A Little More Discreet Madness: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  A Little More Discreet Madness

  Sahara Kelly

  Copyright © 2020 Sahara Kelly

  Cover art copyright © 2020 Sahara Kelly

  (“Charis” was originally published elsewhere as “Compromising Charis” and has been

  revised and re-edited for this edition)

  “Love is a smoke rais’d with the fume of sighs;

  Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in a lover’s eyes;

  Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:

  What is it else? A madness most discreet,

  A choking gall and a preserving sweet.”

  William Shakespeare

  Romeo and Juliet, Act 1

  “Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry

  Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.”

  Also William Shakespeare,

  Narrative Poem

  “Venus and Adonis”

  Charis

  Chapter One

  “I will not marry a chuckleheaded lackwit and that’s the end of it.”

  Charis Forbes-Wilkinson put her hands on her hips, thrust out her chin and glared at her aunt.

  “You will do as you’re told, young woman. Must I remind you that your appalling behavior brought this down on your own head?” The older lady glared right back at Charis, indicating how serious she was by narrowing her eyes and tightening her lips. “Had you not created such a dreadful scandal three years ago, you’d be married and settled by now.”

  “Faugh.” Charis threw out a hand to deflect the accusation. “That was no scandal. Barely a ripple through the Ton. You speak as if I single-handedly undermined the Duke of Wellington’s battle plans or something.”

  Margaret Winston folded her hands in her lap and stared at them for a moment or two before looking sternly back at her niece. “You were caught in flagrante delicto with a young man. A person you were not married to, I might add. He was—” She interrupted herself with a shudder and raised a handkerchief delicately to her lips. “Well, to say he was taking liberties would be to put too fine a point on it.”

  “He wasn’t doing anything I didn’t want him to do.” Charis’s chin went up another notch.

  “You shouldn’t have wanted him to do anything. Young women of good character don’t possess wants like that. Good God, girl. You were naked. In bed.” Aunt Margaret’s voice was harsh. “There was no getting past that. You were utterly ruined and you know it. Thank God your father was able to hush the worst of it up.”

  “Oh yes. Thank God for father.” Charis’ lips turned down in a bitter curl. “He packed me off to Bridlington Manor and managed to get Charles sent to France. That turned out well for Charles, didn’t it?”

  Aunt Margaret callously dismissed the young man’s early demise on the battlefield with a wave of her hand. “That’s in the past and not in the least bit germane to the subject under discussion. In fact, I command you never to speak of it again. You’ve been brought here from Bridlington because at last I’ve received notice of an offer for your hand.”

  “Which brings us back to the lackwit.” Charis sighed and turned away from her aunt, staring out of the window at the politely neat gardens surrounding the small Hampshire estate. They were very different from the untamed wilds of Northumberland where Charis had spent the last three years.

  “Lackwit or not, he seems willing to overlook your youthful indiscretion.” Aunt Margaret’s spine was unbending as she sat correctly in one of the two chairs beside the fireplace. “Which is quite an accomplishment, too. Not many would wish to ally themselves with soiled goods, you know.”

  “Is that what I am? Soiled goods?” Charis snorted. “You make me sound like a lightskirt.”

  “Charis.” Her aunt’s tones were scandalized. “You will not use such words in my presence. And for God’s sake try to comport yourself as a lady born. I know it’s probably too late to suggest that, but you might at least make the effort.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Now your suitor appears to be a gentleman, from what I hear. A cousin of Professor Owen Lloyd-Jones, the scientist. You may recall I have some acquaintance with dear Squire Adams and his wife Dorothea. They vouch for him, and his man of business is most professional, everything one could wish for.”

  “So you say. I still think he’s a lackwit for wanting to wed me.” Charis turned as her aunt’s words sank in. “Wait a minute, from what you hear? You mean you haven’t even met him?”

  “Anyone willing to marry you is a blessing from Heaven and one I’ll accept without any hesitation. The offer came formally from his representative to your father. You’re an embarrassment to this family, Charis. It’s no secret to anyone who knows about what happened. I should think you’d be pleased to be able to go about in Society again, which you can do once you’re properly wed.” Aunt Margaret remained firm. “These things matter. You’re a fool if you believe otherwise.”

  Charis clenched her teeth. Her aunt was right. Her father had not visited her in over two years. This summons had been the first contact anyone in her family had initiated since the “incident” as they referred to it. Had her mother lived…she swallowed. Had her mother lived, things might have been different.

  But—she mentally shrugged. She missed her mother to this day, but refused to dwell on the past. Especially not now, not with a suitor breathing hot and heavy down her neck. “So you haven’t actually met the man. You know nothing about him. He could be…anything at all? Old? Disease-ridden?” She winced.

  Aunt Margaret stood and shook out her skirts. “You’ll take him, no matter what he is, girl. For once, you’ll do as you’re told. The only other option is permanent exile to Bridlington and a reduced allowance. I doubt that you’ll fancy that once your horses are sold off.”

  “You’d sell my horses?” Charis was aghast.

  “I would personally have nothing to do with it, of course.” She gestured to papers on a small side table. “These are your father’s instructions. Naturally we communicated after he received the offer. If you refuse, you will return to Bridlington. You will take up residence there, but your horses and other nonsensical things like books will be sold, the monies to go to your Cousin Frederick for your upkeep. He and his wife will be moving into Bridlington soon. Your father has approved Frederick’s request to take up residence there. They are expecting their fourth child, you know, and they need the room for their growing family.”

  “Oh dear God.” Charis closed her eyes. If she refused the lackwit, she’d be little more than a maiden aunt. Which translated into someone who was neither fish nor fowl in anyone’s household. And she loathed Cousin Frederick and his annoyingly superior wife.

  “You are reaping the rewards of your folly. There is no one to blame but yourself.” Aunt Margaret looked down her nose at her niece, which was quite an accomplishment since Charis was a good six inches taller. “I make no bones about the fact that I never liked you, Charis. You were headstrong, impetuous and bound to come to no good. I told your father what I thought in no uncertain terms, but at the time he was clearly under the influence of that woman. Thankfully, he’s now come to his senses where you’re concerned. Especially after you revealed your unfortunate true nature three years ago.”

  Charis bit down the surge of fury her aunt’s words engendered. Hearing her mother referred to in that way was bad enough. To respond would only make matters worse. If she’d learned anything over her years of exile it was to keep her tongue still when she was angry.

  “The gentleman is to arrive soon. The marriage will then be arranged. The entire matter ends here.”


  And good riddance.

  The words hung unspoken in the air between the two women, one erect and supercilious, the other fighting down impotent rage. Charis harbored no illusions about her aunt. The dislike she’d confessed was mutual.

  Dipping her head in a miniscule gesture of respect, Charis watched Aunt Margaret leave the room with a satisfied swish of her skirts, leaving a thousand questions deliberately unanswered. She’d never even bothered to tell Charis his name. If ever the word bitch could be applied accurately, it would be to Aunt Margaret. No wonder Uncle Martin had passed on to his reward only two years after they’d wed. Charis wondered if he knew what a lucky escape he’d had.

  She turned once more to the window. They thought they had her trapped, her father and her aunt. Trapped into marrying the anonymous lackwit. She huffed out a snort. It would come as no surprise to her to learn he’d been paid to take her off their hands and thus relieve the family of their “embarrassment”.

  Well, they might think she was trapped. But hadn’t been sewing samplers in the past three years. She’d bred horses. She knew horses. And she’d befriended a traveling band of people who knew as much, if not more, than she did.

  Of course, they were completely unacceptable to the gentry, since they were gypsies. But Charis hadn’t cared a whit. When it came to her little stable, Charis was focused and desperate to learn all she could. And, truthfully, the friendship of the Romany, especially Jenny, had helped the summers pass more happily for the lonely woman Charis was becoming.

  Neither her father nor Aunt Margaret knew that Jenny and her family were traveling to Hampshire right now. They might already be camped somewhere in the New Forest. All Charis had to do was follow the signs, the subtle indicators that one band of gypsies left for another.

  A twig bent a certain way meant that food could be purchased at a fair cost in the village ahead. A grouping of stones told followers that gypsies weren’t welcome and they should detour another way on their journey.

  Charis knew what to look for. She might not be familiar with the roads, but north was north no matter where you were standing. A small valise, her carefully hoarded purse full of coins—Charis nodded. It would work.

  Early in the morning, before her Aunt left her room for breakfast. That would be the best time. The servants wouldn’t stop her, they were scared of their own shadows. There was no laughter in this house, no joking in the kitchen as meals were prepared.

  She could easily come up with a solid reason to leave—a walk to the vicarage with some clothes perhaps? A trip to the village for ribbons?

  Once she was gone, who would really care? They’d simply heave a sigh of relief and go on with their petty little socially conscious lives.

  Yes. It would work.

  It had to, because there was no way Charis Forbes-Wilkinson would ever wed a lackwit.

  *~~*~~*

  Thoughts of any kind of marriage at all faded rapidly as Charis’ footsteps took her away from Aunt Margaret’s on the following morning. All had gone as planned—she’d evaded notice by keeping her gaze downcast, muttering inanities at the few servants she’d passed and given up on the notion of “borrowing” a mount.

  Besides the fact that her aunt’s idea of a stable was two broken down nags and a donkey, if she’d taken a horse she wouldn’t put it past them to have her arrested for thievery and brought back in even more disgrace than she was in already.

  Anyway, it was a lovely morning for a walk. A long walk, admittedly, but Charis’ years in Bridlington had taught her the value of sturdy shoes and her time spent roaming the moors now paid off with what she considered healthy endurance. She was certainly up to several miles of country lanes and brisk breezes.

  Wiping her face and spitting out a few dusty particles, Charis looked around and nodded, confident she was on the right road to Lark’s Cross. Once she was there, she knew she’d find gypsy signs, since that was a central location in this area and one frequented by many a Romany traveler.

  Charis’ cloak was tossed back from her shoulders, her dress simple and relatively comfortable although snug in a few places thanks to a late development of her feminine assets. Not that those assets had done her much good.

  She trudged along, eating up the miles with her long stride, enjoying the blue sky with its scudding puffy clouds and the songs of the birds as they busied themselves with their day’s work. Her thoughts drifted to her past, now intermingled with her future. Charles had been—well, yes. A mistake. There was no other way of looking at it.

  But Charis had fancied herself deeply in love with him. She’d wanted all those things she apparently wasn’t supposed to want. She was well past nineteen, fully intended to marry Charles—what was the harm in anticipating their vows?

  And it had been exciting, the touch of naked flesh against hers. She’d liked it and hadn’t felt the least bit embarrassed or damaged. There’d been a slight sting when he’d finally entered her, but he’d been gentle, she’d been aroused and all things considered, Charis came to the conclusion she definitely enjoyed the sexual act.

  Unfortunately, it was while she was enjoying it with Charles that they’d been discovered.

  Pushing those memories aside, Charis concentrated on where she was going instead of where she’d been. Nothing was to be gained by rehashing what had gone before, to her way of thinking. Charles was dead and buried, along with Charis’ reputation.

  She missed the first but didn’t give a fig for the second. And, in one or two moments of brutal honesty, found herself hard pressed to remember what Charles had looked like. He’d introduced her to the world of sensual pleasures, but oddly enough all she could remember was the blinding surprise of her own release, not much of anything about the man who’d given it to her.

  Since then, buried in the wilderness that was Northumberland, Charis had passed the nights in her darkened room, experimenting, touching, teaching herself about her own body since there was no one around to do it for her. She could now bring herself pleasure if she chose. It was quite a heady experience the first time it had happened. Now, it was all part and parcel of who Charis Forbes-Wilkinson was. A woman unafraid of her physical desires. A woman determined to live her life the way she wanted, rather than follow the dictates of others.

  And a woman with a stone in her shoe.

  Cursing beneath her breath, Charis moved off the road to a convenient stile and sat down, struggling with the laces and wondering how on earth anything had managed to drop into the shoe itself.

  The sound of horses and carriage wheels didn’t make her look up, in fact she kept her head tucked down, just in case Aunt Margaret had sent up the alarm and someone was out looking for her.

  The hoof beats stopped and a harness jangled.

  “Good morning.”

  Charis risked a glance upward, beneath the rim of her serviceable bonnet. Not that it helped much since the sun was still in the morning sky and right behind whoever sat in the driver’s seat of the curricle now halted on the road in front of her.

  She nodded and returned to her task, shaking the offending pebble onto the grass then slipping her shoe back onto her foot.

  “May I be of assistance?” The voice was cultured and deep and—possibly—containing a slight edge of amusement.

  “No thank you.” Charis retied the lace, being careful to keep her skirts modestly pulled down over her ankles.

  “Lovely day for a walk.”

  “Yes. Isn’t it.”

  “Going far?”

  Charis stood and straightened her cloak. “Maybe.”

  “Chatty little thing, aren’t you?”

  Charis grasped her valise and squared her shoulders. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, sir. It’s most improper of you to address me so familiarly.” She turned sharply on her heel and stepped out onto the road to resume her journey. “Good day to you.”

  Instead of ending the conversation, however, Charis’ set-down was met with a muffled chuckle.
“Easily remedied.” The curricle drew level with Charis and the horses matched her pace, held in check by a firm hand. “I’m St. John Randall. And you are?”

  “Going to ignore you.” Charis gritted her teeth and marched on, refusing to be distracted by the fine pair of horses beside her.

  “Oh come now. It’s a lovely day, the birds are singing, we’re basking in the sunshine—what’s the harm in telling me your name?”

  Oh good grief. Charis closed her eyes and briefly counted to ten. Then she turned to look at him. “The harm, sir, is that should you use my name without an introduction, you’d be doing us both a disservice. And God knows I don’t need any more fuss and bother around me, thank you. And another thing…”

  What the other thing might have been was left hanging in the air as Charis got her first real glimpse of Mr St. John Randall. He was smiling at her with eyes the color of rich clover honey, brown and gold in the sunshine. His hair was almost the same shade, dappled here and there with lighter streaks and pulled back casually to the nape of his neck. His teeth were white, his attire neat to a pin—and he took Charis’ breath away.

  For about thirty seconds.

  She cleared her throat. “And-and-another thing…” Damnation. What was the other thing? “Oh yes. I don’t talk to strange men.”

  “I’m not strange. Actually I’m rather boring. Dull even. Ask my friends, they’ll tell you. Frightfully boring fellow, that Sinjun. Straight as an arrow.”

  Charis managed to stop the tiny smile that wanted to curl her lips. “Well, this has been a delightful interlude, Mr Randall. However, I’m sure you want to be on your boring way, so…” She waved her hand down the road in a dismissive motion.

  “Can’t do it.” He shook his head. “Can’t leave a lovely young lady alone in the wilds of Hampshire. Never know what sort of cad may be lurking behind the hedgerows, you know.”

  Charis rolled her eyes. “I doubt there’s a cad within ten miles. Unless you lied about being boring.” She lifted an eyebrow at him, noticing his quick grin at her words.