What You Promised (Anything for Love, Book 4) Read online

  “A gentleman is only as good as his partner allows.”

  “Then together we are both remarkable.”

  “Indeed.”

  He took her hand, placed it in the crook of his arm and led her from the floor. “Come. Let me find you some refreshment.” He ignored the whispers and odd glances. “I assume you’d prefer our second dance to be a waltz too.”

  Holding her close once again would stoke the flames of desire until he could visit her in her bedchamber.

  She stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you for dancing with me. It was wonderful. But I shall leave you to your guests.”

  Disappointment flared in his chest. It was an odd sensation. “I thought we agreed on two dances? Don’t you want me to twirl you about the floor?” Lord, he sounded like a disgruntled mistress.

  She placed her palm on his chest. “Another time, perhaps. After our scandalous display, I fear I may attract entirely the wrong attention.” She smiled. “Goodnight, Matthew.”

  Without another word, she mounted the steps and disappeared out into the hall. He stood there dumbfounded, his mind lost in a cloud of confusion. He caught his footman’s attention, nodded by way of a silent order to ensure Priscilla reached her room safely.

  Desperate to find a distraction from the clawing need ravaging his body, he returned to Lord Parson and the group of drunken gentlemen.

  “Well, well,” Parson said with a chuckle, “I doubt there’s a man in here who doesn’t envy your position. I assume you sent your wife back to the bedchamber before every dissolute sot begs for a place on her dance card.”

  “After your amorous antics, I’m surprised you’ve not followed her upstairs,” Chigwell added.

  Matthew brushed his hand through his hair. The sudden urge to beat the hell out of any man who dared even mention his wife took hold. “What sort of host would I be if I neglected my guests only to serve my own purpose.” When he joined Priscilla in the bedchamber, it would be as her husband, in their home. Not as a libertine with an audience of debauchers.

  Parson slapped him on the back. “After such a lively display one thing is certain.”

  Matthew feigned interest though hoped the fellow was wise enough to guard his damn tongue. “And what is that?”

  “The gossips got one thing right. From what I saw, you are definitely in love with your wife.”

  Lord Parson was mistaken. There was no doubt that he lusted after the lady, but after a lifetime of suppressing all emotion, he lacked the capacity to love.

  Chapter 9

  With a claw-like grip on the balustrade, Priscilla climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. The slow, hesitant steps were like those of a lady who’d consumed far too much wine. No doubt those passing by would presume her wavering stemmed from an inability to focus.

  But her fickle heart proved to be the problem. The organ hammered in her chest as she fought the urge to rush back to the ballroom, to rest her head on Matthew’s chest and dance until dawn.

  However, one did not win a game with a single hand of cards. And this was a game of skill, not chance. Patience and strength reaped rewards. She had to be the one in control of the play if she had any hope of succeeding.

  Priscilla was about to enter her room when a shuffling noise inside captured her attention. She turned and peered over the balustrade, noted the footman, John, had returned to his post at the bottom of the stairs. Should she stumble upon an intruder, one scream and John would be at her side in seconds.

  Trembling fingers gripped the brass knob and eased it to the right. But the door was locked. Foolishly, it had not occurred to her to secure the room when she’d ventured downstairs. With some trepidation, she tried it again.

  The sound of footsteps padding towards the door forced her to step back.

  With her hand clutching her throat, Priscilla noted the faint sliver of light from the room beyond before recognising her maid’s fearful face.

  “Good Lord, Anne, you frightened me half to death.” Priscilla slipped into the room and locked the door behind her. “Why did you not return to your quarters as I instructed? It’s not safe to creep around at night when Mr Chandler has visitors.”

  Despite Anne’s reassurances, Priscilla had told the maid to stay in her room below stairs and bolt the door. While Matthew prohibited the guests from entering the servants’ quarters, she’d heard enough tales to know there was always one rogue willing to try his luck.

  “I knew you’d struggle to undress.” Anne’s lips formed a thin line. Her pale skin and red hair enhanced her sombre expression. “And I’d finished making the alterations to the blue gown and wanted to show you what I’d done.”

  Priscilla glanced beyond Anne’s shoulder to the sapphire-blue gown laid out on the bed.

  “I made the sleeves smaller as you said.” Anne scuttled over and held the garment aloft. “I put the black ribbon under the bodice and added the fine layer of matching silk gauze to the skirt.”

  The next time she felt courageous enough to venture downstairs, the blue gown would be the perfect choice to capture her husband’s attention.

  Priscilla moved to examine Anne’s remarkable work. “You’re wasted as a maid. You should have a modiste shop that caters to the elite.” Priscilla touched the oval jewel in the centre of the bodice. “What prompted you to add the brooch?”

  Anne’s green eyes held a hint of mischief. “You … you wanted the gown to draw people’s attention. The weight of the brooch causes the material to sit lower in the middle of the bosom.”

  Priscilla’s stomach flipped over at the thought of wearing the gown while dancing with Matthew. Would he be just as eager for a second dance, or would her inexperience in seduction leave her floundering?

  Nerves pushed to the fore. “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without your help.” And Isabella’s help, of course.

  Anne chuckled. “I’m glad Mr Chandler saw sense. How can he expect a lady to leave her home and not bring her maid?”

  When he’d offered marriage, Matthew had not expected to bear the cost of keeping a maid. His reluctance to have another female servant in the house, Priscilla suspected, stemmed from a fear of controlling the licentious nature of his guests.

  “Mr Chandler will be furious if he finds you in here tonight, Anne, what with that rowdy rabble downstairs.”

  “You’ll lose a few buttons if you try to undress yourself, and I’ve laced your stays far too tight.”

  Priscilla put her hand to her stomach. “Perhaps that’s why I’ve been struggling to breathe.” It wasn’t. Her husband had the power to empty her lungs with one lingering glance.

  “I’ll hang the gown in the dressing room and then help you undress.”

  Priscilla touched Anne’s arm. “I don’t want Mr Chandler to see it. I want it to be a surprise.”

  Anne smiled. “I’ll put the gown in the armoire. Unlike some of his guests, let’s hope Mr Chandler’s not of a mind to rummage through a lady’s clothes.”

  “It’s not the clothes the guests are interested in.”

  Chuckling to herself, Anne took the garment and hid it away. She returned to help Priscilla into her nightgown and brush out her hair.

  Once ready for bed, Priscilla placed her hand on the maid’s arm. “Let me call John to escort you back to your room.” With the loud jeers rumbling through the house, she wouldn’t rest until Anne was back safely in the servants’ quarters.

  “There’s no need, madam.”

  Refusing to listen to Anne’s protests, Priscilla unlocked the door, called down to the footman and gave her instruction.

  “You’re to wait with her until she bolts the door. Is that understood?”

  A frown marred John’s brow. He glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to watch the stairs, madam.”

  “I’ll hover on the landing and call out should anything untoward happen.” Anger flared. “Heavens, I should not have to worry about being accosted in my home.”

/>   Surely there was a better way to supplement one’s income. Regardless of Uncle Henry’s preaching to the contrary, some things were more important than money. Once he'd paid the gambling debt, Matthew should think about hiring premises for his select gatherings.

  Armed with a vase, Priscilla hid in the shadows until John returned to his post. He nodded up to her and gave a reassuring smile before turning to block the staircase.

  Well, one thing was certain, Priscilla thought as she returned to her room and locked the door, anxiety had a way of dampening one’s ardour.

  Picking up the key to the connecting door from the side table, she strode into the dressing room. Dismissing all doubts, she thrust the key into the lock and turned it until she heard the click.

  Most women would say it was wrong to shut one’s husband out. Indeed, if Matthew did not attempt to enter her room tonight, their marriage was doomed to fail. Lacking the skill and knowledge necessary, she could do nothing more to seduce him. But he could not pick her up and put her down when it suited him. Such a one-sided relationship would chip away at her confidence, leave a constant feeling of inadequacy.

  With a resolute sigh, she returned to her chamber, placed the key on the dressing table out of reach and blew out the candles.

  Despite sliding in between warm sheets, she had no hope of sleeping. There were too many chaotic thoughts whizzing about in her head. Would she hear Matthew rattle the door? As her husband, would he demand access to her room, to her body? It didn’t help that she caught a whiff of his masculine scent wafting in the air. Bergamot and some sort of spice. Her imagination had the power to perform the conjurer’s trick just to tempt and tease.

  A long, anxious hour passed.

  Desperate to find a distraction, she moved to the window to observe the drunken revellers making too much noise in the garden. Two men were standing back-to-back on the lawn, their fingers forming the shape of a pistol raised in front of their face.

  “The lady calls the winner,” one gentleman shouted.

  The woman spectating braced her hands on her hips and counted. The fools trudged forward in opposite directions, turned on the count of ten and pretended to fire their fake weapons. As though taking a shot to the chest, both men fell to the floor. They lay on the grass, their eyes closed, their bodies still. The lady put her hand to her mouth as she examined both victims, patting each one on the thighs, daring to massage and cup the bulge between their legs. Unable to contain his excitement as the woman fiddled and fondled, one man opened his eyes and groaned.

  “You lose, Malcolm.” The woman jumped up, ran over to congratulate the other contestant who was remarkably skilful at playing a corpse.

  Was it only dissolute men who liked these sorts of games? Perhaps she should think of a game to play with Matthew. Something wicked, sinful, something to heat the blood.

  She watched from the window as the winning gentleman dragged the woman away to the bushes to claim his prize. After her waltz with Matthew, she understood the need to rouse lust in a man. But lust was easily sated. A woman needed to woe a man with more than her body.

  Priscilla returned to her bed. If the flurry of illicit activities in the garden were anything to go by, the party would soon be at an end.

  Recalling Isabella’s comments about the three steps to love, she spent another hour ignoring shrieks and banging doors to concentrate on her plans for tomorrow.

  The sound of raised voices travelled up from the hall. Deep, masculine chuckles were interspersed with a string of incoherent sentences. In the distance, the rumble of carriage wheels on the cobblestones convinced her the guests were departing.

  It would not be long now.

  After a period of constant noise that left a thrumming in her ears, the house fell silent.

  The trudge of footsteps on the stairs and the creak of floorboards on the landing alerted her to Matthew’s presence. At least he’d not gone out on another one of his mysterious appointments. Many London streets were unsafe in the daytime let alone in the dark. Only a few nights ago a gentleman was mugged at knifepoint after being forced out of his conveyance by a broken carriage wheel.

  As she strained to listen out for his movements, the silence proved deafening. In the end, she crept into the dressing room and pressed her ear to the connecting door.

  Matthew was pacing about in his chamber. The clink of crystal led her to conclude he kept a decanter of liquor by his bed. Perhaps the effort it took to entertain scoundrels took its toll.

  A loud sigh forced her to her knees to peer through the keyhole. Though the room was dimly lit, she could see him sitting on the edge of the bed, well, one half of him. He downed what was left of the amber liquid in the glass and placed the vessel on the floor before tugging on his cravat. Pulling the material from around his neck, he threw it onto the bed. The waistcoat soon followed, along with his stockings and shoes. Jumping to his feet, he dragged his shirt from his breeches so it hung loose.

  Priscilla pressed her eye closer to the keyhole, but it wasn’t the cold draught breezing through that forced her to draw back. Matthew had dragged his shirt over his head to reveal his muscular torso.

  Heavens.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs.

  The desire to see more left her salivating. The pulsing sensation between her legs grew, and she feared she was too weak to refuse this man anything.

  This simply would not do, yet it didn’t stop her looking again.

  With his breeches hanging low on his hips, he padded towards the dressing room. Priscilla shot up and shuffled back. A second felt longer than an hour. Mouth open, she stared at the door. Watching. Waiting. The brass knob moved a fraction to the right but was accompanied by a loud thud and mumbled curse.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Expecting the door to be unlocked, he’d obviously thought to march right in.

  The knob rattled. Once. Twice. The third time he rapped on the wooden panel.

  “Priscilla.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Priscilla. Open the door.”

  The pulsing in her throat almost choked her. Anticipating the betrayal of her trembling fingers, she clenched them into fists.

  “Damn it, Priscilla.” He knocked loudly this time. “Damnation. The woman teases me and then falls asleep.” His irate mutterings were audible.

  When he opened his bedchamber door and marched along the landing, she knew he would knock again. Slipping back into her room, she flopped down onto the bed.

  He tried the knob on her door. Lord knows why as he was the one who insisted she lock it. “Priscilla. It’s me. Open the door before I wake the household.”

  Priscilla covered her mouth with her hand. Part of her craved his attention, longed to touch him. If she let him in, the experience was sure to be the most pleasurable of her life. Her breasts grew heavy at the thought of taking him into her willing body.

  With one last knock, he stomped back along the corridor.

  Disappointment flared but was soon replaced with an immense sense of satisfaction. He wanted her. By some miraculous feat, she had seduced her husband. When she did decide to let him into her bed, she would have to make the moment memorable.

  But she couldn’t worry about that now.

  Tomorrow, she would use what she had learnt from Isabella to entice him further. Perhaps she might give a little of herself if it meant discovering more about him. Of course, she couldn’t leave him frustrated for too long. No doubt Lucinda Pearce was lurking in the background waiting for an opportune moment to pounce.

  Chapter 10

  The slivers of light streaming through the gap in the curtains should have given Matthew a renewed sense of optimism for a brighter day. But a throbbing erection had robbed him of a pleasant night’s sleep.

  Waking to a solid cock was not a new experience. It was his body’s way of reminding him everything was working as it ought. Usually, it proved to be a nuisance. What was the point when he had no one t
o share it with? Though if relief was what he wanted, he could always beat the devil, as they say.

  His thoughts drifted to the woman who occupied the next bedchamber, to the image of him rattling the blasted dressing room door to gain entrance. Why the hell had he given her the damn key? From the moment he’d taken her in his arms and waltzed about the floor, he’d been desperate to bury himself inside her. Surely she knew. Perhaps her inexperience with men meant she’d failed to read the signs.

  Bloody hell!

  While he expected to receive pleasure from the marriage bed, he’d not expected to lust after his wife. Of course, it was only to sate a physical need. The few nights where he’d fought the urge to take her without being encumbered by clothing, helped to rid him of that slight sense of desperation — or so he’d thought.

  A light rap on the door brought his valet, Lawson. With his robust frame and expressionless face, the man would be better suited in the role of executioner. Lawson doubled as a deterrent at parties, patrolled the house glaring at guests with his cold black eyes.

  Matthew stretched his arms above his head. “What time is it?”

  Lawson poured the water from the pitcher into the bowl on the washstand. “It’s a little after ten, sir. Will you want to eat in your room? I can have a tray brought up.”

  Ten. Excellent. The lady of the house followed a strict routine in the mornings.

  “There’s no need. I shall join Mrs Chandler in the dining room.” As soon as the blood filling his nether regions decided it was better served elsewhere.

  Besides, he wanted the key to the dressing room and would broach the subject whilst casually sipping coffee and nibbling on toast and jam.

  Lawson cleared his throat. “Mrs Chandler rose early this morning and has gone out.”

  “Out?” Was the woman intent on ruining all of his plans? “Where the hell has she gone at this hour?” He’d not meant to take his frustration out on his valet.

  “From what I understand, Mrs Chandler likes to ride in the park.”