The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection

by Dorothy McFalls

  “Predicament?” she cried. “Predicament? That’s a blasted understatement! I, sir, have been ruined, utterly ruined. And even so I would be able to survive this scandal if it only affected me. But my cousins are suffering every bit as much.” She closed her eyes and remembered the tears glistening on Lauretta’s cheeks after Sir Donald had stomped on her heart. “More so.”

  She drew a breath and straightened. “For them, I intend to find this—this Dionysus. I intend to expose him, to force him to answer for what he’s done. If you can help me, I implore that you do.”

  Her abductor tugged at his gloves. “I will help restore your reputation,” he said, crisply. “However, I cannot allow you to act against Dionysus.”

  “Why? Why would you help me? I don’t even know you.” A prickle of unease crept down her spine. In her experience, gentlemen, despite their supposed code of honor, rarely acted without expecting a sharp payment in return for their troubles.

  Only one man, her uncle, had ever treated her with unfailing kindness. She winced, imagining how he must now be regretting his invitation to have her live with his family.

  “True, I do not know you.” He leaned forward. The interior lantern illuminated his face. His haunting eyes latched onto hers. “I do know, however, that you’ve been wronged. And though I cannot discuss this matter much further, I can tell you that I bear the brunt of responsibility for Dionysus and his actions. I am his keeper, of sorts. You have nothing to worry about with me.” He reached out and stroked her cheek. A tremor of alarm shot through her when his touch sparked a pleasing tingle that spiraled through her chest. Startled, she pulled away as sharply as if he had stung her.

  “I will set things right for you.” He sunk back into the shadows of the carriage. “But understand, too, I’ll do what I must to protect Dionysus from your efforts to expose him.”

  He rapped on the roof.

  The carriage, Elsbeth was shaken to notice, had already drawn to a halt. A cloaked footman, damp from the pouring rain, swung open the door. She peered out the opening and recognized the highly ornate front door to the Baneshire town house only a few feet away.

  “Thank you for the carriage ride,” she said as she scooted across the bench.

  “I am hosting a house party next week at my country home in Dorset. Attend the party, my lady.” His deep voice rumbled in the darkness. “I’ll accept no excuse for your absence.”

  With a quick nod and a silent vow that she’d do well to avoid any and all events involving the Marquess, she dashed through the rain and inside the town house. After depositing her dripping oilskin cape with Tallford, Baneshire’s grim-faced butler, she hurried up the stairs despite Olivia’s attempts to delay her. Elsbeth managed to make it up to her room without missing a stride.

  “Imagine that,” she said to her empty bedchamber as she leaned against the door. “He expects me to attend a house party.” Her heart raced and a fresh rush of heat burned her cheeks.

  She may have escaped his carriage, but she feared the abduction was far from over.

  She’d barely a moment to hatch an excuse for getting out of the invitation before a light knock sounded at the door. Elsbeth jumped. “Go away, Olivia.”

  The door eased opened. Molly, Elsbeth’s rather unconventional lady’s maid, one of the very few reminders of her life with her dead husband, backed into the room with a tea tray in her arms.

  “Beg pardon, milady,” Molly drawled in her less-than-perfect English. “Tallford said you’d be needin’ a pot o’ tea?”

  “Yes, thank you Molly. I would also appreciate a hand changing into a dry gown.”

  “Gracious, milady.” Molly closed the door after her and rushed to set the tray down. She tugged at Elsbeth’s damp gown like a nervous mother hen. “We must get this off you before you catch your death. You should have rung for me right away.”

  Elsbeth allowed Molly to fuss over her. Soon she was dressed in a serviceable wool gown that was not only warm but also extremely comfortable.

  It was not at all the thing a fashionable woman would dare wear. Her late husband would have claimed she looked as dowdy as a washerwoman. She smoothed out the deeply creased skirt while Molly reluctantly excused herself from the chamber. Once again alone, she pressed her ear to the door, straining as she listened for evidence of her cousins lurking in the hall.

  This afternoon, she heard blessedly few sounds. A creak here and a moaning floorboard there. Alone, and after surviving such an adventure in the dreary cold, she felt as if she could finally breathe easily.

  Before she realized what she was doing, she knelt beside her bed. The day she’d moved into this chamber she had shoved a carefully wrapped package underneath it.

  Her hand quickly found the flat package wrapped in a length of pink and white fabric. She sat on the bed and brushed a layer of dust from its surface. A pink ribbon crisscrossed the package. It was a ribbon she’d worn in her hair when she was still a young woman as silly and carefree as her cousins. She pulled one end of the ribbon. The knot loosened and the fabric slipped away.

  With a heavy heart she picked up the stiff canvas and ran her finger over the beautiful oil painting. At one time she owned many such works.

  In a fit of rage she had destroyed them all—all except this one.

  Why had this small painting survived? The work of art, not much larger than a sheet of foolscap, gave life to a simple scene. The artist must have stretched out flat on his stomach in the midst of a field of wildflowers to capture such an intimate perspective of the deep purple and bright yellow flowers waving in the soft summer breeze.

  In the forefront, a single white daisy leaned forward, almost reaching out from the canvas, so close it must have tickled the artist’s nose.

  A mist of tears clouded Elsbeth’s vision. She blinked, hoping to hold back the memories and the pain. The life, the freedom, the unbridled happiness in the painting pricked her heart like a broken promise.

  Fields of wildflowers were long gone from her life.

  She could scarcely remember the love she’d once felt toward the creator of the painting. The feeling had changed, become twisted, and transformed into something ugly.

  Even so, she still appreciated the passion in the artist’s bold brush strokes. She’d never seen any other artist work the same way, plying the paints so heavily on the canvas, but at the same time evoking a light, sometimes playful effect. Nor had she ever seen a painter reveal so much of the deep longing that must be hidden in the artist’s heart.

  She’d never again seen such a painting…not until Dionysus. Why was he so determined to torment her? Damn the man to Hades and back. Who was he?

  Were the years of pain and horror she’d suffered living with her husband not enough? Was the artist determined to deny her even a moment of peace? A glimmering chance for happiness? She raised her hand, poised to tear the aging material and destroy the last remaining evidence of her ability to love.

  Her arm, hanging in the air, froze.

  “I can’t.” She tossed the painting aside and collapsed on the middle of her bed.

  “I can’t,” she sobbed.

  * * * *

  Nigel lifted the neatly folded handkerchief Lady Mercer had left on the empty bench as the carriage pulled away from the Grosvenor Square town house.

  “Well, well,” he said. The damp scent of lilacs and orange blossoms lingered with his cologne on the soft linen. “She’s not quite the wilting flower I’d expected.”

  In fact, after meeting her, he decided she was much more a mystery now than when she was just a beautiful figure sculpted on canvas.

  A canvas now safely locked away in his private vault.

  Her fiery spirit was delightfully intriguing. It pained him that he’d have to block her efforts for revenge. He’d much rather fight battles for the lady than wage one against her.

  He could easily crush her. But destruction was the last thing on his mind.

  Perhaps…perhaps…

&nbs
p; Perhaps he wouldn’t wage a war against Lady Mercer. Perhaps he could bend her will to suit his own purposes.

  He smiled at the prospect. Seduction wouldn’t be simple. He wasn’t a fool. The young widow had frozen like a terrified doe when he touched her. Her warm skin had cooled to ice under his fingertips.

  But her feelings didn’t signify. Nigel relished challenges, the more impossible the better. And he’d never met a proper unwed lady who wasn’t either moon-eyed or near to swooning in his presence.

  Disdain—now that was a novel experience. Terrifyingly so.

  The carriage pulled to a halt and the door swung open.

  He took one more whiff of the sweetly scented handkerchief before jamming the cloth into his coat pocket and leapt from the carriage with the confidence of a man prepared to take on the herculean task of holding up the world.

  The game was on. He’d seduce Lady Mercer—she was a widow after all—save her reputation. And distract her until he could destroy all evidence of Dionysus’s existence.

  Chapter Five

  Molly pulled back the curtains, sending an overly bright beam of sunlight streaming into the large bedroom. Elsbeth groaned and buried her head within the soft folds of her down pillow.

  “No use ’iding, milady,” Molly drawled. “Lord Baneshire is already calling for ye to meet ’im in ’is breakfast room. An invitation ’ad been delivered yesterday. To a party, milady.” She hummed an unrecognizable tune as she bustled noisily about the room.

  “You’re dropping your H’s again.”

  “Forgive me, milady. It’s just the excitement ’as me tongue slippin’,” She bobbed a curtsy and blushed. “Here is a pretty gown, milady.” She’d tossed open the wardrobe and quickly produced a bright pink morning gown. The intense color made Elsbeth draw in her breath.

  After a year of donning black gowns, the array of brightly colored gowns her uncle had insisted she have made still had the power to take her breath away.

  Molly laid the gown across the foot of the bed, then stood back and smiled. “I pronounced me ach’s nice an’ clear that time, I did.”

  “Yes, Molly, you did. You are a gem.” Molly, the youngest daughter of the Mercer’s smithy, was by no means trained as a lady’s maid. Mercer’s housekeeper, Mrs. Brucket, had gasped and sputtered so much when Elsbeth brought the sturdy young woman into the house, everyone present feared the poor housekeeper was suffering from a fit of apoplexy.

  “I will have to inform his lordship about this,” Mrs. Brucket had threatened once she’d caught her breath. A knowing gleam had darkened her eyes. The housekeeper’s threat did nothing to deter Elsbeth even if the threat of her husband’s anger had given her reason to pause.

  The danger of not acting had been simply too great.

  Georgette, the lady’s maid originally assigned to her, had been much more interested in pleasing Lord Mercer than attending to any of Elsbeth’s needs. Georgette’s seductive presence, jealous rages, and seemingly innocent lapses in memory proved to be a dangerous combination.

  After the girl had created a situation where Elsbeth was “discovered” by Lord Mercer alone in her bedchamber with one of the estate’s footmen—the consequences Elsbeth shuddered to remember—she knew, for her own safety’s sake, that Georgette had to go.

  Molly, a plain girl, strong and silent, became her saving grace. The younger woman, proud of her new position, had quickly assumed the role of Elsbeth’s keeper. Together they persevered against Lord Mercer…and his violent rages. She doubted she’d have been able to survive without her lady’s maid’s unbreakable cheerfulness, strength, and friendship.

  “Well?” Molly scoffed. “Are ye planning on commentin’ on the gown or no?”

  Elsbeth shook her head to clear away those shadowy memories. “Yes, of course, that pink gown should suit.” Not that she could fathom what manner of dress she should choose to tell her uncle of her plans to refuse Lord Edgeware’s summons to attend his house party.

  Less than a quarter hour later, she made her way downstairs and paused in the doorway of the breakfast room. The stormy weather had broken sometime during the night, and the sun poured into the windows filling even the corners of the room with a warm light.

  And that was where she found him—the demon himself dressed in gentleman’s finery—standing in front of the sideboard, grinning from behind sparkling onyx eyes, and spooning a serving of eggs onto his plate as if he were in his own home.

  It wasn’t by the farthest stretch of one’s imagination a decent hour to be visiting. How dare he make such a breach of etiquette and enter her home?

  And what in blazes had he said to Lord Baneshire?

  “Good morning, Elsbeth,” her uncle said. He was clearly beside himself with excitement. “Please, join us.” He motioned toward the empty chair next to his wife. Even her wan cheeks held a blush of color as she smiled upon the gentleman who looked too young to be a marquess.

  Elsbeth felt no need to be taken in by Edgeware’s dashing looks, which were a good deal more striking in this morning’s bright sunlight than in the dim light of the dreary day before. He was too handsome by half. And by the arrogant way he held himself, she could tell he knew the havoc his stunning good looks could do to a lady’s knees.

  He turned toward her. His expression became serious as he gazed at her for a moment with a smoldering under-look that made her think of dark carnal desires. Repressed desires.

  Her breath caught deep in her chest.

  Lord Baneshire missed their sinfully improper albeit silent exchange as he rose from the table. “Edgeware, please allow me to present my niece, Elsbeth, the dowager Countess of Mercer.”

  “My lady,” he said smoothly, “the Earl of Mercer was your husband? My sympathies.”

  She blinked twice, still feeling somewhat unbalanced and uncertain of the feelings his simmering gaze was provoking. Purposefully provoking, no doubt.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Elsbeth!” her uncle gasped, his brows rising sharply.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Uncle, Lord Edgeware,” she said, carefully avoiding the Marquess’s gaze. The tingling that spread through her belly must have been sparked by those seductive eyes of his. She stared at her satiny kid slippers instead. “I meant no insult. It is just that I’m unaccustomed to receiving guests so early in the morning, and in the breakfast room. Is this a new London custom I’ve not yet been made aware?”

  A tense silence followed her less than sincere apology. She dared to chance a peek. The dark lord, as she was beginning to think of him, tilted his head and stared at her in the most aggrieving manner.

  She tried again to decipher his expression. Amusement? Did he think of her and of her predicament as nothing more than a silly joke? A diversion to relieve a case of ennui?

  “I was speaking with your uncle about my upcoming house party. I wanted him to understand that the invitation I’d issued yesterday was presented with the most heartfelt feelings of goodwill.” A smile curled his pursed lips, drawing her attention to them. “Please, do join us in the discussion.”

  Her heart sputtered despite her efforts to hold rein over her control. Running from the room was beginning to look like a reasonable course of action. She didn’t want to gaze at his lips or remember the gentle way his hand had caressed her cheek in the carriage the day before. And she certainly did not wish to remember the pleasant dream his wicked self had marched into and made even more pleasant with fantasies of gallantry.

  This marquess, no matter how refined, no matter how handsome, was willingly aiding Dionysus. No matter what, she could not overlook that fact. She simply couldn’t let her defenses be swayed. She grasped the doorframe and held her ground, remaining a step outside the breakfast room.

  At least she hadn’t yet run away.

  “Lord Edgeware.” Her tone could have frozen the flames licking the coals behind the grate in the fireplace. She stiffened her shoulders, finding her body trembling from
just the thought of speaking against a man’s wishes, especially a man whose broad shoulders looked ready to burst through the material of his fashionably tight coat.

  She gulped. Truly, she was a widow now, and though a poor relation, no longer beholden to any man. “Lord Edgeware,” she tried again before her conviction waned. In her experience men didn’t take well to having their wishes thwarted. Her gaze strayed to the rosette plasterwork on the ceiling. “I do thank you for inviting the Baneshire family and myself to your house party. I’m sure the attentions you’re giving Olivia and Lauretta will restore them to the positions in Society they so dearly deserve.”

  She swallowed hard and hurried on. “And I am glad to see you here, in the breakfast parlor. For, my lord, it will save me the trouble of penning a note. Though I have given the matter a great deal of thought, I feel I must refuse your invitation. My presence will only remind the ton of the perfidy they believe true of me and will surely further taint how they view my cousins.”

  Edgeware stood in the center of the room clutching the breakfast plate in his powerful hands and just stared at her.

  “Elsbeth,” Lady Baneshire spoke in her gentle tone, “are you certain you are taking the wisest course of action?”

  “The wisest course of action?” Edgeware said, his tone rising. “What she has suggested must be the most damnably idiotic notion I have ever heard.” He dropped his plate on the table with a loud clatter and took two broad steps toward her.

  God protect her, the dark lord was going to attack her, here, in the Baneshire breakfast parlor! She crossed her arms in front of her chest and with a small cry of alarm backed away. Before she could gain any great distance, his hand shot out and clamped down around her arm, effectively trapping her.

  “I’ll not have this conversation with you cowering in the doorway, looking like a frightened rabbit ready to bolt…my lady.” He pulled a chair out from the table and sat her unceremoniously into it. With his hand still trapping her arm, he dropped into the seat next to her.