About a Rogue EPB

by Linden, Caroline

  Surely everything would be fine.

  Chapter Twenty

  If asked, Bianca would have said that of course she had friends in Marslip. Amelia, for one, had been her compatriot in all manner of childhood pranks. Cathy, her pillar of family, was the one person she told all her secrets to. Then there were her cousins, who came to dine and would commiserate when her father was in a temper, and even some of the working women, with whom she had set up the Perusia school for employees’ children.

  Nothing and no one, though, were anything like Lady Dalway and Mrs. Farquhar.

  They called upon her almost every day after the dinner party, sweeping in like a perfumed hurricane of feathers, silks, and gossip. Sometimes Lady Carswell came, sometimes they brought someone else. They laughed and talked so gaily, Bianca found herself being drawn into their enthusiasms.

  It had been Mrs. Farquhar—who had begged Bianca to call her Clara—who suggested the masquerade. “Don’t you remember how amusing it was last year?” she said to Lady Dalway.

  Lady Dalway—Serafina—gave one of her perfect, dimpled smiles. “I do! But Clara, we mustn’t overwhelm dear Bianca. She’s never been to Vauxhall, you know.”

  Bianca’s ears pricked up at the mention of the famous pleasure gardens. “Is a masquerade terribly scandalous?”

  “Of course not,” cried Serafina, at the same time Clara gave a tiny nod, her eyes gleaming with glee. “Well, perhaps they can be,” the countess amended, having seen Clara’s gesture. “There are places where one mustn’t go, at least not alone. But I daresay Max wouldn’t stray from your side all evening, so that is of no consequence.”

  “Royal princes and ladies of the realm attend Vauxhall,” Clara assured her. “Would they do that if it were appalling?”

  Bianca had already deduced that Clara had a slightly naughty, fun-loving nature. In fairness, Bianca herself had been the same when she was younger. The fact that Clara didn’t seem to have outgrown it, as Bianca had done, she put down to the effects of London society. Bianca had become more sensible because she wanted to work in the Perusia workshops, and being a madcap girl hadn’t helped.

  Still, part of her was fascinated by this talk of masquerade. “What is different in a masquerade?” she asked.

  “It’s ever so exciting.” Clara leaned forward eagerly. “You may dress as anything, or anyone, you like! And all with a mask, so no one will know your name.”

  “What did you dress as last year?” Bianca was intrigued and could not deny it.

  Serafina laughed. “She dressed as a nun! Can you imagine? It gave Farquhar the start of his life, I don’t wonder!”

  Clara only smiled, a touch smugly. “I thought I made a splendid Reverend Mother.”

  Bianca wasn’t sure about that; religious figures were not to be mocked, in her upbringing. She turned to Serafina. “And you?”

  Her dimples flashed again. “A queen! I looked very striking.”

  Serafina would be a queen; she had a way of commanding attention without any effort Bianca could discern. “I haven’t got anything half that elegant,” Bianca said. “I don’t want people to think I’ve gone as a simple country girl, when I’ve only worn my best gown.”

  “Oh no!” Both ladies sat up in protest. “We’ll see you properly turned out,” vowed Clara. “Serafina and I should have something that would suit you.”

  Bianca doubted that very much. Lady Dalway was petite and slender, and Mrs. Farquhar was as pale and plump as a meringue.

  Serafina looked at Bianca with a more critical eye. “We must raid Louisa’s wardrobe,” she announced, referring to Lady Carswell. “She is more of a height with dear Bianca.”

  “Oh yes!” Clara clapped her hands. “And I shall send my own Thérèse to arrange your hair. She would be happy to train your maid while she is here,” she added as Bianca’s brows went up.

  Bianca wasn’t entirely sure about putting herself into Clara’s maid’s hands—Clara wore rather more powder and rouge than Bianca liked, although she was very fashionable—but it did sound irresistibly intriguing and amusing, and she found that agreeing to consider the masquerade was enough to set Serafina and Clara on the path to full-scale preparations for it.

  Max’s initial reluctance took her off guard, but then he kissed her and said they would go. It seemed all was settled, and she began looking forward to the event more than she would have ever admitted aloud.

  Until Clara and her French maid, Thérèse, arrived on the day of the masquerade, with a shrouded bundle that produced a breathtaking gown.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly wear this.” Bianca was aghast.

  Clara waved it aside. “You can! You must! Louisa will be so downcast if you do not—she said she cannot wait to see you in it.”

  Bianca touched the heavy brocade skirt. It was surely even more expensive than the gowns Max had bought her here in London. It was also startlingly black, relieved only by gold lace around the neckline—the very low neckline. “It’s so dark.”

  Clara blinked. “Oh! Well, that is no matter—bring a petticoat,” she said to Jennie, who was watching, agog with interest. “A bright one, red or yellow.” She opened a pouch and poured out a mountain of jewels. “These will brighten it as well. All paste,” she said airily, as Bianca gaped. “It’s for a night of fun!”

  So she allowed herself to be laced into the dress, draped in the paste jewels, and her hair pinned up in a thoroughly unfamiliar way. She barely recognized herself in the looking glass as Thérèse fixed the headdress in place.

  “My, my,” murmured Clara in the silence. “I cannot wait for Maxim’s reaction to this.”

  “What do you mean?” Bianca asked, still marveling at herself.

  Clara’s laugh was warm and low as she came up behind Bianca, and rested her hands on Bianca’s elbows. “He’ll trip over his own tongue,” she whispered. She handed Bianca a white mask, adorned with red spots on the cheeks, a rosy painted pout on the lips, and a tiny heart-shaped beauty mark beside one eye hole. “Do be kind to the poor man tonight!”

  That thought made her mouth go dry. She knew she looked . . . well, striking, even in her own private opinion. Marvelous and mysterious, more elegant than she’d ever thought possible—perhaps even beautiful.

  But that didn’t mean Max would notice. He’d been surrounded by beautiful women for years, and even in this magnificent gown, made up like a princess, she was still the same Bianca she’d been yesterday.

  Clara departed in a flurry of pink skirts—she had come already attired in a whimsical shepherdess costume—calling that she would see them at the gardens. Thérèse was packing up her things, and giving the fascinated Jennie instructions in a quiet voice.

  Touching the headdress once more to settle it in place, Bianca slowly went down the stairs. She wondered if Clara would be right—if Max would be pleased and even impressed by her appearance. He’d looked at her so . . . so hungrily the night of the dinner party, when she’d had her hair up and powdered and wore one of her new gowns. And she’d ended up kissing him then.

  There was no avoiding the truth, that she liked her husband to look at her with desire. It sent thrills through her when he cupped his hand around her nape. And when he kissed her, she forgot why she should keep him at arm’s length.

  Perhaps tonight would tip the precarious balance, one way or the other.

  Max dressed simply for the masquerade, wanting to send every possible sign that he was a different man now. A black suit, unrelieved by anything but white lace at the throat. Lawrence had located a simple black cloak and white mask to wear. With any luck, none of his former comrades would even recognize him tonight.

  He heard Clara Farquhar leave. He thought he also heard her laugh as she passed the drawing room door, too, but he didn’t call out and stop her. Nigel Farquhar had warned him she was in high spirits over dressing his wife, and Max knew enough about Clara’s high spirits to be wary.

  In the distance, the bell tolled seven. They we
re to meet the rest of the party in the supper box Dalway had reserved. It was most fashionable to go by yacht, but given the nature of the evening, Max had chosen to take the carriage most of the way. They would take a launch from Westminster to cross the river.

  “I’m ready to go,” said Bianca behind him. “What do you think?”

  Max looked up—and almost pitched forward onto his face in amazement.

  She wore a dress from the time of the Tudors, hanging in heavy folds of gleaming black brocade over a brilliant scarlet petticoat, visible in front. Her waist was impossibly narrow, girdled by a golden chain, and her breasts were barely contained by the rigid bodice. Ropes of pearls hung in crescents down her front, glowing amidst the gold lace that framed her bosom and face.

  Dimly he remembered seeing Louisa Carswell in that dress a few years ago. She’d worn a wide red ribbon around her neck and told everyone she was Anne Boleyn, with her head restored for one night. He suspected she’d been just as faithful that night as the ill-fated queen, but Harry Carswell hardly cared. Max had seen him disappearing into the gardens beyond the grove with two young women clad in very little. Prostitutes, he suspected. The Carswells had always been like that.

  But Bianca didn’t look like a licentious queen; she looked like a goddess of the night, come to torment him to madness.

  At his silence she came a step closer, and took a deep breath. Max’s gaze veered involuntarily to the plump swells of her breasts above the black satin. “Clara said it would be very striking, but I was astonished by how much so,” she said with an awkward little laugh.

  His brain was fixated on her breasts. He was sure if she inhaled like that again, her rosy nipples would pop out of the tight bodice. Louisa was slimmer than she, and it showed in the dress. He could barely breathe, watching, waiting, hoping . . .

  Max wrenched his gaze away from her bosom, back to her face. There was the sensible Bianca he knew, his wife, and she was looking at him expectantly—and warily. “I’ve been struck dumb by how beautiful you look,” he said truthfully.

  “Truly?” Her eyes lit up. She placed her palms on her stomach, unconsciously displaying her compressed figure. “I had doubts . . .”

  Max’s doubts centered on whether he would survive this evening. “Are you not comfortable?”

  “Well,” she confided, “it is laced rather tightly.”

  And like that he pictured undoing those laces, hearing her sigh in his arms, feeling her smooth, warm skin under his hands. He mustered a smile, hoping it didn’t look as strained as it felt on his face. “I shall carry a knife,” he said, “in case you need to be freed.”

  Idiot. Now he’d think about shredding that dress off her all night long.

  He cleared his throat. “Shall we go?”

  A smile, uncertain but growing stronger, bloomed on her lips. “Yes.”

  They took the carriage across town to Westminster stairs. Bianca kept peering out the window, remarking on various landmarks they passed. Max had to smile. At the landing, he handed her down and made arrangements with the coachman for the return.

  “Why did we not go with Serafina and the others by boat?” she asked as Max helped her down to the wherry.

  To avoid being marooned at Vauxhall until the early hours of the morning. “I shall have to spend the entire evening in Dalway’s company, and you want to subject me to a boat ride with him as well?” He shook his head with a soft tsk and settled onto the seat beside her. The boatman pushed away from the dock, setting the lantern on the hook above his head swaying. “Unkind, Your Highness.”

  Bianca started. “Highness?”

  Curse it. Of course Clara and Serafina wouldn’t have told her she was Anne Boleyn, scheming wife of a faithless husband and dispatched to the block for treason and infidelity. “Are you not a young Queen Elizabeth?” Max asked lightly, thinking quickly.

  “Oh.” She seemed pleased by the thought. “And what are you?”

  Max raised her hand to his lips for a kiss. “A lowly courtier, Highness.”

  She laughed. “Truly? Why did you not dress as something adventurous?”

  “Lack of imagination, I suppose,” lied Max. “No one shall notice me in any event, once they set eyes upon you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She gave him one of her frank, appraising looks. It was not the first time; Max had always met her gaze boldly, quietly, unflinchingly, letting her look her fill. He thought she liked what she saw, even if she never betrayed it by even a flicker of her lashes. Let her stare at his legs or wipe a drop of coffee from his chin. Every fraction of an inch was that much closer to his goal of winning her over.

  Tonight, though . . . he could feel the flames of desire licking at him as her gray eyes moved over him. Tonight he didn’t feel like the relentlessly focused, patient man he’d become, but more like the reckless, scandalous rake he’d been . . .

  “You don’t look like a lowly person of any kind,” she said in a low voice. “You look dangerous and wicked—and not easily denied.”

  She saw him too well, apparently. “Nothing of the sort,” Max tried to say, when he could speak. They had reached the Vauxhall stairs, and the boatman’s efforts tying up the craft bought him a moment to recover from the thunderbolt of shock her words had caused.

  “Oh, precisely that sort.” She let him hand her up the stairs, then glanced back with a coy little smile. “Tonight, though . . . I think I like it.” With a swish of her ebony skirts, she turned and headed toward the carriages waiting to ferry passengers the short distance to the pleasure gardens.

  If Max had been a religious man, he would have prayed for restraint and patience. He should have done so anyway, mindful of what was at stake.

  Instead, he felt the old rogue within him, dormant and docile these last few months, awaken with a growl. And he followed his wife toward the familiar grounds of his former haunt, where he had been the most wicked version of himself, feeling more like the old Max than he should have.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Vauxhall was a marvel.

  Bianca barely remembered to put on her mask as they strolled through the tall colonnade. A wide avenue lay directly ahead of them, disappearing into the darkening evening. Glass lamps on posts and trees glowed in a variety of colors. To one side was a neatly manicured square with a pavilion at the center and a rotunda at the end, outlined with trees, and to the other a line of dinner boxes tucked under the colonnade, enclosed on three sides but open at the front to the curiosity of passersby.

  Max led her down the avenue, pointing out details helpfully, because Bianca couldn’t turn her head fast enough or far enough to take it all in. It was a fairyland, filled with people in all manner of dress, from a tall, portly friar to a figure wearing a wolf’s head and furred cloak, so lean and short Bianca wondered if it were a woman or even a child.

  At one of the last supper boxes, right before the avenue grew more rustic and darker, they found the Dalway party. Clara Farquhar was there in her shepherdess costume, while her husband wore the long wig and plumed hat of a cavalier. Lady Dalway was petite and beautiful in an all-white draped gown, saying she was Virtue, and her husband wore a black Spanish suit and pretended to strum a guitar as he sang, very poorly, and said he was Scaramouche.

  “Carswell and his wife will be along later,” said Lord Dalway, eyeing Max with barely concealed amusement. “I see we have royalty among us tonight, but who, pray, are you, St. James?”

  “Nobody,” said Max with a smile as they took their seats on the bench. “Nobody at all.”

  “Oh!” cried Lady Dalway in pique. “How unlike you to spoil our fun!”

  “I assure you, if your fun depended upon me, it was utterly doomed to be spoiled,” he replied.

  She made a face at him and turned to Bianca. “My dear, you look simply splendid! I knew Louisa would have something to suit you in her wardrobe.”

  “It’s magnificent,” agreed Bianca, stroking the damask. It was also quite warm, but she didn
’t mention that. Tonight was not a night for practical concerns.

  “There’s to be a wonderful singer tonight,” Lady Dalway went on, consulting the musical program. “Such a pity! I daresay no one much will listen to her during a masquerade. I do adore Miss Leary, though. I wonder if she will sing some of Mr. Carter’s songs.”

  “Is it to include dancing?” Bianca asked. Clara Farquhar had given her instructions on how to dance in the dress, and she’d paid close attention, not wanting to embarrass herself or damage the gown.

  “Not always,” Max told her. He lowered his voice and tipped his head toward her. “But if you wish to dance, I would gladly partner you.”

  She flushed. “We cannot dance if no one else is . . .”

  His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight as he looked at her. “In the wilderness we can do as we please.”

  Her mouth went dry. Before she could muster a reply, a whistle sounded, and a servant dashed by, stationing himself at one end of the box. At a second whistle, the man touched a taper to the lamp, igniting the lamp there. But then—as if by magic—the illumination spread, lamp to lamp, until the whole of the garden was nearly as bright as day. Lady Dalway laughed and clapped, like many other people around them, and Bianca joined in.

  “How did they do that?” she whispered to Max. It was as if someone had flung aside a heavy curtain, turning night into day in an instant.

  “It’s a mystery of Vauxhall,” he replied, and she could only shake her head and marvel.

  The Carswells joined them after the dinner had come. Louisa was dressed as a Persian princess, with diaphanous veils draped about her, and Sir Henry wore the outfit of a naval admiral. The evening passed in a blur for Bianca, with shockingly small portions of food—“If they could slice the meat any thinner, it would waft away on the breeze,” commented Mr. Farquhar forlornly—but large quantities of drink, including something called arrack punch, which Louisa Carswell drank with abandon.