The Mammoth Book Of Regency Romance Part 1

The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance.

Trisha Telep.

Introduction.

Sweet, s.e.xy, heartbreaking and erotic, confined by corsets (all that complicated lacing be d.a.m.ned!) or secreted away behind closed doors, love in Regency England was a murky business. It was hardly recognizable laced into ballgowns, peering out coquettishly from behind ivory-handled fans, whispering inappropriately under the noses of chaperones and being seduced into compromising positions. It was an emotion dealt out cruelly by a voracious and debauched high society on the one hand, and a great hypocrisy of social graces and propriety on the other. With innocence forever in the middle, trampled, torn and abused as usual.

There were some things love and lovers should not do. But rules were made to be broken and all it took was a little ingenuity. When denial and frustration come to a boiling point, sparks fly bright and hot. Matches are made in haste to settle the possibility of scandal, marriages are bargaining chips to elevate stations and cancel debts where there's a will, there's a way. And mothers! Those infernal, social climbing, unrelenting mothers! The bane of every debutante during her seasons out.

Under these circ.u.mstances, sometimes love needs a little harmless dishonesty, a liberal use of ruses, dupes and tricks, to flourish. For all those secrets and lies needed to maintain the order of the day, sometimes it takes a little underhandedness to get to the heart of the matter. Under the threat of Regency villainy, sometimes that's what it takes for young lovers to come together, or older lovers to find their hearts again.

The gentlemen seem to be missing their appointments with their barbers left, right and centre, and the slightly long and unfas.h.i.+onable look attracts the ladies in droves. It is the carelessness, perhaps, among the almost-feminine care lavished by some of the men of the age, that appeals, I imagine, and promises other lapses in convention like clandestine kisses, a quick grope in the sitting room, or maybe even some hot s.e.x?

Take a look at all the well-dressed skeletons in the Regency closet. Because for all the babies out of wedlock, the midnight elopements to Gretna Green, the young women suffering marriages to old men in penance for a moment of brief happiness on a chaise longue in an empty retiring room this jaded society has seen and done it all. Any discretion is just one more thing to hide away, to deny, to refute or to forget. But some sensations can be harder to forget than others.

Desperate Measures.

Candice Hern.

She was going to commit murder. If that scoundrel Philip Hartwell did not show up soon, Lydia Bettridge was going to track him down and rip his heart out. After all, this whole scheme was his idea. If he hadn't suggested it in the first place, and if he and her brother Daniel had not gleefully concocted the plan, she would not now be waiting on pins and needles to learn whether or not it would work.

Or perhaps all that gleefulness had been at her expense. Had they been making a game of her, playing on her disappointment, poking fun at her unrequited affections?

By G.o.d, she would rip out both their hearts. With a rusty blade.

Lydia scanned the ballroom again, maintaining as casual an air as possible as she sought out Philip's bright red hair among the crowd milling about in groups, waiting for the first set to begin. She was just about to stomp her foot in frustration when she saw him. Not Philip, but . . . him. Dear heaven, it was Geoffrey Danforth, the secret object of her scheme, and he was at that very moment making his way across the room directly towards her.

Her belly seized up in a knot of panic. What was she to do now? And where the devil was Philip?

"Here comes Danforth, my dear," her mother said in hushed tones. "And he is smiling at you and looking exceedingly handsome in that gold waistcoat. The colour sets off his hair nicely, don't you think? I hope you will not reject him like all the others. I suspect poor Philip must be delayed. You would certainly be forgiven if you did not wait for him any longer."

Lydia had claimed a prior commitment for the opening set when asked to dance by three other perfectly suitable gentlemen, causing her mother to cluck and twitter with vexation. She was not pleased that Lydia had promised to be led out for one of the most important dances of the evening by her brother's best friend, who had no marital intentions towards Lydia or anyone else, and for whom Lydia had no more than a sisterly affection. "Such a waste," her mother had said more than once.

And here came Geoffrey Danforth, with his flas.h.i.+ng blue eyes and a smile to make a girl weak in the knees. Oh dear.

He stood before them and sketched an elegant bow. "Mrs Bettridge. Miss Lydia. You are both looking very fine this evening." His eyes swept over Lydia, hopefully admiring her new dress, which was cut a bit more daringly in the bodice than her usual attire. It had been a part of the plan, of course, to look as das.h.i.+ng as possible.

His gaze turned to her mother. "The yellow plumes are quite fetching, Mrs B. All the other ladies here must be seething with envy."

Her mother giggled behind her fan and muttered something about a shameless flatterer. Geoffrey turned to Lydia and said, "I believe this is our dance."

What?

"I beg your pardon?" She could have bitten off her tongue. Philip Hartwell was obviously not coming so their plan had to be sc.r.a.pped. And yet here was Geoffrey, the object of her every dream and heart's desire, asking her to dance and she demurred. Why did she not simply take his arm and be quiet?

He grinned, an endearing lopsided grin that was somehow both boyish and rakish at the same time, and had set her heart aflutter since she was fifteen. "Hartwell is detained indefinitely and asked me to take his place." Turning his head so her mother couldn't see, he winked at her.

Dear G.o.d, did he mean what she thought he meant? Was he to take Philip's place in more than just the dance? No, surely not. Philip would not be so heartless, would he? But then, he didn't know.

Geoffrey took her hand and placed it on his arm. With a little tug she was almost rooted to the spot, barely able to think, much less move, and so needed that bit of physical encouragement he gently led her to the centre of the floor where sets were forming. "Don't worry, Lydia." He kept his voice low so others would not overhear. Deep and soft as b.u.t.ter, it was a voice that always made her want to close her eyes and allow it to melt all over her. "I know you must be disappointed, but I will do my best. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, but I daresay I can do a better job of it than old Hartwell." He winked again, and her feet stopped working properly.

He placed his other hand firmly over hers and manoeuvred her skilfully across the floor without further incident. Surely he had noticed her falter, though he did not mention it. While they waited for the music to begin, he bent his head near hers and said, "Will you trust me to do the job properly?"

She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and decided to feign ignorance. "I have no idea what you mean." Her voice sounded surprisingly steady, and she was rather proud of herself.

He smiled and gave her a little nudge with his shoulder. "No need to be coy, my girl. Hartwell told all. Had to, of course, since I was to take his place. But, quite frankly, Lydia, I was shocked to learn that you believed such a stratagem was necessary."

"Oh dear. I suppose it does seem rather foolish." More foolish than he would ever know.

"Indeed it does. I cannot imagine you have to work so hard to make some worthless chap take notice of you."

"Worthless? You do not even know who he is."

"Then tell me. It will make this easier if I know the object of this game."

"No, I'd rather not tell who he is." She'd rather die.

"It doesn't matter. I know who he is."

Panic p.r.i.c.kled the back of her neck. "You do not. You can't know."

"I can and I do. He is an undeserving moron, that's who he is. If he needs encouragement to notice your beauty, your charm, your wit, then he is certainly not worthy of you."

His words sent a powerful yearning rus.h.i.+ng through her veins. Did he mean it, truly mean it, or was he simply using flattery to squirm out of taking part in this fool's errand?

"Does the fellow show an interest in some other young woman perhaps?"

"No one in particular, as far as I know."

"And he pays you no notice whatsoever?"

She shrugged. "Very little. Or, at least not in . . . in that way."

It wasn't that he didn't notice her, or that he ignored her. No, he was well acquainted with her. They had known each other for years, as he was one of Daniel's closest friends. That was, perhaps, the problem. He treated her just as Daniel did, as a sister. Or worse. She sometimes wondered if he was even aware that she was female. He never looked at her as certain other gentlemen did, with a spark of interest in his eye, or the slightest hint of desire.

Yet, whenever she saw him, for her it was all spark and desire. Among her brother's friends, Geoffrey was the only one who made her so thoroughly aware of his . . . maleness. She never much noticed how other men's pantaloons stretched taut across a well-muscled thigh, or the impressive set of shoulders beneath their tight-fitting coats. But she had been noticing such things about Geoffrey for several years. The sight of him had been making her warm all over since long before she understood what it meant.

"Hmm." His brow furrowed as he studied her. "And so I am to make this chap jealous?"

No sense in denying what he already knew. Maybe there was still hope for this scheme after all, even if it had been turned topsy-turvy. "That is what Philip and Daniel suggested, and Philip agreed to do it. They said that nothing piques a man's interest in a young lady like seeing another man shower his attentions on her, especially if that man is generally known for avoiding such things, for keeping himself above any potential entanglement." She tried to sound blase but her cheeks flushed with warmth.

"Well, then, I am your man." He slapped a hand against his chest. "I have never singled out any woman, publicly or privately, so if I am seen acting the mooncalf over you, it will certainly be noticed. Ah, the dance is about to begin. Pay attention, my girl. Observe my uncanny ability to make everyone here believe I am madly in love with you."

And he did. He even made her believe it. He never took his eyes off her, except for those moments when the steps required him to link arms or hands with another man's partner. At all other times, his gaze never left her. Sometimes it was so intense, locked so ardently with hers that she almost felt as though they were alone on the dance floor.

It was all perfectly glorious. Except, of course, that it was not real. He was merely play-acting, and doing a splendid job of it.

When the second dance of the set was about to begin, Geoffrey led her out of the line. "Parched, did you say? Then by all means allow me to procure you a restorative gla.s.s of chilled champagne." Lowering his voice, he said, "Let us find the refreshment room and make our plans for the rest of the evening."

Ever the proper gentleman, Geoffrey first located her mother and told her where he was taking Lydia. She looked puzzled it was the first set, after all, and had so far not been lively enough to have worked up much of a thirst but nodded her approval. One small ante-room had been set aside for light refreshments and, as it was still early in the evening, it was almost empty of guests. Geoffrey led her to a table in a corner, then flagged down a footman who brought them gla.s.ses of champagne. She had not often partaken of the pale sparkly wine, and smiled when the bubbles tickled her nose, which made Geoffrey laugh. She had been too nervous to eat before the ball, so even a few sips had her feeling slightly giddy. Maybe the champagne would help her get through this odd evening, allow her to enjoy the ridiculous situation instead of walking around in alternate states of confusion and panic.

"How am I doing so far?" he asked.

"You are playing the part beautifully, Mr Danforth."

"Excellent. Has he noticed?"

"Who?"

"The man I am trying to make jealous, of course."

"Oh. I . . . I am not certain."

"I say, Lydia," he said, his brow furrowed into a frown, "you had better tell me who the chap is. How am I to make sure he sees me mooning after you? In fact, I believe this whole scheme is doomed to failure unless I know its object. So, tell me. What lucky man has stolen your heart?"

Suddenly the bubbles in her stomach had nothing to do with champagne. Who was she to name? Should she simply look him straight in the eye and tell him that he was the one he was supposed to make jealous? That he was the one whose attention she wanted so badly that she had resorted to such desperate measures?

No, she couldn't possibly confess the truth. It would be too mortifying for both of them. But what to do? She must name someone. The doors of the ante-room were open so that she could see into the ballroom. Just then, she caught sight of the infamous rake Lord Tennison leaning against a pillar and shamelessly leering at Lady Dunholme's impressive bosom.

A fraction of a second later, before her brain could tell her how absurd it was and stop her from making an even greater fool of herself, she blurted his name. "Lord Tennison."

Geoffrey's jaw dropped and he glared for a moment in wide-eyed disbelief. "Good G.o.d. You can't be serious."

In for a penny, in for a pound. She drew herself up and said, "I'm quite serious. I find him exceedingly charming. And handsome."

He stared at her as though she'd lost her mind. Which wasn't far from the truth. "But you have no idea what he is, my girl. Trust me, Lydia, he is not the man for you."

"Oh, really?"

"Really. He is a . . . a . . ."

"A rake. I know. That's what makes him so-" she smiled dreamily and gave a little s.h.i.+ver "-exciting."

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. "Exciting, eh? That's what you're looking for?"

"Yes, why not?"

"I don't know. It just doesn't sound like you, Lydia."

"Perhaps, sir, you do not know me as well as you think. Besides, who wants a dull, respectable gentleman who offers little more than a lifetime of tedium and propriety? A woman wants a man who makes her feel . . ."

"Desirable?"

Heat rose in her cheeks, but she soldiered on. "Yes, desirable. Is that so wrong?"

A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Not a bit. Tennison certainly knows how to do that, as he's been openly desiring women for years. He is quite a bit older than you, of course, but I don't suppose that signifies."

"I like a mature man."

"I do not doubt it." The twitch became a full-blown grin. Was he mocking her? Did he guess that Lord Tennison was a ruse?

"Well, my girl, you have given me a formidable a.s.signment. However, I shall do my best to see that Tennison not only notices you, but is overcome with jealousy. He will be falling at your feet by the end of this evening, I a.s.sure you."

Oh dear. She wondered if she was in over her head, but was not inclined to turn craven just yet.

"Here's what I will do," Geoffrey said, keeping his voice low even though there were only a few other people in the ante-room with them, and no one close enough to overhear. Did he do that deliberately? Did he employ that low, smoky tone because he knew it unnerved her? "I have been seen dancing with you. Now I will be seen not dancing with anyone else. I shall linger about making calf's eyes at you while you dance with other men. And I shall not dance at all until the supper dance, when I shall lead you out again. Remember, you must save that dance for me. We'll be cosy over supper and make sure Tennison sees. Does that sound like a good plan to you?"

"It sounds brilliant. I will watch for those calf's eyes."

His expression softened, his eyebrows lifted and his eyes filled with a sort of woebegone yearning. Then his shoulders sagged as he gave a heartbreaking sigh, and Lydia burst out laughing. He was the very picture of a young boy in the throes of his first infatuation. "Do not overdo it, sir, I beg you. No one would believe it of you."

He cast off the moonstruck look and was himself again. "You think not? You think no one would believe I could fall in love?"

"Oh, I believe you could fall in love." She pinned all her hopes on it, in fact. "But I daresay it would never be a simple schoolboy's pa.s.sion with you."

"You are quite right, my girl." He laid his hand over hers. "I am no longer a boy. It will be a much more complex experience for me. When I fall in love it will be deeply and completely and for ever."

It was her turn to sigh. How she wished she could be the object of such a love. His love.

He rose and took Lydia's hand to help her from the chair, then kissed it. "For luck," he said and led her back to her mother.

For the next hour and more, Lydia danced with other gentlemen. Her mother encouraged her to accept the attentions of each of them, as it was her fondest hope to see Lydia engaged by the season's end. It was, after all, her second season. One more and she would be edging closer towards bona fide spinsterhood. Frankly, if she could not have Geoffrey, she would as soon be a spinster. It was not in her nature to settle for second best.

It was a heady experience to watch Geoffrey gaze at her across the room as though he could not tear his eyes from her. She could at least pretend it was real, couldn't she? Or was it worse to know what it would feel like to have him look at her with love in his eyes than never to have known it at all? Was she setting herself up for disappointment and heartbreak?

Others noticed Geoffrey's obvious attention. Her friend Daphne Hughes pulled her aside and peppered her with questions, certain that Lydia was hiding something from her. Worst of all, her mother noticed. "I cannot fathom what has come over him," she said. "It's as though he suddenly realized what a beauty you are. I won't quibble over it, though. He'd be a fine catch for you, my dear. With your glossy dark curls and his golden hair, you will make a stunning couple."

Her maternal hopes were encouraged when Geoffrey came to claim her for the supper dance a waltz, no less. She positively beamed when he led her daughter on to the floor.

"You might want to ease up on the calf's eyes, Mr Danforth," she whispered. "My mother is getting ideas."

"Is she? Well, that only plays right into our plans, does it not? If my blatant attentions are seen to meet with Mrs Bettridge's approval, then we have Tennison exactly where we want him: very much aware that another man desires you. Look, he has just led out Mrs Wadsworth for the waltz. Let's move a bit closer to them so he won't miss the way my rapt gaze drinks in the perfection of your bosom."

The music began before she could respond, and soon she forgot all about his impertinence. His hand was warm at her waist and, as her hand rested upon his shoulder, she could feel the strength of his muscles beneath the fine velvet of his jacket. He moved with such grace and confidence that she barely had to think about where to put her feet. His lead was sure.

It might just be the nearest she would ever come to being held in his arms. She closed her eyes and relished the moment.