Enchanting Pleasures

by Eloisa James

  Quill couldn’t bring himself to lash back at her, to say something dismissive about her gowns. Gabby knew damned well that her evening gown was unconcealed provocation. Madame Carême—clever fiend of a Frenchwoman—had seen that Gabby would never succeed at playing a frail English miss, and so she had played to Gabby’s husky voice, to her lush figure, to her unspoken sensuality. Gabby, dressed in one of Madame Carême’s creations, was a danger to all mankind.

  “I will write Peter tonight and send it by messenger,” Quill said. He was horrified to hear the rasp in his tone. He’d better start researching firms in Jamaica. Or perhaps in Zanzibar. Jamaica was too close; he would still be able to imagine Gabby dancing at that ball she wanted to attend so much. Would imagine her melting into a man’s arms. At the ball, and then…after the ball.

  Quill swallowed and stood up so abruptly that his chair almost fell. He bowed regally. “Please forgive me, Gabby. I find that I am already late for my engagement this evening.”

  “Oh, Quill, mightn’t I go with you?”

  “Absolutely not. Ladies never accompany men to private engagements,” Quill snapped.

  “Why not?”

  Gabby’s eyelashes were dark, dark brown, and then, just at the curling ends, they turned a dusky gold that matched her hair. “A lady,” Quill said exactingly, “does not query a gentleman about his engagements.”

  “Oh.” Gabby’s face lightened and she smiled. “I suppose you are going to visit your chère amie. How nice that you have one! Is she someone I would like?”

  “God,” Quill muttered. Gabby was beyond unconventional. She wasn’t misguided either. She was simply a force of nature. Were there any businesses located in the nether reaches of the Antarctic? Perhaps he could start a trade in polar-bear skins. “I do not have a chère amie,” he snapped. “And it is most improper of you to mention such a thing to me.”

  “All right,” Gabby said amiably, filing away yet another rule in her growing and seemingly endless list of English improprieties. “But why not, Quill?”

  Quill had lost track of the conversation again. “Why not what?”

  “Why don’t you have a woman friend? In India, all the English gentlemen had female friends, or so I had heard. Not that I am discussing it,” she added hastily. “I am only asking you, Quill, and you are practically my family, so it’s of no account.”

  It was amazing how many things Gabby assumed were of no account because he was family, Quill thought sourly.

  “I will not discuss the subject with you, Gabby.” And this time his face was so menacing that she could not dismiss his comment as moodiness.

  “It was simply a friendly question!”

  Quill gave a bark of laughter. “Just don’t ask that sort of question around Peter.”

  Gabby had a splendid wounded look, when she chose to employ it. “I view you as my personal friend, Quill. My only friend in England,” she added. “If you are not to tell me how to behave, who will?”

  “Peter,” Quill replied decisively. “Peter is extremely good at this sort of thing.” And for the first time, he felt quite happy at the image of Peter returning from Bath.

  Gabby had risen from his desk and was wandering about his library, so Quill drew up a sheet of parchment and scrawled a note to Peter on the spot.

  Future wife is now adequately attired in Carême. She demands to be entertained in society. Please return at once, or I shall be forced to introduce her myself.

  The note had precisely the effect that Quill expected. The idea of someone other than himself undertaking the delicate task of introducing Gabby to the London ton sent a shiver down Peter’s backbone. Moreover, the idea of his elder brother—so careless and indelicate in his ways—performing that task was like to make his hair stand on end.

  Viscountess Dewland fully participated in her son’s feelings. “My darling, you must return to London at once,” she urged him. “Quill is the best of sons, but he has no finesse. Your father is in good fettle.”

  Peter nodded. Within a week, he was posting back to London. It was just as well, he thought to himself in the corner of the coach. His knee-high boots had gained an appalling scratch on the inner left sole. New ones were a necessity, and only Hoby made boots with a proper sense of fashion. Nothing, but nothing, in Bath had been worth purchasing.

  LUCIEN COULD NOT BRING himself to make impertinent inquiries about the lovely Thorpe sisters, but he had no such hesitation about Emily’s male spy, Mr. Hislop. And everything he heard confirmed his worst suspicions. Mr. Hislop was a lecherous young sprig, known to be in the petticoat line.

  So, against his better judgment, Lucien presented himself at the door of Mrs. Ewing’s small house on Tuesday morning at eleven o’clock precisely. He intended to deal with Mr. Hislop while making it perfectly clear that his only interest in Mrs. Ewing was avuncular. He had spent a good deal of time brooding over the concept of becoming a paterfamilias to both Emily and Phoebe. It was all he was good for, with his widowed heart and old body.

  When Sally answered the door, she curtsied and said that Mrs. Ewing was not receiving callers. But Sally was no match for the lure of a shilling.

  She pointed out Emily’s study door. “The mistress is not accepting calls, because she’s expecting a visitor,” Sally whispered. Then she took herself off to the nether regions of the house, hugging her coin and comforting herself for her indiscretion with the thought that the French gentleman was that handsome. It would be good for the missus to marry him, even if he was a frog. Sally didn’t think much of foreigners in general. But, then, Mr. Boch was…was, well, it was sinful that a man looked like that.

  Emily glanced up in some annoyance when the door to her study swung open. She preferred to have Hislop introduced with as much ceremony as possible; she felt it kept him from feeling as if he were part of the household.

  But it was Lucien Boch standing in the doorway, not Hislop. Something started to pound in her chest. She had found herself thinking about Lucien Boch far too much in the past few weeks.

  “May I help you, Mr. Boch? I must apologize; I have been working, and I am not prepared for visitors.” Emily rose from her desk and gracefully untied the apron that covered her muslin dress from accidental ink splatters. She had a terribly untidy hand. “I’m afraid I cannot converse at length, as I am expecting a visitor.”

  Lucien wasn’t quite sure what to do. He’d come prepared to slay the dragon, and there was no dragon, yet. “I came to inquire whether you would accompany me to Lady Fester’s ball,” he said.

  Emily drew in a slow breath. Apparently Mr. Boch was not trying to lure her to another fashion magazine. “I do not go into society,” she murmured noncommittally.

  Lucien raised an eyebrow. “I am offering you the opportunity to do so.”

  “I’m afraid that I must decline your gracious invitation,” she replied.

  “May I ask why?” Lucien asked, unforgivably. A gentleman never, never asked for the reasons behind a lady’s refusal. But he told himself that he had to make conversation, because he wanted to be in the room when Hislop arrived.

  “I have never been formally presented,” Emily explained. “I attended a few balls before leaving my family home, but I would not feel comfortable at a large gathering. Although,” she added, “I am most grateful for your invitation, Mr. Boch.”

  “I understood from Miss Thorpe that it would be a welcome opportunity for you to examine the clothing of fashionable women,” Lucien said, trying to sound persuasive rather than desperate. “I can assure you that the entire beau monde will attend the Fester ball.”

  Emily hesitated. Perhaps Lucien wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the lustful Mr. Hislop. Mr. Hislop had also offered to accompany her to various occasions, but only, she was quite sure, so that he could make unwelcome approaches to her in the privacy of his carriage. Recently he had even begun to hint that he would no longer give her information if she didn’t accept one of his invitations.

  Lucien was
still standing in the center of the room. Now he approached her and bowed. “I would be most honored if you would join me,” he said gently.

  Emily could hardly breathe. Men had no right to have eyelashes that long. They had no right to look at one with liquid black eyes and be so…so appealing.

  “You are very obliging,” she said finally.

  “I would be grateful for the company,” Lucien said. “And I would be most happy if your sister could accompany us, as chaperone.”

  “My sister, a chaperone!” Emily almost snorted. Even the suggestion proved that Lucien had not inquired about their situation. He couldn’t know that Louise had been besmirched across all England as a wanton light-skirt. “My sister does not venture into public,” she said tightly.

  “In that case, I will ask an acquaintance of mine to accompany us. I would not wish you to feel uncomfortable in my company.”

  Emily met Lucien’s eyes and felt ashamed that she had ever wondered whether he was a degenerate like Mr. Hislop. “I would be most pleased to accompany you to the Fester ball,” she said. “I have changed my mind.”

  “That is a woman’s privilege,” Lucien said, a smile lighting his eyes. He bowed again. “I am honored.”

  “And you needn’t ask an acquaintance to come with us,” Emily added hastily. “I am a widow, after all. Widows do not need chaperones.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lucien murmured.

  Was there a sardonic note in his eye? Emily nervously touched the little cap she wore.

  Lucien could not think of any other reason to waste the lovely Emily’s time, so he had turned about to leave when Sally pushed open the doors and said, rather sharply, “Mr. Hislop is here, missus.” She was in a mood, having been pinched twice on the way down the hall. She gave Hislop a sour look and stamped off.

  Bartholomew Bayley Hislop was not a handsome man. Emily noticed in an instant that it was a positive cruelty to put him in a room with Lucien Boch. Lucien stood, slim, dressed in black, his manner and clothing bespeaking his state as a marquis. Or former marquis, Emily reminded herself.

  But Bartholomew Hislop was not blessed in his tailor. This morning he was dressed in what he considered the highest kick of fashion: an olive frock coat with enormous metal buttons down the front, left open to reveal a waistcoat violently striped in purple and yellow. On the personal front, he had fluffy sideburns, worn rather long (in a style that Bartholomew believed to be all the rage), and thin legs, not quite knock-kneed. Add a cheerfully lascivious glint in his eye, and you had Bartholomew Bayley Hislop, the only son and heir to a butcher who had made huge amounts of money boiling cow’s bones into glue—enough to send his only son off to Cambridge and now to support him in the metropolis.

  Emily greeted Hislop with rather more cheer than she generally showed him. “Mr. Hislop, what a pleasure to see you again!” She watched as he bowed, and then gave him a brief curtsy. “May I present Mr. Lucien Boch?”

  Bartholomew Hislop didn’t recognize Mr. Boch, but that didn’t bother him. He did recognize his tailor. “I’m happy to meet you, sir! Very pleased to meet you! I have decided to forswear the single-breasted frock coat myself. Gave it up around, oh, thirteen weeks ago. I decided the style made me look a trifle pigeon-chested. Not that the effect is so on you, my dear sir. And that particular frock coat is made by Guthrie, is it not?”

  Lucien bowed. “You have located my tailor exactly, sir.”

  “Well, not located,” Hislop said punctiliously. “I have not personally employed Mr. Guthrie. I’m afraid I demand, shall we say, a trifle more of an adventurous attitude in a tailor. But I believe that Mr. Guthrie is currently situated in Leadenhall Street, number twenty-seven, is he not?”

  “You are correct.”

  “I generally am in these matters, my dear sir. Now, I can see at a glance that you are a foreign gentleman, Mr. Boch, and so you probably have not heard of me. But I can assure you that I am building a wee reputation amongst men of mode, amongst those of the first circles. I fancy that I have an eye, a flair. And”—he leered at Emily—“one of my greatest joys is sharing my observations with Mrs. Ewing. It gives me enormous pleasure to do my small something for La Belle Assemblée.”

  Lucien looked at Emily. She read the disgust in his eyes and gave him a frown.

  “I’m very much afraid that I shall have to ask you to excuse us, sir. Mr. Hislop has been kind enough to promise to share his notes regarding the fashion worn at a reception given for the Duke and Duchess of Gisle, and I am sure you would find such minutiae tedious.”

  “The duke and duchess just returned from Turkey,” Hislop said importantly. “Lady Gisle wore Carême, of course.”

  Lucien allowed himself to be walked to the door. He bowed and then gave Emily a wry smile. “I came to slay a dragon,” he murmured, for her ears alone. “Phoebe led me to believe that Mr. Hislop was a disagreeable companion.”

  Emily smiled despite herself. “I am always grateful for the presence of dragon slayers,” she said, her gentle voice sounding like music to Lucien. “There are so few of them in London. But you need have no worries about Mr. Hislop, sir. He is a good friend to me.”

  And she closed the study door to the sound of Bartholomew Hislop droning on about the precise weight of the Egyptian velvet that the Duchess of Gisle had worn.

  Lucien let himself out of the house without troubling Sally, who was nowhere to be seen. He walked down the stairs, frowning. He did not like Emily’s dependence on Hislop. Unless Lucien was very much mistaken, Hislop wasn’t visiting every week only for the greater glory of La Belle Assemblée. No, Hislop was interested in the beautiful Mrs. Ewing. And Lucien doubted very much that Hislop was considering marriage to a penniless widow.

  ON THE WHOLE, Peter was able to declare himself pleased by the transformed Gabby. They met at dinner the day after he returned to London, Peter having punctiliously sent Gabby a note asking her to accompany him to a ball being held by Lady Fester that very evening.

  Gabby was wearing one of Madame’s gowns and shining with delight to see her betrothed. Margaret had had to use so many pearl-topped hairpins that her brown hair took on a pearly glow from afar. But her slippery locks were firmly poised in the air, and that was the important thing. And her dress, a bronze-colored ball gown with an extremely daring neckline and a slight train on the overdress, was certainly à la mode, Peter observed. He would have noted the gown immediately, even if it weren’t on his bride-to-be. Thank God, those big bosoms of Gabby’s suited the design.

  “Is your drapery made of tiffany?” He leaned close to Gabby, who was toying with her consommé.

  Gabby looked up quickly. Peter’s eyes were much more friendly than they had been the first time they met. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  Peter said, “May I?” and at her nod, he gently pressed the fabric between two fingers for a split second. “Gauze—spotted with gold embroidery,” he announced. “Most suitable.”

  Gabby had been unhappy with the said drapery. “If this is supposed to be a shawl, it doesn’t cover anything!” she had wailed to Margaret.

  “You simply drape it,” Margaret had explained.

  Thank goodness Margaret had talked her out of carrying a cashmere shawl, given Peter’s interest in her drapery, Gabby thought fervently.

  Quill watched the happy pair from under heavy-lidded eyes. Perhaps he’d go out and get blind drunk tonight. It was a luxury he rarely, if ever, indulged in. But now the oblivion of too much brandy sounded enviable.

  “Will you join us, Quill?”

  Quill shook his head. In his present mood, it was only irritating to find Peter acting his generous self. It couldn’t be easy for the pink of the ton to have a brother who was both lame and antisocial. But Peter never failed to urge Quill to accompany him to various events.

  “Perhaps I will stop in later,” Quill said, quite to his own surprise.

  Gabby gave him one of her huge smiles. “That would be delightful, Quill! I shall look for
you.”

  Peter ushered Gabby into the carriage, noting with approval the velvet pelisse that Madame had designed to accompany this particular gown. “You look quite well this evening,” he pronounced in the semidarkness of the carriage.

  “She’s a beauty,” Lady Sylvia agreed. “You’re in luck, Peter. It’s risky, getting a bride from abroad. One of my second cousins contracted a gel from Scotland who turned out to be a tallow-faced chit. He ran away to the Americas before the wedding.”

  Gabby sighed with relief. She’d done it. Peter approved of her.

  Peter had an alarmed thought. “Do you know how to dance?”

  “Yes,” Gabby said. “Although I have never danced with a man,” she admitted. “My father hired an Englishwoman to teach me.”

  Peter quite liked that idea. If Gabby misplaced a step, he could gently drop the fact that his betrothed had never been held in a man’s arms before. There weren’t many men in London who could say such a thing.

  “Don’t worry,” he said comfortingly. “I will explain everything.”

  Gabby’s heart expanded with happiness. Peter was acting precisely like the sweet gentleman of her daydreams: protective, thoughtful, admiring. “Oh, Peter,” she exclaimed, “I’m so happy we’re to be married!”

  Peter was taken aback. What the devil was he supposed to say to that? And why would she say something so intimate before Lady Sylvia? “Quite appropriate,” he finally managed.

  Gabby was only a little disappointed. It was too early for Peter to express the same anticipation that she felt. But perhaps this evening they would kiss, the way she and Quill had kissed. She had sensed anticipation in Quill’s hard body, in his darkened eyes. She meant to see that same emotion in Peter by the end of the evening.