by Delle Jacobs
She raised her lips to meet his, not quite knowing what to expect, fearing she might not give back to him what he wanted. Surely there were those who had been in his arms, who understood how to please a man, like the shocking Lady Lavington. Yet the moment he bent down to touch his lips to hers, and circled an arm about her to draw her to him, Chloe understood. The tingle that began at her lips flooded like warm wine all the way down to her toes and back again. This was where she belonged, in this man's arms.
She was trembling as he released her, guiltily unable to meet his gaze, then suddenly provoked to gape as if she had never looked upon a man before.
Chloe was still trembling as she peered out the drawing room window and watched Lord Reginald ride away in his coach. She shook as she washed up in the hottest water she could stand, only briefly thinking of the trouble Cargill must have had in obtaining the pitcherful at such an early hour. In her bed, she curled up, clasping her pillow to her chest, resting her head on one corner, but she was still shaking.
She slept until noon. Even then the trembling would not quite leave her.
Chloe cracked the shell on her coddled egg. The shell clung where it should not, until she had to resort to using a spoon to remove it. The spoon slipped from her hand and clattered to the plate. Even her pasted smile that expressed both everything and nothing wobbled as she retrieved the spoon.
It was not the cold, although in spite of her denials, she certainly had been chilled. It was not even fear of death, for even as she had slipped close to the edge and felt herself dangling in space, she had been certain he would not let her die.
It was the kiss that had shaken her to her core. In one sweet moment, Chloe had discovered why a woman might choose to be a wanton, for some inner part of her had been craving this man's touch for all her life, and she had not known it.
She had no room in her life for that sort of thing. It was of paramount importance that she be in control of herself and life, or of any man she might marry. Otherwise, she could not be sure the man she chose would help in her endeavor to rescue her sisters from their malevolent uncle. Other women managed to control their situations, and until this day, Chloe had believed herself capable of the same. Now she was not so sure.
"Dear, we need not make morning calls today," Aunt Daphne said, reaching out a hand to touch Chloe's arm. "I know how you must feel."
Chloe shot a glance at her aunt, then awkwardly looked down at her plate.
"It would be best if you rest a bit today, don't you think?"
"I am perfectly well, Aunt Daphne. And as you can see, the day is fine. Morning calls must be made."
"I shall say you have the headache this morning."
"And let it be bandied about that— no, Aunt. Someone will know we sailed yesterday, and with the storm, it will not do."
Daphne's eyes held a mischievous spark. "Dear, you know he will call on you this morning. He must."
"And if you have gone, I cannot see him. Aunt Daphne, he kissed me."
Her aunt's eyebrows rose, just enough to tell Chloe the only news she was imparting was that she was willingly sharing the tidings with her aunt. "Hmm. I thought he might. Then you have fixed his interest. Is that not what you wanted, my dear?"
Chloe couldn't tell whether she was nodding or shaking her head, any more than she could decide if her answer was yes or no.
"Such an intriguing young man. A number of worthy qualities, which I find most unusual for his gender. Since he is rather plump in the pocket as well, would you not find it advantageous?"
"Yes," Chloe mumbled miserably.
"Then when he comes, you will say you cannot receive him as you are alone, but if he is insistent, you will allow him a few minutes. It is those few minutes of privacy that so intrigue a young man, you know."
Sometimes Chloe had misgivings about her maiden aunt. How was it that she had managed to remain a spinster, yet know so much about the workings of a man's mind? Yet, since Aunt Daphne was rarely wrong, perhaps that was the very reason she had escaped the tie that bound.
Chloe waved feebly when her aunt rode away in the bumbling old coach, and she hurried back abovestairs to change her morning dress to something more suitable to wear at home. Then she sat down to finish the trim on the blue ball gown, attaching a single paste pearl to each point of the Van Dyke lace.
Aunt Daphne was soon proven right. Soon Cargill came to announce the arrival of Lord Reginald. Chloe laid aside the blue ball gown and pulled her slippers back on. Descending the stairs, she trailed a single finger along the brass rail, just to steady herself.
The affable smile that he wore so often, that she had come to expect on him, was absent. The sunny-day blue eyes that laughed and twinkled at everything were solemn and intense. She caught her breath, them reminded herself of her composure.
"Good morning, Lord Reginald. I must apologize. I fear my aunt has gone about her morning calls without me. So of course, I may not receive you, as I am alone."
The eager intensity fell from his face. "Yes, of course. I merely meant to see you had not taken a chill, Miss Englefield."
Oh. He was only being polite. "As you can see, sir, I have not."
"And I must apologize for the abominable treatment you received."
"Nonsense. I am not at all the missish sort. When one asks for adventure, one must expect to take a bit of risk."
His eyes shone wildly. Whatever had she said to incite him? "Miss Englefield, I know it is not at all the thing, but might we speak," he glanced at Cargill, "more privately? For only a moment?"
Cargill bowed himself away almost before Chloe could instruct him. She vowed she would find a way to properly compensate the man, for surely his sensitivity surpassed that of any butler in Town. She led Lord Reginald to the drawing room and closed the door.
"I have only just finished my morning coffee," she lied. "Shall I call for some?"
"No, thank you. Miss Englefield, I felt I must see you this morning," he said, and she could read the anxiety in his face.
"Of course, you are all that is polite, Lord Reginald, but do not overburden yourself. I am quite well. I only stayed behind because, well, you know we are a household of women, so one of us must take charge of a man's decisions, now and then."
"Yes, I see that your health is safe. But there is that other matter. I did take shameful advantage of your person."
Something had seemed lodged high in her throat until that moment, when it plummeted to the pit of her stomach. He regretted the kiss. He feared it had committed him where he did not desire commitment. A practical woman would leap upon it, make of it a promise, an understanding that he must in all propriety fulfill. And above all, she was a practical woman.
But she could not. "No, Lord Reginald, it was not that at all. Your heart is too soft, sir. It was, I thought, a demonstration of your protective nature. Although I allow I was frightened, I was never in fear of dying, sir, because I knew you would not allow it. I confess I rather thought of you as my knight in shining armor, and everyone knows it is a knight's duty to rescue a lady in distress."
Well, she had done it. Given him all the justification he needed, and now he would not feel the obligation to ask for her hand.
He hesitated then shook his head. "No, it was more than that, Miss Englefield. I confess to an affection for you. I would have been bereft to have lost you from any cause. And while I cannot hope for such sensibilities on your part, as we have just met, still I must hope that time will grant them to me."
Chloe's heart raced and thrummed in her ears. She opened her mouth, but words stuck in her throat.
"And I must ask one other thing of you," he said. "Such intimacies as we have suffered bring a touch of the ridiculous to formalities, so that I must ask for the privilege of calling you by your Christian name."
"Sir—" Chloe thought she couldn't breathe.
"Privately, of course. And I should wish you to call me Reggie, as that is how I am known by my intimates. Privately."<
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Chloe nodded. Her tongue felt wrapped around her teeth.
He lifted her fingertips to his lips and held them there a moment too long. "And my moment has gone. As you have said, I cannot stay. I must be away for a few days on matters of a personal nature, but I shall look for you next week at Lady Greville's ball and hope you will grant me the supper dance."
"Yes, of course, Lord Reginald." The words all but strangled her.
"Reggie."
"Yes. Reggie."
He took his leave. Chloe ran up the stairs to her chamber and slammed the door, gasping.
She'd done it! Reggie! The Duke of Marmount's second son had all but committed himself to marriage! And she, by her astonished silence, by the acceptance of his name, had all but agreed! Her sisters were going to be saved, and long before Chloe found herself in danger of the bars of debtor's prison.
But the bars of a different prison were closing in on her. The trembling returned.
* * *
Reggie hopped off the gelding and slapped the reins into the groom's hands. He'd done it! Miss Englefield was to become Lady Reginald, his wife. She was perfect. Wonderful beyond imagining.
And he was sure she would keep their understanding private while he hid away and finished The Adventuress. He wouldn't have to worry about Vilheurs stealing a march on him, yet at the same time, his father was not likely to learn anything that would raise suspicions.
Atop all that, he'd found the scenes that had been eluding him. But now he'd have to change the ending. Why hadn't he already known that? How could a hero fall in love with such a woman, then nothing more happen? No, it was not just a sea adventure. It was a love affair. The love affair that surpassed all those that had come before. Yes, Nicholas Argent would fall in love with Circe, and in the end, they would separate tragically.
He goaded the gelding to an energetic trot. Something was not right about that.
Idiot. No, they wouldn't. Nicholas was hardly the type to let the love of his life just walk away. He would pursue her. He would find her, in the place to which she had returned. In an elegant ballroom, he would find her, having reverted to the formal steps of the minuet, and he would take her into his arms for the waltz. It would be a metaphor of the waves of the sea, of the fervor of their love. And he would make her his own. Happily ever after.
Reggie dashed up the stairs and burst in the door. Puckett merely looked up and set down the vase he had been polishing.
Reggie ripped off the coat before Puckett could assist him, and snatched up the smock. "What sort of flowers did you send to Miss Englefield, Puckett?"
"Irises again, My Lord. Dramatic, but not committing to any particular thing."
"That will not do now. It must be roses. Red. Every shade of red you can find. A bouquet that speaks of everything." Reggie pulled out the manuscript from its secret compartment.
"Everything, My Lord? Already?"
"Yes, already. Every day. And there is not to be so much as a posy sent to another lady, unless she is married and is not likely to mistake its meaning. Miss Englefield will suit nicely in all respects. And we can manage on her money and mine until I can compensate her, until either my writing takes off, or I snatch the Featherstone legacy from my father." He shuffled to the last chapter and scanned over the pages. "How are you doing with the copying?"
"Quite well, My Lord. Upwards of eighty pages, I believe."
"You are amazing, Puckett. I am nearly done. I have my ending now, but I shall have to compose it entirely from scratch. You may inform Mr. Ludwick the new version will be complete within days."
"Then I shall keep pace, My Lord. This has become your best work, and I have the highest of ambitions for it. Mr. Ludwick cannot refuse it this time."
Puckett's words trailed off from Reggie's consciousness as the dramatic ending absorbed him. Pen, ink and paper became words, and words the fantasy from his imagination, that in itself became his new reality.
* * *
"My Lord?"
Puckett's voice penetrated the haze in Reggie's mind like a bright lantern. He blinked and sat up, shaking off sleep. Oh, yes, his bed. He ran a hand over the raspy stubble of a beard more than a day old and frowned at his rumpled clothes. Oh, yes. He had finished, and collapsed atop the covers without so much as another cup of coffee. When had that been?
"My Lord," said Puckett. "I finished the draft. Ludwick has it. I left him reading."
Still drugged from sleep, Reggie rose. Dear God, it was almost like coming off a high flyer! His head hurt like his brain had come loose and banged around against his skull.
"It's Friday, My Lord. You finished yesterday afternoon. You meant to do the Greville ball this evening, did you not?"
"I've slept an entire day?" No wonder his head hurt like he was muzzied. Reggie never slept so long.
"Yes, My Lord. But considering you have not slept for several nights, it is hardly surprising. I have a bath prepared for you, and coffee. There's some fresh biscuits sent up by Mrs. Monroe, to tide you over a bit."
Puckett took care of everything. Reggie thought he had never needed coffee, biscuits and bath more in his life. He let the comforts ease him back to reality as Puckett filled in the details.
The first time around, Ludwick had liked the book, but thought it lacked something. Reggie, although disappointed, had known the man was right, and he'd had to accept the need to revise it. But at least the man had said he would see it again if the anonymous author should fix whatever it was that was missing. Reggie thought he'd found it. But would Ludwick agree?
"I saw the look in his eyes while he was reading, sir. Couldn't wait to get to the next page. He'll see it our way, I'm sure."
But Reggie had been through that before. Hard to get his hopes up.
What if Ludwick bought it? He could be free of his father's domination, and marry Chloe. If it sold well, that was. Ludwick was just the first step, and the rest was not foregone. But Ludwick had just begun his printing business and was eagerly seeking new stories. He could set type fast, and print quickly. The book could be out in weeks. Well, a month or so, perhaps.
Reggie couldn't wait that long. His father would have him shackled to Portia long before. In fact Reggie was already skating on thin ice. He hated to think to what subterfuge or force his father would resort if he discovered Reggie's plot before it was carried out, for the Duke of Marmount was capable of just about anything to get his way.
Reggie shuddered, thinking of what happened to those who dared stand up to the duke. His mother had done it, and found herself banished to a small estate barely suitable for a knight's widow. In sixteen years, his father the duke had not seen his wife, nor had the duchess indicated the slightest desire to see her husband. Reggie, being the inconsequential second son, had been allowed to stay with his mother, but Robert had been taken from her.
Reggie still remembered Robert's tearful pleading that had fallen on his father's stone-hard ears. That had been the beginning of a cold rage in Robert that had not extinguished to this day. Robert had abandoned the duke at the earliest opportunity. Even the letters sent from Spain flatly refused to recognize his father. Reggie still had no idea how his brother had managed to purchase his colours and slip away without the duke discovering it, but Robert's success had only increased the duke's vigilance over his remaining son.
Reggie was the last and only member of the duke's family to still tolerate him. And now Reggie was about to step over the same precipice.
He didn't want to lose his father. He loved the man desperately, and pitied the man equally as deeply. But he felt it coming. He had to be free to be a man, in his own way.
The bath water had finally cooled, and Reggie stepped from the tub to be toweled off. He crammed a macaroon in his mouth and thought of what he was going to say to Chloe tonight. He had a proposal to make, and he had to be sure it was precisely right.
Chapter Six
Chloe peered around a pink marble column at the entrance to the Grevi
lle ballroom, where she had a good view of the top of the stairs. Perhaps he would not come. Perhaps she had allowed her imagination to dream up the words he had spoken to her. Or she had misinterpreted them.
She had taken this position near the grand entrance just for the purpose of seeing everyone who entered, and she had been watching between sets, during sets. She had even sent four gentlemen away with some instruction or other so she could continue her vigil. But he still had not come.
And now she saw Lord Vilheurs working his way back across the ballroom with her third glass of ratafia for the evening. She didn't know how she would manage to stomach it, and looked around unsuccessfully for a different potted palm. She'd probably already killed the first one. Truthfully, she would rather plant Lord Vilheurs in the potted palm, even more than the drink, but the point would be moot if she could find no such plant in the first place.
She couldn't say she detested the man. She didn't at all, and truth to tell, rather liked him. He just wasn't Reggie. Lord Reginald.
Aunt Daphne looked back at her from her conversation with her dear friends Lord and Lady Standish and flashed a permissive smile. Chloe shook her head. Aunt Daphne would have never succeeded as a chaperone, governess, or any such thing. Her aunt would likely tolerate any havey-cavey activity as long as it was intelligently applied to the proper cause, such as marriage to the proper fellow. Or evading one who was not so proper.
Glee lit Lord Vilheurs's dark countenance as he approached her. He had clung like a leech for days, apparently in the belief that Lord Reginald-Reggie-had abandoned the field for something more attractive, such as his Xanthe. And Chloe couldn't help but wonder, herself. She gritted her teeth, forcing a smile, and glanced about again, just in case some straying palm had decided to present itself for her use after all.
"Ah, there you are, my dear," said Lord Vilheurs, as if she had wandered from the spot she had so perversely occupied all evening. "Forgive me for the delay. It is a sad crush, I'm afraid."
