Vivian Roycroft (11 page)
Authors: Mischief on Albemarle
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 youth, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
