Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance)

by Candice Hern

  Thank heaven she had lived long enough to experience Max's kiss. She would hate to have missed such a moment. And yet, Rosie could not help but think of the other things Fanny had told her, about making love. What were the chances Rosie would have the opportunity to experience that pleasure as well? With Max?

  Improper and shocking as such thoughts were, she could not deny having them. She knew that making love with Max would be even more wondrous than kissing him, but also knew it was a futile dream.

  Fanny had said it was best when one was in love. Well, Rosie was as close to being in love as she'd ever been, but the same was not true of Max. He'd told her with pride that he'd never been in love, hinting that it was something to be avoided at all costs. It was hopeless to believe she could change his mind in so short a time.

  The headaches came now almost every morning, and Rosie was fairly certain her mother's, though more severe, had never been as frequent.

  There was not much time left.

  No time to sit around and coddle the wretched headache. She rose slowly from the chaise, gauging the pain to be subsiding, and began to prepare for the day.

  Fanny joined her in the morning room some time later, looking stylish as ever in a dress of primrose floret sarsnet flounced with French trimming. She asked about the masquerade and teased Rosie about overindulging. "How you manage to avoid having a thick head every morning I shall never know, what with all the wine and champagne and such. Never rise before noon myself when I've had more than three glasses the night before. But you are looking especially cheerful this morning, my dear, and just the tiniest bit smug."

  Rosie grinned, thinking how hopelessly transparent she must be. And here she thought she had been playing the role of Rosalind the Sophisticate so well.

  "I am all ears," Fanny said. "Tell me what happened."

  "Well, it was a perfectly splendid affair. Gorgeous costumes, a spectacular gypsy camp setting, glorious music. Loads of people were there. It was much more crowded than any of the private balls we've attended. It was fun trying to guess who was who. Oh, and you will be pleased to know my page costume was a grand success."

  "I am certain it was. Not every woman can carry off a breeches role, but your slim figure is perfect for it. Saw Mrs. Jordan during her last run at Covent Garden, still playing your namesake in her fifties. Poor thing ought to have given up breeches parts long before—she had grown much too stout to be convincing as a boy. But I am glad your own short run as Ganymede went off well. I did so admire that cunning little fob-cup. An inspired accessory, if I do say so. Anyone interesting at the ball?"

  "Scores of vulgar types, most of whom did not recognize me as a woman, thank heaven, for they were most of them foxed and free with their attentions. There was one interesting moment, though, when an unknown gentlemen making all sorts of flirtatious advances discovered I was not a boy. He was exceedingly disappointed."

  "Ha! But who else was there?"

  "The usual crowd."

  "All of your beaux?"

  "Most of them."

  "And did you receive another kiss? Is that why you look so pleased with yourself?"

  Rose gave a self-conscious grin. "If you must know, yes, I was kissed."

  "Better this time?"

  "Exceedingly so."

  "Well done, my girl! Radcliffe again?"

  "No."

  "Who, then? Oh, don't give me that look as though it were none of my business. Of course it is not. But you must know that I am merely curious and will not rip up at you like some stiff-necked chaperone. Give an old woman a vicarious thrill. Tell me who kissed you."

  "Max."

  Fanny's brows crept up beneath the lace of her cap and her jaw literally dropped. "Max Davenant? My Max?"

  Rosie nodded.

  "Well, well." Fanny shook her head and a smile crept across her face and lit her eyes. "Did a proper job of it, did he?"

  "My toes curled."

  Fanny let out a crack of laughter. "I am sure they did. If anyone knows how to make a woman's toes curl, it is Max. My, my, my."

  Fanny came and sat beside Rosie and clasped her hand. "You know that I adore Max," she said, "but you must be careful, darling. He may offer extraordinary pleasure, but he is not a man likely to offer any sort of commitment."

  "And I am not looking for one. Only for a bit of enjoyment while I'm in town."

  "You are certain of that?"

  Rosie heaved a sigh. "Quite certain. Have I not said as much over and over since the day I arrived? An adventure or two, a bit of fun, then I'll be off to Devon and no one will even remember me."

  "I would not count on that, my dear." Fanny squeezed Rosie's hand. "As for Max, I wish that you may find pleasure with him, my dear. He is a marvelous man, very much like his father. You are fortunate to have caught his eye. But you must take care. I should feel dreadful if you were to return to my brother in an interesting condition. Edmund would have my head."

  "Do not worry, aunt. Such an event will not occur."

  "You are so confident you can resist him?"

  Rosie smiled. "No. But there would be no awkward consequences. It is quite impossible."

  Fanny cocked a brow. "Oh?" She gazed quizzically at Rosie for a moment, then her expression softened. "Oh. Oh, my dear girl. I understand."

  Rosie was quite at odds to explain what it was her aunt understood, but was not given the opportunity to inquire. Fanny patted her hand, then walked to the door and summoned a footman. "I am off to Lydia Newbury's. I'd invite you to come along, but I fear you would find a bunch of gossiping old women a dead bore. Besides, I suspect some young swain is scheduled to take you driving again this afternoon, eh?" She reached a hand to her silver hair, insuring the waves were in place. "I shall see you this evening, my dear. The Ingalls's rout, is it not?"

  In a flutter of primrose skirts, she was gone.

  How extraordinary. If Rosie was not mistaken, her aunt had just pronounced her approval of a love affair with Max. She smiled, thinking how outraged her sisters would be. Ursula would remind them all that she had warned against Rosie staying with Aunt Fanny, had predicted that just such a thing might happen.

  Thank God Rosie had ignored them all and followed her instincts.

  A moment later, the butler entered to announce that Miss Lacey had a visitor. "A young gentleman," he said and presented a card on a silver tray. With one glance at the card, Rosie's heart sank.

  Thomas.

  He was bound to have tracked her down sooner or later. There was no avoiding him now. Blast. "Show him in, Quigley."

  A moment later he returned with her brother. "Mr. Thomas Lacey," he said, and then made a discreet exit.

  Thomas stood in the doorway and gaped. Rosie stood and said, "Hello, Tommy."

  "Good God," her brother said at last. "It really is you."

  "Yes, of course it is. Come in and sit down, Tommy. You have just missed our aunt. Would you like some tea?"

  He made no move to enter the room, still standing on the threshold and staring. "That was you last night, then, at the masquerade?"

  "Yes."

  "And at Almack's?"

  "Yes."

  "And you are the notorious Miss Lacey whose name is on everyone's lips?"

  Rosie shrugged. "I suppose so."

  He looked so incredulous, so stern, she steeled herself for a ripping scold. She was, therefore, quite astonished when instead he gave a bark of laughter, rushed across the room, swept her up in his arms, and twirled her about.

  "Rosie, Rosie! You are a marvel. What has happened to you?"

  "Put me down," she shrieked merrily, "and I shall tell you."

  He brought her back to earth, took both her hands, and held them out to her sides. "My God, you look wonderful. I can hardly believe it is you! Your hair, your clothes ... everything. You are positively transformed!"

  "I know. I had a lot of help from Aunt Fanny. Oh, Tommy, you must get to know her. She is absolutely marvelous."

  "Bu
t, what the devil are you doing here? Does Father know?"

  "Sit down and stop gaping like a schoolboy, and I shall tell you all about it."

  Without mentioning her illness, she told him about deciding to come to London and of Aunt Fanny's invitation. She told him of all she had done—or, almost all—and all the places she'd been and the people she'd met.

  "I'm having a splendid time, Tommy. I hope you are not going to spoil it for me."

  "Spoil it? Why would I do that? I am pleased beyond measure to see you striking out at last. It is horrid how you have been stuck at Wycombe all these years. Besides, you cannot imagine the cachet I have gained by being the brother of the dashing Miss Lacey. But what prompted all this? Are you hanging out for a husband now that the twins are off at Harrow?"

  "No," she answered wearily, tired of constantly having to disoblige everyone of that notion. "I am merely enjoying a few months' visit with my aunt."

  "Good thing," he said. "That was Davenant I saw you with again last night, was it not? The man ain't the marrying kind, if you take my meaning. Best be careful there, Rosie."

  "Not to worry, Tommy. Max is only a good friend. He is a great favorite of Fanny's, you know. I met him on my very first day in town."

  "That reminds me." He began to tug at his waistcoat pocket, and pulled out a folded paper. "Take a look at this. Saw it in a print shop window yesterday."

  She unfolded the paper to find a colored print boasting the title "The Scarlet Waltz, or Seventh Heaven Sees Red." The distinctive hand of Mr. Rowlandson showed plump, pink-cheeked figures crowded into a ballroom. In the center, a red-garbed buxom female was held in the indecently tight embrace of a dark-haired gentleman with a distinctive jaw who twirled her about the dance floor. In the background, crimson-faced ladies glared open-mouthed at the spectacle. One of them, with an exaggerated needle nose strongly reminiscent of Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, had dropped to the floor in a dead faint, skirts wafting up above her knees to reveal plump legs and loose garters. Several gentlemen stood over her, leering, while another pinch-faced woman wielded a fan over the prone woman's face.

  Beneath the picture was written:

  When Miss L---- danced with Mr. D------

  Her style was quite improper.

  The ladies whose rules she defied

  Could do nothing to stop her.

  She let the gent, a rake renowned,

  Take liberties quite shocking.

  At least one stickler hit the floor

  While others stood there gawking.

  "Good heavens," Rosie said. "Is this supposed to be what I think it is?"

  "You and Davenant at Almack's."

  "Oh, Lord."

  Thomas chuckled. "Capital, ain't it? You're famous, Rosie."

  She groaned. "Infamous, I should say. The Scarlet Woman of the Scarlet Waltz."

  "Want me to buy 'em all up so one of 'em don't get back to Father? Or, God forbid, Ursula? Talk about seeing red." He gave a shudder.

  "Thank you, Tommy, but I suspect you would be too late to buy them all. I shall just have to take my chances. I would be obliged, however, if you kept it to yourself when you return to Wycombe."

  "Don't worry, I shan't take it with me. Wouldn't matter, though. Even if someone there were to see it, I cannot believe they would recognize quiet, shy Rosie Lacey as the buxom wench in the picture. And there must be dozens of Miss L's."

  "Quite true."

  "But Davenant is frequently lampooned, by both Rowlandson and Cruikshank. That phiz could only belong to one Mr. D. Here, why don't you take this one, Rosie, as a souvenir of your London adventure. In your crotchety old age you can pull it out and remember your grand Season cavorting with rakes."

  "You keep it, Tommy. I won't be needing it."

  Chapter 10

  It had been some time since Max had so actively pursued a woman. Frankly, pursuit had seldom been necessary. Women were generally eager and willing to take Max to their beds.

  Rosalind Lacey required pursuing. Not so much because she resisted him, but because she was so damned popular. Every blade and blood worth his salt was angling after her. The minx was in such demand, Max was lucky to have a waltz with her now and then. Always a waltz. Max would not waste his time on a quadrille or a country dance. He wanted to put his arms around her.

  His best opportunity at seduction came during a visit to Vauxhall Gardens. It was on Rosalind's list of places to go, and she had cajoled her aunt into making up a party. Fanny was not eager to do so, saying that Vauxhall was not the same since the great cascade had been demolished the year before, but she had finally relented.

  Max suspected Fanny knew of his interest in her niece, and hoped she would keep the party small enough to allow him ample opportunity to get Rosalind alone. When word got out, however, that a Vauxhall party was in the works, all of Rosalind's beaux began hanging out for an invitation. The minx obliged most of them. To even out the numbers, she invited several ladies as well, so the box was filled to bursting soon after they arrived.

  When Max had secured his waltz, he lost no time in leading her away from the dancing and toward the Dark Walk.

  "Have you become bored with our waltzes, Max?" she asked as he took her arm and guided her deeper into the gardens. She wore a pale pink dress with a bodice of burgundy velvet, and an amusing little cap in matching velvet, ornamented with a silver bandeau and beads. She looked good enough to eat. "I take leave to tell you that I have not," she said. "No one dances as well as you do, you know. I so look forward to our waltzes."

  "As do I, minx. But tonight, I look forward to other things."

  "Yes, there is so much to be seen here, is there not? The charming orchestra pavilion, the music, the rope dancers, the jugglers, the Turkish alcoves, the transparencies, the Grand Salon, the lights—Oh, Max, the lights! So many lanterns glittering through the trees. It is like a fairyland, is it not? And there are—"

  "Come here, minx." He pulled her into a dark, wooded alcove and took her in his arms. "This is what I have looked forward to."

  He kissed her hungrily and she responded in kind, molding herself to him like a second skin. He wanted her so badly, he would have taken her then and there, but it was not his style. He would do it properly or not at all. Instead, he kissed her deeply and was just about to caress her more intimately when a loud explosion was followed by flash of light in the sky.

  She pulled away and looked up. "Oh, Max! It's the fireworks! Let us go watch them." She took his hand and tugged him along, back to the main walk and toward the supper pavilions where the view was best. Soon, she was lost to him in the excitement of the spectacle, and he cursed himself for not watching the time. He ought to have known she would not want to miss the fireworks. He was unable to manage another private moment with her the rest of the evening.

  Like a lovesick puppy, Max continued to dog her movements, making an appearance at every event he knew she would attend, becoming as much a fixture as her devoted coterie of swains. Good Lord, he supposed he was actually one of them. A devoted swain. Ha! What a fool he must look. His interest was noticed, and his friends began to taunt him.

  "Thought you were out of the game," Lord Vaughn had complained. "No sense competing if you're in."

  "Unfair advantage," Hugh Jeffries grumbled. "Thought I might catch her eye. Don't stand a chance now. Dammit, Davenant, you might have said something."

  He ignored their jibes and continued his pursuit. And each time he saw her smile, each time he joined in her laughter, each time he touched her, each time he held her in his arms during a waltz, each time he listened to her bright-eyed, exuberant, joyful account of some new wonder, she stole another little piece of his heart.

  It had been a dozen years and more since it last happened, but he recognized all the signs. He was falling in love with her.

  Max had avoided being a party to Rosalind's afternoon excursions when, guidebook in hand, she explored every corner of the Metropolis. He had, however, developed a fond anti
cipation of her animated, and frank, descriptions of each outing. She adored the Tower, but hated its menagerie, preferring Polito's at Exeter Change. She was disappointed in Bullock's Museum on Picadilly, but had been thrilled to see Napoleon's carriage on display. The British Museum had been a dead bore, but the Elgin Marbles sent her into raptures.

  Max had, for once, beat out the competition and obtained the privilege of driving her through the park one afternoon shortly after the Vauxhall party. Beguiled by her rhapsodic recital of the beautiful works to be seen at the latest exhibition of the Society of Painters in Water-Colours in Lower Brook Street, he was unprepared for the clever trap she set and fell straight into it like the greenest gull.

  "Have you seen the current exhibition?" she asked.

  "No, I haven't had the pleasure."

  "You must take the time to do so, Max. You do not know how fortunate you are here in London to be able to see the best and brightest in every field. Do you enjoy painting? Oh, but of course you do. Aunt Fanny told me of your collection of modern works. I find myself most intrigued by Mr. Turner. Are you fond of his work?"

  "Very much so. I own two of his paintings."

  "Do you? Then you must of course be anxious to see the new ones on view at the Royal Academy exhibition. I had planned to visit Somerset House tomorrow. I should be pleased to have your escort, Max. You may explain to me Mr. Turner's vision and technique."

  And so Max found himself ushering Rosalind through the crowded rooms, catalog at the ready, examining new works by Academy artists. Max always made a point of viewing all new Academy exhibitions, but usually by private arrangement and with an eye toward purchase. This time, with Rosalind at his side and the crowd of spectators jostling them about, he found more enjoyment than he would have imagined. It was gratifying and stimulating to share reactions with another. She had a definite eye for color and light, and was brutally frank in the expression of her opinions.