Taffeta & Hotspur

by Claudy Conn

  Thought he had it all figured out.

  What the Marquis didn’t expect, however, was a woman like Jewelene. Lovely and provocative--intelligent and headstrong, and playing a game of her own.

  Each night she posed as Babette, the French Card Dealer in a House of Cards and turned the Marquis’ game inside out.

  Here’s a taste of another of Claudy’s spicy Regency romances:

  Myriah Fire

  ~ One ~

  LONDON, 1813

  CASCADING RINGLETS OF fire framed an elf-like countenance of peaches and cream. Dark brows and curling lashes accentuated the almond shape of the blue-green eyes. Champagne organza fell alluringly about a form as delicate as it was provocative, yet the owner of these enviable attributes gazed at her reflection in the gilt-edged looking glass and sighed deeply.

  A maid popped her linen-covered head into Lady Myriah’s dressing room and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Tch tch, m’lady, here you be, idling your time away with your papa that anxious for you down in the ballroom! Why, gracious, the music is sweet to hear, and the dancers looking fine as five pence … and here you be, looking that sad! Why, it fair sets me in a huff, it does!” said the middle-aged woman, taking all the liberty that years of faithful service had won her.

  Lady Myriah raised an eyebrow, and there was warning in her look though her tone was light. “Now, now, love, don’t be hipped with me. ’Twould never do! I don’t see why I must go down just yet, especially when I feel disinclined.” She stopped abruptly and noted the troubled look on the older woman’s face. “Oh, very well, don’t worry yourself over me, I’ll go,” Myriah said with one of her spontaneous smiles.

  “Good girl—’tis that much those fine bucks below be wanting a look at yer sweet face!” her maid said, nodding and returning Myriah’s smile.

  “Nonsense, Nelly, love. They have seen it all this season and last! All right, all right, don’t get yourself all puckered up again. I’m going!”

  Myriah made her way down the red-carpeted, circular staircase, a slight frown between her eyes. The music floated up and enfolded her gently. Usually its mesmerizing effects lifted her spirits, but now she only sighed.

  Whatever is the matter? This one question haunted, irritated, and left her burdened. She did not know the answer, but she did know that she had no wish to hear the music she loved and no need to join the merrily waltzing ton in the ballroom below.

  About to embark upon the glorious age of one and twenty, Myriah had already enjoyed two London Seasons and was about to take on her third. Yet the young lady was bored—bored and totally disenchanted with the beau monde, London, and all its frivolous activities.

  She was Lady Myriah, the only child of Lord Whitney, and he was well able to indulge her many whims, and he had always seen fit to do so in the past. Lately, however, her worthy father had begun to lose patience with his headstrong darling. She lived in an age where women were supposed to be demure and submissive—which did not work for Myriah.

  Beautiful, wealthy, and socially prominent, still Myriah was completely unattached and unspoken for. This last and somewhat astounding fact had not been achieved without some exertion on her part, to be sure, for Myriah had received no less than a dozen offers. Her papa and numerous interested relatives had spent much time and effort in their attempts to convince her that at least four of those offers were most exceptional, but Myriah had held out and refused them all. Perhaps it was because of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels—or her own imagination. She had often heard her aunts pompously deplore her father’s leniency in allowing her to read such material. Perhaps it was Tom Moore’s provocative poems or Sir Walter Scott’s gallants. Regardless of the reason, by the time Myriah had reached her eighteenth year she had become most regrettably romantic. During an age when people of her class married for many excellent reasons, none of them having anything to do with love, she had the very odd notion that love was the most important prerequisite to matrimony. But, strangely, Myriah had never been in love.

  She did not pretend her heart, which was as passionate as it was gregarious, had not yet been stirred. Several fine young bucks, in fact, had stirred it very well. However, it had not yet received its coup de grace. Thus it was that Myriah’s heart remained intact, albeit restless and seemingly fickle.

  Myriah’s father, however, was not concerned with frivolous notions of romantic love; he had to contend with his sisters, who nagged him non-stop about her behavior. But though the dowagers frowned, though Lady Jersey chastised gently, though Myriah’s relatives wagged their fingers, Lady Myriah’s weighty family name and its accompanying fortune allowed much. So, in spite of her wayward nature, Myriah was as popular as ever with the fawning ton. Amused with her mild indiscretions, they called her ‘naughty puss’ and chuckled over her whimsies.

  Myriah accepted their adoration as her due. Still, though she laughed at her aunts’ admonishing, she was aware her father would not tolerate her caprices much longer. He told her he had to get her married and soon. If she didn’t pick out a husband for herself, he was going to damn well do it for her!

  Sighing at the thought she had little time before her father would press her to decide, Myriah gazed at the ballroom that lay before her gleaming with hundreds of candles in wall sconces and chandeliers. The marble floor could scarcely be seen as the waltzing feet of fashionable dancers glided around in time to the music.

  Beautiful, delicate, and commanding in style, Myriah stood a moment at the entrance before she was surrounded and heralded into the room. Her name was on all their lips. Where had she been? Why hadn’t she come sooner? Promise a dance, Myriah. One for me, Myriah!

  Suddenly she felt suffocated. She broke loose with a laugh and caught her father’s eye. He smiled warmly across at her, and she composed herself and blew him a gentle kiss.

  “Sweet Myriah, have you a smile for me?” asked a quiet male voice.

  She looked up into the face of Sir Roland Keyes, and a twinkle crept into her eyes. Now here was a diversion. “You, sir, have no need of such wispy things,” she said coyly.

  “Although I don’t wish to declare you wrong, I need that and much more,” he said, taking her hand and leading her firmly onto the dance floor. They moved in rhythm to the music of the violins, and many eyes glanced curiously at them.

  Sir Roland, a bachelor of nine and twenty, had many attractive qualities, and more than one of Lady Myriah’s suitors had noticed her apparent preference for the dratted fellow’s company. Sir Roland’s height was good, and his frame was such as to catch any maid’s eye. His thick, curling locks were auburn with a hint of gold. He always seemed to entertain Lady Myriah with an adroitness that kept her amused.

  As the waltz ended, Myriah gazed quizzically up into his bright eyes. “Sweet Myriah, shall we continue our play on the dance floor, or shall we seek privacy?” he teased, kissing the wrist of her gloved hand.

  “I think, Sir Roland, we had better remain here. I have already found that playing alone with you can be quite dangerous!” countered the lady.

  “Dangerous for whom, sweet beauty?”

  She laughed amicably, for as always his forwardness excited her. He had skill, and there was no denying it.

  “You know very well for whom! Never say you fear for yourself?” she said.

  “For myself, never—ah, but for my heart, that is something altogether different. I have not attained my years and remained unshackled by toying with danger.”

  Her eyes flickered. “Well, there certainly is no danger of your becoming … how did you put it? … shackled to me? No, Sir Roland, you need have no fear on that score with me, as I have already told you I cannot marry you.” The teasing quality of her voice had begun to ebb.

  Sir Roland smiled and took her hand. Without speaking, he led her into a country dance. He was aware Myriah was attracted to him, and though he had not yet discovered the means to win her, he had no intention of giving the sport over. She was far too wealthy, and Sir Roland nee
ded her money! His lands were heavily mortgaged, a state that had been achieved by his father’s heavy gaming debts. He had tried everything else, even resorted to gaming himself with the little blunt he had left. Now, deeper in debt, he was desperate. Putting his estates in order had become all-important, and he needed an advantageous marriage to achieve this end.

  If his financial affairs were not reason enough for wanting to marry Myriah, there was his desire for the chit. She teased him until he knew he must possess her—nay, not just teased but dallied with him, taunted him, and flirted with him outrageously. However, she had made it clear her virginity went only with marriage, and indeed a maid of her class could not be taken any other way.

  They had been presented to each other just two months ago, and he knew she found him titillating, witty, and a stimulating companion. In turn he found her exquisite to behold, spoiled, wild, and irresistible. Though he knew neither she nor he were in love with one another, he meant to have her and her money. He looked long at her as these thoughts gravely carried his intent.

  Myriah watched his face, and it occurred to her that her father might have his hopes around a match with Sir Roland. That was not what she wanted.

  However, as Myriah and Roland met in the steps of the country dance, their eyes flirted, and it seemed to the onlookers that here was a match indeed.

  Myriah’s cheeks were flushed when the dance ended, and Sir Roland eyed her with concern. “You need air, love. Come, the night is too beautiful to ignore.”

  She hesitated and glanced doubtfully toward her father.

  Sir Roland tugged gently at her arm, and with a shrug she relented, allowing him to open the French door and lead her into the garden. It was a delicious night, smelling of roses and fresh grass. She looked up at the black sky and saw the half-moon shining brightly down on her, its star companions twinkling gloriously. It was the sort of night poets and minstrels sang about, and Myriah breathed it in with pleasure. They walked without speaking, without touching, and she pulled her light shawl about her arms.

  “Cold, love?” he inquired quietly, and there was a subtle shading in his words she chose to ignore.

  “No,” she replied and walked a bit away from him. He reached out and held her back. “Don’t run away from me, Myriah. There is no need. If you wish, I’ll take you back inside.”

  “No, I don’t wish to go back.”

  “Then come walk with me,” he said, linking her arm through his. He led her farther away from the house, down the path to a maze of neatly cut yews where a stone bench caught his eye. He coaxed her to sit down beside him. Suddenly, as if exasperated, he took Myriah by the shoulders and turned her face to him. “You want to be alone with me, Myriah. Why do you pretend otherwise? You are no silly miss declaring no when she means yes. ’Tis not your way.”

  She laughed good-naturedly. “You are a rogue! Perhaps I do want to be alone with you … perhaps I do not. I really don’t know. But that doesn’t signify at the moment, for apparently I am alone with you!”

  His laugh was low and soft as he put his strong arms around her and drew her to him. “Myriah, you feel so good in my arms …”

  She knew what she was doing. She invited his caress, hoping he might be the one. He certainly excited her. Suddenly his mouth was hungrily on hers. She yielded to his lips, allowing him the kiss, tasting his tongue, wondering if he could be the one as she waited and hoped for thunder and lightning … hoped for bells … for music—for something. She sighed at length and pulled away.

  “I can’t marry you, Roland.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Who is the rogue now, my dear?”

  She returned his look, an impish light creeping into her eyes. “Now there is no use telling me that I must not kiss a man unless I mean to marry him, for that is simply stuff and nonsense—and so you know!”

  “So I do! But there are many who would not agree with such liberal thoughts!”

  “That is because they are from another time and … and I think I am very different.” She moved farther away and frowned sadly over the problem.

  “Myriah, what is it you want?” he asked suddenly.

  “I … I don’t know. Evidently something other than what I have. I want to feel. But all I can feel is this awful restlessness. Lord … when I was a child, I was never this way. ’Tis just this past year. Here I am flaunting myself for the London bucks … and, Roland, I hate every minute of it!”

  “Then end it—marry me!” Roland turned her to face him again. “We shall deal together, you know that we shall. Myriah, there is so much more …”

  “Oh, Roland, you don’t need me to tell you what wild fun you are. And there is no gainsaying the fact that I like you better than any other man of my acquaintance, but I am not in love with you.”

  “I could teach you to be,” he said, taking her into his arms and pressing her powerfully against him. She let him take her lips again, putting her arms about his neck, aroused by his hot kisses, aroused by her own needs. She returned his kiss, and her own was as urgent as his. She wanted this to be love, though she knew it was not.

  “Egad!” reverberated a familiar voice from behind her.

  Myriah jumped away from Roland’s suddenly limp arms and looked at her father with dismay. The blood rushed quickly to her cheeks.

  Sir Roland pulled himself to his full height and stood calmly facing Lord Whitney, whose expression gave every promise of trouble. His lordship shook one irate finger at Sir Roland.

  “What the devil do you mean seducing my daughter in my own home?”

  “You mistake, my lord. I have just asked Myriah to be my wife,” Sir Roland offered quickly.

  Myriah’s cheeks lost their heightened color, and she opened her eyes wide at her father’s change of expression. The ominous cloud that had hung about him had totally disappeared and been replaced with an open grin. She felt the warmth drain from her body, and coldness clutched at her.

  “Eh?” barked his lordship, opening his blue eyes. “She has accepted you. Excellent—excellent! I knew she would. Told Emily, ‘Mark me now, ’tis Roland she wants.’ Very pleased indeed,” her father rattled on.

  “Papa … Papa … I have not accepted Sir Roland’s offer!”

  “Nonsense! Saw you m’self,” returned her father. Lady Myriah felt distinctly uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. How could she explain?

  “Nevertheless, Papa, I did not accept his very flattering proposal.”

  “Well then, my girl, do so now!” her father commanded, the smile leaving his lips. “No chit of mine is going to give away her favors freely.”

  “Papa, do but listen—”

  “Never mind trying to get around me this time. It won’t fadge, girl. I saw you with my own eyes—giving Sir Roland that which should go only to your intended. It’s clear I’ve let you run amuck. Well, I shan’t let you ruin yourself. It’s a husband you need, and Sir Roland here will fill the post nicely.”

  “Papa, please do not speak so to me. I am not going to marry Roland. You can scarcely expect me to marry a man simply because I have allowed him to kiss me?”

  “What?” shouted her distraught parent, quite on the verge of apoplexy.

  “Well, really, Papa—”

  “Listen to me, young lady,” interjected her father, barely able to speak. “You are not only going to, marry Sir Roland … I am going back into that ballroom with you both and making the announcement tonight! Good God—next thing you’ll be cradling a babe in your arms and telling me ’tis nothing at all! The very idea. Damnation, Myriah, I don’t like admitting Emily was right, but you have proven her so. She warned me what you were headed for, and I refused to listen. Well, by damn, I have discovered the way of it before it was too late!”

  Myriah’s temper was as hot as her excitable father’s. However, she had enough control left to contain her fire. She knew her father to be in the right of it, at least, his right of it. From where he stood things must look bad, and when he was in a temp
er, there was no curbing his highhandedness. If she were to save the situation, she must act rationally. She calmed herself, knowing that to defy him now would not serve.

  “Very well, Papa … if you will but give me a moment to tidy myself, I shall be very happy to accompany you to the ballroom and hear my engagement to Sir Roland announced.”

  Sir Roland’s eyes flickered and flew to her face. What was the chit about? ’Twas not like her to concede so easily.

  His lordship, on the other hand, thought too much of his authority over his daughter to question her sudden submission. He grunted and allowed her to pass.

  Myriah raced up the back stairs and avoided the interested servants as she made her way to her room. She would have to act quickly or be undone, for once such an announcement was made her father would never make a retraction. Indeed, she felt even she could not weather such a scandal.

  “Papa, oh dear Papa,” she said to herself sadly as she rushed about her room, flung off her elegant gown, and donned instead a smartly cut riding habit of dark blue velvet. Her father, beloved, doting, and kind, could be terribly steadfast in his decisions, especially when his sense of propriety had been ruffled. The only way to prevent doom was to absent herself. She flung two gowns into a small portmanteau, scurried about for her toiletries, pulled on her riding boots, and without another glance made her way, portmanteau in hand, to the back stairway.

  The sounds of servants rushing about with food trays, wasping at each other in their haste, caused her to slow down cautiously. She must not be seen. Another movement brought her to the side door of their fashionable London town house, and a moment later she was breathing in the night air.

  With a hurry born of need, she made the three blocks to the Whitney stables unseen, for there was but one thing she could do and one place she could go: to her grandfather at Guildford House.