The promise in a kiss c-8

by Stephanie Laurens

  As for the rest—the wider family, friends, and connections gathered to witness and pass judgment—as Therese Osbaldestone had baldly informed him, they all thought him a lucky dog.

  Little did they know—much less did they see, except perhaps for Therese. Helena, after all, was too much like him.

  He’d never be able to take her love for granted, to expect her love as his due. Powerful he might be, noble and wealthy, yet there remained one thing he could not command. So he would always be there, watching, always ready to protect her, to ensure that she remained forever his.

  Such was the vulnerability of a conqueror.

  Therese would doubtless say he’d got all he deserved.

  Lips curving, he looked back at his letter. Read it through.

  I am returning with this an item to which I believe you are entitled. You will recall the circumstances in which it came into my hands, seven years ago. What you never knew was that in sending me to the Convent des Jardinières de Marie, you set me in the path of your ward, then staying there.

  That, my friend, was the one piece of information you lacked. We had met before you sent her to retrieve your item, met and exchanged a promise. In sending her to me to secure that item, you gave us the chance to revisit that earlier promise, to explore it as we had not had a chance to do before.

  We have now explored the potential fully and have reached our own agreement. I am now in possession of something worth inexpressibly more than your item—and for that I must thank you. Our future, hers and mine, we owe to you.

  Pray accept the enclosed item—yours once again—as a token of our thanks.

  You will be interested to know that your ward was not seriously inconvenienced by the accident that unfortunately marred our recent visit. Her energy and inventiveness are undimmed—to that I can personally attest.

  And yes,mon ami,she is now the Duchess of St. Ives.

  Bonne chance—until next we cross swords.

  Sebastian smiled, imagining Fabien reading it. He signed the letter, then sanded it; as he replaced the shaker, a rustling had him turning to the bed.

  Brushing back her mane of hair, Helena smiled, languid and sultry, and sank back on the pillows. “What are you doing?”

  Sebastian grinned. “Writing to your guardian.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, then lifted one hand and beckoned. The gold band he’d placed on her finger the day before glinted. “I think now that it is I you should deal with first, Your Grace.”

  His title on her lips, the Rs heavily rolled, was a blatant invitation.

  Sebastian left the letter and rose, returned to the bed.

  To her.

  To the warmth of her arms.

  To the promise in her kiss.

  Afterword

  REGRETTABLY, neither Sebastian, fifth Duke of St. Ives, nor Helena, his duchess, kept diaries. The following, however, was extracted from the diaries of the Reverend Julius Smedley, who filled the position of chaplain to the Duke of St. Ives from 1767 to 1794. Reverend Smedley officiated at the marriage of Sebastian and Helena and was a faithful recorder of all that took place in his circumscribed world. From him we learn that:

  Ariele de Stansion and Phillipe de Sèvres remained at Somersham Place for some years, Phillipe assisting with the management of the estate and Ariele spending much time with her sister. She assisted at the difficult birth of Helena’s only child, Sylvester. Phillipe remained devoted to Ariele through the years, and for her part, Ariele never looked at another, although there were gentlemen aplenty who sought to attract her notice. Consequently, with Sebastian’s assistance, Phillipe bought a sizable holding north of Lincoln. He and Ariele married and moved north, and thus beyond the Reverend Smedley’s purview.

  The only other note of interest over those early years of the duke’s marriage was an oblique reference to the death of one Marie de Mordaunt, Comtesse de Vichesse, the wife of the duchess’s and her sister’s erstwhile guardian, also Phillipe’s uncle.

  Shortly after, the Terror came to France. Sebastian, working with Phillipe and his own extensive contacts in that country, had already acted to liquidate and remove to England much of Helena’s and Ariele’s inherited wealth, as well as a number of their loyal servants.

  Phillipe’s brother, Louis, disappeared during this time, and no more was heard of him.

  The St. Iveses, after considerable searching, learned that the comte de Vichesse, called back from Paris to his fortress in the Loire, found Le Roc besieged. The tale that reached London was that the comte, at considerable risk to himself, gained access to the fortress, where he dismissed all his loyal retainers, instructing them to save themselves. Thereafter the comte disappeared. No further mention of the comte appears, either in the Reverend’s diaries or indeed in any account of those times.

  However, there is a fascinating mention of a French gentleman who arrived at Somersham a month after the fall of Le Roc. He is described as tall, lean, fair of face and hair, and indeed of address. He commonly wore all black and was observed to be a close comrade of the duke’s; the pair were often to be seen fencing on the terrace.

  In a departure from his usual love for detail, Reverend Smedley coyly leaves this French gentleman unnamed.

  The Frenchman remained at Somersham for some months, but then, to the duke and duchess’s clear sorrow, determined to leave England. He left Somersham for Southampton, there to take ship for the Americas.

  Why Set Romances in the Regency?

  TO someone unfamiliar with the genre, the question fairly leaps to the eye—why, of all the time periods in history, is the British Regency (1811-1820) and its flanking time periods so frequently used as the setting for romances?

  As a longtime reader of Regency romances, and as an author of fourteen romances all set in the Regency, I have some inklings as to why that might be so—why romance authors and readers both find the Regency so rewarding.

  First—and for a romance author very definitely foremost—the concept of love as an appropriate, useful, and perhaps even desirable element within marriage within the upper echelons of society evolved and gained acceptance during the Regency.

  Prior to that time, while the concept of romantic love between a man and a woman had been recognized for centuries, among the upper classes, it had not been considered at all necessary in marriage. Indeed, in the minds of many who had lived primarily in Georgian times and were old in the Regency, the new-fangled fashion for ladies to wear their hearts on their sleeves was shocking. And even more shocking when the objects of their affections were their own husbands!

  While there were rebels to this prevailing view, both in Georgian times and earlier, they were the exceptions, very definitely not the norm. While much milder "affection" was considered a felicitous circumstance within marriage and entirely appropriate, love was something else again.

  The attitude against love (as distinct from affection) in marriage in all likelihood sprouted from the view that love was a potentially dangerous force, one too powerful to be allowed to influence such vital contracts as marriages then were. Marriages were the primary means of merging and furthering familial estates, many of which were huge, politically powerful and wealthy. Divorce, and all the potential legal difficulties which could arise, or any form of marital disruption or instability, were to be avoided at all costs. Love being a force not amenable to the control of men and their laws, it was considered too dangerous to be allowed to touch the institution of marriage. Marriage was, indeed, a civil contract blessed by the church, and as such should not be subject to emotional urges. Thus ran the prevailing wisdom.

  Thus, until the Regency, marriage within the upper classes had very little to do with love. It was not only not required, but actively disapproved of. During the Regency, this changed.

  What caused this fairly fundamental shift seems buried in the mists of time. But the romantic poets certainly heard the bugle call, and lent their strong and at the time highly influential voices to the push for cha
nge.

  The waning of French influence on British society was one factor which not only contributed to, but was essential for, the emergence of the acceptance of love within marriage. When it came to love in marriage, the French were even stricter and more disapproving than the English (that was where the attitude had originally evolved from). While very strong during the Georgian era prior to the French revolution, and in the years immediately after, French influence on British society waned and then was eclipsed during the Napoleonic years. During this time, English fashions mirrored the change in English society, as it evolved beyond centuries of French influence, into something distinctly English.

  So change came, but it came slowly—even in the 1820s and later, it is likely the majority of marriages within the upper classes were still arranged on the basis of other, unemotional criteria. But love had become acceptable—and having been let into the equation, as it were, love within marriage was always destined to become the ideal. Very much along the lines of monkey see, monkey like, monkey do.

  It could be said that the Regency is the first time we see love within marriage as we now know it, and the very fact that this circumstance was unusual—not the norm—makes it easier to highlight, easier to showcase its desirable qualities.

  One aspect useful to the romance author which directly derives from this "newness" of love within marriage, is that the characters know this is not the "required" state—they could just as well marry without it. So there is also an element of "choice"—at some point our Regency hero and heroine must actively choose to accept and pursue love, rather than do without it. This is a natural consequence of the fact that in the Regency, love was not an automatic given in marriage.

  During the Regency, time was also on love's side. For a young lady of good family, of course, there was no other desirable career—anything less than marriage was considered a failure. So young women were encouraged to spend all their waking hours considering matrimony, and their entrance to that state. As for the gentlemen, both within the ton, and in the wealthy families in the shires, there were men aplenty who did not have to work for a living, but could spend serious time pursuing the objects of their desire—or their heart. Partly as a reflection of this, the Regency was a time when gallantry and elegance still held sway, and where such characteristics remained the yardstick of gentlemanly behavior.

  Furthermore, society considered it wise to spend time choosing and negotiating the best matrimonial alliances—hence, there was plenty of time to be legitimately devoted to courting rituals, and a plethora of suitable social events at which eligible parties could meet and explore their mutual situations. In the upper classes during the Regency, marriage was a serious business, pursued with due consideration.

  By the dawn of the Regency, society itself had become distinctly English in a highly recognizable way—rules abounded. It was an extremely strictly-mannered society. At no other time in history, before or after, were there so many things that were "simply not done!"

  Etiquette ruled. Period.

  A lady's reputation could be destroyed through some simple and harmless, quite inadvertent action. There were rules for this, rules for that—even rules for the exact degree of depth of curtsies, which varied according to who one was curtsying to. If you got it wrong, either too deep or too shallow, you might very well never see the inside of Almack's.

  But, like all things English, for instance, the English language, all the rules of the Regency had their exceptions.

  So while there were countless rules about just about everything, there were always exceptions – this creates a very dynamic situation, where virtually every case has to be considered on its merits. If a lady walks down a street alone, is this reprehensible, or perfectly acceptable? It depends on the street, on the lady, her age and station in life, her clothing, who was potentially watching, on the time of day—and on a host of other variables.

  While such a rigid but exceedingly variable social structure imposes and requires a great deal of care to be exercised by the author, it simultaneously presents untold opportunities for all sorts of situations guaranteed to a) bring our hero and heroine together, b) put them in circumstances where they have to act, or are impelled to act demonstrating their characters and c) to create satisfyingly exciting scenarios through which they move as their love develops and evolves into a grand passion.

  Where, you ask, do the exciting scenarios come from?

  Ah—that's the other side of the Regency that makes it so beloved of romance authors. For beneath the glitter and glamor of the ton's balls, behind the elegance and wealth of the upper classes and their indolent and hedonistic lifestyles, England was changing dramatically. It would never be the same again. The Regency was one of those rare times in history when an old order was being put aside, superseded, by a new order—but it all happened peaceably.

  The Regency was a time of social revolution, culminating in the Great Reform Bill of 1832. This extended voting rights to the majority of adult males and restructured representation in Parliament in the most sweeping social reform of the century. It changed Britain forever.

  And its seeds were sown and nurtured during the Regency.

  It is beyond the scope of this short essay to go into the depth and breadth of the social changes, but the interested reader will find no better source than J.B. Priestley'sThe Prince of Pleasure.

  Suffice to say there was an awful lot happening during the Regency. And it happened against a backdrop of war, victory, an extravagant Prince Regent, a fabulously wealthy and powerful elite, an emerging middle class and an upper echelon of society who could waltz while the cannons rolled past. Indeed, as Priestley intimates, throughout the Regency there was a sense of waltzing while London burned—of living on the edge of great upheaval—of living through times that were rapidly and fundamentally changing, when the very ground of society shifted— of living life to the limits, as if there was no tomorrow.

  All of this resonates with the here and now—and is, I believe, deep down, one of the reasons the Regency continues to fascinate—because, from nearly two hundred years' distance, it holds up a mirror to our lives today.

  —Stephanie Laurens

  The Hero As Pursuer

  IF there is any unifying concept in the romances I have written, this is it. My critique partner noticed years ago that every one of my heroes want their heroine the instant they set eyes on her. Want her sexually, that is. This fact is simply a reflection of my experience of how the male of the species reacts on seeing a desirable female. It's not logic that rears its head.

  I didn't intend to specifically create books on this theme—it simply happened—but looking back over all the romances I've had published, plus the works in various stages of production, I have to admit that "the hero as pursuer" is a feature of every last one. And very likely will be in all the ones to come.

  Why? Because I write Regency-era historicals, and all my heroes are a certain type of man. They are powerful men in all senses of the word—physically and mentally, socially and sexually. They see—they want—they take. Which means all my heroines must be a certain sort of woman, meaning the sort of woman strong enough to stand up to, and wring concessions from, that type of man.

  To my mind, a strong, more-than-alpha hero necessitates an equally strong heroine—if she's not sufficiently confident in herself, she'll never be a convincing match for the hero. If she wasn't willful and headstrong and far too independent, the hero would probably lose interest within a few weeks. It's the very fact that she doesn't simply fall in with his masterful plans, but digs in her pretty heels and refuses to tamely play by his rules—because she argues, sticks her nose in the air, haughtily dismisses him, and (worst of all) dares to walk away from him—that forces the hero to focus his attention on her sufficiently to let Cupid slip under his guard and mount a sneak attack.

  Unwittingly, the heroine becomes the first and only woman who has, in his adult life, forced the hero to really look at her. C
onsider her. Think about what she is thinking, what she feels, how she reacts in various situations. Because he's looking, albeit with a view to conquest, he sees her character, and all the admirable, and sometimes vulnerable, aspects of her—which fascinates him even more. Her hoity behavior powerfully prods his possessive instincts, while her vulnerabilities call forth his innate protectiveness. He is, after all, a warrior whose civilized mask is but wafer-thin. For him, possessiveness and protectiveness are the outward expressions of love. But without the need to focus on the heroine, which need is brought about by the heroine's character, there is little opportunity for this type of hero to fall victim to love.

  He's far too canny, guards his heart far too well, to be an easy conquest—it needs a very strong woman to distract him enough for love to weave its spell.

  I should perhaps emphasize that my heroes never fall in love with my heroines at first sight. They fall inlust at first sight, something quite different. The distinction is important—especially in the heroes' minds—because lust is something they can immediately and openly admit to, while falling in love is something they will move heaven and earth toavoid admitting, even when they finally wake up to the fact that this is what has occurred.

  Because the setting is Regency England, and my heroines are all indisputably ladies, and my heroes, despite their rakish tendencies, equally indisputably gentlemen, then marriage quickly becomes the hero's object, that being the only way he can legitimately get the heroine into his bed. And keep her there. His and only his. His mind, at the beginning of the story, is pretty much one-track.

  All my heroes are over-the-top arrogant, domineering, too-handsome-for-their-own-good rakes, too old and too experienced to be anything but deeply cynical of the notion of love, especially within marriage. They've slept with too many married ladies for that. So when they wake up one day and discover that—dear God!—they have fallen victim themselves and fallen in love with their wife/betrothed/intended/neighbor/ward/whatever, this, to them, makes them hideously vulnerable, a situation they instinctively hide.