Teaching His Ward: A Regency Romance

by Noël Cades

  Briefly imaging her as his mistress nearly toppled Marcus's senses. That ivory skin, those flushed lips. Brought to his bed, her hair streaming out over the pillow. Pliant and responsive to his commands. While he accepted and even welcomed a mistress who was his equal in intelligence, he desired to be master in the bedchamber.

  Marcus saw that she was nervous, and sought to assuage her tension. He had no serious intentions towards her after all. He merely wished to converse with her uninterrupted, or so he told himself.

  "Tell me more of your horses," he asked. "You mentioned your father kept a large stables in Ireland?"

  Having only asked this to set her at ease, Marcus found himself spellbound as the young woman answered him. Her knowledge of horses and horse breeding was unprecedented for a woman, or at least those of the Earl of Southwell's acquaintance. Marcus even found himself asking about certain methods used in Ireland.

  "Were you a boy, you might have had a fine career as a stud master," he said.

  Her eyes danced at this. "I regret that I am not a boy, sir."

  Marcus ran his eyes over the alluringly curved form that stood before him. "Indeed you are not, but I have no regrets about it."

  The next moment he found himself bending down, and his lips descending on hers.

  Chapter 8

  Warm and firm against her own lips. The sensation and the shock sent a jolt through Jemima, to the pit of her stomach.

  For a second she was frozen. This was wrong, so terribly improper. How could he have done such a thing?

  He moved his hands to her waist, clasping her, and she found she could not move. His warmth. His masculine aroma. His strength.

  She wanted his hands on her body.

  Jemima was even more startled when he moved his lips on hers, forcing her mouth to open, and his tongue entered her. What was he doing? She had no idea such a thing was ever done between man and woman. She resisted at first, but he was gently forceful. She soon found herself yielding as his tongue entwined with hers.

  His thumbs brushed the side of her breasts and she flinched, while arching herself towards him. She had an urge to be pressed more closely to that broad male chest, hard and sculpted beneath the closely-fitting tailcoat.

  As her body came into contact with his, she felt him groan. His hands tightened on her, and he briefly deepened the kiss before suddenly withdrawing and breaking away.

  Now he regarded her, his expression inscrutable.

  "Here is where I should beg your forgiveness, for I barely know what came over me," he said.

  Jemima, for all her usual spirit, could not speak. She merely stood there, feeling her skin flushed and her lips bruised. Deliciously bruised. Wishing he would do it again.

  At the same time she chided herself. What was wrong with her? This was surely what was meant when a woman was described as "wanton". She had imperilled her reputation enough by agreeing to step outside with him, but this would surely be full disgrace. Had they been observed? She did not dare to look about her, fearing whom she might see. She also could not take her eyes off the man standing before her. She found herself breathless.

  He moved back towards her. He cupped the side of her face with his hand, tilting it towards him as he brushed his thumb over her lips.

  "And yet I have the strangest urge to do so again."

  Jemima closed her eyes, instinctively knowing he would do so. This time she hungered equally for him, her arms reaching up around his neck as his mouth came down upon hers and his arms went around her. She was drowning in him.

  Lady Julia Carlingford would never do this, she tried to remind herself. Even if she were not betrothed. But he was crushing her in his arms and she couldn't have escaped even if she had wanted to.

  The scent of bay, the heat of his skin. The trace of wine mingled in his kiss.

  Time seemed suspended. As long as she kept her eyes tightly closed and did not see the world, surely it could not look upon her?

  Inside the ballroom there was a crash and a scream. Jemima and the man broke apart, and stepped back from one another. There was some commotion inside: nothing to do with them, perhaps an overturned table. But the disturbance was enough to interrupt them and bring them back to their senses.

  There was a strange tenderness in his eyes as he spoke to her. "I have more than jeopardised you by my lack of control. We will speak of this later. For now, I must escort you back to your friends."

  Dazed, Jemima allowed herself to be led back inside the ballroom. She was sure she must be in some kind of a state, flushed and dishevelled. She should visit the ladies' retiring room and attend to her appearance before returning to Miss Berystede and Kitty.

  "I thank you, sir. But I think it best that I return alone."

  He nodded and bowed. "As you wish."

  Passing a sideboard where a large vase had fallen, sending cups crashing to the floor - the cause of the brouhaha - Jemima made her way to the room designated for feminine comfort. A maid curtseyed to her and offered assistance but Jemima declined.

  In the glass, what a sight met her! Her lips were bruised and swollen, and tendrils of hair had escaped their careful arrangement. Worst of all, the neck of her gown was askew, slipped lower than it should be. Jemima adjusted it, hoping that no one would have noticed. She made good use of the Hungary water, though nothing could cool the fever that burned within her.

  We will speak of this later.

  But when, and why? What could he want to say to her?

  Jemima still felt in a whirl when she returned to Miss Berystede and Kitty, though she managed to affect a calm demeanour as best she could. It was hours past midnight and she could feel a tiredness beginning to creep into the edges of her being. Having experienced such elation, the absence of it felt like a growing weight.

  So when Miss Berystede expressed a desire to retire for the night - "for the hour is grown very late, my dears, and I do not wish you to suffer from exhaustion" - Jemima made no protest. Kitty looked momentarily downcast, but she was fatigued as well, having barely sat down from start to end.

  They passed Selina Linton-Smythe on their way out. She was sipping punch in the company of a red-haired young man. Her mother watched, beady-eyed, from a short distance while she spoke to other guests.

  "She looks no less tired than we are," Jemima said, "for all the dances she has supposedly declined."

  She did not see the dark-haired man again as she departed, though this was in part deliberate as she did not look for him. Her thoughts and emotions were too disordered. She wished to take some time to consider them, and of course discuss everything with Kitty.

  Heaven forbid that Miss Berystede ever discover that Jemima had allowed herself to be embraced by a man, and a stranger at that! It was quite unthinkable.

  As tired as Kitty was, her eyes widened and she gasped with renewed vigour when Jemima disclosed her news of what had happened that evening.

  "But what if someone had seen! What kind of a man can he be, to have done so?"

  Jemima felt a twinge of conscience here, since she had not in truth made any effort at rejecting him. "I confess I did little to stop it," she said.

  "But even had you tried, to have been discovered with a man attempting such an thing upon you! You know how it is, you would have still suffered all the blame and censure."

  Jemima knew this well. "I do not think he planned it, though," she said in mitigation. "He seemed as surprised as I was."

  Kitty, brushing out her hair, was scornful. "He is a man, and greatly your superior. In age and experience at least, for we do not know if he is a viscount or a vagabond. It was he who led you to a secluded spot. I greatly distrust his motives, however handsome he may be."

  "He did say that we should speak of it again. Perhaps his intentions are honourable?" The candle flickered in a draught as Jemima said this, and she hoped it wasn't an omen.

  "You cannot think he means to propose!" Kitty said. "For you do not yet even know his name. I am certain
that he may be some rogue or villain who has gambled away his fortune. Otherwise why did he not introduce himself to us, as is proper?" Profligacy was the most villainous act that Kitty's innocent imagination could come up with.

  "I do not think so," Jemima said. "For if he were disgraced, would he not be ostracised from society?" She was uncertain as to whether a bankrupt and villainous man might still receive invitations to the various assemblies. Perhaps he might, if he were titled. But she did not even know this about him.

  "But what will you do if he asks for your hand? You cannot accept him, surely? Only think what your aunt and your guardian might do! He is so very much older than you as well. Though I grant that he is exceptionally good-looking." Kitty had a sudden thought. "What if he is married? Or - " she dropped her voice to a hush " - divorced?"

  Such a thing was very rare and highly scandalous, but the notorious case of Lord Paget, recently Marquess of Anglesey, was well known. There had also been speculation of late that Lord Byron intended to follow his own father’s footsteps in this course.

  Jemima did not think this was the case with her mystery dance partner. But she had no evidence either way to convince Kitty. "I will have to see what he says when we next meet. Perhaps he will finally make a proper introduction then. Or we may find out from someone else who he is." Doubtless Mrs Linton-Smythe would be only too happy to enlighten them.

  Having conveyed her fears for Jemima, Kitty now wished for every last detail of the kiss. When Jemima began to describe it, Kitty would own herself to be too shocked to hear another word, then would instantly demand further details.

  "I wonder if he will be at Almack's next week?" Kitty said. "I am sure he will, if he knows that we are attending. Did you tell him so?"

  Jemima confessed that she had not.

  Kitty finished plaiting her hair into a long braid. "He will be there, for he must think it certain that you will be. I shall do my utmost to find out who he is."

  "I am not entirely sure that I want to know. Not now you have put images of him as a blackguard and Bluebeard into my head," Jemima said.

  She had an uncanny presentiment that she would greatly regret discovering his identity, as curious as she was.

  Who was this man who had such a devastating effect on her? And why, despite having no rational reason to do so, did she sense danger?

  Chapter 9

  The Earl of Southwell's mood was blacker than ever when George Gresham greeted him at their club. He had acted like a fool, and then the girl had disappeared on him. He was both irked by this, and his conscience pricked him. Had he frightened her off?

  And why should he care if he had? Far better that she ran away before he became entangled.

  "A thundercloud across your face again, I see, Southwell. There is bad news regarding your ward?" Gresham asked him.

  "There is as yet no news."

  His friend cast him a sly look. "Or is another young chit the reason the storms have gathered? Parental outrage at her waltzing twice with you, perchance?"

  Marcus was irritated. "Do not talk such folly."

  Gresham, guessing he had hit the mark, could not resist a twist of the barb. "I dare say they doubt the honour of your intentions, given your long-standing aversion to matrimony."

  Betraying himself, Marcus cursed. "I have no damned intentions of anything. Whether of matrimony or bachelorhood. It is not a subject that concerns or interests me."

  Taking the poker and prodding the grate, a habit of his even though there were servants to attend to it, Gresham was wary of pushing his friend too far. Yet he could not quite resist a little more. "She was certainly a beauty. I've half a mind to dance with her myself, if she is at the Almack's assembly tomorrow night."

  "You will do no such thing."

  So this was how the land lay! Gresham was highly diverted. But looking at his friend's face, showing both fury and torment, he felt a touch of sympathy. It was a galling thing for a man to find himself so seriously affected by one of the fairer sex, after years of disavowing all such sentiment.

  Tactfully, he changed the subject. "They say Brummell may scarper to the continent. He fears the Fleet."

  Marcus had little time for men who gambled beyond their means, nor made such foolish wagers as Brummell was known to do. He appreciated, however, that he had been born into a far more comfortable fortune than many of his peers.

  "He need not fear the pillory at least, if Mr Taylor's bill is committed."

  "That is long overdue," Gresham said. There were moves in Parliament to abolish the use of the pillory for various crimes, though it had never been likely that Beau Brummell would face such a penalty. "Do you think of moving the bill?"

  "Lauderdale has said he would. Eldon may oppose, he has indicated as such. It is not the most pressing of issues though, what with the grain tax and the rising prices. There will be riots before the summer is out, if nothing is done," Marcus said.

  Gresham, essentially a town man, did not follow what he considered to be countryside matters too closely. "Your own tenants are affected?"

  "Not mine. But others, certainly." Marcus ensured that all the tenants on his estates had sufficient food amid the soaring cost of wheat. He knew that this was not the case for every landowner, however. He had heard rumours of a graver state of affairs in parts of Ireland, with adverse weather already raising fears for crops.

  Thinking of Ireland reminded him of Lady Julia, whom he had been determined not to think of. The wise thing to do might have been to distract himself with the company of some lighter bits of muslin, such as were to be found in many a discreet establishment across London. But that had never been greatly to his taste.

  Instead, his thoughts lingered on the young woman. He tried to shut out of a vision of her as she had looked when he kissed her, but failed. The parted lips, the flushed cheeks, the mixture of desire and uncertainty in her eyes. She was no loose-skirt. There were no sophisticated wiles, such as he might expect from an older and more sophisticated woman of society. Yet the way she had responded to his embrace, the moulding of her body against his, suggested she would be more than warm and willing in coupling. The damned Dalrymple, whoever he was, would certainly enjoy his share of delights after their nuptials.

  The prospect of this made Marcus uncomfortably furious. Inwardly he berated himself for being unable to direct his mind elsewhere. He determination to risk any further distraction by avoiding Almack's and any future social occasion.

  Yet he knew, with a heart that was half heavy and half hopeful, that this new resolve had little prospect of enduring.

  Almack's was an immense crush. The ballroom was huge and surrounded by gilded columns and large mirrors, making it seem doubly crowded. All the very best people were there, at least according to the dreaded Mrs Linton-Smythe who swooped upon them the moment they entered.

  They could at least be grateful to that woman for cautioning them about the refreshments available. Kitty and Jemima had first thought that her warning of stale bread and butter was merely a jest, but this was not so. Only very meagre fare was available at the assembly, despite its exclusivity. Arriving there, both girls were glad to have supped beforehand.

  The more Jemima learnt of the Almack's patronesses and their strict admissions policy, the more she marvelled that Miss Berystede had managed to procure her a voucher. Jemima could not imagine for a moment that Hortensia Harlington would be received into such a club. All the guests were extremely high born or extremely fashionable, and in many cases, both.

  If they knew the truth about "Lady Julia" they would probably faint. A girl who had defied her guardian, absconded from her home, masqueraded under a false name and title, waltzed with a total stranger, and even gone so far as to be kissed by him. Jemima's list of sins was growing by the day.

  The longer it grew, the less she cared. She ought to have felt an impostor here, among such select society, but she did not. Amid the snobbery and the awful refreshments, Jemima found herself feeling that
the patronesses quite deserved to have the wool pulled over their eyes.

  Mrs Linton-Smythe was in an exuberant mood that evening. For Selina, as she repeatedly told them, had been asked to dance by a viscount.

  Miss Linton-Smythe gave her simpering smile as her mother extolled the virtues of Lord Verney. "He is quite a catch, of course! I dare say he must dance with other young women out of politeness. But I am quite certain he will request Selina's hand a second time. And that is a very meaningful favour to bestow! Ah - there is my nephew, Mr Walter Wiverton."

  A young man with light brown hair approached their group, and bowed in greeting. With the necessary introductions made, he invited Jemima to dance. She did not particularly wish to but refusal was impossible.

  When the couple had gone to join the quadrille, Mrs Linton-Smythe turned to Kitty. "You must not feel slighted, my dear, at Mr Wiverton's apparent preference for your friend over yourself."

  Kitty, who had not felt in the least slighted but merely relieved, knew not how to respond.

  Undaunted by her silence, Mrs Linton-Smythe continued. "The dear boy is in fact close to being betrothed himself, to a Miss Middlethorpe from Yorkshire. My brother and his wife are delighted at the match, for Walter has just been given a living on Lord Farnely's estate. He will be very well settled. It is quite the right time for him to take a wife, and Miss Middlethorpe is to have a very generous dowry. So you see," she said, again addressing Kitty directly, "he doubtless chooses to dance with a woman who is already engaged, lest there be any mistaken expectations."

  This sounded very spurious to Kitty. From her vantage point, Mr Wiverton did not look in the least indifferent to Jemima. She glanced at Miss Berystede, and could have sworn that Cousin Beatrice was trying to suppress a smile.