Night of Pleasure by Delilah Marvelle Page A

arm on this poor child?”
    “Christ, don’t look at that,” he waved her away from it. “I…some of the paint splattered and I decided to make use of it. As I said, I wasn’t very good and thankfully I haven’t touched the paints since 1818. I honestly don’t know why my mother pulled them out of the attic last year and put them in here as if it were a Nicolas Toussaint Charlet . It’s ghastly.”
    She turned toward him, astounded and impressed he even knew the works of Charlet. Few did. “Try not to be so hard on yourself. It isn’t that bad.”
    “ Liar . When my mother moves out into her own home next week, so do the paintings.” He gestured toward the open doors. “Allow me to show you the rest of the house. Perhaps the uh…cigar room would be more to your liking? ’Tis far better than smoking in an enclosed carriage, wouldn’t you say?” His tone went dry.
    That had been him in the window, after all. She winced. “You must be appalled knowing I smoke.”
    He widened his stance. “Appalled? No. There really isn’t much in this world that surprises me anymore. I have a brother and eighteen cousins. It’s all been done.” He flexed each hand. “The ton , however, won’t be quite as understanding. Which means you’ll have to stop smoking.”
    It was a good thing they weren’t getting married. “I can assure you, I was well past the gates and out of everyone’s sight when I did it.”
    He shifted from boot to boot. “You shouldn’t be smoking, Clementine. At all .”
    She paused. He called her Clementine. As if he’d always called her Clementine. Her throat tightened knowing she was going to hurt him. God. How was she going to… She needed a cheroot. Badly. She could feel her fingers twitching from need. “If you don’t mind, could you please escort me to the cigar room? The one you mentioned? I haven’t smoked all morning and am absolutely beside myself.”
    His mouth went tight. “Didn’t you already smoke one in the carriage?”
    “Yes, but I didn’t get a chance to finish it.” She fingered her reticule. “It won’t take long. It’s not like a cigar. Cheroots are rolled small. A few puffs and they’re gone.”
    He hesitated.
    “Please?” she added in the sweetest tone she could muster. “I desperately need one.”
    He sighed. Turning, he grudgingly extended his hand to the open door.
    She almost smiled knowing that a domineering, six foot well-muscled man was capable of succumbing to a mere pleading tone. This man truly had Beelzebub in one hand and an angel in the other. “Thank you, Banfield.” She sashayed out into the corridor and glanced back at him. “I appreciate your understanding.”
    He strode out after her, his eyes skimming the backside of her gown as if he were suddenly aware she had a backside. “I didn’t say I understood, dearest. In my opinion, smoking is a disgusting habit.”
    Oh, no. The man went from calling her Clementine to dearest in two short breaths. She only prayed he didn’t fall on his knee and announce his love next.
    He now held her gaze. “Instead of smoking, why not lick ashes out of the hearth?”
    Trying to tap away the tension between them, she said, “I’ve tried. It doesn’t taste the same.”
    He jerked to a halt. “You had better be teasing me.”
    She sighed. “Oh, do calm down. I was. Have you no sense of humor?”
    His brows came together. “I am fully capable of humor, but when you say things in that overly serious tone it’s very difficult to know the difference. Next time smile or quirk a brow or something. You’re too damn serious.”
    Sadly, she’d always been serious in nature. She couldn’t help it. She hadn’t exactly been raised by comedians. Her father had been ridiculously driven and dry and her mother had been more of a funeral director with wild screaming monkeys attached to each shoulder.
    “Genteel ladies here in London don’t smoke,” Banfield added. “Which means…we’ll have to do something