Vivian Roycroft

by Mischief on Albemarle

  Finally the butler cleared his throat. "Miss Beryl."

  She glanced up. Their gazes meshed over Benson's shoulder. Her face lit up and her smile flashed, sending his heart soaring; but then she clouded and looked down again.

  "Do come in, Fitz. Benson, if we need anything, I'll ring."

  The butler left, heels whispering across the marble entryway. An odd moment, it was; they'd known each other for so long, he and Beryl, that they'd never bothered with a chaperone. Not even her protective, doting father had demanded one. For the first time, a chaperone's presence seemed appropriate.

  Before he lost his last remaining shreds of decency and kissed her senseless, right where she sat. Just the thought was dangerous. And Benson had walked serenely away.

  "Beryl, I—"

  "There's something—"

  They broke off together, stared at each other, giggled as one. A new sound from her, that giggle. It seemed nervous, uncertain, not at all like his Beryl should sound. He needed to restore her confidence, and for that he needed to apologize. Never mind that his pulse pounded a tympani rhythm in his ears at the very thought. For pity's sake, she wasn't the only nervous person in the room. If she repeated her demand that he leave her be—

  He swallowed. "From the goodness of your heart, I ask that you let me go first."

  For a moment it seemed she'd argue, and again his heart soared. A good rousing fight would clear the air, let them both say their says, and shove the uncomfortable awkwardness to its end. But instead Beryl folded her hands in her lap, demure as a girl could be. Also not like his Beryl. "I never could refuse you anything."

  And the tension within him broke. Bless the lass. With those words, and the hidden meaning behind them, she after all entered the lists first. And glad he was of the message.

  "It's an apology I'm owing to you, Beryl, and determined I am to see that you receive it. Yes, you changed on me. You grew up and became a woman, a wondrous woman indeed —"

  Her head jerked up; her hands tightened in her lap.

  But now that he'd gotten the wind up, he couldn't bear to stop. If he did, he might not get out all he had to say. So despite her widening, enormous, gorgeous eyes, all dark centers flashing like gems in the firelight, he plowed on.

  "—and the wonder of you made me dizzy. In my confusion I thought that, if I did the same maturing and became a man, then I'd never be able to trust myself around you, beautiful and alluring as you are."

  A glow lit within her, and that glow lit her face more brightly than the little fire. The pounding of his pulse intensified, his heart trying to explode from his chest. The girl could be the death of him yet, just sitting there as she was and becoming more glorious by the second.

  "If we were together as man and woman, we'd need a chaperone, we'd never be able to go about and enjoy ourselves as we've done these many years, and although my heart cried out for you, I couldn't bring myself to change our comfortable old relationship. It was Beryl I wanted, but I thought that meant leaving things the way they were. Only when that — that duke—"

  A flash of mischief tinged the glow. Now that was Beryl, shining through beneath the brilliance. But he couldn't stop yet.

  "—only when he stopped you on the street, treated you as a woman grown, asked for your hand at the assembly — only then did I realize what I stood to lose. Aye, it's jealous I've been, and not even aware of it. But more than that, I've been in love, and aware of that even less."

  There. He'd said it. Finally he could pause and draw a breath, let her respond to his ramblings. But she didn't speak, the silence dragging out between them, and Fitz found himself swallowing again and stumbling on.

  "All I ever wanted was your attention, Beryl… and your heart and soul, and indeed, the rest of you as well. But I'd never sorted out what it was I wanted, and never learned to seek it properly." And now the moment he'd been dreading, the moment when she could destroy him with a word or a look. "Can you forgive me?"

  Her eyes stilled, her expression closed down, as if she'd tumbled back into deep thought. The sitting room — no, the very world froze around them, as if the thick grey fog from the drizzly day had returned and invaded the Wentworth townhouse and gathered about him as if to smother him where he stood. And then—

  She turned away.

  Back to the needlework on the cushion, a golden mass dotted with red and pink and green. Doubtless roses; perhaps he should have brought her some, a bouquet from a greenhouse, a blatant bribe, whatever it took to help her say what he needed to hear. But still she kept him in suspense, the seconds ticking by with the case clock, her profile blank and unmoving, and Fitz knew for certain how death would feel when the dark angel came to call on him—

  —and then she peered at him sideways. One eyebrow cocked to the same angle as her hair. Her beautiful eyes gleamed. A cocky, bold, mischievous look, pinning him to the wall.

  He'd been had.

  She burst out laughing. And that laugh sounded exactly like Beryl, the Beryl he yearned for, and even as he sagged in place, he gave her the look of exasperation she'd asked for.

  "Your face." She stood and moved closer, even closer, nibbling away at the distance between them step by sashaying step. "Your enchanting—" Closer, as his heart swelled from her words and a thrill shot through him. "—adorable—" Closer still, almost close enough for their clothing to rustle together, and he couldn't look away from her eyes, her beautiful, deep, soul-sucking eyes. "—mischievous—" She slipped her hands up his swelling chest to his cheeks and drew him down until her lips poised a mere breath from his. "—beloved face."

  And she kissed him.

  The world exploded, starting in his naughty bits and billowing outward, and for however long that exquisite kiss lasted he knew no more. There were only her lips moving against his, her body pressing, inch by delectable inch, against his, those tiny, delicate hands against his face and sliding slowly back down his chest.

  And the incredible sensations roaring through him.

  No other woman could hold a candle to his Beryl.

  Only when oxygen became a vital necessity did he pull back. "That was decidedly unkind."

  "But deserved." She tugged him to her again and wrapped her arms about his waist. And the flames where she touched him scalded more hotly than if he'd put his hand in the little fire. "Oh so richly deserved, you must admit."

  No argument there. His arms around her felt so natural, so perfect, that again sensation overwhelmed sense, and he minded it not. He bent his head to kiss her in return.

  Until he realized something important and paused, only inches between their faces. "You haven't yet answered me, you know."

  ****

  Revenge, sweet revenge, delicious and fulfilling, and she'd apologize tomorrow for her part in their misunderstanding, but she couldn't bring herself to interrupt the bliss of this moment. Whatever enjoyment she'd lost at the assembly, Fitz had more than made up for it with this one redeeming conversation.

  Nor did she have any intention of letting him go so easily. She sighed. "You catch on so quickly. It seems to me—"

  Footsteps, approaching too rapidly for understanding, much less a defensive springing apart, and then movement in the doorway. Benson, very well, he'd understand and approve, but behind him—

  His Grace's handsome face lit with a witty smile. "Mr. Fitzwilliam, I thought it was my job to compromise the ladies. You must marry now. Of course you both know that?"

  He knew. The delightful, evil man somehow knew, had surely known before, because he'd arrived on Benson's heels, clearly hoping or expecting to see something, and now he'd seen something indeed. But it would take a harder heart than hers to hold it against him.

  Besides, she couldn't stop grinning. Difficult to scold under such conditions.

  And before she could draw back to a more appropriate distance, Fitz tightened his delicious arms about her, holding her against him. Something had changed in his face; the uncertainty, the softer lines of you
th, all had vanished, leaving behind a mature, cultured, strong face, that of a man who could handle whatever situation he found himself in.

  Including this one.

  "You're right, we must. And if Beryl will have me, then it's married we shall be."

  Surely it wasn't possible to die of happiness. Otherwise, at those words, she'd have collapsed in Fitz's arms.

  His Grace's smile grew and softened. He offered a hand to Fitz, clasped it a moment — too bad Fitz had to release her to accept it, but perhaps it was best these two made peace — and then, before she could even think, he took hers, folding it between both of his.

  "Miss Beryl, I am desolate."

  Hah. The happy brilliance in his eyes belied him. "I can't say you look it."

  He laughed, mischief spilling over in a good measure. "But if this is what makes you happy—" he pressed her hand "—then I shall retire from the field of combat."

  And beside her, Fitz's body sagged as if a mountain of tension had eroded away. He'd stiffened so subtly, she hadn't realized his defensiveness until that moment. He truly had feared losing her to this fascinating man.

  One more bow in parting, this time with not even a touch to the back of her hand, not a breath across her wrist. The flirtation was over. And while she thrilled at winning Fitz — finally, completely — she couldn't deny the bit of sorrow she felt at losing the other. But now that he and Fitz had made peace, perhaps the friendship could remain intact. Perhaps.

  At the door he paused and turned, as if for one final glance. Well, if desolate he was, despite the smile that hadn't diminished, then she'd give him a consoling image to take away. Beryl slid the crumpled old handkerchief from her sleeve and waved the Fitzwilliam crest toward the door.

  His smile twisted. He slid a smaller handkerchief, with lace edging and an unhappy stain, from his sleeve, and waved it back.

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, March 20, 1813

  Another clear day on Rotten Row; another brilliant crowd, alive with colorful riding habits and gleaming coats and watchful eyes. Lady Grantholm and her groom cantered past, and His Grace touched his hat at her full-lipped smile and hooded eyes. Sooner or later she'd realize he lacked interest in that game; marriage closed the playing field, as far as he was concerned. Once she understood, surely she'd look about for a more willing rake and cease paying court to him. Much as he appreciated the smiles she provided, her change in plans needed to happen soon, before tongues began to wag. He'd not be pleased to have his name linked with that of a married woman.

  Sassenach stepped alone along the track, head raised and peering about, as if searching for a neat little chestnut mare.

  "Sorry, old fellow. That game's over."

  But not his game of the longer term. He folded the four reins into his left hand, slipped his right into the cutaway's front pocket, and glanced down. Rubbed, faded, stained linen, threadbare lace, heartwrenching and comforting at the same time. And not pulled sufficiently from his pocket for anyone to recognize what it was.

  After all, it wouldn't do to shatter his rakish reputation, not yet, at least. Even if he hadn't precisely ruined sweet, fiery Beryl Wentworth.

  Because there would always be another young woman, yearning for her dream to come true. And sometimes only a rake could help.

  Sassenach snorted his disgust and bounced, some movement between a rear and a buck, then settled back into stride. He really had fallen for Tricksey.

  "And I know precisely how you feel, so don't take it out on me."

  No messenger stood beneath the lamppost, no green cravat to draw his eye; no hope for better news. As homesick as he was, the ache inside him could only be filled by her.

  But beneath an immature oak at the track's edge, a buxom young blonde with eyes of black smoke burned like a candle, her stare fixed on a fashionable dandy who never even glanced her way from his position astride a trotting bay gelding. As if she had no right to look at him and he had no need of her.

  And so another game begins.

  Author's note

  There's a danger, when writing of events that are set in the stone of history, of finding the absolute perfect character for a story's role who nevertheless refuses to cooperate. William Fitzwilliam, 4th Earl Fitzwilliam, laid claim to every requirement for the hero's father: a Whig politician, a landholder with far-flung properties, a good-hearted man who'd want the best for a wayward son… but the historical figure didn't have a younger son for the requisite wayward wanderings. Surely knowledgeable readers will find it in their hearts to forgive this Authoress for such tampering with the roots of that historic family.

  And their holdings. No amount of research this Authoress performed could determine whether the Fitzwilliam family had a country estate near to Regency London. That vacancy made it necessary, for the story's sake, to invent one, and the charming then-village of Broxbourne seemed eminently suitable, even if the Woodhouse farm (lovely name, that) is of imaginative cloth entire.

  Finally, Beryl's custom-made Owen sidesaddle, with its offset pommels, predates the better invention of the leaping horn and balance strap by more than fifteen years. As any rider accomplished in this most feminine style of riding knows, the leaping horn makes an aside seat as secure as any astride one — and even better, in some ways, with the powerful emergency grip it provides. While awarding Beryl credit for creating the leaping horn seemed inadvisable, she proved herself too imminently practical, and too sympathetic a horsewoman, to be content with a typical pre-1830s sidesaddle. The offset pommels, allowing her to throw her right leg outside the upper one and squeeze them both in a similar manner to the leaping horn's emergency grip, seemed a workable compromise. The Authoress begs the Owen master saddlers to forgive her for such flagrant liberties.

  About the Author

  Vivian Roycroft is a pseudonym for historical fiction and adventure writer J. Gunnar Grey. And if she’s not careful, her pseudonymous pseudonym will have its own pseudonym soon, too. Plus an e-reader, a yarn stash, an old Hermès hunt saddle, and a turtle sundae at Culver’s.

  Also by Vivian Roycroft:

  Chapter One

  Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown’s simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough, but since he started this fiasco, surely he’d endeavor to bear it. Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be — was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain and Aunt Helen’s sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband, her husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the contretemps that ensued.

  Hopefully the housekeeper wasn’t listening behind the closed drawing room door.

  A deep breath, and Clara softened her clenched hands into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself to meet the Viscount Maynard’s black eyes, unblinking and glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.

  “It distresses me to cause grief in anyone, particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle.” She paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on before she could be interrupted. “However, the selection of a lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my lord’s offer of marriage.”

  Viscount Maynard’s gaze drifted from her face, drifted lower. “The child has
an opinion of her own.” When he’d asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct; now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable. “How precocious.”

  Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her inheritance, in Papa’s money, than in her or her hand. “My lord, your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded.” She dropped her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him eat cake; just not hers.

  After the drawing room’s sun-drenched warmth, the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot. If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she’d run in time. With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments. But on the curved stairway’s far side, the library door stood ajar. That would be Uncle David’s temporary retreat and he’d be listening for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow, approaching the doorway. No time to spare.

  Clara composed her expression as she ran up the white marble stairs, her slippers soundless, her pale muslin skirt gathered in one hand, the other trailing up the ebony banister. A few moments alone, hidden in the old schoolroom where Papa had taught her mathematics and the stars, and she’d compose herself. The little telescope was still there, beneath the heavy canvas covering they’d sewn for it, pointing as he’d left it, to the merchant shipping and men-of-war anchored in the Sound. If she held the canvas close to her face and breathed deeply, sometimes it seemed she could still smell his musky scent on the neat stitching, so much more even than her own. The memory cooled her temper, but did nothing for the hole he had left behind in her heart. She’d always miss him, always, and no man — certainly not that titled twaddle — could ever remove him from the foremost place in her heart.