Regency Valentines

by Jo Beverley

  As her nerves settled, however, she realized she'd enjoyed that badinage in the waltz, and yes, the waltz itself. Life had seemed more vivid for a short while, and Mr. Wivenhoe, though smiling at her, was very dull.

  When that dance ended, Lord Pershall sought her hand. Agnes glanced around, wondering if this enthusiasm was some subtle punishment by the ton for dancing with the unwanted intruder. She'd never had partners come to her so willingly. Was everyone laughing at her? There was nothing to do but agree, however, and she did enjoy dancing of the ordinary sort. And waltzing, honesty insisted, when with a dangerously wicked man.

  He was. He was dangerous, and wicked, but in some way attractive and seductive. They said Lucifer could charm a soul to hell.

  Unfortunately, the dance was the supper dance, so she was now committed to taking supper with Lord Pershall. He always seemed to be sneering and his voice was nasal. When they entered the supper room and Meg invited them to join her table, it was a relief. Until, that was, Agnes realized that Lord Riverstoke was of the party. He was Lady Cawle's partner for the meal, and he was about to select food for them both. Pershall seated her and went off to forage.

  "Well done, Miss Abbott," said Lady Cawle.

  "In what respect, my lady?"

  "The waltz. I wish we'd had that dance in my youth. And it's served its purpose -- that and my patronage. Many are now not quite sure how to treat our black sheep."

  "That still leaves Miss Hurst unavenged."

  "Vengeance belongeth unto me, I will recompense', saith the Lord. So much easier to leave it to Him." Lady Cawle smiled at Riverstoke and a well-filled plate. "Thank you, my lord."

  It was only when he sat that Agnes realized his place was between Lady Cawle and herself. Their arms were almost touching. When Pershall returned with her food, she had to try to eat while keeping her left elbow tucked tightly to her side.

  Conversation was general but Agnes was mostly silent. That wasn't unusual, for she wasn't a chatterer, and she neither knew nor cared about the latest on-dits. She was tongue-tied, however, by the man beside her, who seemed to send off something that made her want to relax her elbow so that it brushed against his, or even sway slightly in his direction.

  "More wine, Miss Abbott?"

  She had to look into his eyes, smile, say something. "Thank you, Lord Riverstoke."

  He poured, which involved him moving just a little closer, so a slight touch was unavoidable. A brush of soot and sainthood....

  It must have been all too easy for Miss Amelia Hurst to be sucked into ruin.

  Or perhaps...?

  No, she wouldn't weave fantasies about the rake, fantasies in which he wasn't as black as he seemed.

  Chapter Three

  After supper there were musical performances in the drawing room until the dancing began again. Agnes walked in that direction with Lord Pershall, directly behind Riverstoke and Lady Cawle.

  When Pershall said, "Have you seen the Raphael in this ante-room, Miss Abbott?" Agnes turned into the room with him to put more distance between herself and temptation.

  Agnes admired the small painting, which was lovely, but she was aware that she might have made an error. "I don't wish to miss the music, my lord, and I'd like to have a good seat."

  Pershall grasped her hand.

  "My lord?"

  "Don't rush away, Miss Abbott. I wish to speak to you most particularly."

  The words were warning, and his expression was confirmation.

  "Please don't, my lord."

  "Come, come, Miss Abbott, don't play shy games with me. We have enjoyed one another's company, have we not?"

  Instead of a blunt "no" Agnes said, "I wasn't aware of it being a particular enjoyment, my lord."

  "Ah, I understand. Yes, Miss Abbott, I have not wooed you, but tonight, I see a new aspect to you. You are transformed in my eyes and I wish you to be my wife."

  His manner of declaring that annoyed her, for he clearly confident of her gratified acceptance, but annoyance was swamped by panic. Lord Pershall would be seen as a very good match, so her refusal would create explosions. She wouldn't be able to keep the offer a secret, for she was sure he'd ask her aunt to persuade her.

  "You're overcome," he said, smiling, "and I do understand, but you have only to say yes, my dear, and we will be delightfully happy."

  "You… you’ve taken me by surprise," Agnes said. "Truly you have. I must...."

  "Decline the kind offer," said a voice, and Lord Riverstoke strolled in. "What poor Miss Abbott is trying to convey, sir, is that she is already engaged to marry me."

  It was as well Pershall was gaping at Riverstoke or he'd have seen that Agnes was, too. By the time he looked to her for confirmation, she was attempting flustered embarrassment.

  "I do apologize, my lord. We... we were to keep it secret until Lord Riverstoke can speak to my father. I do hope we can rely on you not to speak of it."

  "You intend to marry him?" Pershall said, anger flushing his cheeks. "You are indeed much changed!"

  "You claimed to admire that about me."

  "I withdraw all admiration, ma’am." He bowed stiffly to her and stalked out of the room.

  "I'd have knocked him out or challenged him for that," Riverstoke said, "but you wouldn't want to attract attention."

  "Attention! There'll be enough of that, sir, when people hear about our supposed betrothal. What devil possessed you?"

  "Gallantry. You were teetering on the brink of disaster, though why you didn't just dismiss him, I have no idea."

  "It's none of you business," she said and walked toward the door.

  He caught her hand and tugged her back. "No thanks?"

  Agnes glared at him. She was by nature calm and forbearing, but this was beyond anything. Between clenched teeth, she said, "Thank you, my lord."

  "I thought you'd come round to the idea. When shall we marry?"

  "Never!"

  "A jilt, Miss Abbott? Tut-tut."

  Agnes wrenched her hand free. "You'd be better engaged in restoring your reputation, Riverstoke, than in making a game of me."

  "But I'm not playing games. I want to marry you, Saint Agnes, and I do think we could be delightfully happy together."

  "You want my dowry."

  "No." The simple denial carried weight.

  "Are you claiming to love me? We scarcely know each other."

  "It only takes a moment, don't you find? You're brave and honest, clever and kind, and stirred to wrath in just the right way. I'm extraordinarily attracted to you, Miss Abbott, in all ways." A smiling glance flicked over her, truly like flame. "Don't you feel it?"

  Yes.

  "I'm plain and fat."

  He laughed, but then sobered, frowning. "Do you truly think that? Is a lamp plain when the flame is lit within it? As for fat, God save me from a thin woman, but it's the other, the flame, that binds us."

  When he drew her toward a sofa she knew she should object -- no, fight -- but she let him seat her there, watched as he sat, turned toward her.

  "You still doubt?” he said. “Let's test the power of the flame."

  Agnes had only ever received mistletoe kisses, light pecks on the lips. When Riverstoke pressed his lips to hers it was different, and when he demanded more, cradling her head with one hand in a way that commanded her, it was, indeed, inflammatory.

  Hot wetness made her jerk back, but a moment later she surrendered to it, swept out of her senses despite a distant small voice crying, No, don't, don't!

  When his mouth released hers, slowly, then with gentle farewell kisses, she glowed like coals in a hearth, but fire was perilous.

  "You see?" he said, his voice hoarse.

  "Yes... But I can't, I absolutely can't."

  "I feared I reached too high. Why should you link you life to my wretched one?"

  That logic hadn't occurred to Agnes, but she grasped escape. "I'm sorry, but that's it. Please take me to the music."

  A soprano was singing when they ente
red the music room and found seats in the back row. Most people wouldn't notice them coming in, but some might have noticed their absence. Agnes wished she wasn't sitting by his side, because his presence there weakened her.

  There's more to life than kisses.

  You have nothing in common.

  You'd be marrying a wastrel philanderer.

  As soon as the music ended, Agnes went to Meg. "Thank you, for everything."

  "If you're sure," Meg said. "Saxonhurst says Riverstoke isn't as bad as he's painted. Not totally steeped in sin."

  Agnes laughed a little at that. "It's no concern of mine."

  "No? Pershall says you're betrothed to him. Riverstoke, I mean."

  "Of course I'm not. It was a misunderstanding. Please spread that, Meg. I must find my aunt. I must go home."

  Aware of running away, Agnes avoided all eyes as she found Aunt Martineux and insisted on leaving.

  Once in the coach her aunt said, "You don't do things by half, do you, Agnes."

  "At least grandmamma will be pleased."

  Pleased was not quite the word, but the next morning, when the dowager heard the report, she agreed that Agnes had done her part. "Off with you to spinsterhood in Muddlemead."

  Permission which would have filled her with joy the day before weighed Agnes with sadness, but she knew it was proof of temporary insanity. Nothing had changed. She'd merely been exposed to the tricks of a clever rake. Her situation was different to his American victim's only in him wanting to marry her for her dowry, which he would dissipate in a twelve-month.

  Thoughts about that victim tickled the back of her mind but she blocked them. She would not destroy her life for moonbeams. She went to her room to pack.

  Her room was on the third floor of the tall, narrow townhouse and she went downstairs to collect a book from the drawing room. She heard someone ply the door knocker. She'd just reached the bottom of the flight of stairs when she heard his voice.

  "Lord Riverstoke…."

  He'd come to see her. To try to persuade her.

  "… to see the Dowager Countess of Martineux."

  Bitter disappointment was a betrayal, and he'd be coming up to the drawing room at any minute. Agnes fled back upstairs, and once she was in her room she burst into tears. How could he have such wretched power to turn her wits?

  She stopped the tears, blew her nose, and settled to packing. The sooner she was back home the better. The plan had been for her to set out tomorrow, but she'd leave today. As soon as possible.

  A knock on her door.

  "Come in."

  The house maid entered. "Lord Riverstoke asks to speak with you, Miss. In the small parlor."

  One last time….

  Agnes steadied herself. "I'm not available, Anne."

  Moments later her door opened again. She turned from her trunk with irritation, to see Riverstoke.

  "So cowardly?" he said. He was dressed in everyday clothes of jacket, breeches and boots, but it didn't make him less alarming.

  Agnes gaped, then whispered, "You can't be here. Go away!"

  "I'm such a terribly black sheep. Isn't it exactly what I'd do?"

  "I'll scream."

  "And create an embarrassing fuss. I simply want to talk to you, Agnes. Will you hear me out?"

  "Here?"

  "Why not? I've been speaking with my godmother, a pleasure I hope not to have to repeat, but she provided me with some useful information. Do you truly reject marriage because you don't want to disturb you happy life?"

  "Yes. I don't know why everyone thinks it odd. Why should women have to move, often far from home, in order to marry?"

  "An occasional man does the reverse, but if you marry me you won't have to lose anything. Remember River Tick. Estates all gone, fortune drained down to mud. I, like the person in the Bible, will go where you go."

  "Ruth," Agnes said, trying to fight a new presentation of insanity. "Most inappropriate. But really, my lord..."

  "Call me Ned."

  "Ned, then."

  "And you are Agnes. Agnes of the lambs."

  "I'm no saint."

  "And I'm glad of it, but I put hope in your fondness for sheep."

  "I'm not particularly fond of sheep."

  "Not even roasted?”

  “Oh, don’t!” But it made her laugh, which was weakening, as was his presence in her bedroom. "I couldn't marry a rake. I couldn't bring a rake into my village."

  Soberly he asked, “Do I have any chance of convincing you that I'm not as black a sheep as I've been portrayed?"

  She could feel his sincerity, and that made her say, "Yes.”

  He blinked at that. "Why?"

  "Because of Peggy Hopgood."

  "I swear, I've never touched the lass."

  "I'm sure of it. But you see, Peggy claimed the miller's son had had his wicked way with her and made her with child. Sam Miller denied it, but no one believed him, because he wasn't a pure white sheep."

  "Few are," he said. “Much past birth, we’re all grey. Which could make a parable, I suppose. What happened to Sam and Peggy?"

  "I knew Sam loved Sukey Overstook and I didn't think him black enough to seduce another, so I spoke to my father about it. He's the vicar, you see."

  "A vicar's daughter. Perfect."

  "I think you're mad," she said, but the admiring look in his eyes could drive her out of her wits.

  "Sam, Peggy, and Sukey," he reminded her.

  "Oh, yes. Father went to Peggy and her parents and asked when and where. She claimed it was too distressing to think about, but he insisted, so she tried to come up with something, but it became clear she lied. In the end she confessed she wanted to press Sam Miller into marriage, him being a handsome young man who was going to own the mill one day. Nothing more was said of the imaginary baby, for in a village everyone knew the truth. Now she has to live with her more serious sin of deceit. That really should be marked as a deadly sin."

  “For more harm’s been done by lies than by lust," he agreed. "I wish you and your father had been to hand to deal with Amelia Hurst, though I must confess to having flirted with her. She's very pretty."

  He was a true black sheep in many ways, with a wicked trail behind him. She shouldn't feel like this about him. She certainly shouldn't like him, but she did, more and more by the minute.

  "Being pretty, she probably thought you'd not object. Peggy's pretty, too."

  "Wise Agnes. If we marry, you'll save me from further folly with pretty young women. With other pretty young woman," he amended.

  "No need to do it so brown, sir."

  "You're lovely. I'll make sure you know that."

  "And cease your flirting? Can a sheep change the color of its fleece?"

  "I'm merely a slightly darker gray than others, and I promise to try to become whiter. Is it too early to repeat that I love you?"

  "Far too early," she said, but her heart didn't quite agree. "Do you?" slipped out. "Truly?"

  He took her hand. "If love means I like, you, I want you, and I can't imagine a good life without you, then yes."

  On those terms, Agnes feared she might love him. Feared, because even if he wasn't a wicked seducer, he was an idle wastrel who could probably not resist flirtation and creating havoc that way.

  "May I return with you to your home woo you, Agnes? I have no true home at the moment, so I might as well find a lodging in your locality so that I can try to show my better qualities."

  Agnes took back her hand. A distant voice was trying to object, but she turned away to hide her struggle not to smile. "I can hardly bar you from taking up residence somewhere near Dux Cherrymead.

  “Dux Cherrymead. How utterly delightful. Will you lead me into cherry meadows, my enchanting saint?"

  Just then the clock struck the half hour. Agnes stared at it. "How long have we been here? Oh dear, oh dear…. Drat, I sound like my aunt!"

  He laughed and turned her toward him, and then he kissed her again, briefly but hotly. Separate ag
ain he said, "You're perplexed bedeviled and have very reasonable doubts. Give me time to persuade you I'm a better man than you fear, and that we can be happy together. I'll arrive in Dux Cherrymead within days."

  With that he left, apparently undetected, for no one mentioned him to her. She abandoned her idea of rushing away that day, but then next morning she departed London in her uncle's carriage, well escorted.

  Chapter Four

  Her arrival was noticed by many in the village, who waved or called out greetings. When the carriage came to a stop in front of the vicarage, her father came out to greet her. "Your adventure has agreed with you, my dear. You're blooming!"

  She laughed as she hugged him. "Perhaps a little of the rouge Aunt Martineux made me wear lingers. I'm so pleased to be home."

  She was, but she couldn't deny that she simmered with anticipation of Riverstoke's arrival, along with anxiety.

  Would he come, or would he change his mind? He'd said he couldn't imagine a good life without her, and that seemed to have imprinted itself in her. Her home, her father, her friends and her garden -- the whole village -- were as pleasant as before, and yet something, some small but crucial thing, was missing.

  Perhaps her father felt that, too. He was pleased to have her home and delighted that she'd negotiated an end to his mother's attacks, but he seemed, perhaps, wistful.

  And then, one day, Agnes turned in the garden and found him there, smiling. "I see this is a perfect setting for you," he said.

  She smiled back, for that small but crucial thing was in place. "But will it suit you, sir?"

  "I believe it will. I grew up in a village. A larger one than this, and not as pretty, but I liked it. My father was the squire."

  "Then why aren't you the squire?"

  "There was no entail and he left little money. I sold up and bought an annuity for my mother so she could live in comfort where she wished to. She's in Matlock."

  "And you set out to make your fortune?"

  "You're thinking I didn't do very well. You're largely right. Making a fortune from nothing requires qualities and vices I lack, but I've supported myself. I developed a business in America with some friends there, bringing over decorative metalwork from the best British craftsmen. I traded somewhat on my aristocratic connections, glad no one knew how hollow they were."