Regency Society Revisited

by Susanne Marie Knight

  Brockton turned and clasped his hands behind his back. His hands were very large; she liked large hands. “Perhaps this is not the right time,” he said. “You seem to be in delicate health."

  He continued to stand with his back toward her, contemplating something. She had to admit his back was as attractive as his front.

  But she wanted to see his face again. “I'm fine now, really. Don't leave me in suspense. You sounded so serious back there. I promise not to—how do you say—have a fit of the vapors? Please, I'm curious. It's my nature."

  She spoke a little flirtatiously, meaning to lighten his mood, but her words seemed to have the opposite effect. He whirled around and blasted her with his venomous gaze.

  "Your nature?” he repeated. “I believe I know something of your nature—you and your sisters under the skin. I have a feeling you excel at the card table, Mrs. Steele. You must be a high-flyer, gambling for high stakes up society's ladder. I have met many of your kind. Once you worm your way into a home, you are nearly impossible to shake loose. Like a leech, you suck a family's finances and reputation, leaving them bone dry."

  "Wh-What are you talking about?” Sylvia Wycliffe should've mentioned her son was a hothead. Serenity glanced over at the crowds in the assembly room. Too bad she was isolated over here with a ... fanatic.

  "I warn you, my dear, I am onto your little game of deception. You are bluffing—not holding an honest hand. Conduct your intrigues elsewhere and leave my family alone. Before you press your advantage, remember—I shall be watching you."

  Uneasy, Serenity fidgeted. “You must have me mixed with someone else."

  He drew out his fob watch and methodically hammered it into his open palm—a threatening gesture.

  She flinched, as if he had struck her. The tautness in his body seemed to require only one word from her, then he would spring. She had no doubt that this man could wring her neck as easily as he could tie his cravat. He was ruthless, coolly ruthless. And crazy! What in heaven's name was he talking about? All these analogies about card playing.

  Indignant at his accusations, she straightened up from the sofa. “Listen, I don't know what you're talking about. Gambling, bluffing—for heaven's sake. I don't even know how to play gin rummy!"

  She stopped. Did they play gin rummy in 1812? No matter. Why had he changed from the concerned gentleman from a few minutes ago into an irate accuser?

  A sudden thought occurred to her. What if Brockton found out about her charade? Suppose he had known Lieutenant Gerald Steele. Just her luck to run across someone familiar with the real Mrs. Steele.

  She shuddered. To use his gambling terminology, she was involved in a game of Russian roulette. She had to hope that Brockton knew nothing about the Steele background. That accosting her was only a coincidence. The only way out of this mess was to call Brockton's bluff, and pretend to be innocent of whatever he was denouncing her for.

  And she was innocent, too. Unless he referred to a certain young lieutenant. Brockton also said something about sucking a family's finances. The sooner she established her own household, the better.

  His malevolent gaze disturbed her but Serenity had to play out the hand dealt her. She lifted her chin. “I repeat, I don't know what you are talking about. It sounds to me like you've indulged in one drink too many. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm returning to the ballroom where it is warm ... and friendly."

  As she advanced past him, she bit her lip, but surprisingly, he made no move to stop her. Before she left the alcove, she turned around. Brockton stood stock-still, silently returning her appraisal. His tight knee breeches, along with the white stockings showed the perfection of his form, and his navy coat seemingly caressed every muscle in his large shoulders and chest. The breeze from the window tousled his dark locks and his stormy, grey eyes flashed dangerously.

  A pity his looks excited her.

  Remembering his blatant disregard for Georgiana's ill-health, Serenity's anger returned. She raised her voice to carry over the distance separating them. “By the way, your sister, Georgiana, almost died. How odd you haven't acknowledged her sickness. Nor commented on her recovery. If you're an example of a considerate brother, I'm thankful my only sibling is a sister."

  Then she pivoted, and returned to the safety of Almack's rooms to repent her unwise words at her leisure. Had she done the right thing by condemning him? Did he have information to blow her cover?

  Serenity kept a low profile the rest of the night. Just what would tomorrow bring?

  Chapter Eight

  After leaving Almack's ... and his friend Osborne, Nicholas restlessly wandered the streets. The more he thought about his conversation with the interloper, Mrs. Steele, the more confused he became.

  He ran his hand up and down his jaw, puzzling over her strange behavior. First, for no apparent reason, she almost fainted. And then she denied his accusations. He would have fallen into her trap too, gulled into believing her innocence, if he had not been an observer of human nature. While she had been talking, a look of deceit crept into her green eyes. The look spoke of guilt—of hidden knowledge. Why hadn't anyone else noticed it? His father, in particular.

  The old man boasted of showing his son a thing or two. The wisdom of age over the rashness of youth, the Marquess was always fond saying. And yet, Lord Rotterham, evidently, continued to bankroll Mrs. Steele.

  That his father sanctified the connection did not absolve Mrs. Steele; it increased the tally against her. She was a jade, like all the others welcomed into his family's bosom in the past. And she concealed something. Her luminous eyes could not disguise the deception. Unfortunately, her dishonesty went unnoticed by the others in the Wycliffe clan.

  However, blast it, if he were truthful, what irked him most was the woman's lack of response to him as a man. She had the audacity to walk away from him. All his life, he was the one to terminate a conversation. Too certain of his own attractions, he supposed.

  Sobering, that thought. Perhaps Osborne had been right to rake him over the coals about his cavalier attitude.

  One of London's grimy street dwellers bumped into him. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Gov'nor.” The person stopped to look Nicholas up and down. So muffled in rags was this vagrant that he could not discern the gender.

  The beggar doffed his hat, thus revealing his sex. “Yer wouldn't ‘appen t'ave some spare change, now would ya, m'lord?” he wheezed.

  Nicholas shrugged, reached in his pocket, and produced an avalanche of silver.

  "Gor!” Hands full of the ready, the man dropped to his knees. “Thankee, Gov'nor. Thankee!"

  Nicholas waved a negligent hand and continued on his way. Perhaps he could not be faulted for his toplofty attitude. After all, he had everything the female race held dear—shallow souls that they were. When he was in the schoolroom, he had thought them easy. He found them easy still.

  Why should Mrs. Steele be any different? But instead of succumbing to his infamous magnetism, her eyes had seemed to coolly glitter, and she let loose with her criticism that he was not concerned about his sister's health.

  Hell, of course he cared about Georgiana! But women always convinced themselves they were about to breathe their last. The complaint never turned out to be anything more than the sniffles. All that worry over nothing.

  A prime example of a woman jumping to conclusions was when his mother summoned him home to attend Lord Rotterham's bedside. She had said he was dying. Dying! Hadn't Nicholas cashiered out of his beloved Navy and returned to the Rotterham county seat only to stumble across his father—in riding clothes?

  Nicholas could still remember how he had stammered in surprise on seeing his father up and about. “Sir! Sir, you are ... w-well,” he croaked inanely.

  "Disappointed, Brockton?” the Marquess had queried.

  That moment of Nicholas's life was etched in stone. All due to his mother's overactive imagination.

  Then an image of Georgiana resurfaced. Her usually lively, fair face was noticeably t
hinner, even to his uninterested eye.

  Nicholas let a breath of frosty air escape his lips. Perhaps he had misjudged the seriousness of her illness. Self-doubt, always a stranger to him, now crept into his thoughts. And Mrs. Steele's indifference to him did not help, either.

  To forget her slight to his manhood, he would banish his discomfort the only way he could think of, by visiting his latest paramour, Lady Fairfax. Yes, he would stop at the late baronet's house on Curzon Street and lose himself in Lillian's rounded curves and soft, pliant thighs.

  Jaunting up the stone steps to her townhouse, he silently saluted his friend again. Osborne had been right. Nicholas never extended his tolerance to true gentlewomen.

  Minutes later, he was admitted to Lillian's pink and gold boudoir. Lillian had all the attributes he admired in a woman: long, silvery-blonde hair, china-blue eyes, pink pouting lips, and an overabundance in those feminine areas he desired most. Lying on a divan, she wore his latest gift: a pale negligee, trimmed with the finest Brussels lace that afforded him a generous view of her famous bosom.

  "Ah, Lillian. I am damn glad to see you.” He gave her seductive pose the briefest glance, pecked her cheek with a kiss, and started undressing in front of the wall-length mirror.

  Might as well get this over and done with.

  Since her dearly departed baronet had been none too plump-in-the-pocket, there was no question as to whether she would accept his advances. Virtue, be damned!

  And, of course, he was quite a catch, even if he did not offer marriage. She, as well as all the others, unrealistically continued to hope.

  Lillian remained silent, and her brilliant blue eyes held a dangerous glint.

  Must be in a bit of a snit. The devil! Was he about to hear another sermon?

  Her gaze focused on his satin knee breeches. “Been to the Marriage Mart, have you, Nicholas? See anything of interest?” she asked, lips pursed.

  Her patience must have given out for she protested, “You have been absent from my bed for six nights in a row, Nicholas. Six!"

  Sitting beside her on the divan, he removed his black kid pumps, and ignored her querulous tone. “A devil of a boorish place, Almack's is. Inhabited by fools—” A pair of dark emerald eyes flashed in his memory. “And the like."

  He tossed his head to dismiss Mrs. Steele's presence.

  "That does relieve my mind—to a degree. But what about the new opera singer? I believe she is known as Raphaela? Can you possibly be bored by her, as well?” Lillian lightly touched his back, smoothing her hand down the lawn material of his shirt.

  He stiffened. Neither Lillian nor any of his other doxies should dare to question him on his affairs. No one had that right. But, since he was here to exorcise a particular demon, it would not do to antagonize Lillian.

  Leaning over her, he began to massage her already-erect nipples through the filmy negligee. As she moaned with pleasure, he forced a relaxed grin. “Do not concern yourself with others, m'dear. I am here, aren't I?"

  With that, he pressed down harder and overcame her previous indignation with a skillful and masterful kiss.

  Later that night, as Lillian slept contentedly beside him, he propped himself up on his elbows. For some reason, he felt dissatisfied.

  He stared at the large looking glass. His frowning image gazed back at him. Without a backward glance at tangle-haired Lillian, he swung his bare feet onto the floor. Tomorrow, or perhaps later in the day would be more accurate, he would pay a call on Rotterham House.

  Chapter Nine

  On the main floor of her home, Zeena watched the servants scurrying to-and-fro, carrying in vast numbers of fragrant offerings. What fun last night had been, dancing with all the handsomest men in London. And now she was receiving these beautiful flowers!

  She hummed a tune and danced her way around one of the columns in the front anteroom. Everything had been so splendid, and when Nicholas made his appearance at Almack's, why, she had come of age, hadn't she? Too bad of him not to ask her for a dance ... or even say hello. As if she were not important.

  A sting of a tear threatened to disturb her happiness. Oh, well. She would concentrate on the more pleasant memories of the evening.

  She took inventory of her day-after tributes. The flowers filled the immense room and also spilled into the Great Hall beyond. Sweet smells of delicate roses, exotic orchids, and scented lilies of the valley threatened to overwhelm her.

  An arrangement of many-petaled zinnias caught her eye. This was one swain's homage to her unusual name. How clever! Another beau sent a gaily colored bouquet featuring the red lilylike flower, amaryllis. More appropriate for her oldest sister, but Zeena bore no ill-will at this unintentional slight. Besides, a certain special someone had sent it. Perhaps he would come calling later today.

  She delightedly pressed her nose against each and every botanical display. How she was enjoying the first days of her London season.

  "Rawlins!"

  Oh, bother. It was her father descending the stairs. What was he doing up this early in the morning?

  Gathering in the edges of her poplin round gown, she hid behind one of the columns and stood stone-still.

  "Rawlins!” the Marquess bellowed again. “Remove these odoriferous weeds at once."

  As Rawlins hurried to hand his master his beaver top hat, Lord Rotterham muttered, “Like a damned funeral in here. Reminds me of my accident. All those accursed flowers."

  He consulted with the anteroom looking glass to straighten his hat. “I will be with the new Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh, at my club the rest of the day, Rawlins."

  The Marquess brushed off the butler's helping hands. “Don't bother about a carriage. Have to walk—must restore my olfactory sense to its proper functioning. These sickeningly sweet fumes. Bah! A jaunt down malodorous St. James should clear my nose."

  Zeena waited until she heard no further sounds. When she timidly peeked out from her position, her father's censorious gaze met hers.

  "By the time I return, Rawlins, I shall expect to find these pungent ... growths cleared from my house."

  As Lord Rotterham exited the mansion, Rawlins’ “Very good, milord,” followed him out.

  Zeena could contain herself no longer. “Rawlins, what shall I do? I just know we will be besieged with visitors this afternoon. How can we not have these flowers gracing our home? It is expected. And I cannot bear to part with a single one. Not the pansies, nor the St.-John's-worts, nor our common pimpernels."

  Nor the amaryllis arrangement from a handsome, young knight.

  She sighed. “Papa can be so heartless at times.” Her bottom lip quivered. If she were happy a few moments ago, her melancholy now seemed doubled.

  Rawlins shifted his weight, and produced a handkerchief for her. “Please do not concern yourself with this fragrant problem, Lady Zeena. We shall solve it. We shall scatter these flowers throughout the inner rooms. And, the ballroom is large enough to house most of your colorful garden."

  "Why, Rawlins, what a poetic phrase!"

  The proper, precise Rawlins did the unthinkable: he blushed. Zeena rewarded him with a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Rawlins. That will be perfect. I trust your judgment completely."

  She left her floral shop in the capable hands of the beaming butler, and searched for her sister. Georgie also received flowery tributes. Serry, too! Indeed, one of her friend's floral arrangements had an attached card heavily doused in masculine eau de cologne. The fragrance overpowered the flowers.

  Who sent it? Zeena picked up her skirts and raced up the stairs. Too bad of Serry not to be an early riser. Zeena could hardly wait until everyone reviewed their new gifts.

  * * * *

  Serenity sat at the satinwood worktable in her second floor bedroom. Although she'd heard Lord Rotterham's strident voice travel up from the main floor of the Rotterham mansion, she stayed glued to the desk. Some kind of drama was unfolding, but she had to finish what she started here.

  Last night, sh
e'd given Maggie instructions that she wasn't to be disturbed. Maggie would never dream of disobeying her. The dear!

  Sleep wasn't the reason for the closed doors. Serenity was busy writing her impressions of last night's Almack affair—while she still had a standing in society. Her unprofessional behavior with the Wycliffes’ son worried her. And Brockton's incomprehensible actions and cryptic accusations pricked at her conscience.

  When she finally descended the marble steps, would she be exposed as an impostor?

  She also had to postpone thinking about her experience with synesthesia. How frightening not to be able to trust one's own senses.

  Relegating these anxieties to the back burner in her mind, she put pen to paper and continued with her monograph.

  Chapter Ten

  Needing extra confidence to enter the lower depths of the Rotterham mansion, Serenity put on her favorite walking dress. She just might have to face the music—the music being the possibility that her false identity was being exposed this very minute by the ruthless Lord Brockton. What would she do if he “spilled the beans?” How could she talk her way out of this predicament?

  The Wycliffes would not be sympathetic. Edward Wycliffe would react with hostility—no doubt about that. Only one month into her research, and Mrs. Serry Steele would be revealed as an impostor. Damn!

  Maggie finished buttoning the last of the seed pearls up the high neck. “You do look a fair treat, Miss Serry."

  Serenity glanced at her image in the cheval mirror. She resembled a school marm from centuries past. Was that really her? The grey sprig muslin gown was plain enough to suit the most conservative tastes. White crêpe frills softly emphasized her throat and also encircled her wrists. How very feminine she felt!

  She gave her apparition a nod of approval, but the short curls around her forehead caused her a momentary pang of regret. She missed her sleek, long locks.

  Maggie consulted the ornate ormolu clock on the mantle. “Mercy, ‘tis ten minutes past one o'clock. Miss Serry, you must hurry and join the family in the Blue Velvet Drawing Room."