by Susan Lodge
The Man in the Buff Breeches
by Susan Lodge
Copyright © Susan Lodge, 2013
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This e-book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
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Issued by Musa Publishing, November 2013
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ISBN: 978-1-61937-716-5
Editor: Tricia Schwaab
Artist: Kelly Shorten
Line Editor: Damien Grintalis
Interior Book Design: Cera Smith
I finish my call and wish my new phone had an app that immediately gives the person on the other end an electric shock. It needs a button labelled zap them. After a moment I create a new file, label it vengeance, open it, and insert the name Cable West.
I collapse on the sofa and reassess my schedule, now knowing I have no partner for tonight‘s Regency-themed ball at Woolbury Manor. Cable’s excuse is so lame that I wonder if he has forgotten I have a degree in psychology. He promised to escort me tonight and now, with only hours to go, I am left like a wallflower. We have only known each other for a few weeks, and the relationship is casual, but that is no excuse for letting me down.
Cable is exactly who I require tonight to show Lyn that I don’t need help to improve my love life. He’s tall, bronzed, and amusing. An uncomplicated fun partner. That is as far as it goes. I pick the phone up again and scroll down the contacts. I hover over Stephen’s name and smile. He is the ship’s officer with whom I had a brief romantic liaison on my last holiday. Strangely, the attraction wasn’t quite as strong once I returned home, away from his dashing white uniform and the gorgeous Caribbean Sea. But we kept in touch through the occasional text. Pity he’s at present on the other side of the ocean; he would do nicely.
It’s not that I have been short of boyfriends since my divorce five years ago. But then cancer knocked me for six, and after surviving that I’m certainly not going to waste my life waiting for that illusive quality called love. If I ever find it—well, that would be wonderful—but it isn’t going to be with Cable or Stephen.
My finger continues to scroll down the list and I make a few more calls. Finally I toss the phone down as I can’t secure a date for this evening. How sad have I become? I sit and ponder the question as I study my huge bunny slippers; they look back at me with a well, at least you have us look in their glass eyes.
The phone buzzes into life. It’s Lyn. She is the reason behind tonight’s event, which I never really felt happy about attending. A Regency themed ball—I ask you! Just thinking about it makes me yawn.
“Hi Lyn,” I say over brightly, trying to compensate for the bad news I’m about to impart.
“What’s up?” she replies.
That’s how well she knows me. She is fully aware that I don’t do cheerful until at least eleven o’clock in the morning.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t think I can make it tonight, Lyn. I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.” I silently groan. That was almost as lame as Cable’s excuse.
The third degree begins. “Have you been vomiting?”
I consider my reply. “No.”
“What have you eaten this morning?”
Oh, give me strength. This woman is a substitute for Mother in the nag department.
“The usual,” I mutter.
“Has he stood you up?”
Bugger! She is such a know all.
I reply through clenched teeth, “No! Why do you say that?”
“Shona! You have a stomach like a dustbin; it copes with all sorts of rubbish. It’s a crime that you remain so thin.”
She has a point, but I’m not deterred by her scepticism.
“Cable phoned earlier to say he wasn’t well.”
“Really! Same complaint as you, or is he also lying?”
I scowl at the phone and implement my usual get out of a call tactic. “There’s someone at the door. I’ll get back to you later.” I end the call and put the phone on the coffee table. The last thing I need at the moment is an interrogation.
Seconds later the laptop on my desk pings with an incoming mail. It’s from Lyn. She is so fast on the keyboard it makes my eyes water. I click it open and read.
If that jerk Cable has let you down, just come on your own. It is the twenty-first century, you know, and you don’t want to throw up the chance of wearing that dress. Besides, I’m sure Henry has a couple of unattached friends coming.
Oh great. I feel like an abandoned puppy being offered a bone.
That dress is a replica of high fashion eveningwear in the Regency period. It has a low neckline and is gathered under the bust to drop in a straight sweep of pale green silk. It does nothing for my small chest and hips, but the fabric is lovely and I did have to pay a hefty fee to hire it for this evening.
Lyn’s gorgeous and successful boyfriend, Henry, obtained the tickets for the event. He thought it would be a fun way to celebrate Lyn’s birthday. She is mad on the Regency period and always reading historical romances. Amazingly, it was such a book that brought them together in the first place, which even I have to admit was bone meltingly romantic. Lyn accompanied me on the Caribbean cruise, and whilst she returned with Henry in tow, all I came back with was a wooden elephant. A parting souvenir from Stephen. I have been collecting elephants for years and have amassed all sorts in glass, porcelain, wood, bronze, and even one sculptured from a coat hanger.
I envy the fact that Lyn has found true love with Henry, as I now feel I’m on the outside, looking over the fence at their domestic bliss. Jealously is not a nice trait, but it lurks there all the same, despite the fact that I love them both to bits. Lyn deserves happiness after being married to a pig like Trevor. He was such a spineless specimen, it was a wonder he didn’t collapse when he took his coat off.
I manoeuvre myself into my Fiesta with some difficulty and untangle my Regency skirts from the gearstick. I’m late as usual, and it’s pouring with the sort of rain that defies umbrellas. I hope it stops before I have to poke my satin shoes out of the car. Lyn was insistent I should stay the night at the country house, but I’m not keen on the idea, and although I have packed an overnight bag I decide to keep my options open.
One hour later, I turn up the sweeping drive of Woolbury Manor, gritting my teeth at the number of potholes my wheels endure. Aren’t these places supposed to have staff to look after the grounds? A vision of Lady Chatterley’s Mellors comes to mind, and my silk clad thighs tremble a little at the thought of him striding out of the undergrowth into my path.
The main car park is full, so I edge around the rows of vehicles and follow the signposts into the field that is acting as an overflow for the night. The
tyres squelch uninvitingly into the only space left. Great! I turn and rustle amongst the debris on the back seat and thankfully locate a pair of boots. Adopting several yoga positions, I exchange them for my satin shoes, which I shove into my jacket pocket. Hauling up my silk skirts, I get out the car and sink into the muddy grass.
At least the rain has stopped.
Once in the confines of the hotel’s sumptuous restroom, I tweak myself into a respectable Regency lady and then deposit my boots and holdall with the cloakroom assistant. As I head towards the ballroom, I notice the country house is hosting two different functions tonight. They are clearly signposted: Regency Grand Ball, to the left of reception; Sid’s Eightieth Birthday Party, to the right.
The Regency ballroom is very impressive. It’s decorated with burgundy and gold upholstered reproduction furniture with matching floor to wall drapes. Chandeliers and wall lights with candle-shaped bulbs give the room a nice glow. As I have come unaccompanied, I adopt a style of feigned self-confidence and saunter around the perimeter of the room seeking a familiar face. The fancy dress is impressive, everyone has made an effort. But although the Regency style is prominent, several have erred into the wrong era. Great Victorian skirts and Edwardian elegance mingle with silk stockings, breeches, and assorted military uniforms. There is even a man wearing a tabard. Is history still on the syllabus at school? Some of these people are centuries out.
I step forward to cross the room, as I have spotted Lyn and Henry, but I’m distracted by a man leaning against the buffet table. He wears a T-shirt, black boots, and no trousers. I didn’t think it was that sort of party. I scrunch my eyes, transfixed as no one else seems to have noticed his state of undress. I breathe again as I get closer. The sleek breeches he is wearing are a pale skin colour. I reassess the man, relieved his assets are covered, albeit clearly outlined. The mismatch of period breeches and heavy metal T-shirt makes him look like a bad boy ballet dancer.
Lyn and Henry are making their way through the crowd towards me. Lyn is walking in a stilted fashion, attempting to keep the posture of the era, but the effect is frankly—odd. But when she stops to exchange a few words with another couple, I have to admit she looks quite beautiful in her costume. Henry looks positively scrummy dressed in black Regency eveningwear.
I notice the man in the provocative breeches pick up a coat from the chair behind him and shrug into it. His outfit looks better now the T-shirt is covered. I watch in fascination as the high collar of the period jacket bites into his cheeks when he leans to pick up a sandwich. His hand goes up to flatten the sides so he is able to open his mouth. He suddenly stops with sandwich in mid-air, and I realize he is staring right back at me staring at him. For no reason, other than the fact I have a fan and reticule on my arm, I revert to period. I open the fan and retreat behind it.
This is quite handy. I flutter it a bit and peek over the top. He has looked away. Good. I try to close the fan but it sticks so I push it with both hands. The fan slips upwards through my fingers, and the end pokes my eye. “Aggh!” With hurried steps, as far as my skirts will allow, I retreat to the nearest corner of the room and linger for a few moments hunting in my reticule for a tissue. I see through my watery eye that he is propped against the table munching his sandwich and watching me with a smirk. Resisting the urge to poke my tongue out at him, I turn away and wonder what happened to the rest of his costume.
“How did you manage to make a weapon out of a lacy fan?” Lyn is by my side staring at my face. “Do you want the first aid kit?”
“No, it’s okay.” I pull her a little closer. “Who is that standing over there in those nude breeches?”
She turns her eyes casually sweeping the room. “Oh my,” she murmurs. After a long pause she finally adds, “I have no idea. Those are not a very accurate depiction of Regency breeches. They are usually cut roomier around the seat.”
We both watch as our subject saunters off toward the bar. Then Lyn takes my arm and steers me across the floor.
“Now come on, enough of lurking in the shadows. Henry has someone who would like to meet you.” I look towards our destination and instantly lose interest in the bad boy ballet dancer. My heart starts beating wildly as I examine the stranger who is standing beside Henry. I take a quick look around me—nope, he’s looking at me. I expect Lyn to turn me at the last minute but to my delight, I am brought to a halt in front of six feet of rugged male gorgeousness. Cobalt eyes devour me whole as Henry introduces us.
“Shona, this is Nick.”
“Hi.” I exhale the word on a slow breath. It’s all I can manage as my tongue and brain have become uncoordinated.
“Pleased to meet you, Shona.” Even his voice is breathtaking—a growly tone that makes the temperature of the room shoot up.
He wears the same impeccable Regency evening dress as Henry, only his is in midnight blue. His neck cloth rests below a square chin with the slightest hint of stubble.
“Nice outfit,” I say. Oh lame. Sparkle blast you, I order my brain.
Nick looks at my watery eye with a sympathetic smile. He hands me a pristine white handkerchief. Not a tissue, but a real handkerchief in starched linen. I didn’t realise these items still existed. I take it and dab my eye, because I do not want to refuse this man anything.
He tilts his head to the side and looks puzzled. “The language of the fan I have heard of, but I don’t know what that last manoeuvre of yours meant.”
Hmm! Is there anyone who didn’t see my daft display? “Only a few would understand that subtle move. It was to gain your attention. I think it worked,” I reply.
He leans forward and I hold my breath as his fingers catch my wrist.
“May I?”
He gives me an ultra-sexy smile as he takes my fan and performs a discreet movement with it. What the…?
“That is the conventional way to invite an approach,” he explains.
How can this hunk know the language of the fan? I suppose he may have done some research before coming to this historical event, which is more than I did.
“Oh really. I had no idea.” I say with a grin. “But we are all acting, are we not?”
Oh no! Listen to me. I have reverted to that silly stilted language of the period. Are we not must be the equivalent of know what I mean these days.
“Indeed we are!” he says and bows, in a very Regency sort of way, which turns my bones to water. “Lyn told me actually.”
I am faintly relieved at this admission as I was beginning to think he was the ghost of Regency past. I give my fan a little flick and treat Nick to a thousand megawatt smile. “Lyn knows an awful lot about the period,” I say, beginning to see why my best friend is so smitten with Regency life.
A string quartet strike up a jolly melody, and people are gathering on the floor to attempt a dance.
“Would you care to partner me, Shona?” He holds out a hand.
I cast a doubtful look at the dance floor. As I arrived late, I missed the demonstration dances of the early nineteenth century.
He seems to sense my reservations and leans forward to whisper in my ear. “I am game if you are.”
Oh, I’m game. I take his hand. After all, the man is supposed to lead, isn’t he? All I have to do is follow his steps. It can’t be that hard.
I’m wrong of course. During a cotillion, unfortunately, you don’t hold hands that much. We are arranged in two columns, and I am soon circling people with a skippy sort of step. Sadly, they are the wrong people. In five minutes the whole line breaks down as we all lurch about like lost lambs.
The free for all finally ends as the string quartet swiftly moves on to a waltz. Nick and I continue as he assures me the waltz is much more familiar to him. His arm wraps around my back, and I am transported from purgatory to paradise. He has a warm solid frame and is of a height that allows my eyes to
just about peek over his shoulder. I’m surprised to discover he is not a great dancer, but his arms are tight and secure and he smells rather nicely of citrus soap. And when we do falter, he has a grip on me which is bordering on indecent—whatever era we are meant to be in.
As the dance continues, the floor turns again into a polite battleground, the competent skirting the less able. Nick edges us to the side into the safety of an alcove.
“I think we deserve a drink. Are you brave enough to try the punch?” he asks.
“Why not. It can’t have more of a kick then already suffered on that dance floor.” I smile. In fact, I cannot stop smiling at this man who has just walked out of the closet of my dreams. Watch it, Shona, there has to be a catch, a stern voice in my brain is telling me—but right now I don’t care a damn what it is.
As soon as Nick has stepped away, Lyn is at my elbow.
“What do you think?” she whispers.
I purposely misinterpret her question. “I think they need to start the disco.”
She casts a forlorn look at the dancers. “Did anyone take notice of the demonstration earlier?”
We look at the carnage of collisions on the floor and then at each other before dissolving in laughter.
Henry approaches. His smoky grey eyes linger on Lyn with such adoration I feel quite soppy.
Lyn turns back to her interrogation. “Well—what did you think of Nick?” She widens her blue eyes demanding a response.
“He seems okay.”
“Okay!” She looks crestfallen. “Do you mean okay as in tasty or okay as in bland?”
Her concern is touching. I really can’t get use to her trying to pair me up. All through our lives, it was always the other way around. I was the one who didn’t want for male attention, and Lyn was the shy one.
“He is umm…” My lips dissolve into a grin. “More than okay—in fact, mind boggling, thigh clenching delicious.
