Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) (7 page)

Emeline twittered on like an annoying parakeet. “They’re staying at the Pavilion. Wouldn’t that be lovely this time of year? To be near the sea and surrounded by all the Prince Regent’s distinguished guests.”

“A rackety crowd,” he mumbled and stared at the vase of peonies on the tea table. The flowers oozed sticky sweet sap, and if one more ant crawled out of one more big pink blossom he was going to grab the whole disgusting mess of flowers and beat them to pieces on Lady Hawthorn’s yellow couch.

Tyrell rose suddenly. “Must go.”

At their startled expressions, he looked wildly around the room. “I’ve urgent business elsewhere.”

He scarcely remembered to bow before stalking out of the room. He
did
have business, and he was fairly certain that business was somewhere near the seashore.

Chapter 6
Sea Air Makes You Blind

F
iona gazed in amazement at the exotic minarets and domes of the Brighton Pavilion. Her aunt whispered in her ear, “Wait until you see the inside. It’s the greatest collection of Chinese pandemonium in the kingdom. Most amusing.”

Amusing perhaps, but that night, as Fiona lay in bed her head ached terribly. Could it be that she was overwhelmed by the gold-gilded pagodas, the brightly colored peacocks, the red and blue silks, satins, and the elaborate Chinese wallpapers? During her Season, she’d heard an older matron warn a group of debutantes, “Too much stimulus will give a young lady the megrims.” Fiona had thought it all a hum until now.

Now, her head throbbed, and a dull ache persisted in her chest. But when she closed her eyes to sleep, it was not oriental carpets or bamboo furniture she saw. The strong lines of Tyrell’s face and a flurry of remembered kisses assaulted her dreams. These dreams sent her soaring up to heaven, but inevitably his warm blue eyes turned to jagged ice and his stinging words sent her hurtling down into a black pit of despair.

The next morning, she rose, as one does from a restless sleep, having found no comfort in either waking or sleeping. She walked quietly into Honore’s room.

“Good morning, dearest.” Honore drew back in alarm. “Heaven help us, child! What is that monstrosity you’re wearing?”

Her aunt looked her up and down, and grimaced as if Fiona was a leper draped in crusty rags.

“
This?
This is my best morning gown from my Season. Since we’re at the palace I assumed you would want me to wear my finest.”

“Lorraine!” Honore screamed for her abigail. “Lorraine!”

Her lady’s maid, a buxom woman, no taller than a twelve-year-old girl, bustled into the room. Her frizzled brown topknot bobbed up and down as she dipped a quick curtsy. “Yes, m’lady?”

Honore pointed dramatically at Fiona. “Get that abomination off my niece! Rip it to shreds. If I ever see that hideous thing again I’ll set fire to her. Do you hear me?”

She whirled on Fiona. “Lawks girl! What do you think you are? A marzipan cake? All decorated up with layers of sugar and sprinkled with ribbons and gewgaws?”

Fiona shook her head and tried to back away.

“Mark me on this, white don’t become you.” She stopped railing and moved close to Fiona, squinting as if she were inspecting a painting. “Good gracious child, what happened to your face? A horse trample you in your sleep? Gadfrey. You look positively
bruised
around the eyes. Don’t tell me you’ve been crying again.”

“No.” Fiona protested. “Of course not.” That lie was her undoing. She had no strength to protest anything else. She meekly held out her arms while the dwarf-sized lady’s maid circled around her, undoing tapes, and removing the offending gown.

Lorraine held the garment out at arm’s length as if it had a stench and without a word she tore the dress in half. The ripping sound startled Fiona. “I’m sorry, Miss, but m’lady has the right of it. It were an awful concoction, it were.”

 “Of course I’m right.” Honore snatched the torn dress from Lorraine’s hand and threw it out the open window. “Lorraine, you take the dressing of her. Mind you, no more revolting debutante frills. Find her something suitable from my wardrobe. Do it quickly. I wish to take the air along the Steine. Later, see what you can purchase for her on North Street. Otherwise, we’ll just have to make do until we get back to London.”

Honore sighed and sagged against the wall, and her arms drooped to her side. She resembled a sad child rather than the imperious tyrant of a moment ago. “Gad, I miss Mattie. I’ve been gone too long this time.” This last was said to no one in particular. She drifted to the window and watched the tattered remains of Fiona’s dress flutter along the grounds below. 

Lorraine clucked her tongue and bustled her charge into the adjoining room. The minute she shut the door, Fiona asked, “Who is this Mattie?”

“She’s yer aunt’s cook, miss.”

“
A cook?
My aunt pines for her cook?”

“Aye, miss. You see, long afore Mattie became the cook, she were m’lady’s nursemaid, and then she served as her nanny. Mattie is her ladyship’s favorite. Like kin, they are, except not really, because, of course, your aunt is a grand lady.”

The maid babbled on as she held up a pastel blue gown next to Fiona’s face, shook her head and tossed it onto the bed. “A fine Scottish cook, she is, too. These days, with all them Frenchie cooks making rich sauces with snails and whatnot, it’s a rare treat to have Mattie’s cooking. Mind you, she keeps her finger on everything what goes on in yer aunt’s house. That’s how the land lays at Alison Hall.”

Lorraine rambled on until at last she held up a lemon-yellow muslin with lace at the neck. “Ah, here’s just the thing.” She pulled the gown over Fiona’s head and tied the tapes.

Fiona’s stared in shock at the expanse of bosom staring back at her in the oval looking glass. She put her hand over her breast. “Surely, this gown is too daring. This lace is nearly transparent and the bodice is cut too low. I don’t think—”

“Now, miss, mayhaps her ladyship’s dresses are a bit more daring than a young lady like yourself is accustomed, but this gown is perfectly respectable.” She tugged the bodice up and looked at Fiona in the mirror.

“You are a wee bit fuller in the figure than her ladyship is at present, but bless me if you ain’t a stunner. Yes, miss, you look a picture, you do. An’ here is a perfectly lovely pair of lace mittens to match the gown.”

Lorraine slipped the fingerless lace gloves onto Fiona’s hands. They were made of the same sheer lace covering the bodice. Fiona looked into the mirror and cringed. The entire ensemble gave the illusion of clothing but revealed far more of her than it concealed. 

Fiona cleared her throat. “Lorraine, is there, perchance, a shawl to go with this gown?”

“Yes, miss, as a matter of fact there is.” Lorraine rummaged through a trunk at her feet and produced the desired garment. She held up a shawl sewn out of the same vaporous lace as the gloves and the bodice of the gown.

Fiona lifted her eyes heavenward. “Lovely,” she murmured, certain her father would horsewhip her if he ever saw her dressed so wantonly.

Honore opened the door and looked at her maid’s handiwork. “Quite presentable,” she declared. “Well done Lorraine. I daresay even Prinny would be favorably impressed. Too bad he is indisposed today. Now, let us walk down to the sea.”

* * *

The
haute ton
gathered for their morning ritual in Brighton, a stroll along the Steine in their finery. They waved and nodded to one another, sized each other up, gossiped behind their gloves, and all the while the breeze coated them with briny moisture. Fiona licked her lips and tasted the sea air. A small droplet of salt water trickled into her eye. She blinked and touched it gently but it stung. She stopped walking as tears temporarily blinded her.

“It’s this ocean air.” Honore commiserated. “Burns the eyes. Have you a handkerchief in your reticule?”

They were engaged in a search for the said cloth when a masculine voice interrupted their ministrations.

“Might I be of assistance?” He flourished a white handkerchief across his palm.

“Ah! Marcus. What an accommodating surprise you are.”

Honore handed Fiona the proffered handkerchief. The gentleman bent and kissed Honore on each cheek. Fiona dabbed at her stinging eyes, nevertheless, she could not fail to notice even with her blurred vision how exceedingly handsome he was. Tall, with a Romanesque profile, he wore a striking blue morning coat, and high white shirt points set off his dark olive skin and raven black hair.

 “You, dear Mother, are looking as lovely as ever. Although, I nearly failed to recognize you. You are so…” —he glanced pointedly at Honore’s brilliantly colored hair—“So, very red. Or is it liver-colored?”

The word
Mother
jolted Fiona.

Her aunt thumped the tip of her umbrella against the walkway. “If you ever dare to address me as Mother in public again I shall hang you from the nearest tree by your cravat. Any fool can see you’re far too old to be my son.”

“My apologies.” He bowed. “However, I must protest, dear lady. You cannot punish me, because my father married a sinfully young bride?”

Honore shrugged. “Don’t flirt with me, you young rapscallion. Pray tell, what are you doing in Brighton? You are supposed to be in Portugal tending to your estates. This is very bad of you, Marcus, to suddenly appear where you are not expected.”

He placed his hand over his heart. “You wound me, dear lady. First, I am an
accommodating surprise
, and now you say I am
very bad
.”

“Oh fustian! Don’t try to distract me m’boy.” She rapped his arm with her umbrella handle. “What are you doing here? Out with it!”

“At the moment, I am standing along the Steine with two of the loveliest women in Brighton. And while you enjoy berating me, this silent beauty remains a delectable mystery. Do you mean for me to suffer longer or will you introduce me to your companion?” He bowed toward Fiona and swooped off his hat, grinning like a roguish schoolboy.

Fiona could not help smiling back.

Honore’s voice bit sharply through the damp air. “Don’t be a popinjay, Marcus. She’s not my companion. What do you take me for? An old woman who needs her hand held? She’s m’ niece.”

“Better and better.
Por favor
, introduce me.”

“Oh very well,” she sniffed. “But I had rather hoped you would never meet. Miss Fiona Hawthorn, this is my late husband’s son, Lord Marcus Jose Louis Alameda, the new Count de Alameda.”

“It is an honor to meet you, my lord.” She curtsied.

“Much too formal, Miss Hawthorn. You must call me Cousin Marcus, mustn’t she, Honore?”

“Oh, call him whatever you like.” Honore waved a gloved hand in the air. “But beware–a greater rascal has never lived.”

Marcus took Fiona’s hand, smirked at the thin little lace mitten, and then caressed her fingers with his thumb before bowing over her hand. Still holding her hand he leaned close enough to her cheek to whisper. “She wounds me to the core. Dear sweet cousin, I pray you will comfort me.”

He smiled at her teasingly. Fiona felt heat rising in her cheeks and lowered her eyes under his impertinent gaze. He straightened to his full height, which was considerable, and turned to Honore. “My compliments Honore, your niece is charming as well as lovely.”

“Let go of her hand, and do stop toying with the girl.” Honore poked him with her umbrella. “Mind you, Marcus, step lightly in that direction. I mean to bring her out as if she were my own daughter.”

Marcus’s eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise. “You mean to give her a Season then?”

“I mean to do more than that. I want a daughter of my own. Raise up an heir to follow in my footsteps.”

Marcus glanced with considerable irritation at Fiona then back to Honore. “You raised me, did you not? Odd you should crave another child at this late date.”

“Fah! You were half grown when you came to me. I dare say, you must’ve sprung from the womb full grown. Never needed a mother.” She laughed. “I warrant you’d have bit off the teat that suckled you.”

Fiona stifled a gasp.

Marcus inclined his head at Honore. “That makes us two of a kind, my dear lady.”

“Mind your manners, boy.” Honore thumped the ground with her umbrella and glared at him. “That insolent attitude disfigures your face. I’ll choose whoever I want for an offspring. Furthermore, I won’t have you sniffing about her skirts.”

Marcus lifted his chin and turned to Fiona. Callously, he raked his eyes up and down her body, perusing every detail of her face and figure. She felt naked, and pulled the flimsy shawl to cover herself better. Finally, his shoulders relaxed and he chuckled. “I never sniff skirts, my dear. But I must hasten to tell you, Honore, this child appears to be fully grown. You’ll have to find another pup to raise.”

He delivered this retort through a genteel smile, but Fiona could not help but observe the fury glimmering in his eyes.

“You know nothing about it Marcus. Aside from which, you very cleverly dodged my first question. Why aren’t you in Portugal where you’re supposed to be?”

He picked a minuscule particle of fuzz off his coat sleeve and flicked it away. “My dear Honore, Portugal is still in the throes of war. The estate is in a shambles. I found the situation there rather uncomfortable for my taste.”

He presented them with a disarming smile. “Come let us talk of pleasanter things. Will you ladies be my guests for dinner this evening? I’m lodging at the Four Feathers which boasts of an almost tolerable cook.”

“We are engaged for dinner with Prinny,” Honore said, lifting her nose higher in the air.

“Ah! Excellent. I, too, am invited to the Pavilion later this evening for the entertainment.” He stepped toward Fiona, lifted her hand, and executed a crisp bow. “Until then, dear cousin.”

Fiona watched Lord Alameda saunter away. She had never met anyone like him before. When she finally stopped gawking, she found Honore glaring at her. Fiona bit her lip and studied the ground.

“Humph.” Honore straightened her back and walked on briskly. Fiona hurried alongside.