Pleasurable Pursuits

"Does my hair look a mess? I fear the chignon is going out of style. And what about my dress? Do I look slim?"

"Genevieve," a fairly pretty, round faced woman said patiently from her spot on a settee, "enough."

It took Garrett a moment to recognize Margaret Townsend (well, now Margaret Stonewick, he supposed), five years his senior. He was certain her sire had tried to join them in union before she'd married one of his business associates.

Townsend cleared his throat, and the women save for old Mrs. Townsend sprang up, greeting him with curtsies and choruses of "Hello, my lord" and "so glad you could join us, my lord."

These must be the Townsend granddaughters.

"Averleigh, you remember Margaret," Townsend said, waving a hand towards the woman in question.

She gave him a small smile and inclined her head, and he returned the gesture.

"My wife, Henrietta."

"Mrs. Townsend," he said, lifting the matron's gloved hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. "You don't seem to age."

"You are a fabricator, Lord Averleigh, but a lovely one," she said, her eyes twinkling.

He placed a hand to his heart. "I say only the truth, ma'am."

"And these are my three granddaughters," Townsend continued, confirming Garrett's suspicious as he gestured towards the three girls that stood neatly in a row, tallest to shortest. "Genevieve, Anne, and Felicity."

He knelt so he was level with the youngest. "And how old are you, madam?"

She wasn't shy in the slightest, her grin displaying a missing front tooth. "Seven, Mr. Earl, but I will be eight the month next."

Before he could respond to her frankly hilarious faux pas, the oldest girl tsked. "You address a peer of the realm as my lord, Felicity. I am ten-and-seven, my lord," she said, fluttering her lashes at him.

He hadn't asked, but he nodded. "Just shy of your first Season, then? And you, Miss?"

The middle girl barely looked him in the eye as she muttered, "Three-and-ten."

"Edmond, where has Emilia gone?" Mrs. Townsend asked.

Good god, there was still another one?

"Eh?"

"Our niece," Mrs. Townsend said impatiently.

"I thought you knew. She is your companion," he grumbled.

"Yes, my apologies," a soft but pleasant voice sounded, and Garrett looked up to see a woman dressed in a serviceable blue gown sweep into the room. "One of the footmen has a badly infected abrasion, and I was cleaning -"

"Please stop before I take ill," Genevieve moaned, pressing her palm to her mouth.

Garrett rolled his eyes, and then paused, taking in the new arrival. Her hair was dark brown, but reddish where the candlelight hit it, tied back in a simple knot. Brownish, almond-shaped eyes were set in a heart-shaped face. She was quite short in stature, but her figure was generous, with curvaceous hips and a bosom even that ugly dress couldn't disguise. He had a feeling she could bring a room to its knees if she wanted to. Suddenly, he found himself thinking he was glad he'd decided to join the Townsends tonight after all.

But there was something...odd.

"Averleigh, allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Emilia Townsend, companion to my wife. Emilia is my brother's, Baron Bromley's, daughter. Brandy, Averleigh?"

Miss Townsend pinched a small section of her skirt and just barely dipped into a curtsy. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord," she said in a voice that suggested she was quite, in fact, the opposite of pleased.

"And I yours, Miss Townsend," he said, searching her face in a way that was probably too bold. He barely registered the glass of vice the old man pressed into his hand. Why in damnation did this woman look so familiar?

She was quite older than the other three girls, most likely out of her Seasons. How had this woman escaped London unmarried? She avoided his direct gaze and stepped behind the high-backed chair her aunt sat in, seemingly content to fade into the wallpaper.

And then the dinner bell rang, saving him from making further conversation for the moment.

"Mama, I do not want to go to the nursery. I am hungry."

"Felicity," Mrs. Stonewick said, "you had an entire meat pie and two servings of dessert not an hour ago. We agreed you could meet our guest, and then you and Anne would retire for the evening. The hour is late."

Felicity grumbled and pouted as she was led away by her older sister. At the foot of the stairs, she turned back to Garrett. "Goodbye, Mr. Earl!"

"Sweet dreams, madam," he raised his glass to her, and she beamed.

Dinner, he admitted, was incredible, with oysters and fixings for the first course, a hearty and flavorful vegetable soup for the second, and roast quail with potatoes for the main. As the highest-ranking member in the room, he sat at the head of the table, with Mr. and Mrs. Townsend on either side of him. Miss Townsend sat next to her aunt and mostly avoided his gaze. This vexed him; he was not used to being all but ignored, especially as a guest.

"I must say, Miss Townsend, you look quite familiar. Have we met before?" he asked, sipping his brandy as he watched her. He tried to keep his tone casual.

A delicate flush climbed her neck. Interesting.

"There is a good possibility we have," she said with an even smile, though water nearly sloshed over the rim of her crystal wine glass as she raised it to her mouth before continuing. "I spent three Seasons in London between '24 and '26."

He thought on it a moment. The London Season was often a blur for him, what with all the mamas shoving their befrocked daughters at him. Though, he had the feeling he'd have remembered Miss Emilia Townsend.

To be polite, he acquiesced, but he would get to the bottom of it. "That must be it, then. Your father is Lord Bromley, your uncle mentioned?"

"Unfortunately," she said into her quail, and then her cheeks pinked as she seems to realize she had spoken aloud.

He found himself smirking.

"And why is it that you've not yet taken a wife, Lord Averleigh?" Mrs. Townsend asked, her tone direct. She watched him closely, her eyes reminding him of a hawk's.

"Hattie!" Mr. Townsend said, scandalized.

"Yes, why haven't you taken a wife yet?" the oldest Stonewick girl seconded, watching him with interest.

"Genevieve!" Mrs. Stonewick said, echoing her father.

Miss Townsend looked like she wanted to melt into her seat, but Garrett was used to such questions from his meddlesome older sister. He wiped his mouth before answering. "It's quite all right, I assure you. I realize most men my age entertain the thought of settling down, but I haven't seemed to have met the right woman as of yet."

"You are smart to dwell on such matters, Averleigh," Mr. Townsend said, shoveling up another forkful of his dinner. "Very important decision."

"Yes, well, he has the luxury to dwell on such things, doesn't he?"

Garret's head swiveled to look at Miss Townsend in the dead silence following her statement, who was very much the color of a beet.

"Pardon?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

She cleared her throat, and he watched the muscles of her neck work with the movement. "That is to say, most women of the gentry are married off practically fresh from the nursery. Men have the luxury of meandering about the Continent or going off on adventures and doing whatever they wish before choosing a lady who hasn't been able to have life experiences of her own."

Instead of back-tracking, she had doubled down. He respected it.

"I do not need experiences to make me happy," the Stonewick girl leveled a simpering gaze at him. "Just an attentive hus -"

"It is true that options for women are limited in this day and age," Mrs. Townsend interrupted her granddaughter. "Perhaps there will come about a change someday."

Townsend snorted into his brandy and shrugged helplessly at Garrett as if to say Women. What can one do?

"I heard the most outrageous story the other day," Mrs. Stonewick cut into the tension gracefully. "Lady Havisham has hated the decor in their country estate for several months and has begged Lord Havisham to bring decorators in from France. I suppose he was taking too long to fulfill her request, because she took his hunting rifle and blasted a hole through the drawing room wall. Now he has no choice but to redecorate."

"You don't say!" Mrs. Townsend said with an incredulous laugh. "I've known Mary for years and that does sound like her."

Garrett sat back and listened to the family converse before his attention was maddeningly drawn to Miss Townsend once more. She looked down at her plate and pushed her food around, and then tilted her chin to meet his gaze as if she knew he'd been staring at her. He felt his midsection tighten as he met her face on. Where in the nine circles of hell had he seen this woman before?

He thought on it the entire way home, and in the middle of the night, back at Averleigh Hall, Garrett woke from a dream, panting and sweating, his cock hard enough to use as weapon. He thought on the remnants of his dream, the feeling of a woman's mouth on his, body highlighted by moonlight, sounds of a masquerade dim in the background. He growled a single word into the darkness.

"Persephone."

~

Emilia gazed out the small window as the carriage rolled over the cobblestone streets of the modest but bustling downtown center. Individuals gentry and otherwise milled about, enjoying the warm, sunny afternoon. She was dying to see the famed baths on York Street, but Aunt Hattie clearly had other ideas.

"I am so excited to see Lady Havisham," she said now, adjusting the bonnet that covered her grayed hair. "It has been an age. And oh, we must stop at the tea shop for scones!"

She took in the older woman's rosy cheeks and smiled at her excitement. It was nice to see this lighter side of her aunt.

And then, as she had for the umpteenth time since dinner last week, she thought of Garrett St. James and his curious gaze all throughout that nearly disastrous dinner.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and they waited as the footman attached the steps to the vehicle. Aunt Hattie took the man's proffered hand and began the laborious task of exiting the carriage, groaning the entire way down. Emilia followed suit and offered her elbow; Aunt Hattie took it with renewed vigor, and they began to walk along the sidewalk, interspersing with the chattering crowd.

It was no London, but Bath has its own charm, and the days' activities would lend good distraction from thoughts of a certain man and his certain nuisances. She was fairly certain Averleigh hadn't recognized her that night, but still, a sense of unease lingered in the pit of her stomach. In the best case, he hadn't. In the worst, he could expose her as some harlot, and she would be cast her from her position; her parents would ship her off somewhere never to be seen or heard from again, possibly the wilds of the Americas. She shuddered.

"Are you cold, niece?" Aunt Hattie asked as they passed a small tailor's shop.

Emilia cleared her throat. "No, Aunt, I was merely caught in my own musings."

"That's nice, dear," Aunt Hattie patted her hand. Then, "Mary!"

Emilia followed her gaze to a kindly-looking, plump older woman that waved vigorously at them, her yellow dress nearly as bright as the sun overhead. Two footmen dressed in identical livery stood slightly behind her, each inundated with several packages and parcels.

"Henrietta!" Lady Havisham called. "Everyone's inside. Come, come!"

"Inside" referred to an unassuming, windowless brownstone between a printer's shop and a bookstore that revealed an interior of lavish decor and striking velvet furnishings. Emilia gaped as she took in the patrons milling about, exclusively women. They played cards and chess, talked politics, smoked, and everything else men were encouraged to do, and women were barred from.

As they skirted around the tables, Lady Havisham turned back to look at them with a smile. "Forgive me, you must be Henrietta's niece. Emilia, is it? May I call you such?"

"That is me, my lady," she nodded.

"Oh, do call me Mary. We try to do away with titles and such frippery here."

They approached an octagonal table where five other ladies were seated. They introduced themselves in turn, and Emilia's eyes widened as she took in the vicar's wife, a dark-haired beauty, detailing the origins of rather bawdy ballad. Aunt Hattie took her place and sat, but Emilia hesitated.

"You will not tell our husbands, will you?" Lady Havisham continued, eyes twinkling.

Emilia looked at her incredulously. "You must be joking, Lady - Mary. I would rather perish than expose this slice of heaven."

The women laughed as she sat next to her aunt, and an attendant seemed to materialize out of thin air. "Anything for the newcomers, then?"

"I will take a whiskey, neat, and she'll have the same," Aunt Hattie said.

Automatically, Emilia's concern spiked. "Aunt! It isn't even half past!"

"Time is a concept constructed by men who think they can control the world through rules they've made up. Remember, we are all just chaos in the end, darling," the vicar's wife drawled, taking an elegant drag of her cigarette.

Emilia tried not to show her delighted shock at the woman's nearly blasphemous words. When the attendant placed a decanter of amber liquid and two glasses on the table, Aunt Hattie prompted her to pour. She'd never tried whiskey, or anything stronger than half a glass of sherry during holidays and the like...or champagne at a certain event. She swirled the contents of her glass and then took a hearty sip.

Oh, goodness.

She forced the acrid spirit down, a shudder of disgust rolling through her body. Giggles broke out amongst the table, and she felt her cheeks heat as Aunt Hattie downed her entire glass with the barest grimace.

"Not to worry, Emilia, we'll teach you our ways," Lady Havisham winked.

And Emilia sat, attention rapt as she listened to the older women trade stories of married life, children, society, and current issues. At some point she looked down and found her glass of whiskey to be empty, and a feeling of warmth had suffused her, leaving her with nary a care in the world. Gone from her mind was her annoying younger cousin, her militant parents, the earl that set her on edge...

Perhaps I should imbibe more often, she thought. In fact, she found herself more than a bit disappointed when her aunt pulled out her gold-plated timepiece and gasped. "Blast!"

The curse should have surprised her, but after everything else, what did it matter?

"It's nearly four. Edmond will be wondering where we've gone off to. We must stop at the tailor's and the bookstore and pick up a few odds and ends to throw him off our scent."

"Of course," Emilia said, standing up, though the motion came a bit slower and uncoordinated than usual.

"Oh, the little darling is a little inebriated," she heard the vicar's wife stage-whisper.

Inebriated. A delightful word, really.

"Let me walk the both of you out," Lady Havisham said, standing as well. She waved at the attendant. "Can we get Emilia some water, please?"

Less than a minute later, a glass filled to the brim was placed in her hand, and she found herself very thirsty. The cool, clear water seemed to sharpen her senses.

As they stepped outside into the sun, Lady Havisham gripped her aunt's hand. "Hattie - is that...is that the young Earl of Averleigh?"

What? No.

Emilia whipped around a bit faster than she should have and almost stumbled over her own feet. Her mouth fell open when she found him staring at her from the opposite walkway, ignoring the man that continued to try to converse with him.

"Blast," she muttered, echoing her aunt's earlier sentiments.

And then, to make matters worse, he began to stride towards them, long legs crossing the street in several quick strides, dodging a passing cart. He looked dashing in his daywear, of course, his navy jacket pressed, and his dark breeches molded to his muscled thighs. He wore a pleasant smile as he tipped his derby hat to the three of them.

"Lord Averleigh, how good to see you!" Lady Havisham gushed, clasping her hands together. "You know Mrs. Townsend, but have you met her niece -?"

"I am familiar with Miss Townsend, yes," he said, his gaze still upon her.

Goodness, what was the idiot man doing, looking at her so? And in front of company?

"In fact, it is rather fortunate I ran into you today," he continued. "Mrs. Townsend, I was wondering if I might borrow your niece for a turn about the square? I remember she has an affinity for botany, and my grounds staff seems be having an issue with...plant maintenance."

Plant...maintenance?

Aunt Hattie looked at Emilia appraisingly.

She tried to talk to the woman with nary but her wide eyes. No. No, no, no. Tell the man no.

"I think that is a wonderful idea! Emilia, you can put your skills to further use. Lady Havisham will accompany me during my shopping, won't you, Mary dear?"

"Oh, yes, Hattie dear, I certainly will," Lady Havisham said, her grin nearly splitting her face.

They were in on it together. Emilia started as she felt a jarring poke to her rump, and it took her a moment to realize Aunt Hattie had nudged her none-too-surreptitiously forward with the jeweled head of her walking cane. The woman was incorrigible.

"Miss Townsend?" Averleigh asked, proffering his arm.

Resigning herself to her fate, she placed her gloved hand on his arm as lightly as possible, trying to ignore the sandalwood and mint that teased her nose. "Yes, then, my lord. Tell me about your... plants."

"I will be back in thirty minutes or so, Emilia," Aunt Hattie called, but he was already leading her away.

She cleared her throat as they walked along. "What do you find your staff is having difficulty -?"

"It was you the night of the party, wasn't it?"

"Party?" she asked, hating that her voice came out a mere squeak as she looked into his stormy eyes.

Kiss me again, a dangerous part of her mind intoned.

No, none of that, a better adjusted part responded.

Averleigh gave her a hard look beneath the brim of his hat. "Pray tell, how does a gently-bred young woman end up at a drunken revelry thrown by London's most notorious soprano?"

She bristled. Lucinda didn't deserve his censure, but she didn't know how to defend the woman without giving herself away. "I am not sure, my lord, as to what you are referring to. Lovely weather we're having, yes?" She picked up her pace a bit and dropped her hand from his arm, hoping to put this torture to an end.

She made an indignant noise as he grasped her fallen hand and drew her into a narrow passage between two buildings, the rich smell of pastries wafting heavily from one. The alleyway was deserted, and dimly, she knew it was a bad idea to be alone with him, but she leaned against one wall as he paced a small line in front of her.

"Lord Averleigh, really, you are being ridiculous -"

"You were not alone. It was Claremont's sister, was it not? Lady Charlotte. I know he has his hands full with her frequent insolence."

Emilia looked to the sky. "If by insolence you mean sense of adventure and independence, then yes, Lady Charlotte is insolent," she snapped.

He continued to pace. "You are close with her."

"She is my dearest friend," she said, lifting her chin. "You will not speak any kind of ill of her in my presence."

Yes, she should drink whiskey more often.

Averleigh gave a strangled laugh, and suddenly he was much closer, and directly in front of her. "Are you giving me orders now, Miss Townsend?"

A dark curl had escaped the confines of his hat, and she hated the effortless way it laid against his forehead, lending him a sort of boyish charm that made her think twice about whacking him upside the head with her reticule.