That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2)

by Georgette Brown

  Darcy lifted her brow, but Henry simply leaned his chair back and threw his legs over the armrest of another chair.

  “Come, come, m’dear,” he said with a knowing smile, “I fancied beneath your fierce independence and defiance of the world hid a part of you that wished for another to be in control.”

  She wondered if she should be worried that that was the case. Perhaps it was simply that she was, in effect, the head of the Sherwood household, and it was almost a relief to have someone else take the reins, even if only in her bed chamber. She remembered how safe she had felt in his arms—an ironic sentiment given the pain he had caused her family. How could she feel about him the way that she did?

  And when she had woken to find him still in her bed, her heart had leaped. Such emotions boded ill for her, and she was relieved that he would be gone for near a sennight. Her sister, however, was not making it easier. It was as if Priscilla sensed a change and was constantly asking questions about Brayten and the Baron Broadmoor.

  “Lord Broadmoor—Edward’s cousin—he is a reasonable person, is he not?” Priscilla had asked yesterday.

  Darcy had blushed and hoped that Priscilla would mistake it for anger. “I am sure he believes that to be the case.”

  “I cannot imagine him to be as disapproving as some have described.”

  “Only time will tell,” Darcy had replied and went to sit by Nathan to avoid further questioning.

  “The dog is an English setter,” Nathan had informed her.

  “What dog?”

  “Oh, Aunt Darcy, I met the most kindly old gentleman—his name is Gibbons—and he is a friend of a Duke—and do you know I think I have never met a Duke before? And he agreed to let me walk his dog every day. And I have been reading all about English setters in my new book. Did you know they are among the best bird hunters? And they have wonderful temperaments.”

  Darcy had turned to Priscilla. “Did you purchase this new book along with these clothes?”

  Priscilla had hung her head and nodded.

  “Pray do not think that I disapprove. Only perhaps we should wait on any new expenditures until I have successfully exchanged the deed to Brayten.”

  “I imagine that to be soon?”

  It had been Darcy’s turn to avoid her sister’s gaze. “There is…well, we must first pay off our debts…but I should think soon.”

  She had wished she could bring herself to explain all to Priscilla, but she had always made an effort to separate her family from her life at the gaming hell. Nothing was going to change that.

  Least of all Radcliff Barrington.

  “Miss Sherwood, I presume?”

  Darcy and Henry glanced up from their cards to see Alastair Robbins standing next to a magnificent redhead.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the redhead said. “I am Lady Penelope Robbins.”

  *****

  The beautiful woman with perfect alabaster skin, thin wide lips painted a vibrant hue, long lush lashes, and soft auburn curls that reflected every ounce of light took a seat at the gaming table. With her slender shoulders and narrow hips, dressed in an evening gown of fine muslin with the most delicate and intricate lace trimmings, she seemed to be everything Darcy wasn’t. Lady Robbins also adorned herself with long golden earrings, a stunning emerald broach about her swan-like neck, and an emerald ring that was nearly as large as her necklace.

  “A gift,” Penelope explained, seeing Darcy’s gaze, “from the Baron Broadmoor upon my birthday.”

  Darcy stiffened her back, but replied with a smile, “It is most exquisite. My compliments to the Baron for his impeccable taste.”

  “You must be the infamous Miss Sherwood.”

  Darcy exchanged amused glances with Henry before answering, “I am indeed Miss Sherwood. As to being infamous, I did not think anyone outside these humble walls would know my name.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Miss Sherwood.” Penelope flicked her wrist, one so slender it would rival the circumference of a child’s, at her companion. “I think you know my cousin Alastair Robbins. He tells me the tables here are friendly. I enjoy a game of whist from time to time. Would you oblige?”

  “Certainly—for the right price. Our bets start at ten quid.” Darcy handed the cards to Henry to be shuffled. She had no illusions that Lady Robbins came to play whist, or any other card game for that matter. From the woman’s frequent but empty smiles, it was obvious why she was here.

  “If you do not mind, I would like Alastair to be my partner. We are so used to playing together, he and I.”

  Henry gave Darcy an exaggerated sidelong glance—a motion that did not escape the notice of Lady Robbins, who frowned at the attempted mockery regarding her relationship with her cousin.

  “You had a sister, did you not, Miss Sherwood?” asked Penelope as the cards were being dealt.

  “My sister is alive and well,” Darcy answered.

  Penelope raised her thin arched brows. “Indeed? That is a relief to hear. Quite often you find women who, well, are removed from society that they fall into the deepest melancholy. I heard not but yesterday of a woman who, tragically, took her own life.”

  “Our burgundy here is quite a comfort if you should need to drown your sorrows,” Darcy said with what was meant to be a sympathetic smile. It required some effort to remain unaffected when she knew that Penelope’s questions were not innocent attempts at a tête-à-tête.

  “How droll you are,” said Penelope. “You deal as if you spend a great deal of time at the card tables.”

  The cards had been dealt quickly but also precisely. Each player had a neat concise pile of cards before them.

  “I understand your father also spent a great deal of time at the card tables,” Penelope continued.

  Darcy looked at the woman sharply but willed herself not to take the bait. “I was barely out of the cradle when my father taught me how to play.”

  “How commendable, but I must urge you to spend a little more time in society. Surely a beautiful young woman such as yourself cannot hope to always hide in this gaming hall, charming as it is?”

  “On the contrary, I prefer it.”

  “But surely it has been years since your come-out? If you wait too long, you will be a confirmed spinster.”

  Having won the first trick, Darcy focused on collecting the cards. She had the sense that she and Penelope were two men fencing, using words as their offense and the fan of cards they held before their faces as foils.

  “I have no need for marriage,” Darcy replied. “To be discreet about one’s lovers would be all too tiresome.”

  “And have you many of them?”

  “To have but one would be far too boring, would it not?”

  “Too true. The Baron Broadmoor and I pride ourselves on our unabashed frankness with one another. I was beginning to worry that he would not take interest in other women—you see, I am not eager for marriage either—and am relieved that he has found you.”

  Darcy could feel Henry’s gaze upon her, but she kept her own eyes on her cards. She did not want to acknowledge that Penelope, having lost the next trick, had nonetheless scored. They feigned politeness when they really meant to cast daggers at one another, and Darcy found herself wanting to win the game of whist like never before.

  “He speaks of you often to me. But I wonder that he has not taken himself to be seen with you in society?” Penelope continued her offensive. “But perhaps we will see you at the ball being given by Lord and Lady Pinkerton this Thursday? All persons of any importance will be there. I know Radcliff mentioned to me that he planned to attend and hoped I would as well. He and I had a wonderful time of it last season. I am sure you would have enjoyed it as well.”

  Darcy played a card that allowed Henry to win the current trick. She focused her attentions on the game but was not impervious to what Penelope said. It hurt because it was true. She was no doubt a forbidden amour best hidden from public view. Lady Robbins was Broadmoor’s legitimate mistr
ess.

  “Ours is a simple association,” Darcy said, deciding the gloves had come off, “built upon satisfying but meaningless frigging.”

  Alastair Robbins went blue in the face, and even Henry Windham choked on his breath. A small flush crept up the high-boned cheeks of Penelope, and her eyes flashed with ice.

  “If I were to attend the Pinkerton ball,” Darcy resumed as she won her third trick, “it would certainly not be for the sake of being seen with Lord Broadmoor. I am sure that you and I, being ladies of experience, have had our share of men with greater wealth or rank?”

  There was barely any need to tally the scores, Darcy and Henry having collectively won the vast majority of tricks.

  “Well played, Miss Sherwood,” said Penelope between closed teeth. “You are not at all the vulgar creature that I have heard people describe you to be. And while polite society may label you and your sister with that horrid word ‘tramp,’ ours is a kindred philosophy. It is a shame that you will not be attending the Pinkerton ball, but I do hope that we may have the pleasure of each other’s company again.”

  With one final smile, Lady Robbins took her leave on the arm of her cousin. When they had walked out of view, Darcy turned to Henry and said, “Get me an invitation to the Pinkerton ball.”

  Henry nearly fell of his chair. “But the ball is less than a week away.”

  “You are the Viscount Wyndham, future Earl of Brent, surely you can devise a way to get me there.”

  “Even if I could, why would you wish to attend? It will be a deadly dull affair. Don’t tell me that silly woman has perturbed you?”

  “Perhaps if she had not referred to my sister as a tramp…” Darcy returned with anger as she recalled the woman’s words and departing smile—a smile so spurious it was almost malicious.

  “But, my dear, she fully intended to antagonize you and, apparently, succeeded.”

  “Harry, you ought to know my temperament. I am not so stalwart as to be impervious to such slanders against my family,” responded Darcy, a little exasperated with her friend.

  “No,” said Henry slowly, “what surprises me is that you seem jealous of Lady Robbins.”

  Jealous? Was she jealous of Penelope? wondered Darcy. She had never been jealous of a woman before, but she would have to be amazingly dense not to realize that she was, in fact, jealous of Penelope Robbins.

  “I could be—a little,” admitted Darcy, “and who would not? She is beautiful and has such obvious wealth at her disposal.”

  Henry avoided Darcy’s gaze by aimlessly shuffling a deck of cards. “…but that would mean you actually cared for that Barrington fellow.”

  The realization hit her like a collapsing stone wall. It was worse than finding herself jealous of Lady Robbins.

  “Not possible,” Darcy said weakly. She recalled how furious he had made her, how she had succumbed to his touch the following day, how the slightest phrase of his could anger her, how maddening the pleasure…how safe she felt in his arms.

  “It is merely part of my plan to provide him his set-down,” she said. “He may think he holds all the cards, but the odds always favor the house. Will you help me or not, Harry?”

  “Of course, my dear,” Henry answered, sounding anything but convinced.

  *****

  “Thank you, Lady Worthley,” Darcy said to the regal woman sitting opposite her in the carriage.

  “Not at all, my dear,” replied the older woman. “I have no affection for Anne Barrington. She tried to deny my application to Almack’s years ago on account of a few soirees I had hosted in which the men and women were free to court whomever they wished. Nor could I deny a request from my grand-nephew.”

  Henry, seated next to Darcy, smiled with appreciation at his aunt.

  “I have heard much of you, but your manners appear to me genteel.” Lady Worthley peered at Darcy through the eyepiece she held before her. “And you are ravishing—like Queen Nefertiti or Cleopatra. There is no need to be nervous, my child.”

  “Is it that apparent?” Darcy asked with a wry smile, suddenly aware that she had been twisting and pulling at her rings and bracelets—baubles that she had borrowed from Lady Worthley and were unaccustomed to wearing.

  “You have already set tongues a waggin’. I daresay you are creating a stir to match the tales of Lord Byron and his sister!”

  When the carriage pulled up in front of the home of Lord and Lady Pinkerton, Darcy took a deep breath to quell a desire to retreat back to the comfortable familiarity of her gaming hall. It had been years since she had attended a ball of this magnitude. Was this the sort of anxiety that young maidens felt upon having their first introduction at Almack’s?

  She felt a reassuring squeeze upon her hand from Henry.

  “Remember,” he said, “you are the infamous Miss Sherwood!”

  Darcy laughed and felt a little more emboldened. She was able to enter the vestibule with head held high. She knew her appearance, at least, would not want for anything. Priscilla, more adept at the needle, had assisted her with her gown, spending hours for the past few days altering an old dress and sewing an overlay of gold filigree. At the last moment, Darcy opted for a spray of water that molded the gown to her body.

  Mathilda had had her maid apply rollers to set Darcy’s hair in larger curls, which was then partially piled atop her head and accented with a simple gold headdress. The only thing that needed to be purchased was a pair of gold sandals—the most lavish article that Darcy had ever bought—and a pair of gloves.

  Upon her entrance in the ballroom, Darcy nearly faltered. The room had dozens of the largest chandeliers she had ever seen. The silk wallpaper could hardly be noticed behind the brightness of all the candelabras that adorned its walls. Garlands of flowers had been draped along the length of the room and decorated the marble statues that guarded the entry. She had never seen anything so magnificent, not even in the early days when her father entertained invitations of this pedigree.

  What seemed like a collective gasp—of surprise, dismay, and disapproval—met her ears. Darcy reminded herself to breathe and to keep her chin up. She heard Lady Worthley explaining to her host and hostess that her niece was unable to attend and as a result she was pleased to introduce Miss Darcy Sherwood as her companion.

  “A pleasure,” said Lord Pinkerton, a distinguished gentleman near fifty but whose eyes sparkled like one much younger.

  His wife looked on with obvious displeasure.

  After thanking the Pinkertons, Darcy moved into the ballroom, following Lady Worthley and Henry. She tried to ignore the whispers, some spoken in hushed tones and others spoken with deliberate audibility, but began wondering if she had made a mistake in coming. Was it not childish of her to indulge her jealousy of Lady Robbins?

  She saw Penelope first and felt a sense of gratification upon seeing the woman’s widened eyes. For a moment she did not care how juvenile her motivations in coming might have been.

  “Diana, what are you attempting?” pointedly asked a well-dressed woman to Lady Worthley.

  Lady Worthley lifted her eyepiece. “Where are your manners, Louisa? Left them at home alone with your son? I don’t suppose his bedrest had anything to do with the duel he supposedly was not involved in?”

  “She is quite a marvelous woman,” Darcy whispered to Henry later while his grandaunt was talking to a friend.

  “Yes,” Henry acknowledged, “in a duel between her tongue and the sharpest sword available, I would lay odds in her favor!”

  While no one else dared address Lady Worthley as Louisa had done, it was clear many were avoiding her.

  Darcy could feel the weight of all the stares upon her as if an elephant stood upon her shoulder. Seeing the backs of people’s heads as they refused to make eye contact with her was no better. Even the men she recognized—men who tripped over their feet to attend to her at the gaming hall—hesitated to greet her in the presence of their mothers, sisters, and wives.

  Sighing inwardly, D
arcy again felt it to be a mistake that she had come and put the kindness of Lady Worthley to task. What had she hoped to accomplish? To make Penelope jealous? Surely the silent rebukes that Darcy was being handed would only serve to satisfy Penelope.

  Lady Robbins was only part of the reason. It had more to do with Broadmoor. And after all the effort to come, the man was not even here.

  “Darling Darcy, what an occasion!” exclaimed Cavin Richards. “I thought you shunned social functions such as this.”

  Darcy let out a relieved breath. At least there was one person here who seemed delighted to see her. She allowed him to raise her hand to his lips.

  “You know each other?” asked Lady Worthley with lifted brow.

  “Lady Worthley, it is an honor,” returned Cavin with a low bow. “I have heard the most wondrous things of you.”

  “And I the most scandalous words of you. Now be off with you.”

  “Only if Darcy promises the first dance to me.”

  Darcy started. Dancing. Of course there would be dancing. Somehow that fact had escaped her.

  “Miss Sherwood has too many admirers to be promising anyone a dance,” Lady Worthley answered for Darcy.

  “Then perhaps you, Lady Worthley, would do me the honor of taking a turn about the floor with me?” asked Cavin with a disarming grin.

  “Hrmph,” Lady Worthley responded, though it was clear she was not untouched by Cavin’s charms. “It has been ages since I have danced. Make your mischief elsewhere.”

  “I relent for now,” Cavin said, “but you have not seen the last of me.”

  He gave them a wicked wink before departing.

  “That one is trouble,” Lady Worthley said to Darcy.

  “I know it already,” Darcy replied.

  Cavin was the least of her worries. It was the dancing that concerned her. It had been ages since she had danced—at least any formal dancing beyond a few twirls about Mrs. T’s with partners who were in truth too tipsy to be dancing.

  As if reading her mind, Henry said, “I make a poor dance partner.”

  “You have no need to worry,” Darcy assured him, “I have no desire to seek a dance partner. Given the reception I have received this evening, I doubt anyone else will be seeking my hand for a dance.”