Regency Society Revisited

by Susanne Marie Knight

  "Something about joining her for the first dance. Fidgety, she said. And you are the other guest of honor."

  Serenity opened her mouth to protest, but decided against it. Zeena would have none of it. That girl could persuade the devil himself into attending church!

  "So, you knew all along I'd have to dance tonight. One of these days, Nicholas Wycliffe, you are going to get in over your head,” Serenity prophesied.

  "Moi?" he asked innocently.

  "Yes, you,” she parried.

  With difficulty, they weaved through Zeena's admirers and reached her side.

  "Serry!” she exclaimed, giving Serenity a kiss. “What a time I am having! Isn't this wonderful?"

  Zeena's eyes looked overbright. Her gaiety was forced.

  "I declare, with so many gentlemen, to whom shall I grant the first dance?” Zeena's beaux all surged forward, eager to be the chosen one.

  Serenity glanced about the throng. Sir Rodney Presson was nowhere in sight. “Why not your brother?” she offered, trying to postpone the inevitable with Brockton.

  "Oh no! How positively gauche that would be.” Zeena laughed sharply. “No, Nicholas is to dance with you. I shall choose...” She closed her eyes and stretched out her arm. “...You!"

  A slender young man stammered his gratitude to the vivacious Zeena. She dismissed the others and stated the dancing would soon begin.

  "Couldn't fob me off, could you?” Brockton whispered in Serenity's ear. The sensation tickled her down to her toes, as well as flooded her mind with scenes of wind-tossed daisies.

  She wrinkled her nose at him in reply. Sometimes it seemed that he could read her mind.

  Musicians, obeying a nod from Lady Rotterham, started their program. The melody sounded familiar, and when Serenity identified the first dance, relief flooded through her. The minuet required only the slightest body contact between partners. She wouldn't have to worry about a prolonged synesthesia attack.

  Leading her onto the ballroom floor, Brockton murmured, “Shall we?"

  After elaborate bows, Serenity settled into the pattern of turns, glides, and steps that the minuet demanded. She observed Brockton, surprised to see him perform the dance so gracefully. His dark, randomly curled hair seemed at odds with the stylized dance. Holding her breath, she caught a glimpse of Nicholas Wycliffe as he should be, as he was meant to be: behind the helm of a huge ship, controlling the sea, the same as he controlled his men.

  Following her instincts, she asked, “You miss the Navy, don't you?"

  "What the devil?” His eyebrows formed a “V” of displeasure. Anger shot out from his steely gaze.

  In accordance with the dance, their fingertips touched and they circled each other. This action seemed to help him collect himself. He asked in a lower tone, “What makes you say that?” No longer was he the teasing gallant.

  Before she could speak, he continued, “I understand now, Mrs. Steele. Being a soldier's wife, you believe everyone is enamored of the military way of life. Not so. Why should I yearn to return to the thick of battle? I have my share of scars, earned the hard way. I have done my duty. I am enjoying the spoils of my labors."

  "Enjoy” was not the word Serenity would use to describe him. His eyes glittered hard and cold. Even his movements stiffened. She suddenly shivered in the warm room.

  "Please. I didn't mean to upset you. Or bring back sad memories. It was just an innocent question.” He was unhappy—she could feel it. A peculiar longing came over her. She wanted to ... kiss away that unhappiness. And perhaps do more....

  Her stomach tightened in knots.

  "Your concern is unnecessary, m'dear.” His smile didn't reach his eyes. “I fully comprehend your dalliance with Colonel Jenkins now. Your kind are known as camp followers."

  "But—” Serenity cut short her protest. The minuet separated them again. Then the dance ended.

  Brockton didn't give her a chance to say another word. He silently escorted her to his mother's side, his face a study in granite. After formally bowing and thanking Serenity for the dance, he walked away.

  She watched him mingle with the guests. He openly flirted with the most attractive young women of the season.

  The sting of tears blurred Serenity's vision. She wanted Nicholas Wycliffe's high regard. And, although she knew she shouldn't, maybe she wanted even more.

  How could she have been so stupid? Of course he missed the Navy! Every pore in his body shouted the fact. She could see that now. She'd been wrong about him. Not too long ago she told him—to his face—he didn't seem like military material. Damn. Did she have chutzpah!

  Funny though, he hadn't taken offense then.

  She took one more look at Brockton. He was laughing with a top-heavy tootsie. Naturally. But why did it rankle so?

  Whispering her intention into her hostess’ ear, Serenity retreated to the powder room.

  * * * *

  With an amused chuckle, Edward Wycliffe observed Serry Steele's departure from the ballroom. Events were proceeding very nicely. Very nicely indeed. He directed his attention toward his son, who was playing the fool with another one of those vapid society misses. Brockton casually turned his head in Serry's previous direction. He betrayed a sudden start, obviously nonplused at her disappearance.

  Brockton then scanned the room for a purple-garbed figure. Lord Rotterham's smile deepened. Excellent. Serry was now on the marble staircase. Brockton saw her and abruptly left his amply endowed companion.

  The Marquess had to laugh aloud.

  "It is good to hear you laugh, my lord. But what is so amusing?” Lady Rotterham turned toward him, her brow puckered with concern.

  "Sylvia, my dear, don't look so Friday-faced. As it happens, I am just observing our son. Speaking of Nicholas, I won the wager, you know."

  His wife blushed under his gaze. How refreshing she could still do so. “I intend to collect tonight,” he added.

  "Edward!” She reddened further. “Edward, it is unseemly to speak of such matters.” She self-consciously adjusted her décolletage.

  "All for naught, madam. I am aware of what lies beneath yon muslin."

  He goaded her past endurance. She responded by giving him a playful rap with her fan. “Do behave, dear. I shall pay up as I promised. Gladly."

  They shared an intimate wink.

  "It is odd about Nicholas, though,” she continued. “Seems as if he has been living in our pocket ever since—"

  "Ever since?” the Marquess prompted.

  A sudden notion appeared to strike her. “Ever since Serry arrived in London with us."

  Sylvia looked at him to confirm her suspicions. He didn't disappoint her. “Yes m'dear. I do believe the wind is blowing in that direction, though neither of them is aware of it—as yet."

  The Marchioness trembled—obviously trying to contain her urge to make an immediate announcement. “I do wish they'd hurry,” she complained. “I cannot wait to begin planning the wedding arrangements."

  Edward smiled fondly at his wife.

  * * * *

  After leaving that simpering ninny in the ballroom, Nicholas had no particular destination in mind. He certainly was not about to follow Serenity Steele's glaringly purple form up the stairs. Probably off to an assignation, anyway. If not with the Jenkins fellow, then with some other bumpkin dressed up in regimentals. Damn it. The knowledge that she preferred military men burned him. He felt inadequate, insignificant, and yes, impotent.

  Hell and damn!

  Running his hand through his hair, he looked around for a drink. Time to submerge his sorrows. He signaled to Rawlins and took two brandies off the butler's tray. Just as Brockton was about to down a glass, he spotted a familiar face.

  Quigley! Old Quigley from the Foreign Office. Blast, the old man must have information on Serenity by now. Sent the note almost two weeks ago. No word from Quigley since. Well, he would corner the old curmudgeon.

  Nicholas caught Quigley's attention and gestured for him to follow. T
he old man sighed, probably with resignation, for he obeyed without question. Too many years as a servant to the government. Nicholas laughed and closed the door to the Gold Salon.

  "Won't be bothered in here, Quigley. Out of the way. How is your son?"

  The reluctant informant made himself comfortable and muttered something about nursing a viper. Polishing his spectacles, he appeared to be stalling for time.

  "Well?” Nicholas asked brusquely.

  Quigley knew what was expected of him. “Took some time, milord. Aye, that it did. Took some research. Gerald Steele was an insignificant soldier. Like most of them in His Majesty's Army. We don't have much on him."

  Brockton waited. Quigley's preference for the Naval branch of the armed forces was obvious. But there had to be more about Steele. There had to be some inconsistencies in Serenity's background.

  The old man pushed his spectacles back on his broad nose. “Killed last August, you know. At Badajoz—Spaniard country. A noble battle. Hero's burial, and all.” He lapsed into silence again.

  "And his wife?"

  "Not much on her, milord. Not born in Blanchland. That's where she and Gerald lived. No children. No parents. After he died, she left the hamlet."

  Nicholas paced the room. None of these facts differed from Serenity's account. And yet he firmly believed there was something havey-cavey about her.

  Quigley cleared his throat. “Oh, yes. One other item. The Crown owes Sarah her husband's back wages. Not much, but I'm sure the widow could use the amount. Haven't been able to locate her all these months."

  Nicholas's pacing came to an immediate halt. “Sarah!” he barked. “Sarah?"

  The old man seemed to shrink in his chair. “Aye, milord. Didn't I mention that? Mrs. Steele's former name was Sarah Flanders."

  Rubbing his hands together, Nicholas anticipated a revealing tête-à-tête with Serenity Steele. Granted, the name “Sarah” was similar to “Serry.” He would have a difficult time convincing anyone that Serenity was an impostor on that alone. But “Flanders.” Now that had possibilities. If Serenity failed to tell him the correct last name, he could threaten her with exposure.

  The key word here was “if.” At least he could try to trip her up. Anything to gain leverage over the damn woman.

  Nicholas belatedly remembered his manners and thanked old Quigley. This new knowledge gave Nicholas courage to seek out Serenity Steele once more.

  He reentered the ballroom, his purpose fixed. Searching the room for Serenity, he spotted her in a comfortable coze with Amaryllis.

  "Nicky!” his sister greeted. “I vow I have seen more of you these past two weeks than in twenty years. And, here you are, at Zeena's come-out party. How brotherly of you! Father said you would attend."

  A sudden urge to murder his sister overcame Nicholas, but he squelched it. Looking over at Serenity, he saw she was amused. He blandly replied that Amaryllis was looking well.

  "Oh, la! I am as plump as a pig. You are roasting me again.” She laughed at her witticism, and turned to Serenity. “You must know Nicky's been in short supply at his townhouse. Ever since Sedgwick and I have taken up residence. But, lord, Nicky's been popping up and escorting us here and there, at the opera, at the—"

  Nicholas had to stop Ammie's chatter. Serenity might get the idea he had been breaking his fast from the ton because of her—which he wasn't. Not at all. It was a curse having an older sister. How could he get rid of her?

  "Ammie, dear.” He took her hand to stop its constant motion. “Ammie, I ran into Sedgwick in the card room. Said he wanted a word with you."

  He would pay for this subterfuge later. But for now, he wanted to be alone with Serenity.

  Amaryllis was diverted. “Sedgwick? Wants to see me? How odd.” She gave Serenity a brief hug. “Now do enjoy yourself, my dear. No more mopes."

  Leaning into Nicholas's ear, she whispered, “Caught her hiding out in the powder room."

  She said her farewells, and just as he thought he had succeeded in banishing her, she turned around and commanded, “And don't forget to dance with Zeena, Nicky."

  He and Serenity were silent a moment. “A bit much, isn't she?” he ventured. Had Serenity been despondent because of him?

  She laughed a little nervously. “Yes, your sister put us both in our places."

  He watched her eyes regain some sparkle. She looked so vulnerable, so lovely. God, he wanted her.

  She smiled as if entertained. “I've been meaning to tell you. Or should I say warn you? Mrs. Piedmont is aiming to gain you as a son-in-law."

  Her statement shook him out of his reverie. “The devil! Is that so?"

  He glanced over the crowded room and found the toad-eating dragon. Her unattractive daughter stood by her side. Patricia Piedmont was a sorry sight. “I am obliged to you for this information, m'dear. I shall have a care not to find myself in a compromising situation with young Patricia."

  Serenity giggled. He liked the sound. She bit her lip as if to summon courage. “I was thinking, though, that you might do the girl a favor—if you wouldn't mind. If you danced with her, perhaps someone else might ask her, too."

  Serenity placed her hand on his arm and all thoughts of interrogating her on her background fled.

  He linked fingers with hers. “Ah, such a Herculean task you ask of me, Serenity. But, I agree. On the condition that you dance with me next."

  His gaze met hers, and for a time, the world contained nothing but Serenity. She broke the connection first.

  "All right.” Her voice sounded low and shaky. Maybe he imagined it.

  Not wanting to leave her alone, he found Osborne and escorted her to his friend's side. “Don't get any ideas, old fellow. The next dance is mine."

  He winked at Serenity and left to complete his mission.

  * * * *

  Although she had been looking forward to dancing with Brockton, when he finally arrived, music for a cotillion started up.

  "This is a cotillion, isn't it? I'm afraid it's too intricate for me. Would you mind if we didn't dance? I'd embarrass us both."

  His nearness must have projected her into a dreamy state, for suddenly a sensation of how his hand would feel, firmly pressed against her waist, tantalized her. A waltz. What she really wanted was to waltz with him.

  Before she could censure her thoughts, she murmured, “Now, if they played a waltz...."

  Goodness, she was getting bold, wasn't she?

  From a passing footman's tray, Brockton lifted two glasses of beverage. He handed her one. Over the delicate crystal, his eyes seemed to smolder, to bore into hers.

  "I can drink to that, m'dear. With the waltz, I can hold you, whisper in your ear, feel your body against mine—such heavenly delights."

  Serenity had to stop him. He was getting carried away. And she was too. From head to toe, she tingled with anticipation.

  She took a step back from him. “Just as well, then, that we're not waltzing. Come to think of it, I haven't heard a waltz played yet."

  She caught a surprised look on his face, but he quickly masked it. “For a young widow isolated in the wilds of Northumberland, you seem well informed about the scandalous waltz. As you should be aware, it is not proper for Englishmen to indulge in this debauchery. No matter that the waltz is all the rage in Europe. Perhaps we shall have the pleasure in the future."

  At his mention of the future, Serenity spilled her drink. “Oh, how clumsy of me.” So England banned this revolutionary dance. For now, for 1812. Probably would come into vogue soon. A slip in her facts—not a big one, but enough to put Brockton on alert.

  She had to distract him. “You know how gossip travels. And the waltz does sound so delicious."

  She lowered her eyelids, trying to play the coquette. When she looked up, his eyes shone black, not darkened with anger, but with a more compelling emotion. His gaze held her captive and, heaven help her, she didn't want to escape. A throbbing so powerful hammered at her every pore. Images of passion, lust, and per
haps even love caused her heart to burn with desire. She couldn't deny Brockton's potent appeal.

  As if in a trance, she took one step nearer.

  "Mrs. Steele! Been patiently waiting my turn. Would you be so kind as to grant me this minuet?” a male voice asked.

  Had time passed so quickly? Blinking rapidly to bring her thoughts back to the here and now, Serenity reluctantly focused on the brightly arrayed Lord Wilfred Uffing. She wanted to speak, wanted to say so many things to Nicholas Wycliffe, but perhaps this was not the time.

  "Oh, hello, Lord Uffing. I'm sorry but—"

  "Do not decline the dance on my account, Mrs. Steele. You would not wish to disappoint the baron."

  Brockton's words made it impossible for her to refuse. Apparently he wasn't going to rescue her a second time from the baron's fragrant company. Puzzled by this turn of events, she took Uffing's hand.

  As she headed for the ballroom floor, she looked back at Brockton. He watched them both, something mysterious glittering in his hooded eyes.

  * * * *

  Sitting at the supper table with all the Wycliffe siblings, plus their partners, Serenity felt like an impostor—which she was. It bothered her. She liked them all: brassy Amaryllis, retiring Sedgwick, motherly Georgiana, dependable Osborne, excitable Zeena, and of course, Nicholas—maddening, desirable Nicholas.

  Serenity was perpetrating a hoax on them and they didn't deserve it. She felt miserable.

  "Come now, Serry. Don't tell me you are blue-deviled because I saved you from Uffing.” Amaryllis laughed and took a bite of her salmon pie.

  "Do not tease her, Ammie,” Georgiana scolded. “I will venture that Lord Uffing just made his intentions known to our Serry."

  After that comment, everyone at the table looked up. Serenity frowned at Georgiana. How had she known?

  Zeena bobbed in her chair. For the first time this evening, she truly appeared animated, poor dear. “Do tell us, Serry! Has he asked for your hand? What did you say?"

  Serenity was ten shades of red. Had to be. How embarrassing this all was. “He did ask. But, of course, I had to refuse the honor."