Enchanting Pleasures

  Gabby swallowed. “He said it was a most efficacious—”

  But he had turned away. “Where are the rest?”

  Gabby watched in silence as he started to rummage through her clothespress. Anger was building in her chest, but she kept silent. When he began looking in her desk, she could no longer countenance his actions.

  “You have no right!” she said fiercely. “Take your hands out of my things!”

  “I have every right,” Quill responded as he jerked open another drawer.

  “That is my desk!”

  “Here they are,” her husband said. “I suspect that my medicines have somehow found their way into your desk.”

  Gabby pressed her lips together as Quill gathered three small bottles and put them on the table. He picked up the first. “My mother visited these charlatans as well.” The bottle crashed into the fireplace. There was a brief scarlet blaze. “Must have had alcohol in it,” he remarked.

  He picked up another bottle. “Don’t recognize this one.” The bottle followed the first into the flames.

  “Don’t you wish to be cured?” Gabby said desperately, seeing her purchases disappear before her eyes.

  “Not at the expense of my life,” Quill responded. He was looking at the third bottle. “This is a bit more interesting. Did you know that it will cure plagues of every kind and description? Rubbish.” The last bottle shattered against the bricks in the fireplace.

  “Those were mine,” Gabby said hotly. “You had no right to destroy my purchases.”

  “Were you intending to dose yourself?” Quill asked. His voice was calm, but his eyes were alive with anger. “I shall not drink another fraudulent concoction—ever.”

  “That is irrational.”

  “I must request that you do not buy any more headache cures,” Quill said. He turned his back to her and strolled over to the fireplace.

  “Don’t turn away!” Gabby said in a wild fury.

  He poked a few scraps of thick glass back onto the hearth and spoke over his shoulder. “I am waiting for your response, Gabby.”

  She saw red. She reached out blindly and caught Mr. Moore’s brown bottle in her hand. “You forgot this one!” she shrieked, and threw it at her husband as hard as she could. It sailed past his shoulder and smashed against the fireplace. Brown liquid seeped down between the seams of the bricks.

  Quill jumped back when the bottle exploded. There was silence as viscous liquid dripped onto the hearth. Slowly he turned around.

  Gabby’s hair had fallen around her shoulders, and she had her arms crossed. She was beautiful. She was wrathful. He would give anything to take her in his arms and change her mind about the virtues of connubial pleasure.

  He walked toward her. “Apparently, I married a woman with a formidable temper,” he said.

  “My lady,” Margaret called through the door. “Would you like to change from your walking dress now?”

  “Promise me, Gabby.”

  “I promise not to buy any more concoctions for your headache, Quill.” Her voice was leaden.

  “Thank you.”

  “Although I am not the only one with a temper.”

  “I swear I never played the maniac until I met you.”

  The scratching was repeated. “My lady?”

  Gabby sighed. “One moment, Margaret.” She looked up at her husband. “I was only trying to help.”

  He dropped a kiss on her nose and turned to leave. Gabby stretched out her hand, but let it fall. After what had just happened, she couldn’t follow Sophie’s advice and try to seduce her own husband. In fact, she ended up pleading a headache and eating a light supper in her room, conscious of her own cowardice and unable to overcome it.

  THOSE LADIES of the ton who specialized in gaping, gadding, and gossiping often found London sadly flat in the months before the Season truly began. But this year the prattling crowd had reached the conclusion that the household of the new Viscountess Dewland was likely to provide them some entertainment.

  “After all,” Lady Prestlefield gleefully reported to her crony, Lady Cucklesham, “not only has the girl created a scandal by dropping her bodice, but it must be clear to the simplest mind that she jilted her fiancé the very moment his elder brother inherited a title.”

  “I think we need have no doubt about her motives,” Lady Cucklesham agreed, conscious of the fact that she herself had married a man old enough to be her father for precisely the same reason. “We might, however,” she added, “question the graceless manner by which she traded a fiancé for his brother within moments of his father’s death, if I have heard correctly!”

  “Yes,” Lady Prestlefield added, “and we can only hope that she didn’t make a bad bargain…given the rumored extent of Erskine Dewland’s injuries.”

  There was a delicate pause.

  “Perhaps we should pay a visit to the young viscountess,” Lady Cucklesham remarked. “Hers must be a most interesting household. And if she is as encroaching and, to be blunt, as scandalous as she would seem, it is our duty to unveil her character before the Season begins.”

  Lady Prestlefield offered no objection to this thoughtful and fair observation.

  “HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF GISLE, Lady Prestlefield, Lady Cucklesham,” Codswallop said majestically. There was nothing he preferred to welcoming a whole gaggle of aristocrats into the household.

  “What a pleasure to see you,” Gabby said, curtsying to Ladies Prestlefield and Cucklesham and offering a shy smile. She had clear memories of the withering advice each lady had offered regarding her lost bodice.

  “We simply could not wait to offer you our congratulations,” Lady Cucklesham announced.

  Luckily, Sophie walked in just behind Lady Cucklesham. “How is your husband today?” she asked.

  “Quite well, thank you,” Gabby replied, trying not to blush. She knew what Sophie’s teasing look was truly saying.

  Codswallop reappeared. “Mrs. Ewing and Miss Phoebe Pensington.”

  Gabby looked up in surprise. “Phoebe, sweetheart. And Mrs. Ewing, how lovely to see you!” To tell the truth, she was rather surprised. She had visited Phoebe several times since returning to London, but Mrs. Ewing had never paid her a return call.

  She was exquisitely dressed, of course, but Gabby thought that Mrs. Ewing looked even more tired and peaked than usual. She seemed to pale as she looked over Gabby’s shoulder and saw the little cluster of ladies assembled in the parlor.

  “We ought not to stay,” she said. “I only came because Phoebe was so very anxious to find out whether you have had word of…of Kasi Rao.” She lowered her voice as she said his name.

  “I received a letter this very morning.” Gabby beamed at the little girl. “Apparently our friend loves being in the country. He has made friends—” She bent over and whispered in Phoebe’s ear.

  But Phoebe’s shrill little voice was not yet modulated for secrecy. “A chicken!” she squealed. “Kasi Rao has made friends with a chicken?”

  “Apparently,” Gabby laughed.

  Phoebe plucked her sleeve. “Are you quite sure that those bad men won’t be able to steal him away from Mrs. Malabright?”

  “Quite sure, darling. But we oughtn’t to speak of it, just in case.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Ewing said hurriedly. “We knew that…we simply …” She looked miserable.

  “Please do join my guests, if only for a moment.” Gabby looked down at the little girl. “Would you like to visit Margaret and have a jam tart?”

  Phoebe smiled. So Gabby turned her over to Codswallop and escorted an obviously reluctant Mrs. Ewing into the room.

  Lady Cucklesham looked up with avid interest. “I’m afraid…who did you say that you are?”

  “My name is Mrs. Ewing,” Emily said stiffly.

  “And your husband must have been one of the Herefordshire Ewings?”

  She shook her head. “No, he was without family.”

  “Indeed. But surely you are Emily Thorpe. At least,
you were Emily Thorpe. Perhaps you can tell us how your dear, dear father is faring,” Lady Prestlefield said. “I heard something to the effect that he was ailing. But I have no doubt you can tell us more exactly.”

  “I am afraid not.”

  Sophie leapt into the breach. “Was that lovely little girl yours?” She turned to Lady Prestlefield. “I met Mrs. Ewing at Lady Fester’s ball and spent a good part of the evening sighing over her gown. I had no idea that she was the mother of such an exquisite child! Now I have two things to envy you for, Mrs. Ewing.”

  Lady Prestlefield smiled, the poisonous smile of a delicate viper. “Have you a child, then, Mrs. Ewing? Oddly enough, although I had heard so much about your…beauty, I had not heard that you and your husband had a child.”

  Emily’s skin hadn’t a trace of color in it, but she met Lady Prestlefield’s eyes steadily. “Phoebe is my sister Carolyn’s child, Lady Prestlefield. Surely you remember Carolyn Thorpe? I believe you made your debut in the same season.”

  Sophie choked back a laugh. Unless she was mistaken, Carolyn Thorpe had been a beauty, like her sister, and undoubtedly had cast Lady Prestlefield in the shade.

  The door opened and Codswallop entered. “Mr. Lucien Boch.”

  Lucien entered the parlor, with a smile on his lips. Tomorrow was Tuesday, and he was planning to ask Emily to be his wife. “Lady Dewland,” he said cheerfully, “I was just passing your house and—”

  He stopped. The blood rushed to his head. His wife-to-be was sitting before him. “Mrs. Ewing.” There was no disguising the expression in his eyes as he kissed Emily’s hand.

  “My dear Ladies Cucklesham and Prestlefield, what a great pleasure it is to meet you so unexpectedly,” he added hastily.

  Lady Prestlefield nodded perfunctorily and then turned back to Mrs. Ewing. “Of course I remember your sister,” she commented. “Who could forget your father’s distress when his eldest daughter threw herself away on a penniless explorer? And then when not a single one of his daughters found a husband—oh, dear, you must forgive me, Mrs. Ewing,” she cooed. “I quite forgot that you did find a husband, even if briefly.”

  Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “That reminded me, Lady Prestlefield, of a story I heard last week. It was undoubtedly a pack of nonsense, I assure you. I am certain that you are not related to the Lord Prestlefield in question….”

  Sophie smiled at him. “We can be quite certain that dear Lady Prestlefield is not related to anyone scandalous,” she said sweetly. “Do tell us the amusing story, however.”

  “‘Twas a terrible tale,” Lucien commented. “I am not at all certain I should repeat it before ladies—but surely you have heard the tale yourselves?”

  Lady Prestlefield’s lips were a thin white line. “Scurrilous gossip bears no interest for me,” she said repressively.

  “Oh, but it has, of course, nothing to do with you,” Lucien replied. “No, for this tale involved a tame goat—”

  Lady Prestlefield rose from her seat. “I am afraid that I must leave.”

  “—and a priest,” Lucien continued. He smiled cheerfully. “I am convinced that everyone involved must have drunk a prodigious amount of alcohol. And I believe that the judge ruled accordingly,” he added.

  “I myself know nothing of goats,” Lady Prestlefield said coldly. “I try not to think of such unappealing topics. And no one in my family drinks to excess, ever.”

  Lady Cucklesham was thinking quickly. If Mrs. Ewing were to marry the extremely rich former marquis, the widow’s social status would change radically. She rose to stand next to her friend.

  “We were just leaving,” she said, taking Lady Prestlefield firmly by the arm. “Mrs. Ewing, it has been a pleasure to meet you.”

  Lady Prestlefield bowed her head arctically. “I am not one to beat about the bush,” she pronounced. “I have no idea why you are in this house, Mrs. Ewing, but you are not welcome in mine!” She left, dragging Lady Cucklesham behind her.

  Lucien raised an eyebrow and kissed Emily’s hand. “An odd thing,” he said in a husky tone. “No matter whose house you choose to visit, I am certain that I would rather you were in my house.”

  Emily stilled for a moment, and color rose into her face as she looked up at him. Then she stood. “I must take Phoebe home,” she said.

  “May I apologize for my tiresome guests?” Gabby asked.

  Emily Ewing’s slight, weary smile lit up her eyes. “Not at all. I consider myself lucky. After all”—and she curtsied to Lucien—“a dragon slayer happened to be here as well.” With a hasty bow, Lucien followed her from the room.

  “Her little girl is beautiful, isn’t she?” Sophie asked Gabby wistfully. Tears shone in her eyes.

  “Why, what is the matter?” Gabby asked, startled.

  “Foolishness,” Sophie admitted. She impatiently dashed away a tear. “I lost a babe last summer, and I grow stupidly melancholic at times.” Her voice shook.

  Gabby squeezed her friend’s hand. “It must have been terrible to lose a child.”

  “I am hoping for better luck this time,” Sophie said, smiling a bit tearily.

  “Oh, Sophie, that’s wonderful! When will your baby arrive?”

  “Perhaps in August,” she replied. “I am not quite certain, as the doctor seems to think I am farther along than I had believed. I’m beginning to show already, and I’ve only missed two fluxes.”

  Then she visibly pulled herself together and turned to Gabby. “Well? What about last night?”

  Gabby shook her head. “I couldn’t do it! I just couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “We had an argument, and then Quill went to his study—” She ground to a halt. “I could not interrupt him for no reason. And we don’t…we don’t sleep together at night.”

  “You must interrupt him,” Sophie said positively.

  “No, you don’t understand. Quill has important work. Even the servants hesitate to disrupt his schedule.”

  “When I interrupt Patrick, he is invariably welcoming. Your husband will be as well.”

  Gabby could feel heat rise up her throat and face. “You don’t understand, Sophie. You’re so beautiful and sophisticated. It’s easy for you. But I—we’ve only tried this once—”

  “What on earth are you talking about? You are one of the most luscious ladies in the ton, Gabby. Half the gentlemen in London are lusting after you. Especially after you exhibited your chest to most of Lady Fester’s guests,” Sophie added impishly.

  “Well,” Gabby could feel her face getting warmer and warmer. “That still doesn’t—”

  “Why don’t you do it again?” Sparks of mischief were fairly flying from Sophie’s eyes.

  “Do what again?”

  “Lose your bodice! Do you still have that particular gown?”

  “I expect so,” Gabby said, chewing on her lower lip. “You mean that I should—”

  “Exactly. Put on that gown, and then when Quill retires to his study, follow him. Position yourself in front of him and take a deep breath.” Sophie giggled. “If he doesn’t lose his self-control, he’s not the man I take him for.”

  Gabby shook her head, but a smile was pulling at the corners of her mouth. “You don’t know Quill. He never does anything without thinking it out first.”

  “Ha!” Sophie replied. “He’s a man. Men believe they have brains, but it’s a known fact that if their lower regions of the body are in use, their upper regions are incapable of activity.”

  “I’m in mourning,” Gabby pointed out.

  “No one will know what you wear in the privacy of your own home. Tell Quill that you are tired of black.” Sophie stood up and shook out her skirts.

  “Oh, now I can see a little curve!” Gabby cried, fascinated.

  It was Sophie’s turn to grow pink. “I hope you have just as exciting news for me on the morrow.”

  Gabby gave a nervous little laugh and then followed the duchess to the door. “You’re a dear, you know,” she said sud
denly.

  “I shall do an imitation of my mother,” Sophie announced. “Fiddlesticks!” And she was gone.

  CODSWALLOP HELD OUT his silver tray. “Lord Breksby has called, my lady. His lordship has indicated that his visit is urgent, and he would like to see his Lord Dewland and yourself. The gentlemen await you in the library.”

  Lord Breksby didn’t waste a moment. “Lady Dewland, I am sorry to bother you, but developments have necessitated that I speak to you again about the Holkar heir.”

  Gabby sat down, biting her lip. Quill stood at her right shoulder, ready to support her if the news was bad. And he had a sharp sense that it would be.

  “It appears that Kasi Rao Holkar’s father is now dying, and he must begin his training to take over the throne,” Breksby stated.

  “Kasi is not capable of ruling a country,” Gabby protested. “He cannot yet count to ten. He will never be able to make the sort of decisions that are required to hold together the Holkars!”

  “That remains to be seen,” Lord Breksby said. “Naturally, if we discover that the boy is a simpleton, the English government will not support the actions of the East India Company.”

  “Kasi…I suppose one could say that Kasi is a simpleton,” Gabby replied. “He is not quick in thought.”

  Breksby gave her a kindly look. “If Mr. Kasi Rao is merely slow, I am afraid that he will have to take on the throne of the Holkars. After all”—and Breksby gave a little giggle—“our English rulers have not always been among the brightest in the land.

  “But we shall soon have an opportunity to judge the boy’s intelligence,” Breksby continued. Quill noticed that he was watching Gabby extremely closely. “Certain representatives of the East India Trading Company announced last night that they have discovered the whereabouts of Kasi Rao Holkar and in fact have taken him into custody, with the intent—”

  Gabby squeaked in dismay. “They have found Kasi?”

  Breksby nodded. “Mr. Kasi Rao is now in the custody of the East India Company, at the house of Mr. Charles Grant, to be exact. I gather that the prince will be introduced to various members of the English government tomorrow evening. This particular set of events is clearly being orchestrated by Mr. Grant, who is known among us as being imprudently in favor of extending the company’s territory into central India. We shall surely not allow a simpleton to be put on the throne merely to suit Mr. Grant’s wish to control the Marathas region.”