Potent Pleasures Read online

  Her mother gave her a look she had rarely seen before. “Be quiet, Violetta,” she said.

  And Violetta didn’t say another word. She had been about to admit to visiting the garden herself, with the marquess just last week, and she had quite liked it. But Charlotte had never been very interested in men … unless, and Violetta’s eyes grew round with horror, Charlotte allowed this man to take liberties with her, with her person. She drew in her breath and opened her mouth again, but her mother’s eye caught hers and she relapsed into silence.

  Adelaide gathered her thoughts. Unlike Violetta, she had an excellent idea what had happened. Her little Charlotte, her baby, she thought, with a pain like a knife twisting in her heart, had been violated. By a man whom she could kill with her own bare hands. She clutched Charlotte closer.

  Finally she cleared her throat and eased Charlotte into a sitting position. She put both hands on Charlotte’s shoulders and looked straight into Charlotte’s tearless green eyes.

  “Are you all right, darling? Do you need me to … should I summon Dr. Pargeter?” Charlotte turned even paler, and just shook her head violently.

  Adelaide stared at her silently. She needed to find out exactly what happened, but not in front of Violetta.

  “Violetta,” she said. She couldn’t even think of a good excuse. “Violetta,” she repeated, looking at her elder daughter over Charlotte’s bent shoulders, “I want you to go to your chamber. No arguments,” she said firmly, heading off Violetta’s protest. “I will visit you in a few minutes and we will discuss all of this. Until then, no one is to know, Violetta, particularly not Alice.” Alice was Violetta’s maid.

  So Violetta walked slowly out of the room, confident that she could pry all the details out of her mama later. Mama, she thought complacently, had always been putty in the hands of a good questioner. Why, she knew all about things she really oughtn’t to, such as what happened between a man and his wife, for example. She bet that Charlotte had never asked mama anything, and so she had no idea. Or perhaps she had? Violetta trailed back to her room, bursting with questions.

  When they were alone, Charlotte drew a shuddering breath and started sobbing and speaking incoherently. “Oh, Mama, I met a man … in the garden. I kissed him. I didn’t think—he kissed me.” Her voice broke on a sob and she bent her forehead against her mother’s shoulder. How could she say it, what really happened? Her mother would be …

  “I went with him, Mama,” she finally said, raising her head and meeting her mother’s eyes painfully. “I went into the garden with him, behind the trees, and he … he took my clothing apart. I’m so, I’m so—I didn’t stop him.”

  Adelaide listened silently, stroking her daughter’s arm. It was both worse and better than she feared. At least Charlotte had not been raped. But she did seem to have abandoned all of the rules of society in an act of such recklessness that Adelaide’s stomach twisted just to hear about it. Behind the trees! Anyone could have seen them!

  “What was his name?” Adelaide asked.

  “I don’t know!”

  “You don’t know,” Adelaide managed, and then, “Charlotte, he wasn’t one of Squire Brentorton’s footmen, was he?”

  Charlotte gulped. “He could have been, Mama.” She began to weep even harder. Details flowed out amid sobs: the ball, silver-black hair, a green domino, the curate, the statue of Narcissus, the lemonade made with poor lemons.

  Adelaide’s hand stopped its soothing motion. Who was this man? Charlotte’s description was none too exact, and there were so many gentlemen in London—if he was a gentleman, Adelaide thought bleakly. He certainly hadn’t acted like one. But Charlotte hadn’t acted like a lady, either.

  Something nudged the back of her memory, something she’d heard about a young man with silver-shot hair, but she couldn’t quite remember what. They would just have to hope. She decided to send someone to Kent immediately to investigate the masked ball.

  Finally Charlotte was cried out, and Adelaide came to a decision. She pushed Charlotte into a sitting position again.

  “Now,” she said firmly. “We simply have to forget that this whole incident happened.” She looked into Charlotte’s eyes with every bit of maternal authority she could summon. “You cannot allow your life to be ruined because you had a momentary indiscretion in a garden, Charlotte.

  “We have all been indiscreet on occasion. Why—” She paused and looked at her daughter’s innocent eyes. Not so innocent anymore, she reminded herself. This was going to be difficult. She had always thought of Charlotte as the daughter untouched by desire. In fact, she’d probably been much sterner with Violetta, given that Violetta was a girl one might picture enjoying a tryst in the garden! But Charlotte …

  “Well, your father and I did exactly what you just did, before we got married. In fact, we weren’t even engaged.”

  Charlotte looked at her with a gleam of interest. “You did?”

  “We did,” her mother replied. “Not, I am glad to say, in the garden. It was … well, I won’t say where, but I will tell you that it was likely just as uncomfortable as your garden, and only slightly less imprudent. Believe me, child, people do odd things all the time. You were just terribly lucky.” She gave her a brief hug.

  “No one knows.” Adelaide looked sternly into Charlotte’s eyes. “If no one knows, then it didn’t happen. Do you hear me, Charlotte?” She gave her a little shake. “It did not happen.”

  Charlotte looked back numbly. Her mother must be insane. What did she mean, it didn’t happen? She could feel the imprint of the man’s body on her own at this very moment. She gave a little shudder.

  “But, Mama,” she said uncomfortably. They had never discussed things like this before. “There was, at least, I, there was some blood, and …”

  “Virginity,” her mother said astoundingly, “is a state of the body and mind. And believe me, child, I stayed a virgin for a good two weeks. You’ll see: When you find yourself in this situation again—married this time—it will hurt just as much the second time, and the third. There really isn’t any magical formula. You may not bleed on your wedding night, but actually many women never do bleed at all.

  “You are going to this ball. You are going to have a good time, because you are my daughter, and I didn’t raise you to be a whiner. You made a mistake, and luckily you got away with it. You must never think about it again, ever.”

  In the back of her mind, Adelaide reminded herself to send someone down to Kent to investigate that ball (better talk to Campion; he was so discreet). And she must remember to check, casually, that her daughter’s monthly flux appeared on time.

  “You are beautiful and young, and a lovely person, Charlotte,” Adelaide said seriously, stroking her daughter’s hair. “When you fall in love and get married, it will be just as if it were the first time. Because in reality it will be the first time. You must forget this.”

  You must forget this, Charlotte told herself dutifully that night in bed, on the morning of the ball, in the later afternoon as Marie delicately arranged the folds of her white ball gown, adorned with white-on-white embroidery and the faintest of pale green love knots.

  The whole house hummed with noise. All the furniture in the reception rooms had been removed and stored. Every bit of space was needed for the five hundred gentlefolk expected. Cartloads of soft blue and deeper blue velvety delphiniums had arrived that morning and been arranged in huge vases. Huge swags of delphiniums adorned the staircase leading up from the drawing rooms to the ballroom, and the temporary staircase from the marquee in the garden to the house was lined in them.

  “It’s quite blue,” Charlotte said rather faintly to her mother as they stood surveying the ballroom in the late afternoon. The parquet floor had been polished so brightly that the blue flowers doubled themselves on the floor. The whole room looked like an indigo ocean.

  “You’ll see, darling,” her mother said confidently. “When the rooms are full of ladies and all the candles are shining, this b
lue will make a splendid background. Now, off you go and see if Monsieur Pamplemousse is finished with Violetta’s hair. He will take at least an hour, and you know we must eat by eight o’clock tonight, since the invitations are for half past nine.”

  Charlotte wandered upstairs. How could she forget what had happened? Even now she could imagine the chiseled warmth of his lips descending on hers, the strength of his huge hands gripping her shoulders and sliding down her back. How does one forget something like that? Oh, why hadn’t she said something! She was such a booby; she should have said—what? “Please, sir, what is your name? Reginald? And is it nice being a footman?” Charlotte stifled a giggle. She did see her mother’s point. Forget this, she said firmly to herself.

  Still, she couldn’t stop hoping. Maybe he was a nobleman, or a gentleman. Maybe he would come to her ball, and she would meet his gaze across the room, just as she had at the other ball. And maybe he would shoulder his way through the crowd and bow before her. Charlotte’s eyes glowed.

  The Duchess of Calverstill’s ball for her youngest daughter was a triumph. By half past eight, spectators were thronging the streets outside Calverstill House, hoping to see nobility, even royalty, going in. By eleven o’clock the ball was clearly the success of the season. Everyone who counted was there, and several scandals were circulating briskly, which made the party all the more delightful.

  The formidable Lady Molyneaux herself had declared that Adelaide’s delphinium scheme was “delicious”; she and her fellow patrons of Almack’s had graciously extended permission for Charlotte to enter the sacred premises. The ball continued until dawn, long after supper was served in the marquee around midnight.

  And as to whether Charlotte had a good time: well, she survived. Charlotte didn’t enjoy it, her mother thought as she undressed in the wee hours. Anyone could tell that. Charlotte’s eyes kept scanning the room anxiously, as if the guest of honor hadn’t arrived, and finally she burst into tears and had to be quietly whisked off to the upper reaches of the house.

  But she looked lovely, Adelaide comforted herself. Many young ladies at their debuts were nauseated with pure nervousness, and if Charlotte was a bit, well, damp, who would blame her? Of course, no one in the ballroom was advised that the lady of honor had retired weeping to bed.

  Around two in the morning Adelaide looked up from the middle of a rather slow cotillion and saw two young men standing at the top of the stairs, looking down into the ballroom.

  She froze and stopped dead in her tracks, causing her partner, the Honorable Sylvester Bredbeck, to stumble slightly.

  “Sylvester!” Adelaide said sharply. “Who are those young men?”

  Sylvester looked around. “Well, they’re not bounders, m’dear,” he said comfortably. Sylvester had been her dear friend for years, and anyone he didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. “I think the one on the left is Sheffie’s heir (he’s a trifle taller) and the other’s his brother. Let me see, I believe the heir is called Alexander and his brother is … Patrick. They are twins, as you can see, but Alexander got five minutes on Patrick and about two million pounds on account of it.”

  Sylvester guided Adelaide through a few more slow turns while she thought furiously. Of course! Sheffie was Sylvester’s friend the Earl of Sheffield and Downes, and that was his heir, and his younger son … and they both had silver-shot hair. What on earth should she do?

  Perhaps she should excuse herself, dash upstairs, force Charlotte back into the dress, and bring her down? But then Adelaide despairingly remembered Charlotte’s reddened eyes. Besides, these probably weren’t the right men, or man, and Charlotte would be horribly disappointed.

  The two men were still staring down into the ballroom. He’s looking for her, Charlotte’s mother thought suddenly. He’s here because of her. Adelaide’s heart warmed a little to him—well, to whom? Which he was the right man? They looked exactly the same to her. I certainly hope Charlotte will know the difference, she thought a little tartly.

  Even as she watched, they wheeled and left the ballroom. Couldn’t find her, so they left, Adelaide thought. Well, how very interesting. And I was quite right not to disturb Charlotte, because this is just the beginning of the season. Why, when she herself came out she attended fifty balls and sixty-three breakfasts, and if Charlotte didn’t encounter the future Earl of Sheffield and Downes and his brother within the next week, she’d be astonished!

  “Sylvester, m’dear,” said the duchess, leading her partner off the floor. “I should like a glass of lemonade, and a talk. Because we haven’t talked all night, and you know I have to dance every single one of these dances, so I haven’t had a moment of conversation.”

  Sylvester was charmed. “My dearest wish is to sit at your side, Your Grace,” he said cheerfully, although he was a bit nonplussed to find that the subject of conversation was one and only one: the future Earl of Sheffield and Downes and his brother. But, like most men, Sylvester was a born gossip; he simply didn’t bother to hide his inclinations. He bent his head near Adelaide’s ear and agreeably related tales of Oxford mishaps and a reported fistfight at Vauxhall two years ago, when the brothers were accompanied by a lady of easy virtue and came to blows with another “friend” of hers. Then he burbled on with a few more tales expunged of too racy material.

  But he said enough to convince Adelaide that Charlotte probably wasn’t the first maiden this Alexander, or Patrick, had deflowered in a garden, and to explain why she herself didn’t know them. Apparently the twins didn’t spend much time in respectable surroundings. Another point which suggests that one of them came here looking for Charlotte, Adelaide thought.

  Still, they were gentlemen, nay, they were noblemen. And their papa was friends with her husband, Marcel, and if one of them had a hand in this, Marcel would make perfectly sure that he offered marriage by tomorrow night.

  “I hear,” Sylvester rambled on, “that Sheffie is thinking of separating them; they’re just too wild together. He was talking of sending the boys off to the Continent, or maybe it was one of them off to Europe, or some such thing, and I think the other one to the Orient … I don’t remember exactly what he was planning, but that was it: yes, one to Europe and the other to the Orient. Probably get taken by pirates over in the East; he’d better not send his heir.

  “Sheffie’s not here, is he?” Sylvester peered around for Woodleigh Foakes, the actual Earl of Sheffield and Downes.

  “No,” Adelaide said absently. “I think he’s poorly again; he suffers horribly from gout, you know.”

  Just then the music ended and the duchess’s next partner, Sir Walter Mitford, appeared at her elbow as if by magic. Sylvester bowed, a little creakily (he’d taken to wearing corsets in the past few years), and her young partner led Adelaide onto the floor.

  Sylvester stood for a moment, his lips pursed. I wonder why she’s so interested in those boys, he thought, his gossip-loving soul sniffing a scandal. Probably no scandal, he thought with a sigh. One tended to forget that Adelaide was the mother of three girls, but she was. And the Foakes heir would be an excellent match.

  The duchess herself puzzled over the situation throughout a country dance with Sir Walter. Finally she decided to let events take their course and say nothing to Charlotte about the future earl or his brother. She and Charlotte and Violetta were going to Almack’s tomorrow night and those men almost certainly wouldn’t show up there; they were too young to be hanging out for wives, and Almack’s was nothing but a marriage mart, she thought dispassionately. But in four days the Prince of Wales was giving a ball that all the ton would attend. The Foakes brothers might come late, she thought, given their appearance tonight, but she’d keep Charlotte there till dawn if she had to. And so, having worked the whole problem out to her satisfaction, she dismissed it from her mind and turned back to her partner.

  But that wasn’t the last she saw of Alexander and Patrick that evening: no, not by any means. Around an hour later, Adelaide found herself confronted by her husband’
s aunt Margaret, a fierce woman in her eighties. Margaret accepted without comment the news that Charlotte had retired for the night and could not bid her good-bye, but she demanded to see her nephew. So Adelaide began weaving through the people left in the ballroom, looking for her husband. The ballroom itself was finally clearing out, but people were still crowding the hallways and reception rooms.

  At the end of the first-floor hallway, to the right of the huge marble staircase, was the chamber they called the Green Room. It had a huge, old grand piano that had been deemed too much trouble to remove. Adelaide did not find Marcel there, but she did find the two sons of the Earl of Sheffield and Downes.

  As she paused in the doorway she heard a strong, sweet voice raised in song. One of the twins was seated at the piano, with his back to her, singing in a beautiful baritone. For a moment she paused in pleasure. Young women were forced to take piano and voice lessons as part of the accoutrements of young ladyhood; it was rare to meet a gentleman with the same skills. And he did have a superb voice.

  His brother was leaning negligently against a pillar off to the right. The singer himself was surrounded by a pale, fluttering group of debutantes who had somehow shaken off their chaperones, Adelaide thought, her eyes sharpening a bit. Of course—the chaperones must have gone off to the marquee for a bite to eat, and the young women had gathered here. Not proper, she thought firmly.

  Suddenly the little flock of three maidens convulsed into soft gales of laughter, but the male voice continued. And for the first time Adelaide actually heard what he was singing:

  “The touch of her hand increases his flame,

  Who conquer’d by charms a captive doth lie;

  And when he but thinks of his true love’s name,

  He vows for her sake he could freely die:

  Then she revives him again with a kiss,

  He cries you undo me, undo me, undo me,

  Had ever poor soul such pleasure as this?”