Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (19 page)

And then realization slammed into her gut like a giant fist and twisted her stomach into knots.

Oh God. Oh no, no, no. This was terrible news. Dreadful. Horrible. She was
not
going to die.

She had spent the last two months living literally as though there was no tomorrow, behaving scandalously, doing outrageous things, shaming her family—all because she was going to die so none of it mattered. And now she wasn't going to die?

Dear God in heaven, she had just lost her virginity, given it away, ruined herself with a notorious rake, and now she wasn't going to die?

She let out a wail of despair. "No, no, no!" she moaned, and pounded the mattress with her fists. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair! She was supposed to die. She would never have done any of those things if she'd known she wasn't going to die. Wearing immodest, revealing dresses. Racing curricles through the park. Waltzing without permission. Attending Opera House masquerades. Publicly castigating her uncle. Dressing as a boy to attend sparring matches, gin mills, and gaming hells. Giving up her virginity to Max.

She would have done none of it if she had known she was not going to die.

Instead, she would live to face the consequences.

Panic grabbed her by the throat. The consequences. She thought of what had just occurred between her and Max and began to feel sick with dread. What if...

It was too late. The damage was done. She now had to face the consequences of her actions, to pay the price for impropriety, for self-indulgence, for wanton recklessness. How was she to do it? She was no longer the dashing Miss Lacey up to every rig and row. That mask had been removed forever upon reading Sir Nigel's letter. She was just plain Rosie again, the brown country mouse.

How on earth was Rosie of Wycombe Hall going to live with the repercussions of all the mischief, and perhaps worse, created by Rosalind of Berkeley Square? How was she to face her father, knowing she had brought shame and scandal to his name by casually tossing her own reputation to the winds? And Ursula. What would her sister do if and when she discovered all that Rosalind had done? Would her family ostracize her? Send her off to live in some remote village in the north with a paid companion? Thomas knew what she'd been up to, of course, and would likely help to conceal as many of her crimes as possible. He would not think the worse of her for what she'd done. But he did not know she'd ruined herself with Max.

Fanny would surely be disappointed to discover all her efforts had been for naught, that the country mouse could not be so easily transformed, that she was her father's daughter after all. Fanny had several times said that Rosie reminded her of herself in younger days. She wanted Rosie to be like her, but she was not. Without that false death sentence, Rosie would never have been so brave, so capricious, so eager to try anything, to defy convention, to flout propriety. It had all been a sham.

And what of Max? That was the cruelest question of them all. What of Max? She had fallen head over heels in love with him; but he, assuming he spoke the truth, had fallen in love with someone else. He loved the vibrant, high-spirited, devil-may-care Rosalind. His minx. A phantom who did not exist. A role. A pretense. A lie.

How was she ever to face him again, especially after what they'd just shared. How was she to tell him that the woman he'd loved tonight so sweetly, so passionately, was a fraud? That the woman who promised no regrets was now drowning in them?

Did she regret it? If her ruin became public, she would regret it sincerely. If she became pregnant, she would regret it intensely, for the child's sake. She would regret the label of bastard for any child.

But could she regret the passion, the tenderness, the exquisite pleasure, the words of love? Never. She still had that one perfect memory to last a lifetime.

She would forever, though, regret the way she had deceived Max into believing she was someone else. Rosie thought she'd rather face the wrath of her father than the scorn and disappointment of Max. His contempt would break her heart. She could never see Max again. It would be too painful to explain, to admit the lie.

The best course of action would be to return home at once, confess her shame to Papa, and resume, as best she could, the quiet life of plain, shy, prim Rosie. She must leave Rosalind behind forever. And she must also leave behind Max.

Now she really, really wanted to die.

Chapter 12

Damn! She was gone.

Max must have slept like the dead, which he often did after good sex, since he had not heard a sound. He rose, stretched, and walked to the window. Good Lord, the sun was full up. No wonder Rosalind had crept away. She would have needed to return to Fanny's before light, before anyone was likely to see her. If she had waited for Max to waken, her reputation would be in tatters.

He would, though, have liked to wake and find her soft and warm and naked in his arms. Then he would have made slow, lazy, morning love to her, a pleasure he seldom had the opportunity to indulge. In fact, that is precisely how he would like to spend every morning for the rest of his life.

It was nothing short of extraordinary how that woman had turned his world upside down. A few short months ago, he had grown so weary of the repetitive routine of his life that he had contemplated suicide. Freddie Moresby had been his role model, his shining beacon of enlightenment, because he had found the ultimate solution to boredom: death. Max had been moving inexorably toward that same end. Until he met Rosalind Lacey

Max folded back the shutters and stood full in the window in all his naked glory, letting the morning sun pour over him. He didn't care who saw him. In fact, he wanted everyone to see him. He wanted to raise the sash, thrust his head out the window, and shout his new happiness to every passerby. He felt like he might explode with ... what? Joy? Max had never felt like this in all his life. It was unnerving. He did not know what to do with all this energy.

It was all because of Rosalind.

She had shown him how to live, how to make the most of every moment. Max no longer contemplated death. He wanted to live. More particularly, he wanted to live with Rosalind.

And that was the most remarkable thing of all. He had been with countless women during his thirty-six years—beautiful women, exotic women, seductive women—and never once had he been tempted to spend more than a night or two now and then with any one of them. Certainly not a lifetime. The very idea would have caused him to break out in a cold sweat.

After one night with Rosalind, however, he found himself entertaining the incredible notion of spending the rest of his life with one woman. Imagine that. The same woman every night. Who could ever have imagined that Max Davenant—philanderer, lothario, rake
extraordinaire
—would even consider such a thing? He flung his arms wide and laughed. What the devil had she done to him?

He rang for his valet and began the long ritual of making himself presentable. He drove poor Hughes to distraction by dawdling, but he kept losing himself in memories of last night. He saw her beautiful, white, slender body, not remotely voluptuous but perfectly proportioned. He felt those soft, ripe breasts crushed against his chest. He saw her long, slim legs wrapped tightly around him. Lord, but she had been a sensual, passionate creature. No surprise, from what he'd known of her before, but unusual in a virgin.

She had responded to every movement, every touch, every kiss, so that they moved together in a perfect harmony of sensation, like long-time lovers who knew exactly how to please one another. And yet, it had been her first time. How had an untried girl managed to arouse him as no other?

Was it love?

They had both spoken the words. He, at least, had meant them. He wanted to believe that she had, too. Was it love that had made it so much more than just sex?

Max had no basis of comparison, never having been in love before. For him, it had always been just sex, and there had always been incredible, often sublime, pleasure in it. With Rosalind, though, it had been something more.

Hughes was quite obviously astounded at Max's choice of wardrobe. He seldom wore anything but riding clothes in the mornings, if he dressed at all. Today, he donned a new blue tailcoat, single breasted with gilt buttons, a striped silk waistcoat, and dove-gray stirrup trousers. His shirt front was pleated, the collar points stiff and high. As tribute to his romantic mood, he achieved a perfect
trone d'amour
with his neckcloth, after only three attempts. It was, after all, a special occasion. He was going to do something he'd never done before.

He was going to ask Rosalind to marry him.

He supposed he ought to rehearse a speech or some such thing. It was a tricky situation. Rosalind might believe he was offering for her out of guilt for taking her virginity, or out of propriety because he'd compromised her, or out of honor because she might be carrying his child. Though the last reason held some validity, the other two were pure nonsense.

Max felt no guilt for what had happened. He had given her every possible opportunity to say no. For some time now, he had hoped they might eventually make love. Though he could not explain why, he also knew in his gut that by the time the two of them finally decided to take that step, it would represent a serious commitment. Whether it would be a commitment to marry, or simply a commitment to love, he had not known. In fact, he had not known until this morning, when he realized how much he wanted to wake up beside her each day.

Rosalind's virginity was not an issue. He hadn't been sure about it, and it had not mattered. The commitment would be there, virginity or not.

Even so, the fact that he was her first gave him an unexpected thrill. With any other woman, it would have terrified him. But Max had already made his decision, and the gift of her virginity only made it sweeter.

The more he thought about it, the more complicated it began to sound. It was difficult to explain properly. Perhaps he really ought to rehearse a few words. In the excitement of the moment, it would be too easy to say just the wrong thing, to give the wrong impression. Odd, for he had never been at a loss for the right words to seduce a woman. This was not a seduction, however, and Max wanted to do it right. Since he'd never done it before, he really ought to prepare something.

When Hughes had pronounced him complete to a shade, he sat down to put his thoughts on paper.

*          *          *

"What the devil is going on? Where is she?"

Fanny looked up to find Max, dressed to the nines, blowing into the room like a thundercloud. Quigley must have told him the news. She knew exactly how he felt, though her initial fury had given way to a melancholy disappointment. "She's gone."

He stood quite still, stiff as a wooden soldier, and simply stared. His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes flat and hard. "Am I to assume she is not simply away from home this morning," he said, his jaw so tight he spoke through clenched teeth, "but has left London entirely?"

"She has returned to Devon, Max."

He stepped into the room and walked to the windows, turning his back to her as he gazed out at the square below. From the taut set of his shoulders and the stiff way he held his neck, she was almost glad she could not see the look on his face. Fanny had suspected for some time that Max had developed a
tendre
for the girl. After all, he had kissed her enough to make her toes curl. But that meant nothing where Max was concerned. For him, that was merely a prelude to seduction.

Good Lord, is that what had happened? Had she bolted because Max had seduced her?

"Did you know she was leaving today?" His voice was brittle and sharp, like broken glass, and his hands were balled into fists at his side. He did not turn around.

"No."

"It was not something she had planned, then?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"She just up and bolted this morning, without warning?"

"So it appears."

He slammed a fist against the window frame so hard the panes rattled in the casement. "God damn it to hell."

"Get over here and sit down, Max. I will not have you breaking my windows."

"Damn, damn, damn!"

"Max! Sit down."

He spun around and Fanny had to stifle a gasp. His face was a mask of devastation. She had thought her own despair might overwhelm her; his was apparently even more profound. Moving stiffly, as though every muscle was wound tight as a spring, he took a seat in a chair facing the settee where Fanny sat. If he hadn't looked so miserable, she might have boxed his ears. She had grown fond of Rosalind, had in fact become exceedingly attached to the girl. Fanny had thoroughly enjoyed having her about, and was going to miss her terribly. And she suspected Max had something to do with her abrupt departure.

"What have you done, Max?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What did you do to her?"

"I? What have
I
done?" He spat out the words angrily. "Better to ask what
she
has done, damn her."

"All right. What has she done?"