by Cach, Lisa
Crazy 4U
Four Romantic Comedies
by
Lisa Cach
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 by Lisa Cach
Find more by Lisa Cach at:
http://lisacach.com
Table of Contents
The Flirting Season
1750’s England
Previously published in “A Mother’s Way”
A Rose by Any Other Name
Contemporary Seattle
Previously published in “These Boots Were Made for Strutting”
The Trouble with Truffles
Contemporary Belgium
Previously published in “Seduction by Chocolate”
Every Part of You
Contemporary Hollywood, CA
Previously published in “My Zombie Valentine”
The Flirting Season
Chapter One
Bath, England 1750
"It's not that my Evelina is a bad girl. She has no wickedness in her," Mrs. Johnson said, and worked her lips over her false teeth, testing the firmness of their seating before taking a sip of her chocolate.
"No, of course not," her good friend Mrs. Highcroft replied, trying to disguise a vigorous scratch at her scalp as an adjustment of her lace cap. "She has high spirits and no discipline, is all."
Mrs. Johnson frowned at the implied criticism to her mothering, and sat straighter in her stays. "I was as strict as a general. I sent her to that boarding school that promised the severity of a convent. I kept my eye on her every waking hour. I lectured her on morals and propriety. I did everything a mother could! It is not my fault that she behaves with – though it pains me deeply to say it – all the breeding of a common country wench."
Mrs. Highcroft’s hands fluttered. "I was not faulting you. Never you, my dear! You know I would not, not when I have such a failure of my own, in Charles."
Mrs. Johnson made a moue of sympathy. "And he such a handsome boy.” She shook her head over the tragedy, the movement sending a wave of chocolate sloshing out of her cup and onto the skirts of her gown. "I would never have thought he would grow up to be so, so... I do hate to say it, but one must, mustn’t one? One must speak the truth to a dear friend, and that truth is that for all his good looks, your dear Charles is strangely awkward and retiring."
Mrs. Highcroft sniffed. "He is not awkward when in his element."
"Darling, I meant no offense–"
A tight smile twitched Mrs. Highcroft's lips. "Although even I admit that his element is the barnyard."
"Oh, dear." Mrs. Johnson smothered a smile that would have shown her teeth. She shifted, trying to rearrange herself within her dress. A bit of boning was poking her most cruelly under her arm. "Promise me again that your plan will be the solution to both our problems."
"It will be. It has to be. Our children are misfits of society, and it would be too cruel a God who would not let them balance and improve each other, and give us surcease from our sorrows." Mrs. Highcroft half-turned in her seat, her perfectly pressed silk gown rustling, and searched the drawing room as if expecting to see her son standing like a side chair in the corner. "Now where has my Charles gone to? He must have wandered off to your back garden to converse with the chickens."
"And I fear it may be another two hours before Evelina considers herself garbed for visitors." Mrs. Johnson gave up on finding comfort within her stays, and sagged against them. She noticed the fresh spot of chocolate on her skirts, and dabbed at it with a handkerchief. "Neither Evelina nor Charles is going to come easily to this."
Mrs. Highcroft turned back to her and lifted her chin, her tone imperious. "They are our children. They will do as we direct."
Mrs. Johnson murmured a noncommittal sound. She wished she could be so sure.
"A pox on it! Sally, come help me. I can't get the cursed thing off my fingers," Evelina said, her fingertips sticking and coming undone, then sticking again as she transferred a paste-covered scrap of black taffeta from one digit to the next.
"Miss, you've been summoned three times now. Your mother will be cross if you do not descend at once."
"I cannot go down with this great red spot upon my forehead—Mrs. Highcroft has brought her son. He will stare at it." She tried to press the moon-shaped black patch over the blemish, but it wouldn't stick. "It is not fair, I tell you! By the time I grow out of blemishes, I will have wrinkles and gray teeth."
Sally came and peeled the patch off Evelina's paste-smeared fingertip, and with an extra dab of fixative settled the patch into place over the blemish. "There, now. All hidden."
Evelina frowned into the mirror. The center of the forehead was not the most seductive of locations for a crescent moon, but what else was to be done? Mama had taken away all of her ceruse, that mixture of white lead and vinegar that gave a porcelain complexion to those who used it. Mama had said it would destroy her skin.
Destroy her skin? Pah! How could one destroy that which was already riddled with blotches?
But there was no more time to fuss about it. The Highcrofts might leave before she managed to get herself arranged to her satisfaction, and that simply would not do. She wanted to see Charles.
She had met him twice or thrice before, when they were children, but had not seen him for many years. He had been lately at Oxford, and she, of course, had been locked up in that horrid boarding school with teachers who would have been better employed as Newgate prison guards.
She didn't remember much about Charles: he was four years older than she, and it was enough of an age difference that as children they had paid no attention to one another. She doubted she would recognize him.
Old memories were not the reason she was eager to see him, though. He must be twenty-two now. Full-grown. A man. That was reason enough.
Heart thumping in anticipation, she stood and gave one last check of her flowered, cherry red gown. Doubtless Charles would appreciate her bold French tastes, unlike Mama. He had been out in the world, not mired in the country, and would recognize sophistication when he saw it.
She descended the white stone staircase to the first floor, imagining how he would be dressed. He probably wore only the most expensive imported powders on his wig, and a waistcoat stiff with silver lace. His jacket and breeches would be a peacock blue velvet, he'd carry a cocked beaver hat under one arm, and his stockings would be a spotless, blinding white with a trace of embroidery up the sides. He would smell of the finest perfume, and be wearing shoes with red heels and silver buckles.
Not that any of that really mattered. He was a man—and it had been at least a week since she'd been allowed near a young one. It really was trop mal that Mama had caught her kissing that Kingston boy, and thrown such a fit. And even worse was that the kiss had hardly been worth it—Kingston's lips had been as wet and soft as a raw oyster, and just as cold. She would have to rank that kiss well near the bottom of her list.
If Mama knew just how much she loved men—their smell, their height, their strength, the deepness of their voices, and the hunger in their eyes—Evelina would be shipped back to that dungeon of a boarding school, immediatement. Girls were not supposed to sow their wild oats and follow where their lusting young bodies led them; only boys were allowed such fun.
A pox on that! When the time came, she had every intention of being an honorable, faithful wife, but that meant her only freedom was now. Her only chance to steal kisses was now. Her only opportunity to flirt and cast glances, to allure and seduce, to know men in all their glorious variety, was now—before the chains of matrimony forever locked her away from such entertainments.
And now here was a man in Evelina's own home. Manna from heaven!
"Mama! Mrs. Highcroft. Please forgive my tardiness," Evelina said, prancing with what she
hoped was an elegant step into the drawing room. "And Mr. Highcroft, what a ... pleasure to see you again..." She trailed off, her voice dying and her steps slowing as she took in the sort of man that Charles Highcroft had grown to be.
Heavens. Perhaps someone had let a field laborer into the room by mistake?
He wore no wig. His dark brown hair was pulled back by a ratty old ribbon and left to hang like a horse's bobbed tail, and there was not so much as a speck of powder upon it. Locks of his heavy hair had come loose around his face, and with his head bent shyly forward they half-concealed his features.
His lashes were dark and lush beneath arched brows, his nose straight, his jaw strong and with a clean, lean line. He might almost be a handsome man, if he had a bit of grace or self-assurance. Her assessing eyes roamed over his body, taking in the broad shoulders and trim waist. His figure was not bad, for all that it was languishing under drab brown garments that were two decades out of date and looked twice as old. Zounds, the man wore his stockings over the knees of his breeches! That mode had gone out during her father's time.
And he wore boots. Work boots. She was better off not looking at those, or at the bits of dried muck that clung to them.
She continued to stare at him, and without so much as a bow in her direction or a word of greeting, he turned away, going to stand at the window that overlooked Queen Square. Her lips parted in astonishment at the blatant rudeness.
"Evelina, dearest, we'd about given up hope of you," her mother said, and patted the space beside her.
She obeyed the summons and sat, happy to ignore the country clod at the window, and the faint odor of farm that lingered after him. Perhaps she would have to rethink adding Charles to her list of conquests. She had standards, after all.
"What a curiously vibrant color you are wearing," Mrs. Highcroft said in her thin, nasal voice. "I don't know that I've ever seen the like."
Evelina sensed that the comment was not entirely complimentary. The purse-mouthed old hen! But she smiled sweetly when she replied, "Thank you. I have always admired your own sense of style, and like to think that I model my choices after yours."
Mrs. Highcroft squeaked deep in her throat. "Ahh... thank you, my dear."
Ha! There was nothing like a compliment to confuse an enemy. Although Mrs. Highcroft had always been friends with Mama, Evelina had more than once thought that Mrs. Highcroft considered herself superior to the Johnsons, and in a position to cast judgments. Never mind that Mr. Highcroft had made his fortune as a merchant—a peddler of pots and candles, no less—whereas Papa was a gentleman, with lands that had been in the family for five centuries.
A look passed between Mama and Mrs. Highcroft, and Evelina narrowed her eyes, sensing that mischief was afoot. No doubt Mama had been speaking about her in her absence, asking her old friend for advice on how to handle her wayward daughter. She had long suspected that the boarding school had been Mrs. Highcroft's idea. Mama was too softhearted to have come up with such a draconian notion on her own.
Mrs. Highcroft raised her pointy nose and called her son: "Charles, come here. Don't hide behind the curtains like a sulky child."
Evelina peered over her shoulder at him, feeling a twinge of embarrassment for the fellow at being ordered about like a five-year-old. With Mrs. Highcroft as his mother, he was probably under tighter rein than even Evelina was, as a female.
With his gaze on the floor he slowly walked back to their little group—he might as well have been approaching his executioner, Evelina thought—and sat next to his mother, perching on the edge of the settee as if afraid of breaking or soiling it. He rested his hands on his knees, one of which began to bounce up and down with nervous agitation.
What a backward sort of creature he was. If a girl ever kissed him, he'd fall to the ground dead of the fright. It was cosmic justice that immaculate, socially ambitious Mrs. Highcroft should have a son such as this.
Evelina smiled to herself, and touched her mother's arm in a gesture of solidarity. She and Mama were more than a match for Mrs. Highcroft et fils.
Mama patted her hand and smiled at her. "Dearest, we have a wonderful surprise for you. For both you and Charles."
"Oh?" She was wary of surprises. The boarding school had been a surprise. From the corner of her eye she saw Charles's knee go still. Maybe he had learned to be wary of them, himself.
"Charles is going to be your escort."
"He is? To where?" What manner of evil was this? God in heaven, let it not be to someplace her friends might see her.
"Not to one place, dear. Everywhere, for as long as we are in Bath. Balls, musical evenings, house parties, shopping, rides into the countryside, visits to the baths. Anytime you leave this house, Charles will be at your side."
"I do not think so," the young man suddenly said, his deep voice rumbling into the feminine daintiness of the drawing room, startling them all. A pocket of silence formed where his words ended, as they all gaped at him. It was as if a horse had spoken, so unexpected were words from that quarter.
"Neither do I," Evelina said into the silence. "What a ridiculous idea. I shouldn't think that either one of us would like such an arrangement."
She briefly met Charles's eyes, seeking confirmation, then blinked. She'd thought his eyes would be brown, but they were blue-green, set off by his thick lashes. Boys should not be allowed to have eyes like that; they were much too pretty. She herself should have eyes like that.
He looked away, his cheeks coloring with what was either embarrassment or anger. She wondered if he often defied his mother, and guessed that he was more the type to avoid confrontations by staying out of her sight.
"What either you or Charles want is not our concern," Mrs. Highcroft said. "This is what you both need. Charles, you have spent entirely too long in fields and stables. It is time you practiced those social skills I have tried so hard to teach to you. You need to be looking for a wife, and you will never find one if you don't learn how to speak to young ladies."
"And you, Evelina," Mama said. "I'm afraid that you need an escort to keep you out of trouble. After that last incident, I simply cannot trust you out of my sight, not even if you have Sally with you."
"Mama! It was only a kiss!"
Her mother's hands went to her cheeks. "Only! Only, you say! It was far too much, and well you know it. Well-bred young ladies do not exchange kisses with men to whom they are not married."
"Then how am I to know which one is worth wedding? I shouldn't like to go through life enduring clammy, sloppy kisses each morn and night."
"Evelina! You will not speak of such things!"
But the devil was in her, and she would not stop. "Charles would not be scolded so if he did the same. He would be praised, I think."
"Licentiousness is never to be praised!"
She cocked her head and smiled at Charles. "Perhaps I should turn my attentions to him," she threatened. He met her gaze with widened, horrified, beautiful blue-green eyes. His lips looked as though they might be rather fine to kiss.
"You will do no such thing!" Mrs. Highcroft said, puffing up like an angry bird. Then she looked at her son and settled her feathers. "But if you did, I doubt you would have any success. Charles has yet to show the reactions of a normal man."
Charles abruptly stood, hands clenched at his side, the muscles of his jaw flexing. Evelina's heart skipped a beat at the size of him, towering over them all. He looked so gloriously angry, so poised for action, she forgot for a moment the disgraceful state of his yellowed stockings. He should get angry more often, if this was the transformation it wrought.
"Enough, Mother. I am no longer a child, and will not stay here to be treated with such disrespect in front of your friends." He turned and stalked toward the door.
"Yes, you will!" Mrs. Highcroft shrieked. "Or you can bid farewell to your mares and foals!"
Charles stopped and turned back to stare at her, in his eyes a hardness that had not been there before. "They are mine," he said,
his voice a cold threat.
Evelina shivered, enjoying the spectacle. What would it be like to have a man be as possessive of her as Charles was of his horses?
Mrs. Highcroft continued screeching. "The line was not started with your money, nor are they fed with it. Your father will give way to me in this. We'll auction every one of them, and he'll invest the money wherever he wishes. You know how much he adores any chance to invest money."
Charles's stance was rigid, and he took no further steps toward the door. Evelina guessed he was assessing the truth of his mother's words, and not liking the answer he reached. She waited to see what he would do and, as the moments stretched out, the tension grew. It got to be too much for her, and she had to break it.
"You may be able to force Charles to your bidding, but there is no such hold on me."
"Isn't there?" Mrs. Highcroft asked. Evelina heard her mother sigh beside her. The sound sent a rush of cold through her.
"If you do not leave the house with Charles," Mama said, "then you do not leave the house. You do not leave your room. You do not receive letters or visits from friends."
Evelina gaped at her mother, who gave her an apologetic smile before continuing. "And there will be no new clothes."
She gasped. "Mama!"
"I am sorry, but you leave me no choice. And truly, dear, would it be so terrible to do as we ask? Left on your own, you would shortly earn yourself a reputation. You will be the better for a bit of restraint, and will thank Mrs. Highcroft and myself for this, in time. It is for your own good."
"Like the boarding school was?"
Mama squirmed at that, but her lips held the stubborn line that indicated she would not budge. Evelina had learned long ago how to read the nuances of her mother's expression, and this was going to be one of the rare times she could not be persuaded out of her decision.
