Night of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  She hated the feeling of having her emotions amplified.

  At least here in London no one knew who they were. Her father had no political affiliation with the Whigs or the Tories or Parliament itself. That made her like the idea of London very much. No one was going to try to kill them for supporting the wrong political party.

  Not that she was going to stay in London long enough to care.

  She glanced toward the blackened sky beyond the windows. Large drops of rain slowly splattered and tapped against the glass. Within a few breaths, the window was smeared from a deluge and the cobbled street they rode on became a blur of water spraying everywhere as people draped their coats over their heads and darted beneath building doorways.

  Tightening her gloved hold on the beaded reticule set in her lap, Clementine glanced toward her father.

  His horsehair top hat was pushed back from his dark brows as he casually angled the leather bound book he was reading toward the glass window in an effort to get better light despite the dark sky. He turned the page and kept reading, squinting at the text.

  “You shouldn’t read with so little light,” she commented.

  “Don’t nag me, dear.” He attempted to lessen his squint by holding the book further away from himself. He angled his head and squinted all the same.

  She lowered her chin. “If I didn’t nag you, you wouldn’t have any eyes left in your head. Where are the reading glasses I bought for you?”

  “Tine, I’m far too young for reading glasses. I’m only fifty-two.” He kept reading.

  He was such a child. He always had been. By all accounts, he really shouldn’t have been allowed to raise a daughter. He consumed more cognac than any human ought to gulp and shared all of his cheroots with her as if they were bonbons. Even worse, his political alliances with unpopular men he financially supported usually resulted in someone wanting them dead.

  Another crack of thunder made her jump.

  He lifted his gaze, revealing sharp blue eyes. “Are you all right?”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “Yes. I’m fine.” Annoyingly, thunderstorms reminded her of angry mobs. And in particular, one stormy night three years ago when a group of riled men had broken into their home and tried to smash everything after her father supported a Catholic man who had been elected mayor. It was the first time she’d ever fired a pistol. And the last. She wasn’t very good at aiming and had shot holes into everything but the men destroying her home. She had far better luck using vases against their heads. “Thunderstorms unnerve me, is all.”

  He slapped his book shut and set it on the upholstered seat beside him. “I imagine seeing Banfield again is what really unnerves you.”

  That much was true. She had been writing letters to Banfield since she was fourteen, after she had left England to go back to New York back in ’23. And with every passionate letter he wrote, she couldn’t help but linger on the memory of an overly-flirtatious young man with playful brown eyes who, from their first meeting, seemed wildly intent and overly eager to make her his to the point of sending her into a panic. Whilst his letters had proven to reflect that he had matured and grown into an intelligent man, he simply expected too much. She repeatedly tried to tame him over the years through letters by getting him used to the idea that they were merely companions assigned to a lifelong duty (which she planned to abandon) but it only resulted in him stubbornly signing all of his letters with ‘My whole heart goes out to fetch you’. Unlike him, she wasn’t one to gush about her emotions. In her eyes, such uncontained passion led to very bad things. She only hoped Banfield was prepared to accept the truth she was set to deliver: they weren’t getting married.

  Her father sat up, dug into his coat pocket and removed the silver casing holding his cheroots. Snapping it open, he held the case out. “Did you want one?”

  She stared at it, wanting to say yes, but promised herself she wouldn’t. She’d grown a bit too dependent on the habit and as a result, smoked every time something bothered her. Which pushed her through a lot of cheroots. “No, thank you. I shouldn’t.”

  Her father slid one out. Sticking it into the corner of his mouth, he shoved the silver casing back into his pocket and dug out a flint and a match. Striking the match, he cupped the flame to the end of his cheroot and puffed. “All of the wedding arrangements have already long been taken care of by Banfield and his mother. From my understanding, you’ll be getting married this upcoming Monday.”

  She sat up. “What?”

  He chuckled. “No need to panic. We will manage. Banfield got ahead of himself in planning everything. We were supposed to arrive earlier in the month and the boy was overly excited. Let him be. I find it charming.”

  What was so charming about a man shoving aside all etiquette by not including his own bride in any of the formalities involved? A bride who wasn’t even going to be at the wedding. Gad. It was a mess. She still didn’t know how she was going to tell her father about it.

  Waving away the flame to extinguish the match, her father tossed the burnt stick into an ash pan attached to the seat and dragged in a long breath before letting smoke out through his nostrils and mouth. “Whilst I don’t doubt Banfield invited a jolly bunch, maybe we ought to have the footmen deliver invitations to random doors throughout London and see who shows up. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Her father’s idea of fun had always been the opposite of her own. “Yes, and why not invite the Zoological Society, including the animals themselves? At least that way we would know what to expect from all of our guests when they arrive.”

  He wagged the cheroot at her. “Stop nagging. Can’t the father of the bride have ideas?”

  “When they belong to you, I worry.”

  “Yes, yes, and I love you, too. I’m certainly not going to miss all of your spoilsport nagging. Banfield can have it.”

  She tightened her hold on her reticule. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Grey, but my nagging kept your hands out of the sideboard all these years.”

  He grunted. “Men drink, Tine. It’s what we do.”

  “No. It’s what you do. Because rational men don’t drink four decanters of cognac in the middle of the day then stumble around looking for more. You may think me to be naïve, but I’m not that naïve. I was the one who pulled every drink from your hand since I was ten. Every drink. And you know it.”

  Her father said nothing. He rolled the cheroot in his hand, staring down at it.

  It was like seeing the broken man she grew up with. She softened her voice. “You are doing infinitely better.”

  He shrugged. “I’m trying.”

  She reached out across the distance between them and touched his knee to acknowledge his pain. She wasn’t one to give affection, even to her own father, but whenever he needed it (like he clearly did now), she delivered. “I know you’re trying, Papa. And I’m very proud of you for that. You haven’t faltered in over eighteen weeks.”

  He cleared his throat. “About that. I uh…I drank some cognac with Banfield yesterday. More than I should have. He offered it during contract negotiations. I felt awkward saying no.”

  She groaned. “Papa. You didn’t have to drink it just because he offered it.”

  He winced. “I know. I…” He puffed out a breath, deflating both cheeks. “Fortunately, I didn’t let it get out of hand. I stopped myself right after I emptied a full decanter.”

  Which, sadly, was light drinking for her father. She sighed. “So now I have to worry about you again? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No. I’m fine. My valet knows to keep all the decanters filled with water and I already paid off everyone in the hotel to ensure they don’t service me anything stronger than tea.”

  That was something.

  The carriage rolled to a halt, causing her to sway against the movement. The torrential rush of rain drowned out all sound. She paused and glanced toward a looming four-story aged limestone home bordered with iron black gates bearing a crest of a sword pl
aced over a sprig of heather. Footmen holding umbrellas scurried to open the gates.

  The carriage rolled through, drawing closer to the massive limestone home beyond.

  She leaned toward the window, her lips parting. Ivy, living and dead, covered most of the limestone and fingered the very sills of each narrow window. It made the house look old. Not at all what she remembered. Set against a thick, dark sky heavy with rain, the structure had no welcoming light glowing through any of the countless windows. It was like visiting a cemetery. “This isn’t Banfield’s house, is it?” She tried not to sound appalled.

  “Yes. It’s his London residence. Don’t you remember? We visited him almost every day for ten weeks back in ’23.”

  Most of the ivy had not only grown but died. Despite what her father thought, she remembered the house very well. She remembered it being so much more inviting and manicured. Perfect. Not this. “Have you been sending him money?”

  “Of course I have.”

  The unkempt dead ivy said otherwise. “How much?”

  “Clementine, please. You make it sound like I’ve been neglecting the boy.”

  She pointed at the house. “Something has clearly been neglected. How much have you been sending him? I have a right to know.”

  “A full thousand every June, every year. Why?”

  “Only a thousand a year? Papa, how did you expect him to upkeep a house like this and a house in the country on a thousand? My clothes cost me more than that. How—”

  “He never asked for more. If he had, I would have gladly given it. I simply didn’t want him to think he had access to unlimited funds until the marriage contracts were signed.” He lowered his voice. “As popular as he has always been in his circle, he could have very well taken off with someone.” He paused. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

  She wished to God she had been more aware of the funds he’d been distributing to Banfield. Her father, whilst generous, had a tendency to get protective of his money. “He is the son of your closest and dearest friend whom you swore to protect from ruin. How could you—”

  “Don’t lecture me, Tine. He is getting three million in return for your hand. Three million. That is how I am honoring and protecting the boy. As for you, Miss Clementine Henrietta Grey, I damn well hope you’re no longer associating with that Persian nonconformist. It was fine to socialize with him as a friend back in New York but you’re about to be a married woman. And married women don’t align themselves with Persian bachelors.”

  She decided not to say anything. That Persian nonconformist, after all, was her closest and dearest friend who was going to ensure she hopped on the next boat to Persia. She glanced toward the old Georgian house. An old house that dredged up memories she wasn’t ready to face. She could almost taste him through that spiced candy that had burned her mouth well enough to make her think she still tasted it. All of her fears, all of her emotions and all of her buried insecurities unfurled itself into the one thing she never expected: Banfield.

  Her throat tightened.

  It was why she was leaving him. She was a woman of control and he was a man of no control. Their union would never amount to anything but the misery she grew up with. Lowering her gaze, she opened her reticule and dug out her personal silver case of cheroots she always carried. She promised herself she wouldn’t smoke, but how else was she going to survive the afternoon? She needed it.

  Flipping open the monogrammed casing, she pulled one out. “So when does Banfield get the money?” Setting the cheroot between her lips, she struck a match and lit it, gently puffing. Wagging the match, she tucked it into a small ash pan embedded onto the side of the seat. Inhaling the earthy smoke, she slowly blew it out, finally feeling at ease. “It’s important that he get the money soon.” Before she left to Persia.

  Her father rolled the lit cheroot against the tips of gloved fingers. “I’m simply awaiting his signature on all of the contracts. Once they are delivered to my solicitor, the money is his.”

  She was so relieved. It was the least she could do for Banfield. “Thank you, Papa.” She dragged in a puff, letting the warm smoke fill her mouth and paused, realizing there was a male figure standing in one of the windows of the house, staring out toward her. Her fingers stilled, holding the cheroot in midair by her lips right before the carriage window for all to see.

  The man, whoever he was, could see her smoking.

  She sensed it was Banfield.

  She tossed the cheroot to the floor, crushing it with her heel. Her heart pounded.

  The figure turned and disappeared.

  The carriage clattered past the window and beneath a stone portico, silencing the rain as it came to a halt. She glanced back toward the window that was no longer in view. “Be sure to tell me when he signs the contracts and gets the money,” she insisted.

  “You really needn’t worry.” He smirked. “I’m good for it.” He yanked his cheroot from his lips. “You should have been there during contract negotiations yesterday. That boy did nothing but talk and talk about you as if you were the Queen of England coming into his home to stay. He is incredibly excited about the wedding. Everyone is.”

  She lowered her gaze, regret pinching her. “I know.”

  He grinned and pointed. “Who says money can’t buy you love?”

  The poor man really seemed to think money could buy him love. She tried to rescue him from his stupid way of thinking, but realized he didn’t want to be rescued. So it was time to rescue herself. For that was the one thing she could control. “I’ll miss you, Papa,” she murmured, a part of her already saying good-bye.

  He smiled. “I’ll miss you, too.” His smile faded. He sighed. “I’ll be leaving London shortly after you get married. I wish I could stay, but they need me back in New York.”

  A woman had to grow up and stand on her own sometime. This was her time.

  The door to the carriage swung open. Footmen in red livery unfolded the stairs and stepped aside in unison, revealing a massive oak door with an iron lion head knocker.

  Clementine tucked her silver casing of cheroots into her reticule. Dread scraped every inch of her soul. She really wasn’t ready to face Banfield knowing what she was about to do. Because it wasn’t like she wanted to hurt him. She liked him. Very much. Too much.

  “Tine, the footmen are waiting.”

  She rose, pulling her cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders. Gathering the fullness of her chartreuse morning gown from around her slippered feet, she extended her hand to one of the footmen waiting and was guided down. She stared at the imposing door that had yet to open, nervously fingering the reticule hanging from her wrist.

  Her father flicked his cheroot off to the side and stood beside her beneath the portico.

  The entrance door opened, revealing buffed black and white marble tiles and not just one but two sweeping staircases that rounded toward the same landing on the second floor of the house beyond. A dozen footmen in red livery and a balding butler dressed in black serving attire lined the inside entrance of the grand hall, their shoulders set and ready to serve.

  Her father touched the small of her back, ushering her forward.

  She walked inside, her steps echoing. Her lips parted in reverence. “I remember this.” Her gaze lifted up and up toward the cathedral height ceiling leading into the home and a massive crystal and gold chandelier that illuminated the vast, ornate space of pale silk walls. She remembered how the façade of the home did not reflect the glory inside.

  It always seemed so incredibly impressive for an entrance hall. Even the richest of New Yorkers, like themselves, usually kept their entrance halls simple. True American knickerbockers of old money, which is what they were, believed wealth was to be displayed in one’s mannerisms, not one’s living quarters.

  The sound of approaching booted steps made her veer her gaze toward the end of the corridor where a very tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with a self-assured stride announced that he was the master of the hous
e coming to personally greet his guests.

  Her pulse thundered in her ears. It was Banfield.

  Despite the sizable distance, she could make out a dark-grey morning coat, an embroidered blue and gold waistcoat, a knotted white cravat and black wool trousers that tapered snugly into a pair of polished leather boots.

  As his well-muscled frame drew nearer and his rugged face came into full focus, her heart flipped. He’d grown into quite the man. Broader. Muscular. The portrait he’d sent didn’t do him justice. He was ridiculously handsome. Those sharp, refined features reminded her of a dashing politician about to take the podium and address his people.

  That smooth, long-legged stride and set, shaven jaw hinted that he was a man in control of not only himself but the world. Astoundingly, that golden-brown hair, which appeared to be fashioned at shoulder length, had been pulled back into a ribbon similar to what her grandfather might have worn back in the 1700’s. She couldn’t believe he wore a queue. No one wore a queue anymore.

  It was as if he was trying to stand out amongst his peers. And he certainly did.

  He came to a regal halt several strides away from her and her father.

  The scent of freshly starched linen pierced the air between them.

  A breath escaped her. He was so beautiful he belonged in a museum behind glass with the large brass inscription that read ‘Adonis.’

  Intense brown eyes skimmed her appearance. He searched her face for a moment and inclined his head, the black ribbon tying his hair cascading against his high collar. “Good afternoon, Miss Grey.” His voice was deep and refined, laced with an opulent British accent that showcased several generations of tradition. “At long last we touch the same soil.”

  She respectfully inclined her head. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  He lingered for a moment before averting his gaze to her father. His features playfully brightened. “Mr. Grey! Good to see you again. You’ll be pleased to hear that all of the contracts were hand-delivered to your solicitor with all of my signatures not even an hour ago.”