Free Night of Pleasure by Delilah Marvelle Page A

heel. Her heart pounded.
    The figure turned and disappeared.
    The carriage clattered past the window and beneath a stone portico, silencing the rain as it came to a halt. She glanced back toward the window that was no longer in view. “Be sure to tell me when he signs the contracts and gets the money,” she insisted.
    “You really needn’t worry.” He smirked. “I’m good for it.” He yanked his cheroot from his lips. “You should have been there during contract negotiations yesterday. That boy did nothing but talk and talk about you as if you were the Queen of England coming into his home to stay. He is incredibly excited about the wedding. Everyone is.”
    She lowered her gaze, regret pinching her. “I know.”
    He grinned and pointed. “Who says money can’t buy you love?”
    The poor man really seemed to think money could buy him love. She tried to rescue him from his stupid way of thinking, but realized he didn’t want to be rescued. So it was time to rescue herself. For that was the one thing she could control. “I’ll miss you, Papa,” she murmured, a part of her already saying good-bye.
    He smiled. “I’ll miss you, too.” His smile faded. He sighed. “I’ll be leaving London shortly after you get married. I wish I could stay, but they need me back in New York.”
    A woman had to grow up and stand on her own sometime. This was her time.
    The door to the carriage swung open. Footmen in red livery unfolded the stairs and stepped aside in unison, revealing a massive oak door with an iron lion head knocker.
    Clementine tucked her silver casing of cheroots into her reticule. Dread scraped every inch of her soul. She really wasn’t ready to face Banfield knowing what she was about to do. Because it wasn’t like she wanted to hurt him. She liked him. Very much. Too much.
    “Tine, the footmen are waiting.”
    She rose, pulling her cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders. Gathering the fullness of her chartreuse morning gown from around her slippered feet, she extended her hand to one of the footmen waiting and was guided down. She stared at the imposing door that had yet to open, nervously fingering the reticule hanging from her wrist.
    Her father flicked his cheroot off to the side and stood beside her beneath the portico.
    The entrance door opened, revealing buffed black and white marble tiles and not just one but two sweeping staircases that rounded toward the same landing on the second floor of the house beyond. A dozen footmen in red livery and a balding butler dressed in black serving attire lined the inside entrance of the grand hall, their shoulders set and ready to serve.
    Her father touched the small of her back, ushering her forward.
    She walked inside, her steps echoing. Her lips parted in reverence. “I remember this.” Her gaze lifted up and up toward the cathedral height ceiling leading into the home and a massive crystal and gold chandelier that illuminated the vast, ornate space of pale silk walls. She remembered how the façade of the home did not reflect the glory inside.
    It always seemed so incredibly impressive for an entrance hall. Even the richest of New Yorkers, like themselves, usually kept their entrance halls simple. True American knickerbockers of old money, which is what they were, believed wealth was to be displayed in one’s mannerisms, not one’s living quarters.
    The sound of approaching booted steps made her veer her gaze toward the end of the corridor where a very tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with a self-assured stride announced that he was the master of the house coming to personally greet his guests.
    Her pulse thundered in her ears. It was Banfield.
    Despite the sizable distance, she could make out a dark-grey morning coat, an embroidered blue and gold waistcoat, a knotted white cravat and black wool trousers that tapered snugly into a pair of polished leather boots.
    As his well-muscled frame drew nearer and his rugged face came into full focus, her