Potent Pleasures

  “Miss van Stork,” she said.

  “Yes, my lady,” Chloe replied.

  Oh dear, Charlotte thought. “Please do call me Charlotte,” she said. “Why don’t we sit over here?” She steered Chloe toward a large table, away from the smaller table where a group of beaux were already clustered, looking expectantly at Charlotte.

  Chloe sat down, wondering where in the world Will had gone. He had behaved (to her secret disappointment) like a consummate gentleman in the carriage, and then she seemed to lose him on the walk. The party itself was also unexceptionally proper. The marquis appeared to be a little drunk to her inexperienced eye, and the marchioness frigid with annoyance, but there was nothing remarkable in that. She had noticed that ton marriages seemed invariably strained. Probably, she thought, it was all that alcohol they drank. It fuddled your brain, her mother said.

  Lady Charlotte seemed to be staring at her in a very peculiar way. Probably she was entranced by the novel idea of sitting with a bourgeois cit. Chloe raised her stubborn little chin.

  “Why are you regarding me so … intently, Lady Charlotte?”

  Charlotte’s face glowed. “That’s it! That’s exactly the look I want!”

  Chloe looked confused. The woman must be mad as a hatter. How odd that the papers hadn’t mentioned it.

  “No, no,” Charlotte said hastily. “I’m not making any sense, am I? I paint, you see. I’ve just started painting people—well, I have painted Sophie, that’s all. And I’d like to paint you.” She paused. Chloe van Stork was looking at her doubtfully.

  Charlotte gave her a deliberately charming smile. Unlike Will, Chloe didn’t unbend an inch. Charlotte leaned across the table. “I don’t dabble with paints.” She broke off. “May I call you Chloe?”

  Chloe nodded silently.

  “I really paint. And I work at it like the devil,” she said frankly. “I’d like to paint your portrait, in profile I think. Yes, that would be best.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes, unconsciously chewing on her lower lip. “Do you think that you could possibly sit for me? A portrait takes a long time, about six weeks, but I wouldn’t need you every day. I work from about eight in the morning to one; any time you could give me would be wonderful.”

  Chloe was staggered. Everyone knew that society belles didn’t do a single thing all day long. They sat around and counted their pearls. She gulped rather gracelessly, staring at the elegant woman on the other side of the table. She worked like the devil at painting?

  “I suppose so,” she finally replied, hesitating. “I would have to ask my mama.”

  “Of course. Perhaps she would like to accompany you? She probably wouldn’t want to just sit in my studio, but I know that my mama would much enjoy some company,” Charlotte said, recklessly ignoring the duchess’s elaborately planned mornings.

  Chloe tried to imagine her mother having a leisurely tea with the Duchess of Calverstill and totally failed.

  “I doubt it,” she answered uncertainly. “She is frightfully busy, most of the time.” Then she could have bitten her tongue off with embarrassment. Charlotte’s mother probably lay about on a daybed most of the day. Charlotte might think she was being critical.

  But an insult had never occurred to Charlotte, who had been trained to run a large household and knew just what an enormous amount of work it was. “Yes,” she said absently. She was still staring at Chloe’s face. She reached across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Chloe’s maid had pulled her hair ruthlessly into a tight circle of braids, but small ringlets were starting to fall out.

  From across the large vine-hung arbor scattered with tables Will saw Charlotte tuck up Chloe’s hair and he frowned. She wasn’t planning to transform Chloe, was she? The way she herself changed? He didn’t like it. Chloe was Chloe, and he didn’t want to see her in one of those flimsy French gowns, leaving all the men free to gape at her bosom. He walked over and loomed behind Chloe’s chair, frowning at Charlotte.

  “Miss van Stork,” he said with deliberate formality. “Would you like to join me for a stroll? We might look at the mechanical train.”

  Chloe sat perfectly still for a second. It really was ridiculous, the way her heart leaped into her throat when she heard his voice. He was a fortune hunter, nothing more. She had read all about his pursuit of Lady Charlotte, for example.

  “All right,” Chloe said coolly. She nodded at Charlotte, giving her a rather sweet smile, and walked off with Will. Charlotte watched them go, smiling slightly. She had no delusions about how long Will would be a single man. He was well and truly caught, she thought. She shrugged a bit and met the brown eyes of the young man seated to her right.

  “Lady Charlotte,” he said. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

  Charlotte felt truly annoyed. She disliked walking into shadowed passageways with strange young men. In her experience they invariably tried to kiss you, certain that their masterful lips would conquer all resistance. Vauxhall was surrounded by pleasure gardens and ivy-hung walks that were only dimly illuminated by Chinese lanterns and strings of lights. Her eyes met Sophie’s and Sophie twinkled at her sympathetically. She herself was busy fending off three men with a similar mission. Meanwhile the marquis had managed to talk Daphne Boch into going to see the fireworks, and the marchioness was staring straight ahead, a pinched look about her mouth. Charlotte wanted to go home. Alex was nowhere to be seen, and what was she doing with him anyway? Not that she was with him, considering that he had sauntered off the moment they arrived. She felt cross, humiliated, and rather tired.

  The young brown-eyed gallant was standing next to her, politely holding out his arm. She looked up at him appealingly. “My lord, I find that I am quite exhausted. Would you be so kind as to escort me back to my home?”

  Happily enough, the Honorable Peter Dewland evidenced no sign of libidinous fever at the idea of being alone in a carriage with Charlotte Daicheston. He simply nodded. Charlotte made her apologies to the tight-lipped marchioness. Sophie had disappeared into the flower-scented night, escorted by all three bravos. Alex was nowhere. Charlotte put her fingers lightly on Peter’s arm and they walked off toward the carriages.

  They were about halfway to the carriage park when a particularly lovely burst of fireworks lit up the sky. Charlotte had been so busy trying to pick her way over the ill-lit brick walks without stubbing her toes that she hadn’t paid much attention. But now Peter Dewland said in a rather boyish and charming way, “I say, Lady Charlotte! Just look at that!”

  A scarlet serpent curled around a large tiger lily, flaming for a moment and falling into broken pieces.

  “Oh, how lovely,” she said.

  “My brother would love this,” Peter commented, still watching sparkling fragments crumbling into blackness.

  “Why didn’t he join us?” Charlotte asked. “Is he too young?”

  Peter colored and looked down at his companion, worried that he was boring her. But she looked genuinely interested.

  “Quill is my older brother—he hurt his leg in a riding accident,” he said. “He has to stay in bed all the time now, unless one of the footmen carries him outside. But it hurts quite a lot to be moved and so …” His voice trailed off.

  “Oh, dear,” Charlotte said in a small voice. Here she was, fussing over a silly thing like her ineligible beau deserting her, and this boy’s brother was permanently bedridden. “You know, I believe you can buy fireworks here. You could set them off in your back garden, and then if your brother came to the window, he could see them as well.”

  “Oh, Lady Charlotte, that’s a lovely idea,” Peter exclaimed. “Do you know where the fireworks are sold?”

  Charlotte nodded back toward the huge, lit-up pavilion they had walked away from. “I believe they are back there.”

  Peter hesitated and then turned to go. “I will buy some tomorrow, Lady Charlotte, and I shall tell my brother that it was your suggestion.”

  Charlotte laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, no! We have
to do it tonight, don’t you think? And mightn’t I help with the fireworks?” A sudden thought struck her. “I’m not sure that the marchioness would wish to join us, however.” She could not accompany any man to his house without a chaperone, no matter how good the cause.

  “My mother,” Peter said with his appealing near stammer mer. “My mother would be happy to chaperone us, I feel sure. I believe she knows your mother quite well.”

  Charlotte took this with a grain of salt. It was amazing how many members of the ton said they knew her mother quite well; Adelaide had never been much good at repulsing people. Still … Charlotte was struck with the determination to set off fireworks for Peter’s injured brother.

  “Let’s go!” she said gaily. They started back toward the lit pavilion, walking rather less carefully. A slight breeze set Charlotte’s black ribbons dancing around her slender white dress. Alex, who was standing at the edge of the pavilion, staring out in utter fury, recognized the gown in an instant. His eyes narrowed, even as he felt a flash of happiness in his belly. God almighty, this woman would probably drive him mad. Who was she with, out there in the dark, anyway? The marchioness had told him that Charlotte had returned home; why was she returning? He had pretended to himself that he was angry because she had left the party without saying good-bye to all her friends. Inside he knew that he was furious because she didn’t bother to say farewell to him. He had gone to order a banquet of delicate sandwiches to be brought to their table, only to return to find his girl (as he invariably thought of her in the last week) gone, and all the rest of them wandering around in the dark somewhere. Only the grim-faced marchioness was left, staring into the darkness. He quickly found her a rum punch and was contemplating murder when he saw Charlotte’s billowing ribbons returning to the pavilion.

  And now … he was quite happy and didn’t bother to analyze his change in mood. Alex strode out in Charlotte’s direction. My God, it really was dark out here. No wonder there were so many thefts and rapes and what have you at Vauxhall. He felt a sudden flash of alarm and quickened his stride. He had almost reached Charlotte and the young gentleman accompanying her. One look at Peter, even in the dim light, reassured him. This one wasn’t going to pull any fancy tricks in the dark. Alex pulled to the side, pressing into the hedge. Charlotte and her escort walked on, not even noticing him. Alex waited until Charlotte was almost past him and then he reached out and caught one of her floating black ribbons, pulling it sharply back toward him.

  She swung about fiercely, jerking the ribbon out of his hand. Her eyes flashed at him for an instant until she recognized him, and then some other emotion touched her eyes … he wasn’t sure what. He caught another ribbon.

  “Sir,” said the young gallant in a rather strained manner. “The lady would prefer that you not touch her garments.”

  “Do you, Charlotte?” Alex said, gently pulling the ribbon toward him. Charlotte perforce walked a step closer to him. “Do you prefer that I don’t touch your … garments?”

  Charlotte raised her chin, meeting his eyes. “Certainly, my lord. I am not certain but that you have damaged my gown already.”

  Alex’s eyes smoldered down at her. He tugged a bit more on her ribbon, and Charlotte stepped forward again. There was only a hairsbreadth between them now. Peter, standing behind Charlotte, couldn’t see Alex’s hands, so he let them slide from the ribbon and spread them wide on her front, his fingers fitting snugly under the rise of her breasts. Charlotte drew in her breath, sharply.

  “I’m just checking for damage,” he said with a lopsided grin.

  Charlotte couldn’t think of anything to say. “We’re going to buy fireworks,” she finally said, retreating a step. “Mr. Dewland’s brother is unable to leave his bed and we thought to buy some fireworks and set them off in his garden.”

  Alex’s eyes shifted from Charlotte’s face to that of Peter Dewland, who was standing off to the side, unsure what to make of the earl’s antics.

  Suddenly Peter’s face looked familiar. “Is your brother Quill?” Alex demanded.

  Peter nodded.

  “What a fool I am,” Alex said, looking thunderstruck. “I’ve known Quill for years,” he explained to Charlotte. “We were at school together. I was very sorry to hear of his accident.”

  Peter looked at the earl doubtfully but Alex continued, his tone brisk.

  “Right you are!” Alex said, turning Charlotte around. “I think I know exactly where to buy fireworks.”

  By a half an hour later, Alex had rounded up those fragments of the party that were round-upable. Will seemed to have taken Miss van Stork home, leaving a message for Charlotte that Chloe would wait on her at nine o’clock in the morning. Alex heard that in silence. Before the evening was over he intended to know exactly what his beloved planned to do with a city miss at that unfashionable hour in the morning. His two French friends had also gone home, Daphne desperate to get away from the marquis’s increasingly familiar commentary. And after hearing their plans and receiving Peter’s assurances that his mother would act as chaperone, the marchioness bundled her husband into a carriage and took him home. A few gallants sniffed at the idea of pleasing an invalid and wandered off into dark pathways to find a willing courtesan, of whom there were many at Vauxhall. So Sophie and Charlotte, with a reduced contingent of about three men, not including Alex and Peter Dewland, set off, bringing with them a perfectly marvelous collection of fireworks.

  When Alex found that the only fireworks officially sold were simple rockets, he threw his peership around—backed by a noble number of coins—and ended up with one Mr. Glister, a fireworks director at Vauxhall, and a few of his “spessial works,” as he called them. “I’d as lief do it myself,” Mr. Glister kept explaining anxiously. “You might as well take a finger off as look at these. They’ll take the nose right off your face.”

  It was only when the carriages pulled up in front of Peter’s darkened house that Charlotte felt a twinge of anxiety. She had been relieved to find that Peter lived in a respectable area, two houses down from her great-aunt Margaret, as a matter of fact. But when Peter ushered them in his mother greeted them cheerfully; it seemed that she and her husband, a viscount, were having a game of chess in the library, and had sent most of the servants to bed. And Charlotte did fancy she had seen Viscountess Dewland with her mother, so that was all right.

  Mr. Glister disappeared into the garden to set up his “spessial works,” and Charlotte happily accepted the glass of champagne someone put in her hand. Ever since that disastrous night three years ago, she hardly drank any alcohol. It hadn’t taken long for her to figure out that the lemonade she and Julia drank so enthusiastically had been laced with spirits. But now … She measured Alex’s large body leaning carelessly against the mantelpiece. Alex was listening to Peter’s father prose on about the extraordinary efforts of Bow Street Runners to catch tollhouse thieves. Perhaps it was the champagne. Little fingers of excitement kept darting up her spine. She was terribly glad that she hadn’t gone home. And when Alex looked up and met her eyes she couldn’t stop herself from giving him an entirely intimate, shameless smile. Alex’s eyebrows flew up and he pushed himself into an upright position.

  Viscount Dewland kept babbling on about the Runners. Alex let his eyes range suggestively over his beloved’s face. Her glorious mop of curls was even more disheveled than usual, the effect of wind rather than art. She was heartbreakingly beautiful, with her arching eyebrows and huge green eyes. He felt himself hardening in a way that was simply not acceptable, given the skintight pantaloons that passed as fashionable evening wear. Still … his eyes drifted lower to her soft breasts, rising out of that white dress as if they were begging for kisses. God! This would never do. He politely disengaged himself from Viscount Dewland and walked over to Charlotte. Her own eyes hadn’t strayed below his chest, although he damn well wanted them to. On the way he picked up another glass of champagne. Alex stood a whisper’s breath away from her, his eyes glinting a dangerous, sensual
message. Charlotte felt a familiar heat creep up from her knees. Why did he do this to her? She had only to be next to him and she wanted to do that again.

  “Lady Charlotte,” he said gravely. “Shall we ascertain how the redoubtable Mr. Glister is doing in the garden?”

  She tensed. It was a moment of decision: Should she go into the gardens with him? She looked about rather wildly, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. Then she caught Sophie’s eye and Sophie winked deliberately.

  “Oh, Charlotte,” she called across the room, her clear voice arching over the chatter. “Don’t you think someone should venture out and see what is happening? We cannot intrude on Lady Dewland’s hospitality too long.”

  Alex offered Charlotte his arm. Still she hesitated. What was he going to do out there in the dark? Hadn’t she sworn to herself that she wouldn’t go outdoors alone with him again? She did want his kisses, the heavy, drugging feeling of desire that swept over her when his lips met hers. But she didn’t want to …

  “It’s a beautiful night,” she said, smiling back at Sophie. “Why don’t we all go into the garden and see if Mr. Glister could use some help?”

  Alex held out his arm. “Lady Charlotte?” And then, quietly, “Coward!”

  Charlotte gasped, and looked up at him. His eyes were dark with desire but there was an unspoken smile there as well.