Regency Masquerades: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Six Traditional Regency Romance Novels of Secrets and Disguises

by Brenda Hiatt

  She gritted her teeth and stared resolutely at the raindrops tracking down the windowpane. But if she squinted just a bit, she could see the entire room reflected in the glass—and Mr. Vayle in the very center.

  Winnie arrived at the last chord and looked up expectantly. “Do you recognize it, Mr. Vayle? I’m lamentably out of practice.”

  “On the contrary, Maestro. Or is it Maestress?” He gave her an elaborate bow. “You play divinely. I was so enrapt I forgot to think about the dance.”

  Winnie giggled like a girl. It was dismaying how silly women became around that man. Gwen could imagine the response of the debutantes at the ball tonight. And he would preen under the attention, she knew it. He would preen and glow like a cat being petted.

  “Ready to have a go?” Max urged, always impatient to get on with business. “Not much to it, really. One-two-three, one-two-three, in circles.”

  Vayle gazed at him blankly.

  “This is a waste of time.” Gwen crossed to the door, but couldn’t bring herself to walk out. “He doesn’t know a waltz from a Morris Dance.”

  “Oh, but I remember seeing Morris Dancers,” Vayle said brightly. “They were peasants, though. Has Morris dancing become the fashion?”

  “You see,” Gwen said to Max, exasperated. “You can’t want him to make a fool of himself in front of Lady Sefton and her cronies.”

  “I won’t.” Vayle’s tone was soft, but his eyes flashed.

  Max regarded his sister with some displeasure. “If you want him to learn, Gwen, just show him how it’s done.”

  She gazed at Vayle’s broad shoulders and narrow waist and could not imagine putting a hand anywhere on him. Seizing Max’s wrist, she hauled him out of the chair with preternatural strength. “You dance with me. He can learn by watching us.”

  Max gave her an annoyed look, but led her onto the floor and nodded at Winnie to play. For several minutes they circled the room, Max grimly counting “one-two-three” under his breath. Gwen would have laughed, had she not been aware of Vayle’s bemused scrutiny.

  Max held her stiffly, at a distance, like a man embarrassed to be seen dancing with his sister. He moved as if claiming territory for the Crown, meticulous and determined, while she felt like a piece of artillery he was hauling along with him.

  Her feet spent more time on his boots than on the varnished floor, and Max swore under his breath when she landed especially hard on his toes.

  Two dancing bears would have been more graceful.

  Mercifully, Winnie put an end to the ordeal with a sudden, decisive chord. Then everyone looked at Vayle for his reaction.

  If he laughed, Gwen knew she would lunge for his throat.

  “But how splendid!” he said with clear delight. “The waltz, you say? I know I’ve never seen its like, because I could not have forgotten anything so enchanting.” With a wide smile, he walked right up to Max and bowed. “May I claim your lovely partner?”

  Before Gwen could make her escape, Max practically thrust her into Vayle’s arms. Her nose landed in the folds of his cravat and only the strength of his arms kept her upright.

  “Such an eager partner,” he whispered before setting her away, one hand firmly on her waist and the other holding her right hand in a loose but possessive grip.

  For the first time, she realized neither of them was wearing gloves. She felt the pulse beating in his thumb as it pressed the back of her hand, his warm breath inches from her temple, the pressure of his fingers against the small of her back.

  All her senses were at needle-point. It seemed forever they stood there, his scent wafting through her nostrils, his gaze hot on her face as she stared at his neck.

  Winnie began to play, but they didn’t move.

  “Relax,” he said into her ear. “Please, Miss Sevaric. I’m not sure which direction to go, and I fear that whichever way I leap, you’ll stay rooted to this spot.”

  She looked to his face and couldn’t help but grin. He was so attentive, so concerned, and positively devilish at the same time. “Go whichever way feels natural,” she advised. “You are supposed to lead, and I to follow.”

  Tugging her closer, he stayed in place another few beats, swaying in time to the music. She began to sway with him.

  Then, before she was even aware of it, they were in motion. He was a trifle mechanical at first, but not for long. Soon her feet scarcely touched the floor as he whirled her around and around in dizzying circles.

  She forgot to be awkward, forgot to be afraid as she yielded to his embrace and gave herself to the music. For the first time she understood why people loved to dance, knew she loved it, too, and wished this waltz would last forever.

  Winnie must have read her thoughts because she played a great deal longer this time. At one point the music slowed, and Vayle drew her almost to his chest in an embrace so intimate she wondered fleetingly if Max would call him out for it.

  Then they were practically flying again, in great sweeping arcs that left her breathless when the music finally stopped.

  Vayle held her a moment longer than necessary, squeezing her hand in approval. “How graceful you are,” he murmured.

  Heat flamed everywhere in her body. She stepped a careful few feet away, only then hearing the sound of applause from Max and Winnie.

  “For a man who claims he never saw a waltz, you’re a right dab hand,” Max exclaimed.

  “All the credit is to my partner, and to our lovely musician.” He crossed to the piano, lifted both of Winnie’s pudgy hands, and kissed them in turn. “Now tell me, fair lady, do you waltz? I require more practice and wish above all things to lead you out.”

  “Oh, Mr. Vayle!” She bounced on the bench with pleasure, fluttering her stubby lashes like a schoolgirl.

  Gwen snorted. The man was a veritable tomcat, nuzzling up to every female within range. Winnie was behaving as foolishly as she’d just done, mistaking his practiced flummery for genuine interest. Jocelyn Vayle could not be attracted to a plump sixty-year-old spinster, any more than he was captivated by his earlier partner, the plain, freckle-faced shrew.

  She despised him all the more because he could turn his attention to a woman, any woman, and make her feel like the only woman in the world.

  Max had quite a different reaction, of course. He thought it was all great fun, so long as he didn’t have to do the dancing. “If you can suffer my wrong notes, I play a little. Go on, Winnie. Dance with him.” He took her place on the bench and after a few false starts, launched into a creditable waltz.

  Gwen watched crossly as Vayle swept Winnie into his arms. To her astonishment, Winnie was light on her feet, for all she must weigh fifteen stone. Or maybe it was Vayle’s skill and the strength of his embrace that made her appear agile.

  Max’s waltz had a somewhat martial beat, but neither seemed to notice. They gazed into each other’s eyes as they danced, and chatted, and laughed together. Gwen recalled that she hadn’t said a word during her dance, and could not remember looking into his eyes. That would have been too dangerous.

  Vayle was having more fun with Winnie than he’d had with her.

  When Max hit the last chord like a thunderclap, Vayle hugged his gasping partner and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You were born to dance, Miss Crake.”

  Winnie could hardly speak through her giddy laughter. “I declare, Mr. Vayle, you do sweep a lady off her feet. I cannot remember when I’ve enjoyed myself more.”

  “Promise you’ll waltz with me tonight,” he implored. If Gwen hadn’t known better, she might have sworn he meant it. “The next time will be even better now that I’m getting the hang of it.”

  Winnie shook her head, her hand on her heaving bosom. “I cannot, as well you know. ’Twould be a terrible scandal if you took the floor with an old woman like me. No, I’ll play chaperone and make sure you don’t dance more than twice with Miss Gwen.”

  Vayle turned with a smile to Gwen. “Only two waltzes, Miss Sevaric? I’d have wished for more, but it se
ems that pleasure is forbidden.”

  After she swallowed the lump in her throat, Gwen said gruffly, “You don’t need me, sir. You can have your pick of the fashionable ladies at Lady Sefton’s ball, and they all dance better than I do.”

  He regarded her enigmatically. “You are wrong,” he said flatly. “I want very much to dance with you, twice if you will permit it. And I’ll not go to the ball without your promise of at least one waltz.”

  “That’s foolish and you know it.” She looked over to Max, expecting him to join her protest, but he was reading the sheet music as if it were a newspaper and studiously ignored her. He could be maddeningly obtuse at times. “You want to go to the ball, so go.”

  “I’ll be a stranger there.” Vayle took his coat from the piano and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “And I’d be excessively nervous dancing a dance I’ve only just learned with someone I’ve only just met.”

  Vayle nervous? What moonshine! Surely he knew he’d be in his element in a grand glittering ballroom. “Are you so vain as to imagine every eye will be on you?”

  He shrugged and tugged his lapels straight. “The whole point, as I understand it, is that I am to be seen by all and sundry. And if I am to be seen, I would prefer not to be seen tripping over some unsuspecting young woman’s feet. If that is vanity, well, then, I suppose I am vain.”

  He gazed at her with a look of entreaty. It was very nearly irresistible, especially when he added in a wheedling tone, “But with you, I dance acceptably. I can rely on you to keep me from disgrace, can I not?”

  He was so beguiling she almost succumbed. And he was so provoking, she nearly told him to go to the devil. But then she glanced at Winnie’s flushed, happy face and bit her tongue.

  He had made Winnie happy. He had exerted himself, at no conceivable profit to himself, on her behalf. And he would do so again if another opportunity arose. He seemed to genuinely like Winifred Crake, and she suspected that he would once again insist on a waltz with her. And the next time, Winnie would not refuse.

  But why was he insinuating himself into their family this way?

  She was ungracious and selfish to resent his kindness to others. It was just that she could not trust any man, except her brother, to be kind to a woman without a hidden motive. And even Max was manipulating her now, on Vayle’s behalf.

  She almost said no. But then she saw the disappointment in Winnie’s eyes, and sighed. “Very well, I’ll dance with you tonight. The first waltz, unless you find a partner more to your taste.”

  “Impossible,” he said with that devastating smile, but she didn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him. He wasn’t real.

  Something rang false about Jocelyn Vayle. He had appeared out of nowhere and he didn’t quite fit, no matter what identity Max proposed for him. He was too polished for a colonial, too ignorant for a Londoner. And she was certain his amnesia was a pose. No, he had some reason for being here in Sevaric House, and it wasn’t to regain his memory. She felt her suspicions soul-deep, and would not give up until she found out what he meant to get from his association with the Sevarics.

  Once it would have taken three hours for Vayle to prepare himself for a ball. But this evening Clootie accomplished it in less than an hour. Of course, there was no queue to groom, and no patches to stick on. Vayle did lament that change in fashion, for he always found that a heart placed at the corner of his mouth was likely to garner him kisses.

  While Clootie fussed with the neckcloth, Vayle raised his hand to touch his own face and found it closely shaven and reassuringly familiar. He might get a few kisses, even without the patches.

  Clootie stepped back, tilted his head appraisingly, and nodded. “Have a look in the mirror, sir. I think you will be pleased.”

  Careful not to face the mirror, Vayle reached for his white gloves. “There is no need. I’m content to rely on your skill and excellent taste.”

  “You may do so without fear. But in my experience, no gentleman leaves his chamber until he has satisfied himself that his appearance is all it should be.” With a smile, Clootie gestured to the glass over the shaving table. “Do tell me if you approve.”

  Was he simply fishing for compliments, or was this another of his games? Vayle slanted him an assessing look, but Clootie was busily reclaiming failed neckcloths from the floor.

  A very odd fellow indeed.

  For the most part he ignored the valet, even his oblique suggestions about places young gentlemen enjoyed. Not that Vayle wasn’t interested, but so far he’d had no time for prowling London’s Houses of Pleasure. When Max wasn’t trolling him through fashionable clubs, he was stealing away for fencing, shooting, and gaming lessons with Robin Caine.

  On several occasions, Clootie had implied that he knew the company his employer was keeping. Vayle suspected those were veiled threats, because Max would certainly object if he found out. But damned if he’d buy the silence of a bloody valet. Could he manage without one, Clootie would have been dismissed days ago.

  He was almost certain that Proctor had arranged for him to be tormented by this sly, officious creature. That made firing him all the more tempting, until Vayle remembered that he had enough trouble on his hands without antagonizing the Powers.

  He had to put up with Clootie another few weeks, but that was no reason to be craven. With ten minutes to spare before meeting the others downstairs, he decided to stir the waters.

  “A pity, this new fashion for black and white,” he said, gazing mournfully at his plain dark sleeve. “I feel rather like a crow. Black is not my best color.”

  Clootie looked up from the drawer where he was folding stockings. His strange pale eyes glittered. “Ah, you were born to wear ivory lace and purple brocade. But these are plainer days, aren’t they?”

  Vayle held his breath, waiting for another signal that Clootie knew what an ordinary valet would have no way of knowing. But the valet only smiled thinly and put away a pair of stockings. “You know, an emerald stickpin in your neckcloth would brighten that ensemble.”

  “You may be right. But I own not so much as a watch fob.” He focused on Clootie’s narrow face, hoping for a telling reaction to his next statement. “You have wondered, more than once, why I do not examine my appearance in front of the mirror. The fact is, I cannot see my own reflection.”

  Clootie lifted an eyebrow, his expression one of mild curiosity. “Indeed? Not at all? How strange.”

  “A trick of the eye, no doubt, like being nearsighted. My image appears as a blur in my vision. That is why I depend on you to see me suitably rigged out.” To conceal his disappointment at Clootie’s bland response, he pulled on his gloves and chuckled. “One day I must inquire about spectacles to correct the problem.”

  “Science is working wonders these days.” Clootie went to the armoire and pulled out a heavy black cape lined with green satin. “If you could see your image, sir, you would know how well I have succeeded. Indeed, you have already made an impression on Lady Melbrook. Riding dress does become you. She saw you yesterday in Hyde Park, and I daresay she will seek you out tonight.”

  Once again, Vayle regarded him suspiciously. The man was positively infernal with his hints and insinuations. “How the devil do you know that? And why should I care?”

  “Information is passed through the servants’ network almost before the incident in question takes place. As for why this should interest you, I cannot say.” He draped the cloak over Vayle’s shoulders and tugged the folds straight. “Unless you wish me to, of course.”

  Swallowing an oath, Vayle drew back and picked up a silver-knobbed cane, his first London purchase. It concealed a short lethal sword.

  No gentleman gossiped with servants. Then again, Clootie was no ordinary servant, and he, a stranger in this place and time, could use an ally. His instincts clamored a warning that Clootie was no friend to him, but so long as he was on guard… “I recall no Lady Melbrook among my acquaintance,” he said in a deliberately casual voice.

&n
bsp; Clootie brushed invisible lint from a tall, curly-brimmed hat. “As I understand it, she is a young, wealthy, beautiful, and shall I say playful widow. A woman who gives all and makes no demands for the future. Gentlemen who enjoy her favors never regret it, or so I hear.”

  “I wonder that you are a valet,” Vayle said coolly, “when you seem inclined to a less respectable profession.”

  For the first time, Clootie smiled directly at him. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “My only inclination is to serve, and my master decides how I can be most useful. Shall I wait up for you tonight?”

  Vayle exited without answering. Obviously Clootie expected him to go home with the Melbrook widow. And maybe he would. A few outings with Max, harmless as they were, had convinced him the soldier was not so straitlaced as he’d first appeared. Max would certainly understand a man’s needs and turn a blind eye if his houseguest sought company elsewhere.

  Of course, Gwen would despise him for taking up with the willing widow, but she despised him already and he’d done nothing wicked at all. So far, at least. And only because he’d not had the chance. Still, she had already judged him and found him wanting.

  Such a caustic model of dull propriety, Gwendolyn Sevaric. Well, he couldn’t call her dull, precisely. When she was disconcerted, she wasn’t dull at all.

  No wonder he liked to disconcert her, as he had done during their waltz. In his arms she had enjoyed, for a few brief minutes, the pleasure of a dance. Naturally, that made her despise him.

  She would be, he thought suddenly, a perfect mate for Proctor. He was laughing aloud as he descended the stairs to join the others, and the notion was reinforced when he looked down to see her staring at him critically from the entrance hall.

  Pausing at the bottom of the staircase, he regarded her with some surprise. Gwen looked remarkably pretty in a honey-colored dress that brought out the gold highlights in her hair and eyes. Her censorious hazel eyes.

  He decided then and there that he would annoy her this evening. Disapproval made her eyes glow, and that put her in her best looks. She might even turn that skeptical gaze on other men and garner a few dance partners. If they managed to irritate her, too—and he sensed any man would—she could be well on her way to Incomparability.