“I see no reason to wait.”
“Mrs. Grayson, you surprise me,” he said before turning from her.
Without thinking, she placed a hand upon his arm. “I know we have but just met, but I entreat you to trust me. I have seen many marriages in my time. I have seen those that have prevailed and those that have failed. I urge you to reconsider.”
He gazed down upon her hand. Realizing she still touched him, she started to withdraw, but, to her surprise, he placed his hand over hers before she could pull away.
“I will reconsider on one condition,” he said.
She barely heard his words, her focus being on the hand that trapped hers.
“I wish you to accompany me to a place called Château Follet,” he finished.
Château Follet? Where had she heard that name before? And why would he wish her to go there?
“What has this Château Follet to do with my son or Miss Hartshorn?” she inquired, trying to still the quickened pulse his touch caused. Why did he still hold her hand?
“It has no direct connection to them, but it is an opportunity for you to persuade me to their cause.”
Melinda had once mentioned a Château Follet, Philippa remembered. Had Melinda dubbed it the Château Debauchery?
“But why there?”
He took her hand in his and drew her to him, as close as when they danced. No, closer. Her heart rate spiked and her head spun now just as much as it had during the waltz. This was just as in her dream, only it was real. But it made no sense. What folly was he up to?
“Because I wish it,” he murmured. “Because there you will surrender yourself to me.”
She pressed her hands against his chest to ensure some distance between them. His other hand had snaked around her to her lower back, holding her in place. She found herself caught in his gaze, but surely he could not desire her. This was some charade, perhaps some test of her virtue to see if George had a good mother.
“Lord Carrington, pray, unhand me,” she told him.
He brought her closer, making it extremely difficult to think.
“I protest this mockery of yours,” she tried, pushing against him harder.
“Three nights, Mrs. Grayson. I promise you will enjoy it.”
“You are mad! Unhand me this instant!”
He released her, and she scrambled a safe distance from him. She should take her leave. Now.
“You cannot be in earnest,” she said between difficult breaths, stalling for time to piece her thoughts together, “and I will not be a source of ridicule for you.”
“I am deadly earnest,” he said calmly.
“You desire my company at this Château Follet?”
“I desire more than your company,” he replied with a devilish grin that only made him appear more charming, though she should be furious at him for his audacity.
“Surely there are other women who can accompany you.”
“There are. At present, it is you I want.”
Her legs grew weak. She did not like this at all. She was a woman of maturity, not some trifle young thing he could toy with.
“You disrespect me, my lord,” she admonished.
“Do I? There are no shortage of women who would be flattered by my interest.”
“Then turn your attentions to them!”
“We talked of dispensing with pretenses. You acknowledged that you had no paramour. I should be flattered to be yours for three days.”
This was madness. If he knew the desperation his ward was in, he would not use this opportunity to serve his own purposes. But Philippa could not bring herself to reveal what had been told to her in confidence by her own son.
“Come, my lord,” she attempted, “let us talk like reasonable, civilized people.”
He took a step toward her. Every nerve jumped to life.
“Hang civility and reason.”
“Think of Miss Hartshorn! Would you treat her desires so cavalierly?”
“If I thought only of her interests, I would tell you that your son is not welcome to court her and ensure that she not see him again. There should be nothing more to say betwixt you and I.”
Philippa closed her eyes. When she opened them, she gave him a stern stare. “How will I know that, at the end of three days, you will reconsider your stance on their marriage?”
“On their courtship. Marriage is out of the question at the moment. And I make no promises. But your one chance to advocate further for your son is to accompany me to Château Follet.”
Chapter 7
Arthur had little doubt, as he watched Mrs. Grayson depart, trembling from head to toe, that he would soon have her writhing beneath him. He had detected her response to him during the waltz and confirmed it when he had held her in his arms just now. His touch discomposed her, but she did not push him away as hard as she could have. Far from it.
He regretted coming across so roguish. He had never had need to be so bold with a woman before, but Mrs. Grayson’s resistance was high despite her attraction to him. Despite balking at his proposition, she had not refused him outright. Perhaps she had a greater interest in him than he had thought, but he suspected it was her love for her son that provided her primary motivation in entertaining his invitation. Regardless, he intended to make it worth her while.
She would not be the first widow he had taken to bed, though Mrs. Richards had been quite a few years younger. But he enjoyed all manner of women. Their varied qualities and experiences made every encounter novel.
It had been rather ruthless of him to exploit her situation. An intelligent woman, she must know she had few cards to play, and he would wager that she would sacrifice her irreproachable reputation for her son’s happiness.
Two days later, he received a cursory note from Mrs. Grayson that she would accept his invitation.
He did not reveal to Adeline that he was going to the Château Debauchery, but he did assure her that, during his time away, he would make inquiries into the Grayson family and give more thought to Mr. Grayson’s suit. He also arranged for Mrs. Williams, a ladies’ companion, to look after Adeline should Lady Bettina be unavailable. Happy that her guardian was giving her love a chance, Adeline made no complaints.
Mrs. Grayson had refused to be seen in his carriage and told him she would meet him at a posting inn outside of London. He found her there, wearing traveling clothes of the blandest color. Of course she had no wish to call attention to herself. And she had no need to impress him. He cared not what she wore, only that her garments would come off.
In his carriage, she sat as far from him as possible. If she sat any closer to her side of the carriage, she would be outside the vehicle. After inquiring into the length of the journey and the number of stops to change the horses, she asked, “I suppose now would be as good as any to present my case in regards to my son and your ward?”
“I will uphold my end of the agreement,” he answered.
“While I know you cannot take as truth the praises a mother would sing of her own son, I will tell you, nonetheless, that my son is a determined young man. You may deem it stubbornness, and I would not disagree. He is loyal to a fault, especially to those whom he cares for. When his father was ill, he returned from Cambridge, forsaking his studies so that he could be present to look after us.”
“That is commendable.”
“A few years ago, when Honora was most distressed that she had left behind her most prized scarf, one her great grandmother had bequeathed her, George rode three hours through heavy rains to retrieve it for her. He would do no less for Miss Hartshorn.”
“Mrs. Grayson, I am inclined to believe your son a very fine man, but he could have the qualities of a saint and still be unsuitable for Adeline.”
She exhaled a long breath before saying, “He is determined to marry her, my lord, and I fear they may run off to Gretna Green.”
“The concern had crossed my mind as well. I will not hide the fact that my ward seems quite devoted to your son
as well. But we cannot allow such a fear to force our hand.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it.
“Pray, speak your mind,” he encouraged.
She pressed her lips together, looking down and away from him. What had she meant to say?
“Has he revealed plans to take her to Gretna Green?” he guessed.
“George does not keep secrets from me.”
“But it seems you were unaware of Miss Hartshorn till the Morrington ball?”
“That was because—”
She stopped herself and stared at the window. He watched her bosom rise and fall with uneven breaths. Was there something she wasn’t telling him?
“He confided their willingness to resort to Gretna Green if they cannot have your approval,” she said after some silence.
Arthur shifted in his seat, not pleased yet unsurprised that his ward would defy his wishes.
She turned to him, her expression solemn. “And I think they will do it, my lord. You can take all the precautions that you wish, but they will find a way. Consider yourself: I doubt not that you could move mountains if you wished to attain your heart’s desire.”
He inclined his head to acknowledge her compliment. “That may be, but it is my duty to do all in my power to prevent that. I cannot capitulate before trying.”
“And if they were to succeed? Would you reject them still?”
“I know not.”
“It would devastate Miss Hartshorn if you did.”
“She must take that into account if she wishes to choose your son over her obligations to her family.”
“We could spare her such pain if you were to approve their courtship.”
He became silent in thought. Of course he had no wish to distress Adeline, and the guilt would not sit easily upon him, but he had to believe he could bear the unhappiness knowing that he acted in her favor.
He held Mrs. Grayson’s gaze as he said, “Your son is fortunate to have such a compassionate and articulate mother.”
Her cheeks colored a little. “And I commend you for taking your role of guardian so seriously. It is not often a man of your youth would have such a responsibility.”
“It pleases me that you can approve of a rake such as myself.”
“Well, if you must know, you are far worse a rake than I thought at the Morrington ball.”
“And yet your anger seems to have dissipated significantly since our last meeting.”
“That is only because I have placed my son’s needs above mine own.”
“Do you never indulge your own needs?”
“I am a mother.”
“You are a woman.”
She let out a shaky breath and looked away.
“Your stay at Château Follet could serve two purposes. Your son’s as well as your own.”
“Mine?” she cried.
He left his side of the carriage to sit nearer her. She immediately straightened.
“You have leave to shed your matronly shackles,” he told her. “When you surrender to me, you will exalt your desires. Do as I say, and I promise pleasure shall be yours for the taking.”
Her lashes fluttered quickly, and she looked out the window. “You mean your pleasure.”
He pressed the back of two fingers against the far side of her chin and turned her face toward him. “Why resist? You have already agreed to spend the three nights at Château Follet—”
“I have heard it dubbed the Château Debauchery.”
“Have you now?”
“Do you deny it?”
“Not at all. Its sobriquet is well deserved. Scandalous affairs occur there, and there are parts of the Château that are not for the faint of heart, but we will only venture where you are comfortable.”
“Comfortable? You think I shall find any aspect of this situation comfortable?”
“Do you not wish to make the most of your predicament?”
She had no reply, and he suspected that were he to kiss her now, she would permit it. Instead, he let go of her chin. Ardor simmered in his veins, but he would not rush matters. Before the end of their stay, she would no longer deny her desires but beg for him to fulfill them.
Chapter 8
A part of Philippa was quite disappointed when Lord Carrington released her. It had been years since she had been touched like that. The more sensible part was relieved. It had seemed he might kiss her, and she had not been kissed by a man since her husband had passed. She had feared she would not refuse him if he did, and if she allowed it, then he might think her every bit as wanton as he.
He slid over, providing her more space. She wanted to speak, to indicate that his effect upon her was not so significant, but she knew not what to say.
He broke the silence. “Tell me more of your son.”
Surprised but grateful for the solicitation to speak further of George, she told him of how cautious George often was as a child. His twin sister was more wont to take risks. Honora had learned to crawl first, walk first, and ride first. But he never bore any resentment toward his sister.
“Having grown up with a sister who was also a close friend of his, he possesses a sensitivity that other men may not come by as readily,” she told Lord Carrington.
His lordship inquired politely into her husband and the rest of her family. She asked him about his, and they fell into an easy conversation. If she had not known him to be a rogue of the first order, she might have enjoyed their tête-à-tête.
At the posting inn, they sat together for lunch. Having talked of George’s childhood, she inquired after his.
“Unlike your son, I was a rapscallion,” Lord Carrington admitted. “I had a younger brother not two years my junior, and we were quite the handful for our poor governesses. One year, we had no less than three different governesses.”
She had then proceeded to smile and laugh at some of the escapades he described.
“If you had been my son, I would not have tolerated your mischief,” she told him.
He grinned. “And what would you have done?”
“My husband would have administered the discipline. I would have admonished you and your brother.”
“And taken away our biscuits?”
“Perhaps, but I think children have a natural inclination to please their parents, and I should have praised you when you did, which would encourage more behavior of the same.”
He thought for a moment. “A rather novel approach. I cannot remember a time when my mother or father had praised me. I do remember much scolding, though.”
It was her turn to grin. “I’m sure it was much deserved. I think they did not scold you enough.”
He laughed. “Perhaps that is why I am drawn to the nature of punishment employed at Château Follet.”
Puzzled, she raised her brows.
“I will explain when we are arrived.”
She inquired after Adeline next. “While no case need be made for her—I trust my son’s judgment—it would be comforting to know more of her and how she might be a good wife for George.”
“I cannot guess as to whether or not she would make a good wife,” he replied. “It would seem many fine persons do not a fine couple make.”
“That is true,” she acknowledged. “Temperaments must suit, some interests must be shared. Mutual respect is a must.”
“And is passion required?”
She hesitated. “It is not required, but I think it can benefit a marriage. Passion is more a requisite for mistresses and paramours.”
“For the likes of you and I.”
“I am not your mistress, and you are not my paramour.”
“For three nights, we are lovers.”
She cleared her throat and quickly turned her attention to the food and drink before her.
“Who knew you for a lightskirt!” Melinda had teased when she had confided in her friend, whose assistance she needed to maintain her alibi for leaving town unexpectedly.
Philippa had felt horri
ble lying to her children, but she did not want George to know the lengths she would go for his happiness, or for him to be so incensed with the Viscount that he challenged the man to a duel.
“Be sure to shed your prudish qualities,” Melinda had advised. “Behave as abominably as you can! Be wanton. Be licentious. Be free. How I envy you!”
Philippa supposed she could be glad of the opportunity to take a man as handsome as Lord Carrington to bed. As a widow, she had not the cares an unmarried woman would have if anyone found out. That a man such as he desired her enough to want her company for three nights had stroked her vanity. But could she do as Melinda urged and be wanton and licentious?
And why had Lord Carrington made mention of punishment?
The hostess was a magnificent creature. Philippa would not have thought Madame Follet more than but a few years her senior, but the woman radiated with the vigor of a woman much younger. She also dressed in the style of a younger woman with a diaphanous gown that clung to her slender body.
“Lord Carrington, a pleasure as always,” Madame Follet said as she received them in her drawing room. “I have rooms arranged for you and your guest in the East Wing.”
The Viscount frowned. “I should prefer the West Wing this time.”
She appeared surprised. “But you have always favored the East Wing.”
“If it is no imposition, the West Wing would be more fitting this time.”
“Bien sûr.”
After they had sat with Madame Follet a while and their rooms were ready, Philippa turned to Lord Carrington, “What is the difference between the West Wing and the East Wing?”
“The East Wing is more…ribald,” he replied. “As this is your first time here, you will find the West Wing more comfortable.”
As they had few servants to spare, Philippa had not brought a maid with her, but Madame Follet graciously provided one of her own, a young Indian maid named Bhadra.
The bedchamber Bhadra showed her was nicely appointed with walls adorned with silk, oil paintings, and golden sconces; polished furnishings; and sumptuous linen covering the four-post bed. Bhadra assisted Philippa into her evening gown.
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