Free Promise of Pleasure by Cheryl Holt Page B

man—this wrong man—is the one you saw?”
    “Yes, and he’s completely smitten. I don’t know what to do.”
    “Why must you do anything?” Phillip asked. “Is amour not sweet? Is amour not grand?”
    “No, it’s not grand! There’s no reason for his fascination, and if he can’t put it aside, it will bring catastrophe down on my head.”
    Phillip glared at his sister, urging her to chime in with a discerning remark, but as usual, when he wanted her to speak, she had nothing to say.
    “Mademoiselle,” he cajoled, “of course there is a reason. How could he fail to be enticed? You are very beautiful.”
    “Cease your drivel, and tell me how to proceed. He can’t be besotted with me!”
    “Miss Barnes,” Clarinda interjected, “the potion Philippe gave you isn’t magical.”
    “Have you ever drunk any yourself?”
    “No, but I assist him in combining the ingredients. He uses fortifying herbs and female restoratives. There’s nothing mysterious about it.”
    “Then how could it have rendered such a change in behavior?”
    “It couldn’t have,” Clarinda insisted. “My brother’s remedy was devised to ... to ... enhance your feminine appearance. You’re simply growing more fetching, and this gentleman has noticed.”
    “No, no”—Miss Barnes seemed very disturbed—“it’s much more sinister than that.”
    “Sinister? No!” Phillip scoffed. “Love is in the air, ma petite amie. You should be celebrating.”
    “He’s a great lord!” Miss Barnes wailed. “He’s here to marry my sister.”
    “Oh,” Clarinda and Phillip murmured at the same time, a dozen silent messages flitting between them.
    “I’m desperate,” Miss Barnes said, “to stop whatever it is this tonic has started. Have you an antidote?”
    “Yes,” Phillip lied.
    How could there be an antidote for a potion that was fake? Then again, human beings were very strange. She believed that the Spinster’s Cure was real, that it would work, and it had—in her view, at least. So maybe if she believed she had an antidote, that would work, too.
    He went to his wagon, opened the door, and sifted through the bottles. Eventually, he took out a huge dollop of sleeping powder and stirred it into some red wine, which he poured into a flask.
    He handed it to her.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “It is a treatment for love sickness,” he said. “I prescribe it to those who have fallen in love, but whose love remains unrequited. It calms the broken heart.”
    “But how will it help?” Miss Barnes retorted. “ I am not in love with anyone.”
    “It is not for you. It is for the man in question. He must drink it.”
    “How am I to make him?”
    “How can I know, mademoiselle? I am only a simple peddler. Perhaps you can slip it into his soup?”
    “For pity’s sake,” Miss Barnes grumbled. “Do you promise its potent effect? Will his interest wane?”
    “Absolument!”
    “How fast?”
    “Now that, I cannot predict. But it will fade soon. Je guarantie!”
    “Thank you.”
    She turned and walked away, the bogus potion tucked under her arm, as he and Clarinda stood, mute, watching till she vanished around the bend in the road.
    “Is she the first disgruntled customer you’ve ever had?” Clarinda inquired.
    “No, but I was so sure she’d be an easy mark.”
    “What did you give her?”
    “A sleeping draught, mixed with wine.”
    “So in the middle of his wooing her, he’ll nod off? Is that your plan?”
    “Have you a better one?”
    “No.”
     
    “WILL you marry her?”
    “I suppose. Why not?”
    Jordan sipped his brandy, staring over the rim of the glass at Paxton. They were alone for once, sequestered in the dining room and enjoying their after-supper liquor, while the women awaited them in the parlor. Jordan was weary of visiting and in no hurry to join them.
    Since Mary never ate with the family, he felt no compunction to fraternize. She was the only female in the house whose company he relished. If she