Potent Pleasures

  Will moved quickly along the side of the ballroom, twisting among groups of chattering girls, delicate French chairs holding matrons wearing little starched caps, the occasional gallant broodily leaning against the wall. He had to see her; he had to talk to her. Tomorrow would be too late. Then, suddenly, there Chloe was before him. She was working her way along the same wall, rather than heading straight out to the salons, as he had guessed.

  Chloe looked at him guardedly, her beautiful eyes shadowed.

  “She isn’t back there,” Will said with a toss of his head. Chloe frowned. “Bessy, or whatever her name is, the Commonweal girl,” he added. “She must be in one of the salons.”

  Chloe nodded a chilly thank you and turned around, working her way back to the doors leading to the great hallway. Every nerve tingled, telling her that Will was following just behind. At the top of the ballroom steps she didn’t allow herself to look behind her. Instead she set off resolutely down the hallway toward the Green Salon, as she had heard Charlotte call it. She pushed the door open cautiously. Surely Sissy couldn’t be foolish enough to be sitting out a dance in a closed salon! That alone was enough to ruin a girl’s reputation. The room appeared to be empty, lit only by candles that were beginning to burn low.

  Suddenly a warm, utterly male body came up sharply behind hers and pushed her through the doors, which shut behind them with a little click. Will wrapped his arms around Chloe and held her there, her back pressed against his chest. She didn’t struggle; that must mean something, he thought.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  Chloe stared straight ahead. She had her emotions under fragile control. The only thought in her mind was that she mustn’t respond to anything he said, because he would accuse her of being a tart again. Then his head bent and she realized he was dropping kisses on her head and rubbing his cheek in her hair.

  “Sir,” she began primly.

  Will kissed her ear. “Yes?”

  Chloe wrenched herself out of his arms, walking forward and turning around only when she reached the back of a chair. “Just because I look like a tart doesn’t mean you can behave as if I am one,” she said fiercely.

  Will gulped. “I didn’t mean that! I just meant that your dress … well, it’s so revealing, or it reveals so much of you….” His hands nervously sketched a shape in the air.

  Chloe glared at him. “It’s no more revealing than what the other ladies are wearing!”

  Will wondered what she meant by emphasizing ladies but ignored it. He walked toward her. “You are not like the rest of the ladies—” he began.

  She interrupted him. “I knew it! Because I’m not a lady you think I shouldn’t be wearing this dress!” The tears that had threatened to fall all day welled up and overflowed. She ran to the door, but Will was there, quick as lightning.

  “How can you even say that?” he demanded furiously. “I meant nothing of the sort! You are every inch a lady,” he continued more softly, “from your beautiful hair to your delectable toes. I acted like an idiot because, well, I liked your old clothes. You were my undiscovered diamond, my jewel that no one else knew about. And I know I acted like a madman when I first saw you this evening. But everyone was looking at you, and all the men were saying you were a diamond of the first water. It was a fit of insanity. You see … I’d got into the habit in the last month of thinking that you were mine, and no one else’s.”

  Chloe stood stock still. “Where have you been?” she asked, her voice shaky.

  “Working,” Will replied. “I’ve been organizing the sheep farmers on my land. We have started a weaving guild, and just last week a new flock of fancy sheep were delivered. You see, I’ve decided to make a fortune rather than marry into it.”

  A hand pushed up her face and Will kissed the tears from Chloe’s cheeks. She looked at him gravely. She didn’t know what to say. What about her fortune?

  “I want to marry you, Chloe. But I want you on my terms, with my own money, and not for your fortune.”

  Chloe nodded, her eyes filling up again.

  “Why are you crying, dearest?” Will asked.

  “I didn’t know where you were … and I thought you couldn’t bear the idea of marrying me.”

  Will pulled her into his arms and kissed her neck. “I want to marry you. And so does virtually every other single man out there and quite a lot of the married ones as well. Can you wait for me?” He looked at her anxiously.

  Chloe just barely stopped herself from smiling at the ridiculousness of his request.

  “At most it will be a year before the wool starts making a profit—and the moment it makes a profit, I will be pounding at your front door.”

  Chloe did smile at that. “Oh, Will,” she said.

  Will looked down at her. His composed, unfailingly neat beloved looked like a ragamuffin who’d been in a storm. He had ruffled her hair when he kissed her head; her cheeks were tearstained and pink. But she looked exquisitely happy, and not even the abrupt and furious entrance of Lady Commonweal, who had found her daughter flirting on the balcony and now found Chloe flirting in a closed salon, could take away the light in her eyes.

  Her hand lost in his huge one, Chloe listened as Will talked Lady Commonweal into a better mood, flattered Sissy, and arranged to escort Chloe home himself. Will’s hand felt different—it was no longer a smooth, dancing man’s hand, but a hand toughened and callused by two months’ work. Chloe smiled blissfully and, characteristically, said nothing.

  Chapter 14

  The new Countess of Sheffield and Downes perched on the edge of a huge bed in the finest hostelry in Depford, feeling unwontedly nervous. Charlotte looked at her hands. They were trembling slightly. The problem was that her husband was about to appear. And then they would make love, again. It was the again that was making her clutch the coverlet. Oh, why hadn’t she been more blunt with her mother, and asked her a few more questions? For her part, Adelaide had avoided the subject entirely, simply patting her daughter on the shoulder and cheerfully remarking that since Charlotte knew all about marital relations they didn’t have to talk about it.

  Charlotte was unsurprised by Adelaide’s wish to drop the topic. For one thing, Charlotte had a very clear memory of the pain that was involved. No wonder her mother didn’t want to discuss it. Charlotte flinched at the thought, involuntarily pressing her thighs tightly together. She could only suppose that women got used to it as the years passed. Her eyes softened. She did love the other things that Alex did. She thought dimly about the Chinese Salon.

  But what was really terrifying was her growing conviction that Alex would think something was wrong with her. The blood—and the pain—she hadn’t thought about that for years. Then suddenly, about a week ago, it all came back to her. What if she was ruined, physically? She stared down at her toes, just peeking out from beneath her lace nightdress. Madame Carême’s concept of the wedding night was thoroughly French. She was barely dressed, Charlotte thought. And there was no use hoping that Alex would be uninterested. He had spent the last two hours in the coach sitting on the opposite seat. Because he was feeling like a satyr, he said.

  She got up and put on the large cotton robe she wore after bathing. It probably looked ridiculous, given that creamy silk trailed below its hem, but Charlotte didn’t care. It made her feel safer. She tied the cord tightly. And knotted it. Marie had brushed out her hair, giggling significantly the whole time, but even she had left some twenty minutes ago. Maybe Alex had fallen asleep, Charlotte thought with dawning hope. Maybe she would be spared tonight?

  But even as her shoulders relaxed, the heavy wooden door swung open and there he stood. Her husband, Charlotte thought. She couldn’t help a tiny smile at the sight of him. Alex was so splendid-looking. He had taken off his cravat at some point, and his white linen shirt was open at the top. He didn’t have on his jacket either, and her eye instinctively followed the line of his skintight knit pantaloons as he walked across the room toward her. Even a ninny would have noti
ced that he was expecting a good deal more pleasure out of this evening than she was. The last trace of color drained from Charlotte’s face.

  Alex swallowed a grimace. By God, he had wanted a virgin bride, but now he saw what one looked like, he wondered why anyone would desire such a thing. Gone was his laughing, teasing, betrothed, who would kiss him good-bye until his blood raged with desire and then run teasingly up the steps to her bedchamber. Charlotte’s pinched white face looked pitifully small.

  “Sweetheart,” Alex said, sitting down next to his wife on the bed. “Who’s been telling you old wives’ tales? It doesn’t hurt that much.”

  Charlotte digested this in silence. She could hardly say, at this point, that she knew all about the pain and he was wrong. She buried her face in his shoulder. Alex pulled Charlotte into his arms. What in God’s name was she wearing? She looked like a fuzzy white ghost. He started to kiss whatever parts of her face he could pry off his shoulder. Charlotte burrowed closer. Alex put butterfly-light kisses all along the rim of her dainty pink ear. Then he put out his tongue and ran it gently along the swirling shell.

  A muffled voice emerged from his shirt. “Have you made love to many virgins?”

  Alex’s eyebrows flew up. Did she think there was anything special to it? What had her mama said to her?

  “Hundreds,” he chuckled. Charlotte shivered. “I’m fooling, Charlotte,” Alex said. “I made love to one virgin before you.”

  That was me, Charlotte thought.

  “And she didn’t seem to find it objectionable; in fact, I think she quite enjoyed it,” Alex added.

  At that Charlotte clamped her mouth together. Clearly this was not the time to clarify their past relations.

  Alex’s hands had started to move over her shoulders and back in a manner that was less comforting than seductive. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’m your husband and you are my wife. You may feel a moment or two of pain, but believe me, Charlotte, after that the pain will be gone forever. And there may not be any pain at all. We’ll make love tonight, and tomorrow, and the next night, and every night for thirty years, and we will get better and better together.” Alex’s lips were trailing down her neck now, burning her skin. Charlotte forced herself to relax. She lay passively in Alex’s arms rather than flinching away from him. His mouth trailed up her throat and pushed up her chin. She looked up at him.

  Alex’s heart missed a step. She was incredibly beautiful, his bride. Soft black curls framed a face so delicate that it looked like a Botticelli painting. Alex took Charlotte’s face in his hands and covered it with passionate kisses, kissing her dark, questioning eyes, her winged eyebrows, the petal-soft curve of her cheeks, her small determined chin. She seemed quieter, he thought, less like a bird struggling to escape from his hand. He lowered his mouth gently onto hers, teasing her, begging her to open her mouth the way he had taught her.

  Charlotte was having an internal battle. Alex’s soft kisses were awakening all those trembling, stabbing feelings that made her sleep so restlessly in the last two months. She would awake gasping from a dream in which she begged for something … she wasn’t sure what. Something only Alex could give her.

  But some part of her also held back. Don’t do it, a small voice advised. It will hurt; he will find out that there’s something wrong with you; it will ruin everything! Yet even as Charlotte’s mind struggled, her body responded. Alex was kissing her so sweetly, so tenderly. Almost unnoticed, her mouth slid open and she drew in his tongue. A corresponding stab of fiery desire mounted in her stomach. Charlotte’s hands crept up to Alex’s neck, and her fingers entwined with his thick curls. The kiss was deceptively innocent, like all the kisses they shared in the last two months. Fear flew from Charlotte’s mind along with the memory of pain. This was nothing terrifying, simply one of the feverish kisses Alex often gave her. He would finally tear himself away, gasping out loud. Momentarily she forgot that there was more expected this night.

  So when Alex pulled back, looking down at his bride speculatively, he was happy to see her cheeks delicately flushed, her eyes dreamy. This was his Charlotte.

  “I think we should have some champagne,” he said. “I didn’t get to toast the bride, after all.”

  Relief showed in Charlotte’s eyes. He wasn’t going to jump on her and … penetrate her. “Oh, yes!” she said, a little too quickly.

  Alex chuckled. “Would you believe me if I said that next week when I ask if you would like champagne you will toss your wineglass to the side and leap on top of me?”

  “No,” Charlotte said, fascinated despite herself. Leap on top of him? What did he mean?

  Alex uncorked a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He was having less trouble than he thought stamping down his raging emotions. It must be all the practice, he thought with a touch of self-mockery. Or, more likely, he just didn’t find the idea of a frightened bed partner arousing. He carried two slender glasses back to the bed.

  “At some point tonight we have to toast my father,” Alex said, grinning at Charlotte. As soon as he had left her immediate vicinity, she had grown stiff and nervous again. “He laid down this champagne before he died, and what with Napoleon’s embargo we would probably have to toast each other in brandy.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose. She had found out that the main ingredient in Keating’s headache remedy was brandy. And she still couldn’t quite reconcile the memory of her absolutely wanton behavior, sprawled over her mother’s Chinese divan, with her sense of self. She could only suppose that she had been totally inebriated.

  “Now,” Alex said. “I don’t suppose you learned any drinking songs when you were in that prudish boarding school of yours, did you?”

  Charlotte stared at him in fascination. “What do you mean?”

  “Drinking rounds? No, of course not,” Alex said to himself.

  But Charlotte wasn’t stupid. She heard a way out, and she seized it. “I would like to learn one,” she said. She sipped her champagne.

  “Right,” Alex replied. He couldn’t stop grinning tonight. This had to be the craziest way to seduce one’s own bride that had ever occurred to a man before. “Now, this is one of Patrick’s favorite songs.” Alex began singing in a rich baritone. Charlotte listened, fascinated.

  “Last night a dream came into my head,

  Thou wert a fine white loaf of bread;

  Then if May butter I could be,

  How I would spread,

  Oh! How I would spread my self on thee!”

  Charlotte’s cheeks turned hotly pink at the end of the verse.

  “Now you have to drink,” her husband prompted. Charlotte obediently sipped her champagne. “Not like that!” Alex protested. “A proper swallow, or I won’t sing the next verse!”

  Charlotte giggled and took a huge swallow.

  “Now,” Alex said, “the audience has to pay the singer to continue.” Charlotte looked surprised. “With a kiss.” Charlotte obediently leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his lips. Alex smiled at her and began the next verse. “Lately when Fancy too did roam—” But he broke off in a strangled choking fit. Alarmed, Charlotte quickly pulled her feet up onto the bed and slid over to sit next to Alex.

  “Are you all right?” She pounded him on the back.

  Alex kept his head down to hide his smile. “No,” he said in a melancholy tone. “I’m afraid the singer wasn’t paid enough.”

  Charlotte giggled despite herself. She took another drink of champagne and set down the glass. Then she put a kiss on Alex’s ear. When he didn’t move she daringly put out her tongue and slid it around the inside of his ear, just as he had with hers. Alex shuddered and surged at his bride. His mouth closed hotly over hers, taking her mouth in a drugging, passionate kiss that sent her melting into his arms. Her mouth was entirely open to his assault, to the fiery, demanding rhythm of his tongue.

  Then he pulled back abruptly. Charlotte gasped. Alex smiled and tucked one of her curls back behind her ear. Then he sang again:

&n
bsp; “Lately when Fancy too did roam,

  Thou were, my dear, a honey-comb;

  And had I been a pretty bee,

  How I would suck

  Oh! How I would creep, creep into thee.”

  “Drink,” her husband prompted. Charlotte giggled again. She couldn’t help thinking of Will Holland telling her that he was a honeybee. She took a drink.

  “Is Patrick’s favorite song well known?” she asked.

  “Tolerably. Why?”

  Charlotte smiled into her glass as Alex refilled it. “I think someone once quoted part of this verse to me.”

  “Huh!” Alex snorted. “I hope it wasn’t the last line.” Charlotte chortled a bit. Alex looked a bit sulky at that revelation: Could it be that he was jealous?

  Alex frowned for a moment and then forgot his jealousy. He gave his beloved a mock glare.

  “My payment.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte leaned forward, entirely willing.

  “No.” His large hand pushed her back. Charlotte’s left eyebrow flew up. Despite himself, Alex stared at her eyebrow in fascination. Could it be that they had a shared ancestor, somewhere back in the Middle Ages?

  “My lord,” Charlotte prompted in dulcet tones. “Your payment?”

  “That white thing—off with it!”

  Charlotte, who was relishing the glowing warmth that was spreading throughout her body, readily undid the knot at her waist and slipped off her robe. She had the enormous satisfaction of seeing her husband’s eyes widen for a moment. He swallowed hard. Charlotte grinned at him impudently.

  “The next verse?” she asked.

  “Just a minute,” Alex said, his voice suddenly raspy. “I need a moment to recover.” Charlotte was wearing a creamy silk nightdress of the type he wouldn’t have thought proper ladies ever wore. It had wide lacy straps over her shoulders—but the unique part of the gown was that one of the lacy straps continued straight into the silk. It wandered over Charlotte’s left breast, and Alex could clearly see a small rosy nipple peeping at him. It seemed to wind around the back, and curved to the front just below the waist. But because Charlotte had her legs tucked under her, he could just glimpse a bit of curly dark hair through the lace. Oh, God, she wasn’t wearing anything under the gown.