Regency Society Revisited

by Susanne Marie Knight

  She opened her eyes. Only one man held her now. The other two stood a distance away, bargaining with someone—in the dark. She couldn't see who the man was. Apparently a deal had been struck. The head of the trio returned, pocketing some gold coins.

  "Must be yer lucky night, laddy. That cove over yonder paid a bundle for the pleasure of yer company!"

  He turned to his crony. “Sorry, m'boy. We not be samplin’ the goods t'night. Mayhap after the bloke's done wi'im."

  Her captor grumbled a bit but when he saw a handful of gold, he quieted down. He released his grip and the trio walked out of the alley.

  Serenity spit out the rag and rubbed her shoulders. Who saved her? Taking slow, cautious steps, she went over to the man. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much—"

  "I was right! I thought I recognized you at the tavern.” The man stepped out of the shadows.

  "Colonel Jenkins!” Although she hadn't wanted to see him again, he had rescued her from a very unpleasant situation. She was deeply in his debt. “I do thank you—"

  "You'll be doing more than that, my girl. No one gives me the cut direct. D'hear me? No one!” In a flash, he pulled off her wig and lassoed her with his arms.

  "You are bought and paid for, and I intend to get my money's worth.” Slamming her against the brick wall of the building, Jenkins cracked her across the face. Then he pressed against her, and forced his slobbering mouth on hers.

  Saved from the fire only to go into the frying pan. She struggled but to no avail.

  The next second, he was off her. Two men fought in the tight space of the alleyway.

  Serenity gasped. It was Nicholas! She was never so glad to see anyone in her life. He expertly pounded Jenkins with a punishing hand until the man fell in a heap on the cobblestones.

  Jenkins was down for the count. She leaned against the brick wall and thanked God for Nicholas’ intervention. Tears rushed to her eyes. She didn't want to cry, not now. “Th-Thank you, my lord."

  Nicholas looked over at her, his expression hard. He turned back to the motionless man. “I always said Jenkins was a bounder. I daresay he will not make an appearance in Polite Society anytime soon. Not with his daylights darkened.” He lapsed into silence.

  Oh, he was angry with her. She deserved a chewing out; she deserved it royally. Serenity bowed her head, but cannons roared through her temples. Gingerly touching her hair, she came away with blood on her hand. She wiped away the evidence and walked up to him.

  "I do want to thank you. If you hadn't arrived—"

  "You repeat yourself, Mrs. Steele.” He pulled on her arm and commanded, “Come. I will see you home."

  Gritting her teeth to ignore the pain, she stood tall, and followed him to his carriage. He sat opposite her, but didn't speak.

  You've really messed up this time, Steele.

  The atmosphere inside the vehicle was like a funeral parlor. She was filled with regrets. “You're probably wondering why I'm dressed like this."

  His cold gaze swept her. “I am beyond puzzling over your actions. This will be the last time I am raked into your intrigues. Next time you will fry in your own grease. What do you take me for? A paper-skull?"

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I do not wish to converse further."

  She didn't blame him for washing his hands of her. By getting out of her element, she'd been a first class fool. She could never repair the damage.

  The carriage stopped at her townhouse. Nicholas acted the gentleman, alighting first and helping her down. He escorted her to the door, but she knew he was anxious to be on his way.

  She didn't blame him. Not one bit.

  Beasley opened the door. When he saw her condition, his eyes widened, but good butler that he was, he kept his comments to himself.

  Serenity schooled her voice to keep the emotion out. “I can never thank you enough."

  Nicholas ignored her, his attention fixed on Beasley. The two men seemed to communicate without speaking.

  "Well, good-night.” It was so final—the ultimate farewell. She'd probably never see him again. Shoulders slumped, she entered the house.

  Before Beasley had a chance to close the door, Nicholas pushed inside. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her into the drawing room, and shouted to Beasley, “Bring me hot water, clean cloths, and salve—Balm of Mecca, if you have it. Be quick about it, man!"

  What was going on? She followed him to the couch and without question, she sat. Heavens, but her head pounded.

  He sat next to her. Without another word, he stripped off her coat.

  "What are you doing?” His actions didn't alarm her but he was behaving strangely. She leaned back against the Egyptian couch to relax her throbbing head.

  "Since these furnishings are rented—I hope—I would not recommend doing that.” Instead of looking at her, he busily rolled up his sleeves.

  Through half-closed eyes, she admired his strong arms. She asked sleepily, “Doing what?"

  "Leaning against the couch. You have a head full of blood."

  "Oh!” She sprang back up.

  Beasley brought in the supplies. With a wave of the hand, Nicholas dismissed him.

  She certainly hadn't expected the night to end like this. “So, in addition to being my rescuer, you're going to be my doctor, too?"

  He suddenly looked tired. The lines around his mouth deepened. He sighed. “Someone has to be, Serenity. Of all the hare-brained, infantile ideas. Dressing up as a man."

  He shoved her sideways and moved her hair off her neck. As he did, he lightly brushed her back and unexpectedly chuckled.

  After such a grim evening, it was good to see him smile. “What's funny?"

  He ran his hand down her back. She felt a thrill and tried to banish it.

  "Do you really believe your, er, charms have to be bound to escape detection? It is not necessary, I assure you.” He laughed.

  Boobs. He was always thinking of boobs. For the first time in her life, she wished she were more endowed.

  He dipped his hands in the water and placed a wet cloth on her wound. “Now just hold still a moment, my hellion. You have a nasty cut."

  Nicholas bathed it gently and Serenity kept silent. His words, “my hellion” echoed in her mind. She liked them, especially the pronoun.

  "I want to thank you again. I realize what I did was extremely foolish."

  "Odd's life it was! And if you ever indulge in one of your fancies again, do not rely on me to save the day.” He applied some salve, then wrapped a dry cloth around her head.

  "There. You look like a Persian princess.” He replaced the cap on the salve. “The bleeding has stopped. Have the wound washed again in the morning and again at night."

  She couldn't prevent her lips from curving into a smile. “You're quite a doctor, aren't you?"

  "Comes with being at sea for six years. The Navy offers many opportunities for practice,” he replied harshly.

  He stood. “I admit to being puzzled. If you wanted to meet Prinny, why the devil didn't you ask me?"

  Serenity spread her hands. “I didn't think of it. Really, would you have taken me to see him?"

  Nicholas rubbed his forehead. He looked like a man that'd had enough. “Lord bless me! Of course. Not to the Beefsteak though. To Carlton House."

  "Could you still take me to Carlton House? All I got to see of the Regent was his back side."

  Nicholas regarded her with a regal stare. She realized what she had said. “I mean, I stood behind him. Never saw his face.” Whew!

  He nodded. Avoiding her gaze, he mumbled, “I shall leave now. It is very late."

  Serenity stood to say good-night. This time maybe the words would not seem so final. She swayed a little and bumped into him.

  "Blast you, Serenity.” He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him.

  She didn't resist. Didn't want to.

  He kissed her hard, with a hunger that nearly devoured her. His tongue savagely plunged deep into her mouth, exploring every pa
rt.

  Pressing closer, she welcomed him. She wanted him; he made her blood sing.

  Although her head ached, her synesthesia changed the passion into a symphony. As the movement soared to a crescendo, she felt rapture enveloping her.

  Nicholas's lips traveled from her mouth to her neck and caused exquisite tingles to echo elsewhere in her body. His hands slid down her shoulders; their touch burned through her rough muslin shirt, and stung her skin. Every second he held her, she rode the waves of an enchanted melody. She was lost in an endless storm of desire.

  His mouth found hers again. She was lost, lost in the beauty of their ardor. She needed to be closer, still closer to him. Her fingers intertwined in his hair in her drive to be as one. Sighing with intense pleasure, she ran her hands down his muscled back.

  He stiffened, then pulled away, suddenly, roughly. A swish of air rushed in to take his place. The vacuum hurt. She raised a trembling hand to her chest to still her racing breath and looked at him. Why had he let her go?

  Nicholas ran his hand through those thick curls she so recently had touched. Their wiry texture vibrated on her fingertips. He started to speak, met her gaze, and then stopped. He appeared different—haunted?

  He broke eye contact and spoke to the floor. “Do not forget to, er, take care of your head wound. Could become nasty.” He quickly turned and left the drawing room.

  Serenity sank back onto the couch. After that tumultuous kiss, she couldn't navigate the length of the room, let alone the stairs to her bedchamber. What had happened? Why had Nicholas dropped her like a cold fish? He seemed nervous—the sweaty palms variety. What could have scared him?

  Without warning, her mind flashed back to the Beefsteak room. She heard Lord Rotterham saying, “I will wager the boy will soon enter the blissful state of matrimony."

  That was it. Nicholas must've suddenly remembered his recent betrothal. Though a rake, after pledging his devotion to another, he was honorable enough not to practice seduction. Popping the question had been the reason he'd been out of town, hadn't it?

  Serenity slumped deeper into the couch. All traces of the symphony left her, and the pounding resumed in her head.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Warm sunlight streamed through the pane of glass, permeating Serenity's skin. She soaked up the heat and closed her eyes to enjoy the sensation. What was she doing indoors, in the Rotterham mansion, when the day's weather practically demanded Londoners pay homage to the unusual May perfection?

  She opened her eyes. Oh yes, she remembered now. Zeena had asked her to visit because Sir Rodney Presson was supposed to come calling. Serenity watched Zeena restlessly pace in front of the drawing room's main window, her hair glistening gold in the sun.

  "Do sit down, Zeena dear,” said her mother. “I declare you are giving me a megrim with all that frantic motion. One would think you are expecting a caller. Perhaps Devonshire?” The Marchioness eagerly leaned forward.

  "No, Mama. I am not expecting the duke."

  Zeena's gaze met Serenity's. So, the Marchioness had no idea Zeena looked forward to Rodney's arrival at any second. Maybe that's why Zeena wanted Serenity's company—for moral support.

  Serenity felt tension in the air. Zeena's stiff-backed pacing and Lady Rotterham's nervous plucking set Serenity's teeth on edge. Even Georgiana sat quietly, concentrating on her needlework, but she seemed sad this afternoon.

  Zeena finally dropped down in a blue chair, drawing an admonishment from Lady Rotterham.

  Serenity sighed. If only she were someplace else—preferably out in the bright sunlight. There was always a chance that Nicholas Wycliffe would burst through the drawing room door. She didn't want to see him. Hadn't seen him since he rescued her over a week ago.

  Touching the almost-healed wound on the back of her head, she shivered. She'd had a very close call. If Nicholas hadn't appeared when he did.... She shivered again.

  "Serry, my dear, are you cold? Shall I have a fire lighted?” Lady Rotterham asked. “No? Well, if you are certain. I cannot imagine why these girls of mine are so blue-deviled. You would think they were not solicited to dance at last night's rout. Too bad you could not attend, Serry. But then Nicholas was not there either.... “She trailed off and picked at her gown again.

  With a toss of her head, as if to banish a thought, the Marchioness leaned closer to Serenity, her blue eyes sparkling her excitement. “Zeena's hand was sought for every dance. And, William Cavendish, the new Duke of Devonshire, you must know, asked Zeena twice! Twice!” She looked over at her daughter and clasped her hands with delight. “Perhaps he means to offer for you."

  "Mama! Please.” Zeena stood and resumed her pacing at the most distant window.

  Serenity and Georgiana exchanged knowing glances. Lady Rotterham was on her hobbyhorse again.

  The Marchioness pursed her lips. “I do not understand that child. She could become a duchess."

  Georgiana reseated herself next to her mother. “Being a duchess is not important to Zeena, Mama. Being in love, is."

  Sylvia Wycliffe looked at Georgiana and Serenity in bewilderment. “But who has captured her heart?"

  That was a question neither Serenity nor Georgiana wanted to answer. The main door opened, and Serenity welcomed the respite. Rawlins announced, “Sir Rodney Presson."

  Finally! Watching Zeena come alive, Serenity smiled. The girl dashed across the room, and led a somber Rodney back to her mother.

  He made an elegant bow and greeted them. “Ladies. Lady Zeena, how well you are looking this afternoon."

  His sophisticated manner was spoiled by the number of times he fingered his cravat. He cast an imploring gaze at Zeena and she patted the seat next to her.

  Rodney swiftly rounded the table separating them and sank down on the cushions. They both laughed and simultaneously started talking about an important topic: the weather!

  Rodney looked and sounded like a nervous suitor. But how was Lady Rotterham taking this development? Comprehension seemed to dawn on the older woman's face. Who wouldn't notice Zeena's beaming smiles and Rodney's covert glances? As the Marchioness’ brows grew drawn, her amiable countenance disappeared.

  The young lovers were oblivious to Lady Rotterham's displeasure, of course. As if struck by a novel idea, Rodney piped up, “I say, Lady Zeena, it is such a lovely day. Would you care to take a turn around the park—with me?"

  Zeena fluttered her eye lashes and didn't speak fast enough for her sister. Georgiana butt in quickly. “Yes! You both should take advantage of the beautiful weather."

  She fairly pushed them toward the door.

  Serenity hid a chuckle behind her hand. She and Georgiana would have their work cut out for them in placating the outraged mother.

  Before Zeena and Rodney left, however, Nicholas entered the room. Serenity gulped down hard. Seeing him again, in the flesh, made her quiver down to her toes.

  Steele! She warned herself to behave.

  But all they needed now was a confrontation between him and Presson. However, instead of clenched fists and harsh words, the two men nodded politely. And, unbelievably, Nicholas bent over to kiss Zeena on the cheek.

  "Take care of my sister, Presson,” he urged. “Fine weather brings out the devil in her."

  As Zeena stared at her brother, he waved his hand. “Do go on, now. Enjoy yourselves."

  Zeena stammered, “Th-Thank you, Nicholas.” She looked as shocked as Serenity felt. The door closed noiselessly behind her and Rodney.

  What a turnaround! When Nicholas settled his tall form in a chair, Serenity dumbly gaped at him. Georgiana did, also.

  But the Marchioness had a few words to say. “Nicholas! I expected support from you. Are you aware that ... that person is dallying after Zeena's hand?"

  Nicholas raised his eyebrow. “And good afternoon to you, Mother. I see you are in rare form."

  "No impertinence now, Nicholas.” Lady Rotterham rose and duplicated Zeena's previous pacing. “Your sister—though s
he has not spoken yet to me about it—your sister means to have that ... that Sir Rodney as husband. I feel it in my bones. Unconscionable."

  Serenity had never seen the Marchioness angry but, in her own way, her wrath was as formidable as her husband's.

  While his mother's back was turned away, Nicholas held up his hand, as if to say to Georgiana, “Let me handle this."

  Serenity squashed her desire to squirm. She really shouldn't be here since she wasn't part of the family.

  He spoke calmly. “There is nothing amiss with Presson's antecedents, Mother. Good stock, there."

  Serenity couldn't help but think of Constance Jones. Perhaps Nicholas did too, for he amended, “Mostly good stock. And rich, also. Else Presson would not be able to reside three doors down from here."

  Lady Rotterham faced her son, palms outstretched, her eyes reflecting her concern. “But Nicholas, he is only a knight. Why, Zeena might become a duchess! Devonshire danced with her twice last night."

  "Do sit down, Mother.” When she obeyed, he continued, “Nothing wrong with knighthood. Presson earned it—service to the king, y'know. Money, to cover George's debts. Fifteen children can be demmed expensive."

  The Marchioness sat in a daze; her spirit seemed to have left her.

  Nicholas patted her hand. “And as for the Duke, well, I will wager Devonshire never marries. To wrap it up in clean linen, his mother, er, did not have a spotless reputation. You remember Georgiana Spencer's extra-marital proclivities, Mother. She put her son off the wedded state. Cannot blame the fellow. Probably wonders if he truly is a Devonshire."

  The Marchioness gasped. Plain speaking on Nicholas's part. He handed her a handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes.

  How considerate he was. What a change from when Serenity first met him.

  Concentrating on the handkerchief, the Marchioness said, brokenly, “I did so m-much want one of my daughters to be a d-duchess."

  "There is always our Georgiana,” Nicholas quipped.

  Georgiana blushed but kept quiet. Was she thinking that Harrison Osborne stood next in line for the Lyndon dukedom, after his childless brother?