by Royce, Ruby
Red Wine For Miss Parker
Red Wine for Miss Parker (Another very romantic comedy)
Delicious Regency by Ruby Royce, Vol. 2
© 2012 by Ruby Royce
All rights reserved
http://www.rubyroyce.com
[email protected]
Cover photo "Ruby" by Karolina Fritz
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters, other than historical persons, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
One
Surrey, December 1822
"Should we ask Flora to come?" Eugenia St. Ives rolled onto her stomach and lightly kissed her husband's naked shoulder.
"What on earth makes you think of Flora at a moment like this?" the Duke of Surrey panted.
"I thought that I wished my best friend had moments like this as well." Her fingers gently caressed his chest.
Dominic St. Yves looked at his wife with an amused glint in his eyes. "Your friend Flora is a hopeless case."
Gigi – as she was called by her friends and family – raised herself onto her elbows to look straight back at him.
"No, Dominic. She's not! And if you could ever be bothered to properly get to know her, you might find that she has a very tender soul."
"She hasn't proven it yet. At least not to me. Remember how she told Raleigh about cannibalistic rites in the Caribbean while he was trying to eat his mutton?"
"Of course I remember. I still want her to come. Why should we not bring an unmarried girl? She needs to find a husband--- No, don't interrupt me, Dominic! I know she wants to fall in love, even if she denies it. We have never really introduced her to your rake friends and I'm sure they'll show up at our doorstep the moment we get there."
"My what?" Dominic was baffled.
Gigi wrinkled her nose. "You heard me well, Your Grace. Your rake friends. Or should I rather call them your corinthian friends and thereby conceal the fact that they have connections with dubious damsels and are not averse to the excessive intake of liquor? The ones who spend their days hunting, yachting, boxing, betting and playing cards? The ones who categorically avoid any contact with polite society and hence with Miss Flora Parker?"
"You mean Lackerby and Darlington?"
"And Napier, Sunderland, Wilton... all of His Majesty's cronies in fact. Like yourself."
He seized her and pulled her towards him. "You little fiend. I have not partaken in their games since I met you. You know that perfectly well."
"I know. Because you cannot stay away from my glorious body."
"Yes..." He kissed her long and hard.
"I will write to Flora and tell her how delighted we would be if she chose to spend the summer with us in Italy."
"Yes..." Dominic did not care at all. Not now. But before he let himself be carried away by passion, one thing popped into his mind.
"Wait." He held his wanton wife at a safe distance from his face.
"Mmmh?"
"I don't want her mother to come!"
"She won't," Gigi said softly and wound her body on top of his.
One last flicker of reason was remaining to the Duke and he was determined to make use of it.
"What about your parents?"
"Switzerland..." she breathed hot air against his neck. "For the waters."
"Really?"
"Oh yes, they went last year and it has done miracles for Mr. Wimple's— "
He quickly covered her mouth with his. There were things he did not want to think about.
Not now!
Two
Lake Maggiore, Italy, June 1823
It was good to have rich and influential friends, Miss Flora Parker thought.
Her dear mother had always told her so, but Flora only felt the truth of it in this very instant, as she was sitting on a tree branch in an enormous park belonging to an enormous castle overlooking the enormous Lago Maggiore, the second largest of Italy's pre-alpine lakes, that reached from the south of Switzerland into the mighty grand-duchies of Piedmont and Lombardy in northern Italy.
It was early afternoon. The calm of la siesta had gently settled over Palazzo Sforza and its well-fed inhabitants. From time to time a soft breeze would ruffle the leaves of Flora's tree, a dog would bark in the distant village or some bird would chirp a pleasant melody. The bushes and flowers surrounding Flora oozed a rich perfume and she took deep breaths, hoping to fill her entire body with their lush and spicy scents, to get soaked with that peculiar sensation of abundance they created, to carry their perfume with her, inside her, for the sad day in September when she would leave for England again, for more balls and more hated husband-hunting.
Yes, it was good to have vastly rich and influential friends, she thought once again.
Getting to Italy had been easy due the fact that the Duke of Surrey (or "The Sulk of Dreary" as Flora had secretly named him for his prideful and easily offended character) possessed an exquisite ship taking them from Dover to Genoa in no time, with stops at various interesting cities. The journey had taken them, in the end, only a little over two weeks, thanks to the favourable winds which always seemed to blow where the beautiful Surreys decided to go.
Well, that was not entirely true.
Surrey had at first suggested they'd join his friend James Napier on his newly invented steam boat for its maiden journey across the Channel and proceed on post-chaise from Calais, but Gigi had thankfully opposed that typically masculine and possibly suicidal idea.
So, with a host of servants and a vast supply of good food and drink they had set out on the Carlotta, a big and elegantly furnished sailing ship the Duke's late father had bought from the East India Company to facilitate his wife's visits to her homeland in Lombardy.
From Genoa the group had proceeded by carriage through the splendid Italian countryside, on winding roads, through vineyards and orchards, passing colourful villages and, much to Flora's discomfort, a whole lot of soldiers.
The wounds left by Napoleon were still wide open in the hearts and minds of Europe, leaving some unsatisfied with the restoration of the old powers and others happy to be back, but wary and afraid of the new ideas growing inside an ever more enlightened bourgeoisie. The Congress of Vienna in 1814 had re-established the Karlsburg rule in the north of Italy, and this imperial dynasty had never been known for clemency when its dominion was threatened. Now, once again ruling over half the continent, with their cadet lines in Tuscany, Modena, Parma and even the far away Mexico, they held an iron hand over subjects who had seen glimpses of a new way to human equality within the laws of the Code Napoleon – before the French emperor had turned into a megalomaniac.
Flora took another deep breath and eliminated thoughts of politics from her musings.
Too stunning were the white mountain-tops of the alps reflected in the water. Too beguiling the sunlight shining through the leaves, shedding her in a glow of bright green and yellow.
Flora had come here to update her diary.
She had documented the entire trip and she would not be neglecting her notes only because the weather and the surroundings tried to lure her into idleness.
Two new arrivals had to be commented.
Their party — until that morning made up of Surrey, Eugenia, Surrey's youngest sister Clara and Flora herself — had been suddenly enlarged by the Earl of Darlington and Viscount Lackerby.
The two lords had claimed to have come from an educational voyage to Paris and
found Lombardy to be conveniently "on their way".
Flora looked down at the leather bound book resting in her lap.
She had brought a sharpened pencil along, deciding from the first that ink and feather-pens would be too unpractical to be carried around. She opened the diary and began.
June 11th
This morning, Darlington and Lackerby have surprisingly shown up at Palazzo Sforza and made it known they intended to spend the rest of the summer with us, although I have to say neither myself nor Eugenia were truly surprised by their intrusion upon our idyll, considering the gentlemen's preference for the good life. Where's life better than here?
My beloved mother will rave with joy when I write about these developments. I'm sure she'll embroider two sets of bedlinen with both their coat of arms, just to make sure. Her daughter married to a Viscount or even an Earl? What an achievement THAT would be. She could immediately die and go to heaven, knowing all her hopes and dreams came true .
I have to admit that I myself would not be opposed to marrying either of them, if I was inclined to get married at all, since they are both remarkably good-looking and impossibly rich.
In fact, everybody here, except ME, is exceptionally tall, good-looking and shockingly wealthy.
It does have it advantages to know them, as my current situation is most definitely proof of, yet from time to time I can't help but feel like their favourite act of charity.
"Let's take along the little Miss Parker, she doesn't even have a title, the poor lass!"
Eugenia and Surrey are so annoyingly beautiful and in love, they can be quite a nuisance, to tell the truth. I'm sure they fall on each other like starved tigers as soon as they are left alone. Thank God, Surrey's often busy taking care of his vast Italian properties and I have Gigi to myself.
I do like Clara St. Yves, or Freckles as everybody calls her for her freckled face. She's the Duke's youngest sister and lives with Lord and Lady Barnham. Yet, I have not quite understood what kind of a soul she really is. She's a lively and intelligent girl, but she can be just as moody as her brother. One day, she seems to enjoy staring into the distance and sighing a lot, the next she's as exuberant as a puppy. Sometimes I find her staring at me in an almost fearful fashion, a moment later, she is behaving as if we were the best of friends! Throughout the trip she has suffered from her gloomy humours, looking out across the sea forlornly. But this morning, for example, she was almost feverish. Well, she enjoyed "The Birds of Cheltenham Gardens" as far as I remember, so she cannot be completely normal.
Now, now. James Crawford, the Earl of Darlington and Viscount Philipp Lackerby only a few hundred yards away and here I sit.
In a tree!
I could most certainly be the envy of all the females in England for being in their company. Not that I care much about such females, I find this ongoing quest for the best possible marriage abominable and I wished there were options for a woman other than marriage (Italian: il matrimonio) or a frustrating life of spinsterhood and poverty, unless one is a wealthy heiress, which I am not.
I feel as if we are constantly in a race with one another for the attention of a worthy catch.
Who is worthy of me anyway?
Who would I want to spend my life with?
Philipp Lackerby? He's a rake if there ever was one. He is dashing, I grant him that. With his sharply cut features and the shining auburn hair, the bright grey eyes, always entertained by something or other... He has that highly attractive though constantly sneering mouth. Tall, muscular and very lean, he reminds me of a racehorse.
The Lackerbies, even if Viscounts only, are one of the oldest families in the country and this Lackerby feels inferior to no one. He actually is one of the closest confidants of our good King George. I should not suspect that their friendship is based on a certain type of amusement, but I know for a fact that Lackerby keeps three different mistresses in London alone. He is constantly infatuated with some opera dancer, singer, or woman of "the horizontal profession".
I'm sure he is excellent at love-making (italian: fare l'amore) and if I married him, I could ask Gigi's father, General Cartwright, to scare him into obedience. Lackerby has served under the General in the war and is notoriously scared of the man.
Oh dear! What am I thinking?
As if he would ever even think of marrying me! He does not even notice me when I enter the room. I met him several times in London yet he did not remember me when he presented himself earlier today. No. I believe "Lady Lackerby" is not going to be me. Not that I ever felt the desire to be her — only because a man is fascinating, witty, good-looking and rich does not make him irresistible to me.
Now Darlington, he's quite a different character. He is smooth. I do not think I have ever met anybody who is as smooth as Lord Darlington. Everything he does is easy. The way he moves, the way he speaks, everything just comes to him effortlessly. Nothing ever perturbs him. Nothing provokes him. The most daring remarks are met with a somewhat weary smile. Oh, and he has the best possible manners! "Miss Parker, it's a pleasure to see you, as it always is, if you will permit me to say so" he had announced lightly with that fine voice of his, in the crisp accents of the highest aristocracy. That is another point. Nobody speaks quite as elegantly as Lord Darlington does. Funnily enough, Darlington is the one who always calls Surrey out for drifting into what Gigi has dubbed "The Aristo Hiss", that almost unintelligible mode of speaking Dominic St. Yves employs whenever he decides he has to let the rest of the world feel his absolute superiority — or in that case "abslit spriorty".
Like Dominic St. Yves, James Crawford, the Earl of Darlington is the product of centuries of exquisite breeding and knows it. Although contrary to his friend Surrey, he would never make one feel how far above one he actually stands. And where Surrey is moody and dark, Darlington is golden. His hair is golden, his green eyes have golden flecks, yes even his skin has a golden tinge to it. He is quite alike in colouring to Eugenia, now that I think of it. But I don't think they are related in any way.
His frame is slightly wider than that of Lackerby, Darlington's more of an athlete, with broad shoulders and slim hips... the ideal of any sculptor. His features do look chiselled and polished to me, so maybe he was not actually born from a mother's womb but sculpted from golden marble, if there is such a thing. I'll have to ask somebody. Who would know? Well, Darlington, I guess.
But he is ever so polished and despises any faux-pas. The first thing he had to say to Clara upon arrival had been "Don't you think this dress is somewhat osé for a girl of your age?" The poor Clara had not known what to say, it was a very thin dress, still nothing outrageous. But with Darlington everything needs to be "comme-il-faut!"
The Earl certainly has his share of female company, I'm sure of it, but he is so discreet that nobody would have any idea who his current favour resides upon. Most certainly it does not reside on me, he hardly..."
SPLASH.
Flora looked up as she heard the noise.
SPLASH.
There it was again. What was it? A fish? Flora peeked through the leaves towards the lake, but saw nothing. She was just about to return to her writing when she heard it again.
SPLASH.
It came from her right side, the side hidden from her view by the tree trunk. She closed the diary and tried to move around a little, holding on to the trunk.
SPLASH.
This time she saw it. It was an arm! And there! Another arm! Somebody swam there! There was an entire human body in the water. A man! The entire naked body of a naked man! Naked! Droplets glittering in the sunlight! On his naked, naked skin!
She could right away establish that it was a very well formed male frame paddling to shore.
Naked.
Where had he come from? At this part of the lake it was at least two miles wide at the narrowest point.
Flora looked down.
It would take her too long to climb down the tree. She was not high up but with her long skirts and the way s
he sat on the branch, it would not be an easy endeavour.
She had no choice but to stay where she was.
The man stopped.
Had he seen her? Flora's heart raced. If he saw her it would be dreadfully embarrassing.
The best thing to do, she decided, was to simply wait it out in the tree.
He reached the shoreline.
The water was still deep at the grassy ridge and he had folded his arms in front of himself resting his head on them, most likely exhausted from the effort of swimming across the lake.
All of a sudden he lifted himself. With one perfect movement he sprang out of the water and stood right in front of the tree.
Naked.
And then Flora fell.
Strangely, it took her an unnaturally long time to fall and the world almost halted when her face was on the same height as his groin.
With a loud "thump" she landed at his feet. A sharp pain went through her ankle but Flora did not even scream. She just lay there, on her back, looking up into the sky, debilitated by shock. Her entire body felt flushed and she was waiting for her brain to explode.
"Signorina, si è fatta male?" a voice asked from above.
Flora had begun to study the italian idiom, but the quickly uttered phrase was beyond her understanding, especially in her present circumstance.
"I believe I should try again. Are you hurt, Miss?" the voice asked again, this time in perfect English, as crisp as Darlington's or Surrey's could ever be.
Flora was blind with tears of shame.
Fortunately.
She did not want to see what most certainly hung just a few hands above her face.
