The Wish Club

by Stella Cameron

  “Trust me in this. But, and this is of the utmost importance, you must also continue in the position Max has given you. If you don’t, you will only confirm all the gossip that’s already flying around the countryside about you and Max. This is why I’ve decided you must remain here—to dispel rumors. I insist that you stay and work hard at being the very best assistant you can. I’m certain you will make an excellent job of it. After all, you’re intelligent, interested, and willing to learn—and you’re a woman. You’re bound to be successful.”

  Confusion made Kirsty’s head fuzzy. “I’m t’stay?”

  “As Max’s assistant. He needs an assistant and it might as well be you now that he’s announced to the world that it’s you he’s chosen. We must just make sure that we squash any gossip suggesting that you are Max’s mistress.”

  “I’m so worried about my family. How did ye say we make sure there’ll no’ be anymore gossip.”

  “By having you continue working for Max while we go ahead with preparations for his marriage. You must understand that my first duty is to my granddaughter—Lady Justine. She’s a weakling, and if her ambitions for Max go awry, I fear she may slip into a decline.”

  “I care for Lady Justine,” Kirsty said, feeling weak herself. “I’ll have no part o’ hurtin’ her.” Although, Kirsty thought, that lady had always seemed particularly strong.

  “Good. You must exhibit great decorum. I understand a modiste is here to make you some gowns. I’ll oversee that project myself. You will be demure and most serious about your work. And, especially in front of others, you will show distant deference to Max—and absolutely no personal interest. A little bob of a curtsy from time to time wouldn’t go amiss. And you might hold your head on one side, with your eyes lowered, when he speaks to you. In fact, it would be better if you never initiated any conversation with him when others are present. Make sure you walk behind him a few paces. If you should ride out with him, do the same thing. Keep some distance, with yourself in the rear. Are you remembering all this?”

  She nodded, and wondered how she would perform this drama without ruining the entire effect by laughing.

  “Kirsty, I want to tell you a few things. I expect you think me a heartless old woman, don’t you?”

  “I think you a great lady who puts duty before all else. It canna always have been easy for ye.”

  “Of course it was easy,” the dowager snapped. “When one is born to a certain station in life, the rigors of that station are second nature. Never mind me. I believe that young rake, Max, does love you. But I also believe he will do what he must do.”

  Every sweet word carried its own barb. Kirsty dried her moist palms on her skirts.

  The dowager continued, “He will do what he must, but he will have his longings, and men are not as strong as women in these matters. It will be up to you to be strong for both of you.”

  Kirsty waited quietly, hoping she would soon be dismissed from this most terrible of interviews.

  “However, there are certain ways in which a woman can assist a man to tolerate his disappointments. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Kirsty said. “D’ye mean he may try t’kiss me or somethin’ even though he’s married to Lady Hermoine? I dinna think he will. He’s too principled.”

  “Hah! You may be highly intelligent, but you clearly know little about men who are accustomed to getting their way. If I have taken correct measure of the situation—and I am never wrong in these things—he will not only try to kiss you, he will try to do a great deal more. If you are not both strong, and practiced in the ways of reducing his sense of need, then disaster may occur regardless. You, my dear, can do a great service for Max, and the future of this great estate.”

  “I can?”

  “You can. Do you comprehend the phrase, ‘to pleasure?’ ”

  Scrunching down as small as possible in the chair, Kirsty said, “I think I do.”

  The dowager grunted. “I doubt it. It means to give carnal satisfaction. With all the base sensations that go with it.”

  “Base sensations? Oh, I know Max would never want any part o’ base sensations.”

  “Oh, enjoyable sensations, then.”

  “He’d like those, I’m sure,” Kirsty said. “He seemed to last night.”

  The dowager was silent for so long that Kirsty shifted forward in her seat to peer at the old lady. “Are ye well?” she inquired.

  “Perfectly well. Now, to pleasuring Max when necessary. We’ll approach this in a cool, businesslike fashion. I imagine this will usually take place in his study.”

  Kirsty frowned, concentrating hard, and said, “In his study?”

  “Yes, in his study. You will be able to tell the event is imminent by the manner in which he finds ways to be physically close to you. He may even touch you. Or attempt to kiss you.”

  Touching her mouth, Kirsty admitted to herself—with some chagrin—that she hoped Max would frequently try to kiss her.

  “When this series of events occurs, the door should be locked to make certain there are no embarrassing intrusions.”

  “If someone tries to open the door, they’ll wonder why it’s locked.”

  “And you will always go immediately to Shanks—after an event of pleasuring—and inform him that you and Mr. Rossmara locked the door because the nature of your work required that you not be interrupted, but that the work is now complete.”

  This seemed remarkably complicated.

  “Am I then t’let Max kiss me—after the door’s locked.”

  “Oh, my dear girl.” Deep sadness darkened the dowager’s words. “If only I thought it could be that simple. No, no, you will be required to perform a selfless act which will ensure Max’s satisfaction and be a great trial to yourself. Women have always been called upon to suffer so. But it will be over soon enough.”

  “Your Grace—”

  “You’re quick. You’ll grasp the essence easily. It’s what you call his Part. They’ve all got them. Did you know that?”

  “I did assume as much.”

  “Well, you’re correct. Each and every one of them owns a Part and is helpless to ignore its demands. When you feel them taking over his reason, lock the door, open his trousers, and take matters into your own hands. He won’t argue.”

  Surely, Kirsty thought, surely she misunderstood.

  “At least for the foreseeable future, follow my simple request and we’ll get through. Later we may have to rethink matters. Stimulation. That will get the job done.”

  “Stimulation?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Stimulate the Part. Make sure you smile and appear delighted to do so, and he’ll allow you to guide him almost immediately. And afterward he will be ridiculously grateful and, we hope, easily managed. There is only one unfortunate possibility, my dear. But you won’t let it stop you, will you?”

  “I shall do what you want me to do,” Kirsty said, not at all sure she’d ever survive her first attempt.

  “Good. But I wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t warn you that he may become almost, well, almost addicted. Or so it will seem. But if he starts coming to you first thing in the morning when you’re expecting to get to your work, and he locks the door himself, you’ll know what he wants, won’t you?”

  Max? Behaving so? The idea was bizarre, but she must give credence to the other woman’s long experience with human behavior.

  “I know you won’t fail me. And if it should happen that he comes to you not just once, but several times during a day, well then, have courage. Just smile, close your eyes, and think of Kirkcaldy.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Max rotated his shoulder. The wound might be what Kirsty termed, “a scratch,” but even though several days had passed since the attack, the injury was far from comfortable.

  He’d left his father and Arran at the breakfast table—arguing as to which, if either, of them should be present at ceremonies to welcome Queen Victoria to Edinburgh in August.

  Such issu
es bored Max—not that he’d been invited. He grinned wryly at the thought.

  Of more interest, and far deeper concern to him, was what continued to be the unresolved mystery of who had invaded his rooms, and Kirsty’s—and why.

  There had been no further mysterious—or dangerous— incidents, but he had not had a night of sound sleep since the event. He awoke frequently, listening and peering into the darkness.

  He smiled again, this time aware of quite a different feeling. No doubt if he had Kirsty in his bed at night, his slumbers would be a great deal deeper—if still frequently interrupted.

  With breakfast over, there was a great deal to be accomplished today.

  He’d decided that if he could train Kirsty not to leap up and lock the study door every time he approached her desk, their situation could be said to be almost perfect—in the professional sense. Yes, in fact, after a number of days working together things were settling down remarkably well.

  He was far from satisfied with their personal relationship.

  They had no personal relationship.

  It was as if their night together had never taken place. Kirsty would not as much as walk beside him, choosing instead to remain some distance behind as she did at this very moment.

  He mused about these things almost ceaselessly.

  She had taken to curtsying frequently. Most annoying.

  She never raised her eyes to meet his, although she did smile—constantly.

  He should find her polite demeanor above reproach. It made his teeth ache with the longing to tell her to be herself.

  Not a single conversation did she initiate.

  And, most annoying of all, gowns produced by the modiste and her assistant—although of excellent cloth and not black—closely resembled the style worn by his great-grandmother.

  He must try harder to put Kirsty at her ease, and speak to the modiste himself.

  This afternoon he planned to join his father and uncle on a visit to several of the tenant farmers who worked land in the northernmost reaches of the estate. These hardy fellows enjoyed their independence but still liked visits from the lairds from time to time to discuss the state of things and deal with any needs.

  Kirsty would accompany them. He had finally coaxed her onto a sweet-tempered little mare, and after four rides his pupil was already showing signs of becoming a competent, if timid, horsewoman. He had spoken with his uncle Arran and his father early the previous evening, and they’d decided to visit the Mercers early in the afternoon, before striking out north. Peace must be made between Kirsty and her family, and it had been agreed that if she was seen in the respected role she played at the castle, there might be hope of a truce between parents and daughter.

  Max strode into his study—with Kirsty trailing behind— and halted. Lady Hermoine Rashly’s presence there wasn’t a happy surprise. She jumped up from her chair the instant Max and Kirsty entered.

  “Be angry with me for intruding, Max,” she said. “I deserve it. I left The Hallows before the household was fully awake. And I sneaked in here without being seen. But I simply couldn’t stay away a moment longer. Hello, Kirsty, how lovely to see you again. I’m so glad you’re here to make Max’s burden lighter. I hope you try to make sure he doesn’t work too hard.”

  Kirsty said, “I do my best, my lady. I’ll leave ye alone.”

  “Remain please, Kirsty. We have a great deal to do. How are you?” Max asked Lady Hermoine, while he watched Kirsty settle in her chair and open a ledger.

  “Better for seeing you, dearest.” Lady Hermoine, a vision in pale purple, took tiny, hesitant steps toward him. “I haven’t heard a word from you in days. Are you angry with me?”

  “No.” Not angry, bloody furious. She reminded him of what he wanted most to forget—his damnable social responsibilities.

  “Dearest, you will come to the ball, won’t you? It will be our first opportunity to be seen—really seen together in society. I wish it were not a whole week away.”

  Max evaded the question.

  Kirsty turned a page but didn’t seem to read anything she saw. She hadn’t picked up a pen.

  “Well, I know how busy you are, but we really do need to talk,” Lady Hermoine said, her tone becoming higher, and less designed to charm. “About the arrangements for our wedding.”

  “Not until my mother returns to Scotland. And while my sister is increasing, I shall find it difficult to concentrate on many things—except my duties.”

  Hermoine raised her bare shoulders and lowered her chin coyly. “I hope it won’t be too long before you will be concentrating on another increase. One that will be of even more concern to you.”

  He stared at her for some moments before he realized she was alluding to being with child herself—with his child. He managed to disguise an involuntary shudder by brushing at his sleeves as if to remove dust. For once his eyes met Kirsty’s. They looked at each other for longer than was necessary, and he was certain he read sadness and hopelessness in her expression. And he cursed convention.

  “Is it true that Dahlia came to see you?” Lady Hermoine asked abruptly, all affected gentle nature discarded. “Well, I know that she did, because Zinnia told me so. I must warn you that those three, Zinnia, Dahlia, and Wisteria, are to be discouraged from thinking they are welcome visitors here. My poor aunt tolerates them out of reverence to the memory of a dear friend, their mother. Frankly I think the countess should send them packing. They are parasites, and meddlesome to boot.”

  “Hmm.” Max tried to appear interested.

  Lady Hermoine turned away and looked over her shoulder. “Sometimes I have an unpleasant notion that they are not even who and what they are supposed to be. Could that be possible?”

  “Anything,” Max said, “is possible, I suppose. But I understood they were the daughters of a friend of the countess. Surely—”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m overprotective of the dear countess. What did you say Dahlia came here to discuss?”

  “I didn’t,” Max told her. Kirsty had picked up a pen and bent her head over the ledger, but had yet to make a single stroke on the page. “I have never met Miss Dahlia. Or either of the Misses Zinnia and Wisteria, for that matter.”

  Lady Hermoine walked behind Kirsty and looked over her shoulder. “How very boring that looks, Kirsty, but someone must attend to these boring matters, I suppose.”

  Kirsty nodded, but kept her face hidden.

  “If you didn’t see Dahlia, who did?” Lady Hermoine looked up at Max.

  Damn the woman. She had no right to question who came and went from this castle, not yet and possibly never. He would remain polite. “I am the estate commissioner here. I am not concerned with minor domestic matters, such as visits from neighbors.”

  Lady Hermoine laughed, suddenly, piercingly, and said, “Oh, you are so masterful, Max. A truly marvelous challenge. It’s a wonder—and I shall be grateful until my dying day—a wonder that some strong woman has not persuaded you to let her take you into her hands by now.”

  Kirsty dropped her pen, and it rolled from the desk. Before she could leap to her feet, Max retrieved it and returned it to her. She made to take it, but he retained a hold until she was forced to look at him once more.

  Some deep suffering hovered within her.

  He smiled at her while he longed to take her in his arms.

  He released the pen, and she lowered her eyes once more. His temper began to simmer.

  With much swishing of her tiered and lace-edged skirts, Lady Hermoine came to his side and threaded both of her arms around one of his. She raised her face to his and favored him with an unsmiling gaze. She passed her tongue over her lips, then brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it slowly, keeping her eyes on his. That stare was laden with sexual invitation.

  He glanced down. Her boned bodice thrust her enticing breasts high. The flesh trembled. She put herself between Kirsty and Max, and this time it was to her bosom that she pressed his hand. “We have a great d
eal to discuss,” she said. “You must feel that as much as I do.” In case he was particularly dim-witted, she spread his fingers and maneuvered a nipple into his palm.

  His rod sprang hard. He ought to send her packing, but if he was to be forced to take her as his wife, why not enjoy the one thing he was likely to enjoy about her—a willing and enticing body?

  Using her considerable skirts to mask what she did, Lady Hermoine managed to touch him. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head sharply.

  The lovely Hermoine smiled, and Max was reminded of a plump, white cat preparing for a tasty meal.

  “Kirsty,” Hermoine said, more evenly than Max would have imagined possible under the circumstances. “I’m sure you’ll understand if Max and I ask you to give us a little time alone. After all, it’s quite suitable since we are to be married.”

  Max opened his mouth to countermand her, but she had her strong fingers around the one part of his body that could become beyond his control.

  Kirsty had set down her pen and risen from her chair. She went wordlessly toward the door, and now Max did not dare try to move away from Hermoine.

  “Thank you,” Hermoine said. “I told Max he had made an excellent choice in retaining you, and I was right. We’ll send for you when we’ve finished our discussion.”

  With a rustle of drab green taffeta, Kirsty left.

  Hermoine released Max and put a finger to her lips. “I shall laugh until I am sick,” she whispered. “The poor thing hadn’t a notion what we were doing.”

  “Don’t ever—”

  Her lips, sealed to his, cut off his words. She fastened her arms around his neck, flattened herself to him, and thrust her tongue deep into his mouth. Her hips ground against his, but then she shifted, lifted a knee between his thighs and rubbed his ballocks so hard he winced.

  He’d never encountered a woman like her, not since a certain lady in Oxford some years earlier when he’d been too inexperienced to guess that her cries of passion were practiced frequently, and paid for just as frequently.

  “Oh, this is wonderful,” Hermoine breathed. “It’s beyond all.” She swung away from him and stood panting, her breasts rising and falling rapidly.