Free Night of Pleasure by Delilah Marvelle

visited him almost every day for ten weeks back in ’23.”
    Most of the ivy had not only grown but died. Despite what her father thought, she remembered the house very well. She remembered it being so much more inviting and manicured. Perfect. Not this. “Have you been sending him money?”
    “Of course I have.”
    The unkempt dead ivy said otherwise. “How much?”
    “Clementine, please. You make it sound like I’ve been neglecting the boy.”
    She pointed at the house. “Something has clearly been neglected. How much have you been sending him? I have a right to know.”
    “A full thousand every June, every year. Why?”
    “ Only a thousand a year ? Papa, how did you expect him to upkeep a house like this and a house in the country on a thousand? My clothes cost me more than that. How—”
    “He never asked for more. If he had, I would have gladly given it. I simply didn’t want him to think he had access to unlimited funds until the marriage contracts were signed.” He lowered his voice. “As popular as he has always been in his circle, he could have very well taken off with someone.” He paused. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
    She wished to God she had been more aware of the funds he’d been distributing to Banfield. Her father, whilst generous, had a tendency to get protective of his money. “He is the son of your closest and dearest friend whom you swore to protect from ruin. How could you—”
    “Don’t lecture me, Tine. He is getting three million in return for your hand. Three million . That is how I am honoring and protecting the boy. As for you, Miss Clementine Henrietta Grey, I damn well hope you’re no longer associating with that Persian nonconformist. It was fine to socialize with him as a friend back in New York but you’re about to be a married woman. And married women don’t align themselves with Persian bachelors.”
    She decided not to say anything. That Persian nonconformist, after all, was her closest and dearest friend who was going to ensure she hopped on the next boat to Persia. She glanced toward the old Georgian house. An old house that dredged up memories she wasn’t ready to face. She could almost taste him through that spiced candy that had burned her mouth well enough to make her think she still tasted it. All of her fears, all of her emotions and all of her buried insecurities unfurled itself into the one thing she never expected: Banfield.
    Her throat tightened.
    It was why she was leaving him. She was a woman of control and he was a man of no control. Their union would never amount to anything but the misery she grew up with. Lowering her gaze, she opened her reticule and dug out her personal silver case of cheroots she always carried. She promised herself she wouldn’t smoke, but how else was she going to survive the afternoon? She needed it.
    Flipping open the monogrammed casing, she pulled one out. “So when does Banfield get the money?” Setting the cheroot between her lips, she struck a match and lit it, gently puffing. Wagging the match, she tucked it into a small ash pan embedded onto the side of the seat. Inhaling the earthy smoke, she slowly blew it out, finally feeling at ease. “It’s important that he get the money soon.” Before she left to Persia.
    Her father rolled the lit cheroot against the tips of gloved fingers. “I’m simply awaiting his signature on all of the contracts. Once they are delivered to my solicitor, the money is his.”
    She was so relieved. It was the least she could do for Banfield. “Thank you, Papa.” She dragged in a puff, letting the warm smoke fill her mouth and paused, realizing there was a male figure standing in one of the windows of the house, staring out toward her. Her fingers stilled, holding the cheroot in midair by her lips right before the carriage window for all to see.
    The man, whoever he was, could see her smoking.
    She sensed it was Banfield.
    She tossed the cheroot to the floor, crushing it with her