The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 1

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  They were not paupers by any means, but everything had to be paid for out of their monthly allowance, and Bath and London were bound to be pricey.

  At last she rose and said, "If you will forgive me, I'm rather fatigued."

  The Earl stood up and bowed. He took up his fabric books, thanked them all gravely for their hospitality, and departed.

  "So charming, such easy manners, and so entertaining."

  "Entertaining? He has scarcely an original thought in his head."

  "But think of the manors, the jewels, the gowns, the prestige."

  "The boredom," she said under her breath.

  "He has not yet got to know you. I know it's flattering to speak upon topics that interest you, Pamela, but you have such decided opinions ever since your father died, it's no wonder he is so reticent. Really, you must not put yourself forward so much, my dear. It's most unladylike," her aunt scolded.

  She plumped her curls and continued, "It does not do well to show off your learning. You have had the benefit of some schooling, and seek to improve yourself, but no man wants a wife more intelligent than he. Please pretend to be more ignorant than you are, and you shall get a man in no time."

  Pamela opened her mouth to state that she felt herself to be far too ignorant. And as for getting any man who wished her to be a ninny, well, if that were the case then he would not be worth having.

  But she clamped her lips shut, realizing that she had to pick her battles wisely. Her aunt was of a different time and generation, and was never going to agree with her. Moreover, the hour was late, and she did not wish to provoke any bad feeling between them.

  So Pamela forced herself to remain silent, shrugged, and headed up to the tranquility of her room. She had done her duty and furthered the acquaintance, and would try to keep an open mind about the Earl.

  At least he was handsome and danced creditably. That was more than enough for her superficial set to think well of him. Though not quite enough for her, she admitted, even though it once would have been.

  When she had changed for bed and combed out her hair, she tucked herself up into bed with her hot water bottle, and took up another of the books Jonathan had given her, The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.

  "Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the country, seashores, and mountains; and thou too art wont to desire such things very much. But this is altogether a mark of the most common sort of men, for it is in thy power whenever thou shalt choose to retire into thyself. For nowhere, either with more quiet or more freedom from trouble, does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when he has within him such thoughts that by looking into them he is immediately in perfect tranquility; and I affirm that tranquility is nothing else than the good ordering of the mind. Constantly then give to thyself this retreat, and renew thyself; and let thy principles be brief and fundamental, which, as soon as thou shalt recur to them, will be sufficient to cleanse the soul completely, and to send thee back free from all discontent with the things to which thou returnest.

  But perhaps the desire of the thing called fame will torment thee. See how soon everything is forgotten, and look at the chaos of infinite time on each side of the present, and the emptiness of applause, and the changeableness and want of judgment in those who pretend to give praise, and the narrowness of the space within which it is circumscribed and be quiet at last. For the whole earth is a point, and how small a nook in it is this thy dwelling, and how few are there in it, and what kind of people are they who will praise thee.

  "Free," she said aloud. She read back over the essay once again, and understood why Jonathan had marked out the passage for her. It was a warning against discontent, and the fact that fame and fortune were fleeting. That life could change in an instant, and not always for the better.

  She laughed to herself bitterly. It was ironic of him to warn her against discontent, when he had been fostering it within her breast.

  Marcus Aurelius advocated looking within. Well, she had been, and did not always like what she found there. That was why she had taken up her studies in the first place.

  Reading the books Jonathan had suggested was like opening a window into his mind. The intimacy frightened her. It was as though she had no thoughts of her own, but was being molded and subtly bent to his will.

  But they were so very different. Moreover, there was no chance she could ever consider marrying someone so beneath her. Could there?

  She sat upright, tossed the book aside in a fit of pique, and took up the Castle of Otranto, one of her favorite Gothic novels that she never tired of. It was perhaps a poor choice after the terrifying nightmares she had experienced the evening before, but she put them down to the fact that she had been in a strange house when she had stayed with Jonathan and Sarah. In her own familiar white, pink and gold room she was safe and happy. She read until her eyes drooped, and then snuffed out her candle.

  The dream came back more vividly than before. Just as it had the previous evening, the vision began with a panoply of wonderful things, beautiful gowns and thrilling balls where she danced every set, and had a splendid time.

  But the pair of dark eyes watched her every move, and a huge black spider was weaving its web especially for her in the corner of the ballroom. Were the mysterious eyes dark, or steel-gray? And who was that child crying? That woman screaming? She could discern long black hair billowing out like a shroud...

  She sat bolt upright in the bed, and nearly cried with relief when she saw that it was daylight, she was safe in her four-poster bed with pretty frilly pink hangings, and it had all been just a nightmare.

  All the same, Pamela shivered. Even cowering under the covers and rubbing her arms, it took her some time before she at last felt warm.

  Chapter Eight

  The church bells chiming at six-thirty reminded Pamela that it was Sunday. She would have liked nothing better than claim a chill and stay in bed after the dreadful nightmares she had experienced. But duty called, and she was curious to hear Jonathan's sermon against recruiting officers.

  She swung her leg over the edge of the bed and began to get ready, dressing in numerous layers to combat the cold. Over them all she put on a black frock with narrow wine piping, and took special pains with her hair. She was still wearing light mourning for her father, but had succumbed to the temptations of mild vanities in the form of trim and some jewels.

  Not to mention her social calls and events, she thought ruefully, as she yanked her brush through her hair crossly. No wonder everyone thought her flighty.

  Even now, she was worrying about what others would think of her hair. Ringlets would be too obvious, but plaiting was special and demure, as well as eye-catching, she was sure.

  After the two readings and the theme, 'They also serve who only stand and wait,' Jonathan commenced the sermon proper. Pamela found herself almost sitting at the edge of her seat in church for the first time in her life. He was a powerful orator, filled with zeal. A passion which she was sure could match her own...

  His words vibrated through her, leaving her helplessly enthralled by his voice. It was almost as if he was speaking directly to her, putting a spell upon her. Laying claim to her. His deep thrilling tones caressed her ears, her neck, her spine. She felt her skin flush as she looked at his handsome features bathed in the early morning sunlight.

  In his crisp white vestments, his handsome face glowing with fiery fervor, he looked every inch a god. She found herself more than willing to worship him in whatever way he wished.

  She shoved that blasphemous thought to one side, and tried to concentrate on his words, not his magnificent physique.

  "Do not let them talk to you of honor when they try to persuade you to go fight. As the poor simple countryman asks in the play The Recruiting Officer by George Farquhar, 'Pray now, what may be that same bed of honor?', the Recruiting Officer called Kite responds, 'Oh, a mighty large bed! Bigger by half than the great bed at Ware: ten thousand people may lie in it together, and never fe
el one another.'

  "That, my brethren, is no more than a death bed. It is up to every man's conscience if he chooses to join the Army or Navy. But to press you into service with liquor and false promises is unconscionable. I urge everyone here, if you see these men in the taverns, do not allow their actions to go unchallenged. Remember, blessed are the meek. Do not be violent, but speak your mind."

  His sermon was rousing, and he had more to say, as she soon discovered. She listened to Psalm 39, and once again she felt as though Jonathan intended a special message only for her.

  I said, I will take heed to my ways,

  That I sin not with my tongue:

  I will keep my mouth with a bridle,

  While the wicked is before me.

  I was dumb with silence, I held my peace, even from good;

  And my sorrow was stirred.

  My heart was hot within me;

  While I was musing the fire burned;

  Then spake I with my tongue:

  Jehovah, make me to know mine end,

  And the measure of my days, what it is;

  Let me know how frail I am.

  Behold, thou hast made my days as handbreadths;

  And my lifetime is as nothing before thee:

  Surely every man at his best estate is altogether vanity.

  Surely every man walketh in a vain show;

  Surely they are disquieted in vain:

  He heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them.

  And now, Lord, what wait I for?

  My hope is in thee.

  Deliver me from all my transgressions:

  Make me not the reproach of the foolish.

  I was dumb, I opened not my mouth;

  Because thou didst it.

  Remove thy stroke away from me:

  I am consumed by the blow of thy hand.

  When thou with rebukes dost correct man for iniquity,

  Thou makest his beauty to consume away like a moth:

  Surely every man is vanity.

  He might as well have said the word 'woman,' she thought wryly, sitting back in her seat as breathless as if she had run a mile without stopping.

  She was glad Jonathan had broken the spell by criticizing her. Then she smiled to herself. Really, how absurd. Preaching against worldly vanity was a common enough theme. She was sure he hardly ever spared her a second thought throughout his busy days except when they ran into each other. She found herself wishing she could alter his polite indifference in some way.

  She lapsed into the sin of vanity once again when she was delighted to hear her name mentioned in the parish events list. Jonathan told everyone about the adult reading classes, and praised her in glowing terms. He said the lessons would commence on Tuesday.

  She saw several people look around at her in surprise. Many more were amused, and she burned with mortification. She could even see a few people smirk knowingly.

  Pamela told herself she was doing it because it was a right action. Not because she wished to become on better terms with the handsome young clergyman. If it turned out that they improved their friendship, all the better. But it had not been her primary motive in suggesting the classes. Had it?

  She put one hand to her temple. All this soul-searching and seeking after self-knowledge and improvement was really rather wearing. She wished she were home alone in her room so she could examine her conscience a bit more closely. Had she really been trying to flirt with Jonathan Deveril?

  The thought was most unsettling. Especially since she began to wonder what sort of result she would get if she did attempt such a thing.

  She steeled herself for the inevitable face to face meeting as she and her family filed out of the church. She could not allow her unease to show, or Jonathan would think she disapproved of what he had said. She reminded herself that he was a good friend, no more. The idea of him as a beau was absurd. If she thought she was receiving mocking looks now, just imagine if...

  She quashed that thought ruthlessly. But a glimpse of her comfortably ensconced in the vicarage, presiding over the teapot or performing duets at the splendid pianoforte, had already flickered through her head with lightning speed.

  No, he was a vicar! A man of God, not the world. Poor, humble, obscure. Her family and friends all expected so much better for her.

  Better than a good decent God-fearing man? she heard Jonathan's ironic tones demand.

  No, no... She felt herself blushing uncontrollably, and hastily bent to tie her bootlace to hide her reddening countenance from her sharp-eyed aunt.

  By the time she had finished tying her laces and got her raging imagination and emotions under control, she was nearly the last to leave the church. She could see Jonathan and Sarah looking at her almost expectantly.

  Did she appear so very guilty and sheepish? she wondered.

  She heard her aunt thanking Jonathan for the uplifting sermon, though Pamela was sure she had heard her aunt's soft snore throughout. She prayed the vicar would not ask her to discuss the ideas contained within it any further. Fortunately, his eyes swiveled her way, and he greeted her warmly.

  "I'm glad to see you did not take a chill after our rather dreadful journey yesterday morning. You were right, we should have simply walked. I will own to being rather too protective of you as a woman upon that occasion.

  "Now, you will be delighted to hear that we have had numerous volunteers for both the teaching and the lessons. Would you care to step into the church hall with me to look over the arrangements for the school which I've managed to make thus far?"

  "Oh, er, yes, if Aunt Susan doesn't mind."

  "Not at all. It all seems a lot of nonsense for Pamela to be bothering with when she has such prospects and there is so much to do before Bath. But if she believes she has time, I can't see the harm. By all means, go. And you of course will see her safely home, you and your sister?" her aunt said pointedly. "Would the two of you care to come to dinner, Mr. Deveril?"

  "Much as we would love to, we are committed elsewhere today, I fear. Next Sunday, perhaps?"

  She covered her regret well, with only a small pout and pat of her curls. "Yes, most certainly, Mr. Deveril. We shall all look forward to it."

  Pamela tried to hide her disappointment, but she could not resist asking, "Where are you going to dinner today, then?"

  "I was actually going to ask you if you would be allowed to accompany us. Sarah and I are going to Stone Court. I wondered if you might like to speak with Vanessa about your school. She will also be happy to help with the reading you are undertaking. How are you enjoying Marcus Aurelius?"

  "Very much, thank you."

  She turned to her aunt. "May I go with the Deverils to Stone Court?"

  "I don't suppose there is any harm," she said after a short time, "except that the weather seems to be most vile today."

  "I'm dressed warmly, and Millcote is not that far."

  "I do share your concern. We shall say that if Miss Ashton is not back by eight for supper, then we will have prevailed upon the Stones because the weather has turned worse," Sarah said.

  "Very well. I shall not expect you, for I fear that it will rain and sleet again." Her aunt peered up at the menacing sky. "Do have a good time, and don't wear yourself too much with all this planning for the school. Goodbye."

  Jonathan helped Aunt Susan into the Ashtons' carriage, while Pamela and Sarah chatted about the sermon in the vestibule, and put away the prayer books more neatly.

  "He was very good. Calm and logical, yet still passionate."

  "His years in the war affected him more than anyone could possibly ever know," Sarah said. "He came back to a changed world, one he scarcely recognized. Or wished to. He gaped into the pit of Hell, and it changed him irrevocably. And alas, he's never stopped looking into it since."

  "Was he injured badly? Or does he suffer from nightmares?" Pamela guessed, awed and humbled at the thought of what he must have endured.

  She was ashamed of herself for ever h
aving thought of only the handsome, dashing uniforms, She had ignored the reality underneath. The killing, maiming. Lives cut short in their prime. The suffering in the army, cold, starvation, lack of comfort. She couldn't quite grasp it. It was so different from her own comfortable little world.

  Sarah began to tidy another row of books. "Not injured physically, but in his mind. His heart and soul are more grieved than anyone can suspect, for all his urbane manner. Please do keep that in mind if you ever feel he's being unduly harsh with you."

  "With me?" Pamela asked in surprise. "Why no. Jonathan, er, Mr. Deveril, has tried to improve and educate me, for which I'm very grateful. I own I was angry a few weeks ago, but I'm always willing to admit when I have acted wrongly." She smoothed one book to right the spine, and took a deep breath.