The Earl of Langsdene is being lampooned in the daily press, but who is the cartoonist? After being depicted as fool and an oppressor of the poor for the past five years, he has given up his rakish ways and plans to take a wife. And yet, the cartoons of him continue to appear. Then at a ball, he spots Winsome Carsten, whose knowledge of art impressed him in the past.
For years Winsome has avoided the handsome earl. She certainly didn’t expect to meet him again. And now the persistent man wants her help to find a certain artist. Somehow, she needs to put him off the trail by fair means or foul. Although she cannot resist his wonderful kisses, she is determined to guard her heart. She will not fall in love with the man she has persisted in using as the foil for her artfully wicked humor.
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ARTFULLY WICKED
A novella in ‘Pon Rep’ Regency Rogue Series
VIRGINIA TAYLOR
Copyright 2018 by Virginia Taylor
About The Author
Virginia Taylor had no talents other than messing around with a pencil and a pad of paper, and reading under the bedclothes at night. At the age of eight, she won a colouring-in contest, which led her to believe she should pursue the life of an artist.
After dropping out of the South Australian School of Art, she worked in interior design for a year, before deciding a life of penury was not for her. Her next venture was as a nurse/midwife, during which time she met and married the perfect man (for her). In time, she produced two daughters, wrangled five or six cats, numerous guinea pigs, hurt and injured birds and lizards, learned how to spin, weave, dye, pot, work with leather, paint and renovate houses, and then how to write books.
A publishing contract not being forthcoming after a few years of intensive striving, she joined with a theatre set designer and painted his sets for him. While she did so, he taught her the mechanics she needed to design and paint her own. In the meantime, she entered writing competitions, until she was sure of making the finals or winning.
She has books with Random Romance and Kensington Books USA.
Her only ambition now is to be ‘discovered’ by more readers.
Table of Contents.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
CHAPTER 1
Safely ensconced in a group of mothers, aunts, grandmothers, and companions, Winsome Carsten, a spinster most often described as plain but stylish, stood on the sidelines as the first cotillion of the night ended. Lit by an enormous crystal chandelier, the guests drifted back to their friends or families. Winsome kept her indulgent smile until the Earl of Langsdene emerged from the crowd. Then her lips clamped together. Her heart beating a trifle too fast, she shifted a little back.
He crossed the ballroom floor, his wide shoulders clearing a path through the chattering guests. Taller than average, the handsome earl wore a black swallowtail jacket with black skin-tight breeches that emphasized the lithe musculature of his legs. His courteous smile would annoy no one but Winsome, who quite reasonably hated him for being almost impossibly perfect. The man had never offended anyone or misbehaved more than once in his entire life. Her chest emptied with an annoyed sigh.
He reached his focus, her younger, much prettier cousin, who stood beside her. His dark hair had been brushed into a very appealing Brutus. He glanced at Winsome, the slight crease between his eyebrows hinting he couldn’t quite place her.
She returned the honor with a vague smile.
His gaze hooding, he turned to Ann. “Good evening Miss Herries.” He bowed. “May I have the honor of partnering you for the country dance?”
“Indeed you may.” Ann Herries positively simpered, as well she might. Pretty, fair-haired, and fresh to the marriage market, she had done well for herself to have attracted the earl, a gentleman with a spotless reputation, and well known to be worth more than twenty thousand a year.
Then again, Ann was his type. He wouldn’t, and hadn’t, looked more than twice at her older cousin who at twenty-seven years of age hadn’t been fresh for the last nine, nor did she have golden hair and sweet rosy cheeks. Winsome, sometimes known as Win, had mid brown hair, light eyes of an indeterminate hue, and a lack of pink rouge on her cheeks. Ladies didn’t wear rouge, or so had said her elderly maid as Winsome had dressed for tonight’s ball, the third this week she had attended with Ann, whose mother had a touch of quinsy. Old maid cousins came in handy sometimes.
Lord Langsdene caught Winsome’s narrow gaze. He hesitated for a moment, but she quickly turned to old Lady Smithers, completely aware of his presence as he offered his arm to Ann, and left.
Winsome breathed again, wishing her mother couldn’t keep finding excuses to avoid taking Aunt Herries’ place for the ball season. Winsome had managed to hide during her own come-out, and had done the same the next year when her parents had hoped she would take, being nineteen by then. However, plain females without the ability to laugh at absurdities could at best attract a vicar. Unfortunately she wouldn’t suit a religious man, for she had an unholy sense of humor.
“Win, there you are,” said her dearest friend, Rose, Lady Temple, a fair-haired, elegant beauty. “Sit with us.” She hooked her arm under Winsome’s and turned her in the opposite direction.
Pulling back, Winsome widened her eyes with outrage. “Impossible. I am not yet wed. If I should be contaminated with your affliction, I would be in disgrace.”
Rose pursed her lips with reproof. “You know being in a delicate condition isn’t contagious, Win.”
“You and Della each caught your second a baby within months of each other. Surely that was no coincidence?”
“A coincidence caused by marriage. We shall not speak of this tonight, you shocking creature. I don’t show yet and until I do, I refuse to be other than my husband’s precious darling. Della and I decided we can’t possibly leave you sitting with the old biddies who will only want to sympathize with you for being single.”
“Whereas you both envy me. Admit it.” Having been forcibly escorted along a row of gold leafed, red velvet chairs placed opposite the marble papered ballroom’s doorway, Winsome stooped to kiss Della, Lady Thornton, on the cheek. “You look well, my dear.”
“Thank you, sweet Win. I’ve passed the queasy stage. I now assume I will live to see summer.” Della, the unfortunate creature, had been endowed with unfashionably dark, naturally curly hair, lustrous ebony eyes, and the figure of sylph. Five years ago, her husband had won her hand in marriage, a close fought battle with the Duke of Westbury.
Rose had accepted a love match with a mere baron. She could have had the Earl of Langsdene, but instead, she had fallen in love with Sir Ian Temple, a man older than her by ten years. The ardent puppy Langsdene had been back then would never have suited sweet Rose. “Take off that dreadful shawl, Win,” dear sweet Rose said in an authoritative voice. “It’s positively dowdy.”
Winsome tilted up her chin. “It’s how I’m supposed to look. I’m a chaperon, for heaven’s sake.”
“That shawl ages you badly, Win. More than likely it belongs to your mother. The color would suit her but you know it doesn’t suit you.” Rose jerked one end of the brown paisley shawl and pushed Winsome into the seat beside Della. She sat on Winsome’s other side, effectively making her the thorn between the two.
Della grabbed the other end of the shawl, allowing the fabric to drop to the floor behind the chair, leaving Winsome exposed in her gown of chaperon brown. “I despair,” Della said in a faint voice. “However will we disguise that?”
“We can’t, not here in full sight.” Rose unclipped a gold bracelet she wore on one arm, and before Winsome could jerk away, she wore the amulet. “At least that brightens you up little. It will have to do.” After a considering nod, she raised her eyebrows at her elegant husband who stood on the other side of the room.
“I honestly don’t see the point,” Winsome mumbled crossly, and then she suddenly did. Sir Ian, a tallish slender man with a smile charming enough to make the world seem brighter, had crossed the floor, hauling a crony with him. She crossed her arms and gave him her hurt expression.
His friend, a slightly rotund gentleman in his early forties, Mr. George Manning, smiled at Winsome, the expression in his eyes sympathetic. If he hadn’t succumbed to marriage in all these years, the sight of Rose’s bracelet on Winsome’s arm would be hardly likely to encourage him to fall at her feet begging for her hand in marriage, which had clearly been the purpose of Rose’s signal to her husband. “Miss Carsten, would you do me the honor of this dance?”
“I shouldn’t, Mr. Manning.” She stopped when Della turned toward her with a deliberately tightened jaw and narrowed eyes, letting Winsome know that she would argue to the death until Winsome changed her mind. She forced a smile. “But, of course, I would be delighted.” Since couples already stood in formation for the country-dance, she joined the nearest line with Mr. Manning.
As would naturally happen to a woman who had every intention of avoiding a man, her second partner in the set was Lord Langsdene. She managed to skip the line with him without looking at his face the whole time. The scraping of the violins dragged on and on. Never had a dance lasted so long. For nine years she had avoided him, and she ought to be immune, but her neck ached with tension. Her smile at Mr. Manning as he took her back to Rose and Della was at best shaky.
She sank into her seat with a relieved sigh. “I’m too old for all this faradiddle,” she said in an undertone after he left her.
“You’re simply out of condition,” Rose said kindly.
“I’m dripping sweat.”
Rose’s eyebrows arched with reproof. “Your skin has a dewy moisture.”
“Oh, look. My cousin Ann is trying to seek my attention.”
“She hasn’t taken her eyes off Langsdene. One can’t blame the girl. He’s turned out to be shockingly handsome, not that he wasn’t always good looking. I never expected him to turn out so well.” Rose tapped her fingers on her chin, considering.
Ten years ago as a twenty year-old, Lord Langsdene didn’t have spots, or a nose too large for his face, and he wasn’t clumsy. For his age, he was amazingly self-possessed. He was, in Winsome’s opinion as a new debutant of seventeen, the handsomest and most chivalrous male she had ever met. Rose had wanted to beat him around the shoulders with the never-ending supplies of posies he presented to her. He used to stare adoringly at her face while he talked about books and famous artists, both of which evoked in Rose a sighing irritation. “You couldn’t see past Sir Ian. As for his looks, I agree that Langsdene would make a perfect model for an Olympian god, all long limbs and hard muscles. I suspect the padding in his jacket is sparse, don’t you? And his high-boned face ... not quite perfect, but certainly striking.”
“You have the eye of an artist to notice that. When he was dangling after me, he was twenty years-old, young enough to imagine I may have wanted to discuss Homer with him.”
... while her offsider, Winsome, could barely breathe in his presence. One afternoon, she had spent a good hour memorizing the shape of his face before she went home to draw his likeness. “He was trying to compete with Sir Ian, poor lad. He didn’t have a hope.”
“Ian?”
“Lord Langsdene.”
“Yes, I know he bored you too, dear. Don’t worry. You won’t have to dance with him. He looks as if he might be interested in your cousin, Ann. That would be a very suitable match. She’s so petite and pretty and he’s so tall and dark.”
Winsome’s heart sank. A match between Langsdene and her cousin would be a disaster. Worse yet, he was heading in Winsome’s direction again. She stared down at her gloved hands, hoping he meant to bypass her. Two shapely muscular legs, shoed in polished leather, appeared in front of her. Her insides began to quiver.
“Miss Carsten?”
She drew a deep breath and lifted her gaze.
“I must apologize for not recalling you,” he said in a restrained voice. His manners were as scrupulous as his dress, curse him. “Your face seemed familiar and I ought to have remembered.”
“I think I have the sort of face people forget,” she said carefully.
“When I saw you with Rose, my memory was jogged.”
She waited for something more from him, but apparently he only remembered her forgettable face, a great relief. “We have been friends since childhood, haven’t we, Rose?” She nudged her elbow into Rose’s arm. “And you have been away for a while, I think?” She knew he hadn’t, but when she had occasionally spotted him at one of the larger society events, she decided the larger society events could be held without her presence.
“I’m usually in town for the season.” He coolly smoothed at the back of his glove.
She shifted into her next platitude. “The season for bachelors to take their pick of the new beauties. My cousin is certainly of that order.”
His gaze slowly settled on her face. “She is indeed. As I recall you used to paint.”
“A hobby I have pursued for some years.” Her mouth dried.
“Do you still have connections in the world of art?”
She managed an old maid titter. “Oh, dear me, no. Do you see me as a bluestocking, my lord?”
He scrutinized her face. “I’m in need of advice from someone who knows the art world.”
“I’m sure if you go to the Tate British, you will find any advice you are after. Many an artist needs a patron.” She stood. “You must excuse me. I see my cousin is looking for me. Rose, dearest, I must leave you in peace.”
“No, Win, dearest. You can’t leave Lord Langsdene without a partner for the next dance.” Pushy Rose fixed him with her gaze. “You were meaning to ask her for this waltz, weren’t you, John?”
Without hesitation, he inclined his head. “Of course.” He held out his hand to Winsome.
Her shoulders tensed. “I’m a chaperon, my lord. It would be most improper.”
Rose sighed. “What an insulting thing to say, Win, when you have barely left the floor with Mr. Manning. You go ahead. I’ll keep my eye on Ann.”
Winsome’s heartbeat stepped up. Panicked, she glanced at Lord Langsdene but his eyebrows lifted as he courteously waited for her to take his hand. A woman with more fortitude would have left him standing but she saved her fortitude for the next time he forgot who she was. “So kind,” she said with a timid chaperon smile.
She would have liked to make a mull of the waltz but he led masterfully and short of tripping him, she had no choice other than to be gloriously waltzed around the room. Nine years ago, dancing with him would have been nothing but a fanciful dream, one for which she would have given her soul. People watching tonight would have seen a handsome earl and a foolish old maid, and praised him for his gallantry. She willed her expression to remain bland.
Her torture ended with the music. He deposited her back with Rose and Della, who were bearing up nicely under Ann’s prattle, and left.
Rose reached her hand out to Winsome . “I will call on
you tomorrow, Win, and don’t pretend you are out. Della and I will be armed with gossip and swathes of silk. You did say ‘swathes’ didn’t you, Della?”
“Swathes.” Della nodded. “We can’t go out with Win dressed the way she is. No chaperone worth her wages, nil, would be seen dead in brown at a ball.”
“Especially when she deliberately wore the ghastly thing. When was the last time you wore brown, Win?”
“Last night,” her cousin Ann said perkily. “I think she ought to look drab. As my chaperone, she is supposed to stay in the background.”
“Have you ever heard the saying ‘hide in plain sight?’’” Della frowned reprovingly at Ann.
Ann stared at Winsome. “You’re right. She does stand out in brown among all the pastels. Perhaps I should—”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Winsome said hastily. “Debutantes must wear pastels. You don’t want to look like a country mouse.” She stooped to collect her shawl from under the chair, wrapped herself in anonymity, kissed her dear interfering friends on their soft cheeks, and took Ann back to Chaperon Row.
At the stroke of midnight, the ball ended for Winsome. Her carriage dropped off her cousin, and Winsome returned to her parents’ town house in St. James’ Place. As she crawled into her cozy bed, she wondered why Lord Langsdene wanted to speak to an art expert.
CHAPTER 2
Lord Langsdene strode down to the breakfast parlor, his shirt and breeches covered by his emerald green dressing robe. A haunch of roast beef, a plate of sliced ham, a heel of bread, a compote of plums, and a dish of smoked eels sat on the serving table. He helped himself to the beef and sat with a mug of ale in his hand. While he sipped, he perused the freshly ironed morning newspaper. Servants arrived with extra food, and silently removed dishes as he read. Nothing. Today he had been spared.
He folded the pages and leaned back, frowning. If the fellow who satirized him was someone he had offended, he would like to make amends. After the first cartoon of him haughtily treading over laborers had come a never-ending stream. His stylized face and exaggeratedly tall body appeared in every drawing, if only in a passing carriage or hiding behind a tree. Although the cartoons were meant to comment on the political scene, the artist delighted in hiding Langsdene for the readers to find.
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