Promise of Pleasure (17 page)

His fingers slid into her hair, extracting the pins, so that it fell about her shoulders. He riffled through it, whispering praise, declaring her beauty, and his sweet words and tender ministrations made her feel free and wild.

She’d never previously been touched in a kind or gentle way. There’d been no hugs from her mother, no pats from a nanny, no affectionate caresses from her spouse.

She’d been ill-used, not just by her husband but by most everyone. Her body was unloved and untended, and Adair’s amorous efforts were like a healing balm.

Of her own accord, she pulled him to her, deepening the embrace. He reveled in her boldness, giving her all she craved and so much more.

Gradually, he laid her down onto the bench, and they stretched out, the two of them barely fitting on the narrow space.

He draped a thigh over her, then an arm, then more of a leg. Eventually, he shifted so that his whole torso was atop hers, but amazingly, he wasn’t heavy. She wasn’t being crushed by him.

It was so easy to be with him, to do what came naturally to other couples, and at the realization that she could dabble with a man, that she could enjoy it, she was stunned.

He was kissing her with a great deal of relish, which made her breasts ache and throb, and she yearned to have him rub them to relieve some of the pressure, but he did nothing to increase the level of ardor, and his restraint had her frantic.

He’d aroused her until she was about to beg for more. Who would have guessed?

Much sooner than she would have liked, he drew away, and he smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling in the moonlight.

“I should win at cards more often,” he murmured, chuckling.

“You said you’d keep on till you grew weary. Are you tired of me already?”

“No, I’m definitely not tired.”

“Then why stop?”

“Because I need the stamina to kiss you tomorrow.”

“You’re awfully positive that I’ll be amenable.”

He rested his hand on her breast, her hard nipple poking the center of his palm. He didn’t squeeze the protruding tip, but at the slight contact, her anatomy rippled with anticipation.

“I think it’s safe to assume you’ll do it again.”

“Vain bounder.”

“Yes, I am. Make no mistake.”

He moved off her and sat, then tugged her up so she was sitting, too.

“Next time,” he said, “we’ll play cards again.”

“You and your cards!”

“I want to have the chance to win your gown. Then your shoes and stockings. Then your corset.”

“We’ve been through this before. We’re not gambling over my clothes.”

“Yes, we are. And I’ll cheat to win them, too. I have the fondest desire to see you naked.”

A rush of images swarmed in her head, of her shedding her garments piece by piece, his rigged deck guaranteeing she was bared for his prurient perusal.

“You are so wicked.”

“I am.” He grinned. “But so are you. You just don’t know it yet. Let’s get you back to the house.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that they should linger a tad longer, but if they tarried, there’d be no way to end in any appropriate place.

He stood and urged her to her feet, and after he’d straightened her dress and hair, there wasn’t any reason to dawdle. But try as she might, she couldn’t make herself leave.

He was assessing her, his scrutiny particularly acute. He seemed as if he was about to offer a pertinent remark, and she wished he would. She wished he’d explain what they were doing, what was happening, what he wanted from her.

He hugged her, then he pushed her toward the stairs.

“Get going,” he said. “I’ll watch to be sure you arrive safely.”

“Are you coming?”

“In a few minutes.”

She nodded, but didn’t reply. There were so many words trying to burst out that she was afraid to open her mouth and hear what they might be.

She spun and hurried off, darting down the path. At the last second, when she would have disappeared from view, she glanced back.

He was leaned against the newel post of the gazebo, looking sexy and debonair and wonderful, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he’d forgotten all about her.

He gestured with his fingers, encouraging her to keep on and giving every indication that he was glad the tryst was concluded. Perhaps he
had
kissed her till he was tired of it, and if that was the case, if he decided not to dally with her again, she would be very sad, indeed.

She turned and ran.

“BONJOUR, Miss Barnes.”

Mary glanced up and cringed. In her trek back from the village, she’d been so distracted with thoughts of Jordan that she’d forgotten Mr. Dubois and his wagon of tonics.

Were the potions real? Or were they fake?

One of them had seemed to work and one of them had not.

She marched over.

“Hello, Mr. Dubois.”

“How is your amour proceeding? I trust all is well?”

“No, all is not
well.
If I had paid you, I’d demand a refund.”

“But I thought your man had fallen in love with you.”

“The
wrong
man. You gave me an antidote.”

“Ah, yes, I do recall. And ... ?”

“I got him to drink it, and all he did was fall asleep.”

“And when he awakened? What happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened.”

“So he hasn’t fallen
out
of love with you?”

“He was never
in love
with me. He’d merely developed an interest that was peculiar. And he’s still just ... just ...” What was the point of the idiotic conversation? She didn’t believe in his tonics! “Never mind. I simply think you should be more careful as to the claims you make. That’s all.”

He studied her, then took her palm and scrutinized it. She snatched it back, but not before he saw something that had him clucking his tongue.

“What is?”

“If the antidote had no effect, we can’t dampen his attraction. It is written in your hand: Fate has intervened.”

The way he pronounced the word
fate
made a chill run down her spine.

“What do you mean?”

“I told you that if you swallowed the Spinster’s Cure while looking at your true love, you would end up married to him. We have altered your destiny—and his. We can’t change it now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s marrying my sister.”

“Is he?” he pompously mused.

Why did she listen to him? What was she hoping to achieve? Nothing could be gained by ascribing any merit to his prophesies.

“It was marvelous to see you again, Mr. Dubois,” she lied. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”

She started to walk on, but he had an infuriating habit of wheedling her into staying. Somehow, he maneuvered her so that she was at the back of his wagon and staring at his display of bottles and jars.

“I can give you a stronger antidote,” he said. “You could slip it to him again. It might work better the second time.”

“Why would I want that? I can’t have him dozing off in my—”

At realizing she’d almost divulged that Jordan had been in her bed, she blanched.

“Oh no,
cherie,”
he murmured in dismay. “Have things progressed so far?”

“I barely know the man in question.”

“Perhaps you should speak to my sister, Clarinda.”

“About what?”

He leaned nearer and whispered, “She can instruct you on how to prevent a baby.”

“A ... baby! Why would I be worried about having a baby?”

She kept her expression blank, her gaze direct and firm, as he patiently watched her. Evidently, he anticipated a sordid confession. He was a doctor of sorts, and she wondered how many females had shared tales of tragedy and woe. She wasn’t about to become one of them!

“A pregnancy will not disappear,” he counseled, “simply because you pray it away.”

“Mr. Dubois, you overstep your bounds. I am virtuous as the day is long.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you needn’t be alarmed. But just in case, Clarinda is here most of the time.”

“Mr. Dubois!”

He assessed her again, and ultimately, he nodded, complicit in her litany of falsehoods. He grabbed a jar, dumped some powder in a pouch, and offered it to her.

“What now?” she asked, exasperated with him, with herself.

“If he is to marry your sister, as you insist he will, your heart will break.”

“And this powder will aid me in what fashion?”

“It will cause your affection to wane. Mix it in your tea. Drink three cups.”

She didn’t want her affection to wane. She wanted it to burn brighter and hotter till she was consumed by the flames. Not that she could admit it.

She scoffed with derision. “You need to keep your stories straight, Mr. Dubois.”

“How,
cherie
?”

“On the one hand, you tell me that your Spinster’s Cure has fixed my destiny and that I’m to wed my besotted swain. On the other, you give me a remedy to ease my despair when he marries my sister. Which is it to be? Will he be mine or not?”

She’d flummoxed him, which delighted her. Obviously, a customer didn’t often get the best of him, and she was tickled to have been the one.

“I don’t want you to be hurt, Miss Barnes,” he said very gently.

His concern seemed genuine, and she couldn’t help warming to him.

She smiled and patted his arm. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Dubois.”

“For your sake, I hope so. I’ve met your grand gentleman, remember? I think he could break any woman’s heart—espe—cially yours.”

“I’m sure he could.”

“If my tonic has in any way been—”

“Trust me: Your tonic had nothing to do with it.”

Noise sounded down the lane, and she glanced over to see Harold’s carriage approaching. There was a pudgy, frumpy woman—whom Mary didn’t know—sitting with him on the seat.

Mary hadn’t taken that walk to his house, hadn’t reminded him of the village social or Sunday church.

She’d conveniently neglected to ponder him at all, and his sudden appearance provided a much-needed dose of reality.

She could daydream and pretend to infinity, but Jordan Winthrop would never be hers, and she had to accept the fact that he was about to be Felicity’s husband.

He’d been very blunt, had raised no expectations. He would be at Barnes Manor until he received Felicity’s money, then he would go, and Mary would have to pick up the pieces and move on.

Harold would be where he’d always been—at the center of her world—and she couldn’t forget it.

Though she didn’t realize she’d exhibited any reaction, she must have, because Mr. Dubois scowled at Harold, then at her.

“Who is this man?” he asked. “I’ve seen him in the village, and I do not like him. Why does he bring such a frown to your pretty face?”

“You had spoken to me about fate and destiny. Well,
he
is my destiny.”

“He is your ...” He stammered to a halt, then shook his head. “No, that can’t be right.”

“I’m afraid it is,” she insisted.

“He is all wrong for you. I can tell from here.”

“Mary,” Harold called, “what are you doing?”

“I’ve been in the village, Harold. I’m on my way home.”

“You know I don’t like you to be out by yourself.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“And you’ve stopped to confer with a roadside peddler. Honestly, Mary. You have better sense.”

Mr. Dubois snorted.

“Get in,” Harold said. “I’ll give you a ride to the estate.”

“Thank you.”

“Why I bother advising you is a mystery.” He turned to the woman. “Do you see what I mean, Gertrude? She never listens to a word I say.”

“Mother Talbot was correct about her,” Gertrude intoned. “What type of female would refuse to be guided by a man of your maturity and wisdom?”

Mary fumed, incensed that he’d been discussing her in a derogatory manner, that he and this Gertrude person were talking as if she wasn’t standing in front of them.

“Harold,” she said, “who is your companion? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“She’s my cousin, Miss Gertrude Talbot, up from Ports-mouth.”

“Hello, Miss Talbot.”

“How do you do?”

Miss Talbot’s spine was ramrod straight, and she sounded like an insufferable snob. She and Harold would get on famously.

“Mother is under the weather,” Harold explained, “so Gertrude has come to assist.” As if embarrassed by the admission, his cheeks flushed. “Gertrude, this is Miss Mary Barnes, the neighbor I’ve mentioned.”

“Miss Barnes”—Gertrude’s lips pursed as if she was sucking on a pickle—“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m sure Harold has been a veritable chatterbox.”