The Wild Passion of an Eccentric Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Emily Honeyfield

  “Did you dance with her at the ball?” Kingsley asked, punctuating the pleasant silence.

  “I did,” Simon replied, trying to conceal the smile upon his lips.

  “And?” Kingsley asked, full of insinuation.

  “And what?”

  “Boy, I’m asking you what you felt during the dance.”

  “I felt . . . elated. I know the whole thing was for show, and Lady Susana watched all of it, but I entirely forgot that she was present. Emilia is an exquisite dancer.”

  “I see!” Kingsley replied.

  “What mean you by that?”

  “You’re more far-gone than I thought. Dancing with the lady is the tell-tale sign of how you feel about her. Sometimes you can’t wait for the dance to be done, and sometimes you wish that it would never end.”

  “You don’t catch me as a fellow that dances very often. In fact, I know that you don’t. So, where did you get this knowledge?”

  “I did a great deal of dancing in my younger years,” Kingsley began to explain. “I would know instantly once the dance began whether or not my heart was involved.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair to me,” Simon quipped. “What if there’s a beautiful girl that could make you a happy man but she happens to have two left feet?”

  “It’s not the skill to which I speak of,” Kingsley said. “It’s the chemistry. The alchemy. When a lord and lady stand in front of one another to dance, the energy is palpable and clear. The fact that you enjoyed the dance with Emilia so much signifies that you are far-gone, as I have said.”

  “Ha!” Simon replied. Still, he had to admit that what Kingsley was saying was true. He did feel very far-gone. However, he wished to conceal it in some way and not have it written upon his sleeve. “She has a delightful form,” Simon added.

  “Yes, I noticed,” Kingsley replied.

  “Saucy old man,” Simon teased.

  “I’m not saucy, and I’m not even that terribly old,” Kingsley protested, “but I am a man.”

  The two men continued their work in silence yet again, and the sound of the rain outdoors could be heard upon the windows. Simon stopped to marvel at it, but Kingsley never turned his attention towards anything else. It was a unique talent that the master had for holding important conversations while painting, but never turning his head.

  Simon began to wonder when he would see Emilia next. No specific date had been set, and it made Simon anxious. He wished to see her all the time. He wanted to know what she was doing each day. His emotions were of such intensity that Simon was beginning to annoy himself.

  “And what of Lady Susana?” Kingsley asked, continuing the conversation.

  “She is very much part of the plan.”

  “You wish to regain her affections still?”

  Simon had to think about this for a moment because it was a topic of great confusion. When he had seen Lady Susana and spoken with her at the ball, he was convinced in his mind that he didn’t need the woman’s love after all. But in the days that followed, that need for retribution swelled up again within his breast, and he was determined once more to carry out the original intention of the plan; to have Lady Susana confess her love so that all the hurt that Simon had experienced could be washed away.

  “Her affections, and mostly, her remorse,” Simon said, thinking that was a good balance between the two. But this was a half-truth that he was telling Kingsley, and it left guilt in his breast. Should he say that he had quickly given up on Lady Susana then the purpose of the plan would be moot.

  No, for the sake of protecting his heart at all costs, Simon would stick true to what he and Emilia had agreed upon so that everything that he was doing would not be in vain. Even if Lady Susana never came back to protest her love, Simon would always remember that look of dejection upon her face when she saw Simon and Emilia together.

  “It is almost time for tea,” Kingsley said, leaning away from his painting and putting down his brush. “These rainy days make me weary.”

  “Me, as well,” Simon replied, looking out the window once more. What was Emilia doing at that moment? And was she thinking of him as he was thinking of her?

  “Come along. Rutledge should have everything ready,” Kingsley said, getting up from his chair and ambling towards the door.

  “Are you limping again?” Simon asked.

  “It’s the cold, damp weather. My knees go to seed,” Kingsley said with a shake of his head. Walking down the winding staircase, Simon could hear commotion downstairs.

  “Sir!” Rutledge cried out, clearly distressed.

  “What the devil is it?” Kingsley asked.

  “I’m afraid that we have quite the problem.”

  “Well, speak man!” Kingsley said. Simon knew that Sir Gregory Kingsley was never one for drama or catastrophe.

  “There is a great flood,” Rutledge said, his posture erect and dignified as he tried to maintain composure.

  “In the biblical sense?” Kingsley asked.

  “No, sir. In the sitting room sense.”

  “Let’s have a look then,” Kingsley replied.

  As Rutledge led them to the front sitting room, Simon had to wonder how such a minor storm had created a flood. Although it had been raining consistently for days, the water had never come down forcefully.

  “Here!” Rutledge said, pointing to the flood in the corner as though there were a demon. Kingsley walked over, leaned down, and began to laugh uproariously. From where he stood, Simon could see that it was rather a puddle than a flood, and it resided under a side table which carried a green fern.

  “It’s not funny, sir,” Rutledge said, his face dejected. “The wood of this floor is hundreds of years old.”

  “And if we are to worry about such things day in and day out,” Kingsley said, still laughing, “then I shall turn hundreds of years old before your very eyes.” With a wave of the hand, Kingsley signified that he was done with the topic and then proceeded to the tea room. There, just as he prophesied, the tea was already laid out and ready for consumption. Simon could see that his very favourite soup was already ladled into bowls; a warm mixture of fragrant tomato broth and tender garden vegetables. That accompanied with the various sandwiches, both savoury and sweet, would make for a cheery afternoon amidst the storm.

  Seating himself, Simon could see that there was a letter placed to the side of his place-setting, and he quickly picked it up, hoping to high heaven that it was from Emilia. Remarkably, it was from Lady Susana. Was the plan already working? Was this to be a letter in which Lady Susana professed her love and desire to be back into Simon’s arms? Although the prospect was both tantalizing and ghastly, Simon’s interest was piqued, and he quickly opened the letter. As he did so, Kingsley quickly began to take spoonfuls of his soup.

  Dearest Simon,

  There is so much that I wish to say, but you know that I have trouble putting things into words. Seeing you at the Crawford ball, my heart was filled with joy. You know how fond of you I am. This whole business about my being engaged was something that I was going to explain to you that very night! I do wish to talk of such things in person rather than through the post. All of this is to say that I was terribly hurt that your engagement proceeded so quickly. I suppose that I don’t have the right to say such a thing, but say it I shall. I yet again reiterate how fond of you I am, and I hope that we can make it up to one another.

  Yours,

  Lady Susana Valmont

  Bloody Nora, was Simon immediately confused, enraged, and confused yet again. There was so much in the letter that would require careful perusal for Simon to understand it, for it seemed like a puzzle that one needed to put into order. Lady Susana was upset by his hasty engagement but did not apologize for her own? She hoped that they could make it up to one another?

  Twice did she say she was fond of him, but never once in love. Simon’s head was spinning and reeling. It was as though the woman meant to cause distress and confusion. There was nothing clear or stra
ightforward about the letter, and it was entirely on purpose, Simon concluded.

  Throwing the letter to the side and trying to conceal his rage, Simon picked up his napkin, placed it on his lap, and grabbed his spoon. Jaw and brow were knit, and Simon was breathing through his nose like a bull.

  “Pleasant tidings?” Kingsley asked, not looking up from his soup.

  “I’m afraid it’s not a topic for suitable conversation at the moment,” Simon said, his tone incredibly measured.

  “Then don’t let’s discuss it,” Kingsley replied. “Ill feelings lead to sour appetite.”

  The master had a great point, and Simon would try to keep his mind off of Lady Susana’s words for the duration of tea. This was astoundingly hard to do considering the tangled web that she had woven in his mind. And yet, why was it that when she said she was fond of him, it filled him with hope? Simon had no more room in his breast for such insanity.

  “The soup is capital,” Kingsley said, and Simon could tell that the master was trying to lighten the mood. Simon’s disposition had permeated the air. He took a deep sigh, sat up straight, and forced a smile.

  “There is nothing better on such a day,” Simon added.

  “I wonder,” Kingsley said, holding up a piece of bread, “if man can live off bread and soup alone.”

  “Be careful, sir,” Simon teased. “Now you truly are sounding as though you’re hundreds of years old.”

  Both Simon and Kingsley had a good laugh, and a sense of relief washed over him. Not only could Kingsley get him to focus, the father-figure could also cheer him up. Simon found himself grateful to be in the artist’s presence, yet again.

  “And what do you think of the great flood?” Kingsley asked, willing the teasing to continue.

  “I must say, I was horrified!”

  “Yes, it’s a good thing that Rutledge brought it to our attention, for if not, we might have awoken in the middle of the night to find that we were sleeping in a lake.”

  Simon and Kingsley laughed and carried on, continuing the rest of their tea with relish whilst talking of the tasks they would accomplish for the rest of the day. Although Simon knew that he’d return to his room later that night with the letter in hand, analyzing every word, he was still determined to tend to his personal painting that night in privacy.

  He wouldn’t allow thoughts of women and of the future to cloud his mind for a moment longer. That afternoon, Kingsley had reminded him of something fundamental; Simon was a painter, and everything else was just subject-matter.

  Just then, Rutledge reentered the tea room and visibly appeared as though he carried his tail between his legs. Simon reasoned that it wasn’t the footman’s fault. He was a fellow that was utterly devoted to Montgomery House and that meant that every once in a while he over-reacted to things. Far better to have such a chap working for you than someone that doesn’t care one jot.

  “There’s a lady here,” Rutledge said sombrely. “That same lady,” he added, lifting his brow.

  Instinctively, Simon stood up from his seat, knowing in his heart that it was Emilia. That ghastly letter from Lady Susana was overridden by joy.

  Chapter 9

  Emilia stood in the doorway to the tearoom, and her heart was beating wildly in her chest. There was no reason why it should do so. She was merely paying a call to thank Simon, but as soon as she saw him, Emilia felt her knees go weak.

  “Emilia,” Simon said, walking towards the door to greet her.

  “Simon,” she replied.

  The footman quickly walked away, and Emilia was left alone with Simon in the doorway, but she could see that Kingsley was seated at the far end of the table. Emilia didn’t wish to intrude, but there was so much that she had to say, and she had desired to see Simon for days on end.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” Simon replied.

  “Well, I merely wished to thank you for attending the Crawford ball with me, and listening to my story.”

  “It was my great pleasure,” Simon replied with a warm smile.

  “I hope that you enjoyed the same benefits that I did, in terms of Lady Susana.”

  “I could tell that she was jealous,” Simon said with a boyish grin.

  “That is success, then?” Emilia asked.

  “To be frank, I’m not entirely sure what success is anymore, but it was a victory of sorts.”

  “That makes me happy.”

  “And you felt vindicated? With the Duke of Westmoreland?” Simon asked.

  “Very much so,” Emilia replied.

  She could tell that each of them was trying to please the other, and it warmed Emilia’s heart. It was also a novelty for her. When was the last time that someone truly tried to help Emilia? So often, she felt very much on her own.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Kingsley cried out.

  Emilia found that she was lost in Simon’s gaze and looked towards the master artist. She smiled, curtsied, and then looked back towards Simon.

  “Is it all right?” Emilia asked.

  “Of course,” Simon said, moving out of her way. “Do come in.”

  Emilia walked towards the table and watched as Simon pulled out a chair for her, situated next to Kingsley. She sat, and Simon pushed her in, then walked around the table to take his own seat.

  “Tea?” Kingsley asked.

  “That would be lovely, thank you,” Emilia replied, taking off her gloves. As she did so, she could feel Simon watching her.

  “You look remarkably different from the first time that I met you,” Kingsley said, sipping his soup.

  “I’m afraid that I was in a state of desperation that time.”

  “Yes, I could see that,” Kingsley replied.

  “Now I feel much more at ease. And all of that is thanks to Simon,” she said, looking across the table at him.

  “Simon does like to meddle in things,” Kingsley said humorously.

  “Well, I suppose that we’re both meddling in things,” Emilia replied, “mutually.”

  “Mutual meddling,” Kingsley quipped. “It sounds like the title of a novel.”

  “Would you like some soup?” Simon asked. “It’s quite good. I’d say it’s with fresh garden vegetables, but our garden appears to be oversaturated,” he added, turning back to look out the window at the rain that continuously came down.

  “There was a great flood!” Kingsley said, tearing off another piece of crusty bread and applying butter.

  “There was?” Emilia asked in shock, wondering if calamity had struck Montgomery House.

  “He’s jesting,” Simon said, lifting his brow and looking at his master. “We had a rather benign puddle appear in the sitting room, and Rutledge has never been the same since.”

  “He is a very serious fellow, isn’t he?” Emilia replied. “Not unlike our footman, Clyde.”

  Just then, tea was poured, and a bowl of soup was placed in front of her, before she had a chance to request it. Truly, she was grateful for it as the journey had been cold and long and Emilia was rather hungry. After a few sips of tea and soup, Emilia found that her bones were warmed again.