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

by Brenda Hiatt

  Dorie wanted to swear that yes, she knew that some man would trust her and love her even if the world considered her ruined. But she looked past his implacable form to the fire and in the flames saw the face of her betrothed as he told her that, fortuneless, she could no longer be his wife.

  Perhaps there was a man in the world strong enough to love her, but she couldn’t expect that, based on the men she knew best—her reckless uncle, her weak brother, her disloyal betrothed.

  And there was Sevaric, hard as the stone mantel he leaned against, brutally reminding her of the nature of her fellow humans. She couldn’t acknowledge the force of his argument, so she put up her chin defiantly. “Then I shan’t marry. I can get along quite well without a man.”

  “And without children, too?”

  The breath left her body as if he had snatched it away. Somehow he knew all her weaknesses—her silly pride, her romantic dreams, her desire for babies. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because he smiled ironically and pushed away from the mantel.

  “Think about it. I believe you’ll come to see that this is the best solution for the situation. If we wed, you will have the security and the status your birth deserves. And your reputation will be saved. No one—no one—would dare speak ill of my wife.”

  More gently he added, “I am going off to seek a special license. I hope you will honor me with your hand in marriage.”

  He left the door open, and a moment later Mr. Vayle appeared as if summoned by some ghostly voice. “My dear, my dear,” he said, sitting beside her on the couch and taking her hands. “What a coil this is. To be found out by Mrs. Fitzniggle, of all people! I blame myself, I do, for it was I who opened the door. But when I heard Sevaric calling, what else could I do?”

  Dorie thought of asking him just what had become of him the night before, but she was too weary to get into it. Instead, she said, “It isn’t right, that we should be forced to marry because of a stupid mistake. We don’t even like each other!”

  “But don’t you see, that makes it all the more imperative!”

  She had already discovered that Mr. Vayle was able to state bald contradictions in the most persuasive voice. But even he could not persuade her that mutual dislike was a good foundation for marriage.

  He did his earnest best, though. “All the world knows of the enmity between your two families. Imagine what the crim con would be, that Sevaric seduced and abandoned you in furtherance of his vengeance. He will appear a reprobate and a scoundrel, and you—forgive me, my dear—will be known as a silly lovesick fool.”

  She swallowed a gasp, then rose to pace the floor. “No! It is so wrong! I never meant—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” he said soothingly. “But consider the alternative futures. If you don’t wed, your reputation will be in shreds. Very likely your brother will feel forced into calling Sevaric out, and I can vouch that Sevaric is a crack shot.”

  Dorie stopped in the middle of the floor and hugged herself to ward off the chill. She didn’t think Robin would challenge Sevaric. She had no illusions about the depth of his physical courage. Just as well. She had no desire to have a duel fought over her. But if Robin declined to defend her honor, it could well be the final failure for him, one that would send him into irrevocable dissipation.

  Behind her, Mr. Vayle continued in his soft, persuasive voice. “And if you do wed, think of it. The feud would be over, wouldn’t it? Sevaric could hardly dedicate himself to the ruin of his own brother-in-law. There might even be a sizeable marriage settlement.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No marriage settlement. I refuse to profit from this travesty.”

  “But you will participate in this… umm, this travesty? You will wed Sevaric when he returns?”

  From deep within her came the despair, and after it, the peace. “Yes. If it will end the feud.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Vayle heaved a surprisingly heartfelt sigh of relief.

  He certainly was a man who regarded the problems of others as his own.

  His kindness encouraged her to beg a favor. “I would like my brother to be there at the church, and I know Sevaric will object.” She crossed to the desk and searched in vain for a sheet of notepaper without the Sevaric crest. There was nothing to do but scribble on the back of the coal-merchant’s bill. “Would you see that Robin gets this note?”

  Mr. Vayle took the page from her outstretched hand and said he would convey it to a discreet and fleet-footed kitchen boy for delivery. “And now, perhaps you would like to rest in one of the guest rooms? You must be exhausted.”

  She was indeed weary, and now that she had made such a momentous decision her mind’s working had slowed to molasses. “My bag. I left it under the stoop last night. I meant to leave for home at first light, so I hid it there. There’s a dress.”

  “I understand,” he said, and she knew it was true because his face was so kind and so strangely familiar. “You want to look your best, don’t you? Well, your best will be dazzling. I will have the bag sent to your room.”

  Finally she was left alone, with the weight of her decision resting on her heart. But before she could react to it, a plump woman bustled in and introduced herself as Miss Crake. “Mr. Vayle sent me to take you to a guest room. You must be tired after such an exciting night.”

  Wearily, Dorie decided to ignore the implications of that last remark and followed the woman up the stairs. On the landing were two large portraits of the most recent Lords Sevaric. The late Basil, her uncle’s enemy, had a mouth so cruel and eyes so fierce that even Reynolds couldn’t make him attractive.

  Next to him was his son—her future husband, by some incalculable mischance. In the sharply cut scarlet uniform of the infantry, he looked both splendid and severe. His fist was balanced on the hilt of his sword. He was as composed and stern as he had been when he told her she must marry him. Did he never smile? Yes, he did that once, an ironic, unamused smile when he first recognized the trick fate had played on him.

  “Come, dear! We haven’t much time,” Miss Crake called from the floor above. “Mrs. Fitzniggle arranged for a ceremony at three o’clock. And I know you’ll want to look fresh as a rose for the occasion.”

  Fresh as a rose. Well, better that than a funeral lily, Dorie supposed, and went up to ready herself for the ceremony.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As he took his seat near the front of the church, Vayle suppressed a sigh of relief. Only a few moments separated him from the fulfillment of his plan, the few moments it would take Dorothea Caine and Maximilian Sevaric to plight their troth and end their family feud.

  Oh, there had been some dangerous moments in the three hours since the pair were discovered in their impromptu prison. Young Dorie had remained recalcitrant to the end, arguing with every line in the proposed marriage settlement. Foolishly, she insisted that she didn’t intend to profit from this marriage one little bit.

  Sevaric, of course, couldn’t have it said that he didn’t provide for his bride, and insisted she accept an annuity and a generous amount of pin money. Dorie just crossed her arms and shook her head.

  “Women!” Max said feelingly, but Vayle knew better. Dorie Caine was unique. Most women would have taken the settlement and demanded that the family debts be paid off, too. Dorie just wanted what she said was hers by rights, her decrepit Greenbriar Lodge.

  This threatened to become a full-scale debate, until Vayle took the groom aside and suggested he set up a suitable trust for her after the wedding, when she could no longer repay his generosity with a jilting.

  It was a near-run thing, but soon Vayle could bask in his success. For now he found himself slightly out of breath, as if he had run a long way to get to this seat in St. Ann’s Marylebone. Probably it was due to the unfamiliar environs, the towering sanctity of this sanctuary, especially the huge cross looming over the altar and casting a shadow across the pews.

  He couldn’t recall the last time he had bee
n in a church. Perhaps when his nephew Thomas was christened?

  The two principals were still missing, but Mrs. Fitzniggle sailed in and, nodding at Vayle, took her seat in the first pew. This prominent place was fitting, since it was through her doing that they had the church, the vicar, and the quick wedding.

  Miss Crake came next. She started toward the first row, but Vayle smiled at her, and with a blush of confusion she tugged in her gray skirt and slipped into the seat beside him.

  “Lovely church.” Her timid whisper echoed off the high ceiling, and she blushed even pinker.

  “And you are lovely company,” he responded gallantly. “Where is Miss Sevaric?”

  “Helping the bride. How pretty she is!”

  “Miss Sevaric?”

  “No. I mean, yes, of course, but I was speaking of Miss Caine. So delicate! So radiant! The perfect bride!”

  He let that soothe him. If Miss Caine was radiant, she couldn’t be regarding this as a tragedy. And why should she? he told himself righteously. She was marrying a man of wealth, station, and honor—and she was ending the feud. She could hardly expect to do better on such short notice.

  “It’s so romantic.” Miss Winnie sighed. “Love at first sight.”

  Not exactly, Vayle thought, recalling Max’s reaction to Miss Caine’s arrival. But it was romantic, in a way. Romeo and Juliet, and all that. “Quite so.”

  “Ah, the angels must have been with them.” Miss Winnie’s face took on a glow as she gazed at the cherubs hovering over the Nativity crèche near the altar.

  Vayle choked back an unholy laugh. “Yes, this is definitely a match made in heaven.” Right, Francis? he thought, picking out the fattest, pinkest cherub and imagining it with Francis’s face. Tell me yes. A match made in heaven. But the cherub’s pursed lips didn’t answer.

  Miss Sevaric came in the side door and halted in front of the pews. Her gaze rested coolly on Vayle, then passed on to Miss Winnie. Finally she slipped into the front pew, next to Mrs. Fitzniggle.

  It was the proper place for her as the groom’s sister, but still Vayle was stung. She needn’t have made it so clear that she disapproved of Winnie sitting with him, and that she disapproved of him. More than ever, he wondered what she suspected, for surely she suspected him of something. Not the truth, certainly, but something nearly as bad.

  Just to discompose her, he leant over the back of her pew. “I see you had some time to prettify yourself as well as the bride.”

  He meant it as a compliment of sorts, but she stiffened and the nape of her neck, above the white lace collar, flushed pink. Without turning, she murmured, “How ungallant of you to suggest that Miss Caine requires any ‘prettifying.’”

  He couldn’t win, so he subsided back in his seat, glaring at the little twist she had made with her hair. Just as well he had completed his work early. This girl was spoiling for a fight, and he was just about ready to give her one. Francis would do well to spirit him away as soon as the ceremony was over, leaving Miss Sevaric to gape and gasp while he returned to the embrace of the far more agreeable women in 1716.

  As if prompted from above, the vicar entered, a solemn bridegroom in tow. Envy shot through Vayle, for Max sported a spectacular scarlet ensemble, complete with sword, that would have been admired in Queen Anne’s court. Apparently only soldiers could wear real colors, while civilians were expected to dress like parsons.

  From the organ in back came the strains of a stately hymn. A long moment passed, during which time Vayle grew more and more anxious. The church doors remained stubbornly closed as the vicar’s wife brought the hymn to a close, and then, in some confusion, began it again. Where was Miss Caine? Gwen should never have left her alone, for fear she might scarper.

  Perhaps Dorie was standing on the church steps, waiting for her brother to escort her. Vayle felt an unfamiliar twist in his chest as he realized that Robin wouldn’t be coming. He would probably be drunk yet, or hung over, or just too angry or frightened to give his sister away to the enemy.

  Vayle longed to tell her that she had another Caine here to sustain her and wish her well. He couldn’t tell her they were related, but at least he might provide his arm as a support as she went to become a Sevaric. He rose, but just as he was excusing himself past Miss Winnie, the door opened and the cold air slid in. Vayle sank down, murmuring a distracted apology as he edged off Miss Winnie’s skirt. Dorie didn’t need support after all.

  She walked up the aisle as if she were a queen at her coronation—or her execution. Somehow she contrived to make a tedious pastel gown look like court attire. She wore no jewelry, but in her hand was a single hothouse rose. Her head was high, her bearing dignified, and her gaze on the altar.

  She did not deign to look at the meager collection of guests, at that empty space where her brother should be, at her groom splendid in his unchurchly uniform. When she reached the altar steps, she gathered her skirt in one hand and gracefully ascended the first stair. Max pushed his sword out of the way and followed suit, and the obsequies began.

  The vicar did a proper job, as far as Vayle could tell, getting through Max’s six names without a trip, and pausing dramatically as he asked if any man present had cause to doubt the lawfulness of the marriage. As that pause wore on, Vayle’s nerves grew taut. What if Robin burst in and shouted his objections? What if Proctor didn’t approve of Vayle’s scheme and materialized as a bishop before them?

  But just as his jaw began to ache from the tension, the vicar turned to the business at hand. “Wilt thou,” he said, fixing Max with a stern look, “have this woman to be thy lawfully wedded wife?”

  Always the trooper, Max agreed to honor her and to comfort her and even to forsake all others. When similarly taxed, Dorie allowed that she would likely do the same, though she didn’t sound quite so positive about it.

  The vicar cleared his throat, and Max fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a ring. The light from the big rose window glanced off it and directly into Vayle’s eyes, no doubt accounting for the sudden pricking behind his lids.

  Echoing the vicar, Max said, “With this ring I thee wed.” His voice took on a bit more enthusiasm as he added, “With my body I thee worship,” and then with defiance, “With all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

  Dorie only lifted her head higher at this reference to their latest squabble, stuck out her hand, and accepted the ring without a whimper. Good girl, Vayle thought, and cleared his throat and blinked his eyes as the vicar wrapped things up expeditiously.

  Winnie sighed and sniffled beside him. Remembering himself, Vayle pulled out a handkerchief and passed it to her as the bridal couple turned on their heels and marched down the aisle. They both looked ready for the firing squad. But that was all right, he told himself. They were wed, and the feud was over, and he was headed home.

  Mrs. Fitzniggle and Gwen followed, Gwen looking back at him with one of those indefinably challenging looks. Winnie rose and, still sniffing, waited for him to join her.

  “No, no, you go on ahead. I would like to spend a moment in—in contemplation.”

  Winnie nodded understandingly and left him alone in the church.

  When the others were gone, Vayle moved to the communion rail. He stood transfigured in shafts of blue and red and yellow as sunlight poured through the elaborate rose window.

  “Francis?” he said aloud. “Where are you?”

  Behind him, wood creaked as if someone had lowered himself to one of the kneelers. He glanced around, but the small church was deserted. Shaking his head, he gazed up at the cross over the altar.

  “Have you kept track, Francis? Max Sevaric and Dorothea Caine are married. The feud is over. I’m ready to go now.” He held out his arms expectantly.

  Nothing happened.

  “Did you hear me? The feud is past history. And we have a deal, don’t we? I’m supposed to wake up in the garden after the duel. The bullet missed me this time. You promised.”

  As if a cloud passed across the sun, the c
hurch grew dim.

  It occurred to him that he ought to be more humble. Dropping to his knees, he templed his hands in a prayerful gesture. “’Struth, I appreciate the second chance. And I did what you asked. So what are you waiting for? I want to be Valerian Caine again. Take me back.”

  He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and waited for a long time. The stone was hard and cold, and he began to shift uncomfortably from knee to knee. Finally he rose and addressed the cross again. “What the devil—I mean, what in heaven is happening here? If I can’t take the word of God, whom can I trust?”

  “Think again,” a voice whispered at his ear.

  He glanced back, but there was no one behind him.

  “Think about what? I was told to end the feud, and so I did. What else—”

  He leaned against the altar rail on both hands. How had he forgotten the rest? In his great good luck at orchestrating the marriage allying the Caines and Sevarics, he ignored the second of his tasks. Dorothea and Max, and Gwen, too, must be happy and at peace on Christmas Day.

  So far, not a one of them was content.

  Vayle closed his eyes. The wedding had been all but a farce, both parties unwilling and still at odds. Gwen faced a lonely future playing spinster aunt to her brother’s children, assuming Dorothea ever allowed Max to consummate the marriage. And from the look on her face as she walked down the aisle, that was not a good bet.

  He had thought his mission over and done with, but it had only just begun.

  Why were people so complicated? Was this another idiosyncrasy of modern times, or had he always been oblivious?

  In the old days, he drank when he was thirsty, and took a woman to bed when he felt the need. He had gambled for the challenge of beating the odds and fenced to experience the exhilaration of besting a worthy opponent. Life was simple. Straightforward. Or so he had always imagined, until now.

  “This is not fair.” He opened his eyes and glared at the cross. “I cannot manipulate feelings. How the deuce am I to make Max and Dorie happy? They have to do that themselves. And Gwen has long since made up her mind to be miserable. She won’t listen to me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve done everything in my power to win her over, but she loathes me still. She is the only woman I ever met who despised me, but she does. And you knew she would, didn’t you?”