Regency Debutantes

by Margaret McPhee

  Her cheeks scorched scarlet. ‘I do not think that is necessary, my lord.’

  ‘Oh, but I assure you that it is. I am most determined to know you.’ The words were low and mellow, scarcely audible over the rumble of the wheels and the passing shouts from the street.

  She faced him defiantly. ‘I do not care for the turn this conversation is taking, sir.’

  He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that her consideration did not matter.

  The balance of Kathryn’s temper tipped. With one hand gripping the travelling strap, she reached up and banged twice upon the carriage roof. ‘Stop!’ she shouted loud enough for the coachman to hear. Her fingers tugged at the window. Her head whipped round in Ravensmede’s direction. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

  The carriage showed no sign of slowing.

  ‘Perdition, Kathryn! Are you trying to kill yourself?’ He grabbed at her hands, pulling them away from the glass. The carriage bounced over some bumps. She staggered, striving to keep her balance, and toppled over straight on to Ravensmede’s knee.

  ‘Dear Lord!’ she gasped and tried to escape. But Ravensmede’s arms had already closed around her. ‘Unhand me at once!’

  ‘And let you fall out of a moving carriage? I do not think so, Kathryn.’

  ‘I was going to wait for it to stop,’ she said with indignation.

  ‘Really?’ he said drolly.

  ‘I refuse to stay in here a moment longer with you!’

  No reply, just that nearly smile upon his face.

  ‘Lord Ravensmede!’ she gasped.

  ‘Miss Marchant,’ he replied.

  He held her gently but firmly throughout her struggles until at last she realised their futility and relaxed against the hard muscle of his body. Still his arms wound around her, barring any route of possible escape. His clean scent of bergamot surrounded her and she was growing increasingly aware of the muscular thighs on which she was sitting and the tautness of his stomach and chest hugging the contours of her back. The pulse still leapt in her throat, throbbing with a speed that made her ragged breathing seem slow in comparison. It was no longer anger that drove her reactions, but something quite different, something that she most definitely should not feel.

  He was a rake! He would take what he could, and cast her aside. To a man like Ravensmede she was easy prey, a nothing, a nobody. If his grandmother found out, then Kathryn knew that she would lose her new home and position…not to mention her reputation. And then where would she be? The thought gave her the strength she needed. Quite suddenly she pulled away from him and attempted to break free. At first she thought she would succeed. It seemed her stillness had lulled him into a false sense of security. But even as her body made to rise the large arms clamped her back down. The breath shuddered in her throat.

  ‘Keep still, Kathryn. I would not have you hurt yourself.’

  The words were so close as to tickle her ear. The sensation shuddered down through her core. Whatever she knew of Nicholas Maybury, it was not enough to still her traitorous body’s response. She could have cried aloud. Instead, she forced herself to calmness, letting the seconds become minutes. When at last she had some semblance of control she spoke. ‘Lord Ravensmede, you may release me now. I give you my word that I won’t try to leave the carriage.’

  Only the sound of his breath whispered past her ear.

  ‘My lord?’

  He did not speak. Slowly his arms relaxed and opened in a gesture of release.

  Kathryn knew she should leap across to the opposite seat, but she stayed quite still, only swung her legs round to the side and moved her head so that she might look into his face. His gaze was trained on her, glittering with a force that made the breath catch in her throat. For in those eyes, those alluring green eyes, was a look of such tenderness as to shatter every belief Kathryn had of the man. A large hand moved to cup the back of her head, his fingers untied the ribbons of her bonnet and, casting it aside, threaded into the silkiness of her hair. She knew what he was going to do and still she did nothing to stop him.

  With calm deliberation he manoeuvred her until their lips met. And in their caress was the escalation of passionate need. His mouth moved with slow sensuality, sliding and sucking, coaxing and nipping, until she found her lips lapping against his, giving as much as receiving. Just when she thought she was melting in the heat of his embrace she felt the tantalising tease of his tongue, sliding against her lips, invading her mouth, seeking her own. Tongue touched tongue in warm and moist intimacy.

  A long low groan issued deep in his throat and his hands moved to stroke her back, sweeping down to cover the swell of her hip, pulling her closer against him. Breast against breast. Even through the layers of clothing that separated their two bodies Kathryn felt the strong steady beat of his heart. Her skin warmed and blossomed against his until there was an aching tightness in her breasts. Not knowing what she did, she rose against him, arching instinctively until their hardened peaks thrust against the firm muscle of his chest. His roughened jaw-line rasped at the scorch marks left by his lips.

  ‘Kathryn!’ The whisper was a shuddering caress, full of desire. His fingers wove their magic through the muslin of her dress, sliding round to move against the flatness of her stomach, and up, further, until they reached their goal. He groaned again, a low guttural sound. ‘God, but you’re beautiful.’

  She touched her lips to his.

  The coach ground to a halt. The thump of footsteps sounded and, not a moment after Kathryn found herself dumped unceremoniously on to the opposite seat, the door swung open. Ravensmede House loomed large in the background. A footman positioned the steps and stood back to await his lordship’s descent.

  The green eyes raised to hers. ‘Kathryn…’

  She didn’t wait to hear the words. She didn’t need to. Before Ravensmede could stop her she had clambered out of the carriage and was fleeing up the stone stairs to the front door.

  Chapter Seven

  If Lady Maybury noticed that her new companion’s colour was rather high, or that the girl’s lips were swollen from being thoroughly kissed, she kept such observations to herself. There was much work to be done with organising the packing and arrangement of her ladyship’s luggage for the move to Upper Grosvenor Street. And the dowager seemed to be in a rather cantankerous mood with everyone except Kathryn. It was somewhat surprising that the lady’s favourite grandson was also being included under this edict. The dowager’s disposition had not improved by the time both she and Miss Marchant came to take their leave of the Viscount.

  ‘Nicholas.’ Lady Maybury presented a small withered hand to be kissed. ‘You may call upon me next week and not before. I will be busy ensuring that all is in order and have no desire for a distraction. Do I make myself clear?’ A rather chilly focus fixed itself upon her grandson.

  Ravensmede was not indifferent to his grandmother’s mood, but, not trusting exactly what that perceptive gaze of hers had fathomed, he did not enquire as to its cause. ‘Perfectly clear, Grandmama. Never fear, I shall not disturb you before the appointed time.’ He pressed a kiss to the papery hand and moved to face Miss Marchant, who to all intent and purpose was attempting to hide herself behind the tiny frame of his grandmother. ‘Miss Marchant,’ he said politely, ‘I trust that you have found your stay to be comfortable?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, my lord.’ There was nothing in her manner to suggest that all was not as it should be, apart from the slight tremor in her fingers when he pressed them briefly to his lips. Ravensmede felt it keenly, but could do nothing as she withdrew her hand and stepped away.

  He suffered the baleful stare of a faded green eye and then the two women were walking down the steps to the heavily laden carriage and the journey that would remove them from the house in Berkeley Square. The door closed with a thump, leaving Ravensmede alone, save for the creeping sense of loss.

  ‘Heard Lady Maybury has taken li’l Miss Marchant on as her companion. Rather convenient for you,
I’d say.’ If Lord Cadmount lounged any lower in the chair he would be in danger of slipping out of it. The brandy glass balanced delicately on one thigh as he gave his friend a knowing wink.

  Ravensmede grunted and loosened the neckcloth that his valet had spent twenty minutes in tying. ‘Then you’d be wrong.’

  The pale eyebrows raised as high as they could. ‘How so? Could it be that you’ve already bedded her and found her not to your taste?’

  A dry laugh. ‘Hell, Caddie! You know that I haven’t.’ The memory of her slender body pressed against his, the softness of those pink lips, the sweetness of her tentative response, intruded all too readily. He felt a stirring in his lower regions and clamped it down with frustrated determination. A gulp of brandy warmed his throat before he continued. ‘As my grandmother’s companion, she should be safe from any such speculation.’ He made no mention of the vile family from whom Kathryn was also now safe.

  ‘Not quite,’ argued his friend. ‘There’s always room for that wherever the woman is placed.’

  ‘Not when my grandmother is involved,’ replied Ravensmede.

  ‘I agree that Lady Maybury would make a most formidable foe.’ Cadmount sipped his drink and mulled his thoughts. ‘Strange that Henry Marchant never looked to make a marriage for the girl. I know she’s no schoolroom miss, but neither has she reached her dotage. Must have been keen to keep her in the bosom of his family. A charitable chap, wouldn’t you say?’

  Ravensmede’s eyes darkened. ‘Hardly that. Marchant lacks a backbone; he does little more than dance to his wife’s tune. A less charitable couple I’ve yet to meet.’ Something of the darkness lifted from his mood. ‘Neither was their home a suitable place for a woman like Miss Marchant.’

  Cadmount smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘I think I begin to understand.’

  The green eyes raised to his. One corner of his mouth flickered up. ‘I doubt very much that you do, my dear Caddie.’

  ‘And therein lies the rub.’ A finger stroked thoughtfully at his chin. ‘You still want her.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  Ravensmede did not deny it. ‘She’s my grandmother’s companion now, and even if she wasn’t…’

  ‘It would take a rake of the lowest order to seduce a woman who lost her mother and sister and found her father with half his head blown off.’

  ‘Hell, I didn’t realise that Kathryn saw her father after he shot himself.’ Ravensmede’s brows drew together.

  ‘The chit found him all right. Couldn’t have been a pretty sight. Had an interesting chat with Bertie Devon. He remembers the whole thing.’

  ‘No woman should have to suffer that.’

  Cadmount paused, then asked in a stolid tone, ‘Do you mean to seduce her?’

  Ravensmede blew a languid sigh. Seduce her? He had come damn near to doing so a week ago in his carriage. He gave Cadmount a cynical look. ‘Do you think that I will?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  A wry smile. ‘My grandmother will take good care of her. She’ll be safe there.’ Safe from Anna Marchant, but was she truly safe from him?

  Cadmount leaned over the chair and, catching his somewhat wrinkled coat up from the floor, set about rummaging in the pockets. ‘Strikes me that the girl brings out the protective streak in you.’

  Ravensmede crooked an eyebrow. ‘Too much brandy, Caddie. Your imaginings run wild. Next you’ll have me attending lectures by the Humane Society.’

  ‘Now that would be something worth seeing.’ Cadmount laughed. ‘Are you telling me that you have no care for Miss Marchant?’

  ‘I’m saying that the woman’s suffered enough. She deserves to have some little happiness.’

  The two men looked at one another.

  ‘Undoubtedly we need another drink.’ The Viscount walked without a hint of unsteadiness to retrieve the decanter.

  ‘Won’t help, old man.’ Lord Cadmount shook his head sagely. ‘Happens to us all sooner or later.’

  Ravensmede rubbed at the darkening shadow of stubble on his chin as he refilled their glasses. ‘Enlighten me.’

  The finely painted miniature box nestled on Cadmount’s palm as he regarded it with a knowing expression. ‘Love.’

  ‘You’re most definitely foxed, Caddie.’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ said his friend, helping himself to a generous helping of snuff. ‘But it doesn’t mean I’m not right. Fancy a pinch?’ The box was dangled enticingly towards Ravensmede.

  ‘Why not?’ He helped himself to some snuff and snapped the lid shut again.

  Golden flames leapt high in the hearth, causing the logs to crackle and spit. The two men sat in comfortable silence, Cadmount knowing when he had pushed far enough, Ravensmede brooding on the growing fascination that he felt for Kathryn Marchant.

  ‘Read me the last verse again,’ Lady Maybury instructed.

  Kathryn glanced up at the dowager’s smiling countenance and then, lowering her eyes once more to the book, began to read.

  Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang

  As if her song could have no ending;

  I saw her singing at her work,

  And o’er the sickle bending—

  I listened, motionless and still;

  And, as I mounted up the hill,

  The music in my heart I bore,

  Long after it was heard no more.

  ‘No poet is quite as lyrical as Mr Wordsworth, and no lady reads poetry quite so well as you, my dear gel. You have a wonderful voice.’

  Kathryn blushed at Lady Maybury’s generous praise and lowered the book to her lap. ‘Thank you, my lady. My father always liked to hear my sister and me reading, and we did so most nights in the parlour. Poems, essays, novels, anything would do, even the newspaper. Papa would listen as if he had never heard anything so interesting in all the day.’ She paused and smiled, before adding quietly, ‘They’re happy memories.’ She did not think of the bad ones.

  ‘And did you read to your aunt and uncle when you came to London?’ the old lady asked.

  The rich brown curls swayed as she slowly shook her head. ‘Oh, no, Uncle Henry reads the Morning Post and Aunt Anna does not much care for reading at all.’

  ‘And the cousin? What did you say her name was—Lettie?’ The ancient tone had sharpened imperceptibly.

  ‘Lottie. I’m afraid my cousin finds reading rather irksome. She’s of a more musical disposition, being very fond of singing and with a voice that’s lovely to hear.’ Kathryn carefully turned the page in the book nestled upon her lap. ‘Indeed, my aunt is holding a musical evening very soon at which Lottie will be singing to Mr Dalton’s piano accompaniment. Lottie has been practising for weeks.’

  Lady Maybury showed not the slightest interest. ‘I’ve just remembered our appointment with Madame Dupont. Come, we had best ready ourselves. She’s rather high in the instep for a dressmaker, but I’ve never patronised anyone else in the last thirty years. Her designs are very much to my liking.’

  Thus it was that, precisely two hours later, Kathryn and Lady Maybury came to be sitting within the tiny backroom of Madame Dupont’s elegant establishment in highly fashionable Bond Street.

  ‘But, my lady, it is such a colour as to bring out the fire in your eyes. A dark green silk will make the gown, damask is not at all right for this style.’ The tall thin woman with the severe white chignon spoke passionately in an accent that still held the lilt of her Gallic origins. ‘Most definitely non!’ She shook her head defiantly.

  For the first time since their meeting Kathryn saw Lady Maybury capitulate. ‘Very well, Marie. I’ll allow you to have your way in this one respect. A small turban in green and black should go very well, don’t you think?’

  ‘Indeed, my lady, very well indeed. And I shall add a few small ebony plumes as the finishing touch, yes?’

  ‘Yes. Now that’s enough for me at present, Marie. My companion Miss Marchant requires an evening dress for the same event. And we had better have a couple of afterno
on dresses and another evening dress while we’re at it.’ Lady Maybury’s small veined hand was pushing Kathryn forward in no uncertain terms.

  Her companion, on the other hand, had very different ideas. ‘My lady, it’s really not necessary, I have a very serviceable evening gown and several other dresses too. I must insist that there is no need for anything more.’ Kathryn thought of the few outmoded shabby dresses that had arrived in her old trunk from Green Street. She thought too of the six shillings hidden at the bottom of the trunk, next to the small battered bible that had belonged to her mother. The sum of her worldly savings would not suffice to pay for one of Madame Dupont’s gowns, let alone four. ‘Thank you for thinking of me,’ she added hastily lest Lady Maybury think her rude.

  The dressmaker’s dark eyes swung back to the dowager.

  ‘Kathryn,’ Lady Maybury began, and Kathryn recognised it as her most autocratic tone. ‘It is in the role of my companion that you require several new items of clothing. The choice is mine as is the reckoning of the account.’ There was definitely more than a hint of the same imperious tone Kathryn had witnessed in the old lady’s grandson.

  Kathryn’s cheeks flushed at the barely veiled implication. Lady Maybury did not care to be seen in the company of someone dressed so poorly. It was also evident that the dowager knew something of her companion’s meagre means and thus felt compelled to pay for the clothing. Kathryn could not dispute that her dresses were probably of a state to cause her employer some degree of embarrassment, but she was also very aware of the pride that was lodged stubbornly in her throat. ‘Thank you, my lady, but, kind as your offer is, you must know that I cannot possibly accept it. I will pay for the dresses myself.’ The defiant little chin thrust up as she waited for Lady Maybury’s reaction.

  ‘Very well, my dear. It seems that you have your mind set over the matter.’

  With a calm demeanour Kathryn nodded her gratitude and turned to face the dressmaker. She would worry over how to obtain the money later, when she knew the full sum owing.