View this author's other titles

LENGTH:Full Novel
SENSUALITY:Spicy

Cover art (c) Alex DeShanks 2008
ISBN 978-1-60394-151-8
Download $5.99
Trade Paperback ISBN 1-58608-
Retail price $10.99
Our Price $8.79
(s&h not included in price)

Men were beasts and the Felmont men more debauched and depraved than all the rest put together—the viscount needed to wed her for her money, though, and her uncles had threatened her with an asylum if she refused to wed.

The only way Lizzie could think to protect herself was to form a pact with the Beast she was forced to wed.

Rating: Spicy.

EVERY MIDNIGHT

By

Maggie Jagger

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

England, 1815

Lizzie Tempest owed the Beast nothing.

She glanced down the long drive to the gates. The Felmont family had given their word he was not due to return today, but that didn’t make her feel any safer. The family always lied.

Lizzie looked up at the mournful faces staring down at her from the windows of Felmont’s Folly and couldn’t resist waving to them, forcing them to abandon dignity and return her salute. Ever since she had imprisoned one of them for debt, the other members of the noble Felmont family had grown more careful of offending her.

Gravel crunched underfoot as she made her way around the carriage. The air smelled of freedom and of her Cleveland Bays snorting and fidgeting in their traces, eager to start their journey. Sunlight glistened on the golden stone of Felmont’s Folly as the great house rose out of the landscaped park, gilded by the dawn.

“Do get back in, Lizzie,” Aunt Tempest called from the safety of her seat inside the berline. “If the Felmonts see you walking about, they might all troop out to say their goodbyes again. If I have to suffer their slings and arrows one more time, I shall be glad my husband has cut them off without a penny.” Her voice faded into tremulous indignation while her knitting needles clacked furiously.

Lizzie gave a shudder of annoyance. She had no intention of sitting in the carriage while two maids slowly searched the luggage for the missing shawl. They were all conspiring to keep her at the Folly until the Beast returned to claim it for his own.

He did not come to claim her.

She had not forgotten the horrid words he had used the last time she’d seen him. “My dearest Lizzie, I don’t covet your money or your graceless manners. Consider yourself free from any engagement to me.” He’d stared with mocking sadness at her body and then leaned closer to whisper, “You could not tempt me to matrimony, not even in my wildest dreams.”

Inside the great house the Felmonts waited for him, locked in verbal duels with each other. If they had been partial to pistols at dawn, the family would have died out long ago. The only thing they all agreed on was their need for her to marry one of them—to keep her fortune in the family.

Lizzie opened the carriage door. “I shall meet you at the gates, Aunt Tempest.”

“Don’t go by yourself!” Aunt Tempest seemed shocked at the idea. “Wait until my shawl is found. Get in, Lizzie. I cannot abide a draft.”

“Let me replace it, dear Aunt Tempest,” begged Lizzie. “If you are not at the gates by the time I get there, I shall walk to Bath.”

“Fortune hunters will capture you long before you get to the village,” warned the irate lady.

Lizzie stepped resolutely onto the lawn. She had a dozen outriders waiting outside the gates to protect her.

The cool caress of wet grass felt like silk at her ankles. The sun played about her coal-scuttle bonnet and dark traveling dress. Anyone searching for the possessor of the Tempest fortune would never suspect her.

Inheriting her father’s fortune had been both a blessing and a curse. Life was full of blessings and curses. Her widowed mother marrying Viscount Felmont had truly been a curse, but the blessing was his gothic stone mansion known as Felmont’s Folly.

The great house called as she skirted the edge of the lake. For one last time she turned to admire its golden beauty, to love its towers and golden walls with all her heart.

Fixing the house had been a labor of love, an all engrossing project to take her mind off nursing her mother and stepfather. She might even visit the Folly again, when the Beast was laid in his grave. At the thought of him, she hurried across the lawn towards the distant gates.

A quarter of a mile away the gates opened. Thunder rolled low in the distance.

Not thunder. Horsemen raced down the drive, their mounts lathered. She watched them tear up the lawn as they spread out and galloped towards the Folly. She could clearly see the Beast riding in front of his wolf pack.

Her heart began a thunder of its own.

If he thought she lingered, waiting for him, she meant to disabuse him of the notion. Lizzie drew a shaky breath, gathering her dignity against the Beast’s arrogance, against his disdain for her.

Now was not the time to let childish fears surface. At almost twenty-two, she was long past girlish palpitations.

And what was the point of her leaving the outriders outside the park if he meant to ruin the drive and lawn with his pack of inebriated friends? Some of them could hardly stay in the saddle. No doubt the new Viscount Felmont couldn’t wait to begin his beastly debaucheries. Carriages full of whores likely followed him at a more sedate pace.

The Beast dismounted, momentarily lost to view in a noisy crowd of horses and men. His voice, a low rumble, drifted over the lawn. Raucous laughter greeted his words.

The Beast emerged near her berline as a dark shadow in the sunlight. He slammed open the door in search of what? Poor Aunt Tempest. A faint cry of female distress brought a cheer from the Beast’s sodden companions.

Drat the man! What had happened to his manners?

Aunt Tempest’s hand pointed in her direction from the carriage window.

Lizzie’s legs froze.

The Beast turned to stride towards her. One man hurried after him. She forced air into her lungs and waited for them to approach. She’d rather die than show fear, or worse, faint at his feet. To her shame, she had done just that the day the Felmonts had celebrated her betrothal to the Beast. Even her mother had found it vastly amusing ... but those days were long gone.

The Beast was hatless, an almost certain sign he was foxed. He moved with his odd loose-limbed grace, his long legs covering more ground, though he took fewer strides than his companion. They left a silver trail in the morning dew coating the lawn.

Even the way the Beast walked towards her seemed insulting. She willed herself to be calm.

He stopped. Close enough to touch.

His dark brown hair had been bleached at the ends by a foreign sun, showing a strange reddish color, as if he had been singed in hell’s fire and spat out. Maybe Satan had no use for him either?

He had a handsome face if the Felmont likeness could be overlooked, not that Lizzie intended to try. His mouth was wide and finely sculpted. The skin ran tight around his jaw, which had not seen a razor this day. His deep blue eyes looked down the length of his long nose at her. No, not really at her. He looked around her, to the side of her, and for a moment he studied her wet hem. One side of his mouth drew down in a quirk of disgust.

“Miss Tempest, I am sorry to see you haven’t managed to escape your fate.” His voice swirled around her like honey. She felt the sound of his words long before she made sense of them.

The breeze brought the scent of the Beast to her nose. He had washed not long ago and changed his clothes. He smelled of soap from the Priory, as he always did, of jasmine almost hidden by the low note of musk. Strange, how the nose remembered such trivial things.

His hand reached out.

Lizzie retreated with dignity. She didn’t want to be touched by the Beast.

He had obviously called at the Priory to fortify himself with brandy, a scent that made her take a further step away from him. The Beast sober was bad enough. She dared not imagine what he must be like deep in his cups—not that a drunken Felmont was anything new to her.

“Allow me to introduce my friend, Rackham.” He turned to the gentleman standing several yards away. “Miss Elizabeth Tempest, the woman who ruined me. The woman who has pretended to be engaged to me for these last six years so she could do as she pleased with the Folly.”

The slender man stopped dusting at his disheveled town attire. He removed his hat to wave a greeting as if he stood miles away. His fair hair fell over his forehead with boyish charm—he was obviously not a Felmont male.

Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont, the fifth Viscount Felmont, the Beast from the Priory and now the owner of Felmont’s Folly, smiled at her. He smiled at her like the Devil welcoming the damned and drawled in a soft voice, “My dear Lizzie, do I get a kiss of welcome? No? It is with great difficulty I hold myself back.”

Lizzie did not doubt it. All Felmonts lived to satisfy their wicked urges.

He lowered his head to whisper in her sensitive ear, “As you refuse my kiss, I have only to decide which to do next. Burn the house down and let you watch, or help you escape and then burn the house down.” He called to his friend, “Rax, how long do you think the Folly will burn?”

“Gracious, all day and night. Can’t detain a lady for so long,” Mr. Rackham said in an apologetic tone. “Or her horses, they are waiting, too. You had better let Miss Tempest go.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, not when the Beast held her mesmerized by his madness. Burn Felmont’s Folly?

“Be a gentleman, Rax,” the Beast chided. “A lady must be given a choice.”

In a soft rumble, he asked her, “What is it to be, Lizzie? Do you want to watch the house burn first or is it enough that you have ruined me?”

While she took a calming breath, Lizzie let his threat dangle in the air between them. “I ruined you? How amusing.”

There was no use answering a madman with emotion and she had no intention of letting him upset her. She replied in a suitably bored voice, “As for the house, burn it to the ground if you must. It is full of your relatives come to welcome you home. Why don’t you burn it down after they are safely out of it and you are safely inside?”

Lizzie heard him give a low rumble of laughter. His obvious surprise at her words gave her a primitive satisfaction. The last time she had seen him, she’d never have dared talk back to him. She had only ever managed to get one coherent sentence out of her mouth when faced with the Beast. Years ago, Lizzie had actually managed to forbid him to look at her face. By some strange quirk of his nature, he had never met her eyes since.

He stepped nearer. She stared at his chest while the brim of her bonnet grazed him well below his shoulder. Lizzie forced herself to look up at him. He towered over her, so close his boots touched either side of her feet.

Her heart thudded.

He snagged her waist with both hands to stay her retreat.

A gasp escaped against her will. He was so close to her she could feel the heat from his body and almost taste the brandy on his breath.

His gaze drifted over her while she trembled in his grip. “Why didn’t you leave when your mother died?” he asked in a voice that echoed down her body to her waist encircled by his hands. “You could have escaped me then.”

Panic rose in her breast. Lizzie couldn’t tell if he caressed her or if her shivering made it feel as if he did. “Release me! I won’t be held like a tavern wench.”

She raised her hand in warning. “Let go!”

He ignored her threat and drew her closer.

She struck his looming face with such force her wrist hurt and her fingers stung, grazed by the stubble on his chin. She feared she had lost some of her skin.

How did women stand being kissed?

His lean cheek showed the mark of her hand. He’d winced. She was sure of it. The Beast released her waist and reached to tug on the ends of the ribbons under her chin. His forearms brushed against her breasts. Lizzie could have sworn she felt fiery brimstone singe her sensitive flesh through all her clothes.

Her bonnet slid off and fell to the ground. The Beast let go of her and kicked it away with one slow, deliberate slide against her leg.

She stepped backwards to break the disturbing contact and to allow him to attack her hat if it amused him. She could afford to buy as many bonnets as she wanted.

He followed her, his mocking blue eyes studying her simple coiffure. “Why did you stay? Did I err when I broke our engagement, my love? Do you wish to be mine?”

Her body trembled, not quite under her control, but she managed to answer him in a bored voice. “I have not lain awake languishing for you, Quentin Seraphim.”

He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of amazement. This pleased her.

The first and only time she had ever called him by name, he had thrown her into the lake. He had fought every village boy who tried to taunt him with his name. They had been permitted to call him Dacey or even Dace. Anything else he answered with violence.

He hated his name, Quentin Seraphim, because four baby boys had died at birth before him, so his mother had named him her fifth angel.

She should have called him Lucifer.

In a tone calculated to put the Beast in possession of the facts and bring him to his senses, Lizzie said, “The repairs to the façade were half finished when my stepfather died. To leave it was impossible. When your father inherited Felmont’s Folly, he didn’t have the funds to complete it. I did. None of this had anything to do with you.”

“Did you really think your banker uncles would allow you to squander your wealth without demanding their pound of flesh?” he asked. The Beast turned from her and walked away. He called over his shoulder to his friend, “Let’s burn it, Rax. I cannot pay for it.”

Lizzie ran to bar his way.

The Beast swept her aside. She ran after him, keeping out of arm’s reach.

“Let me explain, Beast.” She had dared call him Beast to his face. It gave her heart. “I will sign any document swearing the debt is mine. I assure you, I can afford it.”

“But I cannot afford to pay you back and I’d rather burn in hell’s fire than marry a woman who hates me.” The Beast reached out to take her hand. He pulled her towards the house, retracing the footsteps still visible on the lawn.

The heat from his hand burned through to her bones. The strength with which he compelled her to go with him frightened her. She lashed out and tried to hit his shoulder--she had no wish to lose more skin to his jaw. He leapt out of the way. A glancing blow struck him. To her surprise, he staggered, his face turned ashen under his tanned skin.

His recovery was slow, only her wrist caught in his grip kept him upright. At last, he rose to his full height. His gaze settled on her ear as he drew her arm closer to hold her against his side. “Let me speed you on your way,” he rasped in a voice tight with pain. “Stay here, Lizzie, and we will both live our nightmares. Run as far as you can. It’s your only hope.”

Lizzie pulled away to stop the Beast’s thigh from brushing hers. “Do you think I want to stay? Those are my bays waiting for me. Let go!”

He dragged her closer. “Your banker uncles are the enemy, dearest Lizzie, not me. It is by their design that you are still here. They all plot against you.”

She couldn’t match his stride as he strode away and had to run stumbling at his side. How had he managed to strip her of every ounce of dignity? How had he managed to return her to dithering childhood, when she had been so in awe of him, so fascinated yet repelled?

“Rax,” he called to his friend, “I must find a way to persuade the lady to leave. Do you suppose if I insist on a kiss, that might do it?”

A yelp of surprise came from Mr. Rackham as he hurried along beside them. “Dace, let her go. She has gone white with fright at the idea.”

Lizzie twisted in the Beast’s grip. “Stop pulling me and stop threatening me! I hate you!”

“What a picture of domestic bliss we’d make. She’s tried to kill me, Rax, have some sympathy.”

Lizzie bit her lip. It was true. She’d been eight years old, determined to murder him before he had chance to drown her again. She’d offered the Beast poisonous toadstool tea. He’d had too much sense to drink it.

She stumbled over the edge of the lawn when he pulled her onto the drive. Where had all his friends gone? Why did the servants only stand and stare? Didn’t they see the danger she faced?

He captured her flailing hand to hold both her wrists with one large fist. “Easy, Lizzie, I’m trying to help you escape.”

Did he think she wanted to stay? He was devil and fool rolled into one.

“For heaven’s sake! Dace!” Mr. Rackham shouted until the Beast turned his head from his mocking contemplation of her unraveling hair. “Ask Miss Tempest to marry you. There is no point burning it down if she’ll have you. Lovely place. Breathtaking.”

“We discussed this, Rax.” The viscount had lost his drawl.

“Oh heavens, stop! Look at her face! She thinks you are going to commit violence on her person.”

“I never look at Miss Tempest’s face. She has forbidden me to do so. Besides, I have made it clear to Lizzie I have no desire for her scrawny body. Never did have, never will. A kiss is all I claim.” He avoided her kick to his shins.

They reached the door of her carriage. He opened it with a flourish and gestured to her aunt to get out. Clutching knitting and reticule, Aunt Tempest fled up the stairs into Felmont’s Folly with undignified speed.

Lizzie called, “Aunt Tempest!”

The Beast pushed Lizzie towards the berline door. “The lady conspires against you, Lizzie. Flee while you have the chance. Alone!”

She turned and braced herself against the doorframe, almost managing to unman him with a well-aimed kick. She dared not let him enter with her for fear of what he’d do to her in private. Felmonts never stopped at a kiss.

He pried her hands free. Lifting her up as if she weighed nothing, he carried her into the berline.

Lizzie fought him.

Not able to stand upright, he held her pressed up against his chest with her arms pinioned behind her back.

“Let go! Beast! Fiend!” Strangely, her breasts didn’t seem to mind the contact. Traitors, both of them.

He leaned lower to place her on the seat. “One kiss, Lizzie, and then I’ll let you go.”

She kicked at him furiously. Before she had time to realize how she’d managed it, he’d gone. She’d kicked him out. She’d won!

She called to her coachman to hurry.

Her horses started and the carriage shot forward with a jolt. If he were the last man living, she’d never marry that rude, depraved, distempered Felmont Beast.

* * * *

Dace knelt on the gravel. His shoulder ached like the Devil, as though it were in shards. Pain scraped the weariness from his brain.

“Bad luck she got you on the shoulder.” Rax eyed him with sympathy. “I thought I was going to have to send for smelling salts. Do you think it will work? Miss Tempest didn’t really kick you in the ballocks, did she?”

Dace laughed under his breath—for it was that or show his weakness, his despair. “Lizzie is my only hope. Damn all bankers. They have me netted, gaffed and gutted. They have only to salt me and watch the death throes.” He eased into a crouch.

Dace heard Rax tutting over him with mock sympathy. His partner in the plots and pranks of their youth had an endless repertoire of sighs, moans, groans, tsks, and tuts. “You are making those odd noises again, Rax. Learned ’em from your grandmother?” It suddenly felt as if all his years away with his regiment were but an inconvenient interruption to their friendship.

They had dined yesterday at White’s on his way through London. He’d been furious at the news of his impending nuptials. Half the members, the determined bachelors, had insisted on attending the wedding. Even the wild ride, which had almost killed him, had not deterred them.

“Your bride is delightful. Wonder if I can’t cut you out and marry her myself.” His friend leaned down to offer him aid to stand. “Why didn’t you explain it to her properly? Gracious! If that’s how Viscount Felmont pays court to his bride, it’s no wonder she wants nothing to do with you.”

Dace grabbed Rax’s hand and staggered to his feet. “I am the villain of the piece. It’s the only role I have ever played for her. At least now Lizzie thinks she has a chance against me. If it came to a fair fight, she probably believes she could trounce me. I acknowledged every verbal hit and winced at every blow. Damn near fainted at her feet when she hit my shoulder.”

He rubbed his shoulder and moved it cautiously. “Not lain awake languishing for me. I didn’t think she had it in her. Good for little Lizzie Tempest.”

“If only the lady could be persuaded to languish for me. I think I’m in love.” Rax sighed and scuffed his shoes in the gravel.

“You have to stop falling in love so easily, Rax. It only encourages women to think men are romantic.” Dace wondered if he had enough strength to get up all those stairs to the doors. Scuttling into Felmont’s Folly through the servants’ entrance was hardly in keeping with his new status.

“You’ll have to marry her. There is no other way. Why don’t you throw yourself on her mercy?”

Rax was such an innocent—decent to the core.

Dace made for the stairs with as much strength as he could muster. “Dearest Lizzie has no mercy to spare for a Felmont.”

“What if her uncles force her to marry you and she jumps from the roof?” Rax walked with him. “You terrified her. Almost smacked you on the shoulder myself to get you to stop.”

“Not if you value your life.” The smile he gave Rax showed enough menace to convey his threat with the least effort necessary.

“After seeing her, I can understand your revulsion,” his friend said in a bantering tone. “Fair of face with delicate features, pretty hair streaked with blonde, elegant figure, and worth twenty thousand a year, if she is worth a penny. Must admit, I can’t see how you could bring yourself to marry her. She’s a positive antidote!”

As all of Rax’s five sisters were beauties and he should know better, Dace answered with a dismissive drawl. “Lizzie has not one iota of the playful spirit I want in a wife. Her blood turns to ice when she sees me. I doubt she will ever understand passion after what she has been through. Not after witnessing the wages of sin for love and desire, and burying the corpses.” He glanced up at the main floor windows.

They were waiting for him. “Lizzie will never trust a Felmont. Who can blame her?”

He saw Rax give a great start when he saw the faces staring down. “Gracious, that nose does run in the Felmont family. It doesn’t look so bad on you. No rush to introduce me to your relatives. Why don’t we go and see where the others have gone?”

Dace limped towards the stairs as if fatally injured, dragging his friend along in his wake.

Rax peered over the side of the ornate balustrade toward the gates. “They’ve got her. Poor Miss Tempest. Dished before she got near the gates. That must be one of her uncles blocking the way.”

“How did they get here so fast?” Dace watched the scene with dismay.

“How on earth are you going to ... to ... I mean ….” Rax searched for the right word. “The nuptials, the wedding night—after frightening your bride half to death over a kiss?”

“Rax, there you go thinking inflaming thoughts again. Don’t worry, there will be no wedding and no bedding. I am for the Americas if Lizzie fails me.” His stomach knotted at the thought. Home from the hell of war and greeted with threats of bankruptcy and social ruin. Home to the Priory to find he owned nothing but his soul.

He inched further up the steps. He couldn’t bear to watch Lizzie’s return. Rax gave a mournful sigh and joined him on the terrace.

None of the family came out to greet him, not even one of his young cousins. Keeping the doors closed in his face while he waited outside on the terrace heaped insult upon injury. He’d be damned if he’d knock to enter his own house. He looked up as if inspecting his property.

Whatever Lizzie had done to the façade, she had not changed the frieze over the pediment.

His friend stared upwards before walking backwards to get a better view.

Dace grabbed Rax by the arm. “Watch out for the stairs. They are winged victories. The first viscount loved ’em. One in the middle is supposed to bear a close resemblance to his wife.” Dace pulled Rax under the portico.

“Do you suppose she posed like that with her breasts exposed?” asked Rax. “I wonder how many men have fallen down the stairs trying to get a better look. Very angelic. Modesty does not run in your family, obviously. Heavens!”

“Leave heaven out of it. Winged victories, all of ’em.” Dace decided to give the inmates of the damned house a few more moments to open the doors. “There are no angels here in Felmont’s Folly.”

The doors swung wide. Two mismatched footmen stepped out and bowed before taking their positions on either side of the portico.

Footsteps echoed from the hall.

Dace peered into the interior to see the disapproving countenance of the house steward advancing towards him. Gordon had always been small and fierce. All the young Felmonts had felt the back of his hand for sins real or imagined. The years had shrunken the old Scot, but from the looks of him they had not helped his temper.

Not even a welcome from Gordon! Dace stepped over the threshold to put his good arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Don’t stand there staring at me,” he said in full Felmont drawl. “Damn it, Gordon, get everybody out of the house. I’m going to burn it down.”

“I rather think you have to own it first, Lord Felmont.” Only the old man’s cascading white eyebrows were larger than before.

“Go to hell.” Dace patted Gordon on the back and then bent to kiss him affectionately, in the French style, on both cheeks.

Shock at his gesture showed on the house steward’s lean, wrinkled face. “Welcome home, my lord. Will the wedding be this morning?”

“Not unless Miss Tempest begs on bended knee, stark naked, swearing eternal love and all manner of earthly delights to entice me. I think she has deprived me of the ability to father children.” Dace stepped into the circular hall beneath the cupola.

Gordon gave a muffled chortle.

Dace gave Rax time to look around with the curiosity every visitor showed. His friend eyed the circular staircase that dominated the hall. It jutted out in a rising sweep to the upper floors without any visible means of support.

“Is the staircase safe? It’ll frighten the life out of me, if your relatives don’t do it first.” Rax stared at the family portraits on the walls with the expression of one noticing the nose for the first time.

Gordon asked, “Would you care to greet the family, my lord?”

“No. Lead me to the brandy.” Dace stared up at the ceiling.

What in hell’s name had Lizzie Tempest done? A scene of judgment day had been painted on the inside of the dome. Heaven at the top, with a few amused angels, one of whom looked very much like the lady herself. All the sinners consigned to realistic torments were Felmonts. Dace craned his neck. Damnation! There he was—painted as the Devil himself.

All those miserable years he had devoted to ingratiating himself with his betrothed and she had him painted as the Devil in his own house.

“Lizzie has made a liar out of me,” he drawled. If he looked like a devilish Felmont, he may as well sound like one. “Look, Rax, she gave me angels.”

Good for clever Lizzie. A carefully planned insult designed to be discovered when it was too late for him to thank her for it. He owed her one.

Gordon led the way across the marble floor to open a gilded door with a flourish. “I’ll tell them to ready the chapel for the ceremony. There is brandy in the library, my lord.”

Escape was not to be so easy. His family appeared like wraiths in a graveyard. They drifted into the hall with expressions of great disdain on their long faces, angry with him for refusing to marry Lizzie and her fortune. Even his cousins gave him the Felmont stare, though Harry winked over the top of his mother’s head.

Rax shied like a nervous horse.

Bertram Felmont limped forward, garbed in one of his old-fashioned frock coats, his hand rested lightly on his bejeweled cane. He gave a slight bow.

“Dearest Felmont.” Sarcasm, permeated with vitriol, dripped from the thin mouth almost hidden by a long hooked nose—nothing had changed there. “What a shame you survived the great Bonaparte. We were doing so well without you.”

Dace returned the bow with the slightest movement, a mere half shrug of disdain to save his shoulder unnecessary movement. “Cousin Bertram, you are still alive?”

A rustle of interest swept through the family at the veiled threat. One never had to spell it out for a Felmont.

The cane tapped on the floor. “Sweet boy.” An unpleasant grimace accompanied the words. “If you cannot tempt Miss Tempest to your bed, with your so-charming personality, we are here to help you court her.”