Authors: Cheryl Holt

Promise of Pleasure (8 page)

BOOK: Promise of Pleasure

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Was she mad?

He’d humiliated her, had caused her to lose her temper and behave like a shrew in front of her family. She was still awaiting Victoria’s punishment for the episode, yet she was pathetically eager to fraternize with him as if nothing unpleasant had occurred.

She ignored him and went about her business, quickly snip-ping the stems on the roses and arranging them in three colorful bouquets. He observed, not speaking, and it was nerve-wracking to have him study her so closely.

Why are you staring?
she almost demanded, but she didn’t.

She pretended he wasn’t there, filling vases, then picking them up to carry upstairs. She could have summoned a footman to do it for her, but they had so many other chores that she hated to bother them.

As she juggled the load, he leapt to his feet and took the vases from her. She frowned, her consternation clear.

“Why are you being courteous to me?”

“Can’t I act like a gentleman?”

“I didn’t think you knew how.”

Her insult rolled off him. He laughed and headed for the door, and he looked ridiculous, such a big man, awkwardly cradling several dozen roses to his chest.

She hastened by him and climbed to the dining room. She grabbed the bouquets and positioned them on the polished table. The servants would be in soon to lay out the china and silverware, and Mary smiled at how pretty the flowers would be in the center of all the finery.

“This place matters to you, doesn’t it?” he said. He was casually leaned in a corner, one booted foot crossed over the other.

“It was my father’s house before it was anyone else’s.” Her reply was mildly impolite to Victoria without mentioning her. “My mother planted the rosebushes herself. I’m fond of them because of it.”

“I can tell.”

An uncomfortable silence descended. He was gazing at her, the typical conceited expression noticeably absent. He appeared younger, approachable, friendly.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he suddenly murmured. ”I’m sorry for how you were treated.”

“You are not.”

She didn’t like to view this side of him, didn’t want him to be kind or considerate. If he was charming, it was difficult to loathe him.

“Come here,” he commanded. He was standing ten feet away, and he motioned for her to walk nearer.

She didn’t move so he came to her instead. In an instant, she was trapped against a chair, and he loomed over her.

What did he intend? Would he kiss her? What if a servant traipsed in? What if they were caught? Her pulse was fluttering like a frightened bird’s.

“When we stopped at that peddler’s wagon,” he said, “I told you to buy yourself a ribbon, but you didn’t. You gave me my money back.”

She scoffed. “What would I do with a ribbon?”

“Wear it in your hair—so I can see how fetching it is on you.”

He reached into his coat, and to her astonishment, pulled out a long strip of red ribbon.

She gaped at it as if it were a venomous snake, as if it were a dirty trick.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d received a gift. It was a lovely gesture, which left her unaccountably distraught. Tears welled into her eyes.

“For ... for me?” she stammered.

“No, for the fox in the forest. Yes, it’s for you.” He waved it at her. “Take it.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“It would be wrong.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s just a ribbon. Every girl should have a new one now and then.”

She scrutinized him, trying to read his mind, trying to understand what was motivating him.

“I can’t,” she insisted more forcefully.

He wrapped it around her neck and tied it in a bow at the front.

She was so stunned that she was speechless. She pushed away from him and ran all the way to her bedchamber.

Chapter 5

“I apologize for my behavior,” Mary said.

“And?” Victoria asked.

“I’m embarrassed at having made a spectacle of myself in front of Viscount Redvers and his friends.”

Mary had finally calmed enough to face Victoria and learn her punishment, but of all the repentance she had to exhibit, being contrite over Redvers was the most galling. She bit her tongue, struggling to appear penitent—which she wasn’t—while awaiting Victoria’s verdict.

“Your antics shamed me,” Victoria stated.

“I know.”

“But you shamed Felicity most of all. Apologize to her, as well.”

Mary spun toward her half sister. “I apologize.”

“Mother, she doesn’t look very sincere,” Felicity protested.

Victoria studied Mary, then shrugged. “You’re aware of how stubborn she can be. This is as much remorse as we’re likely to see. You’ll forgive her, and we’ll not speak of it again.”

“But if she’s rude to me in the future,” Felicity persisted, “may I demand that she be whipped?”

Mary rolled her eyes.

“There will be no whipping,” Victoria declared. “However, since Mary has proven that she can’t control herself, she shall not socialize with us during Lord Redvers’s stay.” She frowned at Mary as if Mary was a lunatic in an asylum. “You’ll remain in your room and take your meals there. Keep yourself away from Redvers and his party.”

“I will,” Mary said, happy for the excuse to avoid him.

“Should you precipitate a second outburst for his lordship to witness, there will be dire consequences. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re excused.”

Mary hurried out, relieved to have the meeting over, but more angry on leaving than she’d been on arriving.

Her entire life had been one long string of threats by Victoria. Threats to discipline her. Threats to cast her out. Threats to disown her.

After being terrified so frequently, she was beginning to wish Victoria would follow through just so Mary could cease worrying as to how the slightest misstep might cause her to be evicted.

She went to the far wing of the house and climbed the rear stairs to her small bedchamber on the third floor. The modest space was the complete opposite of the grand boudoirs occupied by Felicity and Cassandra, and thus, it was another insult to Mary.

When she’d been younger, she’d been envious, but not anymore.

She enjoyed being away from the rest of the family, enjoyed the quiet corridors that were a haven from the crazed women to whom she was so closely related.

She was weary of their spite, of their fixation on money and marriage, and she relished having a place to which she could escape.

The evening was waning; as she entered, the shadows had lengthened, and it was difficult to notice what was in plain sight.

“Hello, Mary,” a deep, masculine voice said.

She jumped a foot and whipped around. “Lord Redvers! What are you doing in here?”

“I haven’t seen you all day. I decided I should check on you.”

He was over by the window, lounging in a chair. His coat was off and casually flung over the edge of the bed as if it belonged there. His shirt was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled back, and he was sipping on a glass of what had to be liquor. There was a half-empty decanter on the windowsill next to him.

Why had he visited? How did he even know where her room was located? Why would he have gone to the trouble of finding out?

Her first and only absurd thought was that that stupid spinster’s tonic was working. As she’d swallowed it, Lord Redvers had stepped in the way of Harold. Had it somehow altered the universe? He’d given her the red ribbon, and now, he’d sneaked into her bedchamber.

Was he becoming obsessed?

At the frantic queries, she was extremely aggravated. Was she losing her mind?

She reached for the door as if to yank it open and push him out, even though she was sure he wouldn’t depart until he was good and ready.

“You can’t stay.”

“Of course I can. I’m a viscount. I can act however I please.”

“You’re so spoiled.”

“I don’t deny it.”

“Have you always been this way?”

“Yes.”

“How can people tolerate you?”

“They don’t very graciously. I’m renowned for being impossible; I don’t have any friends.”

“How about Mr. Adair?”

“He just hangs around because I let him cheat me at cards.”

The charming, kind man who’d helped her with her flowers had vanished. The arrogant, haughty aristocrat had returned with a vengeance.

He rose and came over to her, and she stood her ground, instinctively realizing that she shouldn’t give any indication that she was scared of him—which she wasn’t.

Where he was concerned, she had a heightened awareness. He might bluster and bully, but he wouldn’t harm her. At least, not deliberately.

“Where have you been?” he inquired.

“If you must know, I was down in the front parlor, apologizing to Victoria for throwing your money in your face.”

“Are you sorry?”

“No.”

He chuckled, and she snapped, “What do you want?”

He considered her question, but having no answer, he asked one of his own. “Why are you living in this section of the manor?”

“This has always been my room.”

“Why don’t you reside near the others?”

“Why would I?”

“It seems odd to me. They’re rich and you’re poor. Didn’t your father provide for you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“How would I know, Lord Redvers? I was a tiny child when he died. I scarcely remember him. Perhaps he didn’t like me very much. Perhaps he didn’t think I was worth the bother.”

She spun away, hating how he’d probed at old wounds. The subject of her father’s disregard was hurtful, and she never discussed it with anyone.

She went to her dresser, toying with her brush, pretending to straighten what didn’t need straightening.

“Why don’t you go?” she said. “If we’re caught together, there’ll be a big fuss.”

Her back was to him, and she heard him approach. He kept coming until he was directly behind her. He leaned in, trapping her.

“When we’re alone, you’re to call me Jordan.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He sounded as if he’d be dropping by constantly, and the prospect made her heart pound with excitement and dread.

“Who’s being
ridiculous?”
he scolded. “ll call you Mary, and you’ll call me Jordan.”

“I will not.”

“If we’re to be lovers—”

At the preposterous suggestion, she wiggled around. “We’re not going to be ... be ... lovers or anything else.”

“Aren’t we?”

He was so close. Too close. Would he try to kiss her again?

He gazed at her with what seemed to be heightened male interest, maybe even a blossoming of affection, and she panicked.

There was no reason for him to pay attention to her. There was no reason for him to have stopped by, and once more, she recollected that idiotic tonic.

“Listen to me, Lord Redvers.”

“Jordan.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He was adamant, and she didn’t want to argue. She just wanted him to leave.

She capitulated.

“Listen, Jordan”—at his small victory, he smirked—“I’m not certain why you’re here, but you should know something.”

“What?”

“I drank a special tonic, and it’s provoked a change in our relationship.”

“What kind of tonic?” He grinned. “Was it a love potion?”

“Don’t be absurd,” she scoffed. “Why would I need a love potion?”

He studied her, and when her cheeks flamed bright red, he crowed, “I was right! It
was
a love potion!”