Enchanting Pleasures Read online

  PRAISE FOR ELOISA JAMES’S NOVELS

  Midnight Pleasures

  “Fresh, rich and evocative…A gift every romance reader should give herself!”

  —Connie Brockway, author of The Ravishing One

  “An enthralling read from a vibrant new talent. Ms. James delivers a sensual, exciting, fresh romance that is pure reading pleasure.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A unique voice on the romance horizon, Eloisa James tells a tale of adventure and passion sure to please both readers devoted to historical romance and those new to the genre.”

  —Katherine Kingsley, author of Lilies on the Lake

  “Ms. James has given us a brilliant plot and marvelous characters.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Midnight Pleasures is sheer reading delight: witty, wise, and passionately romantic…. It has characters I care for, grow with, laugh and cry with—characters I am reluctant to leave at the end. As an extra treat, it is written with a wit and eloquence that are Eloisa James’s special gift to the genre.”

  —Mary Balogh, author of More than a Mistress

  Potent Pleasures

  “Utterly frivolous.”

  —USA Today

  “[Keeps] the reader intrigued right up to the very last page…. James makes a fine debut with this Regency romance that brings to mind the best of Amanda Quick and Judith McNaught.”

  —Booklist

  “Unexpected twists…surprises all around…The depth of characterizations, the steady progression of the plot and the tongue-in-cheek title will attract readers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An intriguing Regency romance by a vibrant new voice.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Sensual…humorous…Ms. James is a new author and definitely one to watch.”

  —Rendezvous

  Also by Eloisa James

  POTENT PLEASURES

  MIDNIGHT PLEASURES

  Most readers assume that writing is a solitary pleasure.

  Whereas the greater pleasure unquestionably comes from

  endless talks in which one bores one’s editor to tears

  with the minutiae of love and lust….

  For lovely Jackie,

  who makes writing such an enchanting pleasure.

  St. James’s Square, London

  1806

  FATE HAD JUST DEALT Viscount Dewland a blow that would have felled a weaker—or more sympathetic—man. He gaped silently at his eldest son for a moment, ignoring his wife’s twittering commentary. But a happy thought revived him. That same wife had, after all, provided him with two male offspring.

  Without further ado he spun on his heel and barked at his younger son, “If your brother can’t do his duty in bed, then you’ll do it. You can act like a man for once in your life.”

  Peter Dewland was caught unawares by his father’s sudden attack. He had risen to adjust his neckcloth in the drawing-room mirror, thereby avoiding his brother’s eyes. Really, what does a man say to that sort of confession? But like his father, Peter recovered quickly from unpredictable assaults.

  He walked around the end of the divan and sat down. “I gather you are suggesting that I marry Jerningham’s daughter?”

  “Of course I am!” the viscount snapped. “Someone has to marry her, and your brother has just declared himself ineligible.”

  “I beg to differ,” Peter remarked with a look of cool distaste. “I have no plans to marry at your whim.”

  “What in the bloody hell do you mean? Of course you’ll marry the girl if I instruct you to do so!”

  “I do not plan to marry, Father. Not at your instigation nor at anyone else’s.”

  “Rubbish! Every man marries.”

  Peter sighed. “Not true.”

  “You’ve squired about every beautiful gal that came on the market in the last six years. If you had formed a true attachment, I would not stand in your way. But since you haven’t made a move to attach yourself, you will marry Jerningham’s girl.

  “You shall do as I say, boy,” the viscount bellowed. “Your brother can’t take on the job, and so you have to do it. I’ve been lenient with you. You might be in the Seventh Foot at this very moment. Have you thought of that?”

  “I’d rather take a pair of colors than a wife,” Peter retorted.

  “Absolutely not,” his father said, reversing himself. “Your brother’s been at the point of death for years.”

  Inside the drawing room, the silence swelled ominously. Peter grimaced at his elder brother, whose muscled body proclaimed his general fitness to the world at large.

  Erskine Dewland, who had been staring meditatively at the polished surface of his Hessians, raised his heavy-lidded eyes from his boots to his father’s face. “If Peter is determined not to marry, I could take her on.” His deep voice fell into the silent room.

  “And what’s the point of that? You can’t do the job properly, and I’m not wedding Jerningham’s daughter to … to…in that case. I’ve got principles. The girl’s got a right to expect a sound husband, for God’s sake.”

  Quill, as Erskine was known to his intimates, opened his mouth again. And then thought better of it. He could certainly consummate the marriage, but it wouldn’t be a very pleasant experience. Any woman deserved more from marriage than he could offer. While he had come to terms with his injuries, especially now that they had ceased to bother his movement, the three-day migraines that followed repetitive motion made his likelihood for marital bliss very slight.

  “Can’t argue with that, can you?” The viscount looked triumphantly at his eldest son. “I’m not some sort of a caper merchant, passing you off as whole goods when you’re not. Mind you, we could. The girl wouldn’t know a thing, of course, until it was too late. And her father’s turned into such a loose screw that he’s not even accompanying her out here.

  “Point is,” Dewland went on, turning back to his youngest son, “the girl’s expecting to marry someone. And if it can’t be Quill, it’s got to be you. I’ll send your picture over on the next boat.”

  Peter replied through his teeth, each word spaced. “I do not wish to marry, Father.”

  The viscount’s cheeks reddened again. “It’s time you stopped gadding about. By God, you will do as I say!”

  Peter avoided his father’s gaze, seemingly absorbed in flicking the smallest piece of lint from the black velvet collar of his morning coat. Satisfied, he returned to the subject at hand. “You seem to have misunderstood me. I refuse to marry Jerningham’s daughter.” Only the smallest tremor in his voice betrayed his agitation.

  The viscountess broke in before her husband could bellow whatever response he had in mind. “Thurlow, I don’t like your color. Perhaps we might continue this conversation at a later time? You know what the doctor said about getting overtaxed!”

  “Balderdash!” the viscount protested, although he allowed his wife to pull him back onto a couch. “By George, you had better obey me, Mister Peter Dewland, or you will find yourself out the door.” The veins of his forehead were alarmingly swollen.

  His wife sent a beseeching glance to her youngest son. His jaw was set in a manner that his father would have recognized, had there been a mirror in the near vicinity.

  But before Peter could say a word, his father erupted out of his seat once again. “And just what am I supposed to say to this young girl who’s coming all the way over from India? Tell her that you ‘prefer not to marry her’? You planning on telling my old friend Jerningham that you decline to marry his gal?”

  “That is precisely what I suggest,” Peter replied.

  “And what about the money Jerningham’s lent me over the years, eh? Given it to me without a word of advice—just sent m
e over the blunt to do with as I like! If your brother Quill hadn’t pulled down a fortune speculating on the East India Company, Jerningham might still be lending me money. As it is, we agreed to consider it a dowry. You will marry the gal, or I’ll…I’ll …”

  The viscount’s face was purple all over now, and he was unconsciously rubbing his chest.

  “Quill could pay back the money,” Peter suggested.

  “Bloody hell! I’ve already allowed your brother to turn himself into a merchant, playing around on the Exchange—I’ll be damned if I’ll allow him to pay off my debts!”

  “I don’t see why not,” Peter retorted. “He’s paid for everything else.”

  “That’s enough! The only reason your brother—the only reason I allowed Erskine to take on the smell of the market was because—well, because he’s a cripple. But at least he acts his age. You’re naught but a fribble, a sprig of fashion!”

  As the viscount drew a breath, Quill raised his head and met his younger brother’s eyes. In the depths of Quill’s silent apology, Peter saw the manacles of marriage looming.

  His father was glaring at him with all the frustration of a ruddy, boisterous Englishman whose younger son has proved to be nothing like himself. Peter cast a desperate look at his mother, but there was no help to be found.

  He quailed. His stomach churned. He opened his mouth to protest, but could think of nothing to say. And finally, the habits of a lifetime’s submission took hold.

  “Very well.” His voice was hollow.

  Kitty Dewland rose and came to give him a grateful kiss on the cheek. “Dear Peter,” she said. “You were always my comforting one, my good child. And in truth, darling, you have escorted so many women without making an offer. I’m certain that Jerningham’s daughter will be a perfect match for you. His wife was French, you know.”

  In her son’s eyes there was a bleak desolation that Kitty hated to see. “Is there someone else? Is there a woman whom you were hoping to marry, darling?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “Well, then,” Kitty said gaily. “We will be right and tight when this girl—what’s her name, Thurlow? Thurlow!”

  When Kitty turned around she found her husband leaning back and looking rather white. “M’chest doesn’t feel so good, Kitty,” he mumbled.

  And when Kitty flew out of the drawing room, she was far too discomposed to note how odd it was that her beloved butler, Codswallop, was hovering just on the other side of the door.

  “Send for Doctor Priscian,” she shrieked, and trotted back into the room.

  The plump and precise Codswallop couldn’t resist taking a curious look at the elder Dewland son before he rang for a footman. It was that hard to believe. Erskine had a physique Codswallop had secretly admired: a body remarkably suited to tight pantaloons and fitted coats, the kind of body housemaids giggled about behind stairs. Must be some sort of injury to his private parts. Codswallop shuddered sympathetically.

  Just then Quill turned about and looked Codswallop in the face. Quill’s eyes were a curious green-gray, set in a face stamped with lines of pain and deeply tanned. Without moving a muscle, he cast Codswallop a look that scathed him to his bones.

  Codswallop scuttled back into the hall and rang for a footman. The viscount was supported off to his bedchamber, followed by his clucking wife. Young Peter bounded out the door looking like murder, followed rather more slowly by Quill, and Codswallop pulled the drawing-room doors closed with a snap.

  SOME THREE MONTHS LATER, the whole affair was tied up. Miss Jerningham was due to arrive on the Plassey, a frigate sailing from Calcutta, within the week. There was one last explosion of rage on the part of the viscount when Peter announced, on the day before Miss Jerningham was due to arrive, that he was taking a long sojourn in the country. But by supper on the fifth of September, the sullen bridegroom had taken himself off to his club rather than to Herefordshire, and Viscount Dewland repeated over stewed pigeon that the marriage would be an excellent solution to all their problems. There was an unspoken acknowledgment between Thurlow and his wife that Peter, if left to his own devices, might indeed never marry.

  “He’ll settle down once the girl arrives,” Thurlow declared.

  “They will have beautiful children,” added Kitty.

  Only Quill seemed to have a growing sense of unease about the forthcoming marriage. After his parents left the salon, he walked restlessly to the windows overlooking the gardens. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the hard curve of his forearm, shifting his weight slightly from his protesting right leg. He was accustomed to the blustery explosion of his father’s rage. He had tolerated it for years by listening in silence and then following his own inclination. Peter had ever bent with the wind, and so it was no surprise that ultimately he gave in to the viscount’s plans. Surely Peter could not have really thought to escape marriage, once it became clear that he or his son would inherit the title someday.

  But an uneasy chill sat on Quill’s heart. He remembered the girl’s name, even if no one else did: Gabrielle Jerningham. And what would Gabrielle’s life be like with Peter as her husband? It would be an urbane life, a sophisticated life. Likely the young couple would share the kind of marriage Quill saw frequently in the ton: cool and friendly.

  He straightened, moving into a great arching stretch. His body was outlined by light thrown against the dark glass, every muscle caressed by his clothing. It was a body honed by denial, exercise, and pain: a body whose master knew its every strength and its every weakness. It was not the body of an average gentleman of the London ton in 1806.

  Quill shrugged back his hair. Damned if it wasn’t getting unfashionably long again. For a moment he froze, struck by a memory of the wind screaming past his face, wrenching his hair back from his scalp as he rode a galloping stallion.

  But horses, like sex, had become a delight whose payment was greater than the offered pleasure. The rhythmic motion of horseback riding invariably instigated three days of agony in a darkened room, his body covered in sweat and gripped by nausea, his head clenched in a steel band of pain. And the only advice doctors had offered was that his head injury of six years ago had led to an inability to endure rhythm. Any kind of rhythm.

  Quill’s jaw hardened and he mentally shrugged off the image of a galloping horse. To his mind there was nothing worse than lamenting what could not be. Women and horses were simply part of his past, and no part of his future.

  Then he grinned. The very sports he was mourning—a hard riding session and a woman’s nightly companionship—were delights that held absolutely no interest for Peter. Lord, but he and his brother were as alike as chalk and cheese.

  At any rate, he was probably worrying about Gabrielle and Peter for naught. Peter might not like the idea of marriage, but he did love female companionship. A decorous French miss, with whom Peter could gossip, discuss fashion, and attend balls, might well become his closest friend. And Gabrielle was an elegant name, one that brought to mind a woman versed in the ways of the world. Peter had a great admiration—nay, a passion—for beauty. Surely an exquisite young Frenchwoman would be able to coax him into compliance with an unwanted marriage.

  UNFORTUNATELY, QUILL WOULD HAVE ABANDONED that hope could he have seen the aforementioned exquisite Frenchwoman.

  Peter’s fiancée was kneeling on the floor of her cabin, looking into the eager face of a young girl who sat before her on a small tuffet. Gabrielle’s hair was tumbling about her ears, and her old-fashioned dress was crumpled. The last thing she resembled was a sophisticated French miss from La Belle Assemblée.

  “The tiger crept through the tangled jungle.” Gabby’s voice was a thrilling whisper. “He put one paw softly before the next, barely disturbing the song of the magpies far above. His long tongue licked his chops at the thought of the delicious meal that trotted before him.”

  Phoebe Pensington, a five-year-old orphan being sent to live with English relatives, shivered as Gabby, whose soft brown eyes
had taken on a tigerish glare, continued.

  “But when the tiger reached the edge of the forest, he stopped short. The goat was walking along the shore, his white hooves prancing at the very edge of the tumbling azure waves of the Indian Ocean. And the tiger was afraid of water. His stomach urged him to follow, but his heart pounded with fear. He stopped in the speckled shade of a bongo-bongo tree—”

  “But, Miss Gabby,” Phoebe broke in anxiously, “what did the tiger have for supper that night if he didn’t eat the goat? Wouldn’t he be hungry?”

  Gabby’s brown eyes lit with amusement. “Perhaps the tiger was so mortified by his own lack of courage that he went to a far-off mountaintop and lived on nothing but fruits and vegetables.”

  “I don’t think so.” Phoebe was a very practical little girl. “I think it’s more likely that the tiger would have gone after that goat and eaten him up.”

  “The tiger had a cat’s natural abhorrence for water,” Gabby said. “He didn’t see the beauty of the waves as they danced into shore. To him the curling waves looked like the claws of tiny crabs, reaching out to nibble his bones!”

  Phoebe gave a thrilled little shriek just as the door to the cabin swung open, breaking the spell of Gabby’s voice.

  The black-gowned figure of Eudora Sibbald stared at the scene before her. Miss Gabrielle Jerningham was unaccountably positioned on the floor. As always, her hair was tumbling out of its knot and her dress was rumpled. It wasn’t for Mrs. Sibbald to recognize the beauty of Gabby’s shining golden-brown hair as it worked loose from pins and combs and assumed its normal position: halfway up and halfway down. No—what Phoebe’s governess saw was a proper hoyden, a young lady whose hair echoed her general demeanor.

  “Phoebe.” Her voice rasped like a rusty gate.

  Phoebe scrambled to her feet and bobbed a curtsy.