Night of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Her eyes widened. She gathered her skirts and frantically followed him out into the foyer. “I don’t understand any of this. He said nothing in his missive to me about— Did he tell you why he changed his mind? Because I haven’t betrayed him. I haven’t—”

  He came to a halt and glanced at her from over his massive shoulder. “Is someone waiting for you?”

  She paused. “Yes. My chaperone is waiting outside in the carriage. Why?”

  “I suggest you leave at once. Your visit has lasted too long and I have things to do.”

  “But—”

  “But what? It’s incredibly simple, Miss Grey. His Royal Highness commands that you go to your own wedding.”

  She floundered between panic and uncertainty. “But I…but…go? And then what?”

  “You marry Lord Banfield and live happily ever after. What else?”

  It would be a mess if she stayed. It would be a mess if she tried. There was no doubt it would end in her smashing the last of who she had always fought to be: reserved, calm, and collected. “But Nasser knows how I—”

  “His Royal Highness believes it would bring dark spirits into all of our lives if you left Lord Banfield and went to Persia.”

  Dark spirits? What— This wasn’t happening. This was supposed to be her way out. This was supposed to be—

  She was beginning to wish she had never slipped into that alcove where she happened upon an overly serious, tall dark figure in ceremonial attire who asked her one very simple question in an alluring foreign accent: “If you were a man, azizam, and had complete control over an entire country, what would you command from that country?”

  It was the beginning of a twisted friendship that had led to the ultimate bargain between a man who was a lover of men and a reserved woman whose greatest fear was loving a man she had fallen in love with through a bunch of stupid letters. “He can’t do this to me. He can’t—”

  “He just did.” Lord Brayton reached into his pocket and snapped out a calling card. “If you have any complaints about the new arrangement, take them up with His Royal Highness.”

  She snatched the card away and sighed. It would seem she was going to have to call on Nasser in broad daylight after all.

  There was a scraping of metal against the floorboard and the pattering of feet. “Brayton?” a young boy’s voice echoed from atop the stairs. “Can I play with this?” A dark haired boy held a saber so massive, he was physically tilted to one side in an effort to keep its weight off the floor. His wool trouser-clad leg was barely inches from the thick side of the sharp blade that dangled.

  Startled, she snapped out a gloved hand toward the boy standing at the top of the stairs. “Don’t move. Don’t— Your leg— Lord Brayton, do something!”

  Lord Brayton sighed. “Pardon me for a moment.” He jogged up the stairs, shaking the floorboards she was standing on, leaned down and gently removed the saber from the boy’s small hand. “Never touch these unless I’m around,” he gruffly pointed out. “Or your mother will use every last one of these blades against me. Is that what you want? Do you want me to die?”

  That freckled nose scrunched itself. “No.”

  “Good,” Lord Brayton returned. “I appreciate that.”

  The boy’s features brightened. “Can I play with the smaller daggers instead?”

  Dearest Lord. She didn’t know anything about children, but she knew this wasn’t right.

  Lord Brayton tsked. “I already asked about it. Your mother said no.”

  “She would give me the mitten. I never get to have any fun. Not ever.” The boy paused. Seeing Clementine, he perked and jogged down the stairs toward her, landing with a big hop and a thud before her. He craned his head back to look up at her, his dark hair falling back and away from his forehead. “My name is Jacob. But I ask that you call me Mr. Jacob. I’m a gentleman, you know.”

  She hesitated and politely offered, “How do you do, Mr. Jacob? My name is Miss Grey.”

  “Miss Grey?” He grinned, exposing three missing teeth. “You don’t look grey to me.”

  That actually made her smile. “Why, thank you, Mr. Jacob. I appreciate that.”

  He lowered his small chin, perusing her gown. “Jumping crickets. I’ve never seen anything so nice.” Reaching out a small hand, he slid a hand over the fabric, then brought over the second hand, his lips parting. “Mama would like this dress.” He paused and glanced up at her. “Can I buy it off you for a shilling? Her birthday is next week.”

  Oh, dear heavens. If only the boy knew it had cost her forty pounds.

  She lowered herself to the floor, her gown bundling around her as she searched his bright and eager features. His teeth were missing in three different places and for some ungodly reason she momentarily imagined what it would be like if she and Derek had a boy. He’d be just as bright eyed and full of mischief. Like his father. And she had no doubt Derek would be giving the boy his own tin of spiced candy to carry around.

  Her throat tightened. “If you give me a shilling, Mr. Jacob, I’ll ensure she gets a new dress. A far better one than what I’m wearing.”

  He blinked. “A far better one?”

  “A far better one,” she assured him.

  His eyes widened. He swung away, hopping up and down on scuffed boots as he pointed at her and addressed Lord Brayton. “She needs a shilling! Give the woman a shilling. A shilling! Before she changes her mind!”

  Clementine set a gloved hand to her cheek and slowly shook her head. Were children really this adorable? Why had she never noticed that before? She paused. Maybe because she had actually never been around any children. Ever. Not even as a girl. She hadn’t even played with any. With the amount of traveling she always did for her father’s political events, she had only ever been in the company of adults.

  Lord Brayton heaved out a breath and dug into his waistcoat pocket. “I don’t have a shilling, Jacob, but I do have a guinea. Here.” He tossed a coin from above stairs.

  The boy popped out both hands and scrambled in an effort to catch it but it tinkered and rolled past his reach. He booted his way over to it with pumping arms and swiped it up. Hustling back over, he triumphantly held it out to her between two fingers. “It’s a guinea. And a full guinea amounts to exactly twenty-one shillings. I know my math. So please send my mother twenty-one pretty dresses. And maybe even a bonnet.”

  A startled laugh escaped her. “Even a bonnet, you say?” she drawled.

  He paused, still holding out the coin. “I’m not being funny. If the bonnet is too expensive, don’t include it. But she needs dresses. Pretty ones. Not the ones she has.”

  Now she knew what it was like when others chided her for not having a sense of humor. She gently took the coin from his hand. “Thank you for your timely and generous payment, Mr. Jacob.” She sighed, her smile fading. Now she was going to have to add this to her list of things to do before leaving London. “What is your mother’s name?”

  “Miss Leona Olivia Webster.”

  She paused. Miss? That meant the woman had the boy out of…wedlock. Her heart squeezed knowing the hardship the two must have endured. Now she knew she had to help. “I will take your mother’s name to the Nightingale at once. Have you ever heard of it?”

  “Isn’t that a bird?”

  “Yes. But this a very special bird. From what I am told by Lady Banfield, it’s a very exclusive shop on Regent Street that very few people have access to. It is said the French gentleman, Monsieur Luc Chevalier, who heads the shop is related to the same woman who had once made all of Marie Antoinette’s clothes.”

  Those eyes widened. “The queen who lost her head during the revolution?”

  “The very one. Have your mother go there and give her name. Tell her when she gives her name, she will have as many dresses on credit at the shop as she wants. After all, why limit her to a mere twenty-one? She must have however many she needs. Yes?”

  He laughed. “Yes, yes, yes!” He kissed her on each cheek leav
ing sloppy, wet marks that made her cringe. He jumped up and down, flailing his arms and leaning left to right and right to left again. “She will have the most wonderful birthday yet! All thanks to my guinea!” He skipped down the corridor and back again, his face flushing in excitement.

  Clementine slowly rose to her full height again, smoothing her skirts around herself and felt an unexpected sadness grip her. One she had never allowed herself to feel. Because she would never know this. She would never know the skipping of feet or flushed cheeks or excited voices. Not unless she…knelt to giving herself and Derek a chance.

  Jacob clumped up the stairs, stair by stair, up toward Lord Brayton. Jumping onto the landing with swinging arms, he pointed up at the towering man standing beside him and said, “I owe you another guinea. I’ll pay you when I become a chimney sweeper.”

  Lord Brayton smirked. “I heard that one before.” Grabbing hold of the child’s head, he pushed him toward the corridor. “Now go and read some books.”

  “The ones in your room?” the boy asked. “With the pictures of bubbies?”

  Lord Brayton paused. “No. The ones in your room. With the pictures of gardens and animals.”

  “Gardens and animals? I’m six, Brayton. Not two.” The boy huffed out a breath and grudgingly stomped out of sight.

  Lord Brayton whirled the saber as if to test its weight and then stabbed the long end of the blade into the wooden floorboards, using the floor itself as a holding place for the blade. He cleared his throat and casually thumbed toward the direction the boy had disappeared. “He isn’t mine,” he rumbled out.

  She stared up at him disapprovingly. “Thank goodness for that. A boy of his age should never touch a sword that size or be referring to books with bubbies. Where is his mother?”

  His demeanor cooled all the more. “Where she should be. In the kitchen.” He inclined his head. “It was a pleasure.” He disappeared around a corner.

  She glanced in exasperation at the calling card she had been given. The expensive gold lettering on the ivory cardstock revealed the number 14 on Park Lane. She sighed. It was time to call on the Persian devil with whom she had clearly made one too many bargains.

  The double mahogany doors leading into the lavish private quarters of His Royal Highness were swept open by two dark-skinned men dressed in identical flowing emerald-green garbs bound by thick, red sashes around their waists.

  To her surprise, a very pretty silver-haired woman sashayed toward her, a long string of expensive pearls swaying against a sizable bosom hidden beneath a lavish morning gown that rustled with the sway of her corseted hips. The woman formally inclined her head, sending the small feathers within her pinned hair waving. “Bonjour.” She flirtatiously smiled in the way a woman did when harboring a naughty secret and pertly whisked her way out into the corridor and out of sight.

  It would seem Nasser was trying to make a new name for himself.

  Without waiting to be formally announced by the wigged butler in livery, Clementine swept in, her slippered heels clicking against the gleaming white marble. A line of servants departed the large receiving room and the doors she entered through finally closed, leaving her to address the prince alone.

  She veered toward a long-legged young man of olive skin. He was dressed in formal black, save his red silk cravat and red embroidered waistcoat, and was leisurely stretched out on a green velvet chaise with a book angled open just below his square shaven jaw. His black hair was meticulously swept back with tonic, making it look like smooth glass. His features were sharp and incredibly manly. One would never know by looking at him or interacting with him that he was a lover of men. Of course, she knew he had to play the manly role very well. A whisper of who he really was would annihilate his chances to take the throne.

  Set beside his chaise where he lounged was a decanter of brandy, grapes, and a half-eaten browning banana that had been angled onto a silver tray.

  She came to a halt beside his chaise and coolly glanced down at him. “You must find yourself amusing. All of a sudden you think you’re Cupid?”

  Still intently reading an Arabian leather-bound book, with his dark brows drawn together, he said in a heavy accent, “I am Persian, azizam. Not Roman. If you are going to toss gods at me, please reference Tammuz instead. Otherwise, you are insulting me and my culture.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Might I ask who this Lord Brayton is and why in heaven’s name a man of his size is living with Banfield’s brother?”

  He kept reading for a few moments. “His name is Dalir.”

  “Dalir? You mean it isn’t Lord Brayton?”

  “To his people he is known as Lord Brayton. But to me, he was re-born when he came under my protection. He has been serving me and the Persian crown since I was sixteen.” He kept reading. “He was not at all pleased when I gave him the assignment to come to England. He did not want to return to his old way of life, but he was the only one with British heritage who could come into London without anyone suspecting I was sending him.”

  “You sent a spy? Are we at war now? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No. Not at all. I sent him into London ahead of me to investigate what I was getting into. A man does not seize another man’s woman without knowing what his rival is capable of. That would be ignorant on my part.” He glanced up at her. “Did you find my Dalir dashing? Did you like him?”

  “Like him?” she echoed. “He has more muscles than tact.”

  “Leave him be. You know nothing about him.” He turned a page and kept casually reading. After a long moment, he asked, “Did you miss your prince? Or are you here to be a woman and scold?”

  She sighed. “What is this business of you commanding me to stay in London and marry Lord Banfield? Given all that you know about me, you cannot possibly—”

  “Forgive me, but are you a good-looking man and do you own a crown?”

  His sense of humor was as non-existent as hers. “I thought we were friends.”

  “Yes, I thought so, too. And then you disappointed me.” He lowered the book onto his chest, resting it against his embroidered red waistcoat. Piercing black eyes of immeasurable depth met hers. “Why did you not tell me Lord Banfield was in love with you?”

  She flushed and felt the room shrink. It would seem everyone knew about Derek’s affection for her. Not that he had ever been particularly quiet about it. Derek had more or less asked her to marry him within five minutes of them knowing each other. “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated.” His masculine lips pursed. “Does this mean you love him, as well? Did you also omit that complication?”

  She inwardly winced. “Why are you— You have no right digging into what he and I share. This is between him and me.”

  He rigidly pointed at her. “No. You involved me and therefore it is now between all three of us.” He sat up, slapping his book shut and tossed the book onto the chaise beside him, the large ruby on his gold ring glinting against his finger. “When it comes to matters of the heart, we Persians dare not disrespect its strength or its honor. In our culture, love begins with God himself. It is known to our people as tawhîd. If a woman violates the sanctity of love by hurting the man she claims to loves, she is violating God himself.”

  Lovely. She was officially Satan in his eyes. “So what are you saying? That I get three lashes on the back for this?”

  He glared. “Do not forget who you are addressing. In my country, when someone lies to the crown, they get more than lashes. Their heads are removed from their bodies with a saber the size of tiger.” Grabbing her by the waist, he yanked her down hard onto his lap and adjusted her skirts around them, smoothing the fabric. The musky sweet scent of davana ittar surrounded her. He tucked his chin against her shoulder. “I am not happy with you, azizam. You lied to me. You told me you were forced into the arrangement and that you and he had nothing in common and would only make each other miserable. That is why I offered my assistance. To prevent you from being miserable. That
was our agreement. But Dalir informed me that there is a far greater bond between you and this man that goes beyond the arrangement. This Lord Banfield apparently has been writing you love letters since you were fourteen. And that you have responded to every single one of his love letters.”

  She groaned. “This isn’t fair. You have no understanding of—”

  “If you think life is fair, allow me to show you the door,” he bit out. “Dalir investigated everything. Why? Because I never go into anything blind, azizam. Not even when I trust the person whose hand I shake. A man of my ranking and power would be stupid to do so. I have already entrusted far more into your hands than I have ever allowed myself to trust anyone. And how do you reward me? By telling me lies. Apparently this Lord Banfield and his brother are good men and come from a loving family. A far better family than I could ever hope to offer you. Because unlike my mother and brothers and sisters, my father is a cold and wicked man. Your very breath would freeze in his presence. Knowing all this, why are you asking that I take you to Persia and destroy a good man who loves you? I wish to understand.”

  A soft breath escaped her, remembering the anguish in Derek’s face and brown eyes when she had announced the end of their union. It still hurt. It still— “Please don’t do this.”

  He adjusted his chin harder against her shoulder. “You worry about becoming your mother, but you are still hurting this Lord Banfield. As such, you are becoming your mother whether you wish to be or not. Do you not understand that, azizam? If you love him, and he loves you, you cannot hurt him like this. Are you truly that cruel?”

  She closed her eyes and laid her head against Nasser’s, wishing she could make everything inside her own mind disappear. The shouts. The breaking of glass. The words of hate. The words of hate that still lived within her. “He deserves more than what I have living within me. He sees the world in a beautiful golden light I’ve never been able to touch. Even when we were younger, he had this-this…incredible quality and tone and playfulness I never had. He has always been Adonis and I am…Bubona. The goddess of unsmiling cattle.”