Addicted

She had to believe that, because to believe anything else would be too painful to bear.

“Well, then, I’m off, back to the house to tell that pompous ass Darnby that his shrew of a daughter is not out here with you—I knew you had more taste than to go tupping someone like that—but your mother,” he scoffed as he staggered away, “your mother wouldn’t be appeased until I left my port and hand of cards to search for you. That damn woman, I don’t know what I ever did to deserve her. And,” Weatherby snapped as he whirled around, “you might consider being a trifle more civil to the Grantworth chit. She’s worth a fortune and far prettier than the Darnby girl. She’s got one of the biggest dowries on the marriage mart this year and she fancies you. See to it you make arrangements to go driving or attend that blasted fair. I want an heir from you before I die. Do I make myself clear?”

When the stable door closed, Lindsay looked back at Anais, an expression of shame marring his handsome face. “He was drunk,” she murmured quietly while pulling stray bits of hay from her hair. “He didn’t know what he was saying.”

It was the same excuse she had heard Lindsay use for his father since they were small children. She despised the words even as she said them. There was no excuse for such a wastrel. The marquis was always in a state of grotesque inebriation. She had seen him falling down drunk and groping women who were not his wife more times than she cared to admit.

But then Anais could not fault Lindsay for trying to soften the embarrassment of having such a father. She did much the same with her mother. Anais had dealt with the shame, not by defending her mother’s actions, but writing her out of her life. Anais dealt with the disgrace by pretending she had no mother. And her mother couldn’t have been happier for her absence.

“After what we’ve just shared, you must know that I hold no liking or desire for Mary Grantworth.” Anais smiled, happy to hear it. “She wanted you to believe that we had gone on a walk together and spoken intimately. The truth, Anais, is that I met her coming out of the apothecary, and I talked with her for less than a minute.”

“Thank you for telling me, Lindsay. Not that you needed to.”

“Yes, I did. I was worried the whole time he was going on about women, and about Mary Grantworth, that you would hate me and believe what my father was saying. I was terrified that when I finally was able to come to you, you wouldn’t believe me when I told you that you’ve been the only woman I’ve ever wanted permanently in my life.”

The coldness that had suddenly gathered inside her melted away and she reached up on her tiptoes and brushed her mouth against his. “I believe you, Lindsay.”

“I’m not like him, Anais. I’m not my father. I don’t share his vices.”

She cupped Lindsay’s face, forcing him to look at her. He told her he would never speak a false word against her, and she believed him. “You don’t?”

“No. I…” His eyes turned unreadable and he tried, tried so very hard, she knew, to hold his gaze steady. In the end he couldn’t and he was looking over her shoulder at a spot on the wall behind her when he said, “I swear it. I’m not like him.”

Something in her began to hurt, but it was soon replaced by the great love she had for him, and the need to believe in him. She could handle whatever he was afraid to tell her. Nothing could stop her from loving Lindsay—nothing. At this moment, everything was too new. They needed time to adjust to the way things were now between them.

“Then everything will be all right, won’t it?”

He nodded as he ran the pad of his thumb along her lips. “This is right,” he said emphatically, as if he were trying to convince himself and not her. He clutched her face, peering down into her eyes as he rested his forehead against hers. “This bond we have, it must never be broken. Promise me,” he said, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “Promise me that this chain that binds us will never come unlinked.”

“I have always been bound to you. My heart will forever be yours, Lindsay. Never forget that.”

“I need your goodness in my life, Anais. I need you to keep me from becoming my father.”

“You won’t, Lindsay.”

“Swear to me, Anais. Swear you will always be there for me. Say you will never change.”

“I swear, Lindsay.”

“And will you remember me tonight?”

“I will. And will you think of me, Lindsay?”

“I have your scent on my hand. The taste of you on my tongue. I will never forget, Anais.”

3

“You’re keeping secrets!”

Anais looked up from the purple-and-gold silk that lay in her lap. Rebecca, her closest friend in Bewdley, sauntered into the room, looking more radiant than what was fair. Rebecca was so exotic-looking, with sable-colored curls and amber eyes that were almond-shaped and fringed with lush, sooty lashes.

Anais watched as Rebecca flopped down on the bed and propped her chin in her delicate doll’s hand. Her friend was everything she was not. The only virtue Rebecca lacked was fortune and family connections. But that fact hadn’t seemed to deter the numerous swains that had attempted to court Rebecca over the years. There had been many times as Anais stood on the peripheries, alone and unnoticed, watching her friend smile charmingly at the latest rogue pursuing her, that she wished she possessed a fraction of Rebecca’s beauty. Anais would have handed over her dowry for only a pittance of her friend’s charms and smoldering looks.

“Well,” Rebecca challenged, raising a perfectly shaped brow. “You were gone riding for a very long time. What in the world did Lord Raeburn do with you after he all but stole you from the salon?”

A small smile lifted her lips upwards. She had almost completely forgotten that Rebecca had been in attendance at dinner.

“Come, now, Anais, spill your secrets! I know you must have had an impassioned tryst in the stable.”

“And what makes you think that?” Anais thought back to the moment when she had heard a crash outside the stable, and had seen a figure fleeing through the window. Had Rebecca been spying on her? But why?

“Anais, we have been friends much too long. All the signs of a torrid embrace were there on your person when you arrived back in the salon. Your color was high, and your lips,” Rebecca teased, “were as pink and swollen as anything. Either you were stung by a bee in February, or you were utterly and pleasurably ravished! Now do not keep me in suspense any longer. I am positively dying to learn what happened between the two of you!”

Anais flushed and stabbed her needle through the purple silk, trying to prevent her hand from shaking and making the hem uneven. She wanted this costume to be perfect.

“Anais,” Rebecca said teasingly, “we’ve been friends too long, you know. You cannot hide the truth from me. He kissed you, didn’t he?”

“Perhaps,” Anais said, unable to hide the huge smile that parted her lips.

“You fiend!” Rebecca cried, coming off the bed and tearing the fabric from her hands. “Two days you’ve kept this from me! Tell me all of it. Was it divine? Does he have strong lips?”

“Rebecca, I’m quite certain you already know that it was heaven. After all, you’ve been kissed many times before.”

“But never by anyone as deliciously wicked as Lord Raeburn.”

For some reason Anais did not want to discuss Lindsay with Rebecca. It was not that she didn’t trust her friend to be discreet and keep her secret. She trusted Rebecca implicitly. But she realized that what had happened between her and Lindsay was meant to be kept just between them.

“Well?” Rebecca prodded.

“I’m quite certain Lord Broughton is just as deliciously wicked, Rebecca. A fact I’m certain you shall discover when he proposes marriage to you.”

“Oh, I’m afraid Lord Broughton is the most pious of gentlemen. Deliciously wicked are two words I would not use to describe him.”

Anais frowned and thought of the man who had been courting Rebecca. Garrett, Lord Broughton, was a gentleman. Handsome and rich, Garrett was much sought after by the marriage-minded girls and their mamas. He was a gentleman and given to quiet introspection, true, but there was no disputing that Rebecca had captured his attention.

“What are you making?” Rebecca asked suddenly, running her finger along the gold cording that Anais was busy sewing to the purple silk.

“My costume for the masquerade tonight.”

“You told me you were going as a shepherdess. I thought your mother already had your costume made up for you.”

“I’m not wearing that hideous monstrosity.” Anais glanced at the costume that hung on the door of her wardrobe. “I’ll look as wide as a frigate in that hooped skirt.”

Rebecca’s gaze roamed over the costume. “It is revolting, isn’t it?”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“So then, what are you wearing?”

“I’m going as an odalisque.”

Rebecca’s mouth hung open before she snapped it closed again. “You do know what an odalisque is, do you not? You’re aware that you’re going to be baring a great deal of…” Rebecca swallowed and looked pointedly at her. “You’ll be baring a great deal of your person, Anais.”

“Oh, I will incorporate the appropriate modifications that will allow me to be presentable in society—never fear that. But I have it on good authority that I would look rather fetching dressed as an odalisque. Lindsay suggested the idea and I want to please him.”

Her friend’s eyes went round with disbelief. “Icannot believe that of Raeburn. Well, not that he shouldn’t find you attractive,” Rebecca said in a rush. “It’s just that after all these years…after years of being…well, seemingly uninterested in that sort of relationship…” Rebecca murmured before trailing off altogether.

“I can hardly believe it myself. Oh, Rebecca, I do believe he loves me. He says we’re going to be married.”

“Are you certain, Anais? I would so hate for you to be disappointed.”

Something in Rebecca’s words made Anais’s blood freeze. The sinister coils of doubt began to unfurl, slowly choking out her new self-confidence, but she shoved it aside. Lindsay did want her. She had seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his touch.

“Come, now. Let us not dwell on gloomy thoughts. Of course he loves you, Anais. How could he not? You’ve been traipsing in his boot tracks for years. It was only a matter of time before Lord Raeburn tripped over you and took notice of your presence.”

Is that what had happened? Had Lindsay merely relented? Was he tired of always having her near? Had he just resigned himself to the inevitable and finally given in to his mother’s fondest wish—a desire his mother had taken no pains to disguise?

“Anais,” her sister Ann’s voice rang out. “You have a letter.”

“Quick.” Anais jumped up from her chair and scooped the purple-and-gold skirt from the bed. “Help me hide this.”

Rebecca helped her tuck the costume into a coarse muslin sack seconds before the door was flung open and her fourteen-year-old sister came rushing into the room, her ringlets bouncing and her cheeks flushed pink with excitement.

She looked like an excited little pixie, with her gently upturned nose and sparkling, pale blue eyes. Ann was slight and petite, her hair was paler, more silvery than gold and straighter than Anais’s curls. Her skin was like porcelain and her features, while aristocratic, held a certain fragility that made her seem almost ethereal. But her bubbly personality stopped her from being untouchable.

One day, Ann Darnby was going to be stunningly beautiful and the most sought-after woman in England, and Anais suddenly couldn’t wait for her sister to find the man of her dreams.

“A valentine,” Ann announced, her voice breathless with her exertion.

Anais reached for the red wrapping and tore it out of her sister’s hand. Turning her back, she stripped away the wrapping to find a heart-shaped piece of vellum tucked neatly inside.

Your pasha awaits, you. At midnight, on the terrace.

“Well?” Rebecca asked, excitedly. “Who is it from?”

“An admirer?” Ann said coyly. “Do you have a secret admirer, Anais?”

“Ann, do stop being a pest,” their mother said from the door. Her mother’s expression suddenly sobered as her gaze fixed on Anais. “Of course your sister does not have an admirer, don’t be a goose, Ann.” Her mother’s lovely eyes raked over her and Anais saw the familiar emotion of displeasure shining in them.

Anais was well aware she was a disappointment to her mother. Such a lovely, passionate name, quite wasted on that plain creature. She had heard that remark many times, most of which had been uttered in her mother’s bitter voice.

How many times had Anais overheard someone say at a ball that there had to be at least one plain one amongst all the beautiful Darnby women? However, the truth of that statement wouldn’t hurt so much had she not had the misfortune to be the plain one.

Her older sister, Abigail, who had been the belle of the ball and was now the Countess of Weston, had been the raving beauty of the family, not to mention her mother’s favorite child. Her mother never failed to remind Anais of Abigail’s beauty or cachet in snaring a most sought-after husband. Now Ann, her youngest sister, was poised to be a great beauty—even more beautiful than Abigail, and much less conceited about it, too—thank heavens.

“Now then, girls, it is time to get ready for the Torrington masquerade. You will require much time, my dear, if we’re to get you presentable. Marriage, Anais,” her mother lectured while she waved her perfectly manicured finger before Anais’s nose. “You must remember that an advantageous marriage is a well-bred young lady’s primary goal in life. You’re already at a disadvantage. Now with your age—well, it’s going to be impossible to find someone suitable, what with the debs coming out this Season.”

“Mother…” Lord, she hated when her mother talked so in front of Rebecca.

“Well, it is true. You’ll be eight and twenty next week and you’ve little to recommend you beside your dowry. In my day a woman was firmly upon the shelf at your age. Why, I had already bore my husband two children by five and twenty.”

“Mother…”

“Look at Rebecca, here. Poor as a church mouse and with little in the way of family connections. Had it not been for your father and I, as well as her uncle, she would have amounted to nothing more than a governess. Despite all that, she has made a splash in society, even capturing the attentions of someone who is notorious for being most discerning. Rebecca’s charm and beauty have made Lord Broughton forget that she hasn’t any money or family connections. You will forgive me for speaking so frankly, dear,” her mother whispered remorsefully to Rebecca. “I’m just trying to make Anais understand, you see, that it is not enough to be rich, one must be beautiful, as well.”

“One cannot help if they are beautiful or not,” Anais muttered, twisting her fingers in her apron.

“True enough,” her mother said, patting her flaxen curls. “But one can at least make an attempt to work with what attributes one has.”

“I think Anais is pretty,” Ann said, coming to her defense.

“Come, Anais,” her mother said with a superior tilt of her chin. “Rebecca, dear, your uncle has sent his carriage to fetch you. It’s waiting in the lane. Do not keep me waiting, Anais,” her mother warned with a pointed look as she reached for the door latch.

“I think you’re lovely, Anais,” Ann said proudly. “Furthermore, I overheard Lindsay remark to Lord Wallingford that he thought you were a perfect blend of beauty and brains. He called you his angel. I think he’s going to propose. I truly believe—”

“Enough, Ann,” her mother said with a glare. “Good Lord, I’d love nothing more than for him to marry her and take her off my hands, but we haven’t a chance now for that. If he hasn’t proposed after all these years, nothing will induce him to now.”

“Mama, I heard—”

“Enough of this nonsense. There will be no custard for you after dinner.”

“Mama!” Ann cried.

“You’re getting a bit thick in the middle, Ann. One night without bread pudding will serve you well. You must be conscious now of maintaining your figure. A man will go a long way before seeing a figure like yours. You must guard it most carefully,” her mother lectured as she promptly left with Ann, who was protesting loudly over the loss of her pudding.

“Well?”

“He wants to meet me!” Anais said excitedly, forgetting about her mother’s nagging, she showed Rebecca the valentine Lindsay had designed for her.

Rebecca read it and when she looked up at her, she had a strange intensity to her amber eyes. “How lovely.”

“What are you wearing tonight?” Anais asked excitedly as her gaze strayed to a sack by the door. “How will I know you in the crowd?”

“Never fear, you will find me,” Rebecca groaned, reaching for the muslin sack she had dropped on the floor when she came in. “Mrs. Button informed Uncle that she had the perfect costume for me. Of course, as you know, my uncle bows to every one of Mrs. Button’s wishes.” Rebecca pulled out an old brown cloth and held it out to Anais.

“A nun?” Anais croaked, laughing at the image of Rebecca wearing the brown sack.

“Hmm. I’m certain that this costume will not inspire Lord Broughton to dare enter the realm of wickedness.”

“You never know,” Anais teased. “The night could bring anything.”

“How right you are, Anais,” Rebecca said quietly, gathering her sack that lay atop the bed. She shoved the brown tunic inside before smiling brightly. “One must work with what fate hands them.”

Lowering himself onto the red velvet settee, Lindsay spread his arms wide on the back of the wooden frame as he surveyed the small room that had become a means of escape from the theatrics of the ballroom one floor below.

The air in the salon was thick with curling smoke, heavy with the perfume of spilled claret and Turkish tobacco. Numerous pillows had been strewn about, while braziers were lit with incense, emitting a heavy, almost sensual aroma he was all too familiar with. The heady perfume of fine Turkish opium clouded the room, blanketing him in an intoxicating aroma.

In the center of the room, dressed as a pasha, sat the Earl of Wallingford. The eldest child of the Duke of Torrington. Wallingford was an indolent wastrel of the highest order—he was also a very good friend.

“I wondered when you would escape the clutches of those marriage-minded debutantes my father insisted on inviting to his masquerade,” Wallingford said with a grin. “Virgins are so damn insipid and tiresome. Give me a courtesan with the knowledge and talent to rouse me over a simpering, blushing virgin.”

“It was a trial avoiding their snares, but I managed,” Lindsay said, laughing as he thought of the numerous young ladies that had tried to corner him in one of the many dark alcoves of the ballroom. Virgins might be inexperienced in the bedroom, but they were master manipulators when it came to seeking an advantageous marriage.

“Well, then, what do you think, old boy?” Wallingford asked, making a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the decor of the salon that had recently been redecorated in the Eastern style. A style that was currently all the rage amongst artists and poets who thought themselves Romantics in the manner of Byron and Shelley.

“You’ve managed to convert me at last, Raeburn—I’ve turned Turk,” Wallingford said with a sharp satirical laugh. “Oh, I know it doesn’t quite scratch up to that room of yours, but it is a start, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It is indeed,” Lindsay said, inhaling the heady fragrance from the incense stick that was suddenly lit beside him. He leaned over and inhaled the smoke, sighing appreciatively as he sank farther into the plump cushions of the settee, feeling the gnawing hunger in his belly slowly uncurl and subside.

“I was quite pleased with the results. It will no doubt serve adequately as we pursue our pleasures. Of course, when I saw how it enraged my father, I became even more enamored of it,” Wallingford drawled, his smile wolfish. “Makes him wonder what I will do with this gothic monstrosity once he goes to his just reward. I confess, I do enjoy torturing him with glimpses of what may be. Perhaps I’ll turn the place into a bordello, or better yet, an opium den where the wicked and idle may sprawl out and smoke themselves to sleep. Of course we shall have ladies lying about, makes the scene that much more debauched, don’t you think? That ought to make the old goat twist in his grave. But enough of my father, the duke. Come and have a drink, old boy,” Wallingford slurred drunkenly. “We’ll only have so much longer before we shall have to return to my father’s insipid ball. We’ll need fortification.”

“I’ll pass.” Lindsay watched as Wallingford reached for the hand of a young serving girl dressed in silks and veils. He pulled her atop his lap, his claret sloshing over the rim of his goblet, landing on the young lady’s exposed cleavage.

“Oh, look,” Wallingford drawled, his eyes glistening wickedly. “A new way to sip your evening tipple.”

Male laughter erupted in the room as Wallingford bent his head to the girl’s bosom and licked the trickling red liquor as it dribbled between her breasts. Instead of acting shocked, the girl, obviously a professional courtesan, giggled and clutched his face to her décolletage.

“Come, let us see what else we can have dribbling between these,” Wallingford purred as he raised himself onto unsteady feet, his gaze never leaving the large ivory mounds of the courtesan’s breasts.

Lindsay looked away from the departing couple. He had witnessed more drunken debauchery at his father’s hands than he cared to recount. He had no wish to see Wallingford make an ass of himself—nor had he a wish to follow him down the drunken path of nothingness.

Searching the room and seeing that several other men had sequestered themselves with other willing women, Lindsay sighed and plucked the incense stick from the wood-and-brass holder. Waving it under his nose, he let the curling tendrils caress his skin before inhaling the scent, dissecting the pungent fragrance like a connoisseur. The aroma was rich, earthy with a touch of moss and sandalwood. Definitely Turkish. Nothing smelled quite as potent as Turkish opium.

Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the settee, glancing at the clock. It was not quite midnight. He had a bit longer yet before he would meet Anais on the terrace. He thought about her and how she had looked standing naked before him in the stable. What a beauty she had been with her honey-blond hair lying loose around her shoulders and her wide blue eyes, eyes that were always full of life and mischief. Mentally he conjured up the memory of her full, rose-tipped breasts and the delightfully rounded mound of her belly. He had not spent enough time worshiping her belly, nor had he allowed himself to linger over the soft space between her thighs.

He had stared at the soft triangle of space where her lush thighs grazed together and the downy curls of her mons connected. It was a mysterious space, a place where he was drawn, a place for his mouth, his fingers, his cock. Lord, but he was hungry for her. He’d had her twice two nights ago. Instead of abating his desire, it had only fuelled his need for her.

How long it had been since he’d desired to have her in his bed? He’d been sixteen. That was how long he’d been fantasizing about Anais. Fourteen long, agonizing years—seeing her, hearing her, being next to her. So many years of yearning, of imagining her face on the women he’d bedded.

He’d waited too long, he sighed, tossing the used stick atop the table. He’d wasted too many years. But he’d been uncertain— of her and himself.