Cavern of Pleasures Boxset: Georgian Regency Romance

by EM BROWN

Before she left the room, she gave him a sidelong glance from above her fan. He decided he would escort the Lady Evalina to dinner.

  STILL NO SIGN OF THE Baroness.

  The society of London did not differ so greatly from that in Bath. He had even come across a number of familiar faces, all of whom were startled to find him here and even more surprised to discover he was a relation of Richard Henry. Montague could already sense the gossip about him circulating around the room, but that had never stopped women from being intrigued with him – or wanting to be in his bed.

  Taking a respite from the tiresome company of Richard Henry, he searched for quiet outside upon one of the balconies overlooking the garden maze. The clouds had deserted the night sky, leaving the stars and moon to shine upon the earth below. Anticipating a moment to be alone with his thoughts, he was disappointed to find the balcony occupied.

  The moonlight glanced off her gown of crimson silk and deepened the shadow between the two orbs rising beautifully above her square décolletage. She stood taller than the average woman. Montague was tall among men, and the top of her head, aided only by the heels of her silken slippers, would have grazed his nose. Her hair, unadorned, was piled high in loose curls atop her head with only four rolls gracing her nape. From her ears dangled ruby-gold earrings that lengthened the look of her neck. He found himself entranced with the area about her throat and collarbone and that swell of the bosom that separated woman from man.

  She was struggling with something, a soft oath escaping lush lips. He realized she was attempting to open a snuffbox. The top, made of pearl with a scarlet phoenix painted upon it, was caught. Retrieving his own enameled box, he stepped toward her and held out the opened box.

  “May I?” he offered.

  She turned, startled, then glanced at his offering. Returning her own box to her reticule, she took a pinch between her thumb and forefinger and brought the snuff to her nose.

  “Thank you,” she said after she had inhaled the snuff. “I felt a headache come upon me.”

  “I had not known snuff to cure the headache,” Montague remarked. “May I find you a place to sit?”

  She looked him over but gave no clue as to what she thought of him. “I will stand a while longer yet. The air out here is refreshing.”

  He was disappointed that he could not further assist her, yet relieved that he might have a moment longer with her alone.

  “That is not a trait often ascribed here in London,” he said, taking a step to join her at the balcony railing.

  She narrowed her eyes at him but her tone suggested she found his comment amusing.

  “I only meant that I prefer it to the atmosphere inside.”

  “It can be rather stifling in there,” he concurred. “Quite a lot of unnecessary hot air.”

  Again, she surveyed him with a candor that had him both unnerved and roused. She did not hide behind lowered lashes or the flutter of her fan. He wondered that she stood without a chaperone. Either she was a confirmed spinster or she was married. He glanced at the ring, a simple Gimmel band, upon her third finger, but such symbols and vows had never deterred him before.

  “Indeed,” she said carefully, followed by a half-smile that he found most beguiling in its irreverence.

  A light breeze blew across her, and his nostrils caught a wisp of her scent. Beyond the orange blossoms in her nosegay, he detected an aroma that was hers alone. His blood pulsed bolder through his veins. He stood a hair’s width closer to her than what might be deemed proper, but she did not notice or did not mind.

  “Are you newly acquainted with Lord and Lady Bennington?” she asked.

  “Yes. My lady is insightful.”

  She turned to look out over the gardens. “I am a friend of Lady Constance, Lord Bennington’s sister, or I should never receive an invitation. I know the family and their friends well.”

  He raised his brows, but she did not elaborate.

  “Perhaps you are new to London as well?”

  “I had avoided it for I prefer the streets quieter and my air unsullied, but there is much to recommend the city. I am told the sights are grand. I have been advised to take myself to Ranalegh Gardens to view the Indian tiger in their menagerie. Have you seen it?”

  She nodded. “A grand and majestic beast.”

  Her answer differed from that of Miss Evalina, and he suspected it reflected on the different nature between the two.

  “You will not want for attractions or entertainment if that is what brings you to London,” she added.

  “At present, I am a guest of Mr. Richard Henry.”

  Her face darkened, and though she did not move, he sensed her withdrawal. Damn. He had not expected the name to displease her so and attempted to salvage his mistake. But it was too late.

  “I pray you enjoy your stay in London, sir,” she said and turned upon her heel.

  Montague could only study the curve of her back as she walked back inside. Considering his current commission, his interest in this woman was ill advised, yet he very much wanted another opportunity with the woman on the balcony. He hoped that seducing the Baroness would not prove a lengthy endeavor. When he was done with the Baroness, he would seek this mysterious woman and make her his.

  “THAT MAN WERE DEVILISHLY handsome,” said Lady Constance, her emerald eyes sparkling. “He is more rugged than your young Viscount.”

  Abigail glanced back in the direction of the balcony where she had stood but said nothing. She would admit that she had found the stranger attractive, but that was before he had revealed himself a friend of Richard Henry.

  Lady Constance poked her in the arm with her fan. “And how wicked of him to corner you out there in the dark.”

  “There was light enough from the moon and stars,” Abigail replied.

  “A romantic setting indeed.”

  Abigail shook her head at her friend of many years. The two stood in an anteroom as they waited for the dinner announcement. Lady Constance had been one of few willing to befriend Abigail before she had become the Baroness Debarlow.

  “He offered me his snuffbox and nothing more.”

  Lady Constance drew her bright red lips down into a mock pout. “Because you did not provide him enough time.”

  “He is a guest of that odious Mr. Henry.”

  “Admittedly, that is a mark against his favor, but the gentleman is no less pleasing to the eye. I should have no hesitation to find myself situated in his arms – or his bed.”

  “A handsome form does not distinguish him as a good lover. Charles is one such illustration that a beautiful countenance does not beget abilities of that nature.”

  With some direction, he could prove himself, at best, adequate to the task, Abigail thought to herself, recollecting how Charles was quick to throw up her skirts after a few simple kisses upon her neck and breast. The Viscount had in him too much conceit clouding his ability to learn and hence excel.

  “It is manifest in his manners and in the way he moves,” Constance insisted.

  Abigail thought back to the moment on the balcony. Certainly the stranger exuded a sensual confidence both quiet and understated, unlike the cocky swagger of Charles. The stranger had stood just close enough for her to sense the warmth of his body in the evening air, and she would not deny to Constance that she did not feel herself stirred by his presence. But even had he not admitted to being a friend of Richard Henry, she would not be distracted from her efforts with the Viscount. If she had liberty to pursue another man, it would be the Marquess of Dunnesford.

  “I think I should introduce myself to this man,” Constance continued, “save that he seems to only have eyes for you.”

  Abigail looked around and found the stranger across the room staring at her. Beside him stood that corpulent, overindulgent Richard Henry. She resisted the instinct to raise an indignant brow and merely looked away to Constance.

  “No doubt he will want nothing of me after hearing what Mr. Henry has to say in my favor,” Abigail respo
nded.

  “He does not appear to be disturbed.”

  “My dear, you do not need my permission to pursue him.”

  “Of course. It does not dissuade me even were he to take an interest in you. He is far too appealing an item not to sample.”

  “I wish you much success.”

  “And you? I have yet to set eyes on the Viscount tonight.”

  “He is tasked with showing me his devotion tonight. I shall allow him to make love to me—“

  “Here?”

  “I would value a recommendation.”

  “The East Library. No one will be there. Even my brother fails to enter that room.”

  “The East Library then.”

  “While you woo Tremayne, I shall apply myself to our new guest.”

  Abbey avoided looking in the direction of the stranger for she had no wish to have him misconstrue a glance, Abigail prepared to enter the dining hall, but she could not shake the sense that his gaze was still upon her, and that made her breath uneven.

  MONTAGUE COULD HARDLY believe the woman of the balcony and the Baroness Debarlow were one in the same. Whether it be Fortune or the Strangeness of Fate remained to be seen, but he could not help but be even more intrigued by the woman. From where he sat at the long baronial dinner table, he had a fair view of the Baroness sitting opposite him but eight chairs removed. He had seen her cursory glance in the anteroom, and it was clear to him that she, unlike her friend, had no interest in furthering an acquaintance with him.

  She did not strike him as the sort of woman to be drawn to the likes of Viscount Tremayne. She conveyed far too much maturity and intelligence. From what he had observed, she seemed to pay no attention to the Viscount, barely glancing in his direction throughout dinner. He wondered as to the nature of their relationship and looked over to Lady Constance. From their easy manner with each other, he discerned them to be good friends. Perhaps the Lady Constance could shed some light onto the matter.

  As he spooned his soup, he saw from the corner of his eye the Baroness having a word with one of the serving the next course, a roast pudding. She slipped him a note. The servant glanced in the direction of the Viscount, who sat at the far end of the table with his sister and their aunt, and nodded. The server slipped the note into the cuff of his coat. Montague finished off his soup and waited for the servant, who would have to finish serving the rest of the table before he could have the opportunity to make his way to the end where the Viscount sat.

  “A crown for the billet doux you hold,” Montague said in a low voice to the servant as he was being served.

  “Sir?”

  “The one in the cuff of your coat sleeve.”

  The young server paused but lowered his arm beneath the table. Montague retrieved the slip of paper and replaced it with a crown. Opening the note, he saw only a few words.

  East Library.

  Eleven o’ clock.

  Folding the note, Montague tucked it into his coat pocket. Lady Fortune had provided him the opportunity to resume his encounter with the Baroness Debarlow.

  Chapter Four

  RECLINING ON A SETTEE in the darkness of the library, Abigail pressed her fingers into her temple as she closed her eyes. Her headache had returned, but she would not have it deter her plans with Charles. She intended a special treat this night. One that would leave him longing for more and compel him to weigh the bounty that awaited him should he secure her in marriage. They would wed in Gretna Green, furthering the scandal of their matrimony. And she would at last have her revenge upon the Earl of Frotham.

  A minuet played faintly from behind closed doors. The clouds that had been absent hours ago when she had stood upon the balcony with the stranger had emerged and flitted across the moon, leaving scant light to illuminate the room. She recalled the stranger. Constance spoke true—the man was handsome, but it was not merely a pleasing countenance that Abigail felt drawn to. Accustomed to the smiles of men trying to charm themselves into her bed, she found the serious set of the stranger’s jaw to be...interesting. She also felt drawn to the depth of his eyes. Though she might ascribe their mystery to the darkness of night, she believed that they were wont to reveal little. She could usually discern a man’s interest in her within moments of their first encounter, but the thoughts of this one were harder to determine. After she was married to Charles, she might consider pursuing a man such as the stranger. It was a shame that he was a friend of Richard Henry or she would have contested Constance for the man’s attention. Despite her flippant remarks about being in a man’s bed, Lady Constance had little desire to dismay her beloved brother.

  The grandfather clock in the corner of the room chimed the eleventh hour, and she heard the door of the library open. When first they had met, Charles was not wont to be prompt, but she had trained him well since then that tardiness had its consequences.

  “Close the door behind you,” she instructed.

  He did as told and the room fell once more into darkness.

  “My feet are weary from standing. You may tend to them.”

  She kicked off her slippers and draped her ankles over the arm of the settee. There was a pause, and just before she was about to admonish him for not scurrying to her bidding, she heard him move towards the end of the settee. He lifted her right foot in a firm but gentle hold, then ran a knuckle up along her instep. The sensation surprised her. She had expected Charles to begin rubbing recklessly. She had not expected him capable of a finer touch. Perhaps she should have provided him more opportunity ere now.

  He slid his knuckle back down, and she inadvertently shivered despite her intention to remain stoic. It would not do to allow Charles to think that he had any undue influence upon her or her body. Slowly, and with the perfect amount of pressure, he stroked the bottom of her foot. She could feel herself relaxing into the rhythmic stroking. He pressed both thumbs where the backside of his finger had been and began rubbing the arch of her foot. She suppressed a satisfied moan. She had commanded him to tend to her feet thinking that they were symbols of his further submission, not realizing they could feel so sensuous. As he caressed her entire foot, with attention to every toe, she felt her headache lighten. Clearly, Charles had been taking lessons from someone. For once, she was impressed.

  “And what else are you capable of?” she murmured when he had finished with her other foot.

  She heard him walk around the back of the settee. When she felt a hand at her collar, she stirred at his nearness to her neck. He allowed his hand to rest upon her without moving until she relaxed back into the pillow. He took the hand that covered her eyes and laid it gently beside her body. With both hands he massaged her shoulders, pressing his fingers and thumbs into her flesh with gentle but increasing pressure. His hands felt warm and strong upon her. Gad but if she had known Charles capable of such pleasurable touch, she would have commanded him to tend to her more often!

  When he began to caress her neck, her body melted. With one hand he cupped the nape of her neck and kneaded away the last of her tensions. He stretched her neck and threaded his fingers through her hair to massage her scalp. Taking in a deep breath, she was conscious of the air moving through her nostrils, invigorating her senses. To her surprise, she even felt desire stirring. He had finally acquired the touch of a lover, finding parts of her that she had never before considered caressing but that now wanted for more attention.

  “You have done well,” she remarked when he had finished. “I am quite pleased.”

  “Your servant, my lady.”

  Her eyes flew open. The voice was familiar but it did not belong to Charles!

  “Who—“ she began to demand.

  Suddenly the room was flooded with light as Lady Constance opened the door.

  “Abbey, I thought you should know that the Viscount—oh!”

  Abigail sat up and looked over the settee at her friend, who had halted nonplussed at the threshold, and that of the stranger, who stood calmly near her beside the settee.
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  “Pardon the intrusion!” Constance said, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of her lips, before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

  Abigail and the stranger were thrown back into darkness.

  “I think some light is in order,” she said with more calm than she felt.

  The man obliged, finding a tinderbox at a table near the settee and lighting the lamp. Sitting up, she eyed him carefully. He submitted himself to her scrutiny without word.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Montague Edwards,” he replied with a bow.

  “Why were you attempting to impersonate the Viscount Tremayne?”

  “It was not my intention to impersonate anyone.”

  “Then why were you – why did you do what you did?”

  He did not flinch and answered as if she were merely inquiring into the weather. “I walked into the room, and a woman bade me tend to her weary feet. I think it would have been ungentlemanly not to accommodate her request.”

  She flushed, realizing it was true that she had simply assumed the man to have been Charles. Nonetheless, this Mr. Edwards was an uncommon man to have obeyed her directive without question. But perhaps it was just as preposterous to think that he was attempting to impersonate someone?

  As if reading her mind, he said, “I had thought to find solitude and, in truth, respite. I was wearied by the company I keep.”

  She raised her eyebrows, wondering if he was referring to Richard Henry. If so, he was a little elevated in her estimation.

  “But I am clearly not the individual you were hoping for and will take my leave.”

  He stared at her, as if to say “lest my lady requires more tending to,” before bowing and departing. He had every penetrating eyes, she observed. Her heart beat a little more rapidly. The thought of his touch upon her once more made her shiver, and she very much wanted to stay his presence, but she allowed him to leave. Surely she had imagined that his eyes spoke to her. Or was he as brazen as he was uncommon?