Enchanting Pleasures

by Eloisa James

  “Why is Mr. Sudhakar arriving after your newly appointed Holkar heir?”

  “This was the earliest that he could pay us a visit,” Gabby said firmly. “Naturally I asked him to visit us whenever he was able. And you don’t need to say ‘Mr. Sudhakar,’ Quill. Very few Indian people have two names.”

  Quill strolled over so that he could stand behind his wife as she sat at the delicate little dressing table. He ran his fingers down her hair. “I’m afraid that I am still not quite following, my dear. I understood that Sudhakar is an elderly gentleman. It must have been quite an arduous voyage for him. Why is he paying us this visit?”

  “Oh, he’s doing it for me. Because I asked him to,” Gabby answered promptly.

  “And why did you ask him to visit?” Quill’s long, clever fingers stroked through his wife’s golden-brown hairs as if they were strands of silk to be separated before weaving.

  She hesitated.

  “Could it be that Sudhakar is bringing his own little miracle concoction with him?”

  Gabby bit her lip. “You needn’t put it like that.”

  “And how else shall I refer to his medicine?”

  “I…I don’t know what it’s called,” she admitted.

  “What we do know is that it is in the same genus as those medicines I discarded. I believed that we had a firm understanding, Gabby. No more. I will never take another potion—not from an English apothecary, nor from an Indian miracle healer. Regardless of Sudhakar’s skill or his friendship with you, I will not take his medicine. Under any circumstances.”

  “But this is different,” Gabby said unhappily. She met her husband’s eyes in the dressing-table mirror. “Sudhakar is not a fraud, like those apothecaries I visited. There’s no hemp in his medicine.”

  “Given that Mr. Moore boasted of using Indian hemp, the ingredient may well appear in Sudhakar’s potion as well.”

  Gabby twitched her shoulders under Quill’s fingers and then forced herself to sit quietly.

  “The real point is that you promised not to buy any more medicines.”

  Her heart was pounding. “I wrote to Sudhakar long before I made that promise.”

  Quill’s voice was steely, implacable. “You said—and I quote, Gabby—‘I promise not to buy any more concoctions.’”

  “I didn’t have to buy his medicine,” she muttered. Her face was burning.

  “That is beside the point.” Quill turned abruptly and walked away, stopping with his back to the window. “What I find truly objectionable is the fact that you lied to me, Gabby.”

  “I didn’t really—”

  “You lied with foreknowledge. We can distinguish that from lies such as those you told me about Kasi Rao.”

  “I didn’t tell you any lies about Kasi!”

  “Lies of omission,” Quill said. “Yesterday when Lord Breksby announced that Kasi Rao had been found by the East India Company, you said naught to me of Jawsant Rao Holkar and your kingmaking activities.” His voice had a bitter twinge, and his shoulders were squared as he looked into the black garden. “I gather you didn’t trust me not to contact Breksby.”

  Gabby took a shuddering breath. “That wasn’t it at all! I didn’t lie to you—”

  “Don’t!” His voice was like the crack of a whip in the room. “Don’t tell me any further lies. Can’t you just admit, for once, that you were wrong? You broke your word to me.” He swung around and faced her.

  Gabby could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Blistering tears pressed at her eyes. “But I didn’t mean—”

  “That excuse is overused,” Quill remarked. “Good motives do not excuse lies. Ever since you entered this house, you have flung about untruths as if they were nothing important. I am not saying”—and his voice softened—“that you tell lies for mean or shabby purposes.”

  She swallowed a sob. “I don’t!” she cried.

  “I know that.”

  “The only lie I told was for your own good. I didn’t tell you about Sudhakar because I knew you wouldn’t allow him to travel to England—and I thought he was already on the way, so what did it matter? He might be able to cure your migraines, don’t you see? His note said that there is a medicine that has provided remedy—”

  “What I see is that I cannot trust my wife’s word.” The words fell like stones into a deep well. “I must constantly be doubting you, trying to decide whether you are telling me the truth or whether you have decided to deceive me, for my own good.” Quill’s tone was savage.

  More tears were falling, but Gabby refused to give in to sobs. “I—I …” What could she say? She had lied to him, at least by omission, as he put it.

  “I meant to tell you about Jawsant Holkar,” she said, steadying her voice with an effort. “But it was only a matter of a few letters, and I was…I was enjoying making the arrangements by myself. I thought it would be a surprise. I didn’t think of it as lying.”

  “That’s just it. You don’t think of lying as something to be avoided, do you, Gabby?”

  She blinked away more tears. “I never tell bad lies.” Embarrassingly, her voice squeaked. “I just got in the habit because of my father—” She had to gulp back a wrenching sob.

  “Your father undoubtedly deserved to be deceived,” Quill said. He walked over and stood in front of her, drawing her gently to her feet. “But I do not, Gabby. I am not a tyrant. I would never have betrayed your plans to the government. I can see that your father drove you into acting surreptitiously. But our marriage will be nothing more than a shambles if we are untruthful with each other.”

  He kissed her hair and then her salty cheek. Words emerged from his chest as if torn. “And God knows, Gabby, I want our marriage to be a success more than anything I’ve ever wanted in the world.”

  Gabby burst into a storm of weeping, falling into his arms. “I do as well,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to lie to you! I do trust you, I do, I do! You know how much I love you, Quill!”

  There was a queer twist in his chest. “I love you too, Gabby.”

  “I know you do,” she sobbed on, “and that was why—I mean, if I didn’t know you loved me, I wouldn’t—I just wanted it to be a surprise! Because you love me and you think I’m bright—you said so—and I wanted to show you that I was capable of doing something intelligent!”

  “I see,” Quill said slowly, backing toward the bed. Once there, he pulled her into his lap. “You didn’t tell me about your plans for the Holkar throne because I—”

  She interrupted him again. “You said that women should be directors of the East India Company!”

  Quill settled her more closely against his shoulder and dropped a kiss onto her satiny hair. “I gather that it was my fault.” His voice was wryly amused. “I’ll never express admiration for your intelligence again.”

  She raised her head and looked up at him. “Oh, Quill, you’re so—” Her voice hiccuped on a sob. “It’s no wonder I’m so horribly in love with you.”

  Quill swallowed. Cripples were not lovable, unless a person was as overly romantic as his wife, of course. “You need a handkerchief,” he said brusquely, thrusting one into her hand.

  She leaned back against his shoulder again, a last sob escaping from her chest. “I will tell Sudhakar tomorrow morning that you have refused his treatment.”

  “Why don’t you tell him that the problem resolved itself after you wrote?” Quill suggested. “I would not want your friend to think that he made a voyage that could have been prevented. And I must say that I am quite pleased with the unexpected resolution of my…problems.” His hands tightened around the fragrant bundle in his lap. “Especially given that my problems were solved by my oh-so-intelligent wife.”

  But Gabby’s stomach was clenching with anxiety. “If I promise not to tell you any more lies, do you think our marriage might still be a success?”

  Quill tenderly wiped the last tears from her cheeks. “Our marriage is already so much better than I expected that it terrifies me,” he wh
ispered, kissing his way down to her mouth. “I—” He faltered, and then continued. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel this way about someone.”

  “Oh, Quill, I’m sorry I lied to you. I really am. I would never be unfaithful or—”

  “I know that.” He whispered into her hair. “I know you fibbed to me only with the best of motives.”

  They sat for a moment, an occasional sob still rising in Gabby’s throat. Finally she took a long shuddering sigh. “Do you know what Lady Sylvia would say now?”

  “I can’t say it jumps to mind,” Quill said dryly.

  “‘Time for some tea. Emotions are so tedious without sustenance,’” Gabby said, in a fairly good imitation of Lady Sylvia’s bark. “I should ring for Margaret.” She tucked her face against his chest. “My nose must be as red as a cherry.”

  “It doesn’t appear to be red,” Quill said, running a finger down the side of his wife’s little patrician nose. “And I don’t want any tea. It’s far too late in the evening for tea. I want you, Gabby. I need a draught of my wife.”

  All he could see of her face were long brown eyelashes, tipped in gold, and the beginnings of a very small smile. Then she raised her arms and clasped them around his neck. Her lips hovered an inch from his.

  “I don’t know. I really would like a cup of tea.”

  “Gabby.” His tone was dangerously even.

  “I expect my eyes are swollen. I should ring for a compress.”

  “Gabby!” he growled. He bent forward and eased a kiss on those reddened eyes. Delicate fingers played a concerto on his neck. And then…her lips opened into the sweetness of a slow kiss.

  They were a better sustenance than tea, those kisses. They repaired and soothed and knit together the weave of married life.

  It was quite a while before infinite sweetness changed into something different, something more eager and more wild. Gabby gasped and protested, found herself naked and then grew accustomed to the indecency, finally became too hoarsely incoherent for protest and too openly passionate to care. Quill had decided to teach his wife that there was more to their continuing experiment than she had dreamed.

  And he succeeded magnificently. Perhaps too well. By the time Quill drew Gabby down on top of his body, he was blazing with a maddening fire. Gabby’s uneven cadence was torment rather than pleasure. He endured. And endured.

  But there are limits to every man’s patience.

  Suddenly Gabby found herself flipped over on her back, Quill’s delicious weight pinning her down, pleasure flaring into her stomach as he drove into her.

  “No,” she said on a wailing note, but then she was caught up in his pounding rhythm and nothing escaped her mouth but cries of pleasure, spiraling higher and higher, joined at the apex by his rough groan. And a second later she heard a hoarse mutter against her neck: “That was worth anything, Gabby. Anything.”

  She didn’t reply.

  Her husband slept, his body warm next to hers, but Gabby’s eyes didn’t close.

  She lay awake in the grip of frantic anxiety. If Quill had another attack…she’d have to leave him. Or never make love to him. Except that she would die if she never saw his somber eyes laughing at her again. Her thoughts tangled over each other, careening from heart-thumping despair to firm resolution to wild guilt.

  As dawn slowly crept through the drapes, Gabby watched Quill’s face like a hawk. Was his skin paler than it had been? When he moaned in his sleep, she froze. When he turned over and then choked, she had the chamber pot ready. She put a wet cloth on his head, rinsed out the pot, ran back to the bed with it. Wrung out the cloth again, cursed herself silently, and rinsed the pot twice more.

  When she finally left the room at ten in the morning, Gabby carried with her the image of a chalk-white face, touched by dark shadows. Quill had flinched each time she touched him; his face had twisted in pain as his stomach fought to empty itself again and again. She had watched him fight to maintain dignity before her and had seen the pain defeat him.

  He opened his eyes once, only to say, “Don’t blame yourself, love.” Gabby jumped, thinking that he was reading her mind. She blamed herself, oh, yes, she did. She blamed herself with a vicious twist of her stomach every time she thought of it. They had made love, and that made her party to the migraine. If it weren’t for her, Quill would be happily working in his study, instead of lying half dead in the dark.

  Blame had the salutary effect of clearing Gabby’s mind of all hesitation. They could not continue like this. She could leave Quill forever—or she could talk to Sudhakar. And between the two possibilities, there was no real decision to be made.

  “I THINK IT IS an extremely poor idea.” Gabby had rarely seen Sudhakar so incensed. “No person should be given medicine without his explicit knowledge and consent.”

  “Quill will not take the medicine otherwise,” Gabby said flatly. “And I can’t bear his suffering. You haven’t seen it. You don’t know.”

  “It is his choice.”

  “But he doesn’t understand,” she pleaded. “He is English, and he’s never lived outside this country. It is difficult for him to believe that medicine from India will cure his condition.”

  “May cure his condition,” Sudhakar corrected her. “And in fact the primary ingredient is not Indian. The medicine will cure his headaches only if the bodily damage is of a certain type.”

  “But if I understand you, it won’t injure him either way,” Gabby insisted. “So there’s no harm in trying.”

  “Given correctly, the medicine will not cause any further damage,” Sudhakar agreed. “I agree that there is little physical risk. But I insist that patients have the right to choose their own medicine. I do not treat people without their consent. This medicine is made from a deadly poison, Gabrielle. In the wrong hands, it has killed people. Under those circumstances, it is doubly important that the patient have the right to decide whether he wishes the risk.”

  “It’s for his own good,” Gabby protested wildly. She was on the edge of hysteria. Sleeplessness, worry, and guilt were beating an unhappy rhythm in her brain.

  “We”—Sudhakar corrected himself—”I do not force people to bend to my will. You sound dangerously like your father this morning, Gabrielle.”

  “My father! My father doesn’t give a hang about anyone else!” Gabby cried. It was a relief to say it out loud. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got on the boat to London. He doesn’t care about me, and he never has!”

  “The question of love is not relevant. Your father believes that he knows what is best for each person in the village,” Sudhakar pointed out. “And he makes certain that his way is implemented, whether the person in question agrees or not.”

  There was a pounding moment of silence.

  “I cannot believe that you would compare me to my father.” Gabby’s eyes were dry and her head high.

  “I speak the truth as I see it,” came the reply, uncompromising and yet gentle. “If your husband wants nothing to do with my medicine, then he should not be given it behind his back. It is his choice.”

  “My father allows people to make choices,” Gabby protested, grasping at a tangent. “He simply makes them leave the village if they don’t agree with him. I don’t see any similarity. I love Quill. I love him too much to spend my entire life watching him suffer. I will…I will have to leave him.”

  “In that case,” Sudhakar said, “leaving the marriage will be your choice. I have seen patients flee from their dying spouses, and I sympathized. There is nothing harder than watching a loved one in pain.”

  Gabby’s lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Sudhakar. I didn’t mean to remind you.”

  “My son died a long time ago.” He sounded tired. “Time passes.”

  “Still,” Gabby insisted, “when Johore was dying, you tried every possible medicine. Remember when I came down from the big house and you gave Johore the medicine I had brought? He didn’t know that you were giving him the medicine, and what’
s more, he would likely have refused it! You know Johore hated my father.”

  “Johore…Johore was dying,” Sudhakar said. “He could no longer make choices for himself.”

  “I don’t see the difference,” Gabby said passionately.

  But Sudhakar’s face was unmoved. “The difference is that giving someone medicine secretly—someone who is certainly not dying—is the kind of action your father would delight in. You were raised in a household in which one man thought he knew best and implemented his rules, his Christianity, his morals, how and wherever he pleased. I would be disappointed to see you adopt his methods.”

  “Oh, Sudhakar, what happens between Quill and me is completely different; I love him!” Gabby cried.

  “I don’t see a marked difference.” He looked around the library. “It has been most pleasant to see you again, little Gabrielle. And I am pleased to see you in your house, as a married woman. But I shall return to my village on the morrow.”

  “No,” she said obstinately. “You must not leave until you talk to my husband.”

  “It will not change his mind, Gabrielle. I have found Englishmen to be remarkably unwilling to try unfamiliar cures, especially medicines that come from the ‘East,’ as they call it.” The old man peered at her, a look of great sympathy on his face. “You must grow inured to his pain, I am afraid.”

  He was right, Gabby thought, given Quill’s unrelenting opposition to so-called quack cures. He would never take another medicine, not because Sudhakar brought it from India, but because Quill was infinitely stubborn. Having declared he would take no more medicines, he would never change his mind.

  Gabby straightened her shoulders and held out her right hand. “I would like that medicine, please, Sudhakar.” Even she could hear the echoes of her father’s demanding voice in her ears.

  He shook his head. “No, little one,” he said, sounding tired.

  Gabby’s chest was burning, but she pushed on. “I brought your son medicine,” she said. “I brought it to Johore because I loved him. And I would like you to give me your medicine. I love my husband and I will not injure him. You said the medicine would not hurt him.”