Promise of Pleasure Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  “CHERYL HOLT DELIVERS WHAT READERS DESIRE.”*

  PRAISE FOR HER NOVELS

  “Hot, sexy, and wild!”

  —Book Cove Reviews

  “A scorching novel that titillates as she explores a woman’s deepest fantasies and brings them, red-hot, to the page. But there’s more than just great sex in Holt’s romances.”

  —*Romantic Times

  “From cover to cover I was spellbound ... Truly outstanding.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “The action is intense and the love scenes are explicit, which makes [this] a doubly fantastic page-turner.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  “A classic love story with hot, fiery passion ... dripping from every page. There’s nothing better than curling up with a great book and this one totally qualifies.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Packed with emotion, sensuality, and surprising twists and turns. Holt has come up with the perfect combination of intrigue, sensual love scenes, and tender emotion, which I haven’t read in a historical romance in a very long time. Just too delicious to pass up. Happy reading!”

  —Romance Reader at Heart

  “This book pulls you in and you won’t be able to put it down.”

  —The Romance Studio

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PROMISE OF PLEASURE

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / April 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Cheryl Holt.

  Excerpt from Taste of Temptation by Cheryl Holt copyright © by Cheryl Holt.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-40438-6

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Karen and Cindy for taking a chance on me—

  when I needed it most.

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  The Latest Therapies Known to Man & Science!

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  Curses Foiled!

  Romances Found!

  Broken Hearts Mended!

  SPINSTERS CURED!

  Chapter 1

  BARNES MANOR, RURAL ENGLAND, JUNE 1814

  “FETCH my blue dress.”

  Mary Barnes glared at her half sister, Felicity, and asked, “Which one?”

  “The blue one! The blue one!” Felicity snapped. “Which one do you suppose?”

  “You have eight blue dresses,” Mary said. “Could you be a tad more specific?”

  Felicity spun toward the mirror and primped her blond ringlets, dimples creasing her rosy cheeks. “Bring me the one that sets off the color of my eyes.”

  Felicity’s eyes were a lovely sapphire that any fabric would enhance, but no gown could disguise the fact that she was spoiled and horrid. Mary seemed to be the only person who had noted Felicity’s fickle temperament, but then, Felicity was very rich, so many sins could be overlooked.

  With each passing month, as Felicity was courted by various gentlemen who hoped to marry her, she grew more vain and impossible. As a wealthy heiress, she had swains fawning over her, and she could be very choosey. So far, she’d found none of them to be acceptable.

  Jordan Winthrop, Viscount Redvers, was the next candidate scheduled to visit, so the stakes were very high. Felicity would probably insult and snub him as she had the others. Mary yearned to inquire as to why Felicity bothered with any of them, but she wisely kept her mouth shut.

  Early on, Mary had learned that it was useless to speak with Felicity about any topic of import. The eighteen-year-old girl was so conceited, her sense of entitlement so vast, that normal conversation was a waste of breath.

  Mary went to Felicity’s dressing room and retrieved an enticing gown suitable for Felicity’s introduction to Lord Redvers. The material would hug Felicity’s plump figure, which was a shape men were said to enjoy. Not that Mary had had any experience in masculine preferences.

  At age twenty-five, she’d had scant male attention. Her own figure was slender and willowy, the exact opposite of Felicity’s, but Mary was also poor and plain, so it was difficult to assess why men never noticed her.

  As her stepmother, Victoria, constantly harangued, there were a myriad of reasons for Mary’s lack of suitors, but she valiantly strove to ignore them.

  Why feel sorry for herself? With no dowry and no prospects, she couldn’t alter her fate.

  She returned to Felicity’s boudoir and draped the gown across the bed. On seeing it, Felicity grumbled, “Oh, for pity’s sake, that’s not the one I wanted.”

  “It’s fine, Felicity.”

  “The shade is completely wrong for me. Can’t you do anything right?”

  Several bitter replies
coursed through Mary’s head.

  Had any woman in all of history ever suffered so egregiously? Had any woman ever been so unappreciated? Surely even Cinderella’s lot hadn’t been as bad as Mary’s!

  She whirled away, planning to stomp off in a huff, when Felicity complained, “Where are you going?”

  “I have better things to do than stand here and let you scold me.”

  “But what about Viscount Redvers? I’m not ready to greet him.”

  “I don’t care. Call for your maid.”

  Mary stormed out, so angry she felt as if she might explode. In the past, she had calmly tolerated Felicity’s vitriol and spite. But lately, Mary was changing.

  She was questioning her plight, her lowly status.

  Her father had been a prosperous merchant, her mother a gentleman’s daughter who’d died when Mary was born. Victoria was his second wife. She’d birthed him two more daughters—Felicity and her older sister, Cassandra—then he’d passed away, leaving Mary alone and unprotected.

  Mary had endured unending torment at the hands of her malicious relatives, and she was beginning to rebel. Why had Felicity and Cassandra been given so much and she been given nothing at all?

  Mary longed to marry, to have a home and family of her own, but their neighbor, Harold Talbot, was the only suitor who’d evinced any interest in her.

  He was forty and still lived with his widowed mother. Supposedly, she’d refused his request to wed Mary, and he kept dangling the idea of a betrothal someday soon, after his mother was deceased, but that day never seemed to arrive.

  Mary had waited through a decade of his broken promises, and her patience was exhausted. She was anxious for something—anything!—to happen that would improve her condition.

  She slowed her pace and continued to the other wing of the house, to the grand suite where Viscount Redvers would reside for the next month.

  She’d supervised the servants who’d prepared his rooms, and while she didn’t give two figs about Felicity or her marital schemes, Mary hoped he’d be impressed.

  The space was magnificently appointed, fit for a king, and she tiptoed about, smoothing a quilt, rearranging the flowers in a vase, then she entered his dressing room.

  It contained an ornate mirror, and she studied her reflection, critically evaluating herself. She hated her looks. As Victoria bluntly reminded her, she was too short, too thin, too dark, too ordinary.

  In a world where nearly everyone was blond and blue-eyed, her hair and eyes were brown. Her skin was unblemished, her teeth straight, her cheekbones high, but with her hair pulled back in a tight chignon, and swathed from chin to toe in an unflattering gray dress, she might have been a dowdy nanny or an irritable governess.

  For a brief instant, she wished she was pretty and rich like Felicity and Cassandra, but she tamped down the notion. She’d never wanted to be like them.

  “What would I do with a fortune anyway?” She sighed.

  “Why would you consider wealth to be cumbersome?” a male mused from behind her. “I’ve always been able to devise numerous uses for large amounts of money. It’s really not that difficult. You’d be surprised at how quickly you adapt.”

  Mary whipped around, coming face to face with a man who had to be thirty-year-old Jordan Winthrop, Viscount Redvers, the only son and heir of the Earl of Sunderland.

  He was very tall—six foot at least—and very handsome, his features masculine and perfect: high forehead, strong nose, generous mouth. His hair was black as night, his eyes a deep indigo, like the sky at sunset. His legs were impossibly long, his waist narrow, his chest and shoulders broad and muscled—which she could clearly see because he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  She didn’t think she’d ever viewed a man’s naked chest before, so she hadn’t understood that it would be covered with hair. It was dark as the hair on his head, thick across the top, then tapering down his stomach to disappear inside his trousers.

  Though she couldn’t fathom why, the sight was exciting and disturbing.

  Why hadn’t she been notified that he was on the premises? How would she explain her lurking in his private quarters?

  Gulping with dismay, she made an awkward curtsy. “I apologize, milord. I wasn’t told that you’d arrived.”

  “I was just about to wash. I asked the footman to send someone to assist me, but I didn’t realize he’d be so accommodating. I’ll have to convey my gratitude.”

  She blanched, eager to rush out, but he was blocking the door, her sole route of escape.

  They were in an isolated part of the mansion, and he was renowned as the most infamous rake in the kingdom. His dastardly repute was built on amorous peccadilloes, duels, debts, and deceits.

  He might do anything to her.

  He took a step forward, and she took one back, until she was at the wall and could go no farther.

  Evidently, he presumed that she would bathe him. Did the housemaids attend guests in such an outrageous fashion? Was it common?

  How could Mary not be aware of such illicit behavior? She spent enough time with the servants; she should have had an inkling of what went on behind closed doors.

  What might a woman do for a man like Redvers? She wished she knew. A more brazen female would probably have poured water in a bowl, dipped a cloth, and swabbed it all over him, but she never would.

  In her entire life, she’d never committed a single daring act, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “Would you ... you ... excuse me?” The quaver in her voice apprised him of how he’d unnerved her.

  “No.”

  “I’m not about to help you wash.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  He chuckled, a low, seductive baritone that tickled her innards and made her knees weak.

  “You don’t have to pretend,” he said.

  “Pretend what?”

  “You don’t have to play the shy maiden with me—unless you enjoy a good fantasy? I don’t usually care for games, but I’m happy to oblige you.”

  He took her hand and placed it on his trousers, as if he expected her to unbutton them. Her knuckles brushed his flat belly, and she yanked away and huddled against the plaster, feeling like a canary that had been cornered by a very large, very hungry cat.

  He drew her to him until her torso was crushed to his, and the intimate positioning had a peculiar effect on her anatomy. Her skin prickled, her breasts ached, and the mysterious woman’s spot between her legs grew relaxed and wet.

  “I demand that you let me leave,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve made a mistake.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes. I’m not here to ... to ...”

  “To what? To fornicate?”

  “That word”—she scowled—“what does it mean?”

  “What do you suppose? It means every wicked deed you can imagine—and even some you can’t.”

  She had no idea what he was describing, and she wasn’t in any mood to find out. Especially from a notorious libertine who had come to Barnes Manor to discuss marriage with Felicity.

  “If you continue,” she threatened, “you’ll be sorry.”

  “I doubt it. I’ve never been sorry about anything. Ever.”

  “But you don’t know who I am.”

  “I don’t care who you are. You’re very pretty, which is all that matters to me.”

  At his remark, she was frozen with surprise. No one had ever told her she was pretty. In fact, her stepmother insisted she wasn’t, as did her tepid beau, Harold.

  The odd compliment distracted her, so she was unprepared for him to bend down and nuzzle at her nape. His bold advance was so shocking—and so delightful—that she was paralyzed, unable to fight or flee as she ought.

  He nibbled away, his crafty fingers sneaking up, caressing her thigh, her hip, rising till he audaciously stroked her breast.

  She hadn’t
realized the mound was so sensitive, and she became so agitated that she might have swooned, but his strong arm kept her from falling to the floor in a stunned heap.

  “Please ... stop,” she breathlessly murmured.

  Her plaintive supplication registered, and he pulled away and frowned.

  “Aren’t you carrying your maidenly protests a tad too far?” he asked. “You’re too old for all this virginal umbrage.”

  “Old! I’m only twenty-five.”

  “Then quit acting like a debutante. I don’t like it.”

  Just then, the door to the outer chamber opened, and a female called, “Redvers, are you in here?”

  Mary didn’t know who had arrived, but if she was caught with the viscount, there’d be hell to pay. She squealed with alarm and tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t release her.

  “Who’s out there?” she whispered.

  “It’s my special friend, Mrs. Bainbridge.” He appeared humored by Mary’s panic. “She won’t like finding you with me.”

  “Let me go!” she begged.

  “No.”

  “Redvers,” Mrs. Bainbridge called again, as she marched toward the dressing room.

  Mary pushed at him with all her might, but Redvers merely laughed and turned them so that he was leaned against the wall, with Mary snuggled to him, her back to his front. His arm was draped across her abdomen, holding her in place.

  A voluptuous beauty entered. She had auburn hair and big green eyes, and she was attired in a stylish maroon gown that accented her striking features. She oozed a sophistication and polish that Mary couldn’t have managed in a thousand years.

  “Who is that?” Mrs. Bainbridge inquired, nodding at Mary, her displeasure clear.

  “The footman sent me a valet,” Redvers explained, “but she’s the wrong sex and she’s terribly prim and boring. May I keep her anyway?”

  Mrs. Bainbridge’s gaze was lethal, and she assessed Mary as if Mary were a pet dog. “No, you can’t keep her, darling. I won’t have you trifling with the servants.”