Enchanting Pleasures (35 page)

“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 suddenly.

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

C
ODSWALLOP 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.”

“Do you know where they located my father’s nephew?” Gabby asked. To Quill’s mind, there was a peculiar urgency to her tone.

Breksby looked surprised. “Where? Why, where else but in London?”

To Quill’s astonishment, Gabby’s whole body relaxed. It was clear to him, at least, that Gabby was pleased with Breksby’s answer. His curiosity sharpened.

“Are we invited to tomorrow’s fete?” Quill asked.

“Certainly not,” Breksby replied. “The last thing that Mr. Grant would welcome is the presence of Lady Dewland, who may be able to persuade my colleagues that Mr. Kasi Rao is incapable of rule. However, I am invited. And who is to say whom I shall bring on my arm? As it happens, I choose to be accompanied by a beautiful viscountess.” He looked properly mischievous.

“There’s nothing we can do to stop tomorrow’s affair,” Quill told Gabby. “The best you can do is stay close to Kasi so that he feels comfortable.”

“I will do all I can to make this a pleasant occasion for the young prince,” she replied sweetly. Quill frowned. He would have expected Gabby to make a passionate protest at the very idea of Kasi Rao being dragged into a room full of gawking strangers.

“If it is as you say,” Breksby observed, “we shall immediately ascertain his inability to rule the Holkars. Mr. Kasi Rao will have one uncomfortable evening, and then we will inform Mr. Grant that his scheme has failed. I should tell you, however, that Mr. Grant seems quite confident that the boy will be able to take on his responsibilities in a timely manner.”

“I shall accompany my wife,” Quill remarked to Lord Breksby.

Breksby bowed. “I will be most happy to have you with us, my dear sir.”

“I know Grant,” Quill said rather grimly. “He is, in fact, one of the reasons that I sold my East India shares some years ago. He’s a buffoon, and whatever business he’s involved in is likely to be discreditable.” In the last few years Charles Grant had become the dominant figure at India House. It was a pity, since he held the fervent belief that the only way to repay the company’s huge debts was to acquire more and more Indian territory. One hardly needed to add that Grant increased company holdings any way he could—by fair means or foul.

“My feelings precisely,” Breksby said cheerfully, standing up. “Lady Dewland, I shall look forward to tomorrow evening with unabated pleasure.” He bent and kissed Gabby’s hand with a flourish, swept Quill a bow, and left the room.

Gabby didn’t dare look Quill in the face.

“You must be overset by these events,” Quill said. “I am very sorry that Kasi has been taken into custody, Gabby.” He watched his wife with a puzzled frown.

“Yes, I am distraught,” she replied, rather vaguely.

When she didn’t say anything further, Quill added, “Tomorrow I will make inquiries as to how Kasi Rao is faring. I still have friends among the East India Company I can call on.”

Gabby nodded, still mute.

For his part, Quill stood by the door, trying to make himself leave. But his eyes kept drifting to Gabby’s body. It was too easy to imagine pulling down her little cap sleeves and running his hand down—he wrenched his eyes away. He would never, never take an unwilling woman. And that’s what she was. Unwilling.

He’d given it long, hard thought during nights of unhappy celibacy. Gabby’s naïveté made her unwilling to have a sexual relationship with him; he judged that it would take him perhaps a week to cure her of her distaste for messy bedsheets and naked skin. But they hadn’t a week. They could have another night, but after that the migraine would make him unavailable again. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a way around her shudder of distaste.

So he stood in the library doorway, cursing the lust that tied him to a female. Cursing the burning urge in his loins to bed his wife, to take her, to make love to her.

To never let her go.

S
UPPER PASSED IN AN AGONY
of polite conversation. She was wearing the dress that had caused a scandal, but Quill showed no signs of recognizing it, and she had never felt less attractive in her life. When Quill requested the salt salver, she had to gesture to a footman rather than hand it to him. She was afraid that the climax of her little performance would come far too soon and enliven the servants’ evening rather than her husband’s.

Precisely at nine o’clock, Quill finished a last bite of lemon tart. “I am afraid that it is time for me to retire to my study, my dear,” he said, with the studied politeness that passed for marital intimacy between them.

She gulped. “Perhaps I shall visit you later in the evening, Quill?”

He looked startled. “Of course,” he agreed after an infinitesimal pause. “I am happy to greet you at any time, naturally.” His lips pressed the back of her hand for the merest moment and he was gone.

Gabby wandered upstairs with no real location in mind. Once in her room she drifted to the dressing table. Most of her hair was still neatly plaited into a coronet. With a sudden thought, she started pulling out hairpins. Quill liked her hair. Perhaps if she took it down, it would help her act seductive.

Because she didn’t feel seductive. Never mind what Sophie had said. She felt overly plump and unattractive, a woman whose husband had threatened to go to a concubine.

When she had taken all the pins out, Gabby worked her fingers through the braids and let her hair fall in great rippling golden-brown sheaves down her back.

Thankfully she encountered no servants in the hallway, nor on the stairs leading to the floor below. Gabby knocked lightly and pushed the door open.

Quill was sitting at the far end of the long room, white sleeves pushed up around his elbows to protect his cuffs from ink. An oil lamp burned on the table, casting a warm light that made his hair shine with burgundy tints.

He looked up and instantly rose. “How nice to see you,” he murmured, quite as if he hadn’t said good night to her a mere fifteen minutes earlier.

Gabby felt a pulse of despair. Quill sounded as uninterested as a man married for twenty years. He would likely yawn if her breasts popped free of her gown. Still…what else could she do? She walked toward him across the room, consciously forcing her hips to sway, dip and sway, as she walked. Her hair felt like a bushy curtain. It likely made her look five times rounder than she already was, Gabby realized with a sense of horror.

“May I offer you a glass of sherry? Or ratafia?” He gestured toward a sideboard.

Gabby swallowed. “Yes, thank you.” Her voice sounded oddly breathy. She accepted a glass of sherry and took such a large swallow that her glass was virtually emptied in one gulp. The liquor burned its way comfortingly down her chest. Quill looked faintly surprised, but refilled her glass.

“I received a letter from Lady Sylvia that might interest you,” he remarked.

“Oh? What does she say?”

“The travel has done Mother good and she is less lachrymose, to use Lady Sylvia’s phrase. And they met one of Peter’s university friends in Switzerland, Simon Baker Wollaton, who has come to Greece with them. Apparently, Wollaton is quite amusing.”

“That’s good,” Gabby said faintly. She made herself walk away from him. It wasn’t clear whether he had even noticed that her hair was unbound. If so, he hadn’t flickered an eyelash. She walked at random over to a bookshelf and stared blindly at a copy of Herbert Bone’s
The London Perambulator
.

“This book looks interesting,” she said, her throat tight, touching the volume with one finger.

Quill loomed up at her shoulder. “Not a scintillating read,” he commented.

“Lud!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t even hear you coming.”

“Well, here I am.” He leaned his forearm against the bookshelf. His arm was bronzed against his white linen sleeve. “Here I am,” he repeated softly. “The puzzlement is that…here
you
are.”

Gabby raised an eyebrow. Now that she was face to face with Quill, her apprehension was trickling away. Nerves, she thought. Naught more than nerves. “And why shouldn’t I be here?” she asked, looking at him provocatively through her lowered lashes.

He shrugged. His eyes were hard, with a questioning gleam.

Yet Gabby felt more sure of herself every moment. Even her hair had miraculously transformed from a bushy thicket to a silken, sensual screen. She reached up and pulled some of it forward so that it hung over one breast.

When his jaw tightened, Gabby mentally noted the small victory.

“The question is,” Quill said meditatively, “why my chaste wife has unexpectedly left off her blacks and dressed herself like Bathsheba about to leap into the bath—although I remember quite clearly that the said wife has no interest in marital pleasures.”

Gabby swallowed. His reference to Bathsheba was more apt than he realized, given her plans to disrobe. Obviously it was time for the gown—time to lose the gown, rather. She gave a little twist and a shrug of her shoulders.