so much behind when they’d gone to America, because they’d had to leave so abruptly once Aunt Esther established contact. And because it had been such a long and arduous journey, they’d only really been able to take the essentials.

  Which meant that her toys and books hadn’t come with her. And neither had the rocking horse. She put her tea aside and went over to it. When she put her hand on it, it was stiff because it hadn’t rocked in so many years.

  She gave a light push and it started to creak, but wouldn’t quite rock as it was supposed to. Her fingertips moved through the grooves of its hand-carved mane.

  Her father had built this for her. Her mother had sketched it before he’d started carving. They’d both been so creative. So artistic.

  She tried to imagine her father’s big, tanned hands moving across the horse’s back in long, gliding sweeps. Imagined the wood peeling away under his knife.

  It was a sad but tranquil thought.

  Chapter 6

  Miss Loraine Beauchamp

  “How did you like the ball, my darling?” Her aunt said, from the doorway.

  Loraine’s hand dropped away from the horse. Thank goodness she hadn’t started to cry. Her aunt could be such a sensitive woman. So much so that when Loraine expressed how much she missed her parents, her aunt took it as a slight.

  Once, when she was seventeen, her aunt had caught her crying over one of her father’s old books. Aunt Esther had burst into tears and accused Loraine of hating her, then ran out the room.

  So Loraine kept how much she missed them private, to keep her aunt from becoming upset. “It was lovely,” Loraine answered, because she knew that that was what her aunt would want to hear.

  “Good, good.” Her aunt stepped into the room, continuing to stare at Loraine. As usual, she was dressed to the nines. Her gown was a deep blue and she wore a jeweled necklace. “I came to ask,” she said. “If there’s anything you’d like to tell me.”

  They’d had this conversation before. So many times. Loraine tilted her
head and said, “Is there something you’d like to know?”

  “You said a gentleman was crowding you last night.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Just the one?”

  Just one month after Loraine had arrived in Louisiana, her aunt had sat her down one evening and said that they needed to have an important discussion.

  She’d explained to Loraine the perils associated with the company of men. She’d asked Loraine to promise that if she had any interactions with a gentleman, she would tell Aunt Esther everything about it.

  This was a promise that she had held Loraine to ever since. And when Loraine expressed reluctance to reveal all, her aunt would say, “Are you a liar, my dear?”

  Loraine did not like to think of herself as a liar but, sometimes, she had to be. “There were a few men,” she said. “Who asked me to dance.”

  “I heard that it was more than a few.”

  “I do not like to flatter myself,” Loraine answered. At this, Aunt Esther nodded her approval.

  “And did you speak to these gentleman as you danced?”

  “Small talk, auntie. The weather.”

  “And only that?”

  “I evaded their attempts, auntie,” she said, because she knew what her aunt was getting at.

  Her aunt looked relieved and expelled a breath. “That is good to hear,” she said.

  She turned to leave, but before she reached the door she stopped as something else occurred to her. “And the gentleman you were hiding from, my dear? What was his name?”

  She seemed to ask this out of nothing more than mild curiosity, so Loraine saw no reason to lie. “Lord Philip Everton,” she said.

  Aunt Esther went entirely still. “Lord…?”

  “Everton,” Loraine reiterated, with a frown. “Do you know of him?”

  “What is his title?” She pressed, in an abrupt voice.

  “The Marquess of Blackhill.”

  Her aunt began to visibly shake. She looked as if she was about to fall down, which made Loraine rush towards her and take her by the arm. “It’s him,” she whispered, seemingly more to herself than to Loraine. “It’s him, it’s him,” she kept saying.

  “Mrs. Barrow!” Loraine called.

  When Mrs. Barrow came in, the pair of them helped navigate her aunt towards a seat. Once there, her aunt looked dazed and disorientated, but kept speaking under her breath. “I never thought- Oh, that scoundrel.”

  “What is it, auntie?” Loraine pressed, as she stood over her aunt.

  Aunt Esther looked up at her and said, in a ghostly voice, “It’s his son.”

  “Whose son?”

  “The Duke’s,” she said, and it began to dawn on Loraine. Aunt Esther looked away and stared ahead of herself. “My Rodrick.”

  Aunt Esther was in such a queer state that Mrs. Barrow suggested putting her to bed again. This seemed to help, for a short while. Aunt Esther even took some tea. But then what she’d learnt seemed to take her by surprise again and she sent everyone away.

  “Wouldn’t you like some company, auntie?” Loraine said.

  But her aunt had shaken her head wildly and said, “Leave. Leave me alone.”

  And so Loraine left.

  ***

  Lord Philip Everton, Marquess of Blackhill

  Philip had managed to evade his brother and father since his return, but he knew that he couldn’t do so forever. After the ball, he said goodbye to his friends and made his way home.

  Loraine was on his mind when he walked through the door. That might have been a pleasant distraction from the imminence of seeing his family again after so many months, had she been any other woman.

  But she wasn’t just any woman. And whatever interest he might have taken in such a beautiful woman was shrouded by what she’d done.

  This was all he could think of. It consumed every corner of his mind. Above all, he imagined what it would be like to see her realize that she’d been played at her own game and lost.

  “Philip.”

  Philip looked up as he walked through the door, to see his younger brother George standing in the foyer. George was three years younger than him and had always been an extremely sweet-tempered boy, and an even sweeter man.

  When Philip had last seen George, they’d been at their mother’s funeral. And George’s soft blue eyes had been spilling out tears like a steady waterfall.

  “You’re a man of the cloth now,” Philip said, as he looked at him. George had always been an avid puritan catholic, which suited his tender soul. He’d heard his brother express interest in taking up the cloth, but hadn’t known he’d officially taken up priesthood.

  “It suits you,” Philip said, as he gestured to George’s garments.

  George looked down at himself, as if he’d forgotten he was wearing his cassock. “Thank you,” he said, though his voice was restrained.

  George had always been very free with his feelings, but in this instance Philip found his younger brother to be much changed. He could see that he was holding something back and that doing so was an uncomfortable experience for him.

  “Right, well,” Philip said. “I think I’ll retire.” He moved towards the staircase, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d seen his brother in months.

  But before he’d made it more than two steps, George turned towards him and said, “It has been a long time.”

  Philip paused on the stairs. “It has.”

  “Why have you come back?” George asked, in a terse voice.

  “Do you not want me back, brother?”

  “I have wanted you back since you left,” George said, no less softly. “But why now?”

  “Perhaps I missed you.”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t lie to me, Philip.”

  That stung. The truth was that Philip had missed George. He’d even missed his father a little, though his father had been the very man he’d been desperate to escape. “Does it matter why I’ve come?” Philip said, to disguise the fact that George’s accusation had hurt him.

  “I suppose not,” George conceded. “But why you left matters a great deal.”

  Philip started walking up the stairs again. It had been several months since the funeral, but Philip was still running. “You can’t hide from this forever, Philip.”

  “Hide from what?” Philip snapped, as hurt and temper mingled together in him. Once again, he stopped and looked back at his brother.

  “Mother’s gone.” George said it so evenly. With such… acceptance. It made Philip’s skin crawl. His face morphed into a grimace of derision.

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “You’ve been running from it long enough.”

  “What did you expect me to do? Stay here with you and father?”

  George’s brows drew together, but Philip couldn’t tell if it was anger, hurt or both. “Yes,” he said, firmly. “I expected you to stay, because we needed you.”

  “I’m going to bed,” Philip said. He started climbing the last of the stairs.

  “We needed you and you left us, Philip. You left us.” George’s voice shook as he spoke. It was a sound Philip remembered well. Whenever George had been upset as a young child, he’d spoken with that very same shake in his voice.

  You left us.

  Those words were a haunting echo in his head. They should have debilitated him. Rendered him a weeping mess. But he’d become gifted at hiding from his hurt. Instead, he felt the familiar and constant whir of anger in his gut.

  He reached the top stair and turned towards his room, but when Philip looked up from the stairs beneath his feet, he saw the man he’d been hiding from for so long.

  The Duke of Blackhill, Rodrick Everton.

  His father.

  Philip had never seen eye-to-eye with his father. On any subject really. His father had always had a foul temper and been sullen at the best of times. In fact, all of Philip’s memories of his father involved desperate attempts at gaining his attention.

&n
bsp; One day, when he’d been ten years old, Philip had even orchestrated his own fall from a tree he often climbed. In an elaborate plan to get his father to notice him, he’d jumped from a high branch and landed on his arm.

  It had been a nasty sprain, and it had hurt a lot more than Philip ever could have anticipated. But when he was brought to his father, with tears in his eyes, his father had told him that real men do not cry.