The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Never mind. Pray, please walk with me out to the terrace.” She grasped his arm and towed him in that direction. If Lambrick was here, she’d incite his jealousy; however, why she’d want to remained unclear to her.

  The cool air, with the less than salubrious fragrances of London, greeted her when she stepped out. Night had fallen and crickets chirped in the bushes below.

  “This is highly irregular, we’ve only just met, Miss Pencavel.” The bland Mr. Showreynolds stared at her askance as he stumbled beside her.

  “What do you think of the new dog tax to finance the war?” she asked. Her abrupt questions to prospective beaux always befuddled them. This young man was no exception. “Dogs are deemed a luxury, and eat food better needed for the poor.”

  “I’m certain the g-government knows what’s best,” Showreynolds stammered.

  “I think it’s sad, like taxing a friend.” She was bored with the baron’s son already. “Please, fetch me a cool drink, a lemonade would be perfect. I feel desperately faint.” She let him go and staggered to the balustrade, her hand on her forehead in a dramatic gesture.

  “By jingo. Do you need a burnt feather waved under your nose, my lady?” He slid backwards as if in fear.

  “Hurry, I tell you, bring me the drink. I’m slipping down to the ground.” She waved him off. When he returned she’d act friendlier, if needs be.

  “As you wish.” The nervous never-a-beau-for-her rushed inside.

  She dug her fingers into the rough stone of the balustrade. Auntie may be swooning now after this improper display. Since she was a child Melwyn had had trouble with impulse control. She was certain it was because of her mother’s erratic behavior, then her abrupt leaving with the lascivious servant for parts unknown. Why hadn’t she ever written, not one solitary word, to her only child? Melwyn sighed. She used her acid tongue to ward off her feelings of insecurity at not being good enough for her own mother.

  She closed her eyes and shed off the self-pity, which never would get her anywhere, least of all out of England to exotic lands.

  A hand touched her shoulder and she spun around. “Back so soon, Mr....?” She gasped, staring up into the ebony pools of Lord Lambrick’s eyes. She shuddered with excitement.

  “Disappointed, my little scamp?” He smiled slowly. “Were you planning to seduce that chucklehead who was with you a moment ago?”

  A spark tingled low in her stomach. “Do you stalk me everywhere, sir? There should be a law against it.” She swallowed hard as he leaned over her. “I’m calling a Bow Street Runner to haul you off to the Newgate gaol.”

  “If you wish to seduce someone, make your first time—if it is indeed your first time—with a man who knows what he’s doing.” He gripped her shoulders.

  “You’re a dissolute churl, and I should slap your face.” She raised her hand, really anxious to stroke his manly jaw. His warm hands sent delightful quivers through her.

  “Slap away, my dear, I might enjoy it. And I intend to partake of you.” He jerked her against him; she felt his heart hammering into her breasts. He actually did desire her. Her knees grew weak, until she regained her senses.

  “I’ll go to my death a virgin. Unless I find an intriguing Egyptian, a long-dead pharaoh come back to life, or a swarthy camel guide, anyone but you, sir.” She heaved against him, her breath sharp. He smelled heavenly, like the wind and earth. That first kiss in the garden had been delicious, but she’d never admit it.

  She waited, and waited. Finally, he dipped his head and kissed her so passionately, she thought she’d melt. Instead of resisting, she relished in his soft yet demanding lips against hers, the taste of his breath. Her body quaked, filled with the rushing of blood through her veins.

  “Uh, here is your l-lemonade, my lady,” a tentative voice uttered.

  They kissed a few seconds more, then broke apart, gasping for air.

  Melwyn practically collapsed against the balustrade. Her body felt thoroughly plundered, or at least her mouth did. “Oh, good evening, Mr. Show...reynolds, was it? Let me introduce you to my...a family friend.” She refused to give Lambrick the respect of calling him her betrothed.

  “You have a-a very close family, I must say,” the young man sputtered. The glass of yellow liquid in his hand shook.

  Lambrick plucked the glass from him. “If I ever catch you anywhere near Lady Pencavel again, I’ll thrash you beyond recognition. Is that understood?”

  “Most certainly, sir. Yet I-I’m thoroughly insulted by both of you. I give you good eve.” He whipped about and scrambled through the doors.

  “I suppose you will follow me about and threaten to thrash every man who pays me the least attention?” She snatched the glass and drank the cool drink, tart and refreshing on her parched throat. She needed to drench the taste of him from her mouth.

  “As arresting as that sounds, I won’t have time for such endeavors. I must return to Cornwall.” His eyes glinted in the moonlight, his flushed face even more handsome. He gave her a smug smile. “I have a better proposition. Will you spend the night with me, tonight?”

  “You are a rascal of the worst sort, and a terrible listener. I told you not five minutes ago that I’d never give you the benefit of my maidenly parts.” Inside, she wished he’d pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and carry her off through the garden to force himself on her in a shadowy alley. Then it would be his fault she was disgraced. Of course, then he’d have to offer to marry her, and they’d be right back to the original conundrum.

  “What is going on out here?” came the imperious voice of Aunt Hedra. “Have you found a young man to your liking? Even so, you should not loiter out here too long, people will talk. Some are gossiping already.” She raised her quizzing glass. “Oh, it’s you Lord Lambrick. Why are you here bothering my niece?”

  “I don’t think she minded, Lady Penpol.” Lambrick bowed to her aunt then turned back to Melwyn. “Mark my words, Lady Pencavel, I will have you someday. Maybe not tonight, or even tomorrow, but soon, very soon,” he whispered. “And I abhor the dog tax.” He touched her cheek, doffed his hat to Aunt Hedra, then bounded down the terrace steps and vanished into the moonlit garden.

  Melwyn groaned, her heart pattering like a drum, or a bugle during a call to arms. That horrid, but extremely sexy, man was growing on her like lichen. How soon could she escape the country to save herself?

  Chapter Six

  Griffin’s valet, a massive block of a young man who’d been with him for six years— raised up from the position of footman after he’d proven his loyal nature—stirred the dish of shaving paste.

  “Is my new razor sharp?” Griffin ran his hand along his bristly chin. The well-appointed inn where they stayed in Moorgate had solid mahogany furniture and a four-post bed piled high with feather mattresses, which he would unfortunately share with no one. The Italian, giltwood mirror he stared into was of good manufacture as well. He frowned. He didn’t appear any different, yet life had taken on a mesmerizing meaning he couldn’t define. “The razor touted to be made on ‘philosophical principles’? Of all the nonsense.”

  “Of course, sir. And I’ve studied Benjamin Kingsbury’s Treatise on the Use and Management of a Razor, as you instructed.” Kenver’s square, but handsome face under light brown hair, broke into a smile. “That Huguenot in Pall Mall, Mr. Savigny, promised the sharpest crucible steel, that he did. And the Fleet Street perfumer swore his paste was the best.”

  “All the London shopkeepers claim their wares are the finest.” Griffin tried to push his mind to other things, and away from one troubling gamine. Why was he still here, and not leaving for Cornwall? “A man in these times is viewed as eccentric or worse if unshaven. A beard is for a hermit, or only worn on religious terms.”

  “Wise, as always, sir. And I appreciate you allowing me to learn along with you, and improving my speech.” Kenver began to lather the pasty soap over Griffin’s face.

  “Well, it’s a trial when you—meaning aristocrats suc
h as I, and nobles—can’t understand the King’s English after being garbled through regional influences.”

  The smell of olive oil and fragrant spices was pleasing, playing down the scent of animal fat.

  “Right you are.” Kenver chuckled. “How was your night at Almack’s, sir? You’ve never said.”

  Griffin fought a sigh. Why had he kissed Miss Pencavel, again, two nights ago? He’d seen her with that milksop of a baron’s son, and had to possess her out on the terrace. He’d really wanted to cart her off and have his way with her in the bushes, but damned protocol prevented it. And he’d never bed an unwilling woman.

  “An eventful evening, if distracting me from what I should do, which is to return home.” He clenched his fist around the cushiony edges of his velvet dressing gown. “I have no time for such frivolities.”

  “Are we returning to Merther Manor, sir?” The valet smeared more paste on his master’s neck.

  The warmth against Griffin’s skin soothed his fractured emotions.

  “Not yet. Go down to the kitchen and choose my steak for later this evening, but no honey sauce. I suppose I must suffer the sooty vegetables boiled in a pan.” Griffin had no appetite, but his mind raced in circles. “If there’s nothing decent here, we will go to a tavern for a table d’hôte.”

  “Why do you quality use those snooty French sayings, when we hate the French, sir?” Kenver began to run the sharp blade along Griffin’s beard, scraping away the hair.

  Griffin bristled, as he usually did at the mention of anything to do with the French. He heard in his memory the cheerful laughter of his brother when they were children. But he had to remain calm while being shaved. “Good point, my man.” He snatched the razor—so much for calmness. “Most men shave themselves now. I’m too restless to stand still for this.” He quickly skimmed the blade along his neck, chin and cheeks, leaving a few dots of blood. “Sorry to be so abrupt, even if I don’t need to explain myself to a servant.”

  “You’re in a highly disgruntled mood, sir.” Kenver handed him a towel.

  Griffin rubbed the cloth over his face. “So I am. I think I’ll take a quick ride in the park to clear my head.”

  “Before that, sir.” Kenver set down the dish, and the returned razor, on the wash stand. “A man approached me down in the common room. He says he wants to meet with you tomorrow, outside London on the Great North Road in Islington. There’s a—”

  “And why does this person wish to meet with me?” Griffin pulled on his buff leather riding breeches over cream clocked stockings, fine silk shirt and leather riding jacket with frogged buttons.

  “I’m getting to that, sir.” His valet glanced around as if they weren’t alone in the chamber. “He says he has something important you might wish to buy.”

  “Everyone seems to know my extra-curricular activities.” Griffin hid his leeriness over meeting with another stranger. He waved his valet’s assistance away and jerked on his dark leather jockey boots.

  “He assured me these items will bring much profits.” Kenver frowned thoughtfully. “But he seemed a sleazy type to me, so I’d be cautious.”

  “I do need to build new cottages for my tenants, to make their lives more comfortable. Very well, tell him I’ll meet him in a public place. Get the particulars.” Griffin donned his cape and something else he kept concealed from Kenver.

  Outside in the corridor, Griffin dropped a few coins into a box mounted there with the words, To Insure Prompt Service, abbreviated as TIPS.

  He’d gallop on a hired stallion, and maybe find something or someone to garner his fevered attention, and blur his desire for Miss Pencavel.

  ****

  “You’re a bit drab lately, m’lady.” Clowenna brushed rosemary over Melwyn’s over tunic to sweeten the garment after using lye and kerosene to treat a stain. “An’ far too quiet these past two days, which ain’t like ‘ee at all. Even as me ears is enjoyin’ it.”

  “And you never silence your jaw, do you, Clowie?” Melwyn reclined on her bed in Aunt Hedra’s guest chamber and turned the page of Le Antichità di Ercolano, the folio collection of the archaeological discoveries of Pompeii and Herculaneum. The book was beautifully illustrated, but didn’t hold her interest as it usually did. This latest volume had been published in 1792, however, all she could think about were mahogany eyes and a deep, cultured, if oh so mocking, voice. “I think I might leave you on the mean streets of London to fend for yourself. You could be a mud lark, perhaps.”

  “I’m too old to scavenge in the river mud for booty.” Her abigail bent over the book, her round face thoughtful. “Teach me some o’ that Eyetalion, if I’m to go wi’ ‘ee to Italy.”

  “I detest it when you’re right.” Melwyn slammed the book shut with a slap. “Nevertheless, I’m in no mood to teach one who had no education in the first place, as servants aren’t bothered to be educated, especially women, as unfortunate as that may be.” She softened her rhetoric. “I’ll teach you later if you behave.”

  “‘Tis true. People is afeared we low-borne might get airs above ourselves, isn’t they?” Clowenna fluffed out a feather on her lady’s straw hat. “Instead, lessons be wasted on privileged toffs like ‘ee.”

  “Mine weren’t wasted. At least they won’t be if I can tweeze that thorn of a scoundrel out of my life.” She’d almost said “heart” but the idea stunned her. She couldn’t be falling in love with Lord Lambrick. She trembled. Oh the dreadfulness of it! She nearly fell off the soft feather mattress under its intricately carved rococo headboard.

  “That be the gist of your melancholy, m’lady?” Clowenna hauled up the chamber pot from under the bed. She opened the closest window. “Are ‘ee that sad his lordship follows about an’ harasses, or that he said he left for Cornwall, an’ cannot harass ‘ee no more?”

  Melwyn wrapped her flimsy nightgown around her, tucked her feet under her and tapped her cheek in thought. Torrid lips on hers invaded her memory, making her quiver. “You’ve come to the nucleus of the problem, I must admit.”

  “Whatever ‘nucleus’ might mean.” Clowenna leaned out the window. “Garde à l’eau!” she shouted before dumping the pot’s contents. “Oh, la, I might o’ hit the muckraker; but at least he’s there to tidy up.”

  “I’m certain I’m only distracted by that cur of a lordship’s ruthlessness, nothing more. He only wants a doxy, which I am not.” Melwyn stood, fighting the sag of her heart. “Brush off my finest riding habit. I’m to ride a hired horse in Hyde Park, while Auntie and the duchess trundle along in a carriage, following me as killjoy chaperones.”

  “I’m all agog at your finally goin’ out.” Clowenna opened the clothes press where garments were neatly folded. “Don’t embarrass them too much, m’lady. O’ course that be too much to ask.”

  Along Rotten Row, through the stately oaks of the park, Melwyn sat awkwardly in the side saddle her aunt insisted she had to utilize. The broad bay mare undulated beneath her, clopping evenly, snorting occasionally, the scent of horse sweat sharp.

  Red poppies and yellow buttercups sprinkled the stretch of lawn that surrounded the Serpentine pond where geese fluttered about like...geese in the April air. The flowers’ light fragrance mixed with the mossy smell of the park.

  She squirmed on the saddle, the pummel digging into her draped-over leg. At home at Langoron House she rode astride like a boy, though never when her father watched. The groom didn’t mind allowing her this freedom. Still, it rankled her that she was so suppressed as a female she had to think of it as an allowed freedom, rather than her due as a person.

  In Italy and Greece she’d pass herself off as a widow, since those women were given more leeway in their actions. She laughed softly. Every high-spirited young lady should pretend to have a dead husband.

  She kicked the horse’s flank, and the mare cantered away from the following carriage, where Aunt Hedra and the Duchess of Dumfort prattled on about a subject that was far less than stimulating, Melwyn was assured.

&nb
sp; She reveled in the motion of the horse, her own swaying hips and shoulders, the breeze caressing her face. The sun warmed her back. Birds squawked in the branches above her, but why did she search the area, the other riders, for the brooding form of Lord Lambrick? He should be well on his way back to Cornwall by now.

  “Do wait up, Mellie, darling!” Aunt Hedra stuck her head out the window, her mound of hair barely moving in the wind, her hat flapping atop like a trapped bird. “I’m meeting my Royal Society friend over near Speakers’ Corner. You did want to be introduced, didn’t you?”

  Melwyn reined in her horse, turned the mare around and joined the ladies. “You promised me at Vauxhall to meet this illustrious person. I wonder if you tease me, and made him up, Auntie dear.”

  “Is this a ghost?” the duchess asked, her ringed fingers clicking together. “How delightful, I love ghosts. Yet no one has shown me an actual one, so that I might be convinced they are real. Regardless, they must be well-behaved spirits; no chain rattlings and the like.”

  “No, no, your grace, he is very real; that is, he’s not a ghost.” Aunt Hedra tapped on the coach ceiling. “Head for Speakers’ Corner, please, driver.”

  Melwyn followed the coach, still scanning the park for anyone who might be watching her, such as a certain rakehell she had no interest in meeting up with.

  “I’m trying to mollify my niece, your grace,” Aunt Hedra whispered in the coach, though Melwyn heard her plainly. “She has foolish notions of grave digging, or some such rot, in foreign climes, and refuses to marry. My poor milquetoast of a brother wishes her safely married, and settled—as all good fathers would.”

  “Grave digging? How repulsive. You must nip that in the bud at the onset,” the fatuous duchess replied in shocked tones. “Is that where we uncover the ghost, in a grave? Then I have no wish to be a part of it.”

  Melwyn stifled a laugh as they neared the far corner of the park. Here, anyone, quality or no, could stand and expound on any subject they preferred.