Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (5 page)

Discounting the string of beauties he'd bedded over the years, the symbolic notches on his bedpost, there was nothing much Max had accomplished in his life, nothing he was proud of. Now, as he grew older, he had become bored by the pasha-like hedonism of his life.

There was only one reasonable thing to do when one's seemingly perfect life became intolerable. As he made his way through the crowd, he fingered Freddie's note and once again vowed that this would be his last Season.

Recollecting his assignation with Eugenia Heatherington, Max made a conscious effort to ignore all subsequent invitations, or at least to evade them. He did not have the energy for two intimate engagements tonight.

Lord, he was getting old. There had been a time—

"Max!"

His thoughts were cut short by the familiar voice somewhere to his left. He looked around but did not see her.

"Over here, Max."

Following the sound of her voice, he at last caught sight of a gold plume atop a spangled turban that could only have belonged to Fanny, and moved toward her. Perhaps she could help to brighten his dark mood.

Indeed, she could. He was prevented by the throng of people from reaching her and was forced to stand some distance away while he awaited a break in the crowd. But he had a good view of her now, and could see she was speaking to a young woman he'd never seen. Someone new. Someone lovely. Someone who smiled at him flirtatiously.

Bless Fanny's heart!

He inched his way along the stairway—he had not yet even made it all the way inside to the main apartments—and kept his eye on the Unknown. She had dark auburn hair that curled about her cheeks in a most fetching manner. The ribbon threaded through it was the same deep shade of red as her dress. She had large eyes and full lips and the most beautiful neck he'd ever seen. He wished the blasted crowd would part so he could enjoy a full view of her, for the one tantalizing glimpse he'd caught had revealed a delicious swell of white bosom above the miniscule bodice of the red dress.

She continued to smile at him, chuckling with Fanny as though they shared some kind of joke. Her smile was not shy or demure, but broad and uninhibited, more a grin than a smile. As he catalogued her assets he could not help but note that the mouth was considerably too wide and the nose a shade too long for true beauty. There was, however, something damnably provocative about that smile.

Had he not seen the smile, Max might have marked her as a wide-eyed innocent. When she wasn't looking at him, her gaze seemed to devour the room, taking in every detail, every face, as though she were a girl in her first Season whose Mama had never told her it was gauche to gawk. But she was no young innocent. He was sure of it.

Who the devil was she?

Something about her seemed almost familiar, but he was certain he'd never met her.

As he moved closer, he watched the Unknown cast her smile upon a gentleman who'd just approached from the opposite side. When he turned slightly, Max saw it was that coxcomb Alfie Hepworth. Damn the man, he was kissing her hand, and she was beaming at him.

Max gave a less then gentle shove to the young buck blocking his path, ignored the man's rude exclamation, and elbowed his way to Fanny's side.

"Max, darling, we thought you'd be stuck down there for hours. What a crush."

Max took her proffered hand and kissed the gloved fingers. "Good evening, Fanny. A vision, as always."

"Do you think so?" She lifted a hand to her headdress, setting gold spangles to jingle and dance. "I was not quite sure about this turban, you know. Thought it might look too much the mahjarani."

"It is charming, my dear. Have you just arrived?"

"Goodness, no. We were just leaving. Or trying to. We've been to Wadsworths' before coming here, and now we're off to Sir Reginald Forde's for a few hands of piquet."

As she spoke, Max could not keep his gaze from sliding over to the Unknown, who had not seemed to notice his arrival. Her entire attention, radiant smile and all, was focused on that fool Hepworth, damn his eyes.

"Max?"

When he returned his own attention to Fanny, she lifted her eyebrows in question. "Would you like to come along with us to Forde's? Eldridge will be there to see us home, of course, so you needn't worry about that. But we would welcome your escort, if you'd be so obliging."

"I am ever at your service, Fanny. And of your lovely young friend." He lowered his voice and spoke directly into her ear. "Introduce us, my dear, I beg you."

Fanny began to laugh. "Ha! We knew you hadn't recognized her." Her blue eyes danced with merriment.

"Recognized her? Do I know her?" He kept his voice low in hopes the woman would not overhear. "No. No, Fanny, I am quite sure I've never met her."

"Are you?" She reached over and touched the Unknown's arm. "Excuse me, my dear, but you remember Max Davenant, do you not?"

The woman looked at him and smiled. "Yes, of course. How do you do, Mr. Davenant? So nice to see you again."

She offered her hand and he took it, still thoroughly confounded. Who was she? "Your servant, madam."

He studied her more closely without letting go of her hand, and could not help but notice that she seemed perfectly willing to allow him to keep hold of it. He had been right. She was no demure young miss. The mere fact that she was with Fanny told him that much. Despite that intriguing aura of innocence about her, there was a decidedly flirtatious twinkle in her eyes.

Something about those eyes ...

"I say, Davenant," Hepworth said as he inched closer to the Unknown, "I ought to have known you'd steal a march on the rest of us with Miss Lacey. Fanny's niece and all. Unfair advantage, what?"

Miss Lacey? Fanny's niece?

The mouse?

Chapter 4

She ought to have been exhausted. It was past two in the morning, but Rosie didn't feel the least bit tired. The evening had been so full of excitement for her that she still felt agog with it all. When they finally went home, she doubted she would be able to sleep a wink.

Her head was spinning with introductions and flattery and flirtations. When she had first begun planning her trip to London, she had secretly hoped there might be a remote possibility of attracting at least one gentleman's regard. Not with the usual goal of marriage, of course, but only to experience it, to know what it was like to have a gentleman admire her. More than admire, actually. She longed for more than that. After all, she had added "to be thoroughly kissed" to her list of things to do in London.

Giddy with a first night's success, Rosie thought it might not be the impossible goal she had once imagined.

Upon reflection, she was genuinely amazed at what she had been able to accomplish as Rosalind. The old Rosie would have quivered in her slippers to have endured the often presumptuous addresses of so many gentlemen—from fresh-faced young fops to seasoned rakes to aging
rou
és
. The old Rosie would likely have swooned at the way Lord Radcliffe used the crowd to allow himself to brush up against her, at the way Mr. Hepworth had teased open the buttons of her glove in order to stroke the skin of her wrist, at the way Mr. Davenant had boldly held her hand in his for longer than was absolutely proper. Such gentlemen, and such behavior, would have frightened the old Rosie almost to death.

But not Rosalind.
She
had rather enjoyed it.

Too distracted to concentrate on cards, Rosie had excused herself from the last hand, retrieved her shawl, and wandered onto the terrace. She leaned against the balustrade overlooking a moonlit garden below, and retrieved the notebook from her reticule. She began to check off a few entries from her list, those objectives she had so far succeeded in accomplishing: to wear a beautiful dress, to have her hair cut and fashionably styled, to be admired by a gentleman—she was reasonably sure most of the men she'd met were gentlemen. Even Fanny's friends must be gentlemen.

And she grinned as she checked off her latest item, "to flirt with a rake." Yes, she had flirted, and not only with Mr. Davenant but with other men who must surely be rakes. Rosie supposed she still had a lot to learn about flirtation, but she had made a start and had thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was quite liberating to realize she could, for the most part, behave exactly as she pleased without worrying about the consequences.

At the sound of footsteps approaching, she turned to see Mr. Davenant walking toward her. She returned the notebook to its case and dropped it in her reticule, then smiled up at him as he leaned back against the balustrade beside her.

"You're still laughing at me, Miss Lacey. Were you making a note in your diary about my foolish behavior this evening?"

Her smile widened, but she refrained from laughing. She and Fanny had already teased the poor man relentlessly earlier in the evening. "I am merely smiling, Mr. Davenant, as you see."

"Maybe so," he said, and offered a smile of his own that made him look even more devilishly handsome. "But you don't fool me. You are laughing inside. I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have been such a source of amusement for you and Fanny."

She lost the battle with restraint and began to laugh softly. "You can hardly blame us, sir. The look upon your face was priceless."

"No doubt. But you can hardly blame me, either, my dear, when you look so completely different from the way you did at that first brief meeting. By God, you seemed the perfect little brown mouse."

"I know."

"And now." He paused and gave her a look that sent a shiver dancing up and down her spine. "Now, you look quite lovely. Not even remotely mouselike. Red becomes you, my dear."

His voice wrapped around her like thick velvet. No wonder the man was notorious. He was a spellbinder, drawing one in with his sumptuous voice and his liquid brown eyes. What would it be like to succumb to his spell? Should she try? She stifled a giggle at the very notion of plain Rosie Lacey as an object of seduction, much less succumbing to it. Ursula would faint dead away on the spot.

Heavens, but she was having a good time as Rosalind! If things had turned out differently, she might have had a successful career on the stage.

"Thank you, Mr. Davenant," she said in a husky whisper she sincerely hoped sounded provocative and not sickly. "That is a very pretty compliment."

"Call me Max," he said in that velvety voice. "I'm practically family, you know."

"Then you must call me Rosi—Rosalind."

'"Let no fair be kept in mind, but the fair of Rosalind.' I trust this fair Rosalind need not resort to disguise to win her heart's desire."

Rosie almost gasped at his words. Did he know she merely played a part?

"Fanny must be pleased," he went on, oblivious to her momentary uneasiness. "You were quite the hit this evening."

Rosie pulled herself together and allowed Rosalind to take charge once again. "Yes, I am sure my aunt was pleased that people were so friendly to her niece."

"That is not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"By George, but you do know how to play the innocent, don't you? It is no wonder you have every buck and beau dangling after you. And that is the point, is it not? To bring one of them up to scratch?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Marriage Mart, my dear. You are older than the other young chits, to be sure, but you do have a way about you. Since we are almost family, I am sure you will not mind such frank speaking. In any case, I cannot imagine you will have any difficulty finding a husband."

Rosie's first reaction was to be insulted by his words, her next to be flattered by them, but in the end she found the entire situation hilarious and began to laugh.

"You do not believe me?" Max asked.

When she was finally able to speak, she said, "I'm afraid you have it all wrong, Mr. Davenant. Max. In the first place, I do not know how a liaison between my aunt and your father makes us family." His brows rose in surprise at her words. Did he think she did not know? "Unless, of course, you are really my aunt's son and therefore my cousin, though I feel certain Aunt Fanny would have mentioned it. That is, unless it is a great dark secret that she has kept all these years. No, no, that cannot be, for I find it impossible to imagine she would have allowed your Mama to raise her son."

Now Max was on the verge of laughter, a grin creasing his face and lighting his eyes. "In the second place," she continued, "I am not in search of a husband. I realize most people will have that expectation, but I wish they would not. In fact, I have no intention of ever marrying. That is not why I came to London."

"Why did you come, then?"

"To have fun. To enjoy myself. To go to balls and dance all night until my slippers wear out. To go to elegant supper parties and dine on rich food and fine wine. To attend the theater and the opera and philharmonic concerts. To visit museums and galleries and gardens and parks and shops—dear heaven, the shops!—and the Tower and Westminster Abbey and Astley's and Vauxhall and, oh, all sorts of other places I've yet to discover." Her voice rose with excitement, just thinking about all the things she was going to do. "I want to see everything, do everything, to experience everything London has to offer."