Regency Society Revisited

by Susanne Marie Knight

  The girl blushed and smiled her toothful grin. Together they looked like the original odd couple. After trying to make conversation with Patricia and only receiving hyena laughs, Lady Rotterham stated the need to mingle, and guided Serenity away from the improbable pair.

  "Gracious, I do hope that child can do more than laugh,” the Marchioness said in vexation. “You must know, Serry, I only invited the Piedmonts because of their connection to the Lyndons."

  Serenity chuckled. “I'm still in shock. Patricia and Uffing? What a mismatch. But I know Mr. Piedmont must be pleased to finally have a lord in the family."

  "The cit!” Lady Rotterham muttered.

  Then she stopped, and stood on her tiptoes, peering at something in the distance. “Ah, I spot Nicholas—over by the cypress tree. With whom is he talking, Serry? He is too far away. I cannot discern the woman."

  Following the Marchioness’ gaze, Serenity stiffened. Nick—her Nick, indolently leaned against a cypress tree, having an intimate and secluded conversation with Lady Lillian Fairfax. Even from this distance, Serenity could tell the woman's gown barely covered her bulging bosom.

  A deep sorrow seared through Serenity. Was this jealousy? It consumed her. She tried to hide her feelings but her hands shook. “Oh, I believe that's Lillian Fairfax with him."

  Serenity fingered her wet dress. “I think I'll go inside and wash this off—before it stains."

  Eager to escape, she hurried away.

  * * * *

  "Nicholas, darling, where have you been hiding your most desirable self? I have missed you,” Lillian Fairfax purred in her most seductive voice. She brushed against him, rubbing her half-exposed chest on his upper arm.

  Just like a cat—an alley cat, with morals to match.

  Nicholas pulled his arm away, reached inside his pocket and extracted a handkerchief. He yawned into it. “I have been on government business, as well you know, Lillian. Isn't your current lover a member of Parliament?"

  A flicker of surprise crossed her face. A woman like Lady Fairfax never kept a lonely bed. And, among the gentlemen's clubs lining St. James Street, a young, vigorous widow's affairs supplied the gossip-filled grist mills.

  While resting against a tall cypress tree, Nicholas turned his attention to his fingers. “I believe your note said you had a matter of importance to discuss."

  "You mean my billet doux? Nicholas, you know I have been pining away for you. Why did you not answer any of my letters? I waited and waited for you. Then in May, you vanished from London—without a word to me.” She pressed closer, nestling his elbow between her breasts.

  "Lillian!” Nicholas’ patience was beginning to snap. Moving from the shade of the tree into the sunlight, he looked back at the colorful assembly. Sounds from Zeena's party filtered through the air. He sighed. Best end this interview and rejoin the gaiety. Already he was missing his Serenity.

  "Lillian,” he began again, this time in a gentler tone. “Let us not pretend. We parted company in April—by mutual consent. You had no qualms accepting my farewell gift."

  Lillian toyed with the diamond and ruby necklace encircling her white neck. Cost him a pretty penny at Rundell and Bridge's. Worth it though, to get rid of her. Tiresome female. His Serenity would never wear such a garish piece.

  Brockton smiled. His Serenity.

  Lillian must have misinterpreted his smile. She hooked her arm through his. “You were the one who wanted this estrangement, not I. I have been hoping these months apart might bring you to your senses."

  She placed his hand on her quivering bosom, closed her eyes and exhaled. “Oh, how long I have waited for you to do this ... and this.” Her voice grew huskier and she dragged his hand down her body.

  Nicholas laughed and reclaimed his hand. “Dear me, Lillian. You must be desperate indeed to initiate bedroom tactics in full view of the haut ton!"

  She drew back; her eyes sparked blue fire. He could tell she struggled to control her temper.

  "And, you cannot expect me to believe you have been wearing the willow for me these, what, five months? The on-dit at White's is that since leaving my protection, you are on your sixth lover. Rather excessive, Lillian."

  That should quiet this hellcat. He chuckled. “Truly, Lillian, doing it too brown. We'd best be getting back to m'sister's party."

  He turned toward her and watched her elegant beauty disappear. In its place, a mask of primitive hatred appeared. “I have eyes, Nicholas. I can see. You dare to push me aside for that ... that flesh and bones antidote."

  Lord forgive him, but he knew she was talking about Serenity. “Do not meddle in matters that are no concern of yours, Lillian."

  The tone of his voice brooked no opposition. What had he seen in this woman in the first place?

  She didn't heed the warning. “No concern of mine?” Her shrill words rang out.

  In a last ditch effort, Lillian threw herself against him and pounded her fists on his chest. “Damn you, Nicholas. I love you. I will not stand by and let that scheming trollop ensnare your heart. You are mine! I will not let Mrs. Steele dupe you into marrying her."

  Nicholas removed Lillian's hands and set her aside. His heart, suddenly, felt lightened. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that sooner? Marry Serenity—the perfect solution. Then she would always be his. Yes, he would make her his wife.

  He patted an irate Lillian on the head. “An excellent idea. That is precisely what I intend to do."

  Nicholas walked away from the sputtering woman and returned to the Arabian pavilions.

  * * * *

  Serenity reluctantly left the Hall and reentered the outside circus atmosphere. Guests noisily milled about—each one speaking louder than the next. She knew few of the attendees, but that was just as well. She wasn't in the mood to talk.

  Though a wedding was a happy occasion, Serenity fought to control her tears. Zeena, a radiant bride dressed in white and pink, seemed glued to her new husband's side. Georgiana walked arm in arm with her fiancé, Harry. Amaryllis, a pavilion's length apart from Cecil, from time to time shared smiles with him. Sylvia Wycliffe worshipfully gazed up at her spouse, Edward. Even Patricia Piedmont's destiny was assured by marrying the aromatic Lord Uffing.

  Serenity sighed. Nothing like feeling sorry for oneself. She couldn't claim Nick exclusively—after all, a rake was a rake. But even if she could, her February return date to her own time period weighed her down and cut short any dreams of a long term commitment. Damn.

  Serenity kicked a stone, sending it flying. It landed on an orange-garbed matron's foot.

  "I say!” the woman exclaimed. “What the—"

  Serenity quickly looked away. She'd have to find another outlet for her restless energy.

  In the distance, a steady rumble grew increasingly louder. Serenity raised her head to see six matched bays pulling a four-wheeled carriage through Reveley Hall's park gates. At least twenty outriders surrounded the impressive black vehicle. The carriage's gilded ornaments glistened in the sun and echoed the gold trim on the rich red liveries of the footmen.

  A herald wasn't needed to realize the Prince Regent had arrived.

  The great vehicle suddenly squeaked to a halt. At once, crowds of people, probably from the hamlet of Dumpling Green, surged against the carriage. How had they known the Regent planned to attend the festivities?

  Serenity tried to block out the noise around her for the villagers were chanting. What were they saying? Sounded like “Bless me! Bless me!"

  A stout arm garbed in vivid blue fabric emerged from the carriage opening and flung shiny, round objects at the throng. Gold coins from the Regent? The people scrambled for the disks but one shabbily dressed woman stood her ground. Serenity watched the woman speak to the occupant in the coach. Her arms stretched upward; she seemed to be beseeching the Regent.

  One of the outriders moved to block the woman's path, but the dazzling blue arm gestured a stop, then motioned for the woman to approach. She inched closer, knelt, and the
n must've been bidden to rise. The Regent's jeweled fingers touched the woman's forehead. Then, he withdrew his hand. With a forward jerk, the black carriage continued its journey up the entranceway to Reveley Hall. The woman fell back on her knees. She appeared to be crying. But was she happy or sad?

  Serenity fingered her ear lobe. What in the world? The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. She felt rather than heard Nick approach. Her eyes must've contained her puzzlement for he glanced at her, then looked in the fallen woman's direction.

  "An ancient custom, you know. The King's touch, they call it, although the Regent is not king, precisely. The woman has been honored by Prinny. The Hanover dynasty is not known for its adherence to the laying of the hands ritual. Poor soul must have scrofula—a disfiguring disease. She is cured now—so the custom goes."

  The wedding guests began to cluster on the lawn to welcome their ruler. Nick tugged on Serenity's arm, maneuvering her through the thickening numbers. Leaving the bulk of the party behind, he drew his arm through hers and strolled away from the ruckus.

  "The grounds will be at sixes and sevens for awhile. Prinny tends to demand everyone's allegiance and right now, I want you for myself."

  "What about Lillian Fairfax?” Evidently, jealously could overrule good manners.

  "Oh, her.” Nick waved his hand to dismiss the woman. “I gave Lillian her congè months ago. She is just annoyingly persistent.” He smiled. “Come, let's walk."

  Satisfied, Serenity didn't protest; she luxuriated in the warm security his touch produced. A few minutes passed without either of them speaking. When would he break the silence?

  Alone on the southwest portion of the Hall's lawn, she and Nick could play hide and seek among the shaped hedges. But he was not in a playful mood. His hands were clasped behind his back and his grey eyes darkened with a mysterious emotion. He even chewed on his lower lip.

  "What is it, Nick? What's bothering you?” She brushed her fingertips against the smooth curve of his chin. She sighed. Would she ever tire of his skin's feel against hers?

  "I, er.... “He loosened his cravat. “Why don't we sit?"

  They found a bench. Instead of relaxing however, Nick took out his snuff box and fiddled with it. Serenity had never seen him like this.

  "Nick.” She placed her hands on his to still them. “Nick, you're nervous, aren't you? Really nervous. Why? What's wrong?"

  "Sorry,” he mumbled. Taking a deep breath, he focused on her gown. “Why are you still wearing mourning colors? Gerald Steele has been dead a year now—taking your charade as his widow too far, wouldn't you say?"

  Nick's words egged her on—invited her to argue with him. He sat stone-like, with his hands balled into fists, and stared out at the bright flags atop the pavilions flapping in the breeze. She wanted to shake the man.

  "Nicholas, what's going on? You don't give a hoot about the color of my clothes and I'm not about to throw out perfectly good dresses just because society says I can now wear colors. Please, tell me what's troubling you."

  Nick took her hand and massaged her fingers. “Serenity, I have never done this before. Didn't think it would be so difficult."

  He swallowed. “You must realize that since we have been, ah ... close these past two weeks, why, even now you may be with ... with child.” He swatted his forehead with a handkerchief.

  Pregnant? Her? She laughed. “Oh, Nick, is that what's worrying you?"

  He glared at her levity so she wiped the grin off her face. “Really, Nick. Don't worry about it. I've...."

  Ouch! Here was a sticky problem. How could she tell him she practiced birth control by a tiny hormone-release device buried in her upper left arm? The implant had a ten year lifespan. Serenity had the surgery performed four years ago. No chance for a foul-up on the device's part—not with a 99.8 percent effectiveness rating.

  Nick studied her, as if memorizing every detail of her features. She needed to come up with a convincing explanation. “Well, I'm using something that prevents, um, pregnancy—an anti-conception device. It's foolproof, really. And if I'm not worried about it, why should you be?"

  Her answer didn't please him. Nick looked away, his blue veins stood out on his fists. “You are making this impossible for me, Serenity,” he growled. “Can you stop using this ‘device'?"

  She frowned. “Yes, I suppose I could.” She could have a doctor remove the implant, but why would she want to?

  "Will you then?” Sharp. His voice cut razor sharp.

  Jumping to her feet, she paced in front of him. “That doesn't make any sense, Nick. Why should I take the chance and become—"

  Nick's strong arm pulled her down on the lawn, with no regard to the finery they both wore. He covered her with his body and whispered sweetly in her ear. “Because, you dolt, I want you to become my wife."

  His kiss smothered her response. Mingling breaths, a dance of tongues—Serenity was lost in the magic. Then, his words penetrated. A cold, hard blast stabbed at her chest.

  With all her strength, she hugged him. Her vision blurred. “Oh, Nick. Nick, I'm afraid I can't marry you."

  Raised up on his elbows, he flicked away one of her escaping tears. The corner of his mouth twitched. “After all these years I finally come up to scratch. And what happens? The lady refuses me! I am inconsolable."

  In a more serious tone, he questioned, “Why can't you, may I ask?"

  A very valid question. But how could she possibly marry him when she had to leave for home in five months?

  "Nick, you don't want to marry me. I ... I wouldn't make a good wife, and I'd be a lousy countess. And, well, I have to return to my home in February."

  She stood; her shoulders slumped in defeat. How ironic fate was. Just minutes ago, she wished to have Nick all to herself.

  Now he proposes, and I have to turn him down. I have to watch the hurt form in his eyes. I love him and I have to hurt him.

  Nick gently touched her arm. “Serenity, I thought that the most difficult part of this marriage business was getting the question out of my mouth. But I see I have to woo you as well. If I might say, your parents did not aptly name you. ‘Inscrutable’ suits you better."

  He skimmed the surface of her jawline with his fingertips. “Darling, you know I adore you. No other woman has meant as much to me. I love you, Serenity. With you, my world is complete. Without you, life is like dust and ash—a sudden gust of wind, and there is nothing left."

  He chucked her under the chin. “No more nonsense about your suitability. It just will not fadge. Of course we shall return to Blanchland—in February, if you like. Though that is a brutal month to be traveling."

  Serenity sat on the bench again. Nick joined her. He loved her and he meant every word of it. She should have been the happiest woman in the world, but instead....

  She would have to tell him the truth; she owed it to him. That was the very least she could do, even though he probably would never want to see her again.

  She pushed back her tangle of curls. Even looking at him was painful. “I do love you, Nick. I love you more than I can say. But I can't marry you. I'm here for a specific purpose and I have no choice but to return to where I come from in February."

  Serenity shot a quick look at him. “I know you have many questions, and I'll answer them, but not today, all right? I don't much feel like soul-baring now. How about tomorrow?"

  Dear Nick. How could he understand? His face went pale under the tan of his skin, but he hid his disappointment well.

  "You promise, Serenity?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I shall be patient.” He brushed away remnants of dirt and grass on her gown. “There. You need have no fears about appearing disheveled. Come, let us rejoin the celebration."

  Serenity slowly walked by Nick's side, replaying the rebuff she heard in his voice. If he felt bitter about her refusal to marry him, how would he feel tomorrow, after learning she came from the future?

  * * * *

  Edward Wy
cliffe paused in his conversation with the Prince Regent, noting Serry Steele and his son's progress through the wedding well-wishers. She and Nicholas had been absent from the festivities for some thirty minutes, and yet a cloud of unhappiness seemed to burden them both.

  The Regent followed Lord Rotterham's gaze. “Ah, there is Brockton now. We must have a word with him. Who is the skinny gel? The pair of ‘em look like thunder."

  The Marquess thought the same thing. “That is Mrs. Serry Steele, Your Highness."

  The Regent studied the couple. “A widow, we will wager. Speaking of wagers, Rotterham, Brockton is still unattached. Looks like you will be losing a thousand yellow-boys. Care to increase the wager?"

  The Marquess stroked his chin. “The day is young, Your Highness. Those two might settle their differences yet. Another thousand on Serry Steele."

  "Ho! We find ourselves tight in the pocket, but ... done! Two thousand guineas on the dark-headed filly. When shall we see the conclusion of our wager?"

  "Soon,” Lord Rotterham predicted. “My son will wed her soon."

  Chapter Twenty-five

  "I have been patient, Serenity. No more Banbury stories. Just the straight goods—the unvarnished truth, if you please."

  Nick sat on the floor of the shack and leaned against the wood-plank wall. He looked ballroom-elegant—very much at odds with the dilapidated surroundings. The hut had probably been crafted with love by a young Nick and Harry—serving as a secret playhouse for their juvenile adventures. Now the rough-hewn roof held back most of the day's unexpected rainfall.

  Serenity glanced around the empty shack completely hidden among the estate fir trees. She had wanted privacy to relate her story, and privacy she got.

  She tugged on her ear lobe. “All right, but you'll have to let me tell it in my own roundabout way. Promise?"

  He nodded.

  "And no interruptions,” she added.

  The old hut didn't provide much pacing room but Serenity paced anyway. She hadn't felt this nervous since the dissertation for her doctoral thesis. And the professors had worn a kinder expression than Nicholas Wycliffe.