Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) (2 page)

“So, you have heard the rumors.”

“I’m not deaf or blind.” He lifted his chin and turned his attention to a bland study of the portraits and landscapes hanging on the walls as he whirled around the ballroom.

“You mustn’t be annoyed with our neighbors, my lord. My own family holds the same opinion, as do a number of our London acquaintances.”

“I’m not annoyed with them. I’m annoyed with you for believing such rubbish.” He executed a stiff step forward—infernal waltz. “Jinx,
indeed
. What utter nonsense.”

She fell silent.

He’d gone too far. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed her downcast countenance. She stared, unseeing, at the medals on his coat. He truly was a heartless cad. He regretted chastising her and was just on the brink of apologizing when her feet tangled up. She tripped in the middle of a turn and plummeted into his chest.

Tyrell congratulated himself on deftly handling the awkward moment. He recovered his balance, held on to the damsel in distress, and completed the turn without so much as an audible curse word. Yet, she still clung to him, her eyes wide with fright.

“Miss Hawthorn, we are safe. You may recover yourself now with ease.”

“No, my lord,” she said in a high-pitched whisper. “I’m stuck!”

“Stuck?” Tyrell glanced down at the maiden on his chest. The bosom of her dress was caught on his Merit Cross. He looked up at the ceiling, incredulous. “Well, pull it off.” He locked his jaw in the imperial position he’d always found useful as a commanding officer.

“I can’t.” she whispered desperately. “Not without serious repercussions.”

He murmured an unsuitable epitaph. But then, espying a possible solution in the form of the balcony with open doors, he maneuvered her, still pressed against him, outside. They escaped into blessed darkness, away from the doors and windows, and more importantly away from the prying eyes of his mother’s guests.

“Now,” he said coolly. “We have some privacy. You may extract yourself from my coat.”

She sniffed at him and wrestled with her bodice and his confounded medal. “It’s so dark out here, I can hardly see. I think it’s snagged on this big gold star with all the sharp points.”

“Cross. Not a star. It’s a deuced Merit Cross. Oh, never mind. Just un–snag it, will you. Quickly.” He tapped his foot. Waited. Slapped at his thigh. And waited some more. “It’s certain we were observed. This is ridiculous. How difficult can it be?”

Her head snapped up and her eyes flashed at him. “Do stop railing at me.”

“Get on with it then.”

She bent back to the task.

“Hurry.”

She huffed back at him. “Now see. You’ve made me so nervous my fingers won’t do as they’re told.”

Exasperated, he pushed her hands away. “Here, let me see to it. Perhaps, if I open the clasp it will be easier to remove it from your gown.”

There wasn’t enough light to sort out the problem. Tyrell nudged Fiona toward a window, and achieved the desired effect of illuminating their tangle. But the candlelight cast a soft golden glow across the neckline of her gown, which was stretched further from her person than the cut of the dress intended. It revealed far too much of the smooth round breasts against which Tyrell struggled to extricate himself.

He swallowed hard, drew in a steadying breath, and concentrated on unpinning his troublesome badge. Her perfume wafted up and the sweet smell of rosewater teased his nose.

He exhaled and continued working with iron determination.

The summer breeze taunted him, lifting an errant strand of her hair up to tickle his cheek. He endeavored to unlatch the medal without touching her. It was impossible. His fingers brushed against her soft skin and frustration of another kind bolted through him.

His breathing changed tenor without permission. Next, his hands betrayed him. Hands that could be relied upon to load a musket during a skirmish in blackest night failed him. They trembled. He ordered himself to regain control.

Her wicked hair caressed his cheek again.

Her fragrance filled his nostrils.

Her enticing breasts lifted as she drew in a breath.

Tyrell growled like a bear caught in a trap and threw up his hands. “Blast it, woman! I can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I did warn you not to dance with me.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Pray, do not start prattling on about that again.” He took hold of her shoulders and glared at her as sternly as he could in the dim light. “Listen to me, Fiona Hawthorn. This has nothing to do with curses, or jinxes. I don’t believe in any of that rubbish. Now, I’m
ordering
you to unhook us—”

She stared back at him far too evenly. Why the devil wasn’t the girl properly frightened? His brain turned to mush—a senseless puddle of drivel. He had the most inane urge to kiss this troublesome female. He must be going mad. But then, he didn’t have far to go, did he?

“Perhaps, Lord Wesmont, if you will remove your coat.” She spoke amicably, as if she were inquiring about the weather, instead of staring into the face of a madman.

It took him a moment to realize she had a plan. He let go of her shoulders and struggled to regain his senses. “Yes, yes, of course. Keep the deuced thing, and the medals. I never want to see them again anyway. I only wore it at the insistence of my mother.”

“I hardly think that will be necessary.”

He twisted, shrugged out of the coat, and grimaced when he heard a slight tearing sound as the weight of his coat dropped below Fiona’s bosom. However, they had achieved their aim. The medal had indeed disengaged from her dress.

“There! We are free.” She announced triumphantly and handed him his coat.

“Yes.” He eyed the front of her gown. She looked deliciously wanton with her torn dress and her hair falling out of place. Staring at her, he slid back into his coat and dusted off the sleeves. “You, however, require some assistance. The front of your gown is torn. I’ll send Lady Hawthorn to you.”

“No!” she blurted. Fiona looked down at the ripped fabric of her bodice and clasped her hand over it. “Please. I promised her I wouldn’t create a scene tonight. I’ll think of something. Truly, I will. Oh, if only you had left me behind that comfortable column.”

“Don’t be difficult, Fiona. Your dress is torn. You need assistance. Your step-mother is the logical choice, but if you prefer, I’ll send a maid.”

“No. You mustn’t. The servants will gossip. How will it look? Think of your reputation, my lord, and mine.” She shook her head insistently. “No. Please, go back to your guests and I’ll think of a way out of this.”

Circumstances looked bad. He had waltzed her out onto the balcony in front of a ballroom full of witnesses and now she had a torn gown and her hair had tumbled down. Perhaps she planned to trap him by saying he’d compromised her. He studied her face. The eyes pleading with him were clear and dark like the night sky—and completely guileless.

“I’m not a coward, Miss Hawthorn. I refuse to leave you unattended in this predicament.”

“Please, go,” she implored. “Every moment you stay makes the situation worse for me. Someone might come and then…”

“And assume I had compromised you,” he finished. “That’s ludicrous. Do you suppose I care for their opinion? Not one wit. Let them think what they choose.”

She answered in a calm voice, explaining matters to him as if he was a wayward child “I, on the other-hand, care a great deal. As I must spend the rest of my life in this neighborhood, it is rather callous of you to have so little regard for my reputation.”

Callous
? Naturally, and why not? She was right, he was callous. Why then did he feel as if she had just slapped him?

So be it.

“As you wish.” He bowed. “I will not trouble you further with my offers of assistance.” Turning crisply, he shut the balcony doors behind him and returned to the ballroom with his chin fixed at a stern ninety-degree angle.

He approached a cluster of fluttering young misses and in scarcely civil tones he asked Miss Belinda Compton for the next country set. During the next half hour his eyes may have wandered toward the balcony doors, but he had no interest. What was the welfare of one obstinate female to him?
Nothing
. Nothing at all.

The set ran on interminably. When the dance finally ended, it was mere curiosity that beckoned him back to the balcony, or perhaps an aggravating sense of duty. Whatever the hell it was he marched to the balcony ready to do battle.

But when he stepped through the doors, his aggravation turned to astonishment. The balcony was empty! He checked the shadowy corners for Fiona and found them vacant. He admitted to himself that he had covertly watched the doors during the entire set. Fiona had not reentered the ballroom. Of that, he was certain. What then? Where was she?

A grizzly solution entered his mind. He clutched at the balustrade in panic. Surely, she hadn’t jumped? The situation was not that dire. Dear God, he shouldn’t have left the foolish chit alone.

He castigated himself while searching the ground two stories below. He squinted to see through the darkness and prayed fervently that he would not see her body lying crumpled on the grass below. He did not need another gut–twisting nightmare added to his repertoire. He couldn’t bear it. Frantically, he pushed aside the leaves and branches of the huge old Sycamore blocking his view.

He stopped mid panic, and stared at the bough in his hand. The impish face of Fiona Hawthorn as a child flashed before him. He remembered her scampering perilously high in just such a tree. He mentally traced a route across the limbs that hung over the balcony down the tree to the ground.

“Infernal little minx! In a ball gown. Now that’s a feat I would like to have seen.” He shook his head and laughed in relief.

Tyrell returned to the ballroom. He knew from experience that when he smiled this way, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Satan himself. He didn’t care. He looked forward to tomorrow’s duty calls with sardonic pleasure. He would make her squirm for her part in this stunt.

Chapter 2
Escaping Thorncourt

E
arly the next morning Fiona walked down a rutted country lane into Timtree Corners. She strode up the cobbled streets, which were lined with tall narrow Elizabethan buildings huddled together like ponderous old women. The second and third stories of the aged, half-timbered, wattle and daub structures jutted out over the street. Bedding hung, airing out, over the upper window sills as women set about their morning work.

She dashed out of the way as the contents of a chamber pot splashed to the ground. A woman screeched. “It’s her!”

Fiona winced and tried not to look up as shutters slammed shut above her head. She lengthened her already vigorous stride and crossed the street. But it was too late. Villagers huddled inside their shadowed doorways. Worry lines creased their brows. The boot maker hung out his CLOSED placard as she approached. Doors shut. The hum and rattle of morning activities tapered off into an eerie silence.

Fiona passed by Mrs. Twillhammer’s open window. Nearly deaf, the old woman’s voice carried like a foghorn through the hushed streets. “Such a pity. No matter where she goes, folks do stumble an’ fall. Tables ‘n chairs break to pieces and, I suspect, the milk turns sour. The dear girl is well and truly cursed.”

“A pity,” Mrs. Twillhammer’s sister agreed, loud enough for her deaf sister to hear. “Especially with her being such a pretty lass and all.”

Fiona hesitated, slowing her steps, knowing she shouldn’t listen, but unable to stop herself.

“Why only last month, Squire Thurgood’s wife told me her expensive new soup tureen—shaped exactly like a gigantic cabbage—slipped straight out of the footman’s fingers on the very day—the
very day
, mind you, that Miss Fiona Hawthorn came calling.”

Mrs. Twillhammer gasped. “No!”

“Oh yes, terrible, it was simply terrible. The lovely bowl smashed into a thousand pieces. Fish soup splattered everywhere. Oooh, an’ the smell, well, you just can imagine the smell...”

“Never mind.” Fiona whispered to herself and picked up her pace, striding briskly past the milliner’s shop, the shoemaker’s, and the wheelwright. She fancied she could hear people exhale in relief as she passed them by, and the clank and clatter of life began again in her wake.

She carried a book tucked under one arm and headed in a straight line toward Mr. Quentin, bookseller. A red-haired lad stuck his head out from a narrow passageway between two buildings. His eyes opened wide and he darted off like a rabbit. Fiona shook her head. They were so terribly frightened of her; perhaps she ought not venture into the village anymore.

Finally, she stood in front of the bookseller’s open door. Mr. Quentin, a small plump man, balanced precariously at the top of a ladder. Fiona watched from the doorway, reluctant to enter the shop while he was perched in such a hazardous position. He slowly, cautiously, reached out to place a large volume on the top shelf of his floor to ceiling bookcases. At that perilous instant, the red-haired boy flung open the rear door and burst into the shop.

“Granfer!” shouted his young grandson. “She’s comin’ here. That Miss Hawthorn, what has a curse is comin’ here!”

The door banged into the ladder unbalancing it. Mr. Quentin flapped wildly at the air for balance.

The lad spun around just in time to see his grandfather frantically waving a book in one hand and gripping the falling ladder with the other. The old man crashed down onto a table of books. Leather bound tomes shot out in every direction.

“Granfer!” cried the boy, dodging a flying book.

Fiona dashed into the room to help. The boy saw her and turned white as a sheet. “You killed ‘im.”

“Nonsense,” she snapped.

But Mr. Quentin lay motionless in a contorted heap on the book table. She leaned close to listen for sounds of life. His chest quivered as he sucked in a breath with a huge spasmodic gasp. Struggling back to consciousness, his eyelids fluttered and he blinked up at Fiona, who hovered above him.