Regency Rogues: Talk Of The Ton

‘London? For our honeymoon?’ Any other bride would have been overjoyed at such a romantic setting as a fishing lodge on the River Wye.

‘I...yes, if you please. I would welcome the opportunity to visit Westfield again.’

‘Westfield? What is Westfield, pray?’ the dowager interjected.

‘It is an orphan asylum and a school for destitute children.’

‘And you were involved with such a place as an unmarried woman? Shameful.’

Mutiny gleamed in Felicity’s eye.

‘It is hardly shameful, Mother, to help those less fortunate than ourselves,’ Richard said. ‘If it is your wish to go to London, Felicity, then we shall. I am interested to visit Westfield myself, and it will be an opportunity for you to have some new gowns made.’

‘Thank you.’ She flashed a smile in his direction. ‘It is a very respectable establishment, Mother, run by Mr Peter Whittaker and his wife, Jane. You must not fear I shall run the family name into disrepute.’

His mother rose to her feet. ‘If you have finished your meal, Felicity, we shall retire to the salon and you may tell me more about this place. We shall leave Stanton to his port.’

Richard had no wish to remain there alone, but he acquiesced, as he so often did in response to his mother’s edicts. She was his mother, after all, and he had no intention of quarrelling with her over what was, to her, an inviolable custom. Once she had removed to the Lodge, he would establish his own customs. He stood as the ladies left the room.

His mother’s voice floated back through the still open door. ‘Now, would that be the Hertfordshire Whittakers?’

Richard eyed the two women in his life with mounting frustration. Somehow, in the time he had taken to visit the kitchen and arrange for a few tempting morsels and some wine to be laid out in Felicity’s bedchamber, his wife had persuaded his distant, disapproving mother into a genuine interest in her work with the orphans.

‘Your mother,’ Felicity had informed him with a sunny smile as he sauntered into the salon, ready to persuade her to retire early, ‘made her début with Mr Peter Whittaker’s mother. Is that not a coincidence?’

The tea tray came and went and still Felicity lingered, seemingly oblivious to his hints. Did she genuinely not realize he was longing to take her to bed?

Finally, he stood up. ‘If you will excuse us, Mother, I am very tired and wish to retire.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come, Felicity.’

His wife’s flaming cheeks spoke volumes. He caught his mother’s amused glance at Felicity and felt a jolt of disbelief.

Amusement? From his mother? How was she so relaxed in Felicity’s company, yet so stiff in his own? She had only known Felicity one day. It was as though a guard had been lowered in Felicity’s company and yet, in his, that guard was constantly and insurmountably in place. He dismissed his stir of resentment with impatience.

‘It is time I retired too.’ His mother rose to her feet. ‘Goodnight, Felicity; Stanton.’

Richard grabbed Felicity’s hand and tugged her to her feet as his mother left the room. He could feel her trembling.

‘Look at me, Felicity.’ She did, her amber eyes round, the gold flecks in her irises reflecting the candlelight. ‘I thought you enjoyed our lovemaking last night? There is nothing to fear, and no need to be embarrassed.’

A spark of...something...flashed in her eyes and her chin tilted up. ‘I am not afraid.’ She leaned forward, coming up on to her toes, and pressed her lips to his. ‘I am not afraid.’

He swept her into his arms, lifting her with ease, deepening the kiss. Slender arms wrapped around his neck as he nudged the door open with one foot. A footman on duty in the hallway stared stonily ahead as Richard mounted the stairs, Felicity still cradled in his arms, their lips fused together as their tongues entwined.

He kicked the door of the bedchamber shut behind them, having dismissed the waiting maid with a jerk of his thumb. His blood was up, heart hammering, as he deposited Felicity on the bed and ran his fingers up her leg, stroking past the bare skin of her thigh to the moist heat at her core as he tugged down her neckline, exposing one small, firm breast, and sucked her nipple deep into his mouth. A gasp, cut short, inflamed him further.

Slow down. He wrenched away, shrugging out of his coat and discarding his neckcloth before approaching the bed again.

Felicity remained as he had left her. Spread-eagled, skirts rucked up to reveal smooth, slender thighs. His eyes roamed her body, lingering over her tiny waist, her heaving breast, the peaked nipple still glistening, to her face. Eyes glinted through half-closed lids as a pink tongue tip slaked across parted lips.

Little minx. With a growl that vibrated through his entire body, he launched himself on to the bed.

‘Do you hunt, Lady Stanton?’

Felicity eyed her questioner. Lady Rowling was the local squire’s wife—a handsome brunette with dark flashing eyes. Felicity disliked her already, seething all through dinner as her hostess had monopolized Richard, seated to her right, and ignored the vicar on her left. The newlyweds, together with the dowager and some other neighbours, had been invited to dine with Sir Timothy and Lady Rowling.

‘No. I love to ride, but the hunt is too fast and furious for me, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, I love to hunt. You do not know what you are missing. Why, we have had many a splendid run, have we not, Stanton?’

‘We have indeed.’ Richard had joined them, the gentlemen having returned to the ladies after the port. Felicity felt his hand settle at the small of her back, sending shivers dancing up her spine.

Lady Rowling sidled up to Richard. ‘Do you recall that hedge, the last time we were out? The rest of the field queued for the gate, but we were not so cowardly, were we? Thor is such a fine animal—he flew that hedge, and my Duchess followed on his heels.’ She laughed, showing—in Felicity’s opinion—teeth reminiscent of a horse: long and yellowing. ‘My Duchess would follow your Thor anywhere, I do believe.’

Felicity gritted her teeth at such blatant flirtation, but before she could think of a suitable riposte, they were joined by Sir Timothy and Richard’s mother.

‘Then I must urge you to exercise better control over her,’ Sir Timothy said. ‘She is a fine animal, but she does not have Thor’s scope. He is magnificent, Stanton. I should like to see him pitted against my Brutus in a race across country.’

‘Name the time and place,’ Richard said promptly. ‘Your Brutus won’t see our heels for dust.’

The dowager swayed, the colour leaching from her skin, before she visibly rallied, saying, ‘I do wish you would not, Stanton. Think of the danger...your responsibilities. You have your wife to consider.’

‘Oh, I am certain Lady Stanton can spare her husband for so short a time,’ Lady Rowling said. ‘Why, you would not care to interfere with your husband’s pleasures, would you, my dear lady?’

What could she say? She had no more wish to see Richard risk his neck than her mother-in-law, but neither could she stand against him publicly so soon after their marriage. The challenge in Lady Rowling’s eyes settled her response.

‘I have no wish to curtail my husband’s activities,’ she said.

The squeeze of Richard’s hand at her waist almost made up for the daggers in her mother-in-law’s eyes.

‘Saturday?’ Sir Timothy said. ‘We’ll do a circuit of the parish, starting and ending here.’

In the carriage on the way home, the dowager berated Richard. ‘The animal is unpredictable. You’ll be thrown and injured. Even killed. You never consider the risks...you will get yourself killed. Like your brother.’

‘His name was Adam. Why can you never call him by his name?’

Felicity heard the faint hitch in the dowager’s breath. She reached in the dark, and clasped her hand.

‘Please, Richard. Your mother is upset.’

‘Have you seen Thor, Daughter?’

‘Why, no.’ She had seen little of her husband during daylight hours. Following their bargain.

‘He is so huge, so strong—’

‘I can handle him, Mother. You need not fear I will die before I do my duty and provide for the estate.’

Bony fingers dug into Felicity’s palm at those bitter words.

‘I am sure Mother did not mean...’

The carriage had pulled up in front of Fernley Park. Felicity’s words faded as Richard flung open the door and jumped out. As he handed her down, he hissed in her ear, ‘You do not know what you are talking about. I have lived with this since my father and brother died. It is all she cares about—the succession.’

He turned to help his mother from the carriage and into the house. Felicity followed thoughtfully.

Chapter Twenty

The following Tuesday Felicity made her way to Richard’s study, having been informed by Trick that his lordship wished to see her. She had woken late and breakfasted alone. Richard had, according to Trick, been up since the crack of dawn. How did he find the energy? She was exhausted after a night of the most... She felt her cheeks bloom and, conscious of passing servants, forced her thoughts away from the night before.

She hesitated outside the study door. Raised voices sounded from within.

‘She is totally unsuitable.’

‘We must agree to differ in this instance, Mother. Yvette is a most experienced lady’s maid.’

‘Yvette. And French, too,’ the dowager added in tones of disgust. ‘And her appearance—’

‘The decision is for Felicity to make.’

‘No lady would countenance such a creature in their employ. I am astonished Truman had the effrontery to present her.’

‘I reviewed all the available candidates. She was the best by far.’

‘You should spare Felicity the distress of meeting such a woman.’

Richard’s voice grew clipped. ‘Yvette possesses all the necessary skills for a superior lady’s maid.’

Does she, indeed?

‘She has excellent credentials.’

Hmmph. No doubt she has.

What was so special about this Frenchwoman that Richard was so very eager to employ her? She was no doubt beautiful and flirtatious, as Frenchwomen were known to be. Felicity determined to dislike her on sight, and to send her back to Winchester and ask for some good, solid English girls to be presented for her approval.

She squared her shoulders, rapped on the door and walked in.

‘Ah, Felicity. Yvette has arrived, for the post of lady’s maid. She is in the parlour, if you would care to come and meet her?’

Richard urged her to the door, his hand warm at the small of her back. A shiver danced across her skin at his touch, further annoying her. She had her righteous indignation to maintain, she had no wish to be distracted by memories of the night before.

‘Stanton!’ The dowager’s peremptory command stopped them in their tracks. ‘I insist you forewarn Felicity about—’

‘There is no need. Felicity is not a child to be protected.’

His hand urged her onward. Suspicion swelled. Would he try to coerce her into accepting this Frenchwoman? He would find she was made of sterner stuff than he imagined if he thought she would meekly submit. At the parlour door, Richard cupped her chin and looked into her eyes.

‘All I ask is that you employ an open mind, Felicity.’

Felicity held his gaze, staring into deep brown eyes as open and honest as she could wish for. Was he really so false? All guileless innocence on the surface whilst hatching plans to bring a doxy into the house under the guise of a servant?

She stalked into the room.

A woman stood by the fire, her back to the door. She wore a plain black dress, her hair tucked neatly out of sight under a straw bonnet; medium height with a narrow back and arms so thin the sleeves of her dress hung in folds. She turned, head high, as Felicity entered.

Felicity bit back her gasp, quickly schooling her expression. So this was Yvette, the Frenchwoman she had mentally accused Richard of having designs upon. Her mind whirled as she rethought Richard’s motives, shamed by her suspicions. This would teach her to judge. Not an attempt to introduce a pretty maid into the household—quite the opposite. Her husband climbed several notches in her estimation.

She studied Yvette’s face as she crossed the room to greet her. Two scars, one above the other, marred her left cheek. The higher, longer one—silvery pink—curved from her mouth—where it puckered her top lip—to her temple, just missing the corner of her eye. The second, shorter scar angled across her jaw. The effect was exaggerated by her cheekbones, stark above hollowed cheeks. Dark shadows smudged her eyes, which were green and watchful, a hint of defiance in their depths. It was impossible to ascertain her age—she might be five-and-twenty or she might as easily be twenty years older. Those eyes certainly gave the impression of a long, eventful life.

‘Good morning,’ Felicity said, before Richard could perform any introductions. ‘I am Lady Stanton.’

The woman curtsied, bowing her head. ‘Good morning, my lady. I am Yvette Marchant.’

French accent. Not too strong. Well modulated. Yvette looked up again at Felicity and then her gaze flickered uncertainly towards Richard.

Poor thing. But pity was no reason to employ someone. Richard was watching intently. Was this a test? Is that why he hadn’t warned her? To gauge her reaction? To see if she reacted in horror, with a scream, averting her eyes from Yvette’s scars? Mayhap that should infuriate her but it actually intrigued.

Felicity smiled at Yvette, and gestured towards a chair.

‘Please, take a seat, Mademoiselle Marchant. Will you tell me about yourself?’

The green eyes exuded pride and defiance. This was a woman who had been hurt and—evidenced by those hollow cheeks—she was a woman in dire straits. Was she as experienced as Richard had claimed? But he was no fool, to take on a maid with no skill to attend to his wife.

‘Where are you from?’

‘I was born in Paris, milady. I came to England when I was seventeen years old.’

‘To escape the troubles?’

Yvette nodded. An émigrée, then. There had been many during those horrendous times in France.

‘I see. Do you have experience as a lady’s maid, mademoiselle?’

‘But yes, or his lordship, why would he have brought me here to you? I was the lady’s maid to Lady Ashcroft until the last year, when she died.’

Lady Ashcroft—a mental image of the baronet’s wife arose: always immaculately dressed and coiffured, skin glowing, even at her advanced age.

‘I have the reference.’ Yvette held out a couple of sheets of paper. Her hand trembled. ‘Milady wrote them for me when she was ill. Sir Humphrey, he gives me the letter, too. He has no need for lady’s maid now. He lives now in the country all the time. He is, I think, not well either. He misses milady.’

Felicity took the papers. They were creased and smudged in places, as though they had been handled many times.

‘Have you worked since Lady Ashcroft died?’

Yvette’s shoulders dropped as a quiet huff of expelled air revealed she had been holding her breath. ‘No. I have...this.’ She gestured at her face. ‘You do not say so, but you see it. No lady likes a maid they cannot look in the eye.’ She stood, and held out her hand for her references.

‘Wait. Please.’ Felicity clasped Yvette’s outstretched hand. ‘I would never reject you merely on account of your looks but, equally, I would not employ you because of them either.’ She was conscious of Richard’s scrutiny, but he maintained his silence. The decision was hers. ‘I wish for a maid with skill, mademoiselle. I knew Lady Ashcroft, although not well, but I recall she was ever beautifully turned out...oh!’ She laughed. ‘Now I have made her sound like a horse, have I not?’ A muffled snort sounded from the vicinity of the door, where Richard stood. ‘Please, mademoiselle, be seated again whilst I read your references.’

Yvette sat, and Felicity read both documents. As she suspected—for Richard would not have presented Yvette unless he was impressed—they were glowing.

She smiled at Yvette. ‘Welcome to Fernley Park, mademoiselle.’

‘You will call me Yvette,’ the Frenchwoman pronounced, pure delight shining in her eyes, ‘for that is my name.’

After Mrs Jakeway had taken charge of settling Yvette—for her worldly belongings were packed into a valise she had brought with her—Richard said, ‘Am I forgiven for bringing only the one applicant for you to interview, Felicity?’

‘Indeed you are, although I wonder whether Yvette might regret taking the position when she sees what unpromising material she has to work with.’

Richard frowned, then strode across the room, taking her by the shoulders.

‘Do not belittle yourself. You are the Countess of Stanton. You have the correct number of arms and legs, eyes and ears, do you not? Your body works as you wish it to work, and you are unscarred, unlike poor Yvette. If you do not judge her by her appearance, why do you judge yourself? You have a good heart and a bright and enquiring mind. And...’ his eyes bored into her ‘...you are an attractive, passionate, vital woman.’

As his head lowered, sick fear clutched Felicity even as her blood heated and her treacherous lips parted, ready for his kiss. This was not their bargain. Lust was urging him to kiss her. Nothing more. She felt it too, that lust. But already her heart skipped a beat whenever she saw him, or heard his voice. She must confine their intimacies to the bedchamber, where they belonged, or she would be lost. During the day, all she required was polite co-existence.

About to claim her lips, Richard hesitated. His eyes searched hers. ‘What is it? What is wrong?’

Felicity tore from his grasp. Oh, she wanted him. But how would she survive when—as was inevitable—he turned his attentions elsewhere? Her bed would feel deserted and cold enough but if she had become accustomed to his attentions during the day as well, that would be too much to bear. She dragged in a breath, hardening her heart even as she stretched her mouth into a smile, holding her courage against his stormy expression.

‘Nothing is wrong, Richard. You are right, I should hold myself in higher esteem. You do not need to kiss me to bolster my confidence. Your words were more than adequate. Thank you.’

She hurried from the room, willing her legs to stop shaking.

Chapter Twenty-One

Two days later

Richard grabbed Felicity’s hand as she reached for the door handle.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’ Felicity tugged her hand free.

Richard paced the library, hot anger surging through his veins. He came to a halt in front of his wife. ‘Did I wed twins? You are a different woman by night and by day. I cannot fathom you.’

He had come into the library, and Felicity had been seated by the window, reading. He had smiled; made small talk; invited her to walk with him by the lake. She had been cool, monosyllabic, polite as she had rebuffed his every overture. Then he had reached to stroke her hair and she had flinched from him. Flinched. What did she imagine he might do?

She had stood up. He had taken her in his arms, but she had ducked, evading him, and made for the door. Which is when he had grabbed her.

He studied her expression. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Nothing. I am not afraid. We have a bargain.’

‘And my part of that bargain is to leave you entirely to your own devices all day every day?’

She nodded.

His teeth clenched so hard he feared they might crack. ‘Very well. There is no need for you to go. I shall leave you in peace.’

He stormed into his study and strode to the window where he stared unseeingly at the view, his temper still simmering. His bride was an enigma. They had been wed a week and, by night, she was passionate, willing and generous: all soft gasps and breathy screams. But, by day, she held him at arm’s length, shunning intimacy and shunning, it seemed, friendship and companionship too. Was it merely lust she felt for him? But, if so, where did that lust disappear to as the sun rose every morning?

Her confidence in her appearance was low—thanks to her mother—but she discouraged any attempt to bolster her self-esteem. Was he too impatient? Expecting her to change overnight, when she had spent many years seeing herself through her mother’s eyes?

Women! Who could understand them?

Exasperated by his circling thoughts, Richard strode for the door. He was in dire need of fresh air and physical exercise and he needed to keep Thor fit for the race on Saturday.

Felicity sat in the library, her restless fingers drumming a tattoo on the arm of the chair as her equally restless mind pondered her marriage. What was she to do? It would be so easy to accept Richard’s attentions and intimacies, but it would be all too easy to become accustomed to them. They had no meaning to him, despite his anger—they were empty words and empty gestures calculated to smooth the path of their marriage of convenience. He was being kind. Nothing more.

She had only to remember her mother, and poor Emma, to know what pain and despair lay ahead if she failed to protect her heart. It would be easier once in London, with more distractions. If she could just hold her nerve until she was with child, mayhap she could survive with her heart intact.

The telltale bustle of arrival in the hall roused her from her brooding. Visitors—just the thing to take her mind off the conundrum of her marriage. It was not long before a knock at the door announced Trick.

‘My lady, his lordship’s cousin, Mr Durant, has arrived. I have shown him into the salon.’

Richard’s cousin? She had no recollection of meeting a Mr Durant during her rare forays into society.

‘Thank you, Trick. Where is Lady Stanton?’

‘She is in her sitting room, my lady. I have sent Peter to inform her.’

‘And do you know where his lordship is?’

‘He went out riding a little over an hour ago.’

‘Thank you, Trick.’

No doubt out on Thor again. She had now seen for herself the spirited stallion, and could understand her mother-in-law’s fears for Richard’s safety, but he seemed to delight in the challenge of mastering the animal.

When Felicity entered the salon, Mr Durant greeted her with a twinkle in his eye and a wide smile. ‘I take it I have the pleasure of meeting the new Lady Stanton?’

‘You do indeed, Mr Durant. I am pleased to welcome you to Fernley Park.’

He was around Richard’s height—six foot—but there the resemblance ended, for Mr Durant was as slender as a whip, with blue eyes and fair, curly hair. He extended an exaggerated leg and bowed low.

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, my lady.’ He glanced past Felicity and his grin widened. ‘And my dear aunt—you are well, I hope?’

The dowager swept past Felicity and Mr Durant and sat, ramrod straight, in her favourite chair by the fire. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Durant. I do not believe we were expecting you, were we? To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?

‘Mr Durant is a distant cousin,’ she added, looking at Felicity.