by Cheryl Holt
He ushered the women to the foyer, and they proceeded up the stairs to dress for supper. When he should have followed them, he found himself marching in the other direction, gleefully eager to discover Miss Barnes’s purpose.
Within minutes, he was out in the forest, and it didn’t take long to locate her. She was down the path, talking to a chubby, balding fellow who—from his prissy attire and demeanor—Jordan knew he would loathe. Neither of them had noted his quiet approach, and he rudely spied on them.
From how they were arguing, it was clear that they were well acquainted, but even so, Jordan was stunned as Miss Barnes suddenly grabbed her hapless companion, pulled him close, and kissed him.
The incident was too humorous for words, and it was all Jordan could do to keep from laughing aloud.
They drew apart, her partner giving her a good scold. Then he huffed away, and Jordan shook his head in dismay.
Lucky girl, indeed.
She looked so sad, so beaten down, and he felt a peculiar stirring of sympathy.
Why had he watched her being humiliated? If she turned and saw him, she’d be mortified. He was disgusted by his crass conduct, just as he was annoyed that he’d suffer any compassion for her.
What was the matter with him? Why was he tagging after her like a besotted swain?
He’d worked to cultivate his image as a wretch, and it wasn’t all show. His father’s constant and harsh criticisms had molded Jordan into the contemptible reprobate he’d become. Jordan had been the second and flawed son who’d been unable to replace his perfect older brother, who’d drowned when Jordan was a boy.
Jordan’s father was convinced that Jordan was a useless incompetent, and Jordan delighted in proving him right. He’d behaved badly for so long that he’d forgotten how to commiserate or care.
As Miss Barnes spun toward him, prepared to slither home in defeat, he’d recovered his aplomb and any concern for her was vigilantly masked. He was casually leaned against a tree and grinning from ear to ear.
On seeing him, she blanched.
“Hello, Miss Barnes.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I made it a point to find out. After our previous meeting, I couldn’t bear that we hadn’t been properly introduced.”
“You are such a liar.”
“Don’t you want to know my name in return?”
“I already know it—Lord Redvers—and I wish I didn’t.”
“You may call me Jordan when we’re alone. May I call you Mary?”
“Never, you bounder. What are you doing out here?”
“Following you.”
“Following me! Are you insane?”
“It’s often claimed that I am, but mostly I’m just aggravating as the dickens.”
He pushed away from the tree and started toward her.
“Hold it right there.” Her palm was extended to ward him off.
“No.”
“I’m serious. Don’t come any closer.”
“Women have been ordering me about my entire life, but I never listen.”
“How much did you see?” she demanded.
“Enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you could benefit from some lessons in kissing, and I’m volunteering to be the one who provides them.”
“Ooh!” she fumed. “You are a swine and a bully.”
“And those are my good qualities.”
A veritable ball of umbrage, her fists were clenched, her body trembling, her brown eyes ablaze with fury.
She was a petite, slender jewel, hidden in a dowdy gray dress and severe hairstyle. Beneath the bland exterior, she was actually quite magnificent. Had any man besides himself ever noticed?
Her face was heart-shaped and lovely, her skin creamy and smooth, her lips red and lush as a ripe cherry. In a fashionable gown, with a low-cut bodice and a tightly-laced corset, she’d definitely be a sight.
He reached out and—quick as a snake—yanked a few combs from her hair. The lengthy tresses, shot through with strands of red and gold, tumbled down her back in a rich, mahogany wave.
She yelped with outrage. “You are the most offensive, ill-mannered cur I have ever—”
“Who was that fellow?” he interrupted.
“What fellow?”
“Your partner—and I use the term loosely—in passion.”
“You must be mistaken. I was out here by myself. The whole time.”
“You deny that you were kissing a man?”
“To my dying breath,” she insisted, and he laughed and laughed.
“Miss Barnes, you certainly know how to brighten up a boring afternoon.”
She glowered. “If you ever tell a single soul, I will kill you in your sleep.”
“Mrs. Bainbridge would miss me if you did.”
“She’d likely be the only one.”
“I’m sure you’re correct.”
She shoved him, hoping to flit by and continue on, but he was too much of a boor to let her go with any grace.
He clasped her wrist and tugged her near, and he could sense that she was terrified as to his intentions, and he wasn’t clear, himself, as to what he planned. He wasn’t about to become involved with Felicity’s spinsterish half sister, so what was he doing?
He hadn’t a clue.
“Let me show you something,” he said.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I told you that I never listen to women.”
“Couldn’t you turn over a new leaf just for me?”
“Why would I want to?”
He drew her even nearer so that her entire front was pressed to his. He could feel her thighs, her mons, her belly, and most of all, he could feel her pert breasts crushed to his chest.
At the naughty contact, his anatomy reacted so vehemently that he frowned, not able to understand her allure. For some reason, she spurred his desire to misbehave. If he lingered too long in her presence, he couldn’t guess what transgressions he might commit.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he advised.
“You are not.”
“I am.”
“I forbid it!”
“I don’t care. I’m going to do it anyway. Close your eyes.”
“No.”
“You need this from me.”
“I don’t.”
“It will work wonders for your character.”
“My character is fine just the way it is.”
“No, it’s not. Trust me: You need a thorough kissing like no woman I’ve ever met.”
She appeared firm and adamant, determined to deflect any advance, which was absurd. Why fight the inevitable? It seemed as if fate was carrying them along, and he could no more avoid kissing her than he could will himself to stop breathing.
“Close your eyes,” he said again, and he dipped down and touched his mouth to hers.
In the history of kisses, it wasn’t much about which to brag. He didn’t maul or grope, didn’t hug or fondle—though he did stroke a curious hand across her soft, beautiful hair.
Other than that, he simply stood very still, the sweetness of the moment sinking in, and he had to admit that he’d never felt anything like it.
He pulled away and scowled at her, and her expression wasn’t much better. They were both surprised; they were both irked. There was an unwonted connection between them, and they were flustered by it.
“That was ... was . . .” she stammered, struggling to describe what had happened, but she couldn’t quite clarify it.
“Let’s do it again,” he amazed himself by saying, and he bent to her, frantic to initiate another kiss, but craving so much more.
For the merest second, she permitted the embrace, then she lurched away.
“I don’t want this from you,” she claimed. “I don’t want this at all.”
She pushed by him and ran, and for a crazed instant, he considered shouting her name, chasing after her, catching up to her, and . . . and
. . .
The ludicrousness of the notion astonished him.
What was he thinking? She was a flirtation, a passing fancy. Nothing more. Nothing less.
With her gone, the magic that had fueled the interlude vanished, and what they’d done seemed silly and strange.
Why was he so affected by her? Why had he fallen under her spell?
If the deserted spot could produce such bizarre conduct, perhaps he was standing on bewitched, fairy ground.
He shuddered, then started after her, walking slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.
Chapter 3
“LOVE potions! Medicinal tonics!”
Mary stared down from the curricle at a peddler, who was hawking his wares by the side of the road.
“Love potions! Medicinal tonics!” he cried again. “A cure for every affliction known to man!”
It was market day in the village, and Felicity had asked that Mary accompany her to carry any packages.
Mary usually enjoyed the outing and went along eagerly, but when she’d agreed, she hadn’t realized that Felicity had also invited Viscount Redvers. He was driving, and Mary was squished onto the too-small seat, with Redvers in the middle and herself and Felicity on either side.
Her thigh and arm were pressed to his, and though she squirmed and shifted, there was nowhere to move so that he wasn’t touching her.
He kept glancing over at Mary, as if they shared a naughty secret—which they did. Once, when Felicity had been looking in the other direction, he’d even winked at Mary.
Every time he opened his mouth, she braced, certain he was about to reveal their shenanigans in the woods. So far, he’d been blessedly silent on the issue, which she deemed a miracle.
He was more obnoxious than anyone she’d ever met, and she couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t seized the opportunity to humiliate her. No doubt he was waiting for the exact moment when he could inflict the most damage.
She’d never been so uncomfortable, and she was grumpy and exhausted, having lain awake all night, pondering their kiss. She hated to admit that it had been marvelous, and the thrilling episode left her overly depressed.
As Felicity proceeded toward matrimony, Mary seemed further away from it than ever, and she was desperate to change her fate.
“Oh, do stop, Redvers,” Felicity gushed when she saw the peddler’s brightly painted wagon.
Redvers tugged on the reins, expertly bringing the horse to a halt. “Needing a love potion, are you, Felicity? Would you like to climb down and sample his merchandise?”
“I hardly require a potion to make men fall in love with me.” She placed a coin in Mary’s hand. “Mary, find out if he has any green ribbons for sale.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Mary queried.
“Buy me some at the milliner’s in the village.”
“How am I to get home?”
“You’ll walk. How would you suppose?”
Mary always walked to the village and back, so she wasn’t surprised by Felicity’s pronouncement. Nor was she upset by the contemptuous tone in which it was delivered. Felicity didn’t understand how awful she sounded, and she’d view her conduct as a means of showing off for the viscount.
Mary had only inquired because if Felicity needed Mary while shopping, or if Mary couldn’t be found when Felicity was ready to depart, Felicity would erupt in a rage.
Mary couldn’t win, no matter what she did, and she was in no mood for one of Felicity’s tantrums.
If Redvers hadn’t been with them, Mary would have voiced a caustic retort, but with him watching, she ignored Felicity and slid down from the high perch, declining his offer of assistance. As her feet hit solid ground, he leaned over the rail.
“You’re looking a bit peaked, Miss Barnes. Why don’t you buy a ribbon for yourself, too? Try a red one. It might put some color in your cheeks.”
As if she were a begging pauper, he dangled a coin between finger and thumb, and she gazed up into his blue, blue eyes, wondering why he’d be cruel to her in front of Felicity. Felicity’s derision she could tolerate—she was used to it—but his was too much to bear.
She was about to stomp away in an embarrassed huff, when Felicity said, “Honestly, Redvers. Don’t spoil her! Next I know, she’ll be demanding lace for her petticoat!”
Mary’s temper flared, and merely to spite Felicity, she plucked the coin from Redvers’s grasp. He laughed, cocky and confident in his ability to induce her to take it. He clicked the reins, and they sped off, dust from the wheels wafting over her as she struggled to calm her fury.
It was pointless to let Redvers’s behavior bother her. He was a dandy and a fool, and after he wed Felicity, Mary would likely never see him again. He and Felicity would move to London or wherever it was that he kept a house.
He was insignificant to her future, yet his disdain hurt. How could he cavort with her one day—as if she was special, as if he relished her company—but treat her like a servant the day after?
She took a deep breath and shook off his condescension. Why dwell on it?
She went to the peddler who, unfortunately, had observed the pitiful scene. He was very handsome in a rugged way, young and dark-haired with olive skin and black eyes that made her assume he was a Gypsy.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Barnes.”
Mary scowled. “Why do you know my name?”
“The monsieur mentioned it.”
“Oh.”
“I am Philippe Dubois, and I am so very happy that you have stopped at my humble cart.”
“Hello, Mr. Dubois.”
He had a charming French accent, and he swept up her hand and gallantly kissed her knuckles. He glanced down the road to where the curricle had disappeared, and he clucked his tongue, his expression sympathetic and concerned.
“The grand gentleman,” he said. “He does not love you?”
“No, of course not.”
“But you wish he did.”
“No, no.”
“I can see, cherie, that you don’t tell me the truth. Will he marry the blond beauty, instead?”
“It’s being arranged even as we speak.”
“Ma pauvre amie,” he mused. “What will become of you when he does? Will your heart break?”
“Definitely not,” she scoffed. “I’m here to purchase some ribbons. Have you any?”
“You do not need ribbons. But something else, perhaps?” He led her around the wagon to a rack filled with bottles and jars. “Would you like a potion to change his mind? Or maybe a curse so she grows ugly and old?”
“No, just ribbons.”
“How about a tonic that makes you irresistible to him? You slip it into his soup or his brandy, and after he drinks it, he will kill to have you.”
Mary chuckled, humored by his aggressive selling. Unsuspecting females often acquired these sorts of fake medicinals—and swore by them—but she was a modern woman and unaffected by superstition or nonsense.
There was no cure for what ailed her.
“I’m not marrying Lord Redvers. I wouldn’t want to marry Lord Redvers. He would be absolutely wrong for me. So if you have no ribbons, I’ll be going.”
She might have left, but he clasped her wrist, turned over her hand, and studied her palm. He traced a finger over and over the center as if an imperative message was written there.
After a lengthy assessment, he sighed with dismay.
“What?” she asked, even though she hadn’t planned to encourage him. “What do you see?”
“You would like to marry someday, yes? But just not the fancy lord?”
“How did you guess?”
“It is what all women crave.”
He evaluated her, and it seemed that he could read her mind, that he comprehended how lonely she was.
“You have hopes for a certain man,” he said, “but he has never appreciated you. He has never valued you as he ought. Am I correct?”
Stunned by his perceptive abilities, she gaped, then
nodded.
“Well ... yes.”
“C’est scandaleux! You’ve been waiting so long! You’ve been so patient!”
She nodded again, her discontentment bubbling up. “I suppose I have been.”
“I have what you need,” he claimed.
“You do?”
“Here.”
He opened a small box and retrieved a vial containing what appeared to be red wine. He placed it in her palm, carefully, as if it was priceless and fragile.
“What’s in it?”
“It is the Spinster’s Cure.”
“The what?”
“The Spinster’s Cure,” he repeated, as if it was a remedy with which everyone was familiar.
“You’re joking.”
She tried to give it back to him, but he wouldn’t take it.
“You laugh now,” he advised, “but you do not understand magic.”
“Not only do I not understand magic, I don’t believe in it.”
“You will,” he vowed. “If you drink this tonic while staring at the man you are destined to wed, you will have him as your husband. Within one month, he will be yours.”
“He will not.”
“He will! Je garantie!”
She peeked in the vial, shook it, sniffed it. “What? No eye of newt? No bat’s wing? It looks like wine to me. It doesn’t seem very mysterious.”
“Pah! I don’t need a witch’s brew to help you. This is an ancient recipe passed down from my grandmother—and all her grandmothers before her.”
Obviously, he’d seen Felicity and Redvers giving her money, and he was hoping to wheedle it out of her. But she wasn’t about to be gulled into parting with it for a worthless elixir.
“No, thank you. I don’t require any assistance in managing my personal affairs.”
He scrutinized her, then threw up his arms in disgust. “You think I cheat you! You think I try to steal your money with false healing! So ... you will have it for free.”
“Have what?”
“The cure! You will have the Spinster’s Cure for free. I can’t bear that you are so unhappy, so it is my gift to you.”
He pressed the vial into her hand and curled her fingers around it, as if sealing the deal.
“I don’t want it,” she insisted a final time.