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  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-662-3

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  Mesmerized, October 2003.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

  © SIR PHILIP ASHTON’S EYES, Sahara Kelly, 2003.

  © MAGIC IN THE WORKS, Ashleigh Raine, 2003.

  © TRUE LIES, Jaci Burton, 2003.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without author and publisher permission.

  Mesmerized, edited by Brianna St. James.

  Cover art by Darrell King.

  Mesmerized

  Sir Philip Ashton’s Eyes

  By Sahara Kelly

  Magic In The Works

  By Ashleigh Raine

  True Lies

  Jaci Burton

  Sir Philip Ashton’s Eyes

  By Sahara Kelly

  Chapter 1

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. No, absolutely no. Thank you, but no.”

  The earnest young gentleman on his knees before Miss Abigail Foxworth looked puzzled, and then his face relaxed. “Ah. You mean you’d like some time to consider my proposal.”

  “No, Lord Reginald. I mean thank you for doing me the honor of offering for my hand, but I must refuse.”

  “But…but…”

  Abby sighed. “Reginald, what part of the simple word ‘no’ do you fail to comprehend?”

  Reginald Abernathy wrinkled his brow while he engaged in the challenging exercise of actually thinking about something other than his horses. “Well, Mama said…”

  “Hmm. What did your Mama say?” Abby clenched her teeth. Lady Abernathy was the largest, loudest, most self-absorbed woman in London. Who also worshipped her oldest son as unquestionably the “catch” of the Season.

  He wasn’t.

  “Well, Mama said…” He rose from his knees, carefully withdrawing a handkerchief from his perfectly cut coat and wiping away any lingering flecks of carpet. “She said that ladies must perforce refuse the first offer, while they consider all the advantages of being married. To me. Then they’ll understand why it’s such a good idea. And then they’ll say yes.” He turned his rather vacant blue eyes to her face. “And I’m a nice man, Abby.”

  Once again, Abby sighed. “Of course you are, Reginald. You’ll make some girl a fine husband, I’m sure.” One who has no brains of her own, and doesn’t care that her husband has none either. “But not for me.”

  Reginald tried to look desolate at her rejection. But the effort was too much, and he simply looked…well…vacant.

  “What am I going to tell Mama, then?” he whined.

  Abby took a breath. It appeared that, thankfully, she’d not shattered his heart or his dreams, and blighted the rest of his probably long and boring life. Which assumed some other woman didn’t kill him first, thus sparing herself from years of horse-talk.

  “Just tell your Mama that I was a completely foolish woman, who couldn’t recognize the treasure under my nose, and chose not to accept your offer. Then tell her that you rather agreed with me, since it was clear that by refusing you I was demonstrating how very stupid I was.”

  Reginald took several moments to digest that rather complex instruction.

  Abby’s hands fidgeted as she fought the urge to punch him and perhaps jolt his brain, whatever there was of it, into some kind of functioning order.

  It took a few minutes, but finally a satisfied smile crossed his chubby face and he nodded. “Right. Very good, Abigail, very good.”

  He looked around, blinking. “Well, I should take myself off then.”

  Abigail gritted her teeth. “Yes, Reginald, I think that would be best.”

  “You’re still interested in that filly at Tattersall’s, though, aren’t you? Dodsman’s breakdown?”

  Now the man’s eyes were focused, and for a moment Abigail caught herself wondering if he should just skip the whole wife business and stick with his horses. At least they brought some animation to the poor chap.

  “Yes, indeed, Reginald. If you would take a look at her and send me a note? I’d appreciate it.”

  “Happy to, m’dear,” he chortled, bowing to her. He toddled off, grinning like a child who’d been given a treat. No air of the rejected suitor hung over his shoulders—he was now a man with a mission. A horse mission.

  Abigail closed her eyes as the door shut behind him and heaved an enormous sigh of relief.

  Another man sent off about his business, another proposal rejected and, she knew, another round of recriminations from Aunt Eugenia.

  And sure enough, within mere moments of Reginald’s exit, the door opened again and a daintily rounded woman tip-toed into the room with an air of buoyant expectancy floating around her, along with a large number of tulle ruffles.

  “So, my dear, am I to wish you and Reginald happy? I saw him smiling as he left.” Eugenia Foxworth fluttered to the couch and sat next to Abigail, eyeing her niece hopefully.

  “Sorry to spoil your morning, Aunt Eugenia. Reginald failed to persuade me that marriage to him would be anything other than a complete disaster.”

  Eugenia permitted herself an unladylike snort. “Well, for heaven’s sake, Abigail. What am I going to do with you? You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

  Abigail rose, and commenced her favorite occupation during these sessions with her aunt. She paced. Some bottled-up energy inside her refused to allow her to stay still for long, and she found striding up and down the long salon helped her keep her temper, and her tongue, between her teeth.

  “Aunt, you have pointed out my age, my lack of a husband, and my obvious shortcomings often enough. I know them by heart. Can’t we just say that I refused Reginald, it’s done with, and move on?”

  Eugenia sighed dramatically and fluttered her handkerchief. “You know I love you, dear, as if you were my own. I just worry about you so.”

  Guilt swamped Abigail and she moved to the couch, dropping a light kiss on her aunt’s elegantly, if improbably colored, head. “I know, Aunt, I know. And I’m sorry to be such a trial to you.”

  Eugenia straightened slightly. “You’re never that, my dear. I cannot tell you how glad I am your parents allowed you to come to London and ease my loneliness after your dear uncle…” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

  Abigail wasn’t fooled. “Aunt Eugenia, you and I both know that there are any number of eligible gentlemen who’d be happy to ‘ease your loneliness’. Why just the other evening, Colonel Dagenham was commenting on your good looks.”

  “He was?” Eugenia’s eyes sparkled and she turned with a smile. Then she recalled the subject under discussion and straightened her face. “Well, that’s nice, but neither here nor there at the moment. We’re discussing you, Abby.”

  Damnation. Distraction hadn’t worked. She was in for it now. “Do we have to?”

  “Yes we do.” Eugenia settled her ample bottom comfortably between the cushions. “This makes how many now? Five? Five offers you’ve turned down flat?”

  “I don’t keep count,” answered Abby wryly.

  “Well, there was young Fotherby. You said he was too short.”

  “He was, Aunt, even you must admit that.�
�

  Eugenia permitted herself a slight nod. “Well, I do confess that it would be disconcerting to spend one’s life talking down to one’s husband whose face was exactly level with one’s…um…” She trailed off with a blush. “But there was nothing wrong with Charles Marshfield or Sir Roxburgh deHaven.”

  “Charles is a gambling idiot who lives for the next turn of the cards. Sir Roxburgh is twenty years my senior and wants heirs. I don’t want to be someone’s brood mare, Aunt.”

  “Well, good gracious, Abby, what do you want?”

  Silence fell as Abby paced the floor, struggling with the answer to the question that had plagued her mind from the minute she’d arrived in London and started suffering through this long parade of would-be suitors.

  “I want…I want…” She bit her lip, trying to find the words to explain to her aunt. “I want a man, Aunt.”

  “Well, my dear, all of them so far have fit that particular qualification,” giggled Eugenia.

  Abby ignored her, and continued her own train of thought. “I want a man who makes me feel things, who challenges me to think things. Who makes me want to¾”

  A new voice broke into Abby’s words. “Toss up your skirts and spread your legs for him?”

  Eugenia gasped and fell back on the couch, reaching for her ever-present vinaigrette and waving it under her nose.

  Abby laughed and turned to see an elderly woman, carefully leaning on her cane and standing in the doorway. “Grandmama, you were eavesdropping.”

  “Bet your boots, sweetheart. Only way to find out anything interesting. I hope this means you’ve sent that ass Reginald off with a flea in his ear?”

  “Yes, indeed,” chuckled Abigail. My, how she loved this cantankerous old woman.

  “Good gel. He was as useless as a pile of droppings from those damned horses he goes on about. Tried to talk me into one, for God’s sake. At my age. As if I could still ride anything, let alone a horse.”

  Eugenia gasped again. “Mama Wetherford, please. Such conversation is not fit for Abby’s ears.”

  “Damnation, Eugenia. Don’t be a nitwit. Abigail is telling you precisely what she wants, and you’re not listening. What she wants is a man who’ll wake up the woman inside her.”

  Abby’s jaw dropped.

  “A man who’ll make her think about how what’s between his legs would feel between hers. A man with some fire to him, and a brain that might even outstretch the length of his cock.”

  Eugenia looked like she might faint at any moment.

  “Well, gel? Am I right?” The Dowager Duchess of Wetherford glared at her granddaughter fiercely. “You’re possessed of brains, a handsome dowry, and a body that makes men’s mouths water. But as yet, not one man’s done the same for you.”

  Abby stared.

  The wrinkled face smiled back at her. “He’s out there, Abby. Never fear, the right man’s out there. You’ve too much to offer him to let it all go to waste on some slack-pricked nincompoop.”

  Eugenia gave up the battle, and tossed her vinaigrette aside. “Good Lord, Mama. You speak as if…as if…intimate relations…were the only important thing.” She blushed.

  “Well, and aren’t they? Gel’s got to lie in her husband’s bed and breed him heirs. Damn well ought to have fun doing it.” A wicked grin creased the folds around the Dowager’s mouth. “I certainly did.”

  “I’ll wager you did too, you reprobate, Grandmama,” smiled Abby.

  “’Twas a different age, a different set of values, Abby. None of this go off and marry an idiot for his title, bear him a couple of sons, and then start looking for passion. We knew how to do it right the first time. Or maybe the second or third…”

  Abby laughed. “You mean I should experiment beforehand, Grandmama?” she asked cheekily.

  “NO,” squawked Eugenia. “No, no, a thousand times no.”

  “Oh cease your frabbling, Eugenia. Don’t think we need worry about our Abby here. She’ll keep her thighs together. And if she doesn’t, well then, she’s found the right man.”

  * * * * *

  The right man.

  Her grandmother’s blunt words rang in Abigail’s ears as she dressed for the evening.

  Was the “right man” out there waiting for her?

  Was there actually a single man in all of England who could make her feel things and need things and…and…

  She glanced down at her body. Was there a fire in there that the right man could light?

  She closed her eyes for a moment. She was not totally inexperienced. She’d been kissed. Quite a few times. Occasionally with her cooperation.

  But there’d been no spark, no flutter in her belly.

  Young Johnny Mountwell had even shown her his cock. Many years ago, of course. She’d been fascinated at how it had grown larger under her gaze, and when she’d reached out her hand to touch it, it had swelled even more.

  But when he’d asked her to actually put her mouth on the damned thing, she’d responded with something like “Eeeeuuuuwww”, and it had shriveled before her eyes. Johnny hadn’t spoken to her since.

  That had been more than six years ago, and here she was with no more than a few kisses and a forbidden glimpse at an aroused youth to keep her company at night.

  It was poor companionship, when she knew she yearned for more.

  More than the feel of a man’s hardness pressing against her in the waltz. More than the fumbled attempts at kisses that had left her unmoved and wiping her mouth surreptitiously afterwards.

  She sighed and pulled the bell to summon her maid.

  She must dress for the evening to come, and knew that being late wasn’t an option.

  Tonight they were to attend a demonstration of mesmerism at Lady Rachel Greenhough’s home. At least it held slightly more interest for Abby than another endless ball or soiree, and perhaps there might even be some guests interested in something other than who was engaged to who. Or whom. Or whatever.

  Her maid arrived, and together they turned Abby into a lady fit for an evening’s entertainment.

  Her dark red hair was twisted into a sleek coil, with a few long curls placed delicately across her white skin, lying comfortably on her bosom.

  A simple emerald pendant and matching earbobs brought out the green sparkle in her eyes, and her plain gold silk gown made her hair glow with rich, deep slashes of fire. She was unfashionable, and she knew it, but cared not one whit.

  Men chorused the charms of the latest petite, blue-eyed blonde, and few had time for a statuesque, brazenly red-haired woman past the first flush of youth.

  Her breasts were revealed by the low décolletage that barely covered them, a fashion she dared wear thanks to her advanced years. Not that it mattered, of course, because odds were good that she’d end up chatting with some scientifically-minded people, most of whom, she’d found, were settled, married, and past the point of looking down a woman’s dress.

  Thankfully.

  With an appreciative murmur of gratitude to her maid, Abby picked up her Norwich silk shawl with the golden fringe and tugged her long white evening gloves smooth.

  Her reticule clinked a little, not because it held a vinaigrette full of smelling salts, but because it contained a small fold of paper and a pencil, along with her small comb and a little vial of perfume. She never knew when the opportunity might arise to jot down an interesting comment or an idea that demanded pursuing.

  She made a little moue at herself in the mirror. Face it, my girl. You’re as close to a bluestocking as a woman can get without actually being one.

  It was with that rather depressing thought still in her mind that Abby and her aunt arrived at the Greenhough’s town house, their carriage waiting patiently for its turn to disgorge its passengers into the capable hands of the Greenhough’s butler.

  The home itself was lovely, decided Abby, elegant, fashionable, yet possessing a touch of something indefinable that made it a home.

  And after meeting Lady Rachel, it was c
lear that she herself was the touch.

  “Welcome, Lady Foxworth, Miss Foxworth. I’m so glad you could join us this evening. My husband’s around here somewhere…” She glanced off distracted. “Drat the man. Never manages to get the idea of where he should be and when.”

  The happy smile that accompanied these words took the sting out of them and Abby smiled back. “Thank you so much for inviting us this evening. I am looking forward to the lecture.”

  Lady Rachel grinned. “I’m glad you are, Miss Foxworth. Because unfortunately, no matter how I tried to convince him otherwise, a lecture is certainly what it will be.”

  “Him?” inquired Eugenia politely, giving Abby an unwelcome nudge with her sharp little elbow.

  Abby sighed.

  Lady Rachel chuckled. “My brother, Ma’am. Philip Ashton. He’s our lecturer for this evening. I can only apologize in advance if his discourse should bore you into oblivion. I love him, of course, but such a dull dog. Buries himself in the country all alone with his experiments and that sort of nonsense. I had to verily drag him by his coattails to participate this evening.”

  “How did you convince him, Lady Rachel?” asked Abby, more from a desire to be polite than a desire to learn the answer.

  “I told him I’d come down and personally blow up his laboratory. And since I nearly did once before when we were little, he took my threat very seriously.”

  Abby and Eugenia both laughed at this frank statement.

  “But I must greet more guests, and let you ladies take your seats. If you’ll follow Matcham?”

  Taking their leave of their hostess, Abby and Eugenia dutifully marched behind the stout butler and found themselves seated in a large room, which probably functioned as a ballroom on other, more formal, occasions.

  Tonight, however, lines of chairs had been assembled, much as for a musicale, but there were no instruments in sight, just a raised dais.

  They allowed Matcham to seat them front and center, and chatted quietly as the rest of the room filled up with whispering, laughing, talking guests.