Married at Midnight: An Authentic Regency Romance

by Arabella Sheraton

  The two women chatted about fashion, shops, the brilliance of Master Francis’s fledgling vocabulary, and plans for their entertainment during the sojourn in London. Roxanne broached the subject of mourning clothes as Sophia burst into an excited plan for an evening at Almack’s.

  “I fear I cannot,” Roxanne demurred. “I have not one stitch of proper mourning wear and although it may not matter at Penrose where we hardly see visitors, here it would be remarked upon.”

  Sophia pulled a disappointed face but capitulated. “I think you are one of those people who always do the right thing. However,” she said, brightening as a new idea struck her, “that does not mean you have to be a dowd. Madame Fanchon will make you several marvellous dresses—not in black my love, too too awful—but in mauves, lilacs and grey. Quite acceptable.”

  She looked so determined that Roxanne did not even attempt to change her mind.

  The two men returned to the drawing room and a pleasant half-hour was spent with Sophia playing the pianoforte for her guests. Julian found the opportunity to sit next to Roxanne and engage her in conversation.

  “How are you?” he whispered. “Enjoying yourself? I fear I am neglecting you.”

  Roxanne smiled up at him. “Your sister is simply wonderful. She makes me feel as if I’ve known her for several years, instead of only several hours.”

  Julian nodded. “Yes, she has a wonderful charm. People love her.”

  All too soon the evening ended and Julian escorted Roxanne to her bedroom. Sophia and Philip discreetly made their way to their own quarters. Roxanne was self-conscious as she bade Julian good night. She was ready to dive into her room, but he held her hand, lingering outside her door as if he did not want the moment to end.

  “I’m not sure how it’s done in London,” he murmured.

  “What?” Roxanne asked. “How what is done?”

  “You know…” He gestured towards their adjacent doors. “I suppose there is a connecting door between our rooms, should you be attacked by a marauding mouse or some such dreadful nocturnal creature and need my help in the night.”

  Roxanne giggled. “I suppose I should unbolt it first, in order for you to rescue me.”

  Julian gazed down at her and Roxanne felt her stomach turn over in a giddy fillip. His gaze was mesmerising, like beams of grey light.

  He bent his head towards hers. “My dear countess,” he murmured into her ear. “I do believe you are flirting with me.”

  Roxanne looked up. Their mutual gaze locked them together. She lifted her face towards his, and another kiss seemed inevitable. Inevitable until a clang at the bottom of the stairs broke the spell. They jumped guiltily apart. Then they heard Jennings scolding a careless footman who had dropped a candlestick on the polished floor.

  Julian laughed. “I suppose I should go to bed before I…” He broke off. “Never mind. Good night, my dear.” He dropped a chaste kiss on her forehead and held open her bedroom door.

  Roxanne murmured a good night and entered her room, feeling slightly bereft, as if something was missing. She heard Julian’s soft whistling as he went into his bedroom. After Sally had helped her undress and had gone to her own bed, Roxanne stood in front of the door that opened into Julian’s bedroom. Almost against her will, she slowly slid the bolt back. Julian could enter if he chose.

  “I am a fool,” she told herself. “He doesn’t care for me at all. This is just a contract.”

  Chapter Nine

  The hustle and bustle of London burst upon Roxanne’s life the very next day. True to her word, Sophia threw herself wholeheartedly into both her new sister-in-law’s wardrobe and entertainment. For the first time in her life, Roxanne had money to spend on herself. Julian had pressed a roll of notes into her hand earlier at breakfast, with the whisper, “Shopping with Sophia? You’ll need this!”

  After a hasty breakfast and a quick goodbye to Julian, Roxanne found herself in the carriage with Sophia, heading for that most gifted of women, as Sophia exclaimed, her modiste, Madame Fanchon. The route chosen by Roxanne’s enthusiastic hostess included a tour of most of the smartest shops in London’s Bruton, Conduit, and New Bond Street. Although earlier poverty had forced Roxanne to exercise restraint on her purse, nothing could dim her excitement on beholding such an array of everything a young woman of fashion could desire. From bonnets to pelisses to dresses for all occasion with shoes, tippets, and reticules to match; it seemed to Roxanne’s inexperienced eyes that the whole of London was for sale.

  “Pooh!” Sophia shook her curls after making this unladylike noise. “This is nothing. Wait until we see Madame Fanchon.”

  However, once inside the renowned establishment, Roxanne was disappointed. The shop contained a long counter, a few lengths of pretty material hanging at the windows, rolls of fabric covering the rear wall, a low table with several pattern books and copies of La Belle Assemblée and Ladies’ Home Journal fashion plates on the surface, and two or three spindly chairs. A slender, middle-aged woman, clad in a black silk dress of excellent cut and style, rustled up to greet Sophia. Roxanne saw at a glance by Madame Fanchon’s combination of deference and diplomacy that the Duchess of Silverton was a valued client. This was not hard to believe. After all, Sophia was young and beautiful, with a wealthy, doting husband to pay the bills.

  Sophia introduced Roxanne as the fiancée of her brother, the Earl of Pennington. Madame Fanchon murmured her felicitations and extended to this new customer the same degree of courtesy she reserved for her few select and very rich customers. The modiste expressed the opinion that Roxanne’s extraordinary taille and beauté would show off any of her humble creations to advantage.

  “Humble? Oh, Cécile!” Sophia laughed and, turning to Roxanne, said, “Madame Fanchon is by far and away the best modiste in the whole of London. Some of the society ladies would kill to wear Cécile’s fashions but—” Sophia gave Roxanne an unladylike wink “—Cécile doesn’t take on just anyone as a client.”

  Madame’s cheeks turned a faint pink as she murmured a modest protest.

  “Anyway, I am afraid I must disappoint you.”

  Madame’s eyebrows rose.

  Sophia pouted. “Oh, it’s too too annoying, but my poor Roxanne is in mourning—”

  She caught the flicker of disappointment on the modiste’s face.

  “But not deep mourning, I must add. After all, it’s been several months now since your poor Papa died?”

  Sophia glanced at Roxanne for confirmation. This was not quite true, but Roxanne nodded.

  “So, alas, we cannot take advantage of your usual genius this time.” Sophia tugged off her lavender kid gloves before casting a stern glance at Roxanne. “Remember what I said, Roxanne. Absolutely no black.”

  Madame Fanchon gave an approving oui. “I am sure we can make several charming and very appealing gowns for Mademoiselle in appropriate colours to offset her complexion and hair. We have soft mauve, a pretty grey, a perfect dark blue, a flattering silvery pearl, and something new—a very desirable lilac. My latest fabrics from Paris! There is no need for Mademoiselle to look dowdy during her bereavement.”

  Roxanne smiled. “That sounds wonderful, Madame. I place myself entirely in your hands.”

  Madame Fanchon’s face lit up as she clapped her hands to signal the arrival of several eager assistants. They scampered around Roxanne, one begging her to be seated and accept refreshment, while another took discreet measurements, and yet another took down the rolls of fabric to which the modiste pointed. Although the colours were muted hues suitable for half mourning, the quality of the fabrics was unmistakable. They looked expensive.

  Worried about the cost, Roxanne motioned to her reticule where the money reposed, but Sophia gave her hand an admonishing tap. That was not the way things were done, Sophia informed her. One very seldom paid for items, unless shopping for small fripperies such as shawls, ribbons, lace and stockings. The bills for larger, more expensive items were usually sent to the ladies’ husbands for pa
yment.

  As the pile of fabrics mounted on the counter, Roxanne tried to attract Sophia’s attention, but Sophia gave a dismissive wave of the hand.

  “Silverton takes care of my expenses, so don’t worry about a thing.”

  When she noticed Roxanne’s mutinous expression, she laughed and whispered, “If it makes you feel better I shall send all the bills to Julian and demand instant repayment.”

  Roxanne felt relieved. “Promise me?”

  Sophia rolled her eyes. “Of course I promise, you silly goose.”

  With that matter settled, Roxanne relaxed and began to enjoy the splendid shopping experience. Several hours flew by and after loading the carriage with a variety of enchanting accessories, the two women returned to Mount Street. Roxanne felt so tired she could have lain down on her bed and gone to sleep at once, but her sister-in-law appeared to be indefatigable.

  “Sleep?” Sophia trilled before bursting into laughter. “We have so much to do, my dear Roxanne. There’s no time for a nap now. We’re going for a drive in the park after luncheon.”

  “I didn’t know shopping could be so exhausting,” Roxanne admitted.

  At precisely four o’clock that afternoon, Roxanne found herself ensconced in Sophia’s barouche, a most stylish vehicle that Sophia assured her was all the rage. That was the first step in Roxanne’s introduction to London society. To be seen in Hyde Park between the hours of four and six, as Roxanne soon learned from her well-informed sister-in-law, was de rigueur for anyone of high fashion.

  Clearly, Sophia loved to see and be seen and soon their daily drive was the subject of much attention. Roxanne was taken aback at the stares they attracted and attributed this to the pair of perfectly matched greys that the Duke of Silverton had bestowed upon his bride, along with the barouche. But this was not the case, Sophia informed her.

  “For of course, my dear,” said she, while waving to an ardent hopeful trying to attract her attention, “it’s because you are dark and I am fair, and that gives us a great deal of countenance!” She pinched Roxanne’s arm. “Oh, having a sister is so exciting!”

  She waved to yet another admirer. “Do look! Mr. Merriweather is wearing such a dreadful waistcoat. His tailor should have told him that puce stripes on bright yellow will not do!”

  Perturbed by her companion’s silence, Sophia turned to Roxanne and a tiny frown marred her otherwise smooth forehead. “My dear, whatever is the matter with you? You look…” she searched for the right word “…hunted!”

  Roxanne gave a nervous laugh. “Of course not.”

  But Sophia was right. Roxanne did feel hunted. She had had an uncanny feeling about seeing Edgar in London and every time she managed to shake it off, the feeling crept back after a while. She told herself that she was hardly likely to encounter the sleazy Edgar Doyle here, amongst the beau monde, the rich and privileged of London society. She forced a smile.

  Sophia patted her cheek. “That’s better. Look, here comes Mr. Hardwicke.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “No doubt with more verses to your eyes or hat or gloves.”

  Roxanne burst out laughing as well. That did sound like Mr. Hardwicke, who seemed to find his poetic inspiration in just about any part of his muse’s clothing or anatomy. Bowled over by Roxanne’s beauty, Mr. Augustus Hardwicke composed numerous atrocious verses to her eyes, face and hair, calling her a “veritable Titania amongst the woodland trees.” Only that morning she had received an ode to her fan, accompanied by a posy of exquisite flowers.

  While not particularly handsome or boasting a superior physique, Mr. Hardwicke had good taste, an impeccable lineage, and elegant dress. Blessed with a respectable fortune, and encouraged by a doting mother and four adoring sisters, Mr. Hardwicke could indulge his poetic fancies without financial worries or family censure. While he lacked true poetic talent, his enthusiasm endeared him to the ladies. Even the sternest matron could not withstand a declaration to the flower in her bonnet or the lace at her throat. His greatest ambition, which he soon confided to Roxanne, was to find a publisher for his poetry. She listened gravely to his impassioned outpourings regarding this goal and agreed to autograph a copy of his poems the moment they were printed.

  And so began what Roxanne considered to be a mad social whirl, so hectic as to be verging on the dissolute. Invitations to balls, routs, dinners, Venetian breakfasts, loo parties, card parties, masquerades, theatrical performances, Military Reviews, balloon ascensions, picnics, exhibitions, drives in the park…the invitation cards piled high on the Silverton drawing room mantelpiece. Most of them Roxanne could thankfully decline, in part because she knew that being in mourning would preclude her acceptance, and in part because she feared that somehow, somewhere Edgar was alive and would find her. Although Julian said he didn’t care a fig for what people thought and was happy for her to attend any festivity she chose, he also confessed that keeping a discreet profile was best until he received his inheritance.

  Roxanne still accompanied Sophia shopping in Bond Street, although, after the initial luxurious spending spree at Madame Fanchon’s, she refused to allow Sophia to purchase another item of apparel for her. Her new clothes arrived, each garment so exquisitely made that Roxanne could quite forgive the lack of brilliant shades she would have preferred. Madame Fanchon had excelled herself by producing a pearl grey ball gown of figured lace over satin, with long gloves, discreet silver ribbon trimming under the bust and around the sleeves, and a delicate Zephyr scarf to match. Although Roxanne thought to herself she would never wear it, she accepted the garment and stated that this was the end of any more shopping for her.

  Sophia pouted again. “Oh, Roxanne, don’t be so boring! It’s no fun buying things just for me.”

  Roxanne remained adamant, saying she now had more clothes than she could possibly wear and changed the subject by suggesting a drive in the park or a walk in the Botanical Gardens. Grumbling, Sophia gave in. In fact, so busy were her days in London that two whole weeks sped by and Roxanne had hardly seen Julian. Her throng of admirers grew with each day and neither her betrothal nor bereavement proved an obstacle to the cards, flowers, gifts, and visits to Mount Street.

  Sophia thought it amusing; Julian thought it outrageous. When he complained to his brother-in-law, that man of sophistication simply laughed, offered Julian a brandy, and remarked that he was accustomed to shovelling Sophia’s devotees out the door.

  “But how can any man put up with stumbling over a gaggle of lovesick swains in his own home?”

  Philip laughed again. “My dear Julian, this is how it’s done in London. No one takes it seriously. You’ve been immured in your country estate for so long you haven’t kept up to date with social doings. Do you really think I have the time or inclination to accompany my wife to the vast number of social engagements Sophia wishes to attend?” He shook his head. “She’s very welcome to drag along any one of her worshipers.”

  Julian had to agree with his brother-in-law that Roxanne’s cicisbeos, along with those of his sister, were harmless. Even Augustus Hardwicke was deemed inoffensive, although Julian took exception when he discovered the hapless poet several times in one week in Mount Street, reading his poems to Roxanne and Sophia. It was only much exaggerated eyebrow-raising on Sophia’s part that stopped him ejecting the poet from the premises.

  “Why, Julian,” Sophia said with a sly twinkle in her eyes. “I do declare you are jealous, just as I said you would be.”

  “I am not—” Julian reddened and broke off. He gave a rueful laugh.

  “Of course Roxanne’s eyes are beautiful and all that, but he’s such a simpering fool that I can’t stand the sight of him.”

  “Mr. Hardwicke,” Sophia announced tartly, “is considered to be a poet of promise, set to rival Byron!”

  Julian gave an expressive snort of disgust, and then took Roxanne’s hand. “My dear, the lyrical Mr. Hardwicke aside, I haven’t seen you for five minutes on end these last two weeks.”

  Roxanne blushed and Sophia
made a tactful remark about seeing to Master Francis, before slipping out the room, leaving Julian and Roxanne alone.

  Julian raised the hand he still held to his lips. “I think London’s bright life and endless round of gaiety have stolen you away from me.” He placed a soft kiss on her hand before releasing it.

  “You said we should come to London,” Roxanne pointed out.

  Julian gave a sheepish smile. “I know, but I miss Penrose and the time spent there.”

  “So do I!” Roxanne burst out. A sudden pang of longing rose up inside her. She truly did miss dear shabby old Penrose, with all the linen that needed darning, all the weeds that still needed to be cleared, and all the household repairs and restoration that needed to be done.

  Julian grabbed both her hands, gripping them tightly. “Let’s go home,” he whispered. “Let’s go back to Penrose right now.”

  The excitement in his voice was infectious. Roxanne was about to exclaim with happiness when she remembered Sophia’s party the following night. Her face fell.

  “Have you forgotten Sophia’s party?”

  Julian bit his lip. “I confess it went clean out my head. I’m not fond of social farradiddles, as you know, but of course we must stay. I don’t want to spoil your fun.” He looked closely at her. “Roxanne, if you really want to enjoy yourself longer in London we can do so.”

  Roxanne shook her head. “I have had quite enough of London.”

  Julian could hardly contain himself. “Good!”

  He left the room when Sophia returned to remind Roxanne about their visit to the latest exhibition of paintings at Somerset House. It was only while she was changing her dress for this expedition that Roxanne thought of Julian’s words, “Let’s go home.” Had he forgotten so quickly, she wondered, that theirs was a marriage of convenience and that Penrose would never be her home? Her spirits fell and, try as she might, she could not muster any real enthusiasm for the fine array of paintings on display. Her melancholy mood must have been evident in her expression because Sophia confided to her later on the way home she also found some of the paintings gloomy.