Bewitched

by Sandra Schwab

  No, Fox would not be sorry to see this evening wind down. Perhaps, if he were lucky, the damp, crisp autumn night would dispel his headache and he could sojourn on to merrier grounds, escape to chase away all lingering memories of this ghastly event.

  Fox half closed his eyes in sweet contemplation. He had enjoyed his time at Madame Suzette’s. The doxy into whose bed he had tumbled was much to his liking: dark and mysterious, with lush, honeyed curves that looked as if they had ripened under a hot southern sun. For a few pleasant hours a man could thoroughly lose himself in the arms of such a woman, revel in the feel of dewy soft flesh pressed intimately against his own. Not the gates to paradise, perhaps—which mortal ever found heavenly pleasures during his time on earth?-but infinitely better than listening to Lady Worthington’s shrill voice, or exchanging inane pleasantries with a friend’s bygone infatuation.

  Impossible to say how much time passed until the recess. To Fox it seemed like an eternity, all spent in musical purgatory. Wryly he remembered his words to Drew. How sad they had proven all too true. To exact revenge from Andrew Fermont, Esq. would be sweet.

  Beside him, Drew’s angelic Miss Bourne sat as if petrified.

  “Miss Bourne?”

  “That was—”

  “Rather abhorrent, I know.” And because of her, because of his promise to Andrew, the pea-goose, he wouldn’t be able to extricate himself early from this glorious musicale. “Would you care for some refreshments?”

  She turned toward him, her eyes flashing with pansy blue annoyance. “Interesting, was what I wanted to say.”

  Gracious, what was wrong with this girl? Snapping and yapping like a rat terrier!

  “I stand corrected.” Did he mean it? No, of course not. Platitudes spilled easily from his lips. Platitudes and flirtation he had perfected during all those years among the bon ton.

  Her blond brows arched. “But faith, sir, you still sit.”

  The musical, mocking lilt of her voice grated on his nerves just as had the unmusical experience of Lady Worthington’s songs. He inclined his head. “Then I sit corrected, Miss Bourne. Now, will you allow me to accompany you to the refreshments room?” He would let Drew buy him a bottle of old, old port for this. A barrel of the stuff.

  “Else we should sit stupidly like two hens on a perch?” She stood, small and graceful, a quail rather than a hen. “By all means, let us proceed toward the punch.”

  He offered her his arm, and her gloved fingers slipped into the crook of his elbow so he could lead her away from this scene of musical criminality.

  “I assume you enjoyed the performance then?” he asked lightly, even though only the deaf could have.

  She gave him a look which made him think she probably regarded him as the greatest nidget of all mankind. “As I said, it was interesting. It’s not something you get to hear every day.”

  “And thank God for that!” he mumbled.

  Around them, the hum of voices rose and fell as if the guests had turned into a swarm of bees. “A veritable crush, is it not?” Miss Bourne purred, her voice sweeter than sticky molasses. “It makes one wish for the green hills and meadows, where one might meet a fairy’s child—oh, I am sorry.” Her free hand rose to cover her mouth, while she trilled a laugh. Fox swore he could see a devilish glint in her eyes as she goaded him. “You don’t read Keats.”

  “Indeed I do not,” he forced out between gritted teeth. By Jove, he had never felt the urge to strangle a woman, but this one—oh, he would happily put his hands around her white throat! But because he could not follow these urges in such a public setting, he needed a drink. Fast.

  The refreshments room, however, Fox saw with dismay, was packed: the battered audience sought fortification before the second part of the musicale began. Properly sloshed, a man might even find its entertainment value increase. Yet before a man could become chirping merry in this house, he apparently had to hack his way through the masses. With even the comforts of alcohol be denied to him tonight, he’d be damned—

  “Ah, there is Mr. Bentham,” Miss Bourne murmured, her ironic tone suddenly gone as if it had never been. Ah, well, she probably knew it would not do if her guardian caught her at playing Miss Hoyden.

  Fox followed the direction of the subtle rise of her chin and found a middle-aged, potbellied gentleman coming toward them and carrying two glasses of red liquid. The candlelight transformed the sweat forming on the man’s forehead into a shimmering ooze that seemed to grow out of his skin.

  What a decidedly distasteful image! Fox frowned. Make that two barrels of port his friend owed him.

  “Mr. Bentham,” Fox’s fair but rather unpleasant companion murmured as the man reached them, sweating and out of breath. “Mr. Stapleton, may I introduce you to my present guardian, Mr. Bentham? Mr. Bentham, Mr. Stapleton.”

  Fox made his lips twist into a polite smile, while his gaze was inexorably drawn to the small drops that rolled down from Bentham’s temples to soak his collar.

  The older man cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Yes. Stapleton. P-pleasure, sir.” He had to clear his throat once more. “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?” he asked Miss Bourne, but then continued without waiting to hear her answer. “Saw you f-from the refreshments room and I thought … and I thought …” He lifted the two glasses. He blinked rapidly as sweat fell into his eyes. “Thought I’d better bring you some of the punch, so you w-won’t have to dive into the cr—” He breathed heavily.

  “Mr. Bentham?” Miss Bourne’s fingers dropped from Fox’s arm when she took a step forward. “Are you quite all right? Do you feel unwell?” Fox looked down on the golden crown of her head, which was crooked to the side in apparent concern. My, my, who would have thought it? There was a feminine heart beating in that Amazonian chest after all.

  Bentham’s lips trembled a little, before he managed a smile. “Not at all, my dear. F-fit as a fiddle. But just couldn’t let you walk into the crush.” Again, he lifted the two glasses he carried.

  Fox narrowed his eyes. The man appeared sloshed. Too much punch, probably.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” the fair Miss Bourne protested.

  “My pleasure, my dear, my pleasure. Do take a glass.” Bentham pressed a glass into her hand. “You, too, Mr. Stapleton.”

  Fox found himself holding a slippery glass of warm punch. The spicy aroma drifted up to tickle his nose with hints of cinnamon and cloves.

  Bentham looked at him. “Consider it a thank-you for entertaining my ward tonight,” he said in a surprisingly clear voice before, blinking rapidly, he walked past. His only farewell was a murmured, “Need fresh air. Yes, some fresh air…”

  Deucedly odd, that fellow. Yet he had spared Fox the fate of being crushed to death in the refreshments room. A man had to appreciate that. With a shrug, Fox turned back to his lady for the evening. “So, what shall we drink to, Miss Bourne?”

  She started, as if she had been miles away, then raised her pansy blue gaze to his. For a moment the curves of her face looked soft and vulnerable, but almost immediately the effect was destroyed. “What do you propose, Mr. Stapleton?” she asked in mocking tones.

  So the yapping terrier was back. Her insolence annoyed him. Oh, how it annoyed him, especially coming from such a fresh chit. Yet he would be damned before he betrayed himself in any way. He inclined his head as if flattered by her question. “This is your first stay in London, is it not? Then I drink to a pleasant and unforgettable time in our fair city.” He raised his glass high in salute.

  “Well, thank you.” She mimicked him, and they both drank.

  A wave of red rolled toward him. Cinnamon and clove enveloped him in their mingled scent as the punch flowed into his mouth and exploded on his tongue. Wine and cinnamon and clove and a dreadful bitterness. And salty like tears. He grimaced and put his glass down.

  He saw how Miss Bourne wrinkled her small nose. “Do you think there’s something wrong with this punch?” she asked, a little breathless. “That’s not how it’
s supposed to taste, is it?”

  “I should hope not!” He took another cautious sip. The bitterness was still there, if somehow muted. In fact, it tasted better now. “It grows on you, I say.”

  That made her raise her brows again, those two semicircles of burnished gold. “Indeed?” She raised her glass to her lips. “An acquired taste, you mean?” She drank.

  Over the rim of his glass, Fox watched how her lashes came to rest on her rounded cheeks when she closed her eyes. The muscles of her throat moved as the liquid ran down her throat. More punch flowed over his own tongue, sweetly this time. Her lashes fluttered, and her eyes looked directly into his. Blue as wide as the sky, as wide as the ocean. And then her lips curved into the most charming smile he had ever seen.

  ~*~

  Perhaps it was due to the punch, for just like it, Lady Worthington’s musicale seemed to grow on a man, and Fox liked the second part much better than the first. So much did he enjoy himself that he drove home whistling madly, as if to compete with the now-absent sparrows on the rooftops. A myriad of stars glittered in the night sky, a diamond-besprinkled coat for the new moon. Pale like a maiden’s breast, her thin crescent peeked shyly out from behind a flock of clouds.

  But then Fox’s hired carriage reached the outskirts of town, the noise and rumble and lights of Mayfair, and her light seemed to dim. Never mind. The hackney rumbled down Piccadilly, past slowly aging mansions on one side and the bare trees of Green Park on the other, until it came to a halt in front of a red-brick house. Still flushed with delight, Fox alighted from the carriage, paid the driver, and walked across the courtyard and finally through the gates of dignified Albany.

  His steps echoed hollowly on the marble floors of what once had been Lord Melbourne’s town house before he had exchanged houses with His Grace the Duke of York and Albany. In 1802 debts had finally forced the duke to sell the estate, thus opening the way for York House to be transformed into this quiet paradise of bachelorhood.

  Fox slipped out through the back door, and from the brightly lit hallways of the mansion, he stepped into the subdued twilight of Rope Walk. The mellow glow of lanterns enveloped him as he strolled down the roofed pathway. In the long-stretched houses to his left and right, candlelight flickered in the windows as if welcoming and urging him home. Ah yes, it was for this that he preferred entering Albany from the south instead of choosing the shorter way to his apartment through the gates in Viggo Street. This was home: a safe haven amidst the teeming life of the city he so loved. Indeed, a most suitable den for a fox.

  He grinned.

  After the stuffiness of Lady Worthington’s conservatory, the crisp night air stung pleasantly in his lungs. Truly, this was an enchanted night!

  Energized, he stepped through the entrance of Block F and walked up the stairs to his set of chambers. Yet when he unlocked his front door, he found the entrance hall strangely dark and deserted, with no Hobbes in sight. Frowning, he slipped out of his coat and left it with his hat on a chair in the hall. A splinter of light came from his study and, when he pushed the door open, he found Andrew Fermont sprawled in an armchair and obviously engrossed in a book. “Drew.”

  The man looked up, and his face broke into a delighted smile. “Foxy! There you are!” He gestured to the glass on the table. “I took the liberty and helped myself to some of your brandy. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” Perplexed, Fox started tugging at his tight gloves and walked to the other armchair. “But what are you doing here? And where’s Hobbes?” The gloves fell onto the table and he sank down into the comfortable leather seat.

  Drew shrugged. “I sent him off to bed. Figured the old chap could need some sleep.”

  Fox scowled. “And who’s going to see after my clothes tonight?” he asked ungraciously.

  “Lawk, Foxy!” His friend rolled his eyes. “A strapping big lad like you should be able to see after his clothes himself for once!” He leaned forward to add in a mocking murmur, “It seems that your cosseted upbringing has made you a bit soft, Mr. Stapleton.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Fermont.” With deft fingers, Fox opened the buttons of his jacket. “If you remember, I nearly gave you a lovely facer at Gentleman Jackson’s last week.”

  “While I nearly ran you through with my epée at Maestro Angelo’s at the beginning of this week.” Drew grinned. He leaned back and crossed his legs. “But do tell: How did you like Lady Worthington’s musicale?”

  “Surprisingly entertaining.” Fox shrugged out of his jacket and flung it aside.

  Drew looked surprised. “Entertaining?” he echoed, as if he could hardly believe his ears. “You do shock me, Foxy. Didn’t I hear you speak of musical purgatory only this morning?”

  Fox reached up to loosen his neck cloth. “Ah well, it is all a question of circumstances, is it not?”

  “Circumstances?” If possible, Drew’s brows climbed even higher. “I gather you enjoyed the company, then? How deliciously unexpected!” His eyes twinkled. “I had got the impression the company of Miss Bourne left you somewhat…bored.”

  “Bored!” With the indignant outburst, the snowy folds of Fox’s cravat fell open. “Who could ever be bored in Miss Bourne’s company?” Memories of the evening rose in front of his inner eye and brought a smile to his face. “Miss Bourne is surely one of the most charming ladies of my acquaintance. An utterly delightful creature, I should say. In fact”—with a blissful sigh, Fox leaned his head back and closed his eyes—“in fact, she is the woman I’m going to marry.”

  Chapter Four

  The ton dubbed it a whirlwind romance. After Lady Worthington’s musicale, the Honorable Mr. Stapleton was a daily visitor of the Benthams, or more specifically, of their young ward, Miss Amelia Bourne. He was captivated by her beauty, her charm and wit. At night he dreamt of her sweet, dear face, of the gentle swell of her breasts, of the delicious shadow in between—which he longed to explore, to caress with fingers and lips. It might be exceedingly improper to harbor such thoughts about a gently bred young lady, but what man could help his dreams? And so he dreamt of her small but appealingly lush figure at night, and during the day despaired that heavy winter dresses did not grant him a glimpse of her legs. Surely that would have been heaven, to glimpse the outline of her legs. They would be firm but beautifully rounded. And short.

  Fox smiled. Everything about her was short, petite. It made him want to tug her under his arm, shelter her from the world so no harm would ever come to her. He lived for a smile from her, which would set her blue eyes sparkling. Pansy blue, summer-sky blue, as wide as the ocean. He yearned for the day he could touch her bare hand and link their fingers, skin to skin. And for the day—oh, the day!—when he could press his lips to hers, when they would open under his and he would be granted his first taste of her. It would be sweeter than honey, for sure.

  For now he accompanied Miss Bourne and Miss Bentham on their outings in the park, met the whole family at soirees or at the theater. And afterward he couldn’t wait to hear Miss Bourne’s opinion on the play they had seen.

  The days raced by and he lived only for the precious moments he spent in her company. His spirits soared when he walked beside her, and his heart thudded in his chest whenever her laughter trilled in his ears.

  His friends declared him mad. “You, my dear boy,” Cyril said, “act like a man possessed.”

  Possessed?

  If he were, it was a sweet possession indeed, a madness he didn’t want to be cured of. Amelia Bourne was bewitching and beautiful; she was all he had ever dreamt of. Now that he had found her, he wouldn’t be able to bear it should he lose her again. Her regard seemed to him the most precious gift. The mere thought that he might forfeit it because of his birth made him break into cold sweat. But he wouldn’t: if he never told her, he would never lose her and thus she would be with him forever.

  Forever.

  Surely nothing could be any sweeter than that.

  ~*~

  An empty glass in
his hand, Bentham sat in an armchair at his club and stared into space. Brooding. These days his acquaintances gave him a wide berth, yet he hardly noticed. A vise constricted his chest, squeezed his lungs, and he felt trapped, so horribly trapped. Hell, he felt as if he had sold his soul to Beelzebub himself.

  Sweet heavens, what had he gotten himself into? If only he had never taken Lady Margaret’s cursed money! True, at the time—was it ten years now?—he had had no other options; the moneylenders, the greedy bastards, had started to regard him with suspicion. Therefore, when he had heard about the mysterious Lady Margaret it had seemed a godsend. I will give you the money, and you will pay it back when you can. An unusual arrangement, to be sure, yet it had seemed so simple, so astonishingly easy. Pay it back when you can. Something he had always put off, until it slowly but surely slipped his mind. The right time for paying his debts had never come; he always needed more money—and more—and more—and more. Truly, he had tried to stop for a while, but how could he withstand the lure of the cards? The thrill? The excitement?

  And now…

  He shuddered, and a snap of his fingers produced a footman, who poured him more brandy. With a trembling hand he raised the glass to his mouth and downed its contents. Liquid fire burned down his gullet and into his stomach. Closing his eyes, Bentham waited for the explosion of heat that would relax his tense muscles.

  “Ah, Mr. Bentham.”

  His eyes snapped open. Disbelieving, he ogled the stranger who slipped into the empty armchair facing him.

  “So, our Sicilian Dragon has been successful, I’ve heard.” His voice smooth and pleasant, the man crossed his legs.

  “How the devil did you get in here?” Bentham snapped, while the alcohol rolled sickeningly through his stomach.

  One dark blond eyebrow arched. “I get admission everywhere, my dear Mr. Bentham. I thought you would have guessed by now.”