Night of Pleasure (10 page)

She tightened her hold on her reticule and made her way after him.

He said nothing more.

The silence was unnerving. They always had plenty to say to each other in letters. He, more than she. But now, their letters and the ten weeks they had spent together in their youth didn’t seem to exist. Face to face, they were strangers. A man and a woman who were meeting for the very first time.

“How many rooms are there?” she offered, hoping to break the silence. She knew, of course, how many rooms there were in his house, given she had spent enough weeks in it, but a respectable woman had to start the conversation somewhere.

He cleared his throat. “Twenty, not including the servants’ quarters in the upper attic. The country estate in Essex is twice the size of this and has twice the staff. The upkeep has been tedious, especially given all the renovations throughout the years. Something is always peeling, breaking, or leaking.” He walked up the main stairwell, his bare hand smoothly trailing up the mahogany banister. His hand was large, those male fingers extending well beyond the shape of the banister itself. The effortless movement of his hand against the banister hinted at a playfulness he was clearly withholding.

Gathering her skirts, she made her way up the stairs after him, lowering her gaze to his backside hidden beneath his morning coat. She pinched her lips together, knowing she shouldn’t be staring at his backside and lowered her gaze to his leather boots instead. His black boots had been polished to such perfection, she could see light refracting from them. Not even her father, who was notorious for wanting everything
mis en place
, kept his boots
that
polished.

Upon reaching the top of the stairwell, Banfield stepped aside and waited.

She came onto the landing, noting a long wall of ancestral gilded paintings. Nothing had changed. She remembered almost everything about the house after spending weeks going in and out of it. She didn’t expect to miss it, but a part of her had. For it had been her home away from home for ten weeks. Ten incredibly overwhelming weeks of realizing at the age of fourteen she was going to be a wife to a very eager and very passionate young man who had
no
qualms about announcing what he wanted and needed. Be it in person or in his letters. He’d terrified her with his enthusiasm and the way he always charged at life. And at her. Over the years, although she’d come to admire that take-no-prisoners attitude, she had still decided she wouldn’t let him make
her
a prisoner.

He gestured toward the right. “The receiving room is this way. It’s where Mother and I welcome all of our guests during calling hours.”

“I remember the receiving room quite well,” she chided. “You certainly tried to hold my hand enough times in it.”

His brown eyes captured hers. He shifted toward her. “Are you flirting with me?”

Annoyingly, her face grew hot. “No. I was merely stating a fact.”

He tilted his head, searching her face. “You’re blushing.”

He was never subtle, was he? “Yes. I know. I can feel it.”

He smiled. Still searching her face, he added, “You haven’t changed, Miss Grey. Not one bit. The only difference between now and then is that you don’t appear to be panicking.”

What little he knew. Over the years, she had simply learned to control the panic.

He dug into his pocket and with his thumb, opened the lid off a tin she knew all too well. His eyes brightened and his tone softened. “Want one?”

She remembered three things about the day they first met. The way his finger had pushed itself into her mouth in a most ungentlemanly manner, the way his candy burned her tongue for life and the way he kept getting into her face which ultimately led her into shoving him and dashing a welt into his forehead. And that was all within the first hour of them knowing each other. “No, thank you.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite. I’m still recovering from the one I had seven years ago.”

He smirked. “I thought you might remember that. Which is why….” He set an amber candy into his mouth, shutting the tin with a snap and shoved it back into his pocket. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a piece of folded confectionary paper. Unrolling it, he held it out, presenting a small single stick of flaxen-colored candy. “I got this for you, seeing you like plain sweets. It’s a honey stick.”

Her lips parted. He remembered. She swallowed. Why did he have to be so terrifyingly adorable? It wasn’t fair. She was trying to leave. Not stay. She gently took it. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Crushing the paper into a ball with both hands, he shoved it into his pocket. “Tell me what you think.” He lingered.

He clearly expected her to eat it now. She
hated
eating things in front of people. “I’ll eat it later, thank you.”

“Why not enjoy it now?” he pressed. “I travelled well over three hours to get that.”

Lovely. Now she
had
to eat it. She sighed. Hesitantly bringing it up to her lips, she set her teeth against the honey stick and snapped it off. It rolled against her tongue, an unexpected tangy sweetness heightening her senses. She chewed, crunching through its stickiness and inwardly melted at the enchantment. She hadn’t tasted a honey stick this good in years. It was…divine.

Realizing he was intently watching her, she tucked the other piece into her mouth and primly chewed and crunched, half-nodding. “It’s very good. The best I’ve had in a while. Thank you.”

He searched her face. “Christ. Watching you eat candy should be illegal.” Adjusting his coat with the tug of the lapels, he turned and kept walking. “How was your trip?” he rumbled out.

It was like she had just emerged from a pulsing void of the fiery boy she had first met and the virile man he had become. A man who learned to control himself just enough to allow him out into public without a leash.

Pushing out a calming breath, she swallowed what remained of her candy and tried to keep up with his long-legged stride. “My trip was tolerable,” she managed. “Crossing over the Atlantic is always tedious, I find, but unlike Papa, I never get ill.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He glanced toward her in between enjoying his hard candy. “After the roar of the Season, you and I are heading out to Paris in early July.” His voice dipped. “For a late honeymoon.”

She cringed knowing she’d be in Persia by July. She also glanced toward him. “Don’t you think the idea of a ‘honeymoon’ is over-popularized and archaic?”

“Archaic? God no. It’s romantic.”

“Romantic?” she challenged. “You mean you really think there is honey on the moon?”

He smirked and finished chewing his candy. “Well, now, maybe there is. Maybe the moon is over-populated with white bees and white flowers and we simply don’t know about it because the telescopes blur reality.”

White bees and white flowers?
Now there was a thought. It actually made a girl
want
to go to the moon.

They walked for a long moment in silence.

He came to a sudden halt and swung toward her.

She tilted back.

“I got ahead of myself.” He widened his stance and stared, clearly long finished with his candy. “The wedding is next week. Hope you’re ready to soar. Because I know I am.”

Ready to soar? Gad. Everything about him was so
intense
. Like his spiced candy. It was as if
everything
mattered to him. Being around him was like their first meeting, their weeks spent together and all of his letters meshed into one breath. It was overwhelming. She tried not to panic knowing she still hadn’t heard anything from Nasser. He promised he’d already be in London waiting. “Uh…yes. I heard you got ahead of yourself.” She felt like such a rogue.

Derek leaned toward her. “Are you all right?”

She edged back. “Yes.” She couldn’t just blurt out that their engagement was at an end. It wouldn’t be in the least bit civilized or kind. She had to wait for the right time. Although heaven only knew when that would be given she had five hours.

He hesitated before saying, “The banns have already been read in Saint Paul’s these past few weeks and my mother finished taking care of all the arrangements and invitations well over a month ago. I’m afraid it won’t be a small wedding. My mother had a list of more than three hundred people.”

Oh, God. The more people they invited, the bigger the scandal. “I say we keep it small. Very, very small.” The less that was planned, the better off everyone would be.

His mouth quirked. “No chance at that. All the invitations have already been sent. Not only for the wedding but the masked evening ball that will follow it.”

“A masked ball? For a wedding?”

“Yes. It was actually my idea. It’s rather brilliant.” His left brow rose a fraction. “That way, we can ignore the guests and do whatever we please.” He grinned boyishly. Setting a hand behind his back, he guided her down the corridor again, now walking beside her. “A masked ball will also ensure a measure of peace given the amount of family I have coming to the wedding. We Banfields are rarely known to keep our opinions to ourselves, especially in public. With everyone wearing masks, we’re guaranteed none of them will be able to recognize each other and all arguments will be left at home where they belong.”

Ah, yes. She remembered those cousins. They were the obnoxious peasants in the family who had set an entire wooden crate of champagne on the late viscount’s grave, because apparently, it had been the viscount’s favorite drink. Not even a day later, one of them had come back to drink every last sip because the viscount certainly wasn’t able to.

Banfield smirked. “I can tell by the look on your face that you’re worried about dealing with my cousins. Don’t be. I’ve learned to control them since coming into my title. It’s called ‘money’ and they love it too much to argue with me about it.” He perked. “By the by, my mother sends her apologies. She was hoping to be here to greet you but keeps a rather aggressive charity schedule that leaves her no time. I can assure you, however, she is incredibly enthusiastic about the wedding. Too much, I’d say. She plans on moving into her own townhome after we get married to give you full ownership of the house. Of course, that doesn’t mean you’ll be rid of her. She will most likely call often. Though hopefully not every day or you and I won’t have any time for each other.”

The more he talked, the guiltier she felt. She struggled to remember all the ways she’d imagined she might get
him
to break off the engagement. Instead of her doing it. But in his presence, she couldn’t even focus long enough to think. “I remember her fondly,” she managed. “How is she?”

“Incredibly well. She still misses my father, obviously, but unlike before, she has been attending more events and returning to her regular way of life.” He was quiet for a moment. “You look exactly like your portrait. I didn’t expect that.”

“I hope you don’t think I look
exactly
like the portrait my father sent. I thought it rather hideous.”

He hesitated. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, and it’s very kind of you, but you clearly didn’t notice how far apart my eyes were. The painter must have thought he wasn’t being paid enough.”

A laugh escaped him.

It annoyed her. “I take it you find it amusing that he painted my eyes so far apart?”

He paused and held her gaze, growing serious again. “Well, no, I…” He cleared his throat and eyed her. “I’m beginning to remember that you don’t have a sense of humor.”

The way he said it jangled her stomach. It was as if he wanted to be entertained. “I do indeed have a sense of humor. Ask my father.” She kept walking. After the life she’d led, she’d more or less learned that people who were constantly smiling were hiding their true intentions, and people who laughed a bit too much were idiots who thought the world was slathered with rainbows.

He strode up next to her.

With a full five hours on their hands, she had to stagger out their entire conversation and leave the worst for last. She dreaded his reaction. Trying to wave away the silence, she quickly asked, “Are there any fashionable shops in London you recommend? Ones that specialize in Parisian gowns?” It was the only thing she could come up with.

Renewed amusement overtook his face. “I don’t usually shop for gowns.”

She almost smacked a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me. Of course you don’t. I merely thought that…well…maybe you pay attention to the shops your mother or female cousins go to. Women talk about these things all the time.” That was one way to amend being stupid.

Still amused, he shrugged. “If they ever do talk about gowns, I certainly don’t listen. I’m not a man of fashion. Never have been and never will be.”

She wasn’t too surprised by that admission. As dashing as he was, he certainly didn’t appear to be devoted to the latest trend. His queue was proof of that. And his clothes, which were simple in its fabrics and stitching were also proof of that. It was unexpectedly endearing given he was a titled man. It was like he only wore a coat because he had to. Unlike most men who wore it because they wanted to announce to the world they were coming. She perused his wool coat and paused in astonishment, realizing the seams on the shoulder of his coat were uneven, as if the tailor had missed an inch.