Promise of Pleasure (41 page)

“Mr. Dubois,” Mary greeted, “what are you doing in London?”

“Madamoiselle Barnes? How are you,
cherie?
I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m fine, and it’s no longer Miss Barnes.”

He frowned, studying her, then Jordan, then her again, and comprehension dawned.

“You married your grand lord?”

“Yes. Yesterday morning.”

“You remember my husband, don’t you? Viscount Redvers?”

“Yes, I remember him,” Dubois muttered, and it sounded as if they didn’t like each other very much.

Jordan scowled. “How come you have a French accent all of a sudden?”

“Because he’s French, silly,” Mary responded.

Jordan mumbled an epithet. “You’re not selling any of your Daily Remedy, are you, Dubois?”

“Not a bottle in the wagon,” Dubois claimed, appearing suspiciously innocent.

“Good. I wouldn’t want to learn that you’d deceived any of the ladies.”

Dubois’s customer backed away, unnerved by Jordan’s charge. Dubois shot visual daggers at Jordan, then spun to her.

“My remedies are made from premier ingredients. Lord Redvers is jesting.”

Dubois leaned nearer and whispered to Mary, “You owe me some money,
cherie.”

“Money? What for?”

“Have you forgotten? I gave you my Spinster’s Cure for free. You agreed to pay me double the price after you were wed.”

“So I did.” Mary grinned at Jordan. “Jordan, pay the man, please.”

“For what?”

“I drank his Spinster’s Cure, and it obviously worked some sort of magic.”

“I thought,” Jordan complained, “that it was supposed to snag Harold Talbot for you.”

“No, it wasn’t. I was supposed to marry my
true
love. That would be you.”

Jordan grumbled again, but withdrew the pennies from his pocket. Dubois scooped up the coins then turned to his customer, who’d been trying to slip away without being coerced into buying anything.

“You see, Miss Hamilton, here is the very best recommendation I can provide as to the effectiveness of my tonics. Lady Redvers was all alone and
triste
—sad—like you. She was pining away for love and affection. And
voila!
She is wed to a great lord.”

“Hello, Miss Hamilton,” Mary said.

The poor woman dropped into a low curtsy, which embarrassed Mary. She couldn’t abide the folderol that went along with being a nobleman’s wife, and she didn’t imagine she’d ever grow accustomed to it.

“Miss Hamilton”—Mary reached out and encouraged the woman to rise—“I’m only recently married. Don’t make a fuss.”

“Thank you, milady.”

“We needn’t stand on ceremony,” Mary advised. “Just plain Mary will do.”

“Thank you... Mary. I’m Helen Hamilton.”

“This is my husband, Lord Redvers. You may fuss over him if you like. He enjoys it.”

Hamilton dropped into another curtsy.

“Hello, Lord Redvers.”

“Miss Hamilton. Be wary of this fellow’s medicines.”

“I am, sir.”

“His tonics can be a bit... invigorating.”

Dubois glowered at Jordan, then he retrieved a vial and held it out to Miss Hamilton.

“I’ve been telling Miss Hamilton,” he explained, “that she should try my Spinster’s Cure. It is very powerful,
non?”

“Non.
I mean
yes,”
Mary concurred. “Very powerful, indeed.”

“Madamoiselle Barnes drank it, and she was wed in four weeks, as promised.”

“Five weeks,” Mary said, “but why quibble?”

Jordan harrumphed.

Mary took the vial from Dubois and handed it to Miss Hamilton.

“Have a dose,” Mary offered, “with my compliments.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Miss Hamilton protested.

“I insist. I hope it works as successfully for you as it did for me.”

Miss Hamilton was disconcerted by the gesture, but too polite to argue with a viscountess. She stuck the vial into her reticule and hurried away.

As she vanished, Jordan asked, “Are you matchmaking now, Lady Redvers?”

“I guess I am.”

“I’ve often heard that the newly wedded think everyone should join them in the matrimonial state.”

“Why not? I want the entire world to be as content as I am.” She gazed at Dubois. “I understand, Mr. Dubois, that you rendered some assistance to Lord Redvers on my behalf.”

“I merely told him about that shrew who invited you to ride to London in her carriage.”

“It was a timely warning. I experienced a spot of trouble when I arrived, so your intervention was deeply appreciated. Thank you for helping me.”

“You’re welcome,
mon amie.”

“Take care, and say hello to your sister for me.”

“I will.”

She and Jordan started off, as Dubois called after them.

“Hey, Redvers!”

Jordan glanced around. “What?”

“I have a manly tonic that will keep you fit in the... well... in the husbandly arena... if you know what I mean. Would you like to try a sample?”

“I needed your magic to win her,” Jordan replied. “I don’t need it to keep her. She’s all mine.”

“Forevermore,” Mary agreed.

“No potions necessary,” Jordan added.

They smiled and walked on down the street.

TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT
CHERYL HOLT’S NEXT NOVEL OF SENSUAL DESTINY

COMING JUNE 2010 FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!

LONDON, AUGUST 1814

 

“MICHAEL! What are you doing?”

Captain Tristan Odell glared down the hall at his younger half brother, Michael Seymour.

“Tristan,” Michael casually replied, “I didn’t realize you were home.”

“Obviously.”

Michael—the recently installed Earl of Hastings—had his arms wrapped around a very fetching housemaid, his lean, lanky torso pressing her against the wall. Not that she appeared to mind.

She was buxom and plump, her abundant breasts scarcely constrained by corset and gown, and thus, the exact sort of female Michael relished.

A love bite was plainly visible on the girl’s neck, so mischief had been brewing. If Tristan hadn’t walked by, Michael would have lured her into an empty parlor, would have had her skirt thrown up and her drawers tugged down in a fast attempt to lose his virginity.

It was hell, trying to keep the eighteen-year-old boy in line. With his golden blond hair and big blue eyes, his broad shoulders and six foot frame, he could have been an angel painted on a church ceiling. Women took one look at him and promptly forgot every lesson they’d ever been taught about decency and decorum.

“What’s your name, lass?” Tristan asked the maid.

“Lydia, Captain Odell.”

“Be about your duties, Lydia, and I don’t want you to sneak off with the earl ever again.”

She glanced at Michael, expecting him to counter the edict, but Michael merely grinned, a shameless, unrepentant rogue.

“Yes, Captain Odell,” she sullenly mumbled.

“I don’t care what he promises you,” Tristan warned. “I don’t care if he offers you money or plies you with gifts. You are to refuse. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If he pesters you, and you can’t dissuade him, come to me at once.”

“I will.”

“For if I stumble on another tryst, you’ll be fired immediately. I won’t give you a chance to explain. You’ll simply be turned out without a reference.”

The threat of termination got her attention. She curtsied and left, but she was mutinous, and Tristan knew it was only a matter of time before she’d be searching for other employment.

“You!” Tristan pointed an admonishing finger at Michael. “In the library!”

Tristan spun and marched off as Michael complained. “You’re such a scold. You never let me have any fun.”

“This isn’t
my
fault.”

“The way you carry on, one would think you were my mother.”

“Don’t bring your poor mother into it. If she hadn’t died when you were little, she wouldn’t last long now, watching you. Your antics would be the death of her.”

“My mother would have loved me,” Michael confidently claimed. “She would have thought I was marvelous. All women do.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and plopped down into his chair behind the massive oak desk. Though Michael was the earl, he slouched into the chair across—like the recalcitrant adolescent he was.

The prior earl, their philandering father, Charles Seymour, had passed away six months earlier, orphaning Michael and his twelve-year-old sister, Rose.

There were several relatives who could have stepped in as guardian for the two children, but Charles—for reasons Tristan couldn’t fathom—had named Tristan.

Tristan was Charles’s oldest, but illegitimate, son, the product of an illicit romance between Charles and Tristan’s Scottish mother, Meg. Charles had owned a hunting lodge near Tristan’s village and had visited every autumn. As a wealthy, urbane aristocrat, Charles had possessed the same charisma as Michael, and pretty, foolish Meg hadn’t stood a chance.

She’d died when Tristan was a baby, so she’d been unavailable to insist on continuing contact with his father. Tristan had only seen Charles a few times, and he’d been given scant fiscal support.

Tristan had made his own way in the world, had embraced his love of sailing and the sea. He owned a small shipping company and sailed as captain of his own merchant vessel. He was never happier than when he was out on the water and flying over the waves, so it had come as an enormous surprise to learn that he’d been roped in by Charles, cast as mentor and protector to his half siblings whom he’d never met.

At age thirty, Tristan had never been married and had no children of his own, so he knew nothing about parenting. He was floundering like a blind man, groping about in the dark.

Yet he wasn’t eager to be compared to his negligent father, so he took his responsibilities seriously. When he’d received the letter advising him of his guardianship of Michael and Rose, he’d grudgingly traveled to London to assume his duties.

Michael and Rose weren’t overly distraught at Charles’s demise. Nor did they seem to miss him. Apparently, Charles had been as absent in their lives as he’d been in Tristan’s. They viewed his loss as one might the passing of a distant friend of the family.

“Well”—Tristan struggled to look fatherly—“what have you to say for yourself?”

“She’s very fetching? She’s loose with her favors? You’re a stick in the mud?”

Tristan snorted with disgust. “You’re hopeless. I have no idea why I lecture you.”

“Neither do I. It’s a waste of breath.”

“It certainly is, but you must heed me: You don’t want to gain a reputation as a fellow who tumbles his servants. Those kinds of men are regarded as swine.”

“I don’t feel like
swine.
I feel randy as the dickens.”

“You have an obligation to your employees. You can’t frivolously ruin them—even if they beg you to.”

Tristan glowered, stupidly expecting to elicit some evidence of remorse, or at least a hint that Michael recognized his behavior to be rash and wrong. He was a peer of the realm, so he should set an example, but as Tristan had quickly learned, Michael would act however he pleased.

He’d been raised by nannies and governesses—pushovers all—who’d been dazzled by his delightful smile and charming manners. With his being eighteen and horridly spoiled, there wasn’t much Tristan could do but peck like a hen, while keeping a tight rein on Michael’s fortune, a staggering array of money and property that he wouldn’t completely control until he was twenty-five.

“I’ve enlightened you as to girls”—Tristan’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment—“and the urges we men suffer because of them. You have to be cautious.”

“It was just a kiss,” Michael contended.

“Kissing can swiftly lead to more, and trust me, a low-born doxy like Lydia is a mercenary. If you impregnated her, you’d end up supporting her for the rest of your life.”

Bored with the topic, Michael yawned. “Quit nagging. I like you, Tristan, but honestly, you can be positively tedious.”

Michael flashed an imperious glare, filled with youthful disdain. Tristan had sailed around the globe, had whored and debauched in cities from Bombay to Shanghai, so he was in no position to chastise, but he felt compelled to guide Michael in his carnal conduct.

Michael was an
earl.
There were standards to be maintained, as their father had pointed out in a letter he’d written to Tristan on his deathbed.

Watch over Michael and Rose,
Charles had penned.
Be kind to Rose. Dote on her as I never did. Be stern with Michael. Teach him the lessons I never bothered to impart...

The words were powerfully binding. Tristan was desperate to do right by Michael and Rose, desperate to make his father proud—a situation to which he’d never aspired when the man had still been alive.

“I’ve explained the mechanics of sexual activity,” Tristan reminded him, “and I hope you’ve paid attention.”

“Oh, yes”—Michael grinned wickedly—“and I can’t understand why you’re working so hard to prevent me from practicing what you described. It can’t be healthy to be so physically frustrated.”

“You have to wait until you’re married.”

Tristan nearly choked. Had that sentence come from his own mouth?

“Ha! I don’t know why you’re so determined to keep me in the dark.”

“It’s not the
dark
I’m worried about. It’s the baby that arrives nine months later.”

At all costs, Tristan would thwart Michael from siring any bastard children. Being a bastard himself, it was a sore subject for Tristan, but he couldn’t get Michael to grasp why it mattered.

“I wish you’d take me to a brothel,” Michael blurted out.