Regency Society Revisited

by Susanne Marie Knight

  Mistaken? I don't think so! “The one who just waved at you."

  "Oh, her,” he drawled. “That is Raphaela. A pity she is only tolerably good."

  Where? On stage or in bed? His conceit spurred Serenity on. “Maybe your standards are too high, Lord Brockton. The other men don't seem to find fault with her performance."

  A quick look at the surrounding boxes confirmed her statement. All the men were riveted by Raphaela's performance—or her person.

  "Perhaps you are right, my dear. Do you think I should lower my standards?"

  They were talking on different levels. Brockton was a sly one, that was for sure. Before she had a chance to reply, he added, “And are we back to surnames now? I did look forward to calling you ‘Serenity.’ At least between us."

  "Call her whatever you please, Nicky. But be quiet about it!” Amaryllis hissed from the back. “Never saw such a pair of gabsters!"

  Serenity exchanged a guilty look with Brockton then turned back to the opera. She enjoyed sparring with him. At times he could be such fun.

  When intermission began, the men excused themselves to get refreshments. Lady Rotterham and Amaryllis gave their order, and Zeena slipped into Brockton's seat.

  "Did you ask Nicholas about Sir Rodney?” she asked breathlessly.

  Serenity bit her lip. “I didn't know I was supposed to."

  "Oh, please do. I spotted him—there he is, sitting across the way, with an older man and woman. His brows are so drawn. He actually glowered at Nicholas. I do not think he will be stopping by our box—to chat."

  Zeena looked so dejected, Serenity was glad a few of her admirers entered their box. They'd distract her—coax a smile to her face.

  The men reappeared, bringing chilled sherry punch and shrimp pâté. Brockton returned to his seat. Serenity glanced over at Rodney and saw him watching Brockton. The expression on the knight's face was murderous.

  The woman by his side, however, fluttered a handkerchief at Brockton. In response, he inclined his head.

  Now, when Serenity wanted him to talk, of course he kept quiet. Well, for Zeena's sake, the question had to be asked. “Who's that woman sitting by Sir Rodney Presson?"

  He slowly raised his eyebrow and answered politely, “Mrs. Jones. Constance Jones—Presson's sister. May I ask why you care to know?"

  If only the curtains would rise again, but intermission wasn't over yet. She'd have to reply. “I was just wondering, um, have you noticed that Sir Rodney doesn't seem to like you? In fact, to put it bluntly, I'd say he despises you. Why is that?"

  Brockton's expression went wooden. Maybe she had been too blunt. “I don't normally pry, but, from the way he looks now, your days are, um, numbered. Perhaps it's not safe to sit by you!” A little humor usually eased uncomfortable situations.

  Brockton didn't respond. He studied her through gleaming eyes. Then suddenly, he smiled. Good, he realized she was joking.

  "I must confess I am at sea as to why young Presson dislikes me. Demmed provoking—"

  He stopped mid-sentence. Mrs. Jones smiled at him again and Rodney's color bordered on vermilion red.

  "Oh dear! It looks as if he's itching for a fight. Or a duel.” This time Serenity wasn't kidding about Brockton being in danger. “Oh, look! He's standing—leaving his box. You don't think he's coming over here? Good heavens, I think he wants to kill you!"

  In her agitation, she pulled on her ear lobe, forgetting about her pierced earrings. A diamond stud fell out, and a trickle of blood appeared.

  Brockton instantly pulled out his handkerchief, and pressed it against her wound. He leaned over to her. “Dear child, lower your voice."

  Serenity glanced around but fortunately the others in the booth were occupied. They hadn't heard her outcry. She touched her ear to hold the cloth in place, and bumped hands with Brockton. A strong whiff of almonds hit her, as did an image of angel food cake. When he removed his hand, the sensations vanished.

  "I do thank you for your concern, my dear. Very affecting. Plus the endearment. I had not counted on that. But be assured, I can handle young Presson. I believe I have an inkling now what is troubling him. Though he was but a stripling at the time. And, if it does not bother her, then...."

  Brockton retrieved Serenity's earring, and placed it in her hand. “Do not worry, I will set Presson aright.” He stood, and patted her shoulder. “Be back."

  After he left, Zeena caught her attention and mouthed, “What is going on?"

  The curtain rose, signaling the end of conversation, so Serenity responded by spreading her hands out wide. What was happening in the hallway? She didn't know. Who had Brockton been talking about: “If it doesn't bother her"?

  Serenity fiddled with her injured ear. And what endearment?

  All through the second act, she paid more attention to the noises in the corridor than to the stage. Just as the second interval started, Brockton strolled through the door as if nothing had been amiss. He nodded to Lady Rotterham, to his sisters, then returned to Serenity's side. Even in the dim light, she saw a bruise under his eye and a slightly swollen lip. Other than that, his appearance was flawless, as always.

  She looked across the way. Rodney hadn't returned to his chair. Gesturing for Zeena to stay away, Serenity leaned over and whispered, “What happened?"

  Brockton smoothed his hair back and sighed. “Young pup was spoiling for a fight. Had been, I imagine, for ten years. Seems he was defending his sister's honor. So I let him throw a punch or two."

  Ah, an old paramour. That explained it. “And where's Sir Rodney?"

  "Serenity! You wound me. Instead of tending to my badges of bravery and extending me comfort, you are concerned about that fledgling."

  "You look old enough to take care of yourself, Lord Brockton."

  Placing a hand over his heart, he moaned, “Lord Brockton, again? Cruel woman. Old enough? A double blow. I am not in my dotage yet, madam."

  Serenity smiled her amusement. “I didn't say you were.” She dabbed at his lip with his handkerchief that she still held. “There. All better."

  Zeena looked over again—impatient for information. Serenity needed to force the issue. “Now, where's Presson?"

  Brockton nodded back at yet another box containing a woman in revealing décolletage. He took a sip of wine. “Warm,” he pronounced.

  "Brockton,” Serenity warned.

  "That is an improvement. More personal, Serenity. Although not as personal as Nichol—"

  Her eyes narrowed.

  "Yes, well,” he quickly continued, “after our encounter, Presson came out a bit worse for wear. Nothing serious. Just superficial. He decided to return home. By the bye, his sister, Mrs. Jones and I had an, er, understanding ten years ago—before I signed up with the Navy. I thought she knew the rules of the game, being married and all. Silly chit had dreamed that we would run away together. I suppose she took our parting badly. Must have blabbed about her sorrow to the young lad. He has been nursing the grudge all this time—poor chap. You can see how broken-hearted Constance still is."

  Serenity glanced at the woman. She was now flirting with an elderly roué in the box next to hers.

  "Devastated,” Serenity replied.

  Brockton grinned, stretching the swollen skin on his lips. “I see we have a meeting of the minds. Good."

  She felt herself melting from the warmth of that smile. The charmer! Couldn't let him divert her from her purpose. “But how does he feel about you now? I mean, do you think Presson can learn to put up with you?” She'd have to find that out. Zeena would want to know.

  "The deuce! What an odd question. Serenity, most people learn to love me, once they get to know me.” He reached out to touch her face, but she thwarted him, and stood.

  "Perhaps I'd best keep calling you ‘Lord Brockton’ then. I mustn't get too familiar.” Which translated into I can't allow myself to love you.

  Jokingly said, but she meant every word. She could not permit herself to even think of love.<
br />
  "Would you save my seat?” she asked unnecessarily. Without waiting for a reply, she tapped Zeena on the shoulder to accompany her, then left the box.

  * * * *

  After the opera's finale, the crowd demanded curtain calls. Lady Rotterham adjusted her toque and rose. “Now is the time to depart, my dears. I fear the masses can become quite unruly and unmanageable."

  Brockton went to offer Serenity his arm, but she already positioned herself at the booth's doorway. Whether it was the stale air or the close proximity to him, she didn't know, but something was causing her heart to race.

  He shrugged, then helped Amaryllis stand.

  Once out in the corridor, it was obvious other theater-goers had the same idea to leave early. It was jam-packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, or, to use Regency cant, a decided crush. The Wycliffe party merged into the throng.

  Good thing Serenity had moved away from Brockton. Otherwise she would've found herself literally plastered against him. As it was, she shared this intimacy with two plump dowagers.

  Thus squeezed, she overheard Lady Rotterham and Cecil sharing complaints about the indignities of being pushed and shoved down the hallways. Serenity glanced over at her other companions to see how they fared. Zeena and Amaryllis were actually laughing! Must enjoy the unusual sensation of being jostled by complete strangers.

  A new sensation for them maybe, but too similar to subways during rush hour for Serenity's tastes. Amazing how so many people could be stuffed into such small areas, be it narrow corridors or narrow railway cars. Personal space deteriorated to eye-to-eye contact. Close contact.

  Somehow that thought brought Nicholas Wycliffe to mind. Looking over at him, she flushed. He shot her a wink, aware of her discomfort. How embarrassing to have two greying female heads butted up against her breasts, talking to each other from either side of her. Of course, it could've been worse. They could have been male heads.

  Miraculously, everyone made it safely down the stairs into the main salon. Just as Serenity reached one of the theater doors, she spotted a blonde man, familiar to her.

  Oh no, Colonel Jenkins!

  And he spotted her, too. He exclaimed, “Mrs. Steele!” Was there anger in his voice, as well as surprise?

  She didn't have the nerve to face him—not tonight. A quick glance around told her the rest of her party were someplace outside. But where? Where should she go?

  Seeing Brockton, she inched over in his direction. He was speaking with a distinguished older man. She hated to interrupt but Jenkins was heading her way—fast. She tapped on Brockton's arm. “Could we please go? I can't find your mother and...."

  Brockton looked down at her, his face unreadable.

  "Please?” If she had to beg, she'd beg. She didn't want a scene.

  He raised that infernal eyebrow of his. Maybe he wouldn't notice Jenkins. The last thing she wanted to do was to discuss her personal problems with the patronizing Brockton.

  "Of course, my dear,” he said suavely. Before she could blink, he managed to maneuver her out the door.

  "Whew,” she murmured. After lying to Jenkins, her being at Covent Garden Theatre was like a slap in the face—his face. He didn't look like the kind of man who could forgive being deceived.

  "Is there something you wanted to tell me?” Brockton asked.

  "No, nothing.” Noticing that he linked their arms, she tried to disengage. She couldn't bear the sweet scent of hyacinths filling her mind. Hyacinths? Why flowers?

  But he wouldn't let her get away. “Now, now, dear Serenity. You wanted my escort, and so you have it.” He firmly tucked her hand over his arm and sensuously slid his fingers over her gloved skin.

  "Ah, there you are, my dears. Thought you were right behind us. Don't dawdle now. Here is our barouche.” Lady Rotterham gestured to the vehicle in front of her.

  Serenity gladly pulled her arm away from her tormentor and followed the Marchioness into the carriage.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Serenity looked around the Rotterham Mansion ballroom. It was as vast as the Lyndons', and also glittered with sparkling light from two mammoth crystal chandeliers. A white ceiling, inlaid with rectangular artistic panels and delicate gold filigree, gave it a French provincial look.

  Buzzing around her were conversations from the many guests squeezed within these ornate walls. Some faces were known to her, but most were strangers.

  Tonight was her off-duty night. No formal observations, no probing questions. Just relaxation. Since arriving back in 1812, she'd been working hard. It was time to kick back and forget about monographs, fieldwork, and ethnology—scientific mumbo-jumbo. Tonight, she would have fun.

  Taking a deep breath, Serenity faced the crowd. A decided crush! She smiled. In this case, a crush meant the party was a success. The soirée was, of course, for Zeena, but Serenity enjoyed the status of honored guest.

  Dressing the part of a widowed dowager, she chose a simple purple gown, trimmed with black—one of her twenty-first century selections. But the purple that had appeared somber in her bedroom, now took on a glow in the shimmering candlelight. It almost lit up the room on its own. Too bad she didn't bring a shawl to hide the incandescent color. Oh well.

  Spotting Lord Harrison Osborne, she headed his way.

  "Serry! May I be the first to compliment you on your devastating appearance? Bang up to the nines, as usual. Put everyone else in the shade. That vivid purple stands out in this sea of insipid whites and pinks."

  "Oh! Is it too much?” Now she was really worried. Amazing how people gossiped over the least little thing. She fingered her dress, wishing the color would fade.

  Harry smiled. Funny, she hadn't noticed his dimples before.

  "Dear lady, you are exceptional regardless of attire. Regardless of where you go. Even to the Covent Garden Marketplace.” He placed a well-manicured hand on his chest and bowed his head. “Think I have lost my heart.” Meeting her gaze, his chestnut-colored eyes twinkled.

  Serenity wasn't fooled by his impudence. “Am I supposed to respond, ‘Oh la, sir! You do me too much honor'?"

  They both laughed at society's ridiculous formalities. She liked joking with him. He was so easy to get along with, so even tempered, unlike his friend.

  She broke their companionable silence. “So, Harry, have you found your ‘suitable’ wife yet?"

  He sputtered and coughed so violently, Serenity pounded his back to control the spasm. Many people took note of the proceedings. More grist for the mill!

  "Damme, Serry!” he managed to utter, wiping the moisture from his eyes. “Damme, if you are not the most unconventional woman."

  He recovered himself, and flicked the last bit of wetness from his lashes. “Must think I am ten shades of a fool with my behavior when first we met. Suitable wife, indeed. Pompous ass, what? But, I was, er, just trying to get my bearings around you, Serry. As I said, you are an exceptional girl."

  He meant it—no mistake about it. She flushed at the compliment. He held his hand up, first touching her fingertips, then pressing his hand down the length of hers. They stood, palm to palm, as if making a pledge—a promise. Of friendship, of course.

  "How affecting!” A deep voice invaded their communion. “I see I must solicit a dance with the Willowy Widow before Osborne corners all her time."

  At Nicholas Wycliffe's words, Serenity and Harry broke their contact. Of all people, why did Brockton have to find them in this intimate position? Not that she and Harry were intimate.

  Not that it was any of Brockton's business.

  Harry looked embarrassed too. Snapping open her ivory fan, Serenity waved it furiously, to dissipate her heat.

  "Lord Brockton,” she acknowledged, taking in his superbly cut, tightly fitted deep grey tail coat. The color matched his eyes. His muscular thighs strained the cloth against his legs. He was perfect. Didn't he ever appear rumpled?

  "What a surprise to see you here, sir. Your mother was certain you wouldn't attend.” Serenity didn't sa
y that Edward Wycliffe made a wager with his wife that their son would make an appearance. Why had the Marquess been so certain?

  "And,” Serenity added quickly, “you are mistaken. I am not dancing tonight."

  As Brockton bent to kiss her gloved fingers, he murmured, “Pity. But perhaps I can change your mind."

  The audacity of the fellow! She and Harry exchanged looks. He must've thought the same thing. Serenity was about to make an uncivil retort, but Harry came to her rescue.

  "Mrs. Steele is your parents’ guest. Surely even you, Brockton, would not force her—against her will."

  Harry and Brockton seemed to be at a standoff.

  Brockton flipped open a tiny decorated box, and unconcerned about the tension, took a pinch of something. Was it snuff? He closed the blue and gold box.

  "Force, Osborne? I never force a lady. But, pardon me. With all these words, I forgot I have a commission to execute. M'sister Zeena wishes a word with you, m'dear. Come along."

  He tucked Serenity's hand inside his crooked arm and nodded dismissal at his friend. Serenity didn't protest. She called back to Harry, “See you later,” and could've sworn she heard him say, “You can count on it."

  As they passed the other guests, she admonished her escort. “That was very bad of you. There's no need for you and Harry to be at ... loggerheads."

  "Were we, m'dear? I hadn't noticed."

  He was infuriating! “I must say, Lord Brockton, you do seem to delight in setting everyone's dander up."

  "Only yours.” He patted her hand. “Haven't seen you since the opera. Where have you been hiding? I believe I left my card at your residence a few times. Bull of a butler you have, Serenity. The look of him makes me shudder! Insisted you were out. Didn't have the temerity to tell him I did not believe him."

  Serenity laughed, remembering Beasley's accounts of Brockton's visits. “Beasley may look rough, but he's a gem. And I have been busy. So much to do,” she said vaguely.

  Brockton looked down at her, his eyes lazy. “Ah yes. Crowded social calendar. Frequent market visits."

  At his mocking tone, she studied his face. Serious, but those grey eyes laughed at her. She wanted to laugh back but.... “What does Zeena want to see me about?” she questioned to change the subject.