A Woman Made for Pleasure

by Michele Sinclair

  Millie’s eyebrows rose, excited to know she still could agitate the unflappable Charles Wentworth. “Indeed, you understand me correctly. It is my responsibility. Just as it is Jennelle’s.”

  Chase closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to decide whether he truly wanted to pursue this line of questioning. Curiosity forced him. “Do you actually believe you and Jennelle will be determining whom my sister will marry?”

  Millie moved to place her hands across a tall, empty vase on the table. She then rested her chin on her entwined fingers. “Oh, heavens, no. We are here just to be of assistance.”

  “And exactly what is the nature of the assistance you intend to provide my sister?”

  Millie gave a slight, elegant shrug with one shoulder, letting him know she was intentionally being coy. “I expect it to be similar to the kind she has offered me. And Jennelle, too, of course.” Millie sighed. She had forgotten how much annoying him amused her.

  Oh, of course! Chase sarcastically repeated to himself as he strode over to stand next to her. His eyes narrowed as he searched her face. She was deliberately being vague. Twig might have physically grown up, but her quick, impish mind had not softened. Despite her new figure, Mildred Aldon was still the most baffling, unpredictable female he had ever known.

  Millie licked her lips, wishing she hadn’t provoked him. He was no longer hidden in the shadows, and the man standing before her was not Charlie. Charlie Wentworth had been young when he entered the war. He had never been prone to laughing or smiling, but a hardness that had not been there before now outlined his aristocratic features. The years had changed him.

  His tense stance stretched his snug trousers, highlighting his muscular thighs. His waistcoat had been discarded as well as his cravat and she could see his muscles rippling under the thin layer of his linen shirt. Amber-and-gold eyes stared down at her with an intense look that assaulted her senses. He exuded masculinity, and she could feel her pulse begin to race. Emotions churned inside her—ones she had never felt before. She looked down, unable to accept the idea it was Charlie Wentworth awakening her to such feelings.

  “Enough, Mildred. Explain your meaning,” Chase ordered as he reached down and trapped her chin in his rough fingers. The action compelled her to look at him. He silently swore to himself as her long lashes fluttered open, revealing the beauty they hid. He had always known those violet eyes would get a man into trouble someday. He had just never dreamed it would be him. Chase let go of her but could not bring himself to back away.

  Millie considered continuing her elusiveness, but his golden gaze dominated the air between them. She had never feared Charlie. And while even now she was not physically afraid, Charles Wentworth had assumed a commanding presence that was unnerving her very core. She swallowed heavily. “We have no intentions of marrying . . . my lord.”

  “And . . .” Chase prodded.

  Millie took a step back, rallying. “And nothing. That is all. Aimee, Jennelle, and I made a pledge never to make any lifelong commitments that would require us to live by some absurd archaic rules. And in case a gentleman does not recall the meaning of the word no, we will be there to remind him.”

  Chase swore. He didn’t know why he was surprised. “So if I understand this declaration correctly, none of you plan to marry?”

  Millie cleared her throat delicately and looked him directly in the eye. “For clarity’s sake, I shall repeat myself. No, we do not. Not this Season, not ever.”

  Chase gave her a speculative, shrewd glance. “Never marry? Under any circumstances?”

  Millie shot him a scathing look. “No, not exactly. We can marry, but only if certain conditions are met.” She shrugged her shoulders and turned to walk away. “And the chances of any man being able to meet them are closer to impossible than improbable.”

  Chase leaned back against the table’s edge. You may still know how to easily provoke me, Mildred Aldon, but I know what inflames your ire as well, he thought triumphantly to himself. “It baffles me why you three insist upon entering into these idiotic, foolish pledges that none of you have a prayer of upholding. Do you not think it is time for you to refrain from childish promises and act like the lady you earlier claimed to be?” he challenged, knowing how she would respond.

  Millie spun around. Her eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t give a brass farthing for your opinion! Talk about immaturity! It seems that eight years have done very little to change your overbearing disposition. Only Charlie Wentworth would resort to such taunts.”

  Chase turned a dull red. “I am Charlie! I mean Charles. Hell, woman, these days most people call me Chase.” It took him several seconds to regain his self-control. Mildred was doing it again. She could change the direction of a conversation faster than anyone. He took a deep breath and countered her jeer. “But in your case, I think my lord will do.”

  Ignoring the snide directive, Millie inquired, “Chase? For Chaselton? I think I like it. Suits you.”

  Millie’s moods had always been fluid, quickly adapting to whatever emotion she was presently experiencing. Suddenly inquisitive, her eyes had warmed considerably. She cocked her head and looked up at him, scrunching her nose. It was completely endearing. On any other woman, it would have appeared ludicrous, but Chase felt as if he were under a spell. A spell he had best figure out how to break—and quickly.

  He was about to end the chaotic conversation when he spied the gold medallion on her chest. “What is this?”

  Millie looked down as he grasped her pendant. “What is what? Oh, my amulet. Your father gave it to me to wear when”—she paused, refusing to admit to Charlie that she could be frightened by a silly nightmare—“I want to remember him.”

  Mystified, Chase continued fondling the item in his hand. It was a three-dimensional rendition of the Rebuilders’ crest. “My father requested you wear this necklace?” he asked incredulously.

  Millie suddenly felt uneasy and retrieved the medallion from his grasp. “No, it was my idea to wear the ornament as a necklace,” Millie answered. She then tried her best to dismiss him with a smile. “I pray you excuse me, Chase. I think I will return to my room and wait until morning to address my appetite. Good night.”

  A grown-up Mildred Aldon calling him Chase was disturbing. Although he had often requested—no, demanded—that she stop referring to him as Charlie, never before had she used any other name. He leaned over and seized her hand to keep her from leaving. Her skin was like touching the finest silk. Her tomboy days had done nothing to prepare him for tonight. “Oh, but I do mind, Mildred. I’m still curious concerning something you mentioned earlier.”

  Millie blinked in an effort to calm her nerves. The fierce planes of his face were not those one normally associated with a highborn, pampered aristocrat. His expression held no softness anywhere, and yet it was inexplicably alluring. She blinked again. He was just Charlie, she told herself, not some Greek god. She forced herself to appear relaxed. “One more question. That is all. I am exceedingly tired.”

  Chase reached up and lightly caressed her cheek as he tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. He noticed her soft, pink lips had parted slightly. They were standing so close now, it would be effortless to satisfy this insane attraction and kiss her. One kiss and his curiosity would be vanquished and this charm she was weaving over him would disappear.

  “In regard to this absurd promise you three made, what”—he stroked her cheek again—“is your particular exception allowing you to marry?”

  Millie stared at him, unable to move under his gaze. A golden brown, his eyes reminded her of firelight. The strength and gentleness in his fingers unsettled her, and she automatically clutched his shirt for balance. The action reminded her of just how small and light she was compared to him.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. His touch was arousing unfamiliar and very feminine desires. She was both surprised and bothered to discover how much she liked it. Reacting on instinct, Millie rose on the balls of her feet to ki
ss him, and suddenly she realized where she was—in the kitchen, without a robe, in her bare feet, practically jumping into the arms of her best friend’s brother. “Bloody hell,” she mouthed and then fled to the staircase.

  Chase watched her retreat, not understanding whether he felt relieved or frustrated. He wished Reece were in London and not on the Sea Emerald. He needed fortitude, and his mother’s plea to play escort this Season was going to strip all the strength from him if Millie looked half as good in sunlight.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning after the excitement of Chase’s return died down, Aimee’s mother handed the Daring Three cards with names and addresses inscribed on them. Cecilia Wentworth was what each of them desired to be—elegant, beautiful, and most of all venturous.

  “There, now. I wish I could go with you today, but I suspect you will have a much more enjoyable time on your own. Moreover, I have much to do in Town, and I want to be surprised with what you decide and select.”

  Cecilia sipped her tea, viewing the young women over the cup’s brim. She secretly wondered how Society was going to respond to her Three. She and Millie’s mother had been kindred spirits and sought excitement and thrills wherever they could find them. The year they were introduced into Society was quite famous with some of their exploits. Cecilia understood that encouraging the Three’s love of adventure could limit their chances of making a good match, but she also knew that being true to oneself was the only pathway to lasting happiness. “Now, you may, of course, go to any modiste you prefer. The names on those cards are only suggestions. Jennelle, I specifically recommended Mrs. Brinson because I understand she is an excellent seamstress, very talented in remaking gowns into the newer fashions.”

  Aimee looked up quizzically. “Thank you, Mother, but I had thought we would be using your modiste, Madame Rosson.”

  “Hmm, I presumed as much. Your attempts to permanently evade your coming-out has left you completely ignorant of the basics all ladies of Society should know. Just being wealthy and wellborn will not get you entry into the haut ton. Besides having beauty and wit, you also have to be fashionable, which right now you three are certainly not. Your gowns are for country affairs, and that just will not do while you are in Town.”

  A quiet scoff came from the end of the table. Lady Cecilia Chaselton eyed Millie, who was still staring at the name on her card. “Whether you like it or not, Mildred, your father wants you to have a true Season. He wants you to experience a coming-out in all its glory. And perhaps, just perhaps, you will meet someone who will appreciate you for who you are. And, if remotely intelligent, he will find a way to sweep you off your feet as Lord Chaselton did me so many years ago.” She paused for effect. “I know your mother would feel the same,” she added with quiet emphasis.

  Cecilia turned to her daughter. They shared many features, most noticeably curly blond hair and willowy height, but Aimee’s snapping green eyes were identical to her father’s. “Aimee, my modiste would certainly love to have more of my business, and you may go there if you wish. But you will leave with a dress for an older dowager of the ton, not as an eligible woman just entering into Society. Trust me when I say that going throughout Town ill-dressed is not an adventure that any of you seek.”

  Cecilia sipped her last bit of tea, stood up, and smiled. “Do as you like. Be sure to take Elda Mae along, and enjoy yourselves. Remember, I enjoy the wild, daring spirits inside each of you. We just need to find a way to balance that with your soft, feminine beauty. Have a good day. We’ll discuss it all over dinner this evening.” And then she was gone.

  Jennelle watched with wide blue eyes as the woman she most admired in the world left the room. “Slay me. Your mother is truly something.”

  Aimee smiled with pride. “Yes, she is.” She tapped her card on the table. “Now, I wonder why she suggested we each go to a different modiste.”

  Later that morning, they discovered the answer when their landau neared the address printed on Aimee’s card. “I believe, Lady Aimee, your mother discovered this modiste last year.” The statement came from Elda Mae, a stoutly graying woman whom all three girls had known for years. She had been Millie’s nursemaid and now functioned as an additional lady’s maid to each of them whenever they were together. Because of her unique and long-standing relationship with the Three, Elda Mae felt at ease going back and forth from reverence to reprimand and could often be found lurking behind doors, eavesdropping on her charges’ conversations. The Daring Three loved her immensely, and she them.

  Aimee lowered her head and peered at the name on the card one more time. “Yes, you are right, Elda Mae.” She looked around as the driver brought the landau to a stop. Her modiste was located in the fashionable side of Town, where most of the quality seamstresses were found. “This is it. Madame Beatrice Summers. I am surprised Mother did not suggest someone French. I thought they were the rage in designers.”

  Millie rolled her eyes. “Personally, I am glad we are not going to any French modistes.”

  Jennelle assessed her dark-haired friend. “That is only because you have heard it was fashionable. You, if anything, Millie, are reluctant to conform. I swear you live to be rebellious.”

  Millie shrugged unapologetically. “Perhaps, but I am still glad we are not going to someone French.” Millie knew Jennelle had spoken correctly; however, Millie did not care. She often based her opinions on the illogical and refused to change her position.

  Ignoring them both, Aimee changed the topic. “Let us go in. It looks soft and fairy-tale-like inside,” Aimee said, standing in the open carriage as the footman unlocked the side door.

  “It looks . . . pastel,” Millie murmured disapprovingly as they entered the establishment. Millie knew the lighter colors, which favored her fair-haired friend, had never suited her. “I am now not only understanding, but filled with undying gratitude to your mother for sending us to different modistes.”

  Jennelle gazed at all the pinks, pale yellows, and faint blues and nodded in agreement. “I must admit I am in complete agreement with Millie. I am sending quiet thoughts of appreciation to your mother right now.” She pointed at one frilly, lacy gown heavily drenched in pink and yellow bows. “Can you imagine me in something like that?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Millie answered, “and you look completely horrid.”

  “Oh my,” Aimee added, seeing the item being referenced. “Those are my colors, and even I would look ghastly in that concoction.”

  Elda Mae nodded in agreement. “Milady, if you want my opinion, no intelligent gent would want a silly chit who thinks bows make her attractive to a man. Only a woodenhead would be wanting a woman in that eyesore. Mark my words. If you marry a woodenhead, you’re doomed to have woodenheaded offspring.”

  All three were about to explode into laughter as a plump, middle-aged woman with tousled brown hair and kind hazel eyes stepped out from back. “Can I help you?”

  Aimee smiled, swallowing her mirth. “Please, we are looking for a Madame Beatrice Summers.”

  The woman tried to tuck away some of the loose strands of hair. “I am Madame Summers.”

  “Wonderful,” Millie said, grabbing Aimee’s hand and prodding her forward. “Lady Aimee Wentworth would like to be fitted for some new ball gowns, visiting and afternoon dresses, and so forth. We,” Millie added, pointing at Jennelle and then herself, “are just here to help, if possible.” She looked at the modiste kindly, but made sure Madame Summers realized there was only one client there today. Beatrice nodded in understanding. She knew her wares primarily suited the fair.

  “Of course. If you could just wait one moment while I finish with my current clients, then all of you can come back while I take measurements and discuss styles, needs, and so forth.”

  “Thank you,” Aimee offered as the modiste dipped behind the curtain.

  As they wandered around the shop eyeing different items, Millie spied one extremely tasteless accessory. “Bloody hell, would someone actually pay
money to wear that? In public?”

  Furrowing her brows, Aimee censured, “Millie, please!”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Millie said, wincing. “I promise to be more careful where my phrasing is concerned, but you must look at this, and then you will understand.”

  Aimee came over and her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh my Lord . . .” she softly exclaimed. Aimee’s mild blasphemy immediately caught Jennelle’s attention. Many things could get Millie excited, but to get Aimee to agree—it must in fact be something.

  “What has you both so fascinated? Let me see. Millie . . .” Jennelle’s voice suddenly dwindled when she saw the item. “Oh my!” she murmured, raising her fingertips to her lips. “Why, that’s a . . . that’s a . . . and it’s here.” She raised her eyes to Aimee. “What would your mother say?”

  Millie answered for her. “Nothing. She would have no idea of its meaning. The only reason we know that is the symbol of two people uh . . . you know . . . well, you know . . . is because you read it in a book and showed us one day.”

  “Why would a ladies’ shop in London have a pagan South Seas symbol of lust on a gold brooch?” Jennelle wondered aloud, fascinated at seeing the symbol somewhere besides a picture in a book.

  Millie turned away and sank down onto a nearby pink velvet settee. “Obvious. Some pirate must have sold it to someone, and they sold it again, never explaining its true origins and meaning. I bet that item was on a pirate’s bandanna while he was murdering souls for their gold.”

  “Millie, you can be so melodramatic. Besides, this is a reproduction. Madame Summers is probably selling several of them every day,” Jennelle commented, still staring at the item.

  Aimee glanced down at the brooch once more before shaking her head and moving on. “Do you think we should tell Madame Summers its meaning?”