Promise of Pleasure (9 page)

They were walking toward her bed, and she dug in her heels. “What are you planning?”

“I told you: I want to kiss you again.”

He tumbled onto the mattress, and she tumbled with him. She landed on her back, and he was hovered over her, an arm and thigh pinning her down.

She understood that she should complain, but a secret part of her was thrilled by his behavior. Still, ingrained habits prevailed, and she thought she should at least try to sound affronted.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“You’re a bully and a fiend.”

“I admit it. What fun would life be if I wasn’t?”

He dipped down and kissed her, and immediately, it was apparent that it would be nothing like the embrace they’d shared in the forest. There was an urgency about it, as if they were in a hurry, and she shut her eyes and reveled in the moment. Her foolish pride soared at the recognition that Jordan Winthrop would go to so much trouble merely to dally with her.

His tongue flicked out and slipped inside her mouth, and they engaged in a merry dance that teased and cajoled, and she was astonished at how easily she knew what was required.

When he roamed his hands over her body, she roamed hers over his. When he shifted positions to get more comfortable, she shifted, too. When his torso dropped between her thighs, she spread her legs to give him greater access. He started an unusual flexing, his hips moving with hers, her skirt and petticoat a soft cushion against which he could thrust and push.

He began massaging her breasts, rubbing them in slow circles. The sensation was so titillating that it was painful. His crafty fingers pinched her nipples, squeezing them with just the right amount of pressure so that they ached and throbbed.

“Oh, stop, Redvers. I’m begging you. I must catch my breath.”

“No. And it’s Jordan to you.”

“Please?”

“If you call me Jordan, I’ll do as you ask.”

She scowled, then gave in. “Please, Jordan?”

He pretended to consider, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She whacked him on the shoulder. “You are such a beast!”

“Yes, I am. You shouldn’t forget it.”

He dipped down again, and though she assumed he’d kiss her on the mouth, he descended farther so that he was directly over her chest.

“Have you ever had a lover, Mary?”

“No. How could I have?”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Let me show you something.”

“No.” She was begging again. “Don’t show me anything.”

“You’ll like it. I promise.”

One hand continued to torment her breast, while the other was lifting her skirt, and very quickly, he was sliding his fingers into her drawers. With no hesitation, he tangled them through her womanly hair and glided them into her sheath.

To her surprise, they fit perfectly, and she was stunned by the discovery. As he stroked them back and forth, she was even more stunned. The movement was mesmerizing, as if it was precisely what she’d been craving without even knowing it.

He’d aroused her to a fevered pitch, and of their own accord, her hips bucked against his palm, as if intent on pulling him deeper.

He chuckled. “You are just what I’ve been needing.”

“How could that be? I don’t have any idea what’s occurring.”

“Don’t worry. Your body will take you down the proper road.”

The tempo increased, and with his thumb, he caressed a spot she’d never noted before. It was extremely sensitive, and she arched up, trying to escape the stimulation.

“What are you doing to me?” she asked, panting and stammering.

“I’m giving you sexual pleasure.”

“Well, I don’t want it!”

She felt peculiar on the inside, as if she was about to explode. There was a tension building, and she knew there had to be an end point, but at what cost? Would she survive it?

Suddenly, he bent down and nuzzled at her breast, biting her nipple through the fabric of her dress as his thumb flicked out again and again.

She shattered and cried out, being so overwhelmed that she couldn’t fret over whether someone might be out in the hall and overhear. She’d never experienced anything remotely similar. In a life that was all drudgery and tedium, he’d opened a door to an entirely new land where exotic conduct was allowed and encouraged.

“What was that?” she queried as her pulse slowed and she could talk coherently.

“The French call it the ‘little death.’” He was grinning, looking like the devil himself. “Would you like me to make it happen again?”

“Yes!” she gushed, before she could tamp down the eager word.

“If you’re very, very nice to me, I will. But only if you’re very nice.”

“How
nice
do you mean?”

“You have to agree to do this whenever I ask. Will you?”

“I might.”

“I’ll be here but a few weeks. I’d like to see how thoroughly I can rattle your staid existence.”

He drew away and stretched out as she frowned at the ceiling, terrified over what she’d set in motion.

How was she to go on as plain, humble Mary Barnes, when he’d shown her his magic?

After what they’d just done, she could never tell him to stay away, and she was already calculating how quickly they could arrange another tryst. Questions riveted her: When could they meet? Where? How often? For how long?

The passion with which she yearned for future assignations frightened her. Was she bewitched? Was the carnal behavior addicting—like a dangerous drug?

Would she spend the rest of her life waiting for him to sneak to her room?

The fact that she hoped he would, that she was agog over the prospect, was complete proof that she’d gone mad.

Fatigue crept over her, and she yawned, as he laughed.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes.”

Her limbs were all rubbery, and she was glad there was no need to stand, for at that moment, her legs couldn’t have supported her.

He tugged a knitted throw over them, then snuggled close, and he wrapped his arms around her as if he actually cherished her.

It was the sweetest, most romantic thing she could imagine, and gradually, her eyelids fluttered down.

She dozed, and when she woke, it was dark, the moon shining in the window. She was all alone. Lying very still, she listened for any sound, and it was so quiet that she wondered if he’d really been there with her.

She rolled onto her side, toward the spot where he’d been, and she smoothed her hand across the pillow and mattress, but none of his bodily heat remained. There was only the very slightest disturbance in the air, and it hovered like a cloud to remind her that nothing would ever be the same.

She shut her eyes again. She slept.

“YOU want what?”

Phillip Dudley stared at Mary Bames, then furtively glanced over at his sister, Clarinda. A worried frown marred his handsome brow.

“You heard me, Mr. Dubois,” Miss Barnes said. “I need an antidote for that Spinster’s Cure you gave me.”

“For the Spinster’s Cure?”

“Yes. You shouldn’t be allowed to roam the countryside dispensing such dangerous medicine.”

Phillip imagined the sheriff descending, a dank cell in the local gaol, a fast trip on a prison ship bound for the penal colonies in Australia.

“I can assure you, mademoiselle”—his French accent was exaggerated—“that I only offer beneficial remedies. They have been developed and tested by the world’s preeminent physicians.”

“Ha! It’s magic, that what it is. You trot around, selling your wares, but you leave a trail of bewitched women in your wake. How can you live with yourself?”

At her injecting the word
magic
into the conversation, he was unnerved. They weren’t too far past the time when rural villagers burned people at the stake for dabbling in the dark arts, and he couldn’t have her spouting nonsense.

If he wasn’t careful, he’d be hounded out of the county by an angry mob wielding tar and feathers.

He assumed his most patronizing, most sympathetic demeanor. “What has happened?”

Miss Barnes blushed. “I drank the tonic.”

“And it worked?”

“No. Well, yes.”

He scowled. “What do you mean?”

“There is a man I had in mind, whom I’d like to wed, so I ... I ... swallowed the tonic while I was looking at him—just as you instructed.”

“He wishes to marry you now?”

“No. Another fellow stepped into my path, so I was gazing at the wrong man!”

“So this man—this
wrong
man—is the one you saw?”

“Yes, and he’s completely smitten. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why must you do anything?” Phillip asked. “Is amour not sweet? Is amour not grand?”

“No, it’s not grand! There’s no reason for his fascination, and if he can’t put it aside, it will bring catastrophe down on my head.”

Phillip glared at his sister, urging her to chime in with a discerning remark, but as usual, when he wanted her to speak, she had nothing to say.

“Mademoiselle,” he cajoled, “of course there is a reason. How could he fail to be enticed? You are very beautiful.”

“Cease your drivel, and tell me how to proceed. He can’t be besotted with me!”

“Miss Barnes,” Clarinda interjected, “the potion Philippe gave you isn’t magical.”

“Have you ever drunk any yourself?”

“No, but I assist him in combining the ingredients. He uses fortifying herbs and female restoratives. There’s nothing mysterious about it.”

“Then how could it have rendered such a change in behavior?”

“It couldn’t have,” Clarinda insisted. “My brother’s remedy was devised to ... to ... enhance your feminine appearance. You’re simply growing more fetching, and this gentleman has noticed.”

“No, no”—Miss Barnes seemed very disturbed—“it’s much more sinister than that.”

“Sinister? No!” Phillip scoffed. “Love is in the air,
ma petite amie.
You should be celebrating.”

“He’s a great lord!” Miss Barnes wailed. “He’s here to marry my sister.”

“Oh,” Clarinda and Phillip murmured at the same time, a dozen silent messages flitting between them.

“I’m desperate,” Miss Barnes said, “to stop whatever it is this tonic has started. Have you an antidote?”

“Yes,” Phillip lied.

How could there be an antidote for a potion that was fake? Then again, human beings were very strange. She believed that the Spinster’s Cure was real, that it would work, and it had—in her view, at least. So maybe if she believed she had an antidote, that would work, too.

He went to his wagon, opened the door, and sifted through the bottles. Eventually, he took out a huge dollop of sleeping powder and stirred it into some red wine, which he poured into a flask.

He handed it to her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It is a treatment for love sickness,” he said. “I prescribe it to those who have fallen in love, but whose love remains unrequited. It calms the broken heart.”

“But how will it help?” Miss Barnes retorted. “
I
am not in love with anyone.”

“It is not for you. It is for the man in question.
He
must drink it.”

“How am I to make him?”

“How can I know, mademoiselle? I am only a simple peddler. Perhaps you can slip it into his soup?”

“For pity’s sake,” Miss Barnes grumbled. “Do you promise its potent effect? Will his interest wane?”

“How fast?”

“Now
that,
I cannot predict. But it will fade soon.
Je guarantie!”

“Thank you.”

She turned and walked away, the bogus potion tucked under her arm, as he and Clarinda stood, mute, watching till she vanished around the bend in the road.

“Is she the first disgruntled customer you’ve ever had?” Clarinda inquired.

“No, but I was so sure she’d be an easy mark.”

“What did you give her?”

“A sleeping draught, mixed with wine.”

“So in the middle of his wooing her, he’ll nod off? Is that your plan?”

“Have you a better one?”

“No.”

 

“WILL you marry her?”

“I suppose. Why not?”

Jordan sipped his brandy, staring over the rim of the glass at Paxton. They were alone for once, sequestered in the dining room and enjoying their after-supper liquor, while the women awaited them in the parlor. Jordan was weary of visiting and in no hurry to join them.

Since Mary never ate with the family, he felt no compunction to fraternize. She was the only female in the house whose company he relished. If she wasn’t present, then socializing didn’t seem worth the bother.

“Felicity is so immature,”Paxton mentioned.

“Yes, she is.”

“Couldn’t you set your sights a tad higher?”