The Charming Jezebel

  The Charming Jezebel

  Merry Farmer

  THE CHARMING JEZEBEL

  Copyright ©2019 by Merry Farmer

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)

  ASIN: B07WRDL9V9

  Paperback ISBN: 9781689602341

  Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.

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  Created with Vellum

  For Kendra

  One of the most charming people I know.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Shropshire, England – Summer, 1816

  It was still raining. Lady Ophelia Binghamton had never seen anything like it in her life. For weeks, the entire summer, the full length of the house party at Hadnall Heath, it had rained nearly constantly. The temperature hadn’t once risen above early spring levels. Ophelia had wrapped herself in a shawl every morning and not shed it until going to bed each night. Even with a crackling fire in her grate, her bed in the guest room at the home of her dear friend, Lady Caroline Herrington, had felt cold and lonely. But, of course, that had nothing to do with the way her dreams and her fantasies were filled with Mr. Saif Khan while her bed remained empty.

  She snuggled down into to the chair where she sat reading in a far corner of the grand parlor of Hadnall Heath. The book was a large, illustrated tome about India that she’d discovered in Caro’s library. As the rain beat down outside in an endless, dreary rhythm, she pored over pages about the blistering heat and shimmering sands of Rajasthan. The illustrations in particular captured her imagination—sweeping, color paintings of men with brown skin and thick moustaches, turbans pinned with jewels wrapping their heads, flowing garments of the most beautiful colors swathing their bodies.

  She grinned at a picture of a prince astride an elephant surveying his court, then peeked up over the top of her book at Mr. Khan. He had the same heroic posture and exotic brown skin. His smile as he spoke with Lord Rufus Herrington, Caro’s husband, was beautiful. He even wore a colorful waistcoat made from the bright fabric of his homeland. He didn’t have a moustache, like the men in her book, and he had grown his hair out in the style that was currently fashionable in England instead of wearing a turban, but everything about him was enticing and invigorating. She’d never been half as daring as her friends, Miss Felicity Murdoch and Lady Eliza Towers—who had already found husbands during the course of the house party and had left suddenly to dash up to Gretna Green and London to marry them as quickly as possible—but it was far too easy to fantasize about succumbing to whatever exotic lusts Mr. Khan entertained. She wondered what Mr. Khan would look like without clothes, if his manhood was as proud and magnificent as Felicity and Eliza had hinted their husbands’ were.

  Those wicked thoughts were at the forefront of her thoughts when Mr. Khan glanced up at her across the room. Instantly, prickles of pleasure broke out along Ophelia’s back and her heart sped up. Mr. Khan smiled at her and nodded, as warm and open as could be. Ophelia felt herself blush furiously and hid behind her book once more, shivering and aching in all the best places. Mr. Khan had been deliciously kind to her when they’d been paired together for the treasure hunt Caro had organized a fortnight ago, but Ophelia had been far too shy to speak more than a handful of words to the object of her tender fancies since then. If only she were brave and daring, like Felicity and Eliza. If only she dared to speak up for herself.

  “Do not imagine I do not see the looks you and Saif Khan are exchanging,” Caro said, sweeping up to the chair beside Ophelia’s and sitting. As usual, Caro wore an expression of mischief that made her even more beautiful than she already was.

  “There are no looks,” Ophelia said shyly, knowing she was lying. “We simply happened to glance at each other simultaneously by accident.”

  Caro fixed her with a look that said she didn’t believe that for a moment. “You cannot fool me,” she said. “The two of you have been making love to each other with looks for the past month now.”

  Heat rushed to Ophelia’s face. “I wouldn’t dare,” she said, hunching her shoulders sheepishly. She didn’t like the way her reticence made her feel, though, so she straightened and went on with, “Aunt Millicent would never allow it.”

  Caro made a sound of agreement and displeasure, and both of them glanced several yards to the side, where Ophelia’s chaperone for the house party, her Aunt Millicent, sat knitting with a group of other chaperones. Aunt Millicent, like Mr. Khan, clearly knew she was the topic of conversation. She looked up at Ophelia with a frown, shook her head as though she disapproved, then went back to her work.

  “Never mind your aunt,” Caro said, reaching across the space between the chairs to pat her arm. “We have more important matters to discuss.”

  “We do?” Ophelia sat up straighter, closing her book and setting it aside.

  “Yes,” Caro answered with a sigh, glancing out over the grand parlor and her guests. “I’m at my wit’s end. The rain and inclement weather has lasted a horrifically long time. It has curtailed all of my best house party plans and kept everyone cooped inside, like so many chickens. We’ve had half a dozen engagements so far, aside from Felicity and Eliza, but the tide has turned. Everyone is restless and growing irritable.”

  She was right. Ophelia glanced out over the vast expanse of the grand parlor, where all of the remaining house party guests were gathered, grouped together in various activities. Mr. Khan and Rufus stood with a small group of gentlemen, conversing about something Ophelia was too far away to hear, though she would have been interested in the topic, she was certain. Other clusters of gentlemen stood or lounged in other parts of the parlor, including Lord Marlowe, Mr. Pigge, and the odious Lord Cunningham—who Felicity had humiliated during the first week of the house party. Ophelia would never be able to expunge the sight of the man, naked and abusing himself, in front of an audience. Why he hadn’t left the party in shame was a mystery to her. He had most likely chosen to stay so that his daughter, Lady Malvis, could find a husband at last. Though whether she would be able to do that after her father’s public humiliation was questionable.

  Lady Malvis sat with a group of ladies who Ophelia was convinced thought quite highly of themselves. They didn’t appear to be doing much but sitting with perfect posture in expensive gowns, their hair expertly arranged, sending flirtatious looks here and there, like carrier pigeons, to the remaining eligible bachelors at the party. Lady Malvis was clearly the queen bee of the group—a fact which was evident because her plastered-on smile was ten times sourer than the others. In a way, Ophelia couldn’t blame the woman for
being desperate for a husband. She had two failed engagements to her credit already, perhaps even three. Ophelia wasn’t sure. If she didn’t make a match at the house party, it was likely she’d end up a spinster.

  A fate Ophelia was increasingly certain would be hers.

  “You must help me invent some sort of entertainment to keep them all happy,” Caro went on. Ophelia was grateful her friend couldn’t read her thoughts. “I’ve already organized theatrical events and the treasure hunt. We’ve played cards and engaged in various handicrafts for days. I’ve even set up the archery set in the ballroom. Every activity is wearing thin. What should we do?”

  Ophelia hummed, biting her lip in thought as she continued to survey the room. “The aim of a house party is to couple ladies and gentlemen together, correct?”

  “Yes,” Caro said.

  Ophelia knit her brow as her gaze settled on the Marlowe sisters—Lettuce, Alice, and Imogen—as they sat clustered around a small table, painting with watercolors. Her heart bled for them. While it was usual for young ladies and gentlemen to attend house parties with the intent of making the acquaintance of potential spouses, their father had been bandying them about to gentlemen of his own age as though they were thoroughbred horses in need of studs. As far as Ophelia was concerned, it was a tragedy worthy of the stage.

  Not that her position with Aunt Millicent was any better. Failure to contract a marriage, any marriage, during the house party was not acceptable. It would mean the end of any chance of a life in society for Ophelia. It would mean she would be forced to live as Aunt Millicent’s companion for the rest of her life, a fate that horrified her.

  “A ball,” Ophelia said at last, a strange sort of resolve forming in her chest—if not for her sake, then for the sake of the Marlowe sisters. “We must have a ball.”

  “Another ball?” Caro asked, following the line of Ophelia’s gaze uncertainly. “Do you think it would help the Marlowe sisters in some way?”

  Ophelia dragged her eyes away from the unfortunate sisters and stared at Caro. “Balls are always welcome events,” she said. “They are one of the few situations in which we women can speak freely with men. Without the interference of our chaperones,” she added, lowering her voice and peeking at Aunt Millicent.

  “You are right about that,” Caro said thoughtfully. “Though we’ve had two balls a week already.”

  Ophelia shook her head. “That does not signify. A ball is one of the few events that you can never have too many of. Why, during the London season, there are balls every night.”

  “True,” Caro said with a sigh. “I had hoped to be more original than that.”

  “The time for originality has passed, I’m afraid,” Ophelia said. “The party is almost over, and it is clear as day that a good many of your guests are still desperately in want of a proposal.”

  Caro grinned knowingly at her. “Am I to assume that you are one of those guests?”

  The heat flooded back to Ophelia’s cheeks. “I…well…I wouldn’t presume….”

  “But you should.” Caro leaned over the arm of her chair and patted Ophelia’s arm again. “I, for one, believe you and Mr. Khan would make a handsome and exotic couple. And that you would have handsome and exotic babies.”

  “Oh!” Ophelia pressed a hand to her chest, blinking furiously and knowing she looked like a ninny. At the same time, the idea of having babies with Mr. Khan, the idea of going through the process of making those babies, filled her with a longing she couldn’t deny.

  She chose that moment to peek up at Mr. Khan and was horrified—and titillated—to find him grinning at her, as though he were having the same sort of thoughts. But, of course, that was the worst—or best—of the situation. She was well aware that he wanted her as much as she secretly longed for him.

  “Enough of this,” Caro said with a deep laugh. “It gives me palpitations to watch you and Mr. Khan flirting in this way.”

  “We are not flirting,” Ophelia insisted.

  “You are,” Caro said. “And the time has come to end the flirtation and begin the affair.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” Ophelia touched a hand to her blazing-hot cheek. “I’m not like you or Felicity or Eliza. I could never throw myself at a man that way.”

  “Even though you want to?” Caro asked, one eyebrow raised.

  “I—”

  “Even though you should?” Caro went on. When Ophelia was too bashful to reply, she shook her head and went on with, “Then I shall have to do something to drive the two of you together. It is about time I saw you as happy as our other friends are.”

  “Quite right.”

  Ophelia nearly jumped out of her skin as Aunt Millicent answered Caro’s statement with those two, sharply delivered words. She hadn’t noticed her aunt leaving her knitting and her friends to join her and Caro. If she had, she would have guarded her expression and her thoughts much more closely.

  “Aunt Millicent,” she said, rising and offering the woman her seat, as she had been trained to do.

  Aunt Millicent remained standing. She swept Ophelia with an assessing gaze. “It truly is well past time for you to take action and find yourself a husband, young miss.”

  “I was just telling Ophelia—” Caro began, standing as well.

  “But not the gentleman I have watched you studying so closely,” Aunt Millicent cut her off, glaring at Ophelia.

  Caro bristled far more than Ophelia did. “You do not approve of Mr. Khan?” she asked.

  “Certainly not.” Aunt Millicent looked offended by the suggestion.

  “Not even considering his father is—”

  “His father is an Indian, a colonial. Just as Mr. Khan is a colonial.” She said the word as though it were synonymous with criminal. “My niece could in no way betroth herself to a barbaric, inferior colonial.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Caro snapped.

  Ophelia stayed silent, knowing there was no arguing with Aunt Millicent. She glanced across the room to Mr. Khan. He was tall and regal and had an air of intelligence about him. There was nothing barbaric or inferior about him.

  “He is entirely unsuitable,” Aunt Millicent went on. “My niece should be bringing herself to the attention of men like Lord Cunningham, Lord Marlowe, or Lord Ainsley.”

  Caro made a sound of disgust that echoed everything Ophelia felt. But still, there was little point in telling her aunt that she would rather throw herself off a cliff than be married to any of those men.

  “Just because a man has a title and English heritage does not make him suitable marriage material,” Caro argued on.

  “No?” Aunt Millicent looked down her nose at Caro. “Then why, pray tell, did you invite said gentlemen to your party to begin with?”

  “I was forced to,” Caro went on. “And if you had even a touch of tender feeling within you, you would see that not one of those gentlemen you have mentioned is suitable for Ophelia.”

  “How would you know what sort of gentleman is suitable for Ophelia?” Aunt Millicent asked.

  “She is my friend,” Caro snapped.

  She continued on, but Ophelia’s attention drifted. Caro could argue with Aunt Millicent all she liked, but it wouldn’t change the old woman’s mind. And it wouldn’t change her fate either. She glanced woefully across the room to Mr. Khan, knowing that the one thing she wanted was the one thing she couldn’t have.

  “Caro is beside herself, of course,” Rufus said, rambling on to Saif about the party, as he’d been doing for the last ten minutes. “Her reputation depends on the number of matches coming out of this blasted thing, after all.”

  “Caro will be fine,” Thaddeus, Rufus’s younger brother, said with a shrug. “Regardless of the weather, we’ve all been enjoying ourselves. Haven’t we, Khan?”

  Saif dragged his glance away from Lady Ophelia and hummed in agreement. “We have,” he said, then went right back to studying Ophelia.

  Something was wrong. Just a few minutes before, Ophelia had been fli
rting with him in a series of glances that were as sweet and shy as they were suggestive. Saif had been utterly taken in by her charm. But now, with her aunt and chaperone having some sort of argument with Lady Caro—or so it seemed from a distance—Ophelia’s shoulders had slumped and the spark in her eyes had gone out.

  “If it were up to me,” Rufus went on, “I would tell the lot of these people to pack up and go home.”

  “But the party isn’t over yet,” Thaddeus said, looking unusually alarmed at the prospect. He glanced across the room to Lady Imogen Marlowe. “We still have time.”

  If Saif hadn’t been so focused on Ophelia, he might have laughed at Thaddeus and the way he had clearly set his sights on Lady Imogen. Not that he had much chance there. Lord Marlowe had already made it clear that his daughters were only available to the highest bidders, and Thaddeus was the second son of a middling nobleman to begin with.

  “What about you, Khan?” Rufus asked, thumping Saif’s back. “Are you enjoying yourself in spite of the rain?”

  “Me? Yes. Absolutely,” Saif answered, turning to Ophelia once more.

  Rufus laughed. “I should have believed you when you said you were coming here to enjoy yourself. I just thought that would take the form of seducing half of my guests with your exotic talents, not pining after Lady Ophelia.”

  Saif glanced to Rufus, his brow raised. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Rufus shrugged. “Only that you have quite a reputation to uphold. You are our resident lothario, are you not?”

  A twist of guilt squeezed Saif’s chest. He was a lothario. He had come to the house party with the intention of spending more time in bed than on his feet. He’d fled London and the responsibility that was speeding toward him for that reason and more. But then he had met Lady Ophelia.