The Rogue of Her Heart: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 2)

by Nina Mason

  When Lady Caroline returned to London the following year, Byron made it clear he had no intention of renewing their amour. This spurred increasingly public attempts on Lady Caroline’s part reunite with her former lover. After a thwarted visit to his home, she reportedly wrote “Remember Me!” into the flyleaf of one of his books. He responded with a hate poem:

  Remember thee! Remember thee!;

  Till Lethe quench life’s burning stream;

  Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

  And haunt thee like a feverish dream!

  Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not.

  Thy husband too shall think of thee!

  By neither shalt thou be forgot,

  Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

  Matters came to a head at Lady Heathcote’s ball in July of 1813, when Byron publicly insulted Caro. She responded by breaking a wine glass and trying to slash her wrists. She did not seriously injure herself, fortunately, due largely to the prompt intervention of her mother-in-law.

  Needless to say, polite society was scandalized, and her mental stability was called into question. Byron himself callously compared the failed suicide attempt to a theatrical performance: “Lady Caroline performed the dagger scene,” he’d said, referencing Shakespeare’s MacBeth.

  In June of this year, Byron left England, largely due to rumors about his shocking assignation with his half-sister, with whom he was rumored to have fathered a child.

  A few weeks after his departure, Lady Caroline avenged herself by publishing a scandalous tell-all novel entitled Glenarvon. The book’s rakish title character, Lord Ruthven, who corrupted the innocent young bride Calantha (Caroline herself), was an unflattering depiction of her “mad, bad, and dangerous to know” ex-lover. Her depiction of her real-life husband, called Lord Avondale in the book, was more favorable, although she held him, too, partly responsible for Calantha’s misfortunes.

  Glenarvon was all the rage at present in fashionable society, but had the unforeseen side-effect of tarnishing what little shine remained on Lady Caroline’s reputation. While society’s leaders delighted in reading the sordid details of her love affairs, they deeply resented the vicious and thinly veiled portraits of themselves she painted in the novel.

  One of those thus ridiculed was the Countess of Jersey, a leader of the Ton and patroness of Almack’s, the most exclusive social club in London. In retaliation, Lady Jersey had Lady Caroline, a relation through marriage, barred from the club.

  By banishing Caro, Lady Jersey (whose nickname, “Queen Sarah,” denoted her high social position) sent a clear message, which echoed across fashionable society: Lady Caroline Lamb was no longer welcome in their sphere.

  Christian found Lady Jersey’s actions somewhat hypocritical, since Queen Sarah had her own affairs. Her husband was a Villiers, a family that had produced more than one Royal Mistress. When asked why he’d never fought a duel to preserve his wife’s reputation, Lord Jersey wryly replied that doing so would require him to fight every man in London.

  Whilst Christian ruminated upon the caprices and cruelties these events exposed, Winnie continued reading:

  But, when our cheeks with anguish glow’d,

  When thy sweet lips were join’d to mine;

  The tears that from my eyelids flow’d

  Were lost in those which fell from thine.

  Struck by the verse’s pathos, Christian moved his gaze to Georgie, hoping he might catch hers. Disappointment pressed down upon his heart when she did not. He missed the intimacy they had shared in recent days, reckless though they’d been. She was right to end their trysts. Had she been discovered leaving his room that morning, she would have been as disgraced as Lady Caroline now was.

  Would they end up like Caro and Byron?—or Caro and her husband, come to think of it. For theirs had been a love match, and a happy marriage for the first several years. But her emotional instability and his political ambitions gradually eroded their bond, proving how elusive felicity in marriage could be, even when one married for love.

  Upon my soul! This is not to be borne!

  Christian bit his lip and gave his head a forceful shake. The path of his thoughts was too depressing to pursue. And that wretched poem—and its associated disenchantments—only made him more melancholy than he’d been before.

  Thou could’st not feel my burning cheek,

  Thy gushing tears had quench’d its flame,

  And, as thy tongue essay’d to speak,

  In sighs alone it breath’d my name.

  Yes, yes. The poem admittedly had merit, if only because it captured so well that wrenching moment in human experience when one lover desires to sever the connection while the other tearfully pleads with him or her to continue the affair. How often he’d been there. Hell, he was there now, with Miss Stubbs. Only in their case, it was not unrequited love she cleaved to, but the promise of social elevation.

  Again, thou best belov’d, adieu!

  Ah! if thou canst, o’ercome regret,

  Nor let thy mind past joys review,

  Our only hope is, to forget!

  The final sorrowful stanza brought back to Christian, with a painful paroxysm, the brief exchange he’d had with Georgie the other night in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

  “I want to spend the rest of my life loving you.”

  “I want the same,” she’d replied, rolling toward him. “Most ardently. But only if we can be together.”

  “And if we cannot?”

  “I want to forget you as soon as possible. Not that I will … or ever could. But I should like to be spared the agony of living without you all the same.”

  Georgie was right, which, vexingly, made Byron right, too. If they could not be together, their best hope was to simply forget each other, accept their fates, and move on with their lives.

  Not that he ever would, or could, forget her or the feelings they shared. Like poor Lady Caroline, he would pine for her the rest of his days…and perhaps be driven to madness—or even suicide—by his inescapable regret and longing.

  His heart swollen and heavy, he looked again at Georgie, this time meeting her gaze. Overpowered by his ardent desire to be closer to her, he smiled at her sadly before looking away. Then, rising from his chair, he left the room and went into the parlor where the Christmas tree stood waiting for Christmas Eve.

  With no fire going, the room was dark and almost unbearably cold. The moonlight shining through the sheers at the windows stripped the color from the few furnishings he could make out among the shadows. He sat in a chair, willing her to come to him. True, following him out of the drawing room would be counterproductive to their efforts to avoid arousing suspicion, but he did not care.

  He only wanted her. Here and now, with him alone, so he could experience the tender intimacies he’d lately been denied. Setting his head against the back of the chair, he closed his eyes, calling from his memory the last time they’d made love.

  Footfalls coming into the room drew him from his reflections. Hope lifted his heart when he saw it was Georgie. She stopped before the Christmas tree, to admire her handiwork, presumably. Unsure if she was aware of his presence, he studied her the way an art connoisseur might admire a beautiful painting.

  She wore a long-sleeved evening gown of cream-colored silk, with a high waist and a low neckline, which called his eyes to her palatable décolletage. The skirt, too full to flatter any woman’s figure, was decorated around the hemline in a manner reminiscent of a Twelfth Night cake.

  Even so, she looked so lovely, he felt inspired to recite a poem by his former hero:

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

  Thus mellowed to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies ...

  He’d clearly startled her. Hand splayed across her chest, she turned toward the sound o
f his voice. “Good heavens, Christian. What are you doing sitting in the dark all alone?”

  “Admiring the Christmas tree…and hoping you would come.”

  “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  He smiled through his gloom. “I’m far too restless for that, I’m afraid.”

  “Then why did you not stay?”

  “I wanted to be alone … with you, preferably.”

  “I thought perhaps you did not care for Byron…though you must do…or, I daresay, you would not have recited his best-known poem to me just now.”

  “I recited it because it fit the occasion,” he said.

  “What occasion?”

  “Being awed by your beauty.”

  Though he could not see her blush, he was certain she had. “You flatter me, Christian.”

  “And would go on flattering you for the rest of my days, if the fates should deign to make it possible.”

  “Well, I for one, hope they do,” she said, lowering her voice. “Because, truth be known, I miss being in your bed.”

  “And I miss having you there, my dear. Most ardently.” He held out his arms to her. “Now come, my darling, sit upon my lap and give me a kiss. For my poor heart must have some consolation.”

  Without hesitation, she came forward, settled herself upon his thighs, and pressed her lips to his. Enveloping her in his arms, he deepened the kiss, entwining his tongue with hers for one luscious, soul-satiating moment before a loudly clearing throat ripped them apart.

  Mortified and shame-faced, they both turned to face the music.

  The intruder, Christian saw with considerable relief, was Benedict. “Well, well,” said he with a teasing grin. “It looks as if my big brother has been dipping his nib in all the pretty inkpots here at Greystone Hall.”

  “I most certainly have not,” Christian reposted, as embarrassed as he was incensed by his sibling’s crass insinuation.

  “We are in love,” Georgie proffered in their defense, “and want to marry as soon as your brother is free to do so.”

  “Ah,” said Benedict, clearly bemused. “So that is the real reason you wanted me to help you break your engagement … and why I saw Miss Bennet coming out of your room the other morning in only her dressing gown.” With a jolly laugh, he added, “Upon my soul, I do not know whether to be shocked or envious.”

  “You will keep our secret, won’t you?” Georgie asked imploringly. “As I have so faithfully kept yours.”

  Surprised, alarmed, and curious, Christian turned to Benedict. “Pray, what confidence has she been keeping for you?”

  “I do not mind telling you, provided you promise to spread the secret no farther,” Benedict told him. “And, of course, I shall keep yours. For I am sure I dread the idea of having Miss Stubbs as the mistress of Wingfield Hall as much as do you. For she will only pollute the place with her ill-breeding, social ineptitude, and appallingly ignorant opinions.” Benedict shook his head. “For the life of me, I cannot conceive what you ever saw in such an unexceptional creature.”

  All this talk of Miss Stubbs—and his brother’s ridicule—was trying Christian’s patience. “Whatever I saw was through the veil of lust and strong drink,” he said crossly. “Now, let us speak no more of that creature.”

  “As you wish,” Benedict said with a shrug. “And my secret, as you might have guessed already, has to do with who has caught my special attention.”

  “Yes, yes,” Christian said peevishly. “I have indeed figured out that much already.”

  “Then the rest should not be hard to guess,” Benedict returned in his usual good spirits, “given that I have told you I dislike Miss Stubbs, did not fly into a jealous rage when I came upon you kissing Miss Bennet, and have no desire to come between the Captain and his wife, beautiful and charming though she is.”

  “That leaves only Miss Raynalds,” Christian said, stating the obvious. “An excellent choice, by the way. And, given your prospects and pedigree, I cannot imagine the Captain would object to you as a suitor.”

  “Quite right,” said Benedict. “For he raised none, apart from her age and my incomplete scholarship.”

  “So, you have spoken to him?” Georgie interjected.

  “I have indeed,” he said, looking her way, “and am happy to report that I have obtained his provisional consent to court his sister, but only after I have completed my education and begun paid work as a barrister.”

  “That seems only sensible,” she remarked.

  “Sensible, perhaps,” Benedict reluctantly agreed. “But also a source of considerable vexation, I assure you. For what guarantees do I have with regard to the constancy of her affection? Her feelings might cool … or a rival might offer her more than the life of a barrister’s wife.”

  “Dear Benedict,” said Christian. “Do not fret. For your prospects may be better than you realize.”

  “How so?”

  “Father might cut me off when he learns of my engagement to Miss Stubbs.”

  “He knows of it already,” Benedict said with a hearty pat on the back. “And said nothing to me about disowning you.”

  Christian looked at his brother askance. “When did you speak to father last?”

  “I had a letter from him only this morning,” Benedict replied, “informing me of his plans to make a visit to Much Wenlock.”

  “But…why did he not write to me of it himself?”

  “I assumed he had.”

  “I’ve had no letter, I assure you.”

  “Nor have I,” said Georgie.

  Benedict gave her a peculiar look. “Why should our father write to you?”

  “Because I wrote to him,” she answered. “Several days ago, regarding your brother’s dilemma.”

  “Ah, well,” said Benedict to Christian. “There it is: the source of his intelligence regarding your unfortunate engagement. For it was not me, I promise you. Moreover, Miss Bennet’s letter sheds light upon Papa’s motives for deciding so suddenly to pay us a visit.”

  “Does it?” Christian, scowling, stroked his chin. “For I do not see what he hopes to accomplish by coming here.”

  “Well, we all shall know his intentions soon enough,” Benedict told him. “Because, according to his letter, he will arrive on the doorstep in another two days.”

  Eighteen

  Plagued by worries about her future with Christian, Georgie tossed and turned most of the night. Was his father coming to forward or impede their cause? Different versions of what was essentially the same question went around and around in her head, unanswered. At one point, she seriously considered going to Christian’s room to commiserate, but battled the irrational impulse.

  Now was not the time to increase their risk of discovery. Not that there was anyone left in the house who did not know of their liaison. Apart from Miss Stubbs, of course. Yes, the minx had her suspicions, but suspecting a thing and being certain it was true were two different things.

  Her thoughts turned to the Earl of Wingfield’s visit. Was his purpose in coming to dress down and disinherit Christian? Or did he simply wish to see his son’s two conquests side by side before deciding upon a course of action?

  If the former turned out to be the case, there was little she could do to help her beloved, short of standing by him, of course; and, if the latter were indeed his father’s aim, she must endeavor to make a good impression. Not that anyone with an ounce of discernment could find anything wanting in her when compared with Miss Stubbs … except perhaps for the lack of moral turpitude she’d demonstrated by allowing Christian to woo her whilst engaged to someone else.

  The thought provoked a stab of guilt. Yes, she’d allow that she’d been wrong to welcome his addresses, however dearly she longed to be with him. Perhaps she also was wrong to dismiss so quickly Elinor Dashwood’s irreproachable conduct toward Edward Ferrars.

  Dear me, yes. Indeed I was, having behaved as rashly and unguardedly toward Christian as had Marianne toward John Willoughby.

&nbs
p; More mortifying still, her conduct was decidedly more aberrant, since Marianne had no idea of Mr. Willoughby being an unprincipled rogue at the time of their courtship. And just look how tragically things turned out for her! The poor girl nearly died of a fever brought on by a broken heart!

  Drawing a deep breath, Georgie reminded herself again the story wasn’t real. The characters and their dilemmas were fictional, however realistically they might be portrayed in the prose. Her troubles, in contrast, were genuine. Vexingly so, in fact. And the man who held her future in his hands was coming here to seal her fate—in just two more days!

  Fear fluttered in her breast. Was she destined to spend Christmas and Twelfth Night broken-hearted by her own folly?

  Blowing out the candle, Georgie lay back on her flattened feather pillow, her thoughts turning from Christian’s father to her own. What would Papa have done to her were he still alive? Beaten her soundly, probably, for surrendering her maidenhead before marriage—and to a man already spoken for, no less.

  Which rod would he have used to punish such a grievous folly? King, Duke, Earl, or Marquess? The Earl, being ironic, would have certainly appealed to her father’s dark sense of humor. Yet, he’d only used the Marquess to punish Louisa for engaging herself in secret to Capt. Raynalds. Had Papa known his eldest daughter had bedded her beau, he probably would have opted for a sturdier switch.

  But thank heavens he remained in ignorance of Louisa’s indiscretion. Until, of course, she gave birth to Sonny seven months after her elopement. For the hours-long coach ride to Bath had been torturous enough on their poor welted backsides!

  Yes, well … punishment aside, would Papa have approved of Christian Churchill as a future son-in-law? Had he not been betrothed to another, Georgie presumed her father would have approved her choice ... provided his father did not disown him, of course. Would he? Was that the Earl’s purpose in coming to Much Wenlock?