Night of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Being practical had never made anyone smile. Derek glanced at Miss Grey before quickly leaning toward his brother and whispering, “Go for a walk or something. So she and I can be alone.”

  Andrew’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare get us into trouble. Knowing what you and Lady Beatrice did in that alcove at Mother’s own party, the poor girl needs a chaperone.” Theatrically clearing his throat, his brother tilted toward Miss Grey, with an elbow on his knee and offered in a manly tone, “Forgive my brother. He imagines himself to be quite the bon homme.”

  Damn his brother for not leaving.

  Miss Grey smoothed her skirts and said to her toes, “If only he imagined himself to be a gentleman.”

  Andrew laughed and pointed. “If only! He knows nothing about control. Absolutely nothing. Ask Lady Beatrice.” He shoved an elbow into Derek’s side.

  Derek shifted his jaw and elbowed his brother back, reminding him they were related.

  Andrew stood and rakishly adjusted his school coat. Rounding their chairs, he snapped out an ink-stained hand toward her in greeting. “Allow me to introduce the real gentleman in this family. I am Mr. Andrew Mark Holbrook, youngest son to the Honorable Viscount Banfield, who is also known amongst his peers as ‘The Laughing Viscount’ due to his inability to control his jolly nature in public. It’s a Banfield trait. We all have our own control issues, or so I’ve been told more than once.” He grinned at her. “I wish to genuinely welcome you into London and into our grand home.”

  “Uh…thank you. That was certainly quite the introduction.” She paused and glanced at his ink-stained hand but didn’t take it.

  Andrew still held it out.

  She still didn’t take it.

  He edged it closer to her. “It’s a hand.”

  She quirked a brow. “I know what it is.”

  “No. You clearly don’t. You’re supposed to take it when it’s offered. It’s a form of greeting here in England. What? Do they not shake hands in America?”

  She gave him a hard pointed stare and countered, “It’s a dirty hand. What? Do they not have soap in England?”

  Derek snorted. Now that was good.

  “It’s ink,” Andrew drawled in agitation, wagging his hand closer toward hers. “I write novels. As the Lower Master always says, ink stains are the sign of an intellectual and no amount of soap can erase true brilliance.”

  She tsked. “You’re being incredibly rude by insisting I touch a hand that clearly hasn’t been washed in days.”

  Andrew flopped his hand to his side and trudged back to the chair and sat, rolling his eyes at Derek. “You can have her.” He shoved his dark hair out of his eyes, huffed out a breath, and glanced toward the closed paneled door. “When are we going to see Father?”

  “When the doctor or Mother says we can.”

  “And when will that be? It’s been over an hour. How is it this Mr. Grey was able to prance right in and we’re left out in the corridor with his daughter?”

  Derek sighed. “I don’t know. But if it were serious, we would have been told by now. You know how Mother is. She invents diseases.”

  At a sound from within, they both straightened, casting hopeful glances at the closed suite leading to their father’s rooms. Derek could hear the faint bass of Doctor Shire’s voice, two other voices, his father’s gruff laugh and the chink of china. The voices were indistinct and the heavy mahogany door remained shut.

  Derek bit back a smile, knowing his father was most likely telling the doctor to prescribe him a bottle of champagne and three slices of almond cake. As always.

  Miss Grey stared disapprovingly. “Your father is ill and you’re smiling?”

  Derek broadened his smile into a grin knowing she had been watching him. That only meant one thing. She liked him. “Don’t think the worst of me. My mother does this to us every year. The man gets a cough or a fever and the whole world has to know about it. She once kept him in bed for two weeks after he nicked his left arm with the edge of his fencing sword because she was incredibly worried an infection would end up leading to the amputation of his entire left arm. She called in eight different doctors for an opinion I could have very well given her myself. She is very much like that. The complete opposite of my father. He worries about nothing and she worries about everything.”

  “How curious.” Her brows drew together. “So whose opinion do you share, Mr. Holbrook? Are you more like your mother in that you worry about everything? Or are you more like your father in that you worry about nothing?”

  It would seem this treasure was trying to get to know him. “Actually, Miss Grey, I fall in between. The only thing I ever take too seriously is the impression I make on a lady.” Oh, yes. It was time to let her know just how interested he really was. For although he might have been earlier blindsided by her glorious presence, he’d never been one to remain blindsided when he genuinely wanted something. And he most certainly wanted something: her and him against the wall around the corner.

  He stood, dug out his tin of amber mints, and flicked it open. He held it out to her. “Keep it to one. They’re very strong but well worth the unexpected bite.” It was the ultimate test. If she could handle the heat of his candy, she could handle him.

  She peered down at the small tin that hosted the remaining amber hard candies. “What are they?”

  “If ginger and licorice ever fell madly in love and married, their children would look exactly like this. It’s an acquired taste.” And yes, he was also referring to himself.

  She leaned in and lifted her gloved finger above the tin as if to take one, but edged her fingers back and quickly lowered her hand. “I really don’t care for spiced candies. They usually overwhelm me. I prefer simple candies. Plain sweets. Do you have any honey sticks?”

  Honey sticks? This one desperately needed some excitement in her life. And he was more than willing to give it. “I’m sorry, love, but I don’t do honey sticks. Plain sweets do nothing for me. In my opinion, being overwhelmed is far better than being underwhelmed.” He edged in closer until their faces were only two hands apart and her skirts brushed his trouser-clad thighs. The fullness of those lips taunted him as he rattled the candies in the tin. “I can assure you, it’s worth trying.” He held her gaze. “I promise you’ll never be the same.”

  Her lips parted as she lowered her gaze back to the candies and perused each one as if they were different, even though they were the same. “I suppose I don’t mind trying one. How strong are they?”

  “Your very knees will wobble.” He took one out of the tin with his bare fingers and brought it to her mouth, gently tucking it between those already parted lips. “Now imagine me crawling onto your tongue.” He pushed it in, letting her moist lips graze the tip of his finger.

  Her eyes widened.

  Ah, yes. That was the reaction he was hoping for. He grinned, clicked the tin shut and put it into his pocket. Holding her gaze, he sucked on the finger her lips had touched, trying not to be too obvious about it, and asked, “What do you think?”

  She glanced at the finger he had sucked, her cheeks flushing. Her lips remained overly puckered as she winced against watering eyes. “I…sakes alive…it’s very…”

  He still grinned. “Intoxicating. I know. If you bite into it, it adds more fire. Do you like fire?”

  Her chest rose and fell more steadily. She waved a hand before her flushed face and pushed the candy around in her mouth and winced. “No. I don’t— This is…I can’t believe you actually like this. It’s like piling on…agony. My tongue is burning.”

  That wasn’t the only thing burning. Her flushed face was stunning to watch. He could only imagine what she’d look like after a kiss. He angled in very close to the side of her bonnet and whispered so his brother couldn’t hear, “If you can handle the burn, you can handle me. How about we disappear for a small while into the library? I promise we won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

  She choked and spit out the candy into her glove
d hand.

  He leaned back. “Are you all right? Is it coming on too strong?”

  She scrambled away, her chest heaving. “I can assure you, Mr. Holbrook, it isn’t the candy that is coming on strong.” She tried to flick the candy off her glove, but it stubbornly clung to the kid leather. She panicked and shook her hand once and twice, but it still clung.

  He closed the distance between them again. “You shouldn’t waste it. They cost a shilling a piece. Come here.” Taking her hand, he brought her palm upward.

  She stilled and their gazes locked.

  Still holding her gaze, he used his lips to fully take up the candy into his mouth, dragging his lips across the expensive leather of her glove so he could taste more than just candy. “You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”

  She gasped and yanked her hand away, her uneven breaths quaking. Setting a trembling hand to her corseted waist, she dragged in several deep breaths as her mouth opened and closed. No sound or breath came out. It was as if she were having trouble breathing.

  Derek froze, realizing she was having trouble breathing. Jesus. “Are you all right?” He leaned in close, grabbing her arm. “Do you need water? Should I call out the doctor?”

  She stumbled back, her chest rising and falling in uncontrolled panicked breaths. “N-no. I…I’m fine. Please don’t—”

  “Fine?” he echoed, veering in and taking her waist. “You are not fine. You’re barely breathing. I want you to sit down. You’ve been standing too long. Now come over here.”

  She leaned away. “I can’t…breathe with you—”

  “You need to sit down,” he insisted, pulling her close enough for his legs to get buried in her full skirts. “Now sit down.” He tried tugging her toward the direction of the chair only to realize she was still tilting back against his arms. He tried to straighten her with both hands. “What are you doing? Why are you resisting? I’m trying to—”

  “Stop it!” She shoved him, startling them both.

  He stumbled against her skirts and realizing he was about to fall, instantly released her arm and waist so she didn’t get hurt. Letting the weight of his body fall away from her, he fell against the chair he’d been trying to get her into, flipping it over. The back of his head hit the marble floor, stunning him, as the end of the chair dashed his forehead and clattered off to the side. He lay there staring up at the ceiling trying to figure out if he should ever get up again knowing he had officially made an idiot of himself.

  Andrew snorted. “And that is how Romeo committed suicide.”

  It was like performing before a live audience.

  Miss Grey scrambled toward Derek. “Oh God.” She knelt beside him, her skirts blanketing a part of him. “I…I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to—” Her trembling hands jumped to his face, feathering it with quick touches. Her eyes widened. “The chair marked you. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I shouldn’t have—”

  Derek decided to lay there and revel in those touches for free. It was so nice.

  Her features twisted as several large gasps escaped her. “Oh God, I…I hurt you. I—”

  Maybe reveling at her expense was not wise. “You didn’t hurt me, love. I’m fine. I fell out of a two-story window once. This is nothing.” He sat up, draping an arm against his knee and smiled. “I appreciate your concern, though. It takes away the sting of humiliation.” He rolled away then jumped to his feet, snapping out a hand toward her. “Allow me to help you up.”

  She gaped up at him, her braid swaying against her shoulder. “There is a sizable welt on your head.”

  He paused and dabbed a hand to it, unable to even feel it. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt. I’m fine.”

  She pushed herself up and straightened, several large breaths escaping her. “I shoved you a bit too hard.” There was still a slight quake lingering in that refined voice as she searched his face. “I’m so sorry. I truly am.”

  Touched by her genuine concern, he softened his voice. “Had I known my advances were going to keep you from breathing I would have asked you to sit down first.”

  Andrew coughed and glanced at the closed door across from them. “As I told you before, Miss Grey, my brother knows nothing about control.” Pushing up onto his feet, Andrew straightened and trudged across the corridor over to the closed door. “I don’t know about you, Derek, but I’m going in. It’s been over an hour.”

  Their mother would throw a boot at them for going in and interrupting her long list of questions for the doctor. “Andrew.” Jogging up from behind, he grabbed the collar of his brother’s wool coat and yanked him back before he could get to the door. Derek released the collar. “You know full well Mother gets ruffled when we nag at her about her imaginings. Leave it be. The sooner the doctor can dispel whatever ails Father, the sooner we can get back to school.”

  Shoving his fists into his pockets, Andrew huffed out a breath. “Who says I want to go back to school? I hate it there.” He turned and scuffed his way down the tiled corridor, staring at his boots with each step. His dark hair fell into his eyes. He swiped at it, clearly annoyed.

  Falling into stride beside his brother, Derek nudged his shoulder into his. “Are the Lower Boys bothering you again? Or is it one of the Upper Boys from my side this time?”

  “No. I wasn’t thinking about that at all.” Andrew came to a halt, his sharp features tightening. “What if Father dies?”

  Derek’s stomach dropped. “Don’t be ridiculous. You heard him earlier. He was in there laughing.”

  “Yes. Exactly. He sometimes tries to laugh off even the worst. You know that. I started thinking about this entire situation.” Andrew chewed on his fingernail. “I mean…don’t you think it’s rather odd that this-this…Mr. Grey, a man our father hasn’t seen in ages, would suddenly show up in London with his daughter?”

  An amplified sense of dread and panic made Derek smack his brother’s hand away from his mouth. “Bad things only happen if you will it. So cease willing it.”

  Miss Grey rounded on them from behind, her skirts rustling. “Not to argue the point, but I’m afraid bad things happen even if you don’t will it, Mr. Holbrook.”

  Derek paused, capturing her gaze.

  “When my father and I were in Spain a few months ago,” she went on, “a bearded man tried to grab me at knifepoint outside of our hotel. Do you think I willed it? No. I didn’t. Fortunately, my father took that man’s head straight to the pavement and hit his skull enough times to paint it red. Apparently, he was a Prussian revolutionist who thought kidnapping me would somehow change a law he didn’t agree with. That idiot is still in prison.”

  Derek stared. “You were almost kidnapped? At knifepoint?”

  She nodded. “It happens quite a bit given who my father is. If it isn’t a knife coming at us, it’s a pistol. And if it isn’t a pistol coming at us, it’s a brick. As Papa says, people can’t keep their opinions to themselves. But beside that, my point is, bad things happen. All the time. That is why I like to spend most of my days in my room painting. That way, I assure my own safety.”

  By God. Who was she?

  Voices echoed, making them all turn in unison toward the now open bedchamber door.

  A somber Mr. Grey emerged followed by his mother.

  Lady Banfield’s dark eyes solemnly darted over to Derek. She lingered, her hands clutching the sides of her indigo morning gown. Her pale face was mournful and her usually playful eyes were faded, the rims swollen and red from tears. All those brown, stiffly pinned curls that were routinely immaculate were frayed and lopsided, making her look much older than her seven and thirty years.

  He stiffened. “Mother? Is Father—”

  “He wishes to speak to you, Derek,” she offered in a strained tone. “I have been advised by his doctor to call for a priest. Be prepared, my darling. Your father is having difficulty breathing and may not last beyond the night.”

  Derek stared, listening to his mother’s words that ma
de absolutely no sense. The longer he stared and tried to focus, the louder her words echoed in his own head. His father wouldn’t last the night and was DYING. Everything momentarily blurred. He turned his gaze to the staggered gilded paintings of his ancestors and their calm, refined faces that lined the walls of the corridor. They seemed to smear. Mocking him.

  “Quickly,” his mother prodded. “He is waiting.”

  The doctors had to be wrong. They had to be. “What about Andrew?” he whispered.

  His mother’s voice softened. “You’re the heir to the estate, Derek. Andrew will see him once all matters of the estate have been addressed. Now please. His strength isn’t what it should be.” She gestured toward the open door. “Go to him and close the door.”

  This wasn’t real. His father must have been misdiagnosed.

  Hurrying past his mother, Derek jogged to the open door where Mr. Grey still lingered. The choking stench of vomit, urine and mulled wine pierced his nostrils. Derek almost retched but forced himself to breathe in and out of his mouth to control it. Edging into the darkened room lit by lamps and candles, he closed the door.

  The heavy curtains had been tightly drawn over the windows facing out to the garden.

  Sparse light and dark shadows shifted across the massive four-poster bed displaying a grim, gaunt, sweat-ridden figure propped against a wall of pillows. His father stared out at him with hollow, dark eyes, looking nothing like the strapping, jolly, and boisterous man Derek had last seen during Christmas and Twelfth Night holiday.

  This was not his father. It was the ghost of what had been. Derek couldn’t breathe. This was not recent. It had all been happening while they were away at school. His mother was either cruel or deeply misguided to have kept his father’s illness a secret this long. Especially after countless years of calling in doctors when he wasn’t ill at all.

  Viscount Banfield, whose exposed arm was bandaged from bloodletting, weakly patted the space beside him with a pale hand. The lace-edged linen of his nightshirt fluttered with the movement. “Closer.” His chest heaved. “We…we mustn’t waste time.”