Love's Misadventure (The Mason Siblings Series Book 1) Read online

  “We hadn’t, but I would still like to win something.”

  “Isn’t being the victor prize enough?” His lips pulled upward in a grin.

  “No,” she stated baldly. “I would like proof that I am the victor. Prestige isn’t enough when I have no one to tell other than you.”

  One loud bark of a laugh escaped him as his mind worked. “Tell me, what do you feel about a surprise gift?”

  She outwardly feigned consideration, but Lane could tell from the glint in her eye that she was both intrigued and excited by the prospect.

  “What sort of surprise gift?”

  “It would not be a surprise if I told you what it was. Besides, I have yet to think of what it will be.”

  She nodded once. “I accept. Shall we shake hands?” She reached her right hand out across the table.

  Lane’s gaze locked with hers as he clasped her hand. “Congratulations.”

  Chapter 2

  It happened again. It blasted well happened again!

  “Hell and blazes,” Lane muttered. Head resting in his hands, he sat on the edge of one of the beds in Madame Bordeau’s flash house, and cursed his inability to take care of his needs.

  “’Appens te lots ’a gents, love,” the perfumed whore named Harriet said from behind him on the bed.

  The room was adorned in deep red and darkened wood furnishings. The stench of stale perfume, sex, liquor, and smoke permeated the air. It was nauseating.

  Lane grabbed his breeches off the rumpled counterpane and stepped into them. “I apologize for wasting your evening, Harriet. I will pay you for your time nonetheless.”

  “T’was a pleasure, love. Though not too much of a pleasure, if’n ye get my meaning.” She winked at him.

  He hid a grimace.

  His chest tightened, and he filled with self-loathing. “Bloody hell.”

  He tucked his shirt into his breeches, pulled his waistcoat and coat on, and began tying his cravat in a simple knot. He tossed his soiled condom in the hearth. Why the devil does this always happen? Something must be physically wrong with him. This wasn’t normal, and it certainly wasn’t healthy. Perhaps he should consult a doctor. Surely men were supposed to be able to have sexual relations without so much trouble.

  He was able to get himself going well enough; it was keeping himself going that was the difficulty. He was damned tired of paying women extra money to keep their mouths shut about his problem. He’d visited every flash house in London and its outskirts at least once. He’d travelled to Scotland and tried several there as well, yet his problem continued.

  He was still a virgin, for Christ’s sake.

  Not that he hadn’t any experience. He had done plenty of other very interesting and entertaining acts, but he had never once been able to complete the act of lovemaking. He left every establishment feeling unclean, and in dire need of a stiff drink to rid his senses of the taste and smell of his own failure and heavily perfumed whores.

  With a groan, he reached into his breast pocket and handed the lightskirt a small purse with her pay, in addition to the extra amount he offered to keep the story to herself.

  Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he bid her good night and left.

  Lane met his coach around the street corner, climbed in, and rapped on the roof with his fist to signal his coachman to take him home. He sat back against the squabs with a self-deprecating sigh.

  “Bloody rotten hell!” He ran a hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose in the vain hope that he could stop the headache forming behind his eyes. He was certain that no other man at the age of eight and twenty had never had sex. In fact, he was certain that many men lost their virginity before their twentieth birthday.

  How was he ever to take a wife if he could not perform his husbandly duties? How could he ever recite his vows before God and his family if he knew he could never produce an heir?

  Shame burned through him, weighing heavily on his heart. At this rate, he would never be the man a wife would need him to be. He would never be a father.

  He groaned and shook himself from his miserable reverie. His thoughts were too damned depressing.

  He forced himself to change the course of his musings. He’d had another lovely time with Annabel. Her triumphant grin at winning their chess game flashed through his mind. He made a mental note to think of something special to award her with as a prize.

  His lips split in a toothy grin. She always brightened his mood, no matter how ill his humour. Having Anna for a best friend was the greatest thing in his life; she knew him better than anyone, though she did not know about his…problem. He, likewise, knew her better than anyone. He knew that she adored books, chocolate, teacakes, and cherry blossom trees. She was an adequate artist and a terrible pianist.

  Lane’s grin turned into a smile as the coach rolled to a stop in front of his town house. He loved how she felt free enough to laugh at herself. He stepped down from the carriage. In fact, he loved her sense of humour; her alluring, crooked smile; their long talks; the way she always smelled like lemons and soap; and her expressive way of talking. He loved…her.

  He halted mid-step, his foot poised in the air over the front steps of his town house. His heart began a rapid, staccato beat in his chest, and his eyes grew wide.

  Good God. He loved her!

  “My lord?” Geoffrey stood waiting with the door open.

  “Not now, Geoffrey,” Lane mumbled absently.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  How long had he loved her?

  “Oh, Lane.” A fourteen-year-old Annabel opened her arms to him.

  He rushed to her and held her close, tears welling in his eyes.

  “I am so sorry, Lane,” she whispered into his collar.

  Her shoulders shook, and he knew she was doing her best to be brave for him. He would be the man of the house now. With three sobbing younger sisters and a mother to take care of, his work would be great indeed.

  But he had Annabel. He hugged her tighter and let her soft warmth seep into him. He had Annabel.

  Lane staggered slightly at the bottom step. Eleven years. How could he have been so blind? For eleven damned years! What a fool he was!

  He started up the stairs and marched past the butler. He needed a drink.

  “I won’t be going out again tonight, Geoffrey; you are free to retire.” He paused. “Oh, but please have a bath sent up to my chambers.”

  “Thank you, your lordship. Right away.”

  Lane stormed into his study and went straight for the brandy in his Tantalus. With shaking hands, he poured himself four fingers of his best French brandy and took a large gulp, relishing the burn as it went down.

  Love.

  He left his empty glass on the Tantalus and retrieved a cigar from the box atop his desk. In a daze, he lit it on a sconce and returned to his seat before the fire.

  Blazes.

  What was he going to do? Annabel. Sweet, lovely Anna. He thought about her luscious lips. Did she taste as sweet as she smelled? He wanted to run his lips down her neck and dip his tongue in the crevice between her breasts. Her perfect, full, rounded… He shifted in his chair as his cock sprang to life.

  Now is not the time.

  He puffed on his cigar as a kitten leapt to his lap, making itself comfortable as he absently stroked its fur.

  This sudden realization posed a great problem. What if his physical difficulty continued? What if he could never father children? Annabel deserved better than that. She deserved better than him. He could never court her.

  Damn it, he could never be with Anna.

  Chapter 3

  Annabel covered a yawn with the back of her hand as she entered the morning room. The scents of freshly prepared toasted bread, ham, eggs, and an array of other alluring aromas teased her senses. Her stomach rumbled loudly in response. She covered it and fought a blush. Thank goodness it was just her parents in the room.
r />   “Good morning, Papa.” Anna bent to kiss her father on the cheek, then turned to her mother and did the same. “Good morning, Mama.”

  “Good morning, my dear.” Mama spread some marmalade on a piece of toast, and her father grunted his greeting from behind the newspaper.

  She went to the sideboard and selected an assortment of fruit and toast.

  “You appear tired this morning, Annabel. Did you stay up late reading again?”

  Anna covered another yawn as she took her seat at the table. “The book was just too entertaining to put down. I started reading, and the next thing I knew it was nearly dawn.”

  “Oh, bother.” Her mother took a sip of tea. “I do hope that will not affect you at the ball this evening.”

  Anna hid a frown. “Bother. I had completely forgotten about Almack’s.” She detested the pretentious display she always saw at Almack’s. The young ladies acting like witless, tittering fools in order to attract a husband, and the men who expected the women to be witless, tittering fools.

  She sighed. She could not avoid it; last week at Miss Rockton’s musicale Anna had promised a waltz at Almack’s to Lord Anthony Walstone, Viscount Boxton. He was handsome enough, but in desperate need of a dowry to pay off his father’s gambling debts.

  Anna had a dowry…a handsome one, at that. Could Lord Boxton have a genuine interest in her? Ask yourself the question that matters, Anna. If he spoke to her father to request permission to court her, would she be amenable to such a match?

  She did not have a long enough acquaintance with him to know whether or not she enjoyed his wit or conversation. It was commonplace for husbands and wives to spend very little time in each other’s company, so she supposed that would not be problematic.

  It was a simple enough matter. Anna dreaded spinsterhood. She had spent far too long pining over a man who did not share her intimate affections. She may not love Viscount Boxton, or be particularly fond of him, but if he wished to give her his name and was willing to father her children, she would accept his proposal without a moment of doubt.

  “Do not fret, Mama. I will take a nap this afternoon in preparation for Almack’s.”

  “Be sure to not nap too long, Annabel. Your mother and I would like to have an early repast before we depart. The fare at Almack’s is abysmal.” Her father, Joseph Bradley, youngest brother of the Marquis of Greydon, put down his newspaper and stood. “If you will both excuse me, I have a meeting with my solicitor.”

  “Have a pleasant day, Papa.” Anna poured herself a cup of steaming tea.

  “Until supper, Joseph.”

  “Annabel, Margaret.” He gave them both a kiss on the forehead before quitting the room.

  Anna added cream and sugar into her teacup and took a sip. It did not satisfy her proclivity for sweetness as well as her favourite hot chocolate, but it was pleasing nonetheless.

  “Good morning, mother!” A booming male voice echoed in the small space. “Annabel, you look well. Such a pleasure to see the both of you.” Her older brother, Major Charles Bradley, strutted into the breakfast room with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, his blonde hair handsomely—and, she thought, deliberately—dishevelled.

  “Good heavens, Charles, what have you done now?” Mama said in a reproachful voice. “You know how irksome your father and I find it when you cause a scandal.” She put the last small piece of her marmalade toast in her mouth and chewed it slowly.

  Anna smiled behind her teacup. “Yes, Charles, do tell us what you’ve been up to. Nothing too mischievous, I hope.” She took another sip and returned it to its saucer.

  “No, indeed,” he said in mock affront, his eyes glittering with humour. “I merely spent the evening at White’s and won ten quid off Stanton at the tables.” He paused with a teasing glance toward their mother. “Then Harvey and I retired to a very nice house down the street where we met two very fine young ladies—”

  “That is quite enough, Charles!” Mama’s eyes were wide. “You will hold your tongue. Those tales are not fit for a lady’s ears!”

  Annabel couldn’t suppress the inelegant snort of laughter that escaped her. Mama turned sharp eyes on her, while Charles’ crinkled in the corners.

  “You know he says such things only to shock you, Mama.” She sent an impish grin to Charles. “He could not possibly have won ten quid; he is not nearly that skilled a card player.”

  Charles let out a bark of laughter while their mother gasped, a hand fluttering to her chest.

  “Annabel,” she scolded.

  Charles leaned forward to place his palms flat on the table. “I could win against you easily, little sister. Name the time, game, and wager.”

  “I shall! I have no prior engagements tomorrow afternoon—”

  “Indeed you shall not!” Mama tossed her napkin to the table. “There will be no wagering in this household.” With an exasperated sigh, she stood and stalked from the room, sending them one last warning glance over her shoulder before disappearing through the doorway. “You two will be the death of me, yet.”

  As soon as their mother was out of earshot, Charles heaped his plate with pork and eggs and sat at the table across from Anna.

  “I do love teasing her so.” He grinned at her.

  Anna swallowed a mouthful of fruit and smiled back at him. “I don’t think I could ever tire of it. Now,” she paused, “what did you really do last night?”

  Charles did not look up from his plate. “Precisely what I said.”

  “Come off it, Charles. I know you better than that. You are an abysmal liar.”

  His midnight-blue eyes grew shuttered, but the look vanished so quickly that she wasn’t sure she had actually seen it. That concerned her more than anything.

  Since her brother had returned injured from war four months ago, he had been different. He had erected a wall around himself, exuding only the happy version of Charles. But Anna knew he was hiding something behind his jokes. He was quick to temper and grew defensive very easily. Even his closest friend, Bridget, Lane’s younger sister, had stopped coming around except to visit with Anna. Those two had been nearly as inseparable as Lane and Anna, but something had obviously occurred to change that. Annabel was burning to know what it was.

  “Very well, my sister, the sleuth,” he grumbled. “I saw a play at Drury Lane.”

  Anna’s eyebrows rose. “You? A play? I am all astonishment!”

  Charles chewed on a mouthful of egg. “I did, in fact, go to White’s after the play and won ten quid from Stanton. But that is where my evening ended.”

  Something told her that there was more, but she did not press him. He was entitled to his secrets.

  “Sounds dull,” she ventured.

  “Not so dull as yours, I imagine. What did you do? Read?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” she said defensively. “I would not consider that dull. And do not look so smug. I thoroughly enjoyed my evening.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  Anna dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I am afraid, brother of mine, that I will leave you to continue breaking your fast alone. I must do some reading before I nap this afternoon.”

  “You must read?”

  “Hush,” she admonished. “Will you be attending the ball at Almack’s this evening?”

  “I will. Save me a quadrille?”

  “For you, brother, of course.”

  Chapter 4

  “Goodness, what a crush!” Mrs. Margaret Bradley exclaimed as they neared the assembly rooms at Almack’s.

  Anna’s shoulders brushed against those around her, lending truth to her mother’s words. They walked en masse into the spectacular room. Chandeliers glittered above them, their bright light reflecting off of the gold accents throughout the opulent space. The walls were adorned with fine draperies and painted in pale tones. On the floor was a sea of colourful gowns and evening finery, swaying and swirling like the ocean’s tide.

&n
bsp; The sea parted briefly, allowing Lord Boxton to find his way through.

  Anna smiled politely at him as he approached. He was dressed impeccably; black trousers and coat, an emerald-green waistcoat that made his forest-green eyes sparkle, topped with a snowy-white shirt and cravat. Not a dandy was Lord Boxton.

  He sketched a shallow bow, and she responded with an appropriate curtsey.

  “Good evening, Miss Bradley,” he drawled.

  “Good evening to you, Lord Boxton.” Anna turned, gesturing toward her brother and making the introductions.

  “Miss Bradley, would you do me the honour of partnering me for the next quadrille?”

  Anna smiled at him and held out her dance card. “I would be delighted. Thank you.”

  Lord Boxton bent to jot his name on her card, a lock of his wavy auburn hair falling over his brow. When he straightened, his expression was a combination of satisfaction and challenge.

  Anna glanced at her card and suppressed a cluck of her tongue. Lord Boxton had put his name beside the first quadrille and two waltzes.

  “My lord, you know I cannot—”

  “Please, call me Anthony.”

  Anna’s eyes widened briefly at his presumption. Surely her family would interfere. But a cursory glance told her that sometime during the past few minutes they had made themselves scarce.

  Hadn’t she just been considering saying yes to this man, should he propose marriage? Why, then, should she feel resistant to being on familiar terms with him? Silly, Anna.

  She gave him a toothy smile. “Why thank you, Anthony. You may call me Annabel.” She hesitated, but broached the subject of his improperly claiming three dances. “I fear I must—”

  He stepped nearer, clasping her wrist before wrapping her hand around his elbow. “I believe this is our dance.”

  Indeed, the strains of a quadrille were echoing through the ballroom from the orchestra on the balcony.

  Lord Boxton—Anthony—must feel quite pleased with himself, Anna supposed. She could hardly mention his misstep now that the moment had passed. She would merely have to claim a headache or express a desire for some punch to avoid appearing discourteous.