Pleasure for Pleasure

  Josie had to smile. Griselda had reached the age of thirty-two without a single wrinkle, nor any sign that she was much over Sylvie’s age. Her hair fell in perfect ringlets, and her figure was wound in something soft and silk and utterly entrancing. In short, she looked like a china shepherdess, only not nearly as hard nor as cold.

  Tess leaned forward. “Though it is vastly improper of me to say it, Griselda, I think that Sylvie has a wonderful idea. All you would have to do is make him fall in love with you. He’s not a complete devil. You might find him amusing. Felton says that Darlington graduated with a First, which is remarkable for a gentleman. Likely, he’s bored.”

  Sylvie was waving a fan gently before her face and nothing could be seen but her mischievous eyes. “I think that I have seen the gentleman in question, dear Griselda.”

  “Hmmm,” Griselda said.

  “You must have noticed his shoulders.”

  “As Tess mentioned, this is a remarkably improper conversation,” Griselda said, obviously remembering her role as chaperone.

  “I am quite used to impropriety,” Josie said. “Not a one of my sisters found her husband without a scandal.”

  “I certainly don’t want a husband!” Griselda said.

  “Of course you do,” Sylvie stated. “Every woman wants a husband; they are so necessary to one’s comfort, like a flannel night rail in the winter. Necessary, but tedious to acquire.”

  “And you did tell Imogen that you were considering marriage,” Josie added.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t marry a man like Darlington.”

  Sylvie’s eyes rounded into a shocked expression. “We never suggested such a thing! Never! Of course, you will want to marry a man with a sweet and modest disposition. Otherwise not even an optimist could see you sharing breakfast with him after a year or so.”

  “My own Willoughby was remarkably modest,” Griselda remarked. “But my ability to watch him eat calves’ head pie for breakfast lasted precisely one day, as I recall.”

  “I expect I would have been just the same,” Sylvie said with a little shudder. “But I mean to begin as I shall go on, and therefore I shall inform Mayne that we shall never breakfast together. That way he will not be disappointed by my absence.”

  Josie thought that was a bit mean, but after a moment she realized that Mayne probably didn’t care about breakfasting. She wasn’t stupid, nor naive. What Mayne wanted was to sleep in the same room with Sylvie, not eat there.

  “I suppose I could contemplate a flirtation with Darlington,” Griselda said.

  “Just long enough to reduce him to a state of slavering adoration,” Sylvie said reassuringly. “Then you can shake him from your skirts like so much dust.”

  Josie liked the sound of that.

  “This is not the sort of solution that had occurred to me,” Griselda said, looking thoughtful.

  “Indeed,” Tess said with a gurgle of laughter. “Griselda and I and Josie’s other sisters have been pursuing irreproachably correct ways of ameliorating the situation. Really, Josie, you do have a number of admirers now.”

  “Old men,” Josie said impatiently.

  Sylvie raised an eyebrow. “Dearest, young men are invariably tedious. I think you don’t realize what a sacrifice Griselda makes by even contemplating a brief flirtation with a man not yet thirty. Without experience, they have nothing to say.”

  “Darlington always has something to say; that’s his stock in trade,” Tess observed.

  “But he is unlikely to have made many mistakes, and mistakes are what make a man truly interesting.”

  “Has Mayne made mistakes?” Josie asked with some curiosity.

  Griselda laughed, but Sylvie said, “Without question. He has the look of a man who has mistakenly found himself in far too many beds, for one thing. He has clearly put too much value on variety. I shall insist that as my husband, he show far more prudence.”

  “But do you mean that he will…he will continue to—” Josie stopped. There were limits to what a young unmarried woman was supposed to voice, after all.

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” Sylvie said, fanning herself. “Although he is currently playing the role of a sentimentalist, and doing it with a great deal of relish, I must say.”

  “He told me last night that he was ravished with love for you,” Griselda said.

  “Charming,” Sylvie said, with a markedly unsentimental cheerfulness. “As I said, a temporary wash of sentimentalism. Which will lapse with time, as it always does. And since he is half French, I expect it will transform itself nicely into cynicism. I think cynical men are so interesting, don’t you?”

  “You should be starting a flirtation with Darlington,” Griselda pointed out. And then added hastily, “If you weren’t affianced to my brother, of course.”

  “Alas, I cannot come to Josephine’s rescue for that very reason. How long do you think it will take you, dearest Griselda? I shouldn’t think more than a week or so, do you?”

  Griselda had a light in her eye that suggested just a hint of rivalry with her beautiful sister-in-law, or so Josie thought.

  “I expect I can make significant inroads on his affections this very night,” she said. Then she stood up and surveyed her gown in the mirror. It had a classical drape, winding around her breasts and making the most of her curves. With a few deft pulls and twitches, suddenly a great deal more bosom was showing.

  “An excellent thought,” Sylvie said.

  “I can manage this endeavor without instruction,” Griselda said, with the faintest edge in her voice.

  Sylvie instantly looked utterly cast down. “I didn’t mean in the faintest, smallest way to imply that you were anything other than utterly ravissante!” she cried, her accent suddenly far more French. “Don’t be angry with me, dearest Griselda. I’m so happy to be your sister that I rushed in where I should not have walked!”

  Griselda smiled at that and turned around to give her a kiss. “You are your own fascinating self,” she said. “And besides, I do need advice. How shall I make an approach to him? Under the circumstances, he is unlikely to draw near me.”

  Tess’s eyes lit up. “My husband can introduce you!”

  “Too obvious,” Griselda objected.

  “I have read a number of novels in which young women drop various items of clothing, thereby attracting attention of a nearby gentleman,” Josie said. “A fan would be easiest.”

  “I don’t want to drop my fan,” Griselda said, looking alarmed. “This is my favorite and I should hate to have the sticks bent or broken.”

  “Sacrifices must be made,” Sylvie observed. “In a good cause.”

  “In that case,” Griselda retorted, “I’ll drop your fan. You can give me mine back at the end of the evening.”

  Sylvie showed no sign of offering up her fan. It was the same delicate pink as her costume, and sewn over with matching seed pearls. “Are you certain that you wouldn’t wish to drop a shoe?” she inquired. “You are wearing ravishing slippers, if you don’t mind my saying so, Griselda. And you could perhaps manage to show some ankle at the same time. Men are so foolish when it comes to ankles.”

  “Why is that?” Josie asked. Sylvie seemed to be the sort of person who actually answered questions, and since her ankles were one of Josie’s best features, she had often wondered whether she should accidentally expose them more often.

  “A woman’s ankle, slender and perfectly turned, is a thing of beauty,” Sylvie said. “I myself wear all my skirts a trifle short, as should you, Josie darling.”

  “I need the longer skirts to balance my hips,” Josie said.

  Tess groaned. “Madame Badeau told you that, didn’t she?”

  “She is correct,” Josie stated.

  “Madame Badeau makes excellent designs,” Sylvie said peaceably. “I myself have a ravishing pelisse that she made for me. But I am not certain that I entirely agree with her tactics as regards your costumes, Josie.”

  “As I have repeatedly said myself,?
?? Griselda put in.

  Josie groaned inwardly. They appeared to be about to reenact a battle that had replayed itself since she first visited Imogen’s modiste, Madame Badeau. “It is my figure,” she pointed out, “and my costumes in question. Without Madame Badeau’s corsets, I would swell in all directions.”

  Even now Josie could feel the reassuring pressure of whalebones around her body, holding all her extra flesh in place. True, it was uncomfortable, and it made her feel rather like a wooden puppet at times, especially while dancing.

  “I do not agree,” Griselda said. She appealed directly to Sylvie. “Josie is convinced that she must wear this horrendous contraption that Madame Badeau espoused. As you can see, she barely sits with ease.”

  But to Josie’s relief, Sylvie didn’t jump to Griselda’s support. “I expect that Josie finds the garment rather comforting.”

  “I do,” Josie said with emphasis. “I shall wear it whenever I am seen in public. Can you imagine if I took it off? They would stop calling me a Scottish sausage and say that I had swelled into—into a sausage patty!”

  “They will lose interest,” Sylvie said. “Particularly after Griselda diverts Darlington’s attention to herself.”

  “I do believe that I shall drop my shoe,” Griselda said. “A fan is too obvious, almost pedestrian. And these are very nice slippers. I’d forgotten how much I like them.”

  They all looked to the ground. Griselda’s slippers were cream silk embroidered with pale blue, very small fleur-delis. Her stockings were the same color, with pale blue clocks.

  “I am so happy to be entering your family,” Sylvie said. “I could not bear to be sister to a woman who did not understand the importance of shoes.”

  Griselda smiled at her and dropped her skirts. Her eyes were more excited than Josie had seen them in ages, and she had a little smile hovering on her mouth. She took a miniature pot of color from her reticule, rubbed it on her lips, and then made a playful pout before the mirror. “I feel quite different. Rather wicked, I suppose.”

  “But surely you have not enjoyed your widowhood entirely alone?” Sylvie said, looking rather appalled.

  “No, no,” Griselda said, “there have been small attachments here and there, but I have never deliberately planned anything of this nature.”

  Josie just stopped herself from gasping.

  “Therein lies the difference between the two of us,” Sylvie said. “For you are half French, and I am fully French. Consequently, I cannot imagine embarking on any sort of romantic adventure without a good deal of planning. I would owe it to myself.”

  Griselda laughed. “You sound so sophisticated, Sylvie, and yet I have observed you with my brother. The two of you are remarkably chaste, are you not?”

  “I am always chaste,” Sylvie remarked. “I have yet to see the reason why I should allow any advance in intimacy on the part of a man. I’m afraid that planning does tend to reduce one’s tendency to be reckless.”

  Griselda paused in the door.

  Sylvie grinned at her. “Avance pour vaincre!”

  “I shall report on my conquest later this evening,” Griselda said. “Josie, may I remind you that you have several dance partners waiting for you, when you choose to emerge.”

  Tess was tucking an errant curl high on her head. “I must return to the floor as well.”

  “Lucius will be looking for you,” Josie said.

  “It is an excellent thing to have a husband looking for one, rather than the other way around,” Sylvie said. “I shall emulate you.”

  Tess smiled at her. “I have been remarkably lucky in that regard.”

  6

  From The Earl of Hellgate, Chapter the Third

  I fear it will reveal my arrogance if I say that I did fulfill the command of the duchess—shall we term her Hermia? My skills I consider to be God’s providence and gift, for the duchess informed sometime later that God had pricked me out for women’s pleasure…and I have devoutly followed His directive ever since.

  Thurman walked up to the Sausage as if he’d been introduced. In a way, he felt as if they were old acquaintances. Surely if he, Thurman, actually talked to the Sausage, Darlington would come to the Convent to hear his tale. He could send him a message, telling him that he had a story Darlington couldn’t miss. Thurman felt panic at the idea of not having Darlington at his side. Not having Darlington’s witticisms and cutting observations to pass the time.

  “I’m a friend of Darlington,” he said by way of invitation.

  The Sausage blinked at him and then looked away, staring at the wall over his shoulder. “I would rather not be reminded of your friend’s ill-bred phrases.”

  “Ill-bred? He ain’t ill-bred,” Thurman protested.

  She still didn’t look at him. But: “Despicable Darlington,” she said mockingly. “I vow the phrase is quite appealing.”

  Thurman scowled. What he should do is dance with the piglet. That way he could make a great story out of how she trod on his feet with her little hooves and squealed in his ear. “Would you like to dance?”

  She glanced at him for a second and then turned her entire head so she was staring at the wall again. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not? You’re desperate, aren’t you?”

  “You’re some sort of fiend,” she said. “Why on earth are you being so impolite? To the best of my knowledge, we’ve never met.”

  The disgust in her voice gave him a thrill of power. It wasn’t just Darlington who could come up with cutting phrases. He could too. “I don’t mind being a fiend as long as you don’t cast me into a swine,” he said.

  “You are swine,” Miss Essex said, glaring at him instead of the wall. “Oink, oink, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is. Why don’t you trot back to whatever vulgar little pen you came from?”

  Somehow his little jest hadn’t come across with the same aplomb that Darlington achieved. She was looking at him so that he—he—felt uncomfortably aware of his rounded stomach. Everyone knew that weight in a man was a good thing. Made him strong and long-living.

  But Thurman had the same quivering sense of failure that he used to have when he was called before the class to do the multiplication tables. Miss Essex had a powerfully nasty gaze. In fact, he hated her.

  She wasn’t done talking. “You are the sort of man who pinches maids,” she was saying. “I can’t imagine how you found your way into this ball.”

  Thurman felt that in his gut: he was sensitive about the fact that his family’s wealth came from running a printing press. He always laughed it off as his grandfather’s intellectual fling, but he knew his claim to the title of gentleman was fragile.

  “You are the sort of woman who will never be so lucky as to be pinched,” he said, tasting Darlington’s acid tones on his tongue. He could be as cutting as Darlington. He moved a little closer. He really loathed this plump Scottish girl. If he had his way, fat Scottish girls would never be allowed into a ton party at all. “You’ll never be lucky enough to be tupped either,” he said.

  Then he just stood there, watching her. To tell the truth, he was rather surprised at himself for voicing such a thing in the midst of a society affair.

  She got a little red in the face, so she must have known what tupping was. “You are—filth,” she said.

  Her voice was shaking. He rather liked that. She turned and darted away, and Thurman didn’t move. He could feel rage swelling in his chest the way it used to when the schoolmaster flogged him for not knowing his tables. It was all tangled together in his mind: Darlington was gone, the Convent was gone, what would he do at night? Without Darlington, people would think he was stupid. It was all the Sausage’s fault, because Darlington didn’t drop him until he had those thoughts of morality.

  That was her fault.

  The Sausage’s fault.

  7

  From The Earl of Hellgate, Chapter the Fifth

  I fear that in telling the next episode of my life, I may endanger the reputation of the sweete
st and most virtuous lady to have come to my attention. I beg of you not to attempt to discover her name, no matter the temptation. I shall simply call her my darling Hippolyta. If she reads my poor offering, I would say to her what lies buried in my heart:

  I have seen only you,

  I have admired only you,

  I desire only you.

  Josie turned away, rather blindly, and walked straight through the crowd, heedless of anyone who might see her face without its rigid smile. That was a horrible, disgusting swine of a man. Without warning, Mayne loomed before her.

  “Hello there,” he said, grinning at her. Then his face changed in a flash. “What’s the matter, Josie?”

  She swallowed hard and before she knew what was happening, Mayne was leading her out onto a marble terrace that lay white and shining in the light of the torches placed at its edges. He walked her to the broad balustrade that lined the terrace, turned her around and then stood directly in front of her so that no one could see the tears snaking down her face. “What happened?” he demanded.

  The torches were throwing glinting lights onto Mayne’s tumble of black curls. His eyebrows were drawn into a perfectly straight scowl. “It was a horrid man,” Josie said, hiccupping ungracefully, although it didn’t matter because it was Mayne. “He said—He said—” But she couldn’t say what he said, because Mayne was so beautiful and it was all so humiliating.

  He had a large white handkerchief in his hand. “Steady on,” he said, patting her cheeks dry. She tried to smile at him but her mouth wobbled. She turned away and leaned over to look at the borders below. The bushes were all in shadow.

  “Who was it?” Mayne asked conversationally, but Josie heard the clash of steel in his voice.

  “Is that sweetbrier or southernwood?” she asked. “It smells enchanting.”

  “Josie.”

  She turned back and shook her head. “I don’t know. Some acquaintance of Darlington’s.” She took the handkerchief from him and wiped her eyes again. Mayne was looking thoughtful, like a man who was about to pummel half the male population of London.