Miss Pymbroke's Rules

by Rosemary Stevens

  Several people surrounding the pair heard the lady’s tone and moralizing-lecture, and a laughing group gathered around them goading the young man to take further liberties.

  Across the room, the Marquess of Carrisworth, striking in dark evening clothes and a black mask, was trying to detach himself from his former mistress. Roxanna had clung to him since his arrival at the masquerade some thirty minutes before. While she was magnificent in a revealing costume meant to represent Venus, he received the distinct impression she was trying to lure him back to her bed.

  Really, he thought with some irritation, he was done with her and she should know it. Idly, he wondered what all the fuss was about on the other side of the room. He decided to use whatever it was as an excuse to be rid of her. “Roxanna, you know I have an insatiable curiosity. I am intrigued by that fracas. Excuse me while I investigate.”

  Leaving the thwarted Roxanna behind, he sauntered through the crowd.

  In the middle of the jeering circle of faces, Verity felt small and alone. Then her gaze fell on a man dressed in clerical garb holding a Bible and peering at her intently. She fell upon him like an anchor in a storm.

  “Oh, sir, have you come to save these corrupt souls? I, too, feel it my duty to help the wicked see the light,” she cried out in a ringing voice, deliriously happy now that it appeared rescue was at hand.

  Her relief was short lived.

  “Corruption of souls is indeed why I am here,” the “preacher” intoned. Then, without warning, he grabbed her and pulled her flush against him. With one hand he held her tight, while his other hand moved to rip open the front of her domino, revealing her dress. He then grasped her chin in a fierce hold. The crowd called out their encouragements.

  Verity opened her mouth and screamed. Immediately, she felt the lecherous preacher torn from her, and she stumbled to the floor from the suddenness of the movement.

  Verity heard the fickle crowd now cheering a tall gentleman in evening dress who was delivering a crushing blow to the preacher’s jaw. The Bible went flying, and the preacher was stretched out unconscious on the floor.

  The ball was rapidly disintegrating into a romp. Trying to rise to her feet, Verity abruptly felt herself lifted up into the tall gentleman’s arms and carried out the front door of the house amidst more whistles and cheers. Out on the street, she struggled against him, fearing yet another attack on her person.

  “Ouch! Be still, you little minx.”

  Verity froze. For the first time she looked up into the green eyes glaring at her from behind the black mask. “Oh,” she exclaimed resentfully. “It is you!”

  “Is that the thanks I get for freeing you from that ‘preacher,’ Miss Pymbroke?” Lord Carrisworth asked. “By God, I should have left you. Now that I think on it, I recall you are immensely attracted to members of the clergy.”

  His face was so close to her own, Verity found her breath coming in gasps. “Release me at once, my lord.”

  The marquess obliged her by dropping her unceremoniously to her feet. “Are you going to run back inside and exchange sermons with that imposter?”

  Ignoring this mocking question, Verity asked, “How did you recognize me?”

  Lord Carrisworth threw back his dark head and laughed. “Who else would be standing in the middle of a masquerade delivering a jaw-me-dead? What in heaven’s name were you doing there in the first place?”

  Remembering her sister’s plight. Verity’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, my lord, my sister is in there. I must find her and take her home.”

  She turned as if to go back. Lord Carrisworth reached out his arm and spun her around on her heel. His gaze dropped to the neck of her gown. The pink dress was tight across her bosom, pushing the two ivory mounds of her breasts up against the cloth. The marquess tore his gaze from the tantalizing sight. “There is no need. Mrs. Barrington left with Sir Ramsey about twenty minutes ago.”

  “She did? Thank goodness she is safe.”

  The marquess kept his thoughts to himself. He judged it would not be prudent to inform Miss Pymbroke that her sister was at that very moment most likely in Sir Ramsey’s bed.

  Verity looked at him curiously. “What were you doing in such low company, my lord? I could tell from the inelegant speech of some of the guests that I was not in Polite Society. Why would someone of your rank attend ...” she trailed off, seeing the cynical amusement in his eyes. She turned her head away.

  Perceiving the disapproval in her posture, the marquess paused. He had truly not been enjoying the evening. It could only have ended in another meaningless flirtation, like so many he had enjoyed in the past, the thought of which now brought no anticipation of pleasure.

  He noticed she was shivering. “Come now, you cannot be cold, my avenging angel. Surely, the mantle of virtue you always cloak yourself in will keep you warm.”

  She turned to him, a sudden flash of insight making her respond tartly. “Just as the reputation of a dissolute rake keeps you from any real feelings, my lord?”

  The marquess felt like shaking her. Instead, he decided to be shot of her as quickly as possible, “Miss Pymbroke, allow me to escort you home. I have my Town coach.” He signaled to a servant a short distance down the street, and a moment later a vehicle pulled up in front of them,

  She laid a small hand on his arm. “My lord, I almost forgot. My maid, Betty, was with me, and I do not know what happened to her.”

  Lord Carrisworth released his breath in a long-suffering sigh. “Stay here with my servant until I return. Indeed, get in the coach and wait for me.”

  Verity pursed her lips. “I shall not. It is a closed carriage, and the rules of what is proper behavior for an unmarried lady state she must not ride in a closed carriage alone with a gentleman.”

  “Good God, was there ever such a female? Miss Pymbroke, since we determined at the Foxworths’ breakfast yesterday that I am no gentleman, it cannot signify. Now, get in the coach, and hopefully I shall return in a few minutes with Betty.”

  “Jake,” he called to the coachman. “Look after the lady.” He strode off toward the house without so much as a backward glance.

  Verity stood by the vehicle, half in anticipation, half in dread. Where was Betty? Had she been frightened enough by the goings on to leave?

  Most disturbing, though, was the thought of being alone with the marquess. The strength of his arms around her when he had carried her out of the house had been exhilarating.

  Verity bit her lip. The night air was growing colder. How else was she to get home if she did not accept his offer of transport? She had been in such a rush to leave the house, she had failed to bring sufficient coins with her for another hack.

  The marquess’s servant was standing at attention, the door to the coach open. Making up her mind, Verity accepted his hand and entered the coach.

  She loosened the white domino, then reached up and untied the strings of the mask, allowing the hood to fall back.

  A moment later, she jumped when the door to the coach opened, and the marquess entered, his tall body suddenly making the roomy coach seem small.

  They were very much alone.

  Instead of taking the seat opposite her, his lordship sat beside Verity, forcing her to move over. He gave the order to the coachman for Lady Iris’s, then, untying his mask, said softly, “It seems your heartless maid was seen running headlong into the night soon after your arrival.”

  Verity found she could not muster much anger at Betty for deserting her. She stared at the gentleman beside her and noticed the strength of his long, white fingers. In the closeness of the coach, she could smell the faint lime scent he always wore.

  She turned her head abruptly away.

  The marquess studied her profile. God, she was beautiful. Did she not realize the effect that too-tight pink gown would have on a man?

  And her eyes. They reflected her feelings so well. They sparkled when she was angry. They softened when they rested on someone she cared for. They shed
tears when her heart was touched, such as during the play.

  And they avoided him when he made her uncomfortable. Like now. He did not want her to avoid him, he thought unexpectedly.

  “Come, Miss Pymbroke. Would I take advantage of a moment like this? Use it for my own evil intentions?”

  This was said in such a mocking manner. Verity could only stare at the skirt of her gown, all the while hiding a blush.

  Abruptly, without quite knowing how it happened, she found herself across the marquess’s lap. She barely had time to look up into his laughing eyes before he murmured, “You know me so well,” and his lips came down on hers.

  Verity had never been kissed before. The touch of the marquess’s lips on her mouth set her body aflame. All at once her rules flew out the window, and she could not get enough of his warm, firm lips. She returned his kiss with reckless abandon, shutting out any emotions save the ones he was calling forth. In response, she heard a low moan come from the marquess’s throat, which only served to heighten her passion.

  Then, somewhere in the distance, Verity could hear church bells ring. Abruptly, she was hurtled back to the reality that she was kissing the Marquess of Carrisworth, a known rake.

  She tore herself out of his arms, her breath coming hard and fast. His lordship’s eyes were heavy lidded and half closed. She could see his lips were still moist from their kiss.

  Stung by her withdrawal, the marquess drawled, “I beg your pardon.”

  Verity began to shake. This, then, was what came from ignoring the conventions, from breaking rules.

  The coach had come to a stop in South Audley Street. Without a word, Verity scrambled out and ran up the steps to Lady Iris’s.

  Lord Carrisworth deemed it necessary to remain where he was for a minute for decency’s sake.

  For the first time, he judged he had been less than clever with a lady. Miss Pymbroke’s innocence struck him like a reproach.

  The marquess tried to relax, leaning his dark head back against the comfortable leather squabs of the seat. What a fool he was! How did the old saying go? “Be Careful What You Wish Lest You Get It”?

  He had wanted to see if a passionate nature lay beneath Miss Pymbroke’s outwardly prim behavior. Now he had gotten his wish and had his answer.

  What he had not counted on was his own response.

  Devil take it! Perhaps an hour with the twins was what it was going to take to banish the memory of a pair of the sweetest lips he had ever tasted.

  “Devil take all virgins,” he said under his breath. Then he shouted to the coachman, “Take me to Half Moon Street, Jake.”

  Chapter Six

  For the second time in as many months, Lord Carrisworth stood in Rundell and Bridge’s, gazing down at a dazzling array of diamond necklaces that had been brought out for his inspection. On this occasion, he needed two of the expensive baubles.

  His mind went back to the night before. That particular part of his anatomy eager for action when Miss Pymbroke had been in the carriage had seemed to have dosed itself with laudanum between South Audley Street and the twins’ residence in Half Moon Street.

  By the time he was ensconced in their sitting room listening to their chatter, he’d been laughing so much he’d been able to almost forget his desire for Miss Pymbroke.

  The visit had proven useful in another way. Monique and Dominique’s popularity on the stage had grown to remarkable proportions. The marquess had talked with them about the future, and then outlined a plan. It would enable them to live on their earnings, along with a generous settlement from him, all of which would be carefully invested and looked after by his own competent solicitor. The girls’ happiness prompted them to kiss his lordship’s cheek declaring he was better to them than their own Papa. This, of course, caused the marquess to stoutly admonish them never to repeat those words in Society.

  Soon after rising the next morning, Lord Carrisworth decided it would be prudent to visit the famous jewelers in order to obtain the gifts that would publicly signal their dismissal as his “mistresses.”

  Deliberating over his selection, he heard the door to the shop open. “Perry!” the Earl of Northbridge called out. “You are looking grave as a judge. Have you decided on a bride after all? One who finds the family betrothal ring not to her taste?”

  The marquess grinned. “How ridiculous. I should not wish to enter an institution which has so obviously addled your wits. I am here purchasing Monique and Dominique’s farewell jewels. Why are you here? Selecting a trinket for a new flirt?”

  Lord Northbridge’s face rapidly lost its smile. His expression serious, he spoke quietly. “Gloria and I will be celebrating the anniversary of the night she agreed to become my wife. I have come to commission something special.”

  The marquess raised a long-fingered hand to his brow. “Damn my tongue. Accept my apologies, Charles? I am weak of brain this morning.”

  Never one to remain vexed for long, the earl clapped his friend on the back. “I shall forgive you on the condition you accompany Gloria and me to the Lexhams’ turtle dinner tonight.”

  “The Lexhams? Such exemplary company. Too tedious by half,” the marquess grumbled. Seeing the stubborn look in the earl’s eye, however, he capitulated. “Very well, Charles. Since I am shortly to be mistress-less and have no other plans for the evening.”

  The two gentlemen decided on a meeting time and parted company amiably when the earl moved down the counter to consult with one of the jewelers.

  Selecting two necklaces at random, Lord Carrisworth scribbled out the twins’ direction and concluded his transaction. He began turning away from the counter only to have his attention caught by a shimmering set of yellow topaz eardrops.

  Immediately, a picture formed in his mind of the golden highlights that graced Miss Pymbroke’s brown tresses. The eardrops would complement her coloring perfectly. Of course, she would refuse such a gift as improper. Gentlemen restricted their tokens for the ladies to something inconsequential like flowers or sweetmeats. He could not give them to her.

  Noticing his interest, the man behind the counter swiftly said, “You have superb taste, my lord. Those are particularly fine stones from India.”

  The eardrops winked up at him.

  It was then Lord Carrisworth remembered he rarely behaved like a proper gentleman. “Wrap them up,” he commanded.

  * * * *

  Kitchen maid Molly Grimes hurried through the windy London streets on an urgent errand. She ran because Mrs. Witherspoon, the cook who ruled her domain with a heavy skillet, would box her ears if she dawdled. Lady Lexham was holding a turtle dinner that very night, and Mrs. Witherspoon had been horrified when she found they were short of the necessary bay leaves for the turtle soup.

  Breathless, Molly entered a shop with Jack Millweed, Apothecary and Herbalist inscribed above the door. Her heart sank when she saw the proprietor was busy with another customer.

  Ten agonizing minutes went by without Mr. Millweed being able to serve her. Growing more frightened as every minute passed, Molly finally screwed up her courage and called to a girl engaged in dusting the bottles behind the counter. “Please, miss, could you help me? I’ll be in terrible trouble if I don’t get back soon.”

  Lizzie Millweed glanced at her father and received a nod of consent. “My name’s Lizzie. What can I get you?”

  Gratefully, Molly gave her order and began chatting. She was in awe of all the herbs and potions around her. A good country girl, she believed the mysterious powers of the elixirs could cure anything.

  As Lizzie handed her the bay leaves and two pence change, Molly lowered her voice to a whisper. “There be a ’andsome first footman I’ve wanted to walk out with for ever so long. Do you ’ave any love potion I could get with this ’ere money?”

  Lizzie looked doubtfully at the coins. Then, her expression brightened. She leaned close to Molly and said, “I can get you something, but don’t tell no one. Some gentry-mort paid for it, then ordered it thrown ou
t.”

  Both girls rolled their eyes at the strange ways of the Quality.

  Lizzie disappeared into, the back room for a moment. When she returned, she darted a furtive glance at her father before slipping Molly a bottle marked “Love’s Helping Hand.” Molly couldn’t read, but Lizzie giggled and assured her it would make whoever took it nice and friendly.

  After thanking her, Molly ran all the way back to Lady Lexham’s, but still received a sharp slap from Mrs. Witherspoon, who declared she had taken too long.

  Rubbing her reddened cheek, Molly covertly watched the cook add the bay leaves to a large pot of simmering turtle soup. She knew Mrs. Witherspoon would taste the soup throughout the day.

  As soon as the older woman bustled away, Molly ran to the pot and poured in half the contents of the bottle Lizzie had given her. Had not Lizzie said it would turn anyone nice? And she still had plenty left for Will, the footman.

  Despite her throbbing cheek, Molly went about her duties humming.

  * * * *

  Clad in a blue sprigged morning gown. Verity sat in the window seat of her bedchamber, gazing down at South Audley Street. More than once she had told herself she was not hoping to catch a glimpse of the Marquess of Carrisworth. She was merely admiring the fine day and organizing her somewhat troubled thoughts.

  “Here is that sanctimonious book you left for me, Mouse,” Louisa said, sweeping into the room and handing Verity the copy of Correct Thoughts For A Lady. “I do wish you would refrain from preaching to me, and that includes giving me sermonizing books.”

  Turning her gaze to her sister, Verity said, “I do not look at it as ‘preaching.’” She placed the book next to her and held out her hands to Louisa. “Dear Louisa, it is only out of my affection for you that I beg you to think how easily one’s reputation is damaged. I know you told me at breakfast that you left that shameful masked ball well before it grew wild, but to attend it to begin with was surely unwise.”