Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  “Try to adjust, or the parties will wear you to shreds,” Lady Fairchild had urged. She was already half-nocturnal, flitting out in the evenings like a brightly winged moth, then sleeping into the early afternoon. Tonight Sophy would join her for the first time, at the Thorpes’ musicale. Already half sick with anticipation, she had another fence to clear first.

  This morning she was riding with Lord Fairchild. If she was clever, she would have made more of her shoulder injury to give her an excuse to stay home, but it was a week and a half since that unfortunate business and she wanted to forget it.

  Pushing away from the dressing table, Sophy crossed the room, parted the draperies and leaned against the window, resting her forehead against the glass. It was strange, looking down at the tops of people from the third story—costly beaver hats on the few gentlemen venturing out early and worn caps on the rest. The horses hadn’t been brought round yet.

  Only ladies who were horse mad and keen sporting gentlemen rode in the early morning when the rest of the Polite World was asleep. Sophy supposed she and Lord Fairchild both fit the respective descriptions. There were worse ways to find a husband than riding horses and hobnobbing in the park. What unsettled her was being tied to Lord Fairchild’s side for over an hour. What would they possibly say? This was not like their accidental rides in the country, where their paths merged and diverged by chance.

  A kitchen boy ran out from a house down the street, momentarily silencing the ragged knife grinder calling out his trade. The man sharpened the knives the boy brought out, accepted his wage with a tug of his cap, and continued down the street, his bass voice rolling ahead of him. Sophy’s eyes followed him, catching on a familiar form in a dark green coat.

  It was Jasper, trotting up the street on a chestnut she didn’t recognize. His companion wasn’t familiar either, but he was remarkably handsome and sat well on his horse. Sophy darted to the dressing table, grabbing gloves, whip and hat, ignoring the energizing tonic Lady Fairchild had given her last evening. She was supposed to drink it, but uncorking the bottle had been enough—the vapor of the potion was strong enough to curl her hair. Not that she needed any help with that. Some magic to keep her hair in its pins, maybe.

  She left the room with a lighter tread. Riding with Lord Fairchild would be much easier with Jasper along for company. Halfway down the hall, Lady Fairchild stopped her, emerging from her boudoir wrapped in a silk dressing gown. “Sophy! You can’t go down yet. At least wait until he’s inside.”

  Lady Fairchild had spent most of yesterday preparing Sophy for this morning’s ride, choosing her hat and boots and going over things she might say to the gentlemen she met. It shouldn’t surprise her that Lady Fairchild was awake, watching from her window too. This wasn’t just any ride. It was important. Sophy’s eyes dropped to the carpet. “I beg your pardon ma’am. I thought since it’s only Jasper—”

  “I won’t insist on you receiving him in the drawing room. That is a bit much for your brother, after all. But I won’t have you rushing at him as if he were returned from the Orient! Wait a few minutes!”

  Beckoning Sophy into her room, Lady Fairchild occupied Sophy for a few minutes, inspecting the color of her cheeks and adjusting the angle of her hat. “Wear the veil when you are outside,” she said, referring to the scrap of lace clinging to the brim. Opening a French novel Sophy wasn’t allowed to read, Lady Fairchild dismissed her with a wave. Sophy sped down the stairs, smiling to herself. She had Henrietta’s copy of the book hidden under her mattress.

  “Sophy! You look fine as five pence,” Jasper said, coming up the stairs to meet her with a wide smile and outstretched hands.

  “Yet this cost a good deal more,” she said, taking his hands and offering her cheek with a smile.

  He looked her over. “I’m sure it did. How’s the shoulder?”

  “Never better,” she assured him. Glancing past him, she saw that Lord Fairchild was drawing on his gloves, watching them impatiently. He hated having his horses wait. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” she said.

  As she and Jasper descended the last few steps, Jasper’s companion stepped forward and bowed. “Cousin Sophy. So good to see you again.”

  Cousin? Her eyes flew to Jasper’s.

  “Alistair,” he whispered. “Spent Easter with us years ago. Remember the snake?”

  She did, dredging his name out of the wells of memory. “Of course. Mr. Beaumaris. It’s been such a long time.”

  Tired of waiting, Lord Fairchild was making his way to the door. “Come along, Sophy. I’ve something to show you.” Hastening her steps, Sophy followed him outside and stopped so suddenly, Jasper nearly collided with her. She hardly noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the horse.

  It was fitted with a side-saddle, but she couldn’t believe this beautiful grey mare was for her. Such intelligent eyes, such smooth muscles rippling beneath her glossy coat—surely this horse was meant for a duchess. But there were only the four of them, standing on the steps. Mr. Beaumaris’s black was waiting beside Jasper’s horse and Lord Fairchild’s current favorite, a bay with giant quarters, stood ready. There was no horse for her, besides this one.

  “Her paces are faultless,” Lord Fairchild said beside her.

  Sophy could well believe it. This horse had been formed from clay by a god’s hand, before given the breath of life.

  “She’s yours,” Lord Fairchild said, when Sophy remained speechless.

  Where had he found her, and what had she cost? Shaking her head, still disbelieving, Sophy said, “I could have ridden Lady Fairchild’s horse.”

  “I’m supposed to ride with you every day, you know,” he said. “Do you think I could stand it, with you mounted on that plug?”

  Of course. Advertising. That’s what this was. Parading her in front of the eligibles and reassuring the squeamish that her father claimed her as his own.

  “Seemed a good way to prevent future accidents,” Lord Fairchild said, his eyes on the horse.

  She ignored that. “What is she called?”

  “I thought ‘Mischief’ might be fitting, but you don’t need any encouragement in that direction.” He smiled. “What will you call her?”

  “Hirondelle,” Sophy said immediately. “She looks like she should have wings.”

  “And like she’d carry you to Africa if you let her run away with you,” interjected Mr. Beaumaris, already in his saddle.

  “She won’t,” Jasper said smugly. “Sophy knows what she’s about.”

  Smiling at Jasper’s compliment, still incredulous at her good fortune, Sophy accepted a leg up from the groom. Settling into the saddle, she arranged her skirts and dropped the lace veil over her face. Silently, she maneuvered down the street alongside Lord Fairchild, Jasper and Mr. Beaumaris following behind.

  Hirondelle was a good name for this horse. She was agile and quick, with a responsive mouth, her steps light, like she would dance if she only had more space. Given free rein, she would fly as far and fast as the swallows for which she was named. Inside the park, Sophy gazed at the open grass, longing to gallop, painfully aware it was one of many things that Must Never Be Done. She would obey for now, but once they were home—

  Before the thought could bud, Sophy remembered she wasn’t returning to Cordell. Swiftly, she shut her mind to the familiar picture of wide green earth and infinite sky. Wherever she lived, there would be someplace to ride.

  The morning was damp, with an intermittent wind sweeping through the row of sentinel trees lining the riding path. Sophy didn’t mind it playing with her skirts, but did wish it would stop blowing her veil into her mouth. Spitting it free for the second time, she caught the amused look in Lord Fairchild’s eye.

  “You look well,” he assured her. “The costume suits you.” It was designed, Sophy knew, to highlight her resemblance to him. Her brown beaver hat was identical to his, save for its veil of cream lace.

  “Want to trade?” she asked, indicating her hat with her whip.

 
“Not on your life,” he laughed. She followed his backward glance to Jasper and Mr. Beaumaris, lagging behind them to greet a party of gentlemen riders. All were dressed in the same fashionable uniform: dark coats, yellow or tan trousers and boots polished to a high gloss. She wasn’t sure if the absurdly large peony in the buttonhole of one of them was an attempt to set fashion or a misguided attempt at copying it.

  Lord Fairchild cleared his throat. “You should start calling me father in informal situations among the family, you know. It is appropriate, since we want to make your position clear. And it would please me if you did.”

  “Of course. Father.” The word stuck in her throat before she coughed it grudgingly into the silence between them. It was an endearment that would never come naturally to her lips. Given her way, she preferred ‘sir.’ It was easier not to have to remember where she could be his daughter and where they pretended she was his ward.

  A lady in a habit of purple velvet bounced by, trailing a groom. Sophy saw her own frown mirrored by the sour twist of Lord Fairchild’s mouth. “Thank God you don’t ride like that,” he said.

  Here was safer ground. Sophy smiled. “I’ve a better horse. Thank-you,” she said fervently.

  He snorted. “A crime, if she were to ride Hirondelle. We should wait,” he said, looking back again at Jasper. “He will introduce his friends. It’s why we’re here, after all.”

  Hirondelle sidled, betraying Sophy’s anxiety. Lord Fairchild—no, her father—lifted an eyebrow. “I’m fine,” she lied.

  Jasper turned toward them. “Father, may I introduce my friends to Sophy?”

  Lord Fairchild nodded his assent and Jasper nudged his horse forward, his friends following. “Sophy, may I present Mr. George DeClerc and Mr. Andre Protheroe. Gentlemen, this is Sophy Prescott, my father’s ward.”

  “I think you and I have met before,” Sophy said to Mr. DeClerc, who she remembered as Jasper’s friend Boz. “But I don’t think I ever heard the name George.”

  He coughed into his hand. “No, I don’t use that handle much. How are you, Miss Prescott? Jasper says your arm is mending?”

  “It is indeed. I am very well.” Her nervousness was making Hirondelle restless, so Sophy let her walk, expecting Mr. DeClerc to fall in beside her. Instead he held back, answering a question from Mr. Protheroe, and Sophy ended up ambling beside Mr. Beaumaris instead.

  Unlucky, she sighed. It would have been comfortable, riding beside the empty headed and amiable Boz. She didn’t know what to do with Mr. Beaumaris, besides try not to stare. He was far too handsome for her to think of anything to say.

  “The hair I recognize,” he said, studying her with a raised eyebrow. It was the kind of glance designed to elicit blushes. Pressing her lips together—they felt suddenly dry—she conjured up an airy laugh she was far from feeling. She felt young, gauche, and eleven years old.

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to recognize me at all. It’s been ages since you came to Cordell. Except for the snake in my cupboard, I hardly saw you.”

  “As I recall, the snake didn’t distress you,” he smiled. “But what about the subsequent neglect?”

  Sophy turned her eyes to the path ahead, raising her chin. Females more sophisticated than she had melted for his velvet brown eyes, she was certain. It was unfair of him to use them on her. “Believe me, I was glad of it. If you and Jasper had troubled with me, I’m sure it would have been only to throw me into the lake.”

  Alistair laughed. “Maybe so. But if you are ever threatened with such a fate again, you must allow me to defend you.”

  “I doubt you will be required,” she said, scanning the park.

  “Pity.”

  “Since anyone with such ill intent would have to catch me first, I would hardly need you,” Sophy added, for good measure.

  “True. You’re a capital rider. I wasn’t sure you could live up to Jasper’s boasts.”

  “He’s a good teacher.”

  “So I see.”

  She’d applied her whip a little too freely, and now she and Alistair were some distance ahead of the rest of the party. She leaned back in the saddle, so that they would be overtaken. She felt out of her depth bantering with him. “What brings you to town, Mr. Beaumaris?” Sophy asked, filling the silence.

  “So formal?” he asked. “We are nearly cousins. You must call me Alistair, because I fully intend to call you Sophy.”

  Goodness, he was beautiful. Like the corsair in—Oh, stop, Sophy told herself. He must do this to everyone. How could he help it, with those looks? She drew a breath. “I could call you what your mother calls you. I see her letters to Lady Fairchild, you know,” she said, unable to entirely suppress the smile that tugged at her mouth.

  He was as cool as ever. “And that is?”

  “A no-good jackanapes who never writes.”

  “I’d prefer to hear you say Alistair,” he smiled. Sophy looked away again.

  “Very well.”

  The others caught up, but remained just behind them, caught up in a conversation about Lord Byron’s defense of the Luddites. Sophy listened for an opening, but there was none.

  “You haven’t said it,” Alistair said.

  He was talking about his name, she realized. “I haven’t had occasion to, yet. Are you going to tell me why you came to town?”

  “Invalided from Cadiz,” he said.

  Sophy turned to him in surprise. He didn’t look wounded. He sat easily on his horse, managing to look bored and dashing at the same time.

  “I hope you are recovering,” she stammered.

  “Quite nicely, thank-you. I hope to rejoin my regiment before winter.” These were rote responses. He must be bored.

  “You don’t care for London?” she asked.

  “No, I like it very much.” He was looking past her, to a trio of ornamental ladies walking round a pond. “Excuse me, Sophy. I must speak to some friends.” Nodding, touching the brim of his hat, he rode off.

  She had been eager to escape his company, but not this way, casually dismissed. Tight-lipped, she turned to Jasper, but he was still engrossed in his own discussion, so she fell in beside Lord Fairchild.

  The park grew busier. Her father presented a bewildering array of gentlemen to her, all of them lean and sharing his equine religion. They were carefully polite, probably only for her father and brother’s sake. Certainly that was the case with Mr. Beaumaris. He’d dropped her as soon as he’d spied another female. All in all, Sophy was inclined to disagree with Lady Fairchild’s assessment of her chances.

  *****

  Across the park, Tom swore. She was lovelier than he remembered. Under her hat, her hair gleamed like a new penny. Beneath a useless wisp of lace, her expression was just as he remembered, impish and imperious by turn as she conversed with the fellow riding beside her. Tom hated him immediately.

  Five days he’d been in London. Every morning and afternoon he’d walked the park, hoping for a glimpse of her, certain that sighting her would cure him. Instead, he couldn’t help staring at her, warmth spreading from his belly to the tips of his fingers. It felt good to look at her, even with his mind insisting she was trouble. She knew horses, despite her accident, skillfully managing a grey even he could tell was frisky.

  Tom watched her companion ride off with a nod. They were all doing that: nodding, smiling, amused no doubt, by their own witty little quips. His usual contempt for her kind had a keener edge today.

  As she moved to her father’s side, Tom saw the brother, Jasper. Their eyes met and held for an instant before Jasper Rushford looked away, laughing at the jest of the man beside him, pretending not to have seen.

  Scowling, Tom looked away, lest his stare draw the attention of the others. His hand clenched around the silver headed walking stick his mother had thrust into his hand as he walked out the door. She had given it to him for Christmas, saying it gave him a distinguished look. He thought it made him look like a fop.

  Well, what had he expected? This was wh
at she was here for, to see and be seen, to catch one of them—stupid, useless popinjays who spent their days mixing snuff, tying their cravats into absurd shapes and then giving them names, betting on anything their bored minds could conceive. She would make one of them a fine wife. Hadn’t he seen her, directing his servants and pouring out tea? Her preciseness completing that little ritual had told him exactly what she was.

  But she was more. He could not forget how she had breathed the air in his gardens and drawn close to his paintings to see the invisible brush strokes making up a wisp of cloud. Or how her absurd acting had amused his mother. When her brother had come for her, she had thrown herself at him with fierce affection. She would be wasted on a husband who did not love her the way she was capable of loving, with such exuberant joy. His own emotion threatened to choke him and he quickened his stride.

  He could not banish her from his mind’s eye. She was still there, circled by men in sober coats. He did not believe any of them would love her; knew with sinking despair that he did. It hardly mattered. Her brother’s hastily averted eyes told him he would never be allowed into her world. What’s more, he had promised himself years ago that he would never want to try.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Family

  Mrs. Thorpe could be pleased with the attendance at her musicale, Lady Fairchild decided. The rooms were gratifyingly full for an event this early in the season offering such tepid entertainment. The string quartet was good, but she would have hired a soprano. The expense was greater, of course, but so was the drama. Still, this was the right place to test Sophy’s wings.

  If this evening was a sign of things to come, Sophy would take well. Lady Milford had already congratulated her on her husband’s pretty ward, without a hint of irony. The compliment would not persuade her to smooth the path for Lady Milford’s impecunious sons, but Lady Fairchild valued the tribute nevertheless.