Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (8 page)

Fellowes laughed. "Don't believe I ever saw you move so fast, Davenant."

"A momentary madness, I assure you."

"You ain't hanging out for The Lacey, are you?"

"Hanging out?" Max made a great show of looking over his clothing to make sure all was in place. "Egad, I hope not. What a vulgar notion, Fellowes."

"Wouldn't want to move in if you'd already staked a claim, that's all."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well... several of us thought you might be involved, you know. Seen with her a lot, and all that."

Good Lord. This was not a rumor he wanted to see bandied about town. The girl's reputation would be in tatters. "My dear old chap," he said in his most bored tone, "the chit is Fanny's niece, fresh from the country. The rustic types don't appeal to me in the least."

"Nothing rustic about The Lacey." Max turned at the familiar voice of Lord Nicholas Vaughn, who fell into step beside him. "Seems to know a thing or two, that one."

"Just what I thought," Fellowes said. "Lively as they come. I don't care if she is from the country, I'd lay odds the woman knows what's what, unmarried or not. She has this way of looking at a man—
"

"Don't she, though?" Vaughn said. "I'd give a monkey to find out what's behind that smile."

"You and everyone else in town," Fellowes said. "Except old Davenant here, apparently."

"On behalf of every man in London," Vaughn said, "I thank you, Davenant, for pulling out of the race. Without your irresistible charm and diabolical good looks, the rest of us may, for once, stand a chance."

"Have a care, gentlemen," Max said, feeling thoroughly uneasy at the direction the conversation was taking. "I do not believe Miss Lacey is quite as up to snuff as you may think. Fanny assures me she has led a quiet life in the country until now."

"And the nut never falls too far from the tree, does it?" Vaughn said. "With Lady Parkhurst as her aunt, and apparently her 'chaperone' as well, it is only to be expected if the girl's a high flyer."

Max flinched at his friend's words. "I really don't think—"

"Overheard her tell Lady Samantha Kirby that she ain't looking for a husband, only wants to have fun," Fellowes said.

"I've heard much the same," said Vaughn. "And that seems to be precisely what she's doing. A chip off the aunt's block, if you ask me."

"I don't believe I did ask, actually," Max muttered.

"Pretty woman, too," Vaughn continued. "A bit tall, but very nicely put together. Never saw such a delectable neck. Love to work my way down it, what?"

"Egad!" Max exclaimed.

"I say, Vaughn," Fellowes said, "I believe I spoke first. Since Davenant ain't interested—"

"Then it's every man for himself," Vaughn said. "She don't seem to favor any one in particular anyway. Look at that mob. Every single one of 'em thinks she is flirting with him alone. But she don't play favorites. Dangles 'em all with equal promise. Now, I ask you, Davenant, what's a man to think?"

What, indeed? Either Max had the girl pegged all wrong, or she was headed for serious trouble. If she was in fact an innocent and every rake and rogue in town thought her otherwise, she might find herself in the soup before long. Fanny would have to pack her off back to Devon and her starchy father; and if what Max had heard of the man were true, he would like as not throw her out on her ear.

On the other hand, what if Max had simply been blinded by the perpetual wonder in those big hazel eyes, when it was the sensual mouth that marked her true character? Did every other man see what he didn't? Could she in fact be more like Fanny than he'd thought?

Max wondered if Fanny had been altogether honest with him regarding Rosalind. She seemed to delight in throwing them together, and she knew full well that he'd never had a respectable intention in all his life. Was Fanny simply setting him up for quick fling? Was she perhaps seeing Max and Rosalind as a reflection of herself and his father, joining them as sort of book-ended liaisons spanning the decades in perfect symmetry?

Well, by Jove, if that's what was afoot Max would be happy to oblige. Though certainly not the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, Rosalind was definitely one of the most intriguing. If he thought for one minute she was after nothing more than a quick liaison in town, he wanted to be the one to accommodate her. She shouldn't have to settle for Vaughn or Fellowes or any one of those barbarians surrounding Aldrich's curricle. She should have the best. She should have Max.

As they neared the curricle, Max could not help but notice the scornful looks of respectable matrons leading their young charges away from Rosalind's laughter as she sat surrounded by a thong of adoring bucks and beaux. Were they outraged by her uninhibited enjoyment, or by the fact that she drew the attention of so many young men away from their daughters? In either case, Rosalind was winning no friends among Society's high sticklers.

When the three men reached the edge of the crowd, Rosalind looked up and saw Max. She smiled broadly and waved to him.

"Max!" she called out and the crowd of men reluctantly parted to allow him access. "Did you see? Did you see me fly?"

"Indeed I did, minx. I thought for a moment you might take a nose dive straight into the Serpentine. My nerves will never be the same, I assure you. I shall require at least a week's rest to recover."

"Jeremy," she said, leaning over to her proud young swain, "would you mind terribly if I stepped down for just the tiniest moment and walked a short way with Max? I have something particular to say to him."

Aldrich did not look pleased, but obviously had no desire to appear the possessive cad and nodded his acquiescence.

"I promise to be back in two shakes," she said, smiling sweetly at the young man. "Hand me down, Max, if you please."

To the frustrated groans and protests from her admirers, all of whom were jockeying for position to do the honors, Rosalind placed her hands on Max's shoulders and allowed him to lift her down from the curricle. Young Aldrich shot Max a look of such venom that he felt sure he ought to expect a formal challenge from the young man.

"Your young swain is not happy, my dear," he whispered in her ear as he led her slightly away from the crowd. He was not surprised to find Fellowes and Vaughn among the disappointed assembly. He was, though, surprised to discover how thoroughly cocky he felt that Rosalind had singled him out from the teeming hoards. It had been years since he hadn't taken such distinction for granted. "I believe he hoped to have you all to himself," he said.

"Absurd!" she replied, and laughed.

"Yes, I daresay it is absurd. How can he have you to himself with a dozen other gentlemen vying for your attention?"

"Do you know that Mr. Newcombe has offered to let me drive his cabriolet? And Lord Radcliffe wants me to test his new curricle? Isn't that marvelous?"

"My dear minx, you will continue to scandalize all those proper matrons who are shooting disparaging looks your way as we speak."

She quickly glanced in the direction of a glowering Lady Sommerville, then gave a dismissive wave of her hand—a gesture so like her aunt that Max once again began to wonder about the true nature of this young woman.

"Actually, the scandalized matrons brings me to what I wanted to speak to you about," she said.

"Indeed?"

"I hope you have not forgotten your promise. Wednesday is fast approaching and I plan to attend Almack's. I shall expect that waltz."

"You are determined to thumb your nose at the lady patronesses, are you not?"

"Well, it still aggravates me that they dare question my aunt's request for vouchers. I would certainly not mind thumbing my nose at them. But that is not why I want you to remember your promise."

"Oh?"

"I simply want to waltz," she said, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "With you, Max. You did promise."

"My dear minx, there is a legion of men right here in the park who would be willing to lead you out onto the floor, patronesses be damned."

"Oh, but they're just a lot of silly billies. Jeremy Aldrich has been making such calf's eyes at me all afternoon that it was all I could do not to slap him. And all the other gentlemen seem to want to do much the same. But I don't need to worry about that with you, Max. You're much too sophisticated to play those games with me."

"Good God, you think I will not flirt with you as much as any other fellow?"

She laughed. "I am certain you will. You always do. But you do not mean it, not with me. I know you still think me a little country mouse."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do. And that's why I want to waltz with you first. You realize I am a country mouse and will teach me all I need to know."

The sensuous curve of her lips lent a more provocative meaning to her words. Could she truly be innocent of their suggestive double meaning? No, Fellowes and Vaughn must have been right, after all. The woman was a coquette. "I am at your service, Miss Lacey." He lowered his voice to the seductive whisper that had brought countless women into his arms. "In any capacity whatsoever, I shall be happy to teach you all you need to know."

Was that a blush coloring her cheeks?

"Rogue," she said.

"Minx," he replied.

Lord, she made his head spin. Temptress or innocent? Would he ever know the truth?

Chapter 6

When Violet came in to open the draperies, the morning sun struck Rosie in the face like a thunderbolt. She tried to sit up, but the pain was excruciating.

The headaches were back.

Heavens, she must have sunk so low in dissipation that she had quite forgot about her condition. It was odd, but she had experienced none of the debilitating headaches since she'd arrived in London. Please God, don't let them flare up now, just when she was really enjoying herself for the first time in her life.

She sent Violet away with a flick of her hand. No one at home, not even Violet, knew she had contracted her mother's disease. Rosie did not want Violet to see her until she had managed to control the pain.

She began the slow calming exercise she had taught herself in order to get through the dizzy disorientation that always came with the pain. Breathe in. Breathe out. Concentrate on the toes, relaxing each one. Then the foot, then the ankle, then the calf, all the way up her body, one part at a time, until reaching the head. By the time she got to the head, the worst of the pain was usually gone, but the aftereffects of nausea, fatigue, and dizziness lingered sometimes for hours.

This time seemed different somehow. She could not put her finger on it, but this morning's attack was slightly different from the others. Perhaps it was simply an evolution of the disease. But if so, why did it appear to be less potent, less debilitating? Was her body simply adapting?

Rosie proceeded with her calming exercise, and as she lay there quietly, the pain eased away until she felt perfectly relaxed. Going slowly, as she always did, she pushed herself to a sitting position.

She gasped aloud at the explosion of pain. Even the slightest movement, tilting her face in one direction and then another, made her brain feel like thick liquid sloshing around inside her skull.

This was certainly different. She'd never had this type of headache before.

Rosie eased herself slowly, to the edge of the bed. She swung her legs over and sat immobile for a few moments while her brain slid back into place. Just when she thought she might be able to manage after all, a door slammed somewhere in the house, and seemed to echo inside her head like a carillon.

When Violet entered again sometime later, she found Rosie still seated on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.

"Miss? Are you all right?"

The girl's voice resounded in Rosie's ears like the crash of a thousand cymbals. She groaned aloud. "I need tea," she murmured, barely able to speak. "And send my aunt to me, please." It was time to enlist Fanny's help.

By the time her aunt arrived, Rosie had been able to make her way to the chaise near the fire. In the past, the headache had been accompanied by chills, but not this morning. In fact, she found the room to be rather warm. She fanned her face with a theater bill that had been left on the candlestand near the chaise.

Fanny entered the bed chamber wearing a pink silk dressing gown and lace cap. Clearly she had come straight from her own bed. She took one look at Rosie, clucked her tongue, and perched herself on the edge of the chaise.

"My dear girl," she said, and took one of Rosie's hands between her own, "you look quite done in. I suppose the theater, two routs, and a card party were too much for one evening."

The strong tea had done some good, but even so, Fanny's voice reverberated painfully inside Rosie's head. She lifted a hand to her temple.

"Oh my," Fanny said, lowering her voice as though she knew exactly how Rosie felt. "You really are in a bad way, are you not? Quite a head this morning, eh? Well, I know just the remedy for you. I shall have Mrs. Coolidge make up one of her special morning-after brews. It will have you feeling more the thing in no time at all, I promise."