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

by Brenda Hiatt

  The thought made him smile, and as he had hoped, she frowned and looked even prettier. Seizing her gloved fingers, he touched the tips to his lips.

  She yanked back her hand and glared at him.

  “Enchantress,” he murmured, and she turned on her heel and stalked to the door.

  “Don’t waste your pretty on Gwen,” Max advised. “She will call it trumpery and read you a lesson in vanity.”

  Vanity wasn’t one of Max’s faults. He walked past the hall mirror without even a glance at his reflection. Just as well he had the sort of negligent good looks that looked most dramatic when windblown and disarranged.

  Winnie was fussing with her gloves, and Vayle turned to her with a smile. She wore a blue gown, dark enough to be slimming even around the hips, and the cameo at the high lace neckline drew attention from her double chin. Somehow she had tamed her frizzy hair, and the hint of rouge on her cheeks and lips gave color to her face. He thought her beautiful, in her way, and his smile widened.

  This must be a special occasion for Winnie, an elegant ball in the best company. He suspected there had been few of those, if any, in her bleak life, and his heart went out to her. He offered his arm, and with a blush she put her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  “Tell me you have changed your mind,” he begged. “Tell me we shall dance together this night.”

  “Oh, Mr. Vayle,” she said with a girlish shake of her curls. “What a devil you are to tempt me so.”

  “Devil indeed,” Gwen muttered. At her imperious gesture, the footman flung open the door and let in the chill. “Let us go quickly, before we are smothered in his treacle.”

  Chapter Six

  To Major Sevaric, a London ballroom apparently bore a marked resemblance to a battlefield. Vayle watched, amused, as Max stopped at the top of the staircase to survey the combatants below, then ordered his troops into parade ranks. After steering them through the receiving line, he marched to a corner of the ballroom for a strategy conference.

  “First we’ll make a complete circuit so everyone can see Vayle. Later, when we are in company, we will mention his name at every opportunity and point him out.” He pulled a small card from his pocket and studied it. “While we were waiting in line, I confirmed the order of the dances. The first waltz is number four, Gwen, and you’ve promised that to Vayle. I expect you to dance more than once, so don’t hide behind the potted plants with Winnie.”

  She stuck out her chin. If there was to be a mutineer in the ranks, it was bound to be Gwen. “And what if no one asks me?” She didn’t look particularly upset about the prospect.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Max replied ominously. He turned to Winnie. “You will be on your own tonight, as I intend to keep Gwen busy. Have you friends to sit with?”

  Winnie came to attention. “I will find some, Lord Sevaric. Don’t worry on my account.”

  He nodded. “And Vayle, you’ll stay visible, so no retreating into the gaming rooms.”

  Vayle agreed. He could gamble any evening, but he would not always have the opportunity to be surrounded by so many lovely women.

  “Well, then,” Max said, “let us scout the territory. Keep close to me.”

  They moved in step from group to group, smiling on cue. Max aimed first for his fellow officers, and within minutes Gwen had dance partners, whether she wanted them or not.

  Vayle had to admire the lady’s poise. Subtlety was not among her brother’s virtues, and she was surely embarrassed when Max presented her to his friends. The tone in his voice was a virtual command. The men were gallant and charming once they got the point, but in the interim Gwen stood straight and calm although Vayle knew she must be aching inside.

  At their third stop, when a young lieutenant offered for the waltz, Vayle was quick to assert his own claim. For some reason, that made her more intriguing. Other men stepped forward then to beg dances as Max nodded his satisfaction.

  Sister accounted for, Vayle interpreted from the look on his face. All well on the left flank.

  Gwen and Winnie veered off to greet acquaintances, and Max was soon replaying some battle or other with his friends. Vayle took the opportunity to look around. He was not impressed.

  For one thing, nearly all the men were dressed alike. Oh, a few wore army uniforms and several young blades sported bright waistcoats and starched collars that reached to their ears, but otherwise every man conformed to the standard taste for black and white. Good Lord, they were stamped out like coins.

  And the women! The young ones wore white, or pastels that washed them out. His eyes were drawn immediately to the ladies who dared to wear bright purple and red, but most of them were elderly, and their bright plumes adorned gray coiffures.

  What had become of style? Panache? A hundred years ago, the men had nearly outshone the women in glittering attire, especially at fashionable balls where the guests made a point of dressing to show off their personalities. Now, everyone tried to look like everyone else.

  He shuffled uneasily on the flat slippers Clootie had found for him. The last time he’d danced at a ball, he wore shoes with rubies sparkling on the lifted heels and gold buckles on the toes. Lace had drifted over his fingertips. A stiff ribbon held his long hair in a queue. He usually chose an emerald green coat, to match his eyes, and a gold waistcoat with russet threads that mimicked his auburn hair.

  More than ever, he longed for his former life.

  Soon, he reminded himself. He’d only to endure this drab society a few more weeks, until his tasks were completed. Then he would live again where he belonged, as Valerian Caine, wearing brocade coats and drinking and gaming and fencing and making love to beautiful women.

  Raising his quizzing glass to survey the offerings, he found that magnification improved the view considerably. Those plain little frocks that passed for ball gowns were as fine as gossamer, and very revealing. He aimed his glass at a feathery bird gliding past. Her skirt clung to her thighs as if she had just come in from the rain. Now that was a modern fashion he could approve.

  Just then Gwen tapped his shoulder. Wrinkling her nose, she said, “Max is fighting Waterloo again. Perhaps we should move on in case there is someone here who knows you. Once the dancing starts, it won’t be so easy to get around.”

  He took her arm and led her past clusters of chatting men and women. Now and again someone looked up and smiled, but Gwen tugged him ahead. He realized she was shy, for all her spirited temper, and was not eager to approach people she didn’t know. It was enough for him to be seen, so he let her set the pace.

  Winnie had disappeared. It was only the two of them, arm in arm like old comrades, circling the room. At least one thing had not changed, he observed with delight. The women still noticed him. Young or old, they gazed at him through lowered lashes and fluttered their fans. He could practically hear them calling out, silently, begging him to stop and greet them.

  And then one did.

  “Is that you, Robert?” called an old woman in a purple turban topped with droopy ostrich feathers. “Yes, you. The redheaded one. Come here, boy.” She pointed a skinny finger at him and jerked it imperiously. “Come here!”

  With a smile at her companion, he made an elaborate leg to the woman. Eighty years old at the least, he thought, admiring the beauty mark on her wrinkled cheek. She, at least, kept up the old fashions.

  The woman beckoned him closer. “My spectacles, Elspeth. Give me my spectacles.”

  Beside her, another lady, nearly as antique, fumbled in her reticule. Gwen stepped forward and curtsied. “Your Grace, may I present my brother’s guest, Mr. Jocel—”

  “There now. Let me look at you.” She put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and peered at Vayle. “Ah, you are so much like him.” She took off the spectacles and passed her hand over her eyes. “For a moment I thought… but it was merely the fantasy of an old woman.”

  “He reminds you of someone?” Gwen put in sharply.

  “Yes, indeed. Especially the eyes. Robert
had eyes like that, two emeralds set in a face so beautiful he had no rivals among men.”

  Gwen looked surprised. Vayle realized she had not expected Max’s scheme to succeed. For that matter, neither had Vayle, and something like a chill passed through him.

  She recovered quickly. “Mr. Vayle has come to London in search of his relations, Your Grace. Perhaps you could introduce him to your friend.”

  “Not likely,” snapped the woman. She dabbed at her nose with a lace handkerchief. “Robert Caine has been dead these forty years.”

  “C-Caine?”

  The old woman looked at Gwen for the first time and snorted. “You are the Sevaric chit, aren’t you? Well, missie, I’ll not hear any attack against my Robert, nor a word about that absurd feud. There is blame enough on both sides.”

  Gwen, pale as birch bark, lowered her head. “Yes.”

  “It was quite the scandal when I was a gel, though.” The woman laughed. “Gentlemen knew the way of feuding back then. Had some meat to ’em, the Caines and the Sevarics, but their blood has run thin. Your father’s, at any rate, and what’s left of the Caines. Some pasty boy named Robin, I trow. He does no honor to his name.”

  “That is my opinion also,” Gwen said through tight lips. “But my brother—”

  “Compose yourself, girl. I read the newspapers, even now, and I know your brother was a soldier. Mentioned in the dispatches, as I recall. His blood might not be so thin. His brains, though, that’s what matters here! Mayhap he will have the good sense not to pursue a quarrel that grew tedious long ago.”

  Vayle regarded Gwen with concern. She was obviously shaken. Perhaps she was remembering her father’s obsession, and her own service in it. He was a trifle disturbed himself, what with this talk of a dead man who could only be a nephew or grandnephew.

  “Please excuse me, Your Grace,” Gwen said. “I must make certain Miss Crake is settled with her friends before the dancing begins.” With a curtsy, she turned away.

  Vayle bowed to the duchess, intending to follow, but she tapped his arm with her fan. “Elspeth, amuse yourself elsewhere for a few minutes. We require your chair.”

  Recognizing an irresistible force when he met one, he settled next to her with a smile. And he was curious, if oddly wary, about Robert Caine. “I am Jocelyn Vayle, Your Grace. And you are clearly a duchess, but—”

  “Dowager duchess,” she corrected with a grimace. “Put out to pasture decades ago, when my son married a birdwit. And m’grandchildren take after their mother, so even the illustrious Rathbones are in decline.”

  She waved her fan in a gesture that took in the whole ballroom. “For that matter, so is everyone else. Look you at this dreary assembly. Dead bores, the lot of ’em, with water for spines. In my day, people knew how to have fun. We fought and schemed and made love in the grand manner, with elegance and dash. You’d have liked it, Mr. Vayle. I can tell that about you.”

  “I am flattered, Your Grace. And ’struth, I often feel I was born a century too late. Now, will you tell me about Robert Caine?” He winked at her. “You were more than mere acquaintances, I daresay.”

  “Naughty boy.” She rapped his hand with the fan. “As was Robert. When I made my come-out, he was the handsomest bachelor in London. But he was only a viscount, and my parents were in full cry after a duke. So Robert and I stole kisses when we could while my marriage was arranged. We became lovers after I’d presented Rathbone with a pair of sons. In those days, such arrangements were understood.”

  “Just so.” He made rapid calculations and decided that Robert Caine must have been his brother’s grandson. If he had inherited the title so early in life, that must mean that Vayle’s nephew Thomas died young. Vayle closed his eyes and found an image of the little boy, laughing as his toy boat sailed the Serpentine. Blanche Sevaric had cooed over him that day, and that night Vayle had won her—

  And now Thomas was long dead, and his son Robert, too. And Blanche.

  “You have the look of him, that’s certain.” Sighing, the dowager duchess opened her fan and waved it slowly before her face. “I dreamed of him t’other night, and when I saw you, I thought his ghost was passing in front of me. No such thing, ghosts, but sometimes I feel his hands on me in my sleep. He would come to me again, if he could.”

  Vayle gazed at the duchess with fascination. Had he not been killed in that duel, he might have known her. He’d have been in his sixties when she came out of the schoolroom. It occurred to him that he might yet have the chance to meet her when she was young and beautiful. Be there when she fell in love with his great-nephew. How eerie it would be, seeing the girl and remembering the old woman.

  Even as he watched, her eyes drifted shut and her hands fell limp against the purple silk of her skirt. To his astonishment, she emitted a snore.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “If you will permit, sir.” Elspeth took his place when he jumped from the chair, and put a firm hand on the duchess’s shoulder to hold her erect. “She insists on attending every important party, even though she dozes through most of them.”

  “I admire her spirit,” he said quietly. “Take good care of her.”

  He was only a few steps away when he heard the duchess’s voice, querulous now as she pushed aside sleep. “They’re all dead. Everyone I knew is dead. All dust.”

  Vayle didn’t turn back. All dust. Not I, he told himself fiercely. Not yet.

  Gwen was nowhere to be found, and Max was still refighting old battles with a group of uniformed officers. Vayle walked by, glad to be ignored. Wars didn’t matter, except to the dead. Life—that’s what mattered to the living. And Sevaric ought to be getting on with that, and start looking for a wife, or at least an armful for when the party was over.

  That reminded him of his own intentions. Somewhere in this room was a woman eager to warm his own bed, if Clootie could be trusted. But he couldn’t remember her name. It started with “M.” Marlborough? Milquetoast?

  Lost in thought, he nearly stumbled over a graceful foot planted in his way. He looked up, past long legs outlined by clinging silk to a bosom that rivaled any he had ever cradled in his hands. His gaze remained fixed there for several moments before moving on to the woman’s face.

  Her knowing smile told him she was well aware of where his eyes and imagination had been, although she feigned a look of surprise. “Pray, forgive me, sir. I was searching for a friend and nearly walked into you.”

  “My fault entirely,” he said with a bow. And because she might be someone he ought not flirt with, he swallowed the practiced compliment that rose in his throat and waited for her to make the next move.

  At his silence, she tilted her head. “Oh, dear, how awkward this is. As there is no one to introduce us, will you think me terribly fast if I give you my name? I am Barbara Stuart to my friends, although acquaintances call me Lady Melbrook.” Her slow smile became ever more knowing. “I do hope you won’t be one of those.”

  Melbrook! That was the name Clootie had mentioned. Lifting her gloved hand, he brushed a kiss across her wrist, pressing her palm with his thumb in a gesture she could not fail to recognize. “Jocelyn Vayle, at your service. I am a stranger in London and don’t know how to go on, so if I violate the proprieties you must tell me.”

  “I have little patience with rules, Mr. Vayle. You must look elsewhere for lessons in proper behavior. I am so very improper that yesterday, when I saw you in the park, I wasted no time in determining your name. I felt sure we should meet again soon.”

  Her boldness excited him, and a century ago he’d have taken the lovely brunette straight out the door and home to his bed. But he dared not invite her to Sevaric House, and could not think where else would harbor a bed for them.

  Her lips curved into that knowing smile. “Some gentlemen,” she said in a seductive voice, “would have invited me to dance by now.”

  “As would I,” he replied immediately, “if I knew how. To dance, that is. I have been abroad for many years,
and since returning to England I’ve learned only the waltz.”

  “I like the waltz above all other dances.”

  She hadn’t yet released his hand, and she was holding it between them, close to her waist, where no one else could see. Not dust, he thought defiantly. Not I.

  Just then, the orchestra began to play. For a panicky moment, he couldn’t tell what sort of dance it was. Was it a waltz? He tugged his hand loose and turned to look at the dance floor. No, it was some country dance. Across the room, Gwen was taking the hand of a callow young officer in scarlet regimentals. Neither of them appeared very happy about it.

  Gwen. Waltz. “I have already been promised a waltz with my host’s sister. A matter of duty, you understand.” Even as he said it, he didn’t like the way it sounded—a duty. Lady Melbrook, though, was looking expectant. “But only the first waltz is confirmed. Perhaps later—”

  “Lady Melbrook?” A young man with rosy cheeks and a receding hairline appeared at her shoulder. “I believe this is our dance.”

  She flashed him a brittle smile. “So it is, Lord Mumblethorpe.” Turning back to Vayle, she licked her bottom lip with a slow pink tongue and pressed his hand once more. “I trust we shall meet again, sir?”

  “I’ll see that we do,” he said under his breath as Mumblethorpe led her away.

  In the meantime, he had little to do but twiddle his thumbs, having promised not to enter the game rooms. Frustrated, he went looking for Winnie.

  What had he come to, when the best entertainment he could find was cozing with Gwen Sevaric’s chaperone?

  Chapter Seven

  Vengeance, thought Gwen as Lieutenant Fielding stepped on her toe for the third time.

  Her partner, excruciatingly polite, apologized yet again, and she managed a wan smile even as she devised schemes to punish Max. She would take revenge on him for thrusting this ordeal on her while he bantered with his friends.