The Wish Club

by Stella Cameron

  “You do not think it is a little, er, ’ow do you say, sophistiqué for one so, er—”

  “You will make this for me,” Blanche announced. “Of course it is too sophisticated for Kirsty, but I was simply surprised to see exactly what I had in mind for myself. Kindly see me about it this afternoon. Come, Kirsty, you will select your own gown.”

  “There you are.” Max’s ringing voice made Kirsty jump. “I’ve searched this bloody castle for you, girl.”

  “Kindly temper your language,” Blanche said with hauteur. “And don’t presume to enter a lady’s chambers without invitation.”

  “Sorry,” Max said, looking at no one but Kirsty. “I apologize for the unexpected interruption in our morning. Lady Hermoine has now left, and we have a great deal to do.”

  “We’re in the middle of giving instructions for the gown Kirsty will wear to the ball at The Hallows.”

  “Kirsty?” Max glanced at Blanche.

  Blanche folded her hands at her waist and simpered. “The dear dowager insists that Kirsty attend. We both enjoy her company, and we know you will not be opposed to seeing her there.”

  Kirsty felt overheated and longed to leave the room.

  “I shall not attend the ball,” Max said.

  Blanche clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Not be there? Her Grace accepted for you—for all of us. Surely you would not disappoint her.”

  He pushed back his coat and planted his fists on his hips. His frown was magnificent. “Dash it all, when will I be able to speak for myself without my relatives interfering?”

  “You know your dear great-grandmama has only your very best interests at heart,” Blanche said, her blue eyes very round. “Why she does so want you to be happy. Of course, she is just a little selfish in that she enjoys your company. And she’s very proud of you. So, naturally, she wants to show you off in public.”

  Max grunted something that sounded like “manipulation,” then said, “Might I be allowed to see what you have in mind for Kirsty, Mrs. Bastible?”

  “Oh, Blanche, you know you may call me Blanche, dear boy. Of course you may see.”

  He touched the material lightly, picked up the necklace and weighted it, then bent over the fashion plates. Blanche trotted forward to remove the one that she had selected. “This is for my gown,” she said.

  “And which of these is for Kirsty’s?”

  “She hasn’t chosen yet,” Blanche said.

  Because I’m not going.

  Max spread out the plates and studied each one with care. “This one,” he told the woman, pointing out one Kirsty hadn’t seen—she hadn’t really concentrated on any of them. “Make sure it’s ready for a fitting as soon as possible.”

  His rapid change of heart and show of interest took Kirsty by surprise. Surely he could not seriously mean that she should attend the ball.

  The modiste curtsied to Max, and folded the material back into its box.

  “That will do very well,” Max said. “You should wear a great deal of blue, Kirsty, and that is most special. What are these?” He held out the necklace and did not appear pleased with it.

  “It is the dowager’s,” Blanche informed him. “She hoped it might compliment the moiré.”

  “Great-grandmama’s?” Max frowned and looked more closely at what he held. “Her aquamarines and diamonds. Yes, I see they are. And she wishes Kirsty to wear them?”

  Blanche had turned a trifle pink. “The dowager has always been a woman of great generosity. Knowing that Kirsty does not own suitable jewels, she determined to offer some of her own.”

  “A woman of great generosity,” Max repeated in a manner Kirsty found impossible to interpret. “Hm. I’m sure they will be much admired. They will certainly complement Kirsty’s eyes.”

  She could scarcely believe he had made such a comment.

  Blanche’s expression became smug and knowing, and she said, “Geneviève, I’ve changed my mind. I should like you to accompany me now. I always do these things in the company of the dowager. She does enjoy making her little jokes about my taste although I know she admires it. I’m sure I can rely upon you to help Kirsty find her way back to the Eve Tower, Max?”

  “I’m sure I shall manage,” he said, placing the necklace back in its box and giving it to her. “Tell Great-grandmama I think the jewels most suitable and that I shall thank her for her kindness in person.”

  “I shall do so,” Blanche said. The modiste already awaited her in the corridor. “If you have matters to discuss with Kirsty, please feel free to use my room. I always consider it a tragedy that it isn’t seen by more people.”

  Rather than answer Blanche, Max faced Kirsty and stared into her face.

  But for the swish of her skirts, Blanche left silently, taking Geneviève with her.

  “I do not love Lady Hermoine,” Max said gruffly. “I did not invite her to visit this morning.”

  But, Kirsty thought, neither had he either sent her away or stopped her from . . . well, from doing what she had done with him.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “No,” she told him.

  “You used to be almost painfully honest.”

  “I know my place.”

  “And does that mean you’ve decided you may not speak your mind—even when asked directly?” He narrowed his green eyes.

  Kirsty crossed her arms. How should she explain what she felt? “My position is difficult. Ye’ve already told me your desires. And we have already discovered we enjoy each other far more than is good for an unmarried couple to enjoy each other.” She should tell him the interlude had been wrong, that it wouldn’t happen again, but she couldn’t bear to consider that it might not.

  “Evidently at least one member of my family doesn’t frown on the idea of our being close.”

  “Who?” She turned from him and walked the room with measured steps.

  “Great-grandmama. And this surprises me greatly. She would not have assisted with your gown for the ball or lent you jewels if she were not encouraging our alliance. Contrary to Blanche Bastible’s assertions, the dowager is not a generous woman by nature.”

  “She has been verra generous t’me. And kind. Always kind.”

  “How so.”

  “Oh”—Kirsty made airy gestures—“she tries t’advise me on how best t’deal wi’ bein’ a member o’ a great household when I’ve no experience o’ it.”

  “Is that a fact?” Max backed away, turned, and locked the door.

  Kirsty swallowed and was certain she’d be unable to speak even if ordered to do so.

  “You seem to prefer locked doors,” he said, approaching her.

  There was nowhere to go, no means of escaping him. Not that she wanted to. He came to her and grasped her shoulders. She must keep a clear head, but her limbs had lost all feeling, apparently because so much feeling had rushed to other places.

  The way he looked at her was different, dark—angry. His fingers dug hard at the flesh on her shoulders.

  He was going to kiss her.

  At least she didn’t have to find a way to go and lock the door.

  “I want you,” he said. “Not as it was that night. I really want you.”

  And she wanted him.

  “All those wasted years . . . Ishould have come for you as I said I would.”

  She wetted her dry lips and said, “There wasna a promise, Max. I was only sixteen. Ye had your life ahead o’ ye, and it had t’be different from mine.”

  “Stop making excuses for me. I can’t wait for you any longer. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  Oh, she understood very well, and she knew what she must do.

  Roughly he pulled her against him and kissed her. At first the kiss was also rough. He opened her mouth with his and drove his tongue deep inside. Releasing her shoulders, he anchored his fingers in her hair and moved her head to accommodate his assault on her mouth.

  She held the sides of his jacket. Tears slid down her cheeks. She
had not been instructed on how to deal with what she was supposed to do when what she wanted to do was quite different.

  As abruptly as it had begun, the kiss ceased. High color slashed Max’s cheekbones, and his eyes were overbright. “Forgive me,” he said. “I never want to hurt you.”

  “Ye havena hurt me.” Not quite true, but the hurt was bearable because it brought them close. “I wish I could take away the anger, though.”

  “Wishes.” He laughed, not a joyous laugh. “What happened to our wishes?”

  She had kept hers, and never saw a bubble but that it reminded her of a sunny day, and a serious young man—and the promises they’d made to each other. “We grew up,” she told him. “And things changed.”

  “Then why are you crying? Because you’re happy they changed?”

  “I’m silly.” She smiled, and closed her eyes. “Just a silly thing who cries at anythin’.”

  His lips met hers again, softly this time. This time his was the softest, the sweetest of kisses, and she knew he could wipe out her resolve with such a touch, with such a tender raid on her senses. The tip of his tongue found the tip of hers. He used his mouth as a caress, and she returned that caress.

  With the backs of his fingers he gently rubbed the sides of her neck, then he held her face, and the kiss went on, and on.

  Kirsty felt his warmth, and smelled the soap in his linen, and tasted salt on his skin.

  When at last, oh, so slowly, he parted his lips from hers, it was so that he could see her face, place small, firm kisses where he pleased there, smile at her with his heart in his eyes, and in that smile.

  He had said he didn’t love Lady Hermoine.

  But he would marry her, and she, Kirsty, would have what he could give her: stolen times.

  She would share stolen moments of satisfaction with a married man.

  The tears welled again, but she smiled, and closed her eyes, and reached for his trousers.

  He said not a word. Not while she freed him, and not when she took him between her two hands.

  She heard his great indrawn breath, but squeezed her eyes even more tightly shut, smiled even more widely. His hips moved.

  His hands returned to her shoulders and once more his fingers hurt her.

  What she had been told was true. He became like iron and swelled larger and larger, and grew hot. She felt the tracing of distended veins, and the smoothness of him, then the beginning of what she knew she was to expect. The essence of him escaping onto her skin meant it would soon be over.

  She ached so deep inside. And she did not want to let him go.

  The steady jutting of his hips ceased. “I cannot believe this,” he murmured.

  Kirsty considered another of the directions she’d been given, but feared she might lose control if she followed it now.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She couldn’t.

  “We must go somewhere else,” he said. “This will not be enough.”

  Still she didn’t answer him. Instead she increased the speed with which she stroked him.

  “Stop.” He gripped her hands. “Look at me.”

  Kirsty opened her eyes but kept them lowered. The sight of him made any thought impossible.

  “My dear one. My Kirsty. What’s going on in that head of yours? What are you thinking about?”

  When she opened her mouth, her jaw ached. How could something so sweet, be so cruel? “Thinking?” She couldn’t explain. Her eyes closed once more. “I’m thinking about Kirkcaldy.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “He went directly to her, I tell you,” Hermoine told the countess and Horace. Really, this was too, too embarrassing. “She must be removed. I don’t care how, but she must be removed.”

  “How can you be sure where he went?” Horace asked, extracting a pinch of snuff from a box he liked to say was a gift from a royal admirer. He “couldn’t disclose the identity of the elevated personage.” He sniffed the snuff delicately.

  “Leave her alone, Horace,” the countess said. “She’s distressed, poor girl. Give her time to explain what went wrong.”

  “Nothing that was any fault of mine,” Hermoine wailed, throwing herself down on a divan in the countess’s parlor. “He . . . He . . . Oh, it’s too much. No, too, little. Oh, I hardly know how to contain myself at all.”

  Horace came to lean over the end of the divan where he studied her upside down. “Well then,” he said, “don’t contain yourself, love. I’ve always thought you were particularly sumptuous when not contained.”

  “Stop it,” she told him petulantly. She wished he would go away—completely away again, and stay away this time.

  “Let me remove your containers, my love. You are obviously weak from your exertions and should be cared for by one who really appreciates your talents.”

  She ignored him.

  “Tell us what happened again,” he said. “You thought he was mad for you, but . . . What exactly did happen then? You were vague.”

  “He’s sick. He’s obsessed with rutting the little peasant. Assistant? What kind of pathetic excuse for her presence can that be? He’s acting out some sort of sick fantasy, I tell you. She’s a poor, helpless child, and he’s having his way with her.”

  “Sounds to me as if you should be sorry for her,” Horace said. He’d removed his watch and began to trail the chain over the swell of Hermoine’s breasts.

  “Sorry?” she said. “I don’t give a fig about her. You said we would get what we want and that your plan would work. We should be impossibly rich by now.”

  “We have to have the journal,” the countess said, breaking her long, pensive silence. “Our friends are becoming restless. Too restless. I am receiving the kind of threats no lady should have to receive. I say it’s time to make our move.”

  Horace held up a hand. “Not so quickly, dear Gertrude. Haste can ruin everything. Allow me to set the pace, if you please.” With that he pressed his lips to Hermoine’s brow, and whispered, “You and I must talk.”

  She drew back from pushing him away and looked up at him until her eyes crossed and she blinked. “What about?” she asked softly.

  “A pie cut in two parts fills two stomachs so much more than a pie cut in three fills three stomachs, especially when one of those three stomachs expects to take a larger portion—much larger.”

  He wanted to cut the countess out. The idea both frightened and delighted Hermoine. The countess was capable of anything if she was crossed.

  “Stop whispering,” Countess Grabham demanded. “What are you whispering about?”

  “Forgive us,” Horace said, laughing and going to sit beside Hermoine. “Just a little love talk. She is a naughty girl, our Hermoine.”

  The countess huffed at that. “Kindly remember that you are not in charge here, Horace. In fact, you are supposed to be dead. Hermoine, explain exactly why your interview with Rossmara wasn’t a success. You said the girl left.”

  “And as soon as she did he could think of nothing but her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know. He . . . He . . .” She flapped a hand and squeezed out two tears.

  “He what?” Horace asked. “Do stop teasing us, darling.”

  “I’m not teasing. I’m embarrassed. I had my hands on him. On him. I’d given him a feel or two and added the spice of him knowing the girl was behind me but couldn’t see what I was doing—or what he was doing. So she goes away, and I’ve got his trousers undone and I’m down to my stays and drawers, and he . . . well, he . . .”

  The countess leaned forward.

  Horace leaned forward.

  Hermoine lowered her lashes. “One minute I held a steel stake on the lookout for a deep hole to dig, the next a . . . a . . . a limp snake with a fear of dark places.”

  Horace laughed. He clutched his paunchy sides and howled, showing every tooth in his mouth. When he could sputter a few words, he said, “Lost it, did he? Poor fella wasn’t up t’you, Hermoine. You frightene
d him. Oh, that’s rich, that is. That may come in useful, my dear. No man wants a thing like that talked about.”

  “No woman wants it talked about, either,” Hermoine snapped. “Stop laughing at once.”

  “Then what happened?” The countess wasn’t laughing. “No more avoiding the truth, my girl. We’ve serious business at hand, and time has all but run out.”

  “Well, I got dressed, didn’t I? What was I supposed to do? He turned his back on me and straightened himself, then sat at his desk and ignored me. I got dressed and sat at that creature’s desk. He told me to leave, but I said if she could be his assistant, so could I, and since he seems to like silly little slaves better than real women, I supposed I better learn to be a slave. An hour. More than an hour I sat there while he ignored me. Then he got up and left. Just like that. And he went to her.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” Horace said and, although she fought him, he lifted her up and sat down with her on his lap. “Kiss me. Kiss me as if I was him.”

  She shook her head. “I told you I have my sources. I waited there, hoping he’d come back to me. But someone came and told me he was with her, so I returned here.” Tears came easily enough, and she let them fall. A woman who could cry prettily possessed a great gift.

  Horace scratched her nipples through her dress until she wiggled and began to want him. He smiled and bent to tongue wet marks on the silk, and she wiggled some more. “I think I’ve got a new plan forming, sweetness. Gertie, can you stall our fat pigeons a few more days, d’you think? Until after the ball?”

  “Possibly. Why then?”

  “Wait and see. Hermoine dearest, you will allow me to guide you in the matter of your gown for the ball.”

  “You will do no such thing. Oooh!”

  Horace lifted her again and set her down astride his thighs. “Yes, I will,” he said, bringing his face close. “I’m going to make sure you hardly recognize yourself. And then—with Gert’s help—we’ll get what we want. You will be in a position to make sure we get the journal.”

  “I refuse to do anything unless I understand your plans,” the countess said archly.

  “So do I,” Hermoine said. She looked at the fumbling bump that was Horace’s hand beneath her skirts. “Oh, really. Don’t you ever think of anything else?” she asked him.