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

by Brenda Hiatt

  She could not entirely blame Lieutenant Fielding, for she was no dancer either. Even Mr. Popplewell had despaired of her. But she could not relax when a man put his hand on her arm, or moved so close she could feel the heat of his body. Only once, during the waltz with Vayle, had she—

  Better not to think about that.

  Max’s intentions were good, although misguided. And singleminded. The war won, he had set out to find his sister a husband, and only when she was settled would he consider his own future.

  But she would never marry. She could not, even if some poor sod was brought to scratch, and it was past time to reorder her brother’s thinking. For now, how could she repay him in kind for this night’s work?

  The weapons fell into her hands when the cotillion finally ended. Three matchmaking mamas descended en masse, giggling daughters in tow, all angling for information about Jocelyn Vayle.

  “I scarcely know the gentleman,” she protested. “He is my brother’s friend.”

  “But he is living at your house, or so I hear,” Lady Stadler observed slyly. “Surely you could provide an introduction.”

  “To Max? Certainly. In fact, I expect he would be delighted to partner your daughter, and the others, too. When that is accomplished, it will be quite natural for Mr. Vayle to be drawn into the circle. Please, follow me.”

  Max was recounting a skirmish involving heavy artillery and damp powder when she broke into the conversation. “Pardon me for interrupting, gentlemen, but I require a word with my brother.”

  Courteously, the men withdrew and she stood on tiptoe to whisper in Max’s ear. “Several young ladies wish to dance with you, but they are extremely shy and you are making no effort whatever to be sociable. Under the circumstances, I decided to take a hand. Put a smile on your face and I’ll present them.” With glee, she watched color rise to the tips of his ears.

  “Wretch. What are you up to?”

  “Oh, a little tit for tat. Now try to be pleasant and do your duty.” With a bright smile, she introduced the women and made a tactical retreat.

  A few minutes later, as Major McKinney led her out for the next dance, she was pleased to see Max and a chirpy blonde take up a position next to her in the line. He cast her a disgruntled look, and she winked back.

  Her delight vanished when she saw Vayle and Winnie making their way from group to group. For once, her friend Anathea Renstone had no partner, and when Vayle reached her he went no farther.

  From the look on Anathea’s face, she was infatuated with the rogue, and Gwen could not blame her. When Vayle turned on the charm, he was well-nigh irresistible. She might have succumbed herself, but she’d had the opportunity to take his measure and found him wanting.

  So it wasn’t jealousy that made her resent his attention to Anathea. She was only concerned that her friend would mistake his practiced charm for a genuine tendre. While the major led her to a side table for refreshments, she could not help glancing over her shoulder at Vayle and Anathea.

  No, not jealous at all. Only worried for her friend, because the man was a fraud. She sensed it in her bones. And one way or another, she would expose him before anyone got hurt.

  Honesty reminded her that he had saved her life, and that she ought to be patient while he recovered his memory—if he had truly lost it. She had more than a few doubts about that.

  Years of coping with her half-mad father should have given her more forbearance. She was nothing if not self-critical, and she knew that her hostility to Vayle was excessive. But her instincts usually served her well. And her instincts told her that he would make her already difficult life more irksome. The sooner he was gone, the better.

  She managed a smile when another of Max’s friends—Max had too many friends—claimed her for the next dance. He said his name, which vanished from her memory as she moved with automatic steps and watched for Vayle. He had disappeared. Off with Anathea, she thought peevishly.

  She stumbled again and again as she wondered what they were doing. Then she saw Anathea dancing with Lord Mumblethorpe and wondered all the more. Dear God, next would be the first waltz.

  Panic rose in her throat. She could not do it. Dared not. Only once before had she been so terrified and felt so helpless. There was no reason a stupid waltz with a man she didn’t like should remind her of that occasion. But it did, and she started to tremble.

  “Shall I escort you to Lord Sevaric?” her partner asked kindly. “You look a bit pale.”

  She could scarcely hear him over the pounding of blood in her ears. Confused, she finally realized the dance had ended and the young man didn’t know what to do with her.

  She didn’t know what to do with herself. “Excuse me,” she murmured. And then she fled through the open French windows onto the terrace.

  It was deserted. A quarter-moon hung low in the sky, outlining in yellow the chimney pots next door. A light damp breeze stirred the dead leaves of potted trees, and she hugged herself against the cold. At least she could breathe again, and Vayle would never think to look for her here… if he remembered he was supposed to dance with her.

  Behind her, the orchestra struck up the first notes of the waltz and couples took the floor. Against her will, Gwen walked to the window and pressed her nose against the glass.

  It was uncanny, how her eyes were drawn straight to Vayle, among all the people in the crowded ballroom. He was moving along the edges of the dance floor, skirting the chaperones and glancing from face to face. He was looking for her. He stopped near the orchestra and stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd.

  She felt foolish and ashamed. It was only a waltz. Common sense, not to mention courtesy, required her to go back in and face the music. If Max could dance with those silly ingénues, she supposed she could endure another few minutes in Vayle’s arms.

  She had made up her mind to go inside when Lady Melbrook came slinking up to him. He shook his head, still looking around, but the widow persisted, putting her hand on his arm and stroking it. It was a pantomime of seduction.

  Teeth clenched, Gwen watched as Vayle’s attention focused on a woman everyone in London knew to be a slut. He smiled then, and bent his head to hear what she was saying.

  Unable to bear it any longer, Gwen turned her back and aimed herself across the terrace, down the marble steps, and into the garden.

  Winding through the skeletal rows of rosebushes, she gazed up in despair at the bright moon. What was she to do now? Already she was too cold to stay outside. Nor could she return to that ballroom to watch Vayle sweep Lady Melbrook into a waltz.

  Gwen’s waltz.

  Shivering, she left the garden. Gravel crunched under her feet as she walked around the corner of the house. There she came to a pair of glass doors and peered through the small opening between the curtains. It was a library, unoccupied.

  To her relief, the latch turned when she tried it, and the door swung open silently. On the opposite wall was a fireplace where a fire blazed. Two heavy wing-back chairs were angled in front of the hearth, behind an Oriental screen that sheltered the fireplace from the rest of the room.

  A perfect hideaway, she thought, warm and private. She would relax here a few minutes, out of harm’s way, and later explain to Max and Vayle that she’d torn her skirt and gone upstairs to have it mended.

  For good measure, she took hold of the hem and made a creditable rip. Then she settled back in her chair, arms folded across her breasts, and stared into the flames.

  She felt so lost.

  Max’s actions tonight made her realize that she could no longer avoid her future. If she didn’t make her own plans, he would do it for her, and she might find herself entertaining the proposal of some poor young officer who owed him a favor. And if she didn’t accept, well, Max would find another, and another. He wouldn’t give up till he ran out of friends. Tenacity was the Sevaric curse.

  Gwen suffered from it as well. But hers took a more passive form. She persevered. She had spent the last decade patiently man
aging the house while her father obsessively pursued his quest to destroy the Caines. When he died without quite achieving it, Max came home from the war. Gwen wanted nothing more than to take care of her brother as she had taken care of their father. It was a comfortable role, familiar, safe.

  But Max deserved better than their meager family. He was a simple man, for all his dramatic looks, and preferred simple pleasures—good friends, good food, and a comfortable home. Underneath the soldierly reserve was a warmth and gentleness that would make him a loving father. He needed only a sweet wife and a houseful of children to ensure his happiness.

  Instead, he was held in harness by the legacy of an old feud and the unhappiness of a younger sister.

  His dependent sister. The sister he felt bound to avenge.

  He would never forsake the feud, or forsake her, until he knew she could be happy on her own. But she had no idea how to go about being happy. Her misery would destroy her brother, unless she convinced him to leave her behind.

  But he would not, until she was wed, because his rigid sense of honor would not allow it. Barring a miracle, Max would choose a lonely bachelor’s life with his old maid of a sister rather than put another woman in her place in the household.

  A sound broke into her thoughts—a closing door. Sitting up, she listened intently and heard nothing but the crackle of the fire.

  Just imagination, she thought, relaxing again. But a low sound hummed in her ears, like the murmur of voices. Then she heard a distinct sigh and the whisper of silk.

  Good heavens! A pair of lovers had chosen the library for a rendezvous. The night had gone from bad to worse! She could avoid a humiliating scene only if she used the screen to conceal her escape back into the garden. Quietly she came to her feet and tiptoed to the French windows.

  “Oh, Jocelyn, please,” begged a husky voice. “Yes, like that.”

  Her hand froze on the latch. Vayle! And, if she was not mistaken, Lady Melbrook.

  A rock settled in the vicinity of her heart.

  He had every right to seduce women, she knew. But this capricious assignation only confirmed that Vayle was the undiscriminating lecher she suspected him to be. Let them get on with it.

  She started to turn the latch when another thought occurred to her. What if someone else walked in on them? She swallowed an oath any soldier would recognize. Vayle had been invited to Lord Sefton’s home because Max vouched for him. If he were discovered in flagrante delicto with Lady Melbrook, her brother would be subjected to gossip and criticism. And that she would not permit.

  Silently, she slipped back behind the screen, pausing only to verify it was indeed Lady Melbrook she was about to embarrass. Then, fixing a look of worldly indifference on her face, she stepped into full view.

  Vayle and the widow were so preoccupied they didn’t even notice her. Both were still fully clothed and on their feet, although his right hand was invisible under a swath of lace at her bosom. They were kissing, too, and their mouths were open!

  Gwen shuddered in disgust.

  Taking no care to be quiet about it, she walked past them toward the library door. And still they didn’t look up. She wondered if they’d notice a herd of elephants stampeding by.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” she said sweetly. “But I suggest you lock the door when I am gone.”

  At that, the lovers sprang apart.

  Immediately Lady Melbrook set to work restoring her clothing. She was calm, as if being caught in the act wasn’t new to her. Vayle just stared at Gwen, color rising to his cheeks.

  “Obviously you won’t be coming home with us tonight,” she said with a malicious smile. “I’ll make your excuses to Max.”

  He lifted a hand. “Gwen—”

  “Miss Sevaric,” she corrected, opening the door. “Do go on from where you were.”

  She was halfway down the hall when he caught up with her. “You must let me explain,” he said urgently. “Please.”

  Several guests stood in conversation a few yards away, and to avoid a public scene she stopped and turned to him. “Mr. Vayle, your nocturnal activities are none of my concern, so long as they are conducted in private. But you are a guest in Lord Sefton’s home. Did you consider how this might reflect upon my brother?”

  He stared at the floor. “No. Not for a moment. It never occurred to me.”

  “Ah.”

  His gaze lifted, and she was struck by the cloudiness of his eyes, usually such a transparent green. “I was selfish,” he said in a somber voice. “Consumed with my own pleasures. Had I thought… but I wasn’t thinking. Not for the world would I bring trouble on Lord Sevaric.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed in this sudden penitence. “Max assumes that every man is honorable until proven otherwise, and is bound to pay now and again for such misplaced idealism. Fortunately I am the only one aware of your indiscretion, so he will be spared. This time.”

  “You won’t tell him?”

  “I should. But I am not partial to those who carry tales and do not care to join their ranks. I only wish men like you did not give me reason to make difficult choices. If you insist on living with us, and persist in carrying on as you’ve just done—”

  “I will not,” he said forcefully. “Carry on, I mean. At least, not in any way that will reflect badly on your family. You have my word on it.”

  Her lips curled. “Why does that fail to reassure me?”

  “Because you do not trust me,” he replied after a moment. “Until now you had no reason, but from here on I can scarcely blame you for being suspicious.”

  “Why not from the beginning, Mr. Vayle? By your own account, you do not know who or what you are. Perhaps you fled to England with a charge of murder on your head.”

  “Anything is possible,” he acknowledged with a shrug. “I must say that you counter your brother’s optimism with a bull-headed conviction that men are dishonorable until proved otherwise. Why is that?”

  “Because I’m a realist? In your case, you must admit I was right.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I am to be drawn and quartered because of a few kisses? The woman was willing and yes, so was I. But we chose our time and place unwisely. I take full responsibility, have apologized, and am sworn to be more careful in the future. What more can I do to win myself into your good graces, Miss Sevaric?”

  Drat the man! He was right and she resented him for it. It was so much easier to despise him for cause, but he kept snatching the reasons away.

  “Are you angry because we missed our waltz together?” he asked quietly. “I did look for you. Truly.”

  She knew he had. She’d watched him. “I tore my dress,” she said, lifting her skirt slightly, not enough to reveal her ankles. “See?”

  “And you thought to mend it in the library.” He grinned, and she thought that he looked relieved. “Shall we each confess there are a few matters we had rather not explain in detail?”

  “I’ve nothing to confess, sir, except that I think you a contemptible libertine.”

  “And I think you a fascinating woman, Miss Sevaric, and an exemplar. Even a contemptible libertine like me can recognize your value. I will henceforth rely on you to keep me out of trouble.”

  Such trumpery about her fascination and exemplitude made her distrust him even more. Gwen gave him a repressive look as she started back to the ballroom. “Mr. Vayle, I am not in the business of working miracles.”

  Chapter Eight

  The sun was descending behind the chimney pots when Max and Vayle returned from the tailor’s shop. It had been a difficult afternoon, but Max congratulated himself on his patience—never certain in the best of times. He was no expert on fashion, having spent most of his adult life in a combat-scarred infantry uniform. But he’d found himself citing the Gospel According to Beau Brummell whenever Vayle got that predatory look and picked up another garish fabric.

  “Brummell said only dark colors for evening,” Max would say hastily. “And blue and buff for day wear. An
d white linen. No patterned neckwear.” At one point, Max appealed to the obsequious tailor for support. But true to form, he only coughed and suggested that Mr. Vayle take both the purple satin and the white waistcoat fabric, and perhaps the emerald green also.

  As they entered Sevaric House, Vayle was still sulking. He cast his sedate beaver hat on the hall table and stared into the gilt mirror as if it held some secret. “Perhaps, if we both wore them,” he said with sudden inspiration, “we could bring patches back into fashion.”

  Max rubbed his aching forehead. “No patches. No powder. This is the nineteenth century, for pity’s sake!” He regarded his companion with honest confusion. “I wish you could tell me where you are from. You have the queerest ideas of what’s in fashion. Italy? That’s where the macaronis got their start.”

  The butler, his arms full of their hats and gloves, coughed discreetly. Max turned with some gratitude from his troublesome new friend. “Yes, Wilson?”

  “A Young Lady is here to see you, my lord.”

  The reverence in Wilson’s tone set Max on guard. “To see me? Not my sister?”

  “Yes, my lord. A Miss Caine.”

  Max was too surprised to speak right away, but Vayle made a strangled sound. No doubt he’d heard about the Caine-Sevaric feud from a helpful servant and imagined some Romeo-Juliet tangle. Max felt it necessary to scotch the supposition. “Miss Caine? We are not acquainted.”

  Wilson stood his ground with unusual pugnacity. “She is in the drawing room. I told her you would see her when you came in.”

  “She must be quite a lady,” Vayle said under his breath. “Why don’t we go see?”

  Max had to admit to a bit of curiosity about this heretofore unencountered member of the thieving Caines, especially as she had somehow made an ally of his butler. “All right, I’ll see her.”

  As he started off up the stairs, Vayle was close behind. Max looked over his shoulder quizzically, and Vayle hastened to remark, “Can’t meet with a young lady alone, can you? Not proper.”