by Candice Hern
"Max?"
When he returned his own attention to Fanny, she lifted her eyebrows in question. "Would you like to come along with us to Forde's? Eldridge will be there to see us home, of course, so you needn't worry about that. But we would welcome your escort, if you'd be so obliging."
"I am ever at your service, Fanny. And of your lovely young friend." He lowered his voice and spoke directly into her ear. "Introduce us, my dear, I beg you."
Fanny began to laugh. "Ha! We knew you hadn't recognized her." Her blue eyes danced with merriment.
"Recognized her? Do I know her?" He kept his voice low in hopes the woman would not overhear. "No. No, Fanny, I am quite sure I've never met her."
"Are you?" She reached over and touched the Unknown's arm. "Excuse me, my dear, but you remember Max Davenant, do you not?"
The woman looked at him and smiled. "Yes, of course. How do you do, Mr. Davenant? So nice to see you again."
She offered her hand and he took it, still thoroughly confounded. Who was she? "Your servant, madam."
He studied her more closely without letting go of her hand, and could not help but notice that she seemed perfectly willing to allow him to keep hold of it. He had been right. She was no demure young miss. The mere fact that she was with Fanny told him that much. Despite that intriguing aura of innocence about her, there was a decidedly flirtatious twinkle in her eyes.
Something about those eyes ...
"I say, Davenant," Hepworth said as he inched closer to the Unknown, "I ought to have known you'd steal a march on the rest of us with Miss Lacey. Fanny's niece and all. Unfair advantage, what?"
Miss Lacey? Fanny's niece?
The mouse?
Chapter 4
She ought to have been exhausted. It was past two in the morning, but Rosie didn't feel the least bit tired. The evening had been so full of excitement for her that she still felt agog with it all. When they finally went home, she doubted she would be able to sleep a wink.
Her head was spinning with introductions and flattery and flirtations. When she had first begun planning her trip to London, she had secretly hoped there might be a remote possibility of attracting at least one gentleman's regard. Not with the usual goal of marriage, of course, but only to experience it, to know what it was like to have a gentleman admire her. More than admire, actually. She longed for more than that. After all, she had added "to be thoroughly kissed" to her list of things to do in London.
Giddy with a first night's success, Rosie thought it might not be the impossible goal she had once imagined.
Upon reflection, she was genuinely amazed at what she had been able to accomplish as Rosalind. The old Rosie would have quivered in her slippers to have endured the often presumptuous addresses of so many gentlemen—from fresh-faced young fops to seasoned rakes to aging roués. The old Rosie would likely have swooned at the way Lord Radcliffe used the crowd to allow himself to brush up against her, at the way Mr. Hepworth had teased open the buttons of her glove in order to stroke the skin of her wrist, at the way Mr. Davenant had boldly held her hand in his for longer than was absolutely proper. Such gentlemen, and such behavior, would have frightened the old Rosie almost to death.
But not Rosalind. She had rather enjoyed it.
Too distracted to concentrate on cards, Rosie had excused herself from the last hand, retrieved her shawl, and wandered onto the terrace. She leaned against the balustrade overlooking a moonlit garden below, and retrieved the notebook from her reticule. She began to check off a few entries from her list, those objectives she had so far succeeded in accomplishing: to wear a beautiful dress, to have her hair cut and fashionably styled, to be admired by a gentleman—she was reasonably sure most of the men she'd met were gentlemen. Even Fanny's friends must be gentlemen.
And she grinned as she checked off her latest item, "to flirt with a rake." Yes, she had flirted, and not only with Mr. Davenant but with other men who must surely be rakes. Rosie supposed she still had a lot to learn about flirtation, but she had made a start and had thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was quite liberating to realize she could, for the most part, behave exactly as she pleased without worrying about the consequences.
At the sound of footsteps approaching, she turned to see Mr. Davenant walking toward her. She returned the notebook to its case and dropped it in her reticule, then smiled up at him as he leaned back against the balustrade beside her.
"You're still laughing at me, Miss Lacey. Were you making a note in your diary about my foolish behavior this evening?"
Her smile widened, but she refrained from laughing. She and Fanny had already teased the poor man relentlessly earlier in the evening. "I am merely smiling, Mr. Davenant, as you see."
"Maybe so," he said, and offered a smile of his own that made him look even more devilishly handsome. "But you don't fool me. You are laughing inside. I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have been such a source of amusement for you and Fanny."
She lost the battle with restraint and began to laugh softly. "You can hardly blame us, sir. The look upon your face was priceless."
"No doubt. But you can hardly blame me, either, my dear, when you look so completely different from the way you did at that first brief meeting. By God, you seemed the perfect little brown mouse."
"I know."
"And now." He paused and gave her a look that sent a shiver dancing up and down her spine. "Now, you look quite lovely. Not even remotely mouselike. Red becomes you, my dear."
His voice wrapped around her like thick velvet. No wonder the man was notorious. He was a spellbinder, drawing one in with his sumptuous voice and his liquid brown eyes. What would it be like to succumb to his spell? Should she try? She stifled a giggle at the very notion of plain Rosie Lacey as an object of seduction, much less succumbing to it. Ursula would faint dead away on the spot.
Heavens, but she was having a good time as Rosalind! If things had turned out differently, she might have had a successful career on the stage.
"Thank you, Mr. Davenant," she said in a husky whisper she sincerely hoped sounded provocative and not sickly. "That is a very pretty compliment."
"Call me Max," he said in that velvety voice. "I'm practically family, you know."
"Then you must call me Rosi—Rosalind."
'"Let no fair be kept in mind, but the fair of Rosalind.' I trust this fair Rosalind need not resort to disguise to win her heart's desire."
Rosie almost gasped at his words. Did he know she merely played a part?
"Fanny must be pleased," he went on, oblivious to her momentary uneasiness. "You were quite the hit this evening."
Rosie pulled herself together and allowed Rosalind to take charge once again. "Yes, I am sure my aunt was pleased that people were so friendly to her niece."
"That is not what I meant."
"Oh?"
"By George, but you do know how to play the innocent, don't you? It is no wonder you have every buck and beau dangling after you. And that is the point, is it not? To bring one of them up to scratch?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The Marriage Mart, my dear. You are older than the other young chits, to be sure, but you do have a way about you. Since we are almost family, I am sure you will not mind such frank speaking. In any case, I cannot imagine you will have any difficulty finding a husband."
Rosie's first reaction was to be insulted by his words, her next to be flattered by them, but in the end she found the entire situation hilarious and began to laugh.
"You do not believe me?" Max asked.
When she was finally able to speak, she said, "I'm afraid you have it all wrong, Mr. Davenant. Max. In the first place, I do not know how a liaison between my aunt and your father makes us family." His brows rose in surprise at her words. Did he think she did not know? "Unless, of course, you are really my aunt's son and therefore my cousin, though I feel certain Aunt Fanny would have mentioned it. That is, unless it is a great dark secret that she has kept all these years. No, no, that
cannot be, for I find it impossible to imagine she would have allowed your Mama to raise her son."
Now Max was on the verge of laughter, a grin creasing his face and lighting his eyes. "In the second place," she continued, "I am not in search of a husband. I realize most people will have that expectation, but I wish they would not. In fact, I have no intention of ever marrying. That is not why I came to London."
"Why did you come, then?"
"To have fun. To enjoy myself. To go to balls and dance all night until my slippers wear out. To go to elegant supper parties and dine on rich food and fine wine. To attend the theater and the opera and philharmonic concerts. To visit museums and galleries and gardens and parks and shops—dear heaven, the shops!—and the Tower and Westminster Abbey and Astley's and Vauxhall and, oh, all sorts of other places I've yet to discover." Her voice rose with excitement, just thinking about all the things she was going to do. "I want to see everything, do everything, to experience everything London has to offer."
"Odds fish, madam," he said, and placed a limp hand upon his forehead. "I grow dizzy just listening to you. Let us sit down before I collapse with fatigue."
He led her to a stone bench beside a potted box shrub trimmed to a perfect sphere. When Rosie had seated herself and arranged her skirts, Max sat down beside her. Not too close, she noticed. In fact, he sat as far away as possible without actually teetering on the far edge.
"And so you are keen to enjoy town pleasures?"
"I am all agog."
He chuckled. "Indeed you are. Your eyes fairly dance in anticipation. I suspect you must be younger than you look."
"I am six and twenty."
"As elderly as that? Astonishing. At so ancient an age, how have you managed to maintain so much... lust for life?"
He lingered over the word lust, caressing the sound of each letter so that Rosie could not take her eyes away from his mouth. He was trying to rattle her. She did not believe he truly meant to seduce her, only to test her, to see what would make her squirm. She would not give him the pleasure of victory.
"It is my first visit to London," she said with perfect equanimity. "Everything is new to me."
"Ah, yes. Of course. To be in one's first Season when all is fresh and untried. How I envy you, my dear. Enjoy the novelty while you can."
"While I can. Yes."
He gave a weary sigh. "Alas, I have too many Seasons behind me. I have been everywhere and done everything—countless times, over and over. It begins to pall." His hand moved upon his breast as if protecting something tucked away in his waistcoat.
"I do not believe you."
His head jerked up at her words. She was rather surprised at them herself; but Rosalind was in charge now and Rosalind could say anything she pleased. "My aunt has told me of your reputation, sir."
"Warned you against me, did she?"
"No. She simply mentioned it as a point of fact. But if it's true, then it seems as though you cannot be as bored as you pretend. I would guess you manage to find a good deal of pleasure in Society. Quite a lot of it, actually. I sincerely doubt that such... such gratification has begun to pall."
"You'd be surprised," he muttered.
"I will wager you have interesting plans of your own for the Season," she said. "Tell me about them."
"Egad, you want names?"
Rosie flushed. "I did not mean those sorts of plans. I am just curious about all the types of entertainments London has to offer. It seems there is so much to do. There must be something you are looking forward to."
"Not really." There was a hint of resignation in his tone that made her believe him, and she was surprised at how angry it made her. Here was the consummate pleasure-seeker, with years and years of pleasure stretching ahead of him, while she only had these few months in which to find her own enjoyment. How dare he take his life for granted!
"You are not happy, Mr. Davenant?"
"I have never sought happiness, my dear, only pleasure."
"And found it?"
"Often. Too often."
"Have you never been in love, then?"
"Only for brief moments, in the heat of passion. Fortunately, it always passes."
His callous words increased her annoyance with him. He had so much to live for, and yet did not grab hold of a single moment as meaningful or lasting. He did not look beyond momentary pleasure to find something deeper, something special. A wasted life.
He must have sensed her irritation, for he straightened slightly and offered a sheepish smile. "All right," he said, "you asked if I had plans. Well, I do. If you must know, there is a mill next week that has piqued my interest."
"A mill?"
"Yes, Randall and Neate. Should be great sport. But I don't imagine that is the sort of entertainment you had in mind."
"But I've never been to a mill. All of my brothers are mad for them. To tell you the truth, I should love to see one. Just once."
"Ah, but Fair Rosalind, think how Society would frown upon such unladylike behavior."
"Oh, pooh! As if I care a fig for what Society thinks of me. I simply want to experience everything I can while I'm here. In town, I mean."
"Brave words, my dear. But do you not worry about your reputation?"
She might have at one time. But what did it matter now? "No," she replied, and rose from the bench. "I am not concerned for my reputation."
Max stood and said, "You ought not say something so enticing to a man like me." He leaned close, so close she could feel his breath upon her neck. "You might experience a great deal more than you expected."
Rosie offered her broadest smile, then walked toward the terrace doors. When she reached them, she looked over her shoulder in the most coquettish manner she could muster, and said, "Why, Mr. Davenant, you have no idea what I expect."
She entered the drawing room without waiting to see if her attempt at flirtation had succeeded.
* * *
Max studied the sway of her hips beneath the red skirts as she walked away from him. The minx! Not only had he been thoroughly captivated by Rosalind's artless charm, but he was quite sure that within the week half the male population of London would be smitten as well.
Despite her rejection of the notion, Max did rather think of her as family, and determined to watch out for her. She may appear to others to be an experienced flirt, up to every rig and row. But Max knew from Fanny that the girl had been stuck in the country her whole life and therefore could not possibly be as sophisticated as she let on. She was sure to get herself in trouble if she wasn't careful.
Knowing she was an untried rustic, Max had no intention of being the instrument of that trouble. He did not for one moment believe her denial about coming to town in search of a husband. She spoke of love, after all. What woman spoke of love without thoughts of marriage? Rosalind, despite her words to the contrary, was no different from the rest. All unmarried women, with the possible exception of the professional Cyprians, were in search of a husband. If he even so much as kissed the girl, he would be in the untenable position of having seduced the daughter of Fanny's stiff-rumped brother. The man would put a bullet in Max's head if he refused to "do the right thing."
And no pistol-in-the-ribs forced wedding, either, thank you very much. He shuddered just to think of it. No, such a fate was not for Max, so he would steer clear of Miss Lacey and her considerable attractions.
Yet, she was Fanny's niece, and poor Fanny would be the one forced to deal with whatever mischief Rosalind fell into. Max adored Fanny and had no wish to see her saddled with such an irksome chore. So, he would keep an eye on the girl. For Fanny's sake.
It was a difficult assignment. Over the next week, Rosalind flitted about town with that come-hither smile and those hazel eyes wide in innocent wonder. Such a paradox could not help but intrigue any man who spent more than five minutes in her company. And Max was quite sure that Rosalind remained perfectly unconscious of her power.
"Are you absolutely certain she is Sir Ed
mund's daughter," he asked Fanny a few nights after the Forde card party, "and not some imposter come to town to take advantage of you?" They stood together along the edge of the ballroom at Almack's, a place Max generally avoided and Fanny detested. But Rosalind had begged to go and Fanny had capitulated. In a moment of weakness, Max had agreed to accompany them.
They watched as Rosalind gathered a circle of gallants around her. She laughed and flirted and teased and wielded her fan with remarkable finesse. Where had she learned to do that?
Fanny chuckled. "No one is more astonished than I am to find such spirit in the girl."
Rosalind gave an uninhibited crack of laughter that caused many heads to turn, and she swatted young Lord Radcliffe on the arm with her fan. Several older women directed stern looks in Rosalind's direction, but Max noted that most of the gentlemen in the vicinity smiled.
Fanny smiled, too, looking for all the world like a proud mother hen as Rosalind was led into a quadrille by Sir Cedric Bassett. "Max, darling, is she not delightful? You know how I dreaded her arrival. I don't know how I could have been so wrong about her, but I tell you she is not at all as I remembered her. Quiet. Reserved. Plain, even. Lord, she's not plain at all, is she, Max?"
"Dash it, Fanny, you're as bad as any marriage-minded mama trotting out her chick, shamelessly angling for compliments. It must be this horrid place. The deuced lemonade has gone to your head."
"I shall feel obliged to slap you, Max, if you persist in comparing me to those ravenous matrons. I am no more pleased to be in this odious place than you are, but she would insist I merely wondered how you thought she looked."
"She looks lovely."
"She does, doesn't she? It is remarkable considering... Well, you saw her when she arrived."
"You've done a marvelous job with her, my dear."
"Oh, it was not my doing. Not entirely, anyway. I did select that emerald figured silk, though, as well as the cunning little aigrette in her hair. The color suits her, don't you think? It brings out the—"
