Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “Anne may be looking for me,” Penelope hinted.

  “Please, Miss Fairweather, a minute longer? It is such a lovely night …,” he replied, caressing her knuckles.

  “Lord Poyning, I really think we should return indoors,” Penelope insisted.

  She tugged her hand forcefully. He held on. She then yanked her hand back with all her might. It worked. Her hand was free, but the glove was not. It hung limply in the impassioned Lord Poyning’s grasp.

  She eyed the glove and decided to leave it with him. She tucked both her hands under her armpits to discourage him from trying to make any more love to her poor fingers. She was now thoroughly annoyed and worried. Her job was to make him fall in love with Anne and not herself.

  “Miss Fairweather,” he breathed. “Do not hold yourself back.”

  Penelope eyed his pursed lips in distaste. She had two choices. One, she could whip out her fan and repeatedly poke him with the pointed end until he let her go, or two, she could swoon. She decided to go with the latter option. It was a more civilised way out, and accordingly she lifted her hand to her forehead, closed her eyes and swayed. When he refused to take the hint and continued to murmur sweet nothings in her burning ears, she let her legs go slack. He caught her as she buckled, and being unable to hold a limp body in his arms for long, he laid her on the balcony floor.

  “What’s the matter?” the duke’s voice said, somewhere above her head.

  A tiny frown creased her brow before being quickly smoothed out.

  “I am not s-sure. She swooned … Perhaps the heat?” Lord Poyning stuttered. He quickly tucked Penelope’s glove under her back and stood up.

  “It is a cool night, Lord Poyning,” the duke replied.

  “I don’t know … Women are so delicate. Shall I fetch Lady Anne?” Lord Poyning asked, itching to get away.

  “Stay away from my sister,” the duke said in a controlled manner. He took Penelope’s wrist and checked her pulse. He noted the missing glove.

  “Perhaps I could fetch a glass of water?”

  “Brandy may help,” the duke muttered, extracting the missing glove from beneath Penelope.

  Lord Poyning rapidly exited the scene.

  “Darling, I was waiting for you,” Lady Lydia pouted. Her eyes fell on Miss Fairweather lying prostrate on the ground.

  “As you can see, I was detained.”

  “I suppose you can’t leave her like this and let her revive on her own?” Lady Lydia asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  “I see. Would you like me to do something?” Lady Lydia asked, peering down at Penelope.

  “Get Anne and ask her to bring smelling salts. Miss Martin may have some.”

  The duke waited until Lady Lydia departed before saying to Penelope, “Miss Fairweather, we are alone now. You can stop this nonsense and get up.”

  Penelope stuck to her role and continued playing dead.

  “I could dump this glass of wine on your head,” he said conversationally.

  Penelope’s eyes flew open and she looked at his hand. It was empty. She then recalled her situation and said sleepily, “Where am I?”

  The duke raised a brow and said, “Who am I? What time is it?”

  “Eh?”

  “That’s what one says upon waking up from a fainting spell. You forgot the other two lines.”

  “I did swoon,” Penelope snapped.

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Well, I think you do.”

  “Do what?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Should I have any reason to doubt it?”

  Penelope did not reply. She moved her head attempting to get up. The duke’s hand shot out to protect her head from smashing into a clay flower pot.

  He scowled, “Why were you pretending? Did Lord Poyning try and do something unsavoury?”

  “No,”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, waving the glove in front of her face.

  “Yes,” she said, snatching the glove from him and putting it on.

  “I am surprised, Miss Fairweather. You had an excellent opportunity to trap a wealthy man and you let it go? He must have done something. Otherwise why—”

  “Your grace, that is enough. I did swoon and—”

  “Or was swooning a part of your plan to trap him? Was he not playing along? I wonder if I ruined things by coming along and—”

  Penelope pounced, catching his neck in her small hands.

  “Oh, you horrid man, I wish I could strangle you. I was not trying to trap him. You—”

  A throat cleared behind them and Penelope turned to find Anne, Lady Lydia and Lord Poyning staring at her. She gulped and dropped her hands.

  “You all prevented a murder tonight. Well done. Now, can we return indoors?” the duke asked blandly. “Ah, the brandy, I think I need it more than Miss Fairweather here, Lord Poyning. After the whole near death situation, I am in shock.”

  Lord Poyning handed the glass to the duke and then warily eyeing Penelope edged back into the ballroom.

  “What happened?” Anne asked, once they were alone.

  Penelope dusted her skirts and smoothed her hair. “I swooned and then attempted to murder the duke. Shall we return indoors?”

  “Yes, of course. It is a pity you did not finish my brother off. If only we had arrived a couple of minutes later ….”

  ***

  After a short conference with Anne, Penelope returned to Miss Martin’s drawing room with a new plan of action. According to this plan she was meant to attract Lord Rivers, which would solve two pressing problems. Firstly, her own hunt for a husband would become more focussed. Lord Rivers was an excellent catch— wealthy, titled, young and agreeable. And yet no one saw him as a potential husband. His disinterest and curt replies disheartened even the most ambitious mothers of potential brides. And more importantly he did not make her skin crawl. Secondly, Lord Poyning would finally stop chasing her. And if Lord Rivers was courting Penelope, then Anne would get to spend more time with Lord Poyning, for the two friends seemed attached at the hip.

  The plan was simple enough. The execution was the problem. Her first obstacle occurred when she tried to strike up a conversation with him. Just like all her predecessors, she too was having a hard time getting more than a word out of him. If she pouted prettily, he thought she was going to cast up her accounts. If she complimented him, he eyed her suspiciously, and if she used the flirtatious language of fans, he hastily excused himself.

  She changed tactics by speaking to him like she would to a cousin or a friend. This seemed to work more favourably. He had just started warming up to her when Lady Lydia suddenly arrived into their midst like a sparkling icicle that had snapped off the roof of a dark, dank cave and landed on top of an unsuspecting polar bear’s head. Penelope was that unfortunate polar bear.

  “Lord Rivers, you are being so kind in keeping our guest entertained. Are you feeling better, Miss Fairweather?” Lady Lydia did not wait for her to reply but continued on, “I have been remiss in my duties. By right I should have seen to Miss Fairweather’s comforts. She hardly knows anyone here and I—”

  “She is not your guest,” Anne said cutting her short.

  “Anne dear, I am the duke’s fiancée and soon to be his bride. I will be the Duchess of Blackthorne and by that right I have some obligations to fulfil. Miss Fairweather happens to be one of them. She is the duke’s guest so—”

  “You are not the Duchess of Blackthorne yet. I think you should enjoy your freedom while you have it. Pray, leave Miss Fairweather to me for the moment. You will have plenty to do when and if you marry Charles,” Anne replied, her voice dripping sugar.

  “Where is Charles?” Lady Lydia asked, glaring at Anne.

  Anne shrugged, “You should know. He is, after all, your fiancé. I am merely his sister and he does not feel the need to keep me informed of his whereabouts.”

  Lady Lydia flung the blood red shawl across her shoulders. Her departing glance cle
arly warned that as soon as she became the duchess, the first person she would pack off to the country would be Anne.

  “You can thank me later for saving you from that … that … arrrgh! I don’t know a bad enough word that describes her,” Anne said.

  “Hush, Lord Rivers and Lord Poyning will hear you. Remember, you are all sweetness and light, or at least you should be in the presence of men,” Penelope said.

  “Madame?”

  “Who else will teach me such things?” Penelope said grinning.

  “I wish he wouldn’t marry her,” Anne said, her face falling.

  “I know she is a little snarly, but if the duke loves her …”

  “Snarly,” Anne chuckled. “Snarly Lady Lydia. How apt. As for love, it is a match of convenience. She belongs to the right family, and her father Lord Snowly has a lot of common business interests with Charles. Lydia went running to her father the moment she set eyes on Charles. Her father has never deprived his darling daughter of anything, so he wrapped my brother up in ribbons and presented him to her on her birthday. There was a ball thrown on the grand occasion.”

  “I didn’t realise the duke was willing to marry for convenience.”

  “He will only marry for convenience. Anything but love,” Anne replied, ending the conversation.

  Lord Rivers had disappeared. Penelope assumed that she had most likely scared him away. Therefore, with nothing else to occupy her, she spent the evening dwelling on Anne’s last comment and watching the couples dance.

  Interestingly, Lady Lydia was waltzing around in Lord Poyning’s arms, and the two of them were much closer than what was considered seemly. The duke and Anne were supporting identical livid expressions as they watched the couple dance. Anne’s reasons were understandable, but Penelope did wonder at the duke’s dark looks. Anne had said that the duke did not love Lady Lydia, but was that true? Was he suffering a bout of jealousy at seeing Lady Lydia giggle into Lord Poyning’s shoulder? The thought made her heart lurch painfully.

  Chapter 23

  Anne stirred her porridge morosely. She looked like the world had come crashing down around her slightly pointed ears.

  The duke glared at the sun streaming in through the large French windows of the breakfast room. He occasionally stabbed his eggs and poked at the sausage.

  The dowager and Penelope eyed the duke’s wounded breakfast plate in distress.

  It was suffice to say that the day had begun rather badly.

  Penelope could not stand the funeral atmosphere any longer. She recalled the old lady she had seen at Hyde Park the day before. She had been trying to cheer up her miserable spaniel. The spaniel had perked up and perhaps so would the duke. The trick was to use the right sort of tone. She practiced it softly under her breath. She missed the dowager’s alarmed look and Anne’s brightening expression.

  Penelope spoke loudly in exactly the right sort of voice one uses in such situations, and before the dowager could warn her, it was out.

  “Ickle, duksey. Ickle, ickle, dukesy. Why are you so saddy? Eh? Who is saddy? Little dukesy is saddy?”

  Stunned silence met her efforts.

  Penelope did not lose heart. She tried again, “I can see a smile hanging over your head, your grace.”

  The duke scowled.

  “Oops, the smile fell on top of your head. Can you feel it trickle down to the tip of your nose? I can see it. There it is now perched on your upper lip. Oooh, it is slipping down slowly … It has now reached the middle of your lips … and it is tickling the corners of your lips and there, there, there, andddd … You smiled!”

  The duke had not smiled.

  Anne collapsed into helpless giggles and the dowager stuffed a napkin into her mouth.

  Penelope rapidly deflated at the thunderous expression on the duke’s face. She crouched lower and lower in her seat wishing she could disappear. The words had sounded reasonable in her head, but addressing Charles Radclyff, the Duke of Blackthorne, thus felt not quite right.

  The duke turned a gimlet eye towards his mother and sister who were helpless with laughter. His head slowly turned towards Penelope, who had by now wriggled off her seat and sat under the table. Only her eyes were visible above the tabletop. She peeked at him from between the jam and butter dish.

  He blinked, and to everyone’s utter shock started laughing, a deep roaring laughter that rang around the room.

  Tears sparkled in the dowager’s eyes and her face softened as she watched her son laugh.

  Anne grasped Penelope’s hand and squeezed it gratefully. Her voice was thick with emotion when she said, “Charles, Penelope has made you laugh again.”

  The duke froze, his eyes flying to Penelope. He slowly stood up, the smile vanishing.

  “Miss Fairweather, I would like to see you in my study. Please finish your breakfast first.” He spoke calmly. The sadness that had glittered in his eyes earlier that morning was replaced by something worse. Blankness.

  Silence reigned after the duke’s departure.

  ***

  The duke was not happy. In the last five years, he could not recall a single moment when he had felt this miserable. It was women who made men miserable, he reasoned. Women who came rushing into a bachelor’s life like an unwanted pup. Instead of slippers, they chewed up feelings, destroyed a man’s favourite possessions, took up all of your time, and then looked at you with big innocent eyes that seemed to say— who me? I would never.

  Pushing aside the ledger, he wondered what to do about Miss Fairweather. All his plans had come to naught, and with his mother supporting the mosquito, things were looking dire.

  “Your grace?” Theodore squeaked.

  The duke slammed the ledger shut. He would have to plan something soon. She was getting bolder and bolder, even daring to make him laugh.

  “Your grace, it is a matter of great urgency. The Desmond house is stinking of –”

  The duke’s head snapped up. “Stinking? How bad does it smell?”

  “Very bad, your grace. One of the girls swooned.”

  “Stinking enough to have a girl swoon. That’s wonderful, Theodore. Best news I have had in days.”

  “Your grace, but—”

  “Theodore, that will be all. We shall discuss the rest tomorrow. Oh, and leave a small map of where the Desmond house is located on my desk before you go.”

  “But your grace—”

  “Later, Theodore.”

  The man’s whiskers trembled agitatedly, but he did as he was bid. He left the map and departed.

  ***

  “Come in.”

  Penelope gathered all her courage and walked into the study.

  The duke sat at his desk twirling a miniature globe. He did not look up when she entered or acknowledge her presence in any other way. He continued playing with the orb while she stood nervously shifting from foot to foot.

  He was lost in thought, his eyes unfocused. Whatever he was thinking seemed to be making him angrier and angrier. And with his rising emotions, the globe spun faster. But it was only when he suddenly stilled the globe that Penelope began to worry.

  He finally looked up and gestured towards the chair.

  Penelope chose to stand. It would be easier to run that way.

  His mouth twisted humourlessly. He guessed her thoughts and strode past her towards the only entrance in the room. He stood with his back to the door blocking her only escape route.

  Penelope met his eyes boldly, refusing to be cowed. This time all she had done was make him laugh. That was not a crime.

  “You pinched my ear,” the duke said indignantly.

  Penelope examined the carpet.

  “After that you proceeded to get drunk at the dinner table.” The duke started pacing up and down the room. “You befriended my mother and sister and manipulated them to such an extent that my mother, who always heeds my advice, stopped listening to me. And Anne, under your influence, has become flighty and disrespectful. I asked you to leave and you refused to fo
llow my order. What self-respecting woman will continue to stay in a place where she is clearly unwanted?”

  A tiny frown creased Penelope’s brow.

  “You are a terrible influence on my sister. I am sure you will do something that will malign your character and that in turn will reflect on Anne, who is forever seen in your blasted company.”

  Penelope’s head shot up and she glared at him.

  The duke continued raging, “Why do I judge your character so harshly? Firstly, you tried to seduce Lord Poyning. A man and a woman do not escape to a dark corner on a balcony away from prying eyes to discuss the weather. They want privacy for a reason and that reason is—”

  “I did not try and seduce him,” Penelope finally snapped.

  “Secondly,” the duke continued ignoring her outburst, “when your plan failed to trap Lord Poyning, you started making eyes at Lord Rivers. You, Miss Fairweather, are fickle in your affections.”

  “I—” Penelope started to say.

  The duke cut her short, “And thirdly,” he said walking up to her, “you tried to seduce me on your first day in London.”

  Penelope stepped back, and her legs hit the writing desk. “I did not try and seduce you. You kissed me.”

  “That was not a kiss.”

  The duke leaned over, forcing her to bend backwards. “My dear, Miss Fairweather, in conclusion, you are a doxie. In fact, worse than that, for doxies are paid for their services while you—”

  Penelope saw red and blindly grabbed the first thing that touched her hand. She lifted it up and the duke caught her wrist.

  “That inkpot, my dear, is worth more than you are. Drop it.”

  Penelope struggled. The inkpot fell on the carpet with a thud, but she did not give up. She squirmed to get away, and the duke caught both her wrists, refusing to let go.

  “Miss Fairweather, I will let you go if you promise to behave in a civilised fashion and stop this nonsense. No throwing things around.”

  “Why you … you sapscull. I am going to promise nothing,” Penelope growled, stamping on his foot.