Scandals of Lustful Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Meghan Sloan

  A large, overly ornate dresser stood beneath the portrait, holding a variety of curious objects. Instead of a crystal vase filled with flowers, as was the usual fashion, there was a rather large shell, with black and orange stripes, like a tiger’s coat. Next to that was a large rock, crystalline, a deep, vibrant purple. His eyes moved to the last object, frowning slightly. It looked like a large beige-coloured egg, painted with ochre-coloured small figures, in a rather Roman style.

  “Welcome, my friends,” boomed a male voice. Silas spun around, staring at the four people, who had suddenly swept into the foyer.

  Professor Sinclair was leading the group, his white wiry hair sticking up in tufts all over his head. Silas smiled. He had only met the professor the other day for the first time, but he liked the fellow. He was odd, but in a most endearing way. Rather as if his mind were not quite in this world. He had fearsome black eyebrows, which contrasted with the white of his hair, and faraway blue eyes.

  Beside him was a lady who looked at least twenty years younger than him. This must be Mrs. Sinclair, he supposed. He guessed her age to be around forty. She was rather lovely still, with large green eyes and mahogany-coloured hair. She was dressed in a flowing, Grecian style gown, pale blue, with a headband of the same colour wrapped tightly around her forehead. The effect was slightly bohemian. He had heard that Mrs. Sinclair was an amateur artist.

  Slightly to the side stood two young ladies, probably around the same age. One was dark-haired, with a square jaw and penetrating blue eyes. She was not bad looking, he supposed, but she failed to warm him at all. The other was smaller in stature, quite petite, with flaming golden red hair curled into ringlets over one shoulder.

  His eyes rested upon her, curiously. She was quite lovely, in an understated way. He found himself hoping that this young lady might turn out to be Alice Sinclair.

  Her eyes flickered towards him, shyly. He couldn’t stop looking at her. Her arched eyebrows were the exact same colour as her hair, and her eyelashes only a shade darker. Her complexion was pure alabaster, so white that it was almost dazzling. Her features were fine: a small, snubbed nose, and a delicate jawline.

  But it was her eyes that arrested his vision.

  They were a most curious colour. Grey, at first glance, but then he saw flecks of other colours within them. Green and blue. Almost like opals shining in the light of the foyer lamp.

  He had never met anyone, with eyes that colour.

  She was small, almost doll-like. As slender as a reed, with a small bosom and delicate collar bones. Her wrists were tiny. He imagined that he could encircle them with his thumb and forefinger. Her gown was as elegant and understated as she was, a simple cream muslin, but somehow it suited her, contrasting well with the fiery colour of her hair.

  Suddenly, he came back to earth. Professor Sinclair was speaking again.

  “Without further ado, let me introduce my daughter to you, Silas,” he said. “Please, step forward, Alice.”

  He held his breath. Which of the young ladies would it be?

  His heart lurched, almost flipping in his chest, when the pale, small redhead stepped forward, gazing at him beneath almost lowered eyelids in a bashful manner.

  “Mr. Wilmington,” she said in a high, melodious voice. “It is a pleasure to meet you, at long last.”

  He took her hand in his. It was so small and delicate, it looked almost ridiculous in his large one. He bent low, brushing it against his lips, before straightening and gazing at her steadily.

  “Miss Sinclair,” he said slowly. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  ***

  He kept stealing glances at her as they sat down at the long dinner table. So, this was Alice Sinclair. The lady who was about to become his new fiancée, if this evening went well and all parties concluded it was a good decision.

  She was as far removed from Marina St. George as it was possible to be. Rather like chalk and the proverbial cheese.

  Marina was tall and statuesque, with a figure rather like an hourglass: large bosom, small waist, and wide hips. Long, long legs. She was almost able to look him in the eye, which was saying something. Not many people could look him in the eye, even men. He usually towered over them all.

  Marina was…stunning. Simply stunning, in a way that he could barely explain. It wasn’t just her dramatic beauty – her silky golden hair, her violet eyes, her full red lips – although that was remarkable enough. It was her presence, the way that she held herself, her aura. As soon as she walked into a room, all eyes were upon her, following her everywhere.

  Marina St. George had charisma, pure and simple.

  He glanced at Alice Sinclair again. She was lovely, but she did not have an aura about her. For a start, she was so small. And even though her hair was a dramatic colour and her eyes were unusual, he knew she would not command a room, if she walked into it. Perhaps it was merely her shyness, a lack of confidence, that meant she did not seek attention, and so was not given it.

  He pondered, as the first course started, the differences between the two ladies. The woman who had been his fiancée, and the woman who was about to become his fiancée.

  Stop it, he told himself fiercely. How are you ever to move forward with your life if you do this? You know that Marina is gone. She would not want you to mourn her forever.

  He took a deep, determined breath, trying to catch Miss Sinclair’s eye. She was conveniently sitting opposite him, next to the young lady who had been introduced as her good friend Charlotte Hayward. But Miss Sinclair stared stubbornly down into her soup, sipping quickly, refusing to look up at him.

  She is so shy, he thought. Not like Marina. She could walk into any room and be talking within seconds to total strangers.

  He chided himself, realising he was comparing them yet again.

  Miss Hayward was glancing at him sympathetically now, as if she realised. Suddenly, Miss Sinclair jumped a little, her grey eyes wide, turning to her friend. Miss Hayward was smiling slightly but looked as innocent as a lamb. He would bet his life that the dark-haired lady had just kicked her friend beneath the table.

  It seemed to have done the trick. Miss Sinclair took a deep breath and gazed at him, a slightly forced smile on her face.

  “You have lived in Bath your entire life, Mr. Wilmington?” she asked determinedly.

  He nodded. “I have, Miss Sinclair, although my family and I alternate quite regularly between our houses in the town and in the country,” he replied. “But I would definitely call myself a native of Bath.”

  He was very conscious that everyone else at the table was listening keenly as they spoke, eating their soup haphazardly. He almost felt as though he were beneath a magnifying glass.

  She nodded, hesitating, obviously unsure what small talk she should make next. He felt a keen, sharp tug of sympathy for her plight and rushed in.

  “And yourself, Miss Sinclair?” he asked. “Have you and your family always lived in Bath?”

  She nodded. “Yes, indeed. In this very house. It is the only home that I have ever known.” She glanced down the table, towards her father. “Although Papa likes to go on hunting expeditions, to various places all over England, and I have accompanied him many times.”

  “Hunting expeditions?” He stared at her. “You mean…to hunt foxes, and the like?”

  She trilled with sudden laughter. “Oh, my Lord, no! That would be positively dreadful! We do not pretend to be the landed gentry, with their hunts, I do assure you, Mr. Wilmington.” She paused. “I am talking about foraging expeditions. Papa was a professor with the natural science department at the university, and he likes to search for and collect samples when he has the opportunity.”

  “Indeed,” piped up Professor Sinclair, flourishing his soup spoon in the air. “It is a fascinating thing to do. One finds all manner of curious things, some very ancient, and always interesting. I have amassed quite a collection.”

  Silas nodded. “I saw your collection in your study, Professor,” he sa
id, smiling at the man. “Very impressive.” He turned back to Alice. “And do you enjoy collecting as well, Miss Sinclair?”

  Alice smiled, a little dreamily. He noticed that two dimples appeared in her cheeks when she did.

  “I cannot claim to be as passionate about it as Papa,” she said. “But I do find it interesting hearing the story of the objects, especially when they are very old, like fossils. It is rather like being a detective, I should think.” She paused. “I most enjoy getting out in nature – walking along beaches, and walking up hills, without a care in the world. Those are my favourite parts of the expeditions.”

  He smiled at her, quite charmed. “I enjoy getting out in nature, too. Going for long walks through the countryside is simply wonderful.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you might like to visit Bertram House one day, when we are in residence. There are some spectacular walks through the Somerset countryside there. I could lead you on quite a few.”

  To his surprise she blushed. Her skin was so pale that she almost looked quite feverish with it. He felt a surprising stirring, deep in his loins, as he watched her face change from white, to pink, to a deep, rosy red.

  He was so shocked, he dropped his soup spoon, clattering to the table. It was the very first time, he had felt that, since Marina had vanished from his life.

  “I would like that very much, Mr. Wilmington,” she said in a faltering voice. “Thank you.”

  “A wonderful idea!” brayed his father. “We shall arrange a weekend of it, before the weather gets much worse. You wouldn’t want to be wandering those hills during a snowstorm.”

  His mother looked eager, too, clapping her hands together, as if she had just solved a rather difficult puzzle. “Oh, that will be so much fun! We can invite quite a few people, do you think? A good assortment, for a splendid weekend!”

  Silas smiled, picking up his spoon. It seemed that he had inadvertently arranged a weekend in the country.

  He glanced back at Alice. But her head was firmly bent, intent on eating her food, and she would not look at him for the rest of the course.

  ***

  After dinner was over and they were drifting to other areas of the house – the gentlemen to take brandy and cigars in the library, and the ladies to the drawing room – he found himself loitering in the foyer for a moment, desirous of a moment to himself.

  He wandered over to the dresser containing the unusual items. His gaze lingered on the large egg, noting the strange painting upon it.

  “It is rather splendid, is it not?” said a high voice at his elbow.

  He jumped, startled, turning around. Alice Sinclair was standing beside him. She had somehow managed to creep up on him without him even hearing her footsteps.

  “Indeed,” he said, turning back to the object. “I cannot make out what it is at all.”

  She laughed, in her melodious way. She had a lovely laugh.

  “It is the egg of an ostrich,” she said, gazing at him. “A rare find. Papa discovered it, when we were on holiday in Tuscany, many years ago now.”

  “An ostrich?” He felt his eyebrows rise in surprise. “The large feathered bird that is native to Africa? How on earth did the egg of such a creature end up in Italy?”

  She shrugged. “No one knows,” she replied. “Papa thinks it was traded or was perhaps a gift. Did you notice the faint markings upon it?”

  He nodded, peering closer at it. “It looks like figures, of people…”

  “It is,” she said, her grey eyes shining. “Apparently, it was decorated, during Roman times, no less. It is a rare artefact. Papa is usually a collector of natural items, of course, but this has interest as not only an unusual egg but as a work of art. Mama was very excited, as well, having a keen history in art. It seemed to combine both their passions.”

  “Amazing,” he said, still gazing at it. “To think that this is so old, and that the person who painted it lived in Roman times. Well, it is simply astounding.”

  “Isn’t it?” She was smiling, so animated that her cheeks were flushed, a rosy pink. “It was simply the most wonderful holiday. We rented a little villa outside of Florence. Everyday Papa would go out exploring, hunting for rare objects. Mama would either set-up her easel and paint for the day, or look in the churches, at all the magnificent frescoes. We saw the work of Michelangelo, and Da Vinci.”

  He gazed down at her. “Your family holidays sound a lot more interesting than mine,” he said, grimacing slightly. “I am afraid that my parents are not interested in culture, or art, or indeed much at all. A good walk, and a good meal. Perhaps a game of cards. That is about the extent of it.”

  She looked astounded. “But…is that all that you do together?”

  He shrugged. “Not much else. We have learnt to keep our own company, really.” His eyes lingered on the oil painting above the dresser. “Did your mother paint that?”

  Alice shook her head. “She purchased it, from an up-and-coming artist, just last year,” she said, regarding it. “She said that the artist is destined for great things.”

  He examined it. “I know little about art, but it is rather risqué,” he said, his eyes lingering on the mammoth bosom of the naked woman. “A lady reclining on a settee, wearing nothing but her pearls.”

  Alice laughed. “Most artists paint the nude female figure,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Haven’t you ever noticed? It is nothing new, Mr. Wilmington. Rubens did it, as did Botticelli, Giorgione, Titian…”

  He looked at her, his eyes widening. It was his turn to be astounded. She looked so innocent and young standing there with her cream gown and her golden red curls. Her grey, opalescent eyes gazed back at him, almost challengingly.

  Once again he felt that strange stirring. He was standing alone with her, in this foyer, talking about naked women. While a painting of one gazed down at them. He felt a flush creep up over his neck, staining his face.

  Alice Sinclair was a most unusual young lady, indeed.

  He was used to coffee-table talk in bohemian parlours. Marina had dragged him along to quite a few. All of those people had been hardened in some way, though. As if they wore their scandalous opinions and radical ideas like a coat of armour, purely to shock. It was different with Alice Sinclair. He had a strong sense that she was just being herself, and that nothing she said was designed for shock value.

  She was also cultured, clever, and very refreshing.

  She smiled suddenly, disarming him. “I should get to the drawing room,” she said, turning away. “And I am sure they are expecting you for cigars and brandy in the library, Mr. Wilmington.”

  She almost skipped away, her red curls bouncing on her shoulder, a hint of her perfume lingering in the air.

  He took a deep breath, turning towards the library. He didn’t know what expectations he had of this evening, or of her. But they were turning out much better than he had ever dared to hope.

  She was tantalisingly lovely, without even realising it.

  As soon as the thought entered his mind, a sharp stab of guilt assailed him. The woman he loved was gone, probably dead. And he was looking warmly on this young lady and forgetting her entirely.

  Suddenly, it seemed wrong. Disloyal to the memory of Marina and what they had meant to each other.

  He took another deep breath. He might have to go through with this engagement. But that didn’t mean that he should forget who he truly loved. Not now, and not ever.

  A love like that only comes along once in a person’s lifetime. He knew that. It was just navigating the world around without her that was proving so very difficult.

  Chapter 5