Promise of Pleasure

by Cheryl Holt

  “He will do whatever he pleases, and you will turn a blind eye.”

  “I won’t!” Felicity swore. “I demand that you speak with him. I demand that he send her away. At once!”

  Victoria scoffed and waved toward the door. “Go away. I can’t abide such juvenile behavior.”

  “Fine then,” Felicity said. “I’ll speak with him myself.”

  Victoria stood and rounded the desk. She and Felicity were about the same height, but Victoria’s girth made her much larger, and when her temper was roused, she was a formidable sight.

  “You will say nothing to him,” Victoria advised.

  “I will!” Felicity persisted.

  “If you breathe a word of this conversation to anyone, I will whip you to within an inch of your life.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  Victoria looked lethal, as if the beating might commence immediately, and Felicity reined in her fury. She’d lost the battle, but wouldn’t lose the war.

  While usually she’d do whatever her mother commanded, she wasn’t about to submit to such humiliation. She would find a way to be shed of Mrs. Bainbridge. If her mother wouldn’t help her, she’d have to resolve the situation herself.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” Felicity declared, and she flounced away.

  “LORD Redvers, it’s dreadfully hot in here,” Felicity said. “Would you stroll with me in the garden?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she waltzed over to the door that led to the terrace.

  Jordan glanced up from his cards and frowned. Several of Victoria’s supper guests had noticed her little drama, and they were snickering.

  “She’s in a snit, Jordan,” Lauretta murmured. “You’d better scurry over before she throws a tantrum.”

  “Lord Redvers!” Felicity was growing impatient.

  Paxton peered over at her. “Does she think you’re her pet?”

  “Obviously,” Lauretta retorted. “By the by, Redvers, this afternoon, she peppered me with questions about my connection to you.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes. Apparently, it’s dawned on her that I’m not your sister.”

  Jordan sighed, searching for Victoria, who was nowhere to be found.

  “I have a brilliant idea,” he said. “Paxton, why don’t you marry her instead? I’d gladly let you have her dowry.”

  Paxton gave a mock shudder. “I’d rather be boiled in oil.”

  Felicity cleared her throat, ready to call out a third time.

  “You’d best see what she wants,” Paxton urged. “It appears she won’t calm till you obey her summons.”

  Jordan tossed down his cards, and he stood and went over to her.

  “Let’s step outside, Miss Barnes. Now!”

  She spun on her dainty slipper and pranced out, but she stopped next to an open window, where everyone could eavesdrop on their quarrel. He grabbed her elbow and escorted her down the stairs and onto a lighted pathway.

  He pulled her along, practically dragging her, until they were a safe distance from the other guests. Then he halted and whipped around, struggling to control his temper.

  Even though she would be the worst wife imaginable, he was going to marry her no matter what, so why was he balking?

  He should simply haggle over the details with Victoria, then apply for a Special License, yet he couldn’t force himself to proceed.

  Felicity would never be the wife he wanted or needed, and delay wouldn’t change that fact. Why, oh why, couldn’t sweet, amusing Mary have possessed a fortune? Why couldn’t fate have shined on him just once?

  “You had something you wished to say to me?” When Felicity couldn’t respond, he pressed, “Get on with it.”

  “I... I...”

  “If you’re suddenly tongue-tied, it’s the first time ever. Speak your piece, or let’s go back to the party.”

  She gave herself a good shake, which yanked her from her stupor. “Yes, there is a subject I’d like to address.”

  “I can’t wait to hear what it is.”

  “I don’t care for your two friends, Mrs. Bainbridge and Mr. Adair.”

  “You don’t like my friends?”

  “No, I don’t. They’re both very rude to me—Mrs. Bainbridge in particular—and I want you to send them back to London.”

  The girl was either stupider than any he’d ever met, or she had more gall.

  “Might I ask where you come by the temerity to instruct me as to my choice of companions?”

  “I realize that it’s too early to mention it, but Mother assures me that you’ll propose.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and since it’s about to happen, we should begin as we mean to go on.”

  “What the devil are you trying to say? And be precise, because my patience for your nonsense is completely exhausted.”

  “As we’re about to marry, it’s perfectly fitting for me to inform you that I don’t like Mrs. Bainbridge.”

  “No one does.”

  “There have been some awful rumors about the two of you, and I can’t have you fraternizing. After we’re wed, I absolutely won’t allow the association to continue.”

  He was so stunned that he was at a loss as to what his reply should be.

  “How old are you again?” he inquired. “I’ve forgotten.”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “Does your mother know that you planned to discuss this topic with me?”

  “She said I oughtn’t, but the issue is important to me, so I forged ahead.”

  She’s only eighteen, he told himself. Only eighteen.

  He stated her age over and over, like an incantation, using it to compose himself, but it didn’t work. He was angry at the world, at his father, at his destiny, and the prospect of marrying her was so ghastly that he felt as if he was about to swallow a vial of poison.

  “You’re very young,” he started.

  “I may be young, but I know what I want.”

  “There may be things you want, but you won’t receive them from me, so let me be very clear: You will never interfere in my private affairs.”

  “I will!”

  “I will come and go as I please. I will have the friends I please. I will live my life as I please. You will never—I repeat: never!—order me about.”

  “We’ll see about that!”

  “Yes, we will.”

  “You will do as I say,” she warned, “or I won’t marry you, and you won’t get my money!”

  “Your mother and I will decide if I should wed you or not.

  Your preferences are irrelevant. Now, I’m weary of your antics. Let’s go back.”

  “We’re not finished.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  He clasped her arm and marched her toward the mansion, but she was grumbling and threatening like a shrew, giving him a nauseating glimpse of what their union would be like.

  “We are almost inside,” he cautioned as he hauled her up the stairs to the terrace. “Cease with these theatrics, or I swear to God that I will bend you over my knee and paddle your bottom till you can’t sit down for a week.”

  “I’ll tell Mother!”

  “She won’t mind a whit. I’ll have her full support for any discipline I inflict.”

  “You’re a beast,” she hurled, “and I hate you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He stormed into the drawing room, heedless of the stares and whispers. Victoria had reappeared and was in a chair in the corner, and he proceeded over to her, still clutching Felicity’s arm.

  At viewing his obvious fury, she rose and murmured, “What is it, Lord Redvers?”

  “I have been insulted by your daughter, madam, and I am tired of her harangue. I ask that you deal with her, so that I don’t have to.”

  “Felicity!” Victoria hissed.

  “He won’t listen to me,” Felicity complained.

  “I expect,” Jordan said to Victoria,
“that when next I cross paths with her, she will have been apprised as to how she should conduct herself in my presence, and that she will have been counseled as to the consequences should she anger me again.”

  “I will speak with her immediately.” Rage rippled over Victoria’s features.

  “If you think,” Jordan fumed, “that I will tolerate any amount of abuse merely to obtain her dowry, you are gravely mistaken.”

  He flung Felicity at her mother, then he hurried outside where he could be away from the curious and condemning attention of the guests.

  Behind him, he heard Victoria say, “If you’ll excuse us?”

  She whisked Felicity from the room.

  Jordan felt as if his world was crashing down around him, and he yearned to be anywhere but Barnes Manor. But where could he go?

  If he loitered, Lauretta or Paxton would come out to commiserate, and at the moment, he couldn’t bear to parlay with either one of them.

  He walked down into the dark garden, swiftly putting as much distance as he could between himself and the house. He was livid and exhausted and wondering for what possible reason he would ever return.

  Chapter 12

  “WHERE have you been? I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  “Have you?”

  Jordan slipped into Mary’s room and shut the door. It was very late, a single candle burning on the stand by her bed.

  She was in a chair by the window, attired in a robe and nothing else. Her hair was down and brushed out, the lengthy tresses curling over her shoulders. She was wearing one wool sock, but not the other.

  On seeing him enter, she rose—but too quickly—and she staggered, catching her balance on the nearby dresser.

  “Oh my, I’m dizzy.”

  “You certainly are. What have you been doing?”

  She was holding a bottle, and he took it from her, frowning, as he tried to read the label in the dim light.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s a restorative called Woman’s Daily Remedy. Monsieur Dubois gave it to me.”

  “And Mr. Dubois is who?”

  “The peddler who’s been camping outside the village.”

  “Ah.”

  Her gait was unsteady, her speech slurred, her eyes unusually bright.

  “He said I should drink it in liberal doses. He thought it would be beneficial to my disposition.”

  “What—precisely—is wrong with your disposition?”

  “My fate is de ... depressing me.”

  “Your fate.”

  “Yes.”

  He eased her down in the chair as he peered into the bottle. Most of the contents were gone, and he sipped the remaining amount. It had a sugary, cherry taste, but behind the fruity flavoring, there was no hiding the alcohol.

  “Do you drink much liquor, Mary?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Ah,” he mused again. “Did you realize that this remedy has liquor in it?”

  “Mr. Dubois mentioned something about that.”

  “Well then, you can’t say he didn’t warn you.”

  He chuckled, imagining the brutal hangover she would have in the morning. She’d be wishing she’d never heard Dubois’s name.

  Her room was sparsely furnished. There was nowhere to sit but on the bed, so he walked over and plopped down. He faced her, feeling so much better just from being in her company.

  After his quarrel with Felicity, he’d tramped around the park, exploring the unlit paths, as he reviewed the sorry state of his affairs.

  How could he marry Felicity?

  How could he not?

  He understood that it would be a foolish blunder, yet he was bizarrely prepared to go through with it anyway. Why would he? Was he insane?

  Much of his decision was being driven by anger, by pride, by his fury at his father. He and Sunderland seemed to be constantly re-fighting a battle that had begun when Jordan was a boy.

  If Jordan relented and renounced Felicity, he’d never be free of Sunderland’s influence and control, and Jordan couldn’t bear the notion. So ... he would bite the bullet and wed Felicity, but that didn’t mean he was pleased about it.

  Resigned to the outcome, he’d calmed and started back to the manor. The house had been dark and quiet, and he’d assumed he was heading for his own bedchamber. But on the stairs, when he might have turned in one direction, he went the other and ended up outside Mary’s door.

  He’d grown attached to her in ways he’d never intended, and he was glad she liked him more than he deserved to be liked.

  “Your friend Mr. Dubois,” he said, “did he have another tonic for me? Are you about to coax me into taking a sleep potion again?”

  “That wasn’t a sleep potion.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. It was supposed to make you leave me alone.”

  “It didn’t work.”

  “No, it didn’t. Mr. Dubois said that it’s our fate to be together.”

  “Why would he think so?”

  “Because of the original tonic he gave me. Harold should have fallen in love with me, but you ruined my chance.”

  “I did? When?”

  “One evening, out on the terrace. Mr. Dubois’s instructions were to swallow the tonic while I was staring at Harold—”

  “Harold being your besotted fiancé?”

  “Yes, but you got in the way, so I was staring at you instead.” She sighed dramatically. “I asked Mr. Dubois for an antidote, but it merely put you to sleep. He’s certain it had no effect because our relationship was preordained. You’re destined to be my husband, and we won’t be able to prevent it from occurring.”

  “And this is why you’re depressed?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how to make Mr. Dubois’s tales come true.”

  He was charmed to view this side of her. She was always so straitlaced, so prim and buttoned up, and her intoxication was relaxing her tongue and inhibitions. In such a reduced condition, what might she be spurred to attempt?

  “How are things going with you and Harold? I haven’t seen him lately.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Harold.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “You—and me.”

  She rose up off the chair, a wicked gleam in her eye, and crawled onto his lap. Her knees were on the mattress, her arms wrapped around his neck.

  “What about us?” he queried.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “And ... ?”

  “Will you marry me?” she inquired.

  The question was ridiculous, and he might have laughed, but she appeared so earnest that he couldn’t.

  “You know I can’t,” he told her.

  “But you seem to like me.”

  “I do. I like you very much.”

  “I’m sure I could make you happy.”

  “I’m sure you could, too.”

  “You loathe Felicity, so don’t pick her. Pick me.”

  “I need her money, Mary. I’m sorry; I thought you understood.”

  “But it’s fated that we end up together! Mr. Dubois said so.”

  “He’s a roadside peddler, Mary. He could be wrong.”

  “But if you don’t marry me, I’ll have to marry Harold.”

  “I know.”

  “Wouldn’t you care? Wouldn’t you be upset?”

  The prospect was tremendously galling, and it only underscored how the universe had conspired against him. Why couldn’t Mary have been the one with the fortune?

  “Yes, I would be very upset.”

  “Then don’t make me do it. Save me.”

  She pressed her mouth to his, and her lips were soft and warm. He was overwhelmed by her heat, by her scent. The alcohol had worked wonders on her anatomy. She was all loose limbs and rubbery extremities.

  The front of her robe had flopped open, giving him tantalizing glimpses of a breast, a tummy, a thigh. He slid a hand inside and laid it on her waist. Her skin was very hot,
very smooth, and the sensation rattled him, making him feel strong and protective, making him feel as if he was a better man than the one he actually was.

  He was anxious to watch over her, to guard her from harm, and he couldn’t remember any other woman generating a similar sentiment. The realization inflamed his masculine passions as nothing else could have.

  She pushed him back so that he was lying on the mattress, his legs dangling over the edge. She was hovered over him, kissing him, stroking his shoulders and chest.

  He pulled her nearer, joining in with an abandon that seemed hopeless and desperate.

  At that moment, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything, and the knowledge that he desired her but couldn’t have her was sad and infuriating.

  “Do that thing to me again,” she said.

  “What thing?”

  “Where you touch me all over. Where I feel so splendid.”

  She was in a hurry, dragging off his coat and cravat, and he was as eager as she to be shed of his clothes. He stood and jerked his shirt over his head so that his upper torso was bared, and she scrambled to her knees, studying him with a keen interest.

  She looked wanton and delectable, her state of inebriation making her reckless, and he was ready to travel wherever she led. A more noble or decent fellow would have tucked her under the covers and left. But he wasn’t noble or decent, so he was perfectly happy to take advantage when her defenses were lowered.

  She was scrutinizing him so intently that he couldn’t help asking, “Do you like what you see?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know that a man’s body could be so ... so ... stirring.”

  “You’re stirred?”

  “Definitely.”

  “What would you like me to do about it?”

  “Whatever you like is fine by me.”

  He groaned, a dozen erotic scenes flitting through his mind. “Ooh, you are going to be so sorry in the morning.”

  “Why?”

  “Since you never drink hard spirits, I assume that you’ve never had a hangover.”

  “No, I never have.”

  “Well, you will. And trust me: You won’t like it.”

  “Come here,” she demanded, beckoning him, but he didn’t need to be commanded or coaxed.

  He flicked open a button on his trousers, then another and another, so that they were slack around his hips, then he swooped in, tackling her onto the mattress.