Regency Society Revisited

by Susanne Marie Knight

  As she stood, she spotted Lord and Lady Rotterham dining together. She banished her uncharitable thoughts and smiled in greeting.

  The Marquess’ gaze traveled from his son to her. Lord Rotterham returned her greeting with a dip of the head and gave Brockton a salute with his glass. For some reason, Edward Wycliffe looked very pleased—well satisfied.

  Brockton also seemed puzzled by his father's gesture, but smoothly went to her side to assist her from the table. His arm briefly touched her back. Warm vibrations wiggled down her spine. Pleasurable sensations—soft and furry—but her brain issued warnings to be wary.

  "I appreciate your, um, rescuing me from Lord Uffing's company, my lord. But I won't detain you any longer. I know you must have other plans.” She gestured at the still-seated blonde.

  "Are you dismissing me?” Brockton asked. “What a novel situation! However, my dear Mrs. Steele, I thought we could take a stroll to work off that vast meal. The Lyndon gardens are well-known in London. I could show you around. And, by the bye, Lady Fairfax does not figure in my plans."

  Before Serenity had a chance to say yea or nay, he lightly wrapped his arm around her, and steered her toward the balcony. Serenity, trying to shake those soft and furry sensations from her mind, allowed herself to be led.

  They walked into a beautiful courtyard lined with clipped yew hedges shaped like modern-day Popsicles. Strolling silently on the graveled path, they came to marble steps guarded by two inscrutable sphinxes. The cool, starry night air was a relief from the stuffy ballroom, and she relaxed under the influence of fragrant exotic flowers, champagne, and the touch of Brockton's arm.

  Inhaling deeply, she relaxed for the first time this evening and looked over at her companion. Amazing how he should have taken offense at her words ... but he didn't.

  What was he thinking? She admired his profile: the high forehead, straight nose, and his smooth, well-defined jaw. His features, though, gave no clue to his internal thoughts.

  She exhaled again. Of course it was unwise to relax in the presence of a rake, but then again, how else would she see how a professional seducer practiced his art? Something told her she wouldn't have long to wait.

  While she was looking up at the moon of the nineteenth century, Brockton stepped closer and brushed her ear with his lips.

  Suddenly she was no longer curious. An image of a brilliant peacock feather tickling her skin exploded in her mind. She frantically chased it away. Why did she always have these bouts of synesthesia when she needed all her wits about her?

  "That's not a good idea.” Retreating from him, she stumbled on the carpet of grass surrounding the walkway.

  He firmly gathered her back onto the path and they continued their walk, crunching small stones beneath their feet—the only sounds that broke the quiet.

  "You are right, of course. Not a good idea. Please forgive my momentary madness, my girl. Blame my lapse of good manners on this romantic atmosphere."

  A smile lurked about the corners of his mouth. He seemed so sure of himself—so certain she would respond to him. Certain of success.

  Anger coursed through her veins. “I am neither!” she denied hotly.

  "Neither what?"

  "Neither yours nor a girl.” She left his side again, but the darkness seemed almost tangible. The blackness of night distorted the manicured yew hedges into maniacal shapes. As the wind rustled close-cropped leaves, it was easy to imagine pairs of hands reaching out—grabbing her.

  She quickly returned to his comforting, yet infuriating nearness.

  "You are too literal with your words, are you not, Mrs. Steele?” A wolfish grin showed he enjoyed her unease. He circled his arm around her waist.

  His touch felt warm through her silky gown. Again she saw that peacock feather. When his fingers gently kneaded her skin, she flinched.

  "We should be getting back now. If you please.” She placed some space between them.

  Her report on a libertine's motus operanti would have to be glaringly omitted from the monograph. She was too nervous, too affected, and right now she didn't have time to study her reactions. Escape was utmost in her mind. “I've heard it's not at all the thing for a lady to be alone with a rake for any length of time."

  The term “rake” failed to trouble him. Probably had been called worse!

  "Is that how you see me? As a rake and a rutting buck?” He stopped walking, and leaned over her to trace an imaginary line down her forehead, nose, and lips.

  She shivered. “I don't know you well enough to venture an opinion. But we do need to return before anyone notices our absence."

  "You can start getting to know me by calling me ‘Nicholas.’”

  He drew her closer. She tried to push him away, but he held her tighter. Leaning down to nuzzle her ear with his nose, he whispered, “And I shall call you ‘Serry.’ What is that short for?"

  Without waiting for an answer, his lips met hers.

  She trembled, and after a brief hesitation, her lips opened slightly to welcome him. He deepened the kiss and their heated breaths mingled.

  Without meaning to, Serenity moaned. Snuggling closer, she drank in the taste of Nicholas Wycliffe.

  Alive. She finally felt alive.

  He tightened his arms around her, tilting her head back and exploring the inner recesses of her mouth.

  A flash of bold colors—crimson reds, scarlet pinks, and flaming oranges—rose up in her mind. Percussionist cymbals clashing sounded in her ears. As their mouths melded, her senses slowly spun out of her control....

  Colors? Cymbals? Serenity opened her eyes, sanity returning. She roughly pulled back from Brockton and his potent kiss.

  Her heart pounding a path out of her body, she shook her head to clear the last traces of the vision.

  The truth was obvious: Nicholas Wycliffe was responsible for plunging her into a world of synesthesia. His touch—no one else's. Just his touch turned her upside down, inside out.

  Good heavens! What was she going to do now?

  She slid her hands down her gown, ostensibly to straighten her garment, but in reality, she needed to steady her trembling body.

  As she did, he watched her. His eyes held a peculiar expression and his hands were tightly clenched by his sides. She stood mesmerized by the light of the full moon dancing brightly on his dark, wavy curls. She had to say something. Had to pretend his kiss meant nothing to her. Which was true, right? Absolutely nothing.

  She flicked her tongue over her lips before speaking. A mistake. She tasted him again. “Um, since you asked, Serry stands for Serenity. Now, if I understand society's conventions correctly, this outing could compromise you ... and me. We don't want that to happen, so I'll do us both a favor and leave. We'll forget about this...” Her voice cracked. “...this interlude by tomorrow. Good-night, my lord."

  Moving swiftly as if the hounds from hell nipped at her heels, she returned to the sanctuary of the ballroom.

  Nicholas watched the woman named Serenity leave. He sank down onto a bench, bathed in the night's fickle moonbeams. Why did he want her so badly? Why did kissing her burn like fire? What would it be like to bed her?

  As soon as possible, he would have to satisfy his curiosity.

  "Serenity,” he murmured, liking the sound of the word. “Serenity, we will not forget. I will see to that."

  He stood and slowly walked inside the mansion.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, in his dark, somber bedchamber on Hanover Square, Nicholas's emotions churned in turmoil thinking about the enigmatic Mrs. Steele. He pictured her slim black-garbed figure from the night before. How he longed to see her in bright colors and have her silky brown curls loose, released from artificial confinements. That she mourned for another man disturbed his male vanity.

  He wanted her; he wanted to possess all of her.

  Nicholas groaned and ran his hands over his heavy, thick hair. He furiously paced in front of the mirrored fireplace—as if that activity
could drive away the demons.

  She would be a worthy opponent to conquer. But the rewards, as promised in their intense kiss, would be infinitely satisfying.

  There was something about her, about the way she laughed, the way she looked at him. Behind her sophisticated veneer, she was a frightened girl—unsure of the world around her. He wanted to comfort and protect her, but he was no longer certain of his own ability to persuade her to come to his bed.

  She would not accept a carte blanche. He knew that now, for she had a will as strong as his own. What could he do, short of proposing marriage?

  Flinging himself into a comfortable chair facing the fireplace's glowing embers, he stared at the hypnotic light. Blast it! He was not hankering to get leg-shackled. He would not have his domestic bliss disrupted even for the likes of Serenity.

  Her name brought a reluctant smile to his lips. Serenity. After their kiss, she had spoken so coolly, with such apparent disinterest. But he was not gammoned. She could not hide the ardor she had felt.

  He had intended to tease her with that kiss—a punishment for labeling him “a rutting buck.” It was also meant as a warning, not to stroll outside with a noted rake. But her soft lips and deep sigh engendered a more passionate yearning within him. There had been no time to explore this new world Serenity had offered, for, in the next instant, she pulled away from the embrace.

  He pounded on the padded armrest with his fist. No! He would not marry to satisfy his craving for the woman. Something devilish queer about her. Playing a deep game of some sort. Hobnobbing with the Great Unwashed at the Covent Garden Market, residing in the notorious theatre district, attracting all sorts of ineligibles to her coterie—Colonel Jenkins, for one. Not the activities expected of a veritable nobody desiring admittance into the ranks of the haut ton. Perhaps he should check out her background—before he made a commitment.

  If he found out something to her disadvantage, he could use it as leverage in his dealings with her. It mattered not if it was blackmail. He rubbed his hands together, eager to learn some answers.

  Taking long strides to his writing table, he hastily composed a note to a friend in the Foreign Office. Old Quigley owed him a favor. Nicholas had pulled Quigley's wet-behind-the-ears son out from the clutches of a grasping abbess some time ago. Quigley had been no end grateful. The old man would be glad to help out.

  Nicholas would ask Quigley to check the war records of the deceased Lieutenant Gerald Steele and his family. If there were any discrepancies, any at all, Nicholas would pounce on Mrs. Steele. There would be no escape for her. And if Quigley failed to find anything of significance, Nicholas could always ask the Foreign Secretary, Robert Stewart, to dig deeper. Lord Castlereagh and his father were as thick as thieves these days.

  Nicholas completed his note and tugged on the bellpull for his valet. The servant entered and helped him into his tight-fitting blue superfine tail coat.

  Walking to the mirror, Nicholas surveyed his image. He was pleased with his appearance and with the cleverness of his plan.

  * * * *

  Serenity awakened late. Unusual for her. She couldn't blame her inability to rise on the long hours of the Lyndon ball or her work on the monograph. Her reaction to Brockton's unexpected kiss had to shoulder its fair share of the blame.

  Hugging her knees into her chest, she sat up in bed. Her long white nightgown modestly hid every inch of skin except her hands and face—which was a good thing. Her flesh burned red. Burying her head in the fine lawn fabric, she vividly recollected every sensation she experienced in Brockton's arms. As she recalled the earthy taste of his lips, a delicious thrill traveled down her back.

  One part of her mind warred with the other. She was being ridiculous, just like a silly schoolgirl. That kiss had meant nothing to him. He seduced for a living, for heaven's sake! She knew better than to get involved.

  Her professional sentiment smugly chastised her. She was here on assignment, not to fall in lust.

  But her emotional side had a counter argument. It had been, hmm, she lost count ... eons since an embrace, let alone a man's mere presence, had aroused her. Whatever Brockton had, she was vulnerable to it. And on top of that, he induced synesthesia in her.

  She had to face facts. Nicholas Wycliffe was an extremely virile man and Serenity never claimed to be a nun.

  But thoughts of sexual involvement, however pleasant, had to be banished. Her study could become biased. Not to mention the awkwardness an intimate relationship could bring to all parties concerned.

  Serenity groaned and fell back against the comfortable down-filled blanket. Enough coddling. Time to write some notes from the ball.

  Settling in at her battered desk, she lifted her pen. Just as she was about to write, Maggie bustled into the bedchamber.

  "Oh, Miss Serry!” the maid called out. “I'm so glad I heard you stirring. Otherwise, would have had t'wake you. Must come see your flowers. Two dozen at least, I'm sure! The smell sends me back t'my birthplace—with fields of wild flowers scenting the twilight air."

  The small girl twirled around Serenity's cluttered room and tripped over a bandbox. Maggie laughed self-consciously. “Forgot myself, ma'am. But you must dress and see these bouquets for yourself."

  Serenity smiled and shook her head to indicate the flowers would wait.

  Maggie insisted. “But you must dress, for soon we will be awash in gentleman callers. ‘Tis the thing for Society nobs t'go a-courting the lady that caught their fancy the night b'fore."

  Thinking back to the Almack visit and the next day's avalanche of visitors, Serenity sighed in resignation and closed her notebook.

  "Yes, I suppose you're right, Maggie."

  While she and Maggie discussed the merits of two charming gowns, a knock sounded at the door.

  Mrs. Hepplewhite, the cook, slowly entered, obviously ill-at-ease to be out of her kitchen domain. She brought in the latest addition to Serenity's flowers: a delicate arrangement of white orchids.

  "How lovely.” Serenity took the orchids and glanced at the attached card. The bold writing of Lord Brockton slashed across the creamy white enclosure.

  Did this mean that he would pay her a visit today? Her heart skipped a beat, then she realized Mrs. Hepplewhite was talking.

  "...and so I says to Beasley, ‘These fine gentlemen, when they come a-callin', won't think our Missus is a proper lady—unless she has a companion present.’ ‘Wot shall we do?’ asks Beasley, his rubber face all full of concern. ‘Cuz you must know, ma'am, the old curmudgeon is as fond of you as I am. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘I cannot play the part. One look at me and these high-flyin’ gents will smell a rat for sure. It must be Morley that chaperons our lady for these visits.’”

  Mrs. Hepplewhite ceased her discourse and gestured to the open-mouthed Maggie. “Of course, you be too young by half. But with a little rice powder and a couple o'pillows for paddin', you'd make a presentable missus."

  Mrs. H. was right! How could Serenity have forgotten the need for a companion? She thanked the cook for her quick thinking and urged her two employees out the door to see to the disguise. When Serenity was alone, she raised her gaze to the ceiling. Heaven help her through this decidedly mad tea party! One false move, and haut ton censure could come tumbling down upon her shoulders. Navigating the rocky shoals of Regency society was becoming awfully difficult. Risky business.

  Just think, she only had nine months left.

  * * * *

  Sitting in the cramped drawing room, Serenity could feel the afternoon drag. A headache pounded through her temples. After she grew accustomed to Maggie's clever, aging disguise, Serenity's constant stream of gentlemen and nosybodies tired her. Though the visits were curtailed to the socially correct limit of thirty minutes, Beasley kept announcing another batch of curious callers the moment the previous ones left.

  Brockton hadn't arrived—yet. She wished he would hurry.

  Barely hiding a yawn behind her ungloved fingers, Serenity let her mind wa
nder. Her current guest, the now-fawning Mrs. Piedmont, spoke of her pleasure at visiting the popular Mrs. Steele. When she first met Mrs. Piedmont at Almack's, the woman barely concealed her sniff of disdain at Serenity's humble origins. But now....

  "I am so delighted to have another kindred spirit to talk with, Mrs. Steele,” the matron blathered on.

  Serenity, a kindred spirit? Unbelievable! The woman then complimented her decorating skills in this room.

  "Why, thank you, Mrs. Piedmont. How kind of you to say so.” Looking at the Egyptian couch and sarcophagus, Serenity couldn't imagine a more horrendous choice of furniture. As Lady Rotterham had once told her, renting houses had its drawbacks.

  Serenity briefly touched her throbbing temples. Maggie must have noticed for she rose from her corner of the room.

  "Perhaps you'd best rest now, my dear,” she said solicitously. “You know the doctor ordered you t'take it easy."

  Maggie turned to Mrs. Piedmont. “Poor thing is still not over Lieutenant Steele's death, you know. I must keep a constant watch on her.” Maggie tried so hard to speak proper English. Serenity was proud of her.

  Mrs. Piedmont jumped to her feet with alacrity. “I understand completely. It is unnatural for a woman to be without a man. I thank my stars everyday that I am blessed with Mr. Piedmont."

  But was the feeling mutual? Then the woman came to the reason for her visit. “My dear cousin, the Duchess of Lyndon, mentioned Lady Rotterham's small soirée Friday next. Oh, I have got that wrong—Friday, the seventeenth, it is. A party honoring her lovely child, Zeena. Only intimate friends will attend, so I am told. As you are close with the Marchioness and her girls, could you secure an invite for me and my darling Patricia? I would be forever in your debt. Patricia has developed a tendre for Lady Rotterham's handsome son, wicked child that she is! She is driving Mr. Piedmont and I to distraction with her moonings over Lord Brockton."