Regency Debutantes

by Margaret McPhee

  He plucked the pins from her hair, one by one, until the glorious mass of curls hung free. His fingers tangled within the heavy chestnut tresses, revelling in their glossy softness. Her hair smelled fresh and clean as if she’d rinsed it in a wash of lavender water. His hands followed her hair down to where it brushed against her breasts, cupped the two small mounds, massaging them through the material of her dress with gentle passion.

  The soft white skin grew more sensitive with each caress, every stroke, until she thought that his heat would scorch her. And then when his fingers eventually found passage beneath the pale green bodice, to burrow under every layer of separating material to capture the bare skin of her breasts, she could not contain the sudden sharp inhalation of breath. Instinctively her back arched, thrusting her taut nipples hard against him, seeking more of something that she did not understand. Each and every touch sent sparks of pleasure writhing deep into her stomach. Rational thought had long since fled.

  The groan growled low in his throat and his arms locked around her as he twisted and pushed her down so that she lay on the bed beside him. ‘Kathryn,’ he gasped her name as if it was air and he was a man suffocating for want of it. ‘Kathryn,’ he whispered again as he rolled his length on top of her.

  ‘Oh, Nicholas,’ she sighed and wrapped her arms around him.

  A voice sounded from the direction of the stairs on the landing beyond the door of Ravensmede’s bedchamber. ‘What do you mean I can’t go in there! I don’t need you to announce me to m’own grandson,’ bellowed Lady Maybury. ‘If I want to see Lord Ravensmede I’ll damn well see him!’

  Kathryn and Nicholas froze as the full realisation of their situation hit them.

  The dowager’s small feet thumped noisily down the corridor, growing ever louder as she made her way to her grandson’s bedchamber.

  Kathryn’s eyes widened in horror. She tried to scramble up, to repair the loosened bodice, the long curls that flowed wantonly over her shoulders. But Nicholas’s hand stayed her frantic panic. He shook his head, touched a finger to her lips, and imprisoned her wrist with his other hand.

  A sharp knock sounded at the door. ‘Nicholas, are you decent?’ Lady Maybury’s words came clear through the mahogany.

  ‘’Fraid not, Grandmama,’ said Ravensmede with a lazy drawl. ‘I wouldn’t want to shock your delicate constitution by the sight I present at this minute.’ His eyes glowed wickedly as he looked down at Kathryn lying beneath him.

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ came the withering reply. ‘I’ve seen it all before. Had you naked on m’knee before you were in breeches.’

  Despite the predicament they found themselves in, Ravensmede smiled at his grandmother’s words. ‘Grant me ten minutes,’ he said laughingly.

  A surly-sounding grunt. ‘I’ll be back in five,’ the dowager said, and the footsteps receded back along the landing.

  Only then did a very white-faced Kathryn release the breath she had been holding. Realisation of her predicament screamed loud. And now that her ardour had disappeared without a trace, she was suddenly shamefully aware that she was on Lord Ravensmede’s bed, with the man himself lying atop her. Nicholas had not the least look of embarrassment; indeed, he was smiling down at her in what could only be described as a positively dangerous manner. Her eyes widened with growing horror. ‘N-Nicholas…’ her tongue stumbled over his name, as she tried to free herself from her position.

  The wickedness of Nicholas’s smile intensified and slowly his face moved towards hers…to drop the smallest, innocent kiss on to the tip of her nose. ‘Kathryn Marchant, you are quite the most beautiful, beguiling woman I’ve ever met.’ Without another word he rolled off her and, leaning down, helped her up to her feet. In one fluid action he had reached around to the back of her dress and fastened the buttons he had undone not so very long ago. Everything about him was smooth, lazily efficient and supremely confident.

  The same could not be said for Kathryn. Not only was she in a state of abject shock at the extent to which passion had pushed her, but her hands were shaking so much she could barely fashion her hair into some semblance of order.

  ‘Here, let me,’ he instructed, and simply turned her around, coiled her hair into a neat chignon and pinned it into place with much less fuss than any abigail would have caused.

  ‘How do you—’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ He spun her round, delivered a final kiss to her mouth, took her by the hand and guided her towards the door. ‘And now you had better go before my grandmother decides to return.’

  ‘Nicholas…’ Kathryn bit at her bottom lip.

  ‘We’ll talk about this later, Kathryn.’ Opening the door by the smallest crack, he scanned beyond, then, giving Kathryn’s fingers one last reassuring squeeze, pushed her towards the door directly across the landing; the door that led into her own bedchamber.

  It was exactly five minutes later that Lady Maybury made a reappearance, and an hour after that when she finally left him to his rest. And all the while Lord Ravensmede was forced to pretend that he had not just reached a decision of monumental proportions. Not until his grandmother left the room did he allow himself to think back on the woman who had come to him out of concern and whom he, in return, had practically seduced. Had not his grandmother come knocking at the door of his bedchamber he wondered if he would have had either the strength or the sense to stop what he was about.

  Kathryn absorbed him, totally, completely. Just touching her, kissing her, made him forget all else. What chance had he then when she lay beneath him on his bed? It was enough to drive any man mad. For all these years Nicholas Maybury had called the tune when it came to women. And heaven knew he had practised it often enough, on rich women, powerful women; all of them widowed or well experienced at their profession, some of them even other men’s wives.

  Now one woman had changed all that. One woman alone could have called any tune she wanted, and he would have danced to it a thousand times over. One woman alone had the power to gladden his heart, to make him feel dizzy with desire, or to cast him into a doldrum of depression. She was neither wealthy nor titled, neither fashionable nor flirtatious. As Cadmount had so accurately observed, she was not even his type. None of it made any difference. Nicholas loved her. And he meant to marry her. The woman’s name was Kathryn Marchant.

  It was only later that same evening when he made enquiry of his butler as to the whereabouts of his grandmother and her companion that he discovered them to have departed for a dance in the local assembly rooms. First instinct told him to seek them out, check that Kathryn understood that his intentions were honourable—hadn’t he given her every reason to think otherwise? Second thoughts suggested he wait where he was. Care must be taken to ensure that no contrary gossip linked Kathryn’s name with his. As his wife she would be safe, but until then…Reputations were a fragile thing in the hands of the ton. He was sure that his grandmother already had her suspicions about his relationship with her companion, and was warning him off. Why else was she doing her damnedest to keep them apart? It was for the best that Kathryn be seen in Brighthelmstone without him. Soon they would be together. Ravensmede would have to content himself with that. But had he known what was unfolding in the assembly rooms, the Viscount would have decided very differently.

  The air was unpleasantly stuffy and hot within the assembly rooms, and the fact that her dance card was full did not help matters. Lady Maybury was chatting with lively animation to a group of elderly ladies, and looking very pleased with the fact that Kathryn had not yet been off the dance floor. Parson John Andrew, who had a keen interest in lepidopterology, was describing to Kathryn in some detail the differences between the Red Admiral as compared to the Blue Butterfly, a feat to be much congratulated as they were engaged in dancing a robust Scottish reel at the time. The tempo of the music increased, urging the dancers to skip faster, twirl their partners with more force. Reverend Andrew’s face grew redder, and his breathing more laboured. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks an
d chin. By the end of the dance both Kathryn and Reverend Andrew were much relieved. The gentleman mopped at his brow with a large white handkerchief before setting off to fetch two glasses of lemonade for the delightful Miss Marchant and himself.

  ‘Kathryn?’ The woman’s voice inflected with surprise. ‘Is that really you? What a surprise to find you here, my dear.’

  The skin on the back of Kathryn’s neck prickled. It was a voice she knew well, and one she had not thought to hear in this part of the country. She looked up to meet the cold blue eyes of Anna Marchant. ‘Aunt Anna, the surprise is mutual.’ Then, as Lottie stepped from behind her mother, ‘And Cousin Lottie too. I had not thought to meet you both here in Brighthelmstone.’

  The harshness in Mrs Marchant’s eyes faded and she looked almost contrite. ‘Our visit is not one of pleasure,’ she said in a hushed tone. ‘It is Mr Marchant…’

  It seemed to Kathryn that her aunt was smaller than she remembered. ‘What of Uncle Henry?’

  Mrs Marchant swallowed, and compressed her lips as if trying to control some strong emotion assailing her. ‘He…’

  Guilt and concern pricked at Kathryn’s conscience. She noticed the pallor of her aunt’s face as she waited for what was to come.

  ‘He has taken an inflammation of the lungs.’ Mrs Marchant clasped her perfectly manicured hands together and held them to her mouth. There was a suspicious sheen about her eyes. ‘The doctor is not optimistic. He said…’ Her eyes squeezed momentarily closed, and, when they opened again, there was in them a vulnerability Kathryn had never seen before. ‘He said that clean sea air was our best hope. Hence I brought Mr Marchant here with all haste.’

  Lottie clasped at her mother’s hand and let out a little sob. ‘Poor Papa.’

  ‘It came on so suddenly,’ said Mrs Marchant. ‘One minute he was fine and well, and the next…’ She glanced anxiously at Kathryn.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘He insisted that I bring Lottie here tonight. Was so adamant that I dared not refuse him for fear of bringing on another coughing fit. We will not stay long and then we will get straight back to him.’

  ‘Please send my uncle my best wishes that he recovers his good health as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded Mrs Marchant, then paused before she added, ‘Mr Marchant would benefit from your visit, Kathryn, that is, if you can find the time to see him. I believe it would make a difference to him.’

  ‘I—I’m not sure—’

  But before she could say what she would have, Anna Marchant interrupted, ‘I haven’t always treated you fairly, Kathryn, and for that I beg your forgiveness. Only now do I see things in a different light.’

  The two women looked at one another, before Kathryn nodded and gave a small smile. ‘If you tell me where you are staying, then I will visit my uncle.’ So shocked was she by the news of her uncle’s illness and the drastic change in her aunt that Kathryn failed to notice the gentleman until he stood directly by her side…rather closer than was seemly.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Miss Marchant…’ and he bowed ‘…but it’s imperative that I speak with you on a matter of privacy.’

  ‘Mr Silverton!’ She could not keep the shock from her voice. The last time she had seen Harry Silverton he was being carried in a drunken stupor out of the drawing room of the rented house on The Steyne and into Lord Ravensmede’s carriage. An image of a blood-soaked Nicholas flashed into her mind, and fear flickered. Both Aunt Anna and Lottie were looking at Mr Silverton with expressions of curiosity. Kathryn deliberately edged herself away from the young man’s proximity, while making the necessary introductions. ‘Aunt Anna, Lottie, this is Mr Silverton, whose family are enjoying the summer in Brighthelmstone. Mr Silverton, this is my aunt, Mrs Marchant, and my cousin, Miss Lottie Marchant.’

  Mrs Marchant’s devoirs went unnoticed as Lottie stepped forward into Harry Silverton’s line of vision. ‘Miss Lottie,’ he said with awe, and stared at Lottie as if she was an apparition. ‘Is this an angel I see before me?’ And before the stunned Lottie could reply, he plucked her hand into his and placed upon it a reverential kiss.

  Kathryn looked from Harry Silverton’s stunned visage to her cousin’s flushed excited one. Lottie was ogling right back at Mr Silverton.

  Mrs Marchant cleared her throat. ‘We must be going, Lottie, come along.’

  ‘But I’ve only just arrived,’ protested Mr Silverton, ‘and not yet had the pleasure of dancing with the beautiful Miss Lottie.’

  Lottie’s lips moved to a pout. ‘Mama, we are scarcely here.’

  Kathryn had no wish to speak to Silverton, especially knowing all that he had done to Nicholas, but she was wise enough to realise that the young man could be dangerous. It would be better to hear what he proposed to say over the matter. ‘You wished to speak to me, Mr Silverton?’

  Harry Silverton blinked like a man struggling to free himself from a drugged daze. ‘Did I? It’s of no matter, now.’ He bestowed his most charming smile upon Lottie, and held out his hand for her dance card. ‘May I hope to secure a dance with you, Miss Lottie?’

  Kathryn could see quite clearly the way that things were progressing, especially after her aunt learned of the Silverton family’s wealth. She was, therefore, considerably relieved when the Reverend Mr Andrews, carrying two glasses of lemonade, finally found his way back to her. And even more relieved when that same gentleman informed her that Lady Maybury had developed a headache and wanted to leave the assembly rooms.

  During the journey home in the carriage Kathryn thought about her uncle’s ill health, and the change in her aunt’s manner. She thought about the sudden and rather overt attraction between Mr Silverton and Cousin Lottie. But most of all she thought about Nicholas Maybury, and of what had happened between them on his bed that very afternoon.

  In the days following Nicholas and Kathryn’s illicit tryst not one opportunity presented itself for them to speak together privately. Lady Maybury guarded her companion with all the tenacity of a terrier. Naps were forgotten. The independent old lady vanished. Her temper did not. She developed a need to have Kathryn with her at all times, from breakfast time to dinner. The very night of their return from the assembly rooms, she developed a nocturnal fear that necessitated Kathryn moving into Lady Maybury’s bedchamber to keep her company. Matters grew even worse the next morning when Kathryn asked for leave to visit her uncle. The dowager embarked on what amounted to an inquisition over Uncle Henry’s illness and Aunt Anna’s invitation—and then claimed that she could not spare her companion even for half an hour. Every evening there were dances and trips to the theatre—all very public affairs—all with Ravensmede very much consigned to the background if her ladyship consented to his company at all.

  In a way Kathryn was thankful to the old woman. She both desired and dreaded the time when she would be alone with Nicholas. She loved him, knew now that she could deny neither him nor herself. It was just a matter of time. Lady Maybury’s tactics were only deferring the inevitable. Kathryn had her suspicions as to how much the dowager knew, loved the old lady all the more for trying to protect her poor companion.

  Nausea rose at the thought of what becoming Nicholas’s mistress would mean: a slap in the face to Lady Maybury for all that she had done to help Kathryn, and the loss of her own good name. No matter how hard they tried to keep the affair hidden, it would come out—such secrets always did. And what about when he tired of her, when he found some other woman to fill her place? The thought churned cold in her stomach. She was a fool a hundred times over, a fool caught between the devil and a high place…with little idea of how to solve her quandary.

  Within the drawing room of the rented townhouse in Brighthelmstone Mrs Marchant was pacing with a great deal of excitement. ‘You’re certain, Henry, that Mr Silverton means to ask her?’

  ‘Yes, he asked my permission to pay suit to Lottie. The boy is clearly besotted with her and wants to marry her.’

  ‘Very g
ood. Lottie will be married before either of us thought,’ purred his wife. Her blue eyes narrowed and her slash of a smile broadened. ‘I like Mr Silverton immensely. He has such very interesting tales to tell…particularly concerning our niece and Lord Ravensmede.’

  Mr Marchant worried at his chins. ‘There is an indecent haste about the affair. Mr Silverton is talking as if he means to marry Lottie tomorrow. They have only known each other a matter of days!’

  His wife delivered him a withering look. ‘What’s to know? Harry Silverton is an only son; he has two sisters, and his parents are elderly. He stands to inherit his father’s chain of coffee houses and sugar plantation in the West Indies. Not only that, but he’s currently worth fifteen thousand a year, and will receive a large and fashionable new townhouse in Bristol as part of his wedding gift from the old man.’

  ‘But he’s trade, and I thought you wanted better for Lottie; a baronet at least, you said.’

  ‘Bah, half the aristocracy have pockets to let. Fifteen thousand. And think what he stands to inherit.’

  Mr Marchant nodded in agreement. ‘I concede it to be a fortune.’

  ‘Although I should prefer Lottie’s wedding to be a grand affair, I would not want to stand in the way of true love.’

  Her husband rolled his eyes.

  ‘And there would be other advantages to them marrying sooner rather than later.’

  ‘I see none,’ said Mr Marchant somewhat sourly, ‘other than the cost to my pocket.’

  ‘There is the little matter of Kathryn. Have you forgotten about her?’