Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance)

by Candice Hern

  When she had sighed aloud, Lady Teresa Carmichael, seated in the next chair, smiled and said she wished she could waltz, too. A shy young girl in her first Season, Lady Teresa was a pattern card of propriety. "But I shall not receive permission until I have been presented."

  "I have no intention of waiting for someone's permission," Rosie had replied. "If I had been asked, I assure you I would be waltzing this minute."

  "You would waltz without permission?" Lady Teresa's eyes grew wide as saucers, as though Rosie had admitted to treason.

  "Of course I would. So should you, and anyone else who wishes to waltz. I cannot believe a handful of top-lofty ladies can tell all of Society what to do. It is absurd."

  "I am afraid I would not have the courage to defy the rules," Lady Teresa said.

  "Well, I am not afraid to do so."

  "You are braver than I, Miss Lacey. Braver than anyone, I daresay. But if you were to waltz, would you not be afraid people would think you fast?"

  "Oh, but I intend to be fast," Rosie replied. "I have so much to do in so short a time, I cannot afford to be slow about it."

  Lady Teresa gave her a quizzical look, but Rosie had been too wrapped up in her disappointment and did not elaborate.

  Max was here now, though, and he would not forget his promise. Rosie would have her waltz.

  "—beautiful in red," Lord Overton was saying. She really must pay attention. As Fanny always said, a lady should never take a gentleman's flattery for granted.

  "You are too kind, my lord," she said, gazing directly into the man's deep blue eyes. Heavens, but he was handsome. He was beautifully dressed in the darkest blue jacket, setting off his fair hair and eyes, a waistcoat of white satin embroidered with tiny blue and gray flowers, and gray satin breeches. She had been immediately captivated by his good looks and irresistible charm when he had forced Mr. Newcombe into an introduction and before she had been distracted by the sight of Max walking toward the bandstand.

  "I am prepared to be much kinder, given the opportunity." Lord Overton's husky croon told Rosie he was a rake of the highest order. Like Max. He had a voice not unlike Max's in its seductive qualities, but his gaze was more disconcerting. Whereas she found only a playful flirtation in Max's eyes, this man looked at her in such a way that made her believe he had more than flirtation in mind. Much more. And it made her uncomfortable.

  She could not have said why, but Rosie was fairly certain that if Max had looked at her in that way, she would not have minded half as much, even though he was every bit as much a rake as Lord Overton.

  "I would be charmed beyond measure," Lord Overton said, "if you would grant me the pleasure of the next dance."

  "Sorry, old chap. I'm afraid Miss Lacey promised the next dance to me."

  A thrill coursed through Rosie's veins at the sound of Max's voice. She was going to have her waltz now!

  "I did not see you arrive, Davenant," Lord Overton said. "But I do believe I have the advantage of you here. Again. You see, I asked Miss Lacey first."

  "Ah, but we have a long-standing commitment, Miss Lacey and I. Do we not, my dear?"

  Rosie grinned to think that two rakes were actually vying for her company. How perfectly delightful. "We do," she said. "I am sorry, Lord Overton, but I have indeed promised this dance to Mr. Davenant. Perhaps another time?"

  She took Max's arm and had literally to bite her tongue to keep from shrieking with excitement as the orchestra struck up the opening strains of a waltz, and Max led her onto the dance floor. It was not merely the notion of waltzing that had her all aflutter. It was waltzing with Max.

  Why was it that none of the other gentlemen who led her out to dance had caused such a tremor of anticipation to skitter up and down her spine? Other men, especially Lord Overton, were equally handsome. Others were as witty. All of them flirted and flattered and made her feel special. There was something about Max, however, that set him apart from the rest. Whereas Lord Overton made her uneasy, she felt perfectly comfortable with Max. Though he was a rake and a gambler and could seduce a girl with the lift of an eyebrow, Rosie felt safe with him. Deep down, she believed him to be a true gentleman, that his rakish notoriety and perpetual ennui were nothing more than a pose.

  And Rosie knew all about poses. Was she not masqueradirig as the bold and sophisticated Rosalind when beneath it all she was still plain, simple Rosie Lacey of Wycombe Hall who could hardly believe she did the things she did and said the things she said?

  As they took their place in the center of the floor, Rosie heard a sharp gasp and looked up to see an attractive woman, who wore a ridiculous number of green plumes, scowling and whispering to the woman next to her. She might as well have pointed her finger directly at Rosie, she was so obviously speaking of her. "Who is that odious woman, Max?"

  "That, my dear minx, is Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. The woman beside her is Lady Castlereagh. They are two of the patronesses."

  "You mean the ones whose permission I am supposed to plead before dancing the waltz? How marvelous! They shall see how much I care for their beastly rules. Let us dance."

  Max placed his left hand at Rosie's waist and held out his right hand. "Place your right hand in mine and your left on my shoulder."

  "Oh, I know how it is done. I have watched and watched. Lead on, Max!"

  With the merest pressure at her waist, he led her into the dance. It was easy to follow the rhythm of the music as well as Max's gentle yet persuasive lead. In less than a moment, Rosie found herself twirling and spinning in perfect accord with the music. It was pure heaven.

  Max had her completely in his control. She kept her eyes on his, and everything else seemed to fade away. There was only Max, with his intense brown eyes and soft smile, the hand at her waist pressing so gently it might have been a caress. She closed her eyes, drinking in the scent of him—bay rum, brandy, the starch of his neckcloth—and let the music, and Max, guide her steps.

  For this moment alone, the trip to London had been worthwhile.

  "You dance well, minx."

  Rosie opened her eyes to find him gazing down at her, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

  "Are you enjoying your first waltz?"

  "Oh yes, Max, very much. It is truly magical. How kind of you to lead me out. You dance quite well yourself."

  Amusement sparkled in his eyes. "I wonder whether you enjoy the dancing as much as you enjoy the uproar."

  "Uproar?" Rosie reluctantly tore her gaze from his and glanced about the room. Several groups had gathered together—women, mostly—all of them whispering and glaring at Rosie and Max with outraged disapproval. One woman leaned heavily against another, farming herself vigorously as though about to swoon. "Are all these people upset because a little nobody from the country dares to ignore their silly rules?"

  "Apparently."

  "Hmph. What a lot of fuss over nothing."

  "Nothing? I could have sworn that only a moment ago you were quite enjoying the dance."

  "Oh, but I am. I am indeed. We shall pay no attention to those spineless ninnies who allow others to dictate their behavior. This is much too splendid to worry about such nonsense. Even more splendid than I had hoped. Just dance with me, Max."

  "Is waltzing on your list?"

  She looked up at him sharply. "How do you know about my list?"

  "Your aunt mentioned it. Fanny believes it only includes such innocuous entries as visiting the Tower or Westminster Abbey. But I suspect there are other sorts of activities on that list." A slow, lazy grin split his face, and he winked at her.

  Rosie threw back her head and laughed. "And what of it?"

  "I merely wondered if I was helping to check off one of the entries. I assume you are dutifully checking them off as you go?"

  "Rogue! I shall always be the country mouse to you. But if you must know, by the end of this evening, I believe I shall have checked off several items on my list." For one thing, she was determined to be thoroughly kissed. Rosie did not believ
e Max would accommodate her there. He did not think of her in that way. She was no more than an amusing rustic, a mere diversion. Max was used to glamorous high flyers and only flirted with her out of mischief, or out of habit, or possibly because Fanny asked him to do so. In any case, it meant nothing. Rosie was quite certain, however, she could entice one of the other gentlemen into kissing her. Lord Radcliffe, perhaps?

  "Such as?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You were woolgathering, minx. I asked what sort of items on your list will get checked off tonight?"

  "Oh. Well, besides this waltz—you were correct, it is on my list—I have engaged in a flirtation with a full-fledged rake. Lord Overton."

  She had, of course, checked off that item some time ago, but she would not give Max the pleasure of knowing he had helped her do so.

  His brows rose in surprise. "And what am I, pray tell?"

  "Practically family."

  He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "You delight in throwing those words back at me, do you not? I'll have you know I can flirt circles around Overton."

  "Oh? Show me."

  "Well, now you have put me on the spot, minx."

  "Show me."

  "All right, then. I suppose Overton filled your head with compliments? Give me an example, if you please."

  "He said I looked beautiful in red."

  "Just like that? 'You look beautiful in red?'"

  "I believe that was how he said it."

  "Amateur. The man has no finesse."

  "Are you saying I do not look beautiful in red?"

  "Quite the contrary, my minx. But if I were going to seriously flirt with you, I would tell you how the crimson of your gown merely reflects the vitality of your spirit, a vitality that burns like a blazing fire to singe a man's soul."

  "Oh."

  "But I would not stop there." His voice dropped to a husky whisper so low Rosie had to lean closer to catch every word. "I would tell you how the soft red silk enhances the natural flush of your perfectly sculpted cheeks—cheeks softer even than the silk, petal-soft, beckoning one to touch, to stroke, to caress. And how the fiery color echoes the tantalizing hints of auburn caught by the candlelight in your glorious hair—thick, luxurious hair such as a man craves to run his fingers through. And how the deep red hue is reminiscent of the damask rose, though its fragrance is no match for the intoxicating scent of you, a scent that takes a man's breath away and makes him want to bury his face against your long white neck and breathe deeply of it. And how the rich color emulates the sweet tint of your lips—full, lush, sensual lips ripe for a man to kiss, very gently, very softly, tasting, exploring, savoring, and finally devouring with the full force of his desire. Yes, you look very beautiful in red, minx."

  "Oh, my." The room had suddenly grown quite warm.

  * * *

  "Do they not make a splendid couple, Jonathan?"

  "They make a splendid scandal," he replied. "Only see how that devil is holding her too close. By Jove, it looks as if he means to kiss her, right here in public. And look how everyone is tittering and gaping. You ought to have known what would happen, Fanny. Rosalind's reputation will be in tatters. Doors will close in her face. She will endure cut after cut."

  "Then it is well I am here to guide her," Fanny said, "for I know a thing or two about being cut. Besides, darling, the girl is irrepressible. Do you think I can stop her from doing anything she pleases?"

  "Possibly not. It seems a shame, though. I like her, Fanny."

  "So do I." Fanny smiled wistfully. "She so much reminds me of myself when I was young."

  She watched her niece, as did everyone else in the room, gazing dreamily up at Max while he pulled her slightly closer. From the look in Rosalind's eyes, Max must be using all his considerable wiles upon her, filling her head with outrageous flattery and sweet lies. And barely a breath away from kissing her. Incorrigible boy!

  Would it not be lovely, she thought, if Rosalind and Max became lovers? Just like Fanny and Basil Davenant so many years before. If her niece found half the pleasure with Max that Fanny had with Basil, if they fell in love ... well, she could wish no greater happiness for the girl.

  Fanny scanned the room for a friendly face among the scowling high sticklers when her gaze fell upon a vaguely familiar and very young man intently watching Max and Rosalind. Her niece had won another admirer, she thought, but then full recognition dawned.

  "By God, it is young Thomas Lacey!"

  "What's that?" Lord Eldridge asked.

  "Rosalind's eldest brother. The tall, thin young fellow in the bottle-green coat, just over there." Fanny chuckled at the wide-eyed incredulity on the boy's face. What must he think of his once shy and dowdy older sister, now fashionable and dancing an almost indecent waltz in arms of an infamous womanizer?

  "There'll be the devil to pay now," she said. "He will likely show up at my front door tomorrow, rip up at Rosalind, and report every juicy detail back to his father. Impudent puppy. Perhaps I will have a brief word or two with him."

  Just as she made a move to approach Thomas, another young man tugged on his arm and pulled him away. A moment later he had disappeared through the main entrance.

  After the waltz, Fanny coaxed Rosalind into leaving. She could not decide whether or not to tell her niece that Lady Jersey had asked that Fanny remove Miss Lacey from the premises, stating that her vouchers would no longer be honored. Fanny was amused at the woman's outrage and was perfectly happy to be barred once again from Almack's doors. It was a sort of badge of honor. Some of the best people had been barred: the Duchess of Bedford, Lady Rochford, Lord Marsdon. She rather suspected Rosalind might also appreciate being among such elite company.

  Their next stop was the Easterbrook ball, where news of Rosalind's behavior at Almack's had already spread as the latest on-dit. Her niece's popularity among the gentlemen only increased with her new notoriety: every rake, rogue, and libertine sought to partner her. She danced every dance, and Fanny so enjoyed watching her niece conquer Society by defying it, she did not realize until much later that she had forgot all about Thomas Lacey.

  Lord William Radcliffe had remained one of Rosalind's most stalwart admirers since their first meeting. They had danced earlier in the evening, and when Fanny saw them stroll through the terrace doors, she could easily guess what the young man had in mind.

  "And what makes you smile like the cat who swallowed the canary?"

  She thought Max, who had naturally followed them to Easterbrook House, would remain in the card room the rest of the evening, and was surprised to see him back in the ballroom. "It is all your fault, my boy."

  "What is my fault?"

  "You have led my niece straight into the arms of every libertine in town with that wretched Almack's waltz. Upon my soul, Max, it looked as though you meant to make love to the girl right there on the spot, with all the ton looking on and the patronesses swooning."

  A smile twitched at the edge of his mouth. "I merely flirted with her. Nothing more."

  "Quite so. And now, because no woman can resist such charm, you have made her appear fast, thereby giving permission to every other young buck to have a go at her. Why, only a few moments ago Lord Radcliffe maneuvered her onto the terrace, and I am certain you can imagine his intentions."

  "The devil you say."

  "Yes. Oh, and here they come now. I ask you, Max, does she not have the look of a woman who has just been well and truly kissed?"

  "Well, I'm dashed!"

  Fanny gave a smug smile as Max turned on his heels and stalked away like an angry bear. Yes indeed, the boy was definitely smitten.

  Chapter 8

  Rosie heaped her plate with a most unladylike quantity of food. She was ravenous, having eaten very little the night before. During supper, she and Mr. Newcombe, her partner for the supper dance, had been joined by several other couples, and more talking and laughing had taken place than eating.

  There had been no recurrence of the heada
che this morning, for which she was grateful. One more day, at least, without the disease overtaking her. She sat down at the breakfast table and a footman poured her a cup of tea. When he asked if there was anything else she would like, Rosie looked at her plate and laughed. "No, Thomas, I am persuaded this mountain of food will suffice."

  When the footman had left her alone with her meal, Rosie considered some of the other appetites she'd indulged during her stay in London—appetites she hadn't even known existed. The longer she stayed with Fanny, the more she came to realize how much of her life in Devon had been spent as a spectator, watching her siblings' lives unfold but almost never taking part in the action herself. So many wasted years!

  She was almost thankful for the dread disease. Without it, she would never have had the courage to do some of things she'd done. In fact, she would have been mortified at her indecorous behavior. However, knowing she had but a few short months left on this earth, she had ceased to care what anyone thought of Rosalind, including the ever reserved and proper Rosie.

  With so little time left, she was pleased to have worked her way through so much of her list. She had indeed managed to achieve the two major objectives set for the evening. She had waltzed with Max, and she had been kissed.

  When she had agreed to stroll on the terrace with Lord Radcliffe, she knew he meant to kiss her. Of all her admirers, she had hoped it would be him. She liked him. He made her laugh and flirted outrageously. She had been told he had a reputation as an active rake, but nothing quite as wicked as Max or Lord Overton. Just your ordinary, everyday rake.

  Rosie smiled to think how low she had sunk to consider a rake as ordinary. What would her sisters, especially Ursula, say if they knew the sort of men with whom their spinster sister consorted?

  Last evening, she had most definitely consorted with Lord Radcliffe.

  She had wanted more than a simple kiss—she had been kissed before, twice, by young men in the neighborhood near Wycombe Hall. Rosie had wanted to be thoroughly kissed, whatever that meant. She had once overheard her sister Pamela telling Ursula how John Stansfield, now Pamela's husband, had thoroughly kissed her the night before. Ursula, ever prim and proper, had shushed her youngest sister before Rosie could hear any more. But the dreamy tone of Pamela's voice told her it had been wonderful.