The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection

by Dorothy McFalls

  A few at a time, accompanied by hushed whispers, every blasted pair of eyes in the hall eventually turned to gaze upon him.

  He trailed his father and the rest of his family by several paces. The Marquess, with a slower pace than usual and a pair of shaky legs, shuffled through the Upper Assembly tearoom, showing a determination similar to a wounded soldier’s holding the front line with nothing more than an unwavering courage.

  Two sturdy footmen flanked the Marquess, their arms held in ready in case he required assistance. They were careful though not to appear too eager to fulfill their duty. After hearing the rather heated objections the Marquess had pounded against their ears Nathan understood why.

  Nathan’s mother, Edward and Maryanne followed a step behind the Marquess. While Nathan stood apart as if he didn’t quite belong. He wasn’t exactly welcome—not until after his marriage to Mrs. Sharpes would they accept him back within their ranks. His family had already made that fact painfully clear back at the townhouse.

  But since he was set on making this family outing complete, there wasn’t really much any of the others could do to stop him from trailing behind them like an unlovable, starving stray pup.

  The tall, willowy Maryanne appeared especially agitated. Her deep green eyes shifted nervously and with every couple of steps she’d glance back at Nathan. She was no doubt cursing his stubborn determination—determination that mirrored his father’s.

  He still hadn’t given Jane an answer. Though she pressured him more today than she had yesterday, he had no idea what he should do about her marriage proposal.

  Tonight, he’d left Jane alone in her rented apartments in order to test the waters with his family.

  He lingered by the door and absorbed the silent stares while his father chose a group of four seats near the front row, a row in front of the only other high-ranking family in town, the Newburys.

  His father, mother, Edward and Maryanne settled into their seats amongst the audience without leaving space for Nathan and then made themselves busy exchanging smiles and nods with the members of society all around them. A fashionable collection of brightly plumed peacocks. Nathan’s mother appeared to be the brightest in her emerald silk gown.

  They were complete without him—as if he’d never existed. Their expressions joyful and serene, their thoughts appeared to be on anything but his troublesome presence.

  A hunchbacked, twitchy-whiskered rat scurrying across the tearoom floor garnered far more attention from his family than he seemed to be able to.

  The disappointment that threaded through his veins took him completely by surprise. Why had he expected his family to behave any differently?

  Nothing had changed within the past few weeks. Not really. If possible, the rumors spreading like fleas through the streets of Bath had further strained his relationship with them. And he’d completely failed to attach his name to Iona’s in a positive way.

  Perhaps he should accept the inevitable and agree to become Jane’s second husband. He was considering slipping out and doing just that when he spotted his gentle minx seated directly behind his mother.

  Lady Iona had nearly turned completely around in her seat and was glaring in his direction. The very image of a Roman statue of the vestal virgins, she couldn’t have looked more innocent or lovely if she had tried. Her white gown with a gold cording that crisscrossed over her breasts was a classical design brilliantly displaying her delicious curves.

  Her delicate features were alive with emotion. Her cheeks glowed a lively morning-sun pink. And her slender frame trembled with what appeared to be unmitigated rage.

  If he didn’t know her better and her need to present a perfect image to the rest of society at all times, he would have been quaking in his brown ankle boots, afraid that she was a hairsbreadth away from leaping out of her seat and propelling herself across the room with her nails poised to scratch out his eyes.

  Odd, his body warmed almost to the point of discomfort at the mere thought of her behaving so out of character and with such passion. Thoughts of Jane and marriage vanished.

  The Master of Ceremonies saved Nathan from staying at the door all evening with his mouth twisted in some bemused fashion. A thundercloud of anxiety weighed down Mr. King’s brow as he marched up, grabbed hold of Nathan’s hand and gave it a mighty shake.

  “Too, too happy to see you within our hallowed halls, Lord Nathan,” Mr. King said with a little too much enthusiasm. “Please, please, do take a seat.”

  There were plenty of empty chairs available. Most near the back. A safe option, away from the tonnish stares.

  Nathan never did favor the safe options though.

  After peeling his hand from Mr. King’s grasp, he picked up one of the empty chairs from the back of the room and paraded himself up to the front and, dropping the chair in between the rows, crowded himself up next to his mother and very close to the simmering Iona.

  The side of Nathan’s body closest to the two them—the two women he couldn’t seem to help but adore—took a sudden chill.

  His mother bristled at his audacity, giving the emerald-dyed ostrich feather springing from her watered-silk turban a definite wobble. But to her credit, she held her chin firm in true aristocratic fortitude.

  Iona, a mite less reserved, let slip a delightfully vicious growl. She shuddered a long breath when the conductor, a fine-looking fellow dressed in a velvet suit, stepped up to the podium on the upper level of the room.

  It would be practically impossible for Nathan to change seats now, even if he wished it.

  Which he didn’t.

  He sat back in the uncomfortable, wooden, ladder-backed chair, crossed his arms and propped a booted foot on his knee.

  This spot was exactly where he wanted to be—in the bosom of his family with the woman he lov—

  No. No. No.

  The beat of the timpani drummed through him as he fought to deny the one word he knew to be true. The one word he wanted to shout to the world and have Iona shout as well.

  An impossibility.

  A foolish pipe dream.

  He shifted in the chair, his discomfort growing.

  When in blazes was this blasted concert going to end?

  * * * *

  At the intermission, Nathan was in dire need of escape. Putting himself in the middle of his family and so close to Iona had taken a toll on his nerves. Without a glance in anyone’s direction, he made his way to the far corner of the room and leaned up against one of the Corinthian columns that guarded, like silent soldiers, a series of stately arching doorways.

  Iona, he noticed immediately, was acting most out of character. The quick way her lips moved when she spoke and her languid posture with her delicately fisted hand propped on her hip were as bold and brassy as her mustached alter personality, Sir Percival.

  With a coquettish, almost wicked, expression overtaking her gentle smile, she flirted with one young gentleman and then another. When Talbot happened by, she latched onto his arm and laughed at something he’d said.

  The poor besotted Talbot seized up, a stricken look widening his eyes.

  Nathan found his body had tightened up as well.

  Well, well. The minx is trying to make me jealous.

  He couldn’t think of any other possible reason Iona should be making mooneyes at every man in sight, including the elderly Mr. Leake, or clinging to Talbot for that matter.

  If she wasn’t careful, every eligible gentleman in Bath was going to turn up on her doorstep in the morning with a spray of daisies in one hand, hat in the other and a grave need to pay his addresses to the Duke burning on his lips. Before noon, she’d be overwhelmed with marriage offers. Certainly that wasn’t her goal for the evening.

  If marriage was what she sought, shouldn’t she come running to his door—and not anyone else’s?

  No one else—not one gentleman in all of England—understood her quite as deeply. No one else was worthy to win her closely guarded affection.

  By
the time she’d made her way back around to Mr. Harlow, Nathan was sorely tempted to march over to her and toss her scheming, slender body over his shoulder. She’d be sorry if he was forced to resort to such an outrageous action.

  A soft hand tugged at his sleeve and saved him from, in the heat of anger, doing just that.

  The familiar scent of raspberries touched his senses. “My lady,” he said, wondering what he’d done to attract Lady Lillian’s barbed attention. “Are you enjoying the concert so far?” he asked, sounding damnably neutral. Quite a feat, considering how his fingers were itching to rip Iona’s hand from Harlow’s sleeve.

  “I will not play games,” Lillian hissed. “I will thank you to do the same.”

  “Very well.” Nathan crossed his arms. “Pray remind me again, my lady, what game am I to forego playing?”

  “My sister, of course.” Lillian did an impressive job of keeping her voice whisper-silent while working herself up into what looked like a royal snit. “She does not need you complicating her life. Look at her—”

  He couldn’t seem to stop looking. Iona had flitted from the west end of the room to the east. Next to the table of teacakes, she had become engaged in an animated conversation with three of Bath’s most dour-faced ladies. Her hands moved in fluid gestures as she talked. A genuinely honest smile provided an added shine to her cornflower blue eyes.

  “Yes,” he said, swelling with quiet admiration, “look at her.”

  Iona scooped up three teacakes from the table and, much to the delight of her companions, placed one into each of their hands. Then, without her usual regard for decorum, she tossed her arm around one of the ladies and presented her with a most heartening embrace.

  “She is making a fool of herself,” Lillian complained. “And all because of you.”

  “I wish I could take credit for giving Lady Iona her generous heart but I regret she has always put others before herself. Do you not agree?”

  The elderly ladies were beaming as Iona continued to entertain them.

  “Are you being purposefully obtuse, Lord Nathan?” Lillian’s voice rose a degree. “She is putting on this ridiculous act in hopes of showing you that she is unaffected by your cruelty. Her shattered heart cannot bear seeing you.” She stamped her foot. “She is a numskull. I have already scolded her for falling under your spell and still she will not listen.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want you to leave. Leave Bath. Tonight. And never return.”

  He glared down at her with the same bland expression he’d use when his young nephew demanded to get his own way. “I fear, my lady, your sister will have to suffer my presence in Bath for at least a few more weeks.”

  Lillian huffed several times. Nathan held up his hand. “No matter what you might say, I will not change my mind.”

  “Well!” She tossed her lovely head and stalked off—with the grace of a duke’s daughter of course.

  He didn’t have much time alone before a new feminine scent pounded against his senses.

  Again it wasn’t the plain scent of soap he’d learned to savor on a certain rogue’s apprentice. The gentle tulip-based flavor he smelled now had always struck Nathan as conflicting with the sharp character of his sister-in-law who wore it.

  Maryanne sidled up beside him. Her nervous gaze flicked around the room as if she was making sure no one—at least no one of importance—took notice of her lowering herself to talk with such a blackguard. As she was generally a composed lady, her strange behavior piqued his curiosity.

  “Are you enjoying this evening?” he asked her, trying his best to not provoke an argument. “If you wish, I could fetch you a lemonade.”

  She appeared faintly alarmed by his civil manner. After studying him for a long moment, she released a breath. “Thank you, but no,” she said.

  He gave a nod. “The musicians are first-rate. The tension created by their rendition of Haydn’s The Creation nearly made me weep.”

  Maryanne crossed her arms and frowned. “I assure you, I did not seek you out in order to discuss the quality of the orchestra.”

  “I am but your servant, my lady. What do you wish of me?”

  “The truth will suffice. If you can manage it.”

  He merely raised a brow.

  “What did you do?” she asked, her eyelids fluttering with agitation.

  “What did I do when, my lady?”

  “Today, today,” she snapped. “What did you do?”

  He frowned as he thought for a moment. “What…did…I…do?” he asked slowly. “I did a goodly number of things. I doubt you want a recitation of my day however. Perhaps you should be more specific?”

  “To him.” She waved her arm in a broad motion and then sighed deeply. “What did you do to upset him?”

  He tried to discern whom she was indicating with that vague gesture. He spotted his father engaged in quite a heated discussion with the Master of Ceremonies. The Marquess’s round face was taking on a pinkish tinge. Mr. King listened with a sour expression twisting his lips while shifting from one foot to the other as if his pantaloons had suddenly shrunk several sizes.

  His father often had such an effect on others. It was easy to imagine the list of complaints being thrust upon the hapless Master of Ceremonies. The music was likely too loud. The seats too hard. And the sandwiches dreadfully dry.

  The last item Nathan felt tempted to complain about himself. He’d never tasted a worse sandwich in his life. Chewing on sand would have been more enjoyable.

  “The Marquess does appear to be in a bit of a temper,” he admitted. “But there is nothing unusual about that, is there?”

  “Are you being purposefully obtuse?” she demanded.

  For the second time that evening he was being accused of such a crime, which made him wonder—was he being purposefully obtuse?

  “I do not believe so,” he concluded. “My mind has certainly been crowded with many matters lately. I would be surprised if I were able to keep them all straight.”

  “Edward,” she said with a huff. “Edward has been acting damnably odd all day. I vow I caught him pouting in the upstairs parlor while downing a whiskey. He never drinks whiskey. I cannot imagine what has gotten into him. So tell me, Nathan, what…did…you…do?”

  “I have not even spoken to my brother today.”

  Maryanne tapped her toe on the marble floor and glared.

  “Believe what you will, my lady,” he said and slashed a hand through the air. “You will anyhow. Nothing I could say will change that.”

  “You must have done something, for when I questioned him he blamed you for his ending up in the dumps.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Said you were trying to ruin his life,” she insisted, which was rich considering all Nathan had done to protect his brother over the years.

  “I assure you, madam,” he said sharply, “Edward is doing a fine job making himself miserable all on his own.” He pushed away from the post he’d been leaning against. “Good evening to you.”

  Maryanne grabbed his arm. “Is his recent mood somehow connected with Miss Posey Hartfield? Is her death somehow coming back to haunt him?” she whispered the question.

  The blood drained from his head at the mention of Miss Hartfield’s name. He pried her fingers from his arm and then tugged on his waistcoat while trying to hold onto his detached, devil-may-care demeanor. “Ancient tragedies are best left in the past,” he said. “Good evening.”

  The musicians began tuning their instruments again, signaling the approach of the concert’s second half. Nathan didn’t intend to stay.

  His nerves were growing too sharp. He wouldn’t be able to remain beneath the ton’s disapproving glares and hope to hold onto his sanity. Everyone in the room, save for Iona, appeared to be watching him with an overly eager attentiveness. One mistake on either Iona’s or his part could thrust their secret relationship into society’s bright glare.

  He made a quick detour t
o the punch bowl. One question needed to be answered before he could rush out into the night.

  “I hope you are pleased with yourself,” Edward said before Nathan had gotten much beyond a pleasant greeting. “She is leaving in the morning.”

  Nathan didn’t dare hope his brother was referring to his actress-turned-mistress.

  “She says she doesn’t want to see me ever again,” Edward said before Nathan could ask. “I assume this is your doing of course.”

  “I assure you it is not. This is the talented Miss Darly we are speaking about?”

  “Who else!” Edward winced at his own outburst. He lowered his voice considerably. “The music is starting. It’s time we return to our seats.”

  “I am leaving. Please offer Mother and Father a good evening for me,” he said as he headed toward the door. A bit of satisfaction quickened his step. Miss Darly must have come to her senses, clever girl. She was leaving Bath—and Edward—in the morning and it hadn’t cost him a dime.

  And Iona…

  He paused at the door and turned around to take one last look. The orchestra had started. The first few strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata were filling the space with a deep range of minor chords that conjured images of the dark night sky despite the brightly lit chandeliers above him. He spotted Iona near the front of the audience. She’d leaned back in her chair, her head tilted to one side, her eyes closed. She appeared to have lost herself within the sensual language of the notes.

  Her delicate features might not rival the stunning beauty of her sister’s but there was a quiet calm surrounding Iona that enticed Nathan like none other. What in blazes was he going to do about her?

  * * * *

  He hadn’t even seemed to notice the change. Iona pounded her pillow and tossed in her bed until her linens tangled her into submission.

  At first he’d sat so close that his honey and pine scent had threatened to melt her into a puddle on the floor. Unable to speak a word with him or exchange even a passing glance for fear of betraying the tumultuous emotions tumbling through her body, she’d been forced to suffer through the first half of the concert with her back pressed into the ladder-backed chair while biting the inside of her cheek in order to ensure her rage remained silent.