Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance)

by Candice Hern

  And what of Max? That was the cruelest question of them all. What of Max? She had fallen head over heels in love with him; but he, assuming he spoke the truth, had fallen in love with someone else. He loved the vibrant, high-spirited, devil-may-care Rosalind. His minx. A phantom who did not exist. A role. A pretense. A lie.

  How was she ever to face him again, especially after what they'd just shared. How was she to tell him that the woman he'd loved tonight so sweetly, so passionately, was a fraud? That the woman who promised no regrets was now drowning in them?

  Did she regret it? If her ruin became public, she would regret it sincerely. If she became pregnant, she would regret it intensely, for the child's sake. She would regret the label of bastard for any child.

  But could she regret the passion, the tenderness, the exquisite pleasure, the words of love? Never. She still had that one perfect memory to last a lifetime.

  She would forever, though, regret the way she had deceived Max into believing she was someone else. Rosie thought she'd rather face the wrath of her father than the scorn and disappointment of Max. His contempt would break her heart. She could never see Max again. It would be too painful to explain, to admit the lie.

  The best course of action would be to return home at once, confess her shame to Papa, and resume, as best she could, the quiet life of plain, shy, prim Rosie. She must leave Rosalind behind forever. And she must also leave behind Max.

  Now she really, really wanted to die.

  Chapter 12

  Damn! She was gone.

  Max must have slept like the dead, which he often did after good sex, since he had not heard a sound. He rose, stretched, and walked to the window. Good Lord, the sun was full up. No wonder Rosalind had crept away. She would have needed to return to Fanny's before light, before anyone was likely to see her. If she had waited for Max to waken, her reputation would be in tatters.

  He would, though, have liked to wake and find her soft and warm and naked in his arms. Then he would have made slow, lazy, morning love to her, a pleasure he seldom had the opportunity to indulge. In fact, that is precisely how he would like to spend every morning for the rest of his life.

  It was nothing short of extraordinary how that woman had turned his world upside down. A few short months ago, he had grown so weary of the repetitive routine of his life that he had contemplated suicide. Freddie Moresby had been his role model, his shining beacon of enlightenment, because he had found the ultimate solution to boredom: death. Max had been moving inexorably toward that same end. Until he met Rosalind Lacey

  Max folded back the shutters and stood full in the window in all his naked glory, letting the morning sun pour over him. He didn't care who saw him. In fact, he wanted everyone to see him. He wanted to raise the sash, thrust his head out the window, and shout his new happiness to every passerby. He felt like he might explode with ... what? Joy? Max had never felt like this in all his life. It was unnerving. He did not know what to do with all this energy.

  It was all because of Rosalind.

  She had shown him how to live, how to make the most of every moment. Max no longer contemplated death. He wanted to live. More particularly, he wanted to live with Rosalind.

  And that was the most remarkable thing of all. He had been with countless women during his thirty-six years—beautiful women, exotic women, seductive women—and never once had he been tempted to spend more than a night or two now and then with any one of them. Certainly not a lifetime. The very idea would have caused him to break out in a cold sweat.

  After one night with Rosalind, however, he found himself entertaining the incredible notion of spending the rest of his life with one woman. Imagine that. The same woman every night. Who could ever have imagined that Max Davenant—philanderer, lothario, rake extraordinaire—would even consider such a thing? He flung his arms wide and laughed. What the devil had she done to him?

  He rang for his valet and began the long ritual of making himself presentable. He drove poor Hughes to distraction by dawdling, but he kept losing himself in memories of last night. He saw her beautiful, white, slender body, not remotely voluptuous but perfectly proportioned. He felt those soft, ripe breasts crushed against his chest. He saw her long, slim legs wrapped tightly around him. Lord, but she had been a sensual, passionate creature. No surprise, from what he'd known of her before, but unusual in a virgin.

  She had responded to every movement, every touch, every kiss, so that they moved together in a perfect harmony of sensation, like long-time lovers who knew exactly how to please one another. And yet, it had been her first time. How had an untried girl managed to arouse him as no other?

  Was it love?

  They had both spoken the words. He, at least, had meant them. He wanted to believe that she had, too. Was it love that had made it so much more than just sex?

  Max had no basis of comparison, never having been in love before. For him, it had always been just sex, and there had always been incredible, often sublime, pleasure in it. With Rosalind, though, it had been something more.

  Hughes was quite obviously astounded at Max's choice of wardrobe. He seldom wore anything but riding clothes in the mornings, if he dressed at all. Today, he donned a new blue tailcoat, single breasted with gilt buttons, a striped silk waistcoat, and dove-gray stirrup trousers. His shirt front was pleated, the collar points stiff and high. As tribute to his romantic mood, he achieved a perfect trone d'amour with his neckcloth, after only three attempts. It was, after all, a special occasion. He was going to do something he'd never done before.

  He was going to ask Rosalind to marry him.

  He supposed he ought to rehearse a speech or some such thing. It was a tricky situation. Rosalind might believe he was offering for her out of guilt for taking her virginity, or out of propriety because he'd compromised her, or out of honor because she might be carrying his child. Though the last reason held some validity, the other two were pure nonsense.

  Max felt no guilt for what had happened. He had given her every possible opportunity to say no. For some time now, he had hoped they might eventually make love. Though he could not explain why, he also knew in his gut that by the time the two of them finally decided to take that step, it would represent a serious commitment. Whether it would be a commitment to marry, or simply a commitment to love, he had not known. In fact, he had not known until this morning, when he realized how much he wanted to wake up beside her each day.

  Rosalind's virginity was not an issue. He hadn't been sure about it, and it had not mattered. The commitment would be there, virginity or not.

  Even so, the fact that he was her first gave him an unexpected thrill. With any other woman, it would have terrified him. But Max had already made his decision, and the gift of her virginity only made it sweeter.

  The more he thought about it, the more complicated it began to sound. It was difficult to explain properly. Perhaps he really ought to rehearse a few words. In the excitement of the moment, it would be too easy to say just the wrong thing, to give the wrong impression. Odd, for he had never been at a loss for the right words to seduce a woman. This was not a seduction, however, and Max wanted to do it right. Since he'd never done it before, he really ought to prepare something.

  When Hughes had pronounced him complete to a shade, he sat down to put his thoughts on paper.

  * * *

  "What the devil is going on? Where is she?"

  Fanny looked up to find Max, dressed to the nines, blowing into the room like a thundercloud. Quigley must have told him the news. She knew exactly how he felt, though her initial fury had given way to a melancholy disappointment. "She's gone."

  He stood quite still, stiff as a wooden soldier, and simply stared. His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes flat and hard. "Am I to assume she is not simply away from home this morning," he said, his jaw so tight he spoke through clenched teeth, "but has left London entirely?"

  "She has returned to Devon, Max."

  He stepped into the roo
m and walked to the windows, turning his back to her as he gazed out at the square below. From the taut set of his shoulders and the stiff way he held his neck, she was almost glad she could not see the look on his face. Fanny had suspected for some time that Max had developed a tendre for the girl. After all, he had kissed her enough to make her toes curl. But that meant nothing where Max was concerned. For him, that was merely a prelude to seduction.

  Good Lord, is that what had happened? Had she bolted because Max had seduced her?

  "Did you know she was leaving today?" His voice was brittle and sharp, like broken glass, and his hands were balled into fists at his side. He did not turn around.

  "No."

  "It was not something she had planned, then?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "She just up and bolted this morning, without warning?"

  "So it appears."

  He slammed a fist against the window frame so hard the panes rattled in the casement. "God damn it to hell."

  "Get over here and sit down, Max. I will not have you breaking my windows."

  "Damn, damn, damn!"

  "Max! Sit down."

  He spun around and Fanny had to stifle a gasp. His face was a mask of devastation. She had thought her own despair might overwhelm her; his was apparently even more profound. Moving stiffly, as though every muscle was wound tight as a spring, he took a seat in a chair facing the settee where Fanny sat. If he hadn't looked so miserable, she might have boxed his ears. She had grown fond of Rosalind, had in fact become exceedingly attached to the girl. Fanny had thoroughly enjoyed having her about, and was going to miss her terribly. And she suspected Max had something to do with her abrupt departure.

  "What have you done, Max?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "What did you do to her?"

  "I? What have I done?" He spat out the words angrily. "Better to ask what she has done, damn her."

  "All right. What has she done?"

  The anger drained from his face to be replaced by an anguish almost painful to watch. "I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the perfect waves so they fell loose over his brow. "I don't know. But I am very much afraid, Fanny, that she has broken my heart."

  Dear God, it was worse than she'd thought. "Strange," she said. "I did not realize you had a heart." She smiled so he would know she was teasing.

  He did not return her smile. Instead, he said, "Neither did I."

  "Oh, my dear boy." She reached out a hand, and after a moment Max took it in his and held it tightly.

  "Did you see her?" he asked.

  "No. She was gone when I came downstairs. She left a note."

  "What did it say?"

  "That for reasons relating to her health, she was forced to return at once to Wycombe Hall."

  "Her health?"

  "That is what she said." And Fanny had not believed it for a moment. Oh, perhaps for a moment, when she recollected Sir Nigel Leighton's visit. She had discarded the idea, however, believing something entirely different was afoot. One look at Max and she knew she had been right.

  "That's all? Nothing more?"

  "And some very kind words thanking me for my hospitality, etc." Fanny had actually been quite moved by Rosalind's note. She had written how glad she was to have gotten to know Fanny, how she would always remember her with gratitude and deep affection. She would not tell Max, however, that under her signature, her niece had added a scrawled afterthought: Please say good-bye to Max for me. Under the circumstances—whatever they were; it was still unclear what precisely had happened—such a casual sentiment would be worse than nothing at all.

  "Damn."

  Poor Max. And Poor Rosalind, for she was likely as devastated as Max if she felt obliged to go tearing back home to her father. "She said she would write to let me know they had reached Devon safely, and would I please send along the rest of her things to Wycombe Hall at my earliest convenience."

  "Damn."

  "Your vocabulary has become strangely limited this morning, Max. Perhaps you should tell me what happened between you two."

  He leaned down to bring to his lips the hand he still held, then released it. Sinking back in the chair, he heaved a sigh so deep it bordered on a groan. His eyes met hers and he offered a wan smile. "You will not credit it, my dear," he said, "but I actually came here today to ask Rosalind to marry me."

  Fanny flinched at the impact of his words. Her jaw dropped and for a moment she could do nothing but stare at him, as if waiting for him to say he was joking. "My God," she said at last. "My God."

  "Astonishing, is it not?"

  "Max, darling, I had no idea. So that is why you are dressed up like a Christmas goose."

  He flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve and adjusted his cravat. "I thought I looked rather fine, actually."

  "Indeed you do."

  He tossed his head back and looked up at the ceiling. "What a fool I am. I don't know what got into me."

  "Love?"

  He gave a disdainful snort. "What rot."

  "Did you seduce the girl, Max?"

  He sent her a baleful glance. "Not that it is any of your business, madam, but I am beginning to believe that she seduced me. For what purpose, I do not know. Duped me into—" He stopped and shook his head. "What a bloody fool I am."

  Fanny was beginning to form a picture of what might have happened, though why the girl should have bolted was still a mystery. "Did you come to make an offer because you made love to her? Was she a virgin?"

  "Dammit, Fanny—"

  "Yes, of course she was. I'd wager the girl had never been outside Devon in her life before coming here." She also recalled the conversation she and her niece had had about the joys of lovemaking. There was no question Rosalind had been an innocent. "So, you were her first, and now you feel guilty and obligated to make an offer. Admirable. I confess I would never have expected it of you, Max."

  "Dammit, that is not why I wanted to marry her."

  "Oh? Then, why?"

  "Because I loved her! Or thought I did."

  Fanny sighed wistfully. The road to love was not always smooth. "Well then," she said, "you must go after her."

  "What?"

  "Max, darling, I have known you since you were a pup, and in all that time I have never known you to fall in love. If it has finally happened, surely you are not going to let her simply walk out of your life. You must go after her."

  "No."

  "Why?" Her hands flew up in exasperation.

  "She played me for a fool, Fanny. She let me believe in something that didn't exist. I thought..."

  "What?"

  "I thought she loved me."

  "Max, if that girl was not top over tail in love with you, then I'm the Queen of Sheba."

  "Then why the hell did she leave?"

  "I don't know!" Fanny's voice rose almost to a shriek, she was so frustrated with this stubborn, stupid man. "That is why you must go after her, to find out what you did to make her run away."

  "All I did was to give her exactly what she wanted. And without a word, she bolts. Right now, I swear I'm so bloody angry at her I hope I never see her again. I would not be responsible for my actions."

  "Love does not simply disappear once it's got hold of you, Max."

  "It doesn't have hold of me. It merely brushed against me momentarily, and now it's gone."

  "Is that so?"

  "Don't press, Fanny. It's over. End of story."

  Fanny smiled. "We shall see."

  * * *

  "Oh, Papa! I'm so sorry."

  Rosie clung to her father, who held her tightly in his arms. He rocked her slowly back and forth, the way he used to do when she was a child but had not done for a dozen years or more.

  "My poor Rosie." His voice shook with emotion. "You thought you were going to die? Like your Mama? Why didn't you tell me? What kind of unnatural parent am I that you felt you could not share that burden with me? Rosie, Rosie, you must have been so afraid
." His voice broke and he held her tighter.

  "I was, Papa," she said through her own tears. "I was terrified."

  "And all alone with your pain and fear. Oh, Rosie, my heart is breaking to know how badly I failed you as a father. How I wish you could have told me. I might have spared you so much anguish. My poor girl."

  She lifted her head from his shoulder and kissed his damp cheek. "I wish I had told you, too, Papa, but I just could not."

  He reached in his coat pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, then gently dabbed at her wet face and eyes. "I have not been a good father to you, Rosie. It pains me to realize how far I've slipped away from my own children, so far that they can no longer trust me enough to confide in me. The one person in your life who ought to have been there to support you was not there. I've failed you, daughter, and I do not know what I can ever do to make it up to you."

  "Oh, Papa."

  "I've failed you in every possible way. I've taken advantage of you, relied on you for everything since your Mama died. I just always assumed you'd be there to take care of things. But I've learned a thing or two since you left. I've learned how much you do for Wycombe, and for me and all your brothers and sisters. You're the rock upon which this family is built. That role ought to have been mine, but I abdicated it to you. It shames me to admit that by doing so, I caused you to miss everything a girl should experience in life."

  Rosie sent him a sheepish grin. "I think I've more than made up for anything I may have missed."

  He stroked her cheek and smiled. "I'm glad you had such a good time."

  Her expression clouded. "But Papa, I told you how it was. I did terrible, shameful things. Things no respectable young lady should do."