Potent Pleasures by Eloisa James
Adelaide drew herself together, shuddering a bit. Marcel thought it imperative that she not weep in case it was interpreted as dislike of the match. But who could dislike this match, she thought. Dear Alexander and Charlotte: They were so much in love.
First the duchess emerged from the ducal carriage, looking properly regal. She walked into the church on the arm of her maternal cousin, the Marquess of Dorchester. Then from a following carriage came one of the bride’s sisters and her husband, the Marquess of Blass. And finally the Duke of Calverstill himself stepped down from his carriage and stood by the door.
When Charlotte appeared in the door of the carriage and was tenderly assisted to the street by a footman, there was a moment of pure silence, an odd thing in the midst of London’s noisy, crowded streets. Then the crowd spontaneously howled its approval.
Madame Carême had outdone herself. Charlotte’s dress was quintessentially French, constructed in the empire style. But it was made of heavy, heavy silk, not of madame’s usual light fabrics. It had a classic small bodice, caught up just under Charlotte’s breasts. But the skirt was impossibly narrow, rather than light and floating. The heavy silk fell and fell; it made Charlotte appear to be all legs and bosom. In the back there was a tiny train, the weight of which gave a dip and sway to Charlotte’s walk. And, most surprisingly, woven into the creamy silk, sewn so tightly that they seemed part of the woof and the weave of the fabric, were small emeralds. Charlotte looked deliriously beautiful. Emeralds shone in her hair, and sparkled from her dress. Madame Carême herself had shed tears when she attended the final dressing that morning. Her future was assured; she wept because she was certain she would never dress such a lovely bride again.
Charlotte had a moment of panic, walking under the heavy stone archway that marked the entrance to St. George’s. What if Alex had changed his mind? What if he didn’t want to marry her after all? But there he was, standing far off, at the top of the aisle. She took a deep breath and began the long walk to the altar.
The organ music became light and joyful, announcing the entrance of the bride. And the ton gasped as one when they saw Charlotte.
Alex stood at the front of the church, his eyes fixed on Charlotte. He had never seen such a beautiful woman in his entire life. It took all his control not to bound down the aisle and sweep her into his arms. He stayed rigidly still. Lucien Boch, who was acting as best man in the absence of Alex’s brother, Patrick (still traveling in the Orient), drew in his breath sharply. Alex glanced at him.
“You are a lucky man,” Lucien said simply. “The stars shine on you.”
Alex smiled. Lucien had a wonderful ability to shrink complexities down to a succinct truth. Indeed, the stars were shining on him. Everything he had ever wanted was being delivered into his arms—and as an extra bonus, Pippa was in the front row, quietly nestled in the arms of a nanny found by Charlotte. In the weeks before the wedding Charlotte had even managed to tame Pippa’s fearful reaction to strangers.
Charlotte was nearing the front of the church. She hadn’t yet had the courage to look up and meet Alex’s eyes, although she could feel him looking at her. The duke gave his daughter’s hand a squeeze.
“All right?” he said roughly.
“Yes.” A look that has passed between fathers and daughters ever since weddings began passed between them. Charlotte leaned forward and gave him a fleeting kiss. The duke put her hand into Alex’s.
Charlotte raised her eyes. Alex was smiling down at her so tenderly that her heart turned over. The archbishop cleared his throat and they both faced the altar.
Afterward Charlotte could remember only bits and patches of the ceremony. The vows—the vows sunk deep into her mind and soul. Forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live. And the moment when Alex looked at her solemnly, repeating everything the priest said, and then his eyebrow flew up and he said, “with my body I thee worship.” And after the service when the trumpets carolled joyously from the choir loft, and Alex pulled her into his arms and kissed her as if he would never let her go. And, finally, when they started back down the aisle and Alex stopped and picked up Pippa in the first row and she held out her arms and said, “My not-nanny,” and Charlotte carried her down the aisle, Pippa’s small head of soft curls nestled on her shoulder, to thunderous applause.
It was agreed by all that the wedding of the Earl of Sheffield and Downes to Lady Charlotte Daicheston was the most romantic ceremony in recent history. Only the truly petty murmured anything about ineligibility or past marriages. Lady Skiffing was seen to wipe away a tear, and later allowed as how it had been a very touching occasion. Lady Prestlefield boasted loudly about how the dear children had met in her very own house.
There were, of course, those men who looked at the creamy expanse of Charlotte’s bosom, the shadowed cleft between her breasts, and prayed fervently for the moment when the bride would tire of her incapable husband. But they said nothing. And there were women struck by so fierce a stab of jealousy, seeing Alex’s adoring expression, that they could have tripped the bride as she walked out of the church. But they didn’t. The wedding was a huge success. It did exactly as Charlotte’s mother and father had planned. It established Charlotte and Alex as a pair to be admired, courted, and imitated; it cast the rumors about his previous marriage far into the past.
Indeed only a proper paperskull could have watched the newlywed couple dancing at the ball given by the Duke of Calverstill after the wedding and not realized that the night was going to be a long and passionate one. There were many sighs as Alex swept Charlotte down the room in their first dance as a married couple.
“How long do we have to stay here?” Alex’s eyes were twinkling wickedly at Charlotte.
“Be still!” She couldn’t not giggle.
“This is it, the limits of my control. Over two months of extreme torture … and you want me to stay here and grin at my old cronies and your great-aunts?”
“Why torture?” Charlotte pretended to take offense. “Didn’t I kiss you good night every night?”
“Yes … for as long as it would take to fry an egg!”
“No, longer,” she protested. “By that measurement, last night you could have fried up eggs for a regiment.”
“It wasn’t long enough,” Alex said against her lips. “I can’t take it, Charlotte. I feel insane with desire. I feel crazed. What if I lose my mind, strip off my clothes, run into Hyde Park naked, and end up in Bedlam?”
Charlotte chuckled, her eyes dancing. “If I thought that was going to happen I might insist we stay here until midnight.”
“Shhhh, Charlotte!” Alex quickly retorted. “If these old ladies knew how desperate you are to see me naked, there’s no telling what would happen to your reputation!”
“I am an old married lady, my lord.”
“So you don’t think that married ladies have sought my naked self?” Alex gave her a mocking leer.
“I’m a married lady, a married countess,” Charlotte said softly. “And I am very interested in your naked self.”
Alex’s eyes darkened and he swung her around in a circle. “I won’t answer that,” he finally said, in a rough undertone. Alex struggled for self-control, a common problem in the last few months. Lord, if only all those scandal-brewers knew how close he was to the opposite problem. Priapism, he fancied it was called. A constant, painful erection.
Chloe stood in the midst of a group of young ladies, watching the newlywed couple dance. Her eyes were wistful, even if her face was perfectly composed. The same couldn’t be said for her friend Sissy, who was openly gaping at Charlotte and Alex. In fact, Sissy was frantically deciding that she would marry Richard Felvitson, even if he was a younger son and declared absolutely ineligible by her mama. Look at Charlotte! She was marrying an “Ineligible Earl”—and look how happy she was! Unaware of Sissy’s reckless thoughts, Chloe struggled against the knowledge that her throat was tight with tears.
Charlotte’s dress
Peter Dewland bowed politely before Chloe and she gave him a shy smile. Ever since she met Peter in Charlotte’s box, the night of King Lear, she had liked him. He seemed to be as quiet as she was, and he never bothered her with inappropriate comments or by trying to kiss her. They found their places in the country dance and by the luck of the draw they were one of the first couples to dance lightly down the arch of joined hands, twirling, whirling their way down the set and back up the other side. They talked for a while, and Peter told Chloe all about the fireworks she had missed by leaving Vauxhall so early.
“Would you like some lemonade?” he asked, aware that the dance was drawing to a close.
“Yes, I would.” Chloe smiled up at him guilelessly, unaware that furious blue eyes were surveying them both from a foot or so away.
Peter smiled back warmly. He really liked Chloe; she reminded him of his young cousin, Bess. “I’ll return immediately.”
Six feet of hard muscled body loomed up at Chloe’s right shoulder. She turned her head quickly. It was Will. His eyes were just as blue as she remembered, bluer than the sky on a blistering day in July.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said lamely.
“Yes, it’s me,” Will snapped back. “What in God’s name have you done with yourself?”
“Why, what do you mean?”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “It was Charlotte, wasn’t it? She’s fitted you out like some kind of French tart. You look awful. What are you doing—trying to marry an earl?”
It was a particularly unfortunate remark since at that moment Chloe’s next dance partner appeared: Braddon Chatwin, the Earl of Slaslow.
“There you are, Miss van Stork. No, you can’t dance this one,” Braddon said genially to Will. “She’s mine for the next and for supper.”
The look of bruised hurt in Chloe’s eyes faded to cool ice as she nodded at Will and took Braddon’s arm. Then she deliberately turned and smiled up at Braddon.
“Shall we take a small walk on the terrace before dancing, my lord?”
Braddon Chatwin’s friendly face lit up. “I’d be delighted to, Miss van Stork. I’d be delighted to.” As they wove their way off toward the terrace, all Will could hear were Braddon’s repeated protestations of delight. He cursed silently. What was the matter with him? He’d been waiting and waiting to see Chloe, and then when he saw her he behaved like a dunce, a mean-spirited, nasty sap-skull.
When Braddon bowed at the conclusion of their dance, Chloe smiled at him with an effort. She was having a hard time maintaining a smiling front, given Will’s unwarranted attack. She didn’t know what to make of it. Why was he so angry about her beautiful gown? Chloe had no idea how delectable she looked in the gown, the way every man in the room was practically salivating just to see her. Will saw those men looking at Chloe in the gown, or rather looking at the parts of her that were hanging out of the gown, and it made him feel like a bull set loose in a field of dogs. He saw red.
Even as Braddon dropped his arm from Chloe’s waist, Will grabbed her elbow. She jumped in surprise.
“You again,” Braddon said, rather less affably than he had before. “I was about to escort Miss van Stork—”
“Nowhere!” Will snapped. “She’s busy.”
“No, I am not!” Chloe said sharply, struggling to free her arm from his punishing grip. “I’m not going anywhere with you, you—”
Will’s temper grew. “Yes, you are! If you want to go out on the terrace again, you’ll go out with me!”
Braddon Chatwin looked from one to the other with a sense of regret. Pity: He really liked Miss van Stork. He had been on the cusp of seeing her as the answer to his mother’s prayers. Oh, well, he reminded himself. If he wasn’t the brightest man in London, he had been told several times that he was very sensitive for a man. And what a sensitive man would do in this situation, clearly, was to make himself scarce.
“Miss van Stork, your servant,” he said. “Will.” He bowed regally (she was giving up an earl for a baron, after all) and left.
Chloe raised her chin stubbornly. “Lord Holland,” she said coolly, summoning the self-control acquired during years of attending the best schools without having the best background. “Is there something you would like to say, excluding further commentary on my apparel?”
Will stared at her, nonplussed. “Yes.” He pulled her through the open French windows and onto the terrace.
Chloe looked about quickly. They were well chaperoned; several matrons were sitting at their ease in the cool evening air.
“Well?” she said, in a tone of acute uninterest, pulling her arm from his. Rather than looking up she inspected her arm as if she thought to find bruises already appearing. There was a little silence.
Will was cursing himself again. For years he had had a deserved reputation for being a lady-killer. He knew to a pin how to compliment a woman, how to turn a teasing, merry moment into an erotic question. And how to ask a woman to marry him. Lord knows, he’d asked three so far. So where had all his skill gone? He felt like a young buck trying to make the acquaintance of a duchess.
“Perhaps this is not a good time,” he finally said. At that Chloe looked up, her eyes briefly meeting his, and then she looked back down again. “I apologize for insulting your gown, Miss van Stork,” he said with deliberate formality. “I was, naturally, driven only by jealousy.” But he said it so lightly that it sounded like a mere excuse.
Chloe nodded in response.
“Shall I escort you inside? I am sure your next dance partner must be looking for you.”
A faint pink rose in Chloe’s cheeks. She was struggling not to cry as she never had before. She nodded silently again. Will took her arm and gave her without another word into the arms of her next partner. Thankfully the dance was a reel, and Chloe didn’t have to say anything and only smiled punctiliously at her partner when she bumped up against him in the movements of the dance.
The evening progressed. Chloe thought she’d never been to a more horrible ball in her life. Will, savagely aware of every man who took Chloe into his arms, flirted outrageously with the wife of Captain Prebworth. And everyone knew that Camilla Prebworth was no better than she should be, Chloe thought miserably. She tried not to watch, but somehow she just kept seeing Will’s blond head wherever she looked. Perhaps she should plead a headache and go home? But then … then she wouldn’t see Will again tonight, and he might disappear into the country. Wasn’t it better to see him from afar than not to see him at all? She argued with herself back and forth.
Watching Charlotte and Alex wave good-bye from the top of the ballroom stairs only fed her heartache. They were so happy, so obviously in love. Alex looked at Charlotte as if she were the moon and the stars…. You wouldn’t catch him saying that his wife looked like a French tart, Chloe thought furiously. And then she blinked back tears again. It was probably just that Charlotte was naturally aristocratic, being a duke’s daughter, and Will thought she, Chloe, was too low-born to wear a gown like this. First she felt like throwing up, and then like slapping him in the face.
Chloe had an extremely animated supper with Braddon Chatwin, given that Will was feeding Mrs. Prebworth pieces of chicken with his fingers, a mere two tables away. Chloe flirted with Braddon in a way that shook that earl to the bottom of his toes. Luckily for him, he kept his head by assuring himself that his sensitivity had not been wrong, and Miss van Stork didn’t really mean for him to grab her up and take her off to meet his mama this very moment.
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She raised her eyes endearingly to Braddon. “My lord, I find myself suddenly quite tired—although I have most enjoyed our supper,” she added hastily. “Will you be so kind as to escort me back to Lady Commonweal, please?”
And so when Will risked another glance in the direction of Chloe and that confounded Braddon, as he had taken to thinking of his old school friend, there was no one there. The table had been taken over by a chattering flock of matrons, escorted by one bored husband.
“Damnation!” he swore, jumping to his feet.
Mrs. Prebworth raised her eyebrows, laughing. “Did the bird fly the coop?” she asked.
Will sat down again. “You saw through me?”
“Not that I don’t appreciate your attention,” Camilla Prebworth assured him. “But I felt as if someone was being murdered to the right, you looked over so often. Well, go find her,” she said. “And if you see my husband, will you tell him where I am?” She was a bit tired of being the target of so many gossips’ eyes. Maybe it was time to take herself and her beloved, long-suffering husband home.
Will jumped to his feet, smiling down at her. “Thank you,” he said briefly. He strode out of the supper room at top speed.
As soon as he entered the ballroom he saw her. Somehow his nerves seemed to be attuned to Chloe’s presence. He could instinctively pick her out of any crowd. But what in God’s name was he to do now? The Commonweals were making unmistakable gestures of leave-taking. Lady Commonweal was clucking about, gathering her shawls and pillboxes; Sir Nigel Commonweal was holding his wife’s wrap while his eyes scanned—far too ardently! Will thought wrathfully—Chloe’s bosom. But it was clear that someone was holding up the party. That tiresome girl of theirs must be missing, Will thought. What was her name? Something like Bessy, except that was a dairy maid’s name. Even as he watched, Lady Commonweal urgently directed Chloe off toward the salons while her husband headed out to the terrace and the gardens beyond.