Tempting A Marquess (A Steamy Regency Romance Book 4)

by Brown, Georgette

  She did worry what would happen if she should somehow be discovered here, but Madame Follet assured her that only the most discreet persons were permitted within the château’s walls. Any breach of confidence resulted in a permanent ban, and the guests were too devoted to the freedom and opportunities afforded by Château Follet to risk expulsion.

  “Some guests come as a couple,” Madame had explained. “Others may find their partners upon arrival. I have many individuals who are unattached, and I know there will be a gentleman who would suit you well.”

  Mildred was not as confident as Madame Follet, though the hostess had named more men than women. If she were not selected, should she take her leave?

  “Nonsense,” Lady Katherine had replied. “I do not intend to return to collect you till noon the morrow. And I expect, when I return, to receive a rousing account of your time here.”

  Mildred was, therefore, stuck. It had even seemed to her that Lady Katherine had been in some hurry to leave the château.

  Unbuttoning her spencer, Mildred lay back upon the bed and looked at the painted ceiling. Naked cherubs gazed down at her. Her mind wandered back to that other room, to the man rutting atop the woman. The heat between her legs had not completely dissipated.

  Slowly, she pulled up her skirts and reached between her thighs to find that little bud of sensation. Replaying the memory of the couple, she sighed as she stroked herself. Yes, she would have liked to be the woman below his bucking hips.

  The sound of the door opening made Mildred jump off the bed.

  “Miss Abbott?”

  It was the maid. Composing herself, Mildred entered the anteroom to find a lovely young Indian with hair of ebony and large almond-shaped eyes.

  “You must be Bhadra.”

  “Yes, miss. Your effects are being brought—ah, here they are.”

  A groom came up behind her and set down a trunk and portmanteau. He was rather a handsome fellow, Mildred thought to herself, wondering if the servants took part in the château’s activities. If she could not find a partner among the guests…

  “Shall I dress you for supper, miss?” Bhadra asked.

  Mildred marveled at the peaks and valleys of the maid’s intonations as she spoke.

  “I’ve not an impressive wardrobe,” Mildred said as Bhadra opened the trunk.

  “Fine clothing is hardly necessary here, miss. Some guests go without clothing at all.”

  Mildred imagined what it might be like to walk about in the buff. She had not the confidence to do such a thing but was impressed there were those who would. She wondered how she would react if she came across a nude? How did one stop oneself from staring?

  “Even at supper?” Mildred asked.

  “Not the first night, lest Madame requests it so.”

  Mildred faltered. She could not conceive of sitting down to supper sans clothing. How could one concentrate enough to eat? She hoped Madame would not make such a thing mandatory. Mildred would not mind if others wished to shed their garments, but she had no desire to parade her nakedness. If she had a body worth revealing, she might feel differently. Instead, her thighs were a bit wide in proportion to the rest of her legs, there was a tad too much swell to her belly, and she would have preferred a less buxom bosom.

  With Bhadra, she undressed from her traveling clothes and selected her finest muslin for supper, the same dress she had worn for Lady Katherine’s soiree. It was a simple gown of white with lace at the hem and a lavender sash. In the spirit of the debauchery, Mildred wore only two layers of petticoat. Bhadra had laced her stays extremely tight and this caused her breasts to swell above the décolletage more than usual.

  “Do you wish for powder?” Bhadra asked after finishing the coiffure, leaving a few tendrils to frame the face.

  Recalling Alastair’s comments from the soiree the other night, Mildred shook her head. After applying rouge to her lips, she looked in the vanity and was pleased with what she saw. She looked as pretty as Mildred Abbott could look.

  “Monsieur Laroutte will escort you to supper,” Bhadra informed.

  “Who is Monsieur Laroutte?”

  “Madame Follet’s brother.”

  Monsieur Laroutte was at least ten years Madame’s senior, but Mildred found the man captivating. They conversed in French, and by the time they had reached the dining room, Mildred decided she would be quite pleased to be paired with the man. However, after seeing that she was seated at the table, he sat at the end of the table opposite where Madame sat at the head, and began conversing with a superbly dressed gentleman to his left. By the manner in which the two men exchanged glances and leaned toward each other, Mildred wondered if they might possibly be lovers.

  Looking at the rest of the company about the table, she saw the couple she had witnessed earlier, and immediately a warmth recalled itself into her loins. The man seemed to feel her gaze and looked in her direction. He winked. Mildred flushed to the roots of her hair and quickly looked down at her soup.

  Good heavens. She supposed she ought not feel chagrinned, but the more outlandish aspects of the château required some acclimating. Despite her discomfort, she found herself more eager than ever to engage in the château’s purpose. With a life of married ennui before her, she ought to soak in what Château Follet offered.

  “Forgive me for introducing myself,” the man to her right said, “though we do dispense with the customary formalities here at Château Follet.”

  “Indeed? I would not have guessed,” Mildred replied.

  The man smiled in seeming appreciation. “Charming. I must have your name?”

  "Miss, er, Abbey."

  "Miss Abbey, a pleasure. I am the Viscount Devon."

  "Pleased to meet you, my lord.”

  “You are new to me. Is this your first time?"

  "Yes."

  With interest, he turned his body farther toward her. "Then you are in for quite a delight."

  Happy to have someone to talk to and hopeful that she would not have to spend the evening in her own company, she gave him her most winning smile. Though barely average in height, Lord Devon was quite attractive with his golden locks and bright blue eyes.

  He looked to see who sat to her left. It was a woman of striking beauty. Mildred expected he would attempt to make the acquaintance of the woman beside her, but he returned his gaze to her.

  “Are you here with someone?” he asked.

  “No, I am alone.”

  “As am I.”

  The palpitation of her heart quickened. Could this debonair man—a Viscount, if he gave his name truthfully—possibly be interested in her?

  Just then, she thought she heard a familiar baritone come from the doors behind her. A mouse coming face to face with a hawk could not have felt more ill.

  “Marguerite, your pardon for my late arrival. I am most sorry,” the gentleman said.

  “La, Andre! You are not sorry for being tardy.”

  “I am sorry I was thrown from my horse, which was the cause of my delay.”

  Mildred did not hear Madame Follet’s response. The blood had drained from her.

  It could not be. It could not be!

  She wanted to turn and look to confirm her fears, but she could not risk revealing herself.

  “Miss Abbey, are you well?” Devon asked. “Forgive me, but you look pale of a sudden.”

  As she faced Devon, she discerned that the man she suspected to be Alastair stood near the other end of the table, where Madame sat.

  “The soup does not agree with me, I think,” she whispered.

  “But you have hardly touched it.”

  “I was unsure if you would come,” Madame said, “but I have saved you a seat for dinner.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the man rounding the table. She recognized the build, the height, the jet-black hair. Dear heavens, it was Alastair!

  In a panic, she bent down behind the table as if she had dropped something.

  “Miss Abbey?” Devon inqui
red, bending down as well.

  “I think one of my earrings fell,” she said, pretending to look about the floor.

  “They are both of them in your ears.”

  She blinked several times, her mind in a whir. “Oh, well, thank you.”

  Realizing she could not spend the dinner beneath the table, she sat back up, holding her napkin before her face and keeping herself angled toward her end of the table. Her heart raced. What was she to do? She could not keep her napkin at her face the entire dinner. This was dreadful! She had to find a way to leave.

  “I forgot my—my—something—in my chambers,” she murmured as she rose.

  She would not be able to excuse herself to the hostess but hoped Madame Follet would forgive her later. Alastair sat across the table near the other end. If she turned to her right and went through the set of doors nearest to her, he would not glimpse her face.

  Holding the napkin in front of her still, she made for the egress—and walked straight into a maid carrying a tureen of gravy. The contents splashed down the front of Mildred’s gown.

  “Oh, miss, I’m terribly sorry!” the maid cried.

  “Miss Abbey!” Lord Devon cried, coming to her aid.

  One of the other gentlemen had approached to help with picking up the tureen.

  “I’m quite all right,” Mildred mumbled, conscious that half the table had risen to look her way. She reached down for the napkin she had dropped.

  Lord Devon took her elbow. “Are you certain—”

  “Yes, yes, I am fine,” she assured him before stepping into a puddle of gravy in her haste to flee.

  Once outside the dining hall, she hurried down the corridor, but her legs had begun to shake with violence. She slipped into an empty but lighted parlor. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and sank to the floor.

  It was Alastair. She knew his voice, and Madame had called him by name. She was not at all surprised that he would be known to Madame, but how was it he should be here the very same evening as her? And what was she to do now that he was?

  Chapter Five

  THE ENTICING TEMPTRESS sitting beside him at the table batted her long lashes and gave him a demure smile. She had shiny crimson curls, and as Alastair had never bedded a redhead before, he was intrigued. Her name was Miss Annabelle Hollingsworth.

  But a commotion at the other end of the table drew his attention. He glimpsed a dark-haired woman with gravy down the front of her gown. Her full form looked familiar, as did her gown. At her side was the Viscount Devon, of whom he was not fond, but she resisted the man’s aid and hurried from him. She reached down to retrieve a napkin, which she oddly held to her face instead of using it to wipe her dress.

  Her right hand tugged at her pearls as she spoke to Lord Devon…

  It could not be.

  Alastair rose to his feet to take a better look, but she had hurried away. He turned to Marguerite. “Who was that?”

  “A new guest,” Madame replied. “She arrived here but a few hours ago. You will have the chance to meet her after dinner when we have the pairing.”

  But an odd ache shot through his legs. He had the sensation whenever a situation was not right. He would have to assure himself that the woman was not whom he thought. He excused himself and proceeded after the woman. In the corridor, however, he saw no signs of her. Likely, she had returned to her chambers to cleanse her gown. He would have to make further inquiries of Marguerite.

  Then he noticed the spots of gravy upon the floor. Following the trail, he found it stopped at the closed doors of a parlor. He heard a rustle from inside and opened the doors. Scanning the room, he saw no one, but he was certain he had heard movement. The windows were closed, so the sound had come from inside the room.

  He almost dared not utter the name, for fear that doing so might bring about the reality he dreaded. Nevertheless, he tried it.

  “Millie.”

  Silence.

  Hoping he was wrong but determined not to rest till he had set his concerns at ease, he walked about the room. He stepped around a sofa and discovered a female form, curled like a mouse upon the floor, hiding behind the furniture, her derriere propped high up in the air.

  “Millie!”

  She started and scrambled around. She rose slowly, keeping her gaze averted.

  “What the devil do you do here?” he demanded, astounded.

  “I—I was looking for my, er—”

  “Not here in the room. Here. The château.”

  “Oh, well…” She had an inspiration and met his gaze. “What do you do here?”

  “I will have none of your impudence, my girl. Why are you here?”

  Her chin tilted up as she attempted as much dignity as she could while covered in gravy. “That is no affair of yours.”

  He drew in a sharp breath. “How is it not my affair?”

  “Because it is not! And since when do you concern yourself with others?”

  A muscle rippled along his jaw. He supposed it did not matter what her answer might be. He would have to see to her departure. The Château Follet was no place for her. He had made a promise to his aunt, and though he had thought he might fulfill her wish by taking a mild interest in one of his young nephews, she would be devastated if he did not rescue his cousin, whom he knew Katherine to be partial to.

  “How did you come here?” he asked. “Are you here with someone?”

  “I am here alone,” she said. “Now if you would kindly step aside, I should like to return to my chambers and divest myself of this gravy.”

  But he blocked her path. “That does not suffice. You say you are here alone, but how did you arrive?”

  “By horse and carriage.”

  He was torn between appreciating her ready retort and a desire to wring her neck. This was not the Millie he knew. Why was she behaving with such insolence?

  He narrowed his eyes. “Your parents would not permit their only daughter to travel alone. Who brought you here?”

  There was a stubborn set to her jaw, and it was clear she concealed something. His mind raced through the possibilities. He had not noticed Haversham’s presence and doubted the man was the sort of fellow Marguerite would invite to her château. Alastair considered Millie’s set of friends, but as much as they liked to flirt with danger, they were too naïve. Who else among Millie’s acquaintances could possibly…

  No. It could not be. Yet who else would know of Château Follet?

  He pressed his lips together. “Katherine.”

  Millie’s face fell.

  “Did you think me so dull-witted that I would not guess? Where is she?” he asked.

  “She left to stay with a friend and will return on the morrow.”

  He suppressed an oath. Setting aside his disbelief that his aunt would do such a thing as introduce Millie to the Château Debauchery, he fixed his mind to how he was going to take Millie away. He had not come by carriage but by horseback. He would have to borrow Marguerite’s carriage. He silently cursed. He had been looking forward to his stay at the château for some time, and instead of spending his nights with the beautiful redhead who had caught his interest, he would be chaperoning his gravy-adorned cousin away.

  “We start the festivities after dinner. How naughty of you two to depart the dinner table—and without a by-your-leave.”

  They both turned to see Marguerite at the threshold. Looking radiant in a gown that appeared to cling to her slim frame, she sauntered toward them.

  Millie flushed and lowered her eyes. “Forgive the impoliteness, Madame Follet.”

  “Marguerite, I have need of your carriage,” he said.

  The hostess raised her perfectly arched brows. “My carriage? You are not leaving?”

  “I fear we must.”

  “’We?’”

  “Miss Abbott and I. Tonight.”

  Millie looked up. “I made no mention of leaving.”

  He turned to her. “You are certainly not staying.”

  �
�Lady Katherine expects to fetch me from here tomorrow.”

  “I will sort the matter out with my aunt when I see her.”

  He still could not believe what Katherine had done. What was she thinking?

  “Mon dieu,” Marguerite exclaimed. “I do not understand. Why must anyone leave? You are both of you but arrived.”

  He spoke before Millie could respond. “This is no place for a respectable young woman—your pardon, Marguerite—and one who is betrothed!”

  Marguerite looked at Millie, whose countenance crumbled. “It is true,” she admitted. “I own it is most unseemly—”

  “La, my dear! Betrothed, married, or widowed, it matters not,” Marguerite said cheerfully. She turned back to him. “I am surprised you, of all people, care.”

  “Miss Abbott is my cousin!” he replied.

  “Ah, now I understand. You do not wish a scandal in the d’Aubigne family.”

  “She is not a d’Aubigne, and I don’t bl—care much about scandals.”

  Millie interjected, “Especially as you have committed more than your fair share of them.”

  He looked sharply to her before returning to Marguerite. “She will ruin herself if she stays here. No dowry in the world could save her then. Even that Haversham will not have her, I vow.”

  “And I should not despair at such an outcome,” Millie murmured.

  He looked once more to her. This was not the Millie Abbott he knew, and he had deemed himself an accurate judge of character.

  Marguerite glanced between them. “But how kind of you, Andre, to care so much for the reputation of your cousin. I would not have thought you capable of such tenderness.”

  He was very near to uttering an oath before two members of the gentle sex. Marguerite had never vexed him before, but he did not like that his consternation seemed to amuse her.

  “Your carriage, if you please, Marguerite,” he said.

  “I have no wish to leave,” Millie objected.

  “She has no wish to leave,” Marguerite echoed.

  “It doesn’t matter. I am taking her to safety,” he responded, ignoring Millie’s indignant gasp. “It is not that I do not esteem you, Marguerite, but you are more inclined to trust than not. And I do not trust all your guests. Especially the Viscount Devon.”