A Woman Made for Pleasure

by Michele Sinclair

Jennelle was beyond a little frustrated. The last few card parties had offered only inane games based solely on chance. She hated faro and believed only the most mentally challenged could enjoy betting on what card would next appear from the bottom of a deck. Tonight was the first party featuring her favorite game of strategy. And Millie was ruining it.

  “What was the leading suit?” Millie asked. Hearing several people grumble “hearts,” she laid down a trumping card. It was the first trick she had won in the last quarter of an hour.

  Normally, Millie enjoyed playing whist, especially with a ruthless partner. Jennelle, an outwardly passive person who typically liked to watch and examine others, transformed into an aggressive opponent during a competitive card game. Both she and Millie were usually a formidable duo, able to gather an alarming number of tricks. But tonight, Millie had not been able to concentrate and lost more than one hand she should have won.

  As usual, Chase had escorted them to the evening’s event and disappeared shortly after. Millie wondered if anyone else suspected he was using his chaperoning duties as a mask for a hidden agenda. She considered broaching the idea with Aimee and Jennelle, but knew their response would be one of skepticism. Especially after tonight.

  Once again, Selena Hall had seen her prey and pounced accordingly. And again, Chase seemed to welcome her company. Neither of them chose to play cards; instead they walked about, laughing and talking in hushed tones as if they were becoming best friends. The scene was nauseating.

  Unable to focus, Millie asked Aimee to take her place. Desperate to find any type of distraction, she rose too quickly and bumped into something wide and very solid.

  Millie turned and looked fixedly at a handsome man with elegantly chiseled features. His sandy brown hair was cut fashionably short, with trimmed sideburns. He was of average height, but he carried himself in a way that made him appear much taller. His smile was charming, and he moved effortlessly.

  Dressed in a snug but well-fitting maroon coat, a matching waistcoat, and tan breeches, he looked impressive and alluring. Then Millie saw his cravat. Unlike the simpler, shorter version Chase preferred, this dark-blond gentleman wore a pink cravat folded in a most complicated way. Encircling the outside of his collar, the neckcloth became absurdly large before being intricately knotted and turned down. Rather than fashionable, Millie thought it made him look pretentious and artificial.

  He bowed with practiced flair and spoke. “Do not concern yourself overmuch about your cards, my lady.”

  Millie looked up, confused, and curtsied automatically. “I apologize for my running into you, sir. However, I am unclear as to why I should be worried over my cards.”

  “Whist, my dear. A very difficult game to master. You should not feel distressed regarding your performance.”

  Millie stared flabbergasted at the irritating fop while trying to keep her temper under control and her jaw from becoming slack. The pompous man actually called her my dear before he insulted her. He might look like a dandy, but he was a complete oaf. “I think, sir, that it is your turn to apologize to me. Such endearments usually are bestowed upon one, and only then when agreements are in place. If you would excuse me.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed in burgeoning anger. He was being dismissed. Women attached themselves to him. They did not dismiss him. He forced warmth into his voice. “My deepest apologies, my lady. I assure you, I meant no offense.”

  The tone of his apology was like warm honey, but Millie noticed it did not reach his eyes. “Yes, well, thank you for your kind words, but I must . . .”

  Determined not to miss another chance, he interrupted. “I am Lord Marston. I have wanted for some time now to make your acquaintance.” Leaning in closer, he deftly captured her hand and bent down to kiss it. Slowly he rose and whispered, “Are these parties not dreadfully boring? I believe you may be one of a handful of women who could recognize the sheer monotony of the Season.”

  Ensnared by words of a kindred spirit, Millie ignored her instincts to leave. “My lord, you have uttered the very words of my soul.”

  Marston smiled, and the ice shards in his eyes began to melt. He exhaled. The wait had been worth it. Assuming the blond Wentworth chit would eagerly accept his attentions, he had moved in too quickly. The woman was nothing like her appearance and quickly drove him to scurry away. But he was no fool. No, this time he had hidden, listened, and learned about his new target. He considered himself fortunate. While the blond wench might have been a more direct line to his goal, the brunette was much more his type.

  Mere minutes ago, he had unwittingly insulted her and almost missed his chance. Now that he had her interest and attention, it was imperative he kept it. “I was afraid this Season would resemble the rest. Exceedingly dull, and therefore, for me, exceedingly short.”

  His voice was low and intense. Millie was both intrigued and cautious. “If you find them so dull, my lord, then why do you attend?”

  “Ah, but it is not all dreary and monotonous. There are a few times in which London is the most exciting of places to be.”

  “Are you seriously in earnest? I find it difficult to understand how you can characterize any of these events as exciting,” Millie said, her spirits suddenly deflating.

  “Maybe not the events themselves, but I assure you, London can stimulate the soul. Why, this Saturday for instance. Vauxhall Gardens is having the most marvelous masquerade party.”

  The mention of London’s notorious entertainment venue recaptured Millie’s interest. “Vauxhall Gardens? Have you been there?”

  Inwardly laughing at her naïveté, Marston answered, “Why, of course! How could one ever visit London and not go to Vauxhall? Only old dowagers, tabbies, and easily offended maidens avoid the Gardens. Do not tell me you have not yet attended? I had thought you, with your wit and zest for fun, had at least visited the stimulating venue.”

  Millie absentmindedly rapped her fan against her palm. “Oh, I am going. As soon as there is a break in these endless social events.”

  “Ah, then it is only a scheduling problem that prevents you from enjoying one of Town’s more entertaining settings. That is easily remedied, and I encourage you to do so at once. I mean, Vauxhall’s is done by simply everyone. Or at least by those with any spirit. I cannot imagine attending only tea parties, these horrid little gatherings, and crushes every other night, without having some element of fun.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree with you. I am beginning to understand why many young women accept offers so early in the Season. I half believe it is to avoid having to endure any more card parties.”

  “You are quite refreshing, lady . . . ?”

  “Oh, my apologies. I’m Lady Aldon.”

  “Ever a pleasure. I wish we could have met earlier. I tried at Bassel’s when you so deftly shooed all of us would-be admirers away. I am so glad my continued efforts are now being rewarded.”

  “Admirers? Efforts? Are you implying, Lord Marston, that you are a would-be suitor?”

  “Quick intelligence as well as beautiful. A dangerous combination for men like myself.”

  “You did not answer the question.”

  “Based on my observations from afar, I seriously doubt my suit would be accepted. However, I can and would like to be your friend. Perhaps we could be secret adventure partners?”

  Ignoring every instinct she had about him, Millie fought to suppress her desire for illicit excitement. “I am a well-bred lady, my lord. Women do not entertain secret partners, nor do we plot escapades of adventure.”

  Millie remembered Mother Wentworth’s words: We learned to make our own fun. To do that, we first had to discover who the players were....

  Millie wondered, Could Lord Marston be one of those people? And how does one make one’s own fun?

  Marston heard Millie’s halfhearted refusal but was not offended. He could see by the sparkle in her eye that while she did not know it, she was firmly ensnared in his web. He would ease away now, only to spring upon her la
ter. Before the Season was half over, he would have what he wanted. It was his destiny.

  “I cannot believe I let you talk me into this, Millie.” Jennelle’s voice was laced with skepticism and repressed excitement.

  “She didn’t talk us into doing anything. It was more like threatened,” Aimee corrected.

  “Blast it! Shush! If I had known either of you were going to be so unusually whiny, I never would have requested your company.”

  Millie situated her mask and got out of the unmarked carriage, leaving her dark cloak within. Aimee and Jennelle followed suit.

  Supposedly needing a reprieve from the constant nights of balls, parties, and theaters, the Three had convinced Mother Wentworth that they could miss this night’s scheduled events. After hearing the doors close and the carriage leave with Mother Wentworth and Chase safely inside, Millie had run to one of her trunks and opened it. Aimee and Jennelle were rendered speechless as Millie pulled out three elaborate gowns of different eras.

  “Why, Millie . . . are those . . . I haven’t seen those since . . .” Jennelle had mumbled, unable to hide her shock.

  “Oh, my cursed teeth! You didn’t bring those!” Aimee hissed.

  Millie had smiled and nodded. “Oh yes, I did. Jennelle, here. This black one, I believe, is yours. The gold can be for none other than our blond seductress. And me? Why, I shall be the virginal maiden in white!”

  Aimee and Jennelle had robotically collected their gowns and stared for a moment, hesitating before Millie chided them. “Oh, please. You cannot tell me that you are anything but just as eager to wear these gorgeous ensembles as I am.” Seeing their unconvinced expressions, Millie had let go an exasperated sigh and pressed again. “Lord love you both, but we are going to Vauxhall Gardens. We will be wearing masks. No one will know our identities.”

  Aimee had watched as Millie reached into the trunk once more. She knew Millie would venture to the famous resort alone rather than miss this opportunity for fun. And though Aimee feared encouraging her daring friend’s adventurous ways, she did want to see the Gardens. And this could be her one chance. “No one will know our identities? How can you promise such a thing? Anyone we run into will know us in an instant.”

  Millie had thrown three sparkly items onto the bed and then reached down into the trunk to pull up an assortment of wigs. “Not if you are wearing these!”

  Looking at the elaborate masks lying beside her and the fanciful items in Millie’s hands, Aimee had realized Millie’s plan just might work. “Where in the saints did you get these?”

  Millie had grinned mischievously. “From Madame Sasha.”

  “You told Madame Sasha!” Aimee exclaimed.

  “Calm yourself, Aimee. It was not I who raised the subject of Vauxhall. It was Madame Sasha. I was telling her about all the gowns we had discovered in your attic. She asked if I brought any of them to London, and, well, I could not lie to her. She would have known. I suppose she surmised the possibility of our venturing to the Gardens. Anyway, she handed these to me with a promise not to ask where she and your mother procured them and then used them. Now, here, let me help you with the back.”

  Two hours later, Millie sauntered into Vauxhall with a confidence Jennelle had always envied, especially in situations like this.

  Aimee took a few deep breaths, telling herself it genuinely was quite exciting. Vauxhall was the pleasure garden of the Thames, offering an assortment of entertainments. She looked at Millie and mentally garnered her poise. After all, Millie was completely unrecognizable, just as Jennelle was.

  The summer before they had turned eighteen had been a bittersweet one. Searching the attic during a rainy afternoon, they had found a trunk of old, elaborate silk dresses. Jennelle had immediately recognized them as French theater dresses that were highly fashionable—and highly recognizable—as “working women” wares.

  The gowns were daring, fun, and beautiful. Unconcerned with their meaning, they had often donned the garments. One afternoon, the Three were playacting when Aimee’s father found them. Lord Chaselton had never before yelled or cursed at the girls, but he had more than made up for it that day. It was the last time they had even touched a stitch on the bold clothing.

  Later that night, he had invited them into his office and had given them each unique presents. Aimee and Jennelle maintained the gifts were symbols of Lord Chaselton’s remorse for being so harsh. Millie would have agreed if it had not been for the terrible dream she had had the night before, and his private explanation that he hoped the item would give her some comfort.

  Then the next week his heart failed, and all three gifts were left in the attic, with everything else they held precious. Until Millie found them as she was packing to leave for London. She fingered the pendant she had been wearing almost every night. It felt good to hold his memory close. No longer did the loss feel so intense, and Millie suspected he was out there somewhere, quite pleased with his Daring Three.

  “Relax, J,” Millie instructed, using their secret childhood designation. “Come this way. The path is fairly well lit and I can hear music. If we are lucky we are not too late for the fireworks show.”

  “Did you say fireworks?” Jennelle asked with sudden interest.

  “I did,” Millie replied with a knowing smile. Her friend was finally mentally—and not just physically—committed to their outing. Several years ago, Jennelle had read a couple of articles on fireworks and convinced the Three to create some themselves. Explosions had happened, but not quite in the sky. Afterward, Aimee’s father banished any and all fireworks on his premises. The Daring Three’s entreaties to try again had fallen on deaf ears. And though their mishap terminated any further personal experiments, it had not ended Jennelle’s interest in the lively diversion.

  Jennelle righted her shoulders and waved her hand. “Then let us not dally, M. Lead on!”

  In the shadows, a man with wavy, dark blond hair watched as the three women ventured farther into the Gardens. He decided to remain hidden and wait.

  He prided himself on the forethought to hide and follow them after they had emerged from their home earlier. If he had not, it was doubtful he would have recognized any of them behind their masks and their bold garments. Definitely old-fashioned, but at the same time, very appropriate for tonight’s hedonistic theme at Vauxhall.

  He had hired a hackney to follow their unmarked carriage, and then stealthily entered the Gardens, waiting for the right time to approach. Soon Mildred Aldon would be alone. Until then he would be patient. It would be an hour or so until the fireworks, and the comments from the scholarly redhead made it clear that none of them would leave before they had seen the display.

  “Lady Aldon, we meet again.”

  Millie’s pulse began to race. She whirled around to see a man emerge from the shadows wearing a common dandy’s outfit and a plain mask. Lord Marston obviously intended to be recognized. What was disturbing was that he knew her identity as well. She thought that nearly impossible.

  Millie rallied herself and responded. “Pardon, my lord? I think you have me confused with someone else. I do not believe I know a Lady Alstan.”

  Marston smiled at her intentional mispronunciation. “Ah, well, then my apologies, madam. However, I must say you look delectable this evening . . . my lovely nameless one.”

  His comments and tone of voice were unnerving, and Millie wished she had not left Jennelle’s and Aimee’s side to get a better view of the tightrope walkers. “You are forgiven. Now I must get back to my friends, my lord.”

  Marston’s blond eyebrows shot up as he moved to block her way. “Leaving so soon? One would think you were running to find the arms of another . . . say, the Marquess of Chaselton.”

  Millie fought to avoid revealing any visible proof of her heavily beating heart. “The Marquess of Chaselton . . . why would you think I was going to meet with him?”

  The lips below the scant mask smiled into a disingenuous smirk. “Only that many women this Season seem to b
e drawn to the man. For instance, the lady I had originally believed you to be—Lady Aldon—is extremely interested in the marquess.”

  Again flustered, Millie opened and then closed her mouth, searching for something to say. But even when she found her voice, she found it difficult to speak. “I think you misinterpret Lord Chaselton’s . . . relationships. I, for one, have long been in acquaintance with the lord. But I can promise you that I am not drawn toward him. Rather the opposite, as we often find ourselves taking the opposing sides of an issue.”

  “How a gentleman would ever consider differing with a woman of your startling beauty is a great mystery.”

  Millie tightened the grasp on her fan. “I mean every word. Lord Chaselton and I usually bicker regarding my inclinations. He is not one for any type of sport that provides for levity or amusement.” As soon as the words escaped her lips, she rebuked herself. Lord Marston could no longer have any doubt with whom he was speaking.

  Marston leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “My lady, if you desire companionship during these, um, inclinations, I would be delighted to take on the duties of a friend who encourages and supports your enthusiasms, rather than hinders them.”

  Marston’s quick and abrupt interest made Millie uncomfortable. However, she was even more intrigued to understand the true cause of his curiosity and decided to stay. “Have you ever considered that you lavish your charm on a person rather profusely? Especially on someone you have never met?”

  Marston smiled at Millie’s attempt to continue her facade. “I must confess, the possibility seems rather improbable. Most women desire men to impart a constant barrage of compliments about them. You, however, are unquestionably not most women. A lapse in my judgment that shall not happen again.”

  His unsettling voice and close presence made Millie remember her initial impression of Lord Marston. She had been incredibly naïve. Marston had lured her here, for this very evening. She had fallen for his light banter and inducements for adventure, like a fool. The man had specific motives for introducing himself and drawing her to Vauxhall. Millie wanted to know why.