Dreams of Desire (12 page)

Authors: Cheryl Holt

BOOK: Dreams of Desire

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“No.”

“Then I shall be your first. How about if I call on you tomorrow?”

“I would be honored, and Clarinda will be thrilled. Now, what about you? Why are you here? If you’re a Middleton, you must be related to the earl.”

“I’m his mother.”

“Oh,” he mused, “
that
Barbara.”

“Yes,
that
one.”

“Everybody is whispering about you.”

“Wouldn’t you think they could find a more interesting topic than me?”

“Apparently not. We’re in the country, after all. If you weren’t here, what would they have to gossip about?”

“I aim to please.”

Phillip chuckled, and they sauntered on in a companionable silence, and he had to admit that he was extremely intrigued.

No one who lived in London could have failed to hear the stories about her. She was probably the most scandalous woman in the kingdom, certainly the most notorious he’d ever met personally, and he had a thousand questions he was dying to pose.

Why was she home? What about her son? What was his opinion as to her unexpected appearance? With the whole family in residence—including Esther Middleton—Barbara had to have rattled a few cages.

“In case you’re wondering,” she said as if she could read his mind, “my Italian paramour recently passed away. I was lonely and alone—and dead broke—so I came back.”

“How does your son feel about your arrival?”

“He’s a tad grumpy, but I’m wearing him down.” She laughed, and it was a sultry, sexy sound that settled low in his belly. His testicles clenched, his cock stirred, and he was stunned to catch himself assessing her in a thoroughly carnal fashion.

It had been a while since he’d tumbled into an affair. Would he have one with Barbara Middleton? The prospect was enticing, and it would definitely make the time in Scotland speed by more swiftly.

His thoughts were already awhirl, calculating the risks. Discovery was always a possibility, and it paid to be wary. He’d been run out of many villages by angry fathers or brothers. If he tangled with Barbara Middleton, who would care? Would anyone?

Her son maybe, but why would he? Barbara was no innocent maiden with virtue to protect. Still, it was dangerous to cross a nobleman. They had a tendency to lash out and lash out viciously.

“Are you bored here in Scotland?” Barbara inquired.

“I’ve been going mad, struggling to keep myself busy.”

“Do you hunt?”

“No.”

“Do you ride?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

“How will you amuse yourself when all the other fellows are off shooting guns and jumping hedges?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out.”

Suddenly, she stopped walking, and she pulled him around to face her. She stepped in so their torsos were pressed together. Her body was every bit as lush as he’d suspected. She wasn’t shy, being perfectly happy to let him feel her full, curvaceous breasts, while she enjoyed the feel of his raging cockstand against her hip.

“You’re a fine masculine specimen, Mr. Dudley,” she boldly remarked.

“Well . . . thank you. I guess.”

“I noticed you as soon as you arrived at the party with your sister.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes.”

“So our meeting wasn’t an accident. You were stalking me.”

She winked. “I won’t deny it.”

“To what end?” As if he didn’t know!

“I just love a man with dark hair and eyes. I wanted to learn if you were as delicious up close as you were from across the room.”

She laid her palm on his chest and rubbed in slow circles.

“And now that you’ve seen me,” he queried, “what is your opinion?”

“I’m very pleased.” She licked a tempting tongue over her bottom lip. “Are you a betting man, Mr. Dudley?”

“Absolutely.”

“I presumed you were. I’m betting that you and I will become very good friends.”

Her intent clear, she raised a flirtatious brow. She planned an affair! Far be it from him to dissuade her. He usually got himself into trouble because he seduced younger women, and when he was caught, family members took umbrage.

It had been ages since he’d consorted with an older woman, and when he did,
he
was the rogue who instigated the liaison. It was never the female. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a brazen invitation, and he was aroused merely from envisioning how naughty it could turn out to be.

“I’d say,” he replied, “that you and I will be the very
best
of friends.”

“Marvelous. When is your sister at home?”

“Most days.”

“Let me rephrase my question: When is she likely to
not
be at home?”

“It’s a huge bloody house. You can sneak through the woods and enter by the rear door. Even if she’s present, she’ll never know.”

“I could stop by anytime?”

“Anytime at all.”

“How about tomorrow at eleven? I can stay all afternoon.”

Blimey!
No beating around the bush with this one.

“Eleven o’clock will be perfect.”

She rose on tiptoe and brushed a kiss to his mouth. “I’ll see you then,” she said.

She drew away and hurried back to the party. He watched her go, cursing his rampant erection and worrying over what the hell he’d set in motion. She’d be a handful, that was guaranteed, but wasn’t he due for some excitement?

He grinned, his sojourn in Scotland suddenly not seeming quite so dreary.

He started toward the party, too, whistling as he went.

“MONSIEUR Dubois? It is you!”

Lily leaned over the balustrade to get a better view as he returned from a stroll in the garden with Barbara Middleton. Barbara swept up the stairs, but Dubois approached more slowly.

Lily had noticed him earlier in the card room, but she’d been sure her eyes were playing tricks. She’d seen his sister, Clarinda, as well, promenading in a line of dancers, but again, she’d told herself that she had to be mistaken.

She’d met Dubois twice previous, and both occasions had been brief and in passing: near Penworth Hall after Lord Penworth had first hired her, and later, at the harbor in London.

Dubois’s wagon had been parked at the dock, and he’d been hawking his wares to departing travelers. His sister had been with him, and they’d enjoyed a cordial good-bye as Lily had boarded Bramwell’s ship to sail for Scotland.

What on earth was he doing at Penworth Castle?

He stepped onto the terrace, his hands extended in greeting.

“Miss Lambert,” he said, “how lovely to see you. I was wondering if you were still working for Lord Penworth.”

“Hello, Mr. Dubois. I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been dying to ask you about—”

He cut her off. “Actually, it’s Dudley. Phillip Dudley.”

At the admission, she frowned. “What happened to your accent?”

Flushing—as if embarrassed—he glanced over to where Barbara was about to go inside. She halted and peered over her shoulder.

“His accent?” Barbara inquired.

Dubois looked at Barbara, then Lily, and he shrugged.

“It’s a long story,” he claimed.

“She called you
Dubois
.”

“It’s just a little joke between the two of us,” he contended.

“A secret name,” Barbara mulled, “and a lost accent. I’m guessing there’s a fascinating tale behind it all.”

“There might be,” Dubois allowed.

“Oh,” Barbara gushed, “this will be even more entertaining than I imagined.”

She flashed a sultry smile, then continued on. Lily was alone with Dubois or Dudley or whoever he was.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“We certainly do.”

He guided her down the stairs and out into the garden, away from the other guests. They came to a bench and sat.

“I must ask you,” he began, appearing uncomfortable, “not to mention a few things when you bump into me.”

“Which things?”

“Well, my French name and my occupation—for starters.”

She studied him, gazing into his beautiful brown eyes. She’d suspected he was a mysterious fellow, but apparently, she’d had no idea!

“What are you up to, Dubois?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Why don’t you attempt to explain? Are you scheming against the earl? Should I warn him?”

“No,” he scoffed, “it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m here with my sister. We’re living on the next property. She’s trying to fit in in the neighborhood. I want people to believe she’s gentry.”

“She’s not.”

“She’s close enough, and she can pull it off. It’s important to her, and I won’t ruin it.”

“So you’ve become an Englishman?”

“I’ve always been an Englishman.”

She should have been angry with him, but he gave her such a saucy grin that she couldn’t be. The knave.

“You’re Dudley, then. Not Dubois.”

“Phillip Dudley, yes. I pretend to be French sometimes, but I’m not.”

“Why pretend?”

“It helps me sell my merchandise.”

To gullible women like me,
she pathetically realized.

She’d been charmed by him, by his foreign accent and his flamboyant manners, and he’d coerced her masterfully. She was so desperate to be loved that she’d let him convince her he dispensed miracles.

For weeks, she’d been fretting about Lord Penworth and the Spinster’s Cure she’d swallowed, but it had all been nonsense, and she was inordinately sad that no magic had been performed.

She felt like a fool. A naïve, stupid fool.

“It was all fake, wasn’t it?”

“What was?”

“Your Spinster’s Cure, and your Daily Remedy, and your ability to read my mind. You’re a charlatan.”

“I beg your pardon?” he huffed.

“You’re an imposter. I should have known.”

“Merely because my accent is different doesn’t mean my recipes have changed.”

“It’s all right. You’ve been caught out, Mr. Dudley. You can drop the pretense.”

“Pretense! My mother was a Gypsy. The mixtures I create are thousands of years old, passed down from generation to generation.”

“Stop it.” She scowled and punched him on the arm. “I’m embarrassed enough that I believed you. You’re only making me feel worse.”

“Miss Lambert—Lily—listen to me.”

“I won’t. Not if you’re going to spew more gibberish.”

“I traveled to Scotland to see my sister settled in Odell’s country manor. Currently, I’m not working at my craft, but I shall return to London very soon, and when I do, I will once again be selling the very items you denigrate.”

“I pity the women of London upon whom you intend to prey.”

He assessed her, his astute gaze digging deep, and she squirmed under his avid scrutiny. His focus was very powerful, as if he could peer all the way to her soul. She didn’t like the perception he produced, as if he were wiser than he should be, as if he could view what he shouldn’t.

“Miss Lambert, what is it? You can confide in me.”

“I’ve naught to confide.”

“I must look at your hand.”

“Why?”

Before she could prevent him, he clasped it and flipped it over, tipping it toward a nearby lantern. He traced the line in the center.

“Ah,” he murmured, “I see.”

She yanked away and scooted across the bench.

“What? What do you see?”

“You drank my potion.”

“I did not,” she insisted.

“You shouldn’t lie to me, Miss Lambert. You’re terribly bad at it.” He meticulously evaluated her, then he said, “Let me guess: You drank it, and now, you’re unnerved by events that seem beyond your control.”

She almost answered, then shook a scolding finger at him. “Oh no you don’t. I’m not playing this game with you again.”

Ignoring her protest, he continued, “There is a man enamored of you. He shouldn’t be; there’s no reason for his interest. It’s frightened you, and you’re anxious to discuss the situation with me. You’re afraid you might have applied the elixir incorrectly or that it is having an erroneous result.”

As he waited for her reply, he was very smug, sure he was right, sure she’d relent and spill all. She dawdled, trying to decide if she should speak up or be silent.

She’d accused him of being a charlatan, but how could he know the details he’d mentioned? Unless he possessed some genuine clairvoyance, he couldn’t have deduced her exact dilemma.

“Well?” he pressed.

“I might have drunk it,” she groused.

“And?”

“Could it have had a reverse effect?”

“What do you mean?”

“Could it have altered my destiny, rather than his? Could it have made me . . . uh ...”

She was too mortified to finish the sentence, and he shrewdly and instantly ascertained her predicament.