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

by Brenda Hiatt

  Even the weather was unfavorable for his cause. The rain had started again, pattering against the windows. Perhaps, he thought with treacherous weakness, he might be spared the roof work tomorrow. Dorie wouldn’t expect him to work in the rain.

  Of course, Dorie didn’t expect him to work at all. She never assigned him tasks, and when he took them on she always shook her head and said, “Pray don’t bother, really. This isn’t your sort of work!”

  This image of him as an effete aristocrat, too dainty to dirty his hands while his wife blistered hers, goaded Max into Herculean labors. Her startled praise and anxious cautions only made him more determined to prove himself. Max Sevaric could handle anything this house threw at him, even if he had to retaliate with the unfamiliar hammer instead of the sword he preferred in battle. With Dorie observing his every move, he refused to fail.

  The patter of rain became a pounding, and the old windows shook. Now the ceiling crack was glistening ominously. The moisture congealed into a single drop. It grew and grew and drooped and finally dropped off and splashed onto the comforter beside his arm.

  At least today he’d managed to get the shingles over Dorie’s room replaced, he thought as another drop, splendidly aimed, doused the candle. Her bed would stay warm and dry, cozy and comfortable.

  The thought, and a raindrop on his forehead, made him groan, and he pulled the pillow over his head and ordered himself asleep.

  He came bolt awake when something hit him. My arm, he thought, too blank to panic. Artillery, grape shot, shrapnel. He felt his shirt near his shoulder and found it wet with blood. There was no pain, no cut. His shirt wasn’t even torn. Distractedly he felt around him and came up with the projectile. It crumbled in his hand.

  Plaster.

  Where the hell am I? he thought, struggling to a sitting position.

  Indoors. In Dorie’s house. Not in her bed.

  Right. The missing shingles, the glistening crack. Rainwater, not blood, on his shirt.

  The ceiling was breaking apart.

  With a curse he lit the candle and surveyed the damage. A hole about the size of his fist punched through the stain on the ceiling. What a capital night he had ahead, waiting for the roof to cave in on him.

  But in the morning, when he told Dorie, she would be apologetic and offer to help him clean up the mess, and—

  He lay very still, contemplating that sagging stain. Then he leaped up, ignoring the creak of the bedsprings under his stockinged feet. He didn’t need to stretch to reach the ceiling, and his hand fit nicely in the hole.

  This plaster was an unworthy opponent; with the slightest yank, it came apart at the crack and collapsed, showering him with dust and the comforter with chunks. The hole, grown a dozenfold, gaped, and through chinks in the roof he could see the gray-black sky.

  Coughing, he dropped back to the bed and inserted himself under the laden comforter. Then he cleared his throat and let out a bellow he hoped resounded with affronted dignity.

  His reward came quickly to the door. Dorie stood there petite and irresistible in her flannel robe, a candle held trembling in her hand. “Max? What is wrong?”

  His Christian name. That almost made up for the humiliation of being plastered into his own bed.

  “The ceiling caved in. I—” He knew a moment’s regret for his abandoned ideals, then called himself sternly to account. All’s fair in love and war; even Wellington would agree with that. “I think a piece might have hit me in the head. I’m a bit dizzy. Can’t see very clearly.”

  Instantly she crossed to the bed, her bare feet crunching the bits of plaster on the floor. As she sat the candle on the night table, her face was anxious. “What can I do?”

  He pressed his hand to his forehead and managed an artistic groan. “Help me out, will you?”

  With a soothing murmur, she pulled back the comforter, spilling more plaster and revealing more Max. She looked startled at his open-necked cotton jersey and trooper’s woolen trousers, worn more for warmth than fashion or modesty.

  A tactical error. He should have gone to bed in his uniform, or at least hunting garb. But there was no help for it now. He sat up, remembering to moan and clutch his temple, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  She put her arm around his shoulders, and gazing into his eyes, asked tenderly, “Do you think you can walk out of here?”

  “Yes, of course. Of course. I’m fine.” Taking shameless advantage of the support her body offered, he levered himself to a stand.

  “It’s just that I’m so tired. And my head aches. And my arm…” That came out rather like a whimper, so hastily he straightened into a more heroic, yet still wounded posture, with only one shoulder drooping. That let his arm hang loose and brush innocently against her sweet, flannel-covered bosom.

  She clasped him about the chest with both arms, as if she thought to carry him to safety. She was very warm, and soft in that lovely place between her arms. “Yes, yes, you must rest!”

  “But where?” he asked piteously, glancing in a disoriented way around the room as she led him to the door.

  “I don’t know! I haven’t got the linens mended for the blue room, and the yellow room’s mattress is being reticked.”

  He heaved a martyred sigh. “It will have to be the couch in the parlor, I think.”

  “The couch? Oh, no, that will never do! You’re far too tall to be comfortable there. And you must rest comfortably, after such an ordeal.”

  He allowed himself the briefest of moans and let a bit more of his weight rest on her. “Yes, I would like to rest. My head—”

  She pressed tighter to him and guided him into the dark hallway. “You must come to my room. The fire is out, but the bed is warm, and I will be able to monitor your breathing as you sleep. Head injuries so often result in concussion, you know.”

  “But—”

  “No more protests. I shan’t sleep at all, if I must worry about you in the drawing room, suffering with your poor head!”

  And so Max finally entered his wife’s bed, unbloody but bowed. He held his head heroically and cut short a cry of pain as he lay back on the sweet-smelling pillow slip. There was another pillow next to his, on a bed big enough for them both. And the sheets were warm with the memory of her body.

  As he gave in to the wonder of this, Dorie bustled about, fussing with a water glass and a hot water bottle and a compress for his forehead. She drew a chair to the bedside.

  “You’re not going to sit there?” Max had no need to invent panic. His strategy would fail if she slept sitting up.

  “I thought you might be more comfortable alone.”

  He knew he would be ashamed of himself in the morning, but it was night still, so he pulled out all the stops. “What if I get feverish? You won’t know it, because you will be so far away, there in that chair.”

  She hesitated, her hand on the arm of the chair, her eyes on him. Then she tied the sash more tightly around her waist, blew out the candle, and slipped into the bed beside him.

  He held his breath. Yes, she was between the same sheets he was, only scant inches away. His hand almost made it to her hip when her fingers clasped his arm.

  At least she didn’t push him away. Instead, her fingertips rested lightly on his wrist. “There,” she whispered. “I’ll know if you get agitated. Oh! Your pulse is racing! Perhaps I should send for the doctor!”

  Muttering something brave to forestall her escape, he closed his eyes and concentrated on calming himself and his heartbeat. An impossible task, given the way she was leaning toward him and radiating that sweet warmth in his direction. But the men of the Light Division specialized in the impossible, and eventually she pronounced his pulse normal and lay back down, only her fingertips touching him. It was hell. And heaven, too.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Vayle had become a positive Nemesis, tracking her through the long cold days and haunting her restless nights.

  Gwen stirred her tea till it splashed out on her na
pkin. It was after dinner, and the Nemesis was due elsewhere. But still he lingered in the drawing room, lounging back in his chair, his teacup balanced negligently in his hand.

  The laughter of Winnie and Mrs. Fitzniggle filled the room and must have gratified Vayle no end. When they begged, he immediately produced another outrageous story for their amusement.

  Sycophants, the both of them, hanging on his every word and singing his praises at every opportunity. They could not understand why she disliked the man. Nor could she explain, because only a deep instinct told her that he was a charlatan.

  In the two weeks since Max’s wedding, they had conspired to throw her into Vayle’s company with treats she could not resist. But every lure came with a hook. They would make up a party to see Hamlet, but only if she agreed to go to Lady Jersey’s ball the night before. Mrs. Fitzniggle detested opera, but would endure The Magic Flute if Gwen accepted the Duchess of Argyle’s invitation.

  One way or another, she found herself on Vayle’s arm almost every night. And she resented him all the more because she invariably enjoyed herself.

  He had made a great many friends in London, and like Max he saw to it that young men solicited her hand for every dance, except for the waltzes. Those he reserved for himself.

  In his embrace, she felt almost beautiful. Although he never complimented her, not since she told him how she disliked his flummery, he had a way of looking at her that sang of silent praise. Some nights she came home nearly drunk with the heady wine of popularity, her feet aching and her spirits soaring.

  Unaccustomed to attention, she found in herself a surprising store of witty retorts and conversation that others seemed to find appealing. The effect was so disorienting that sometimes she regarded herself from a distance, as if the real Gwen hovered near the ceiling, looking down on an almost pretty young woman holding court in a circle of admirers.

  And always she saw Vayle, a proprietary smile on his face as if he’d orchestrated her success. She supposed he had, at the beginning. But as her confidence grew, she was able to walk into a crowded ballroom with assurance of a warm welcome, even on the rare occasions when Vayle did not come along.

  To her vast surprise, she had attracted a pair of devoted suitors. Lord Mumblethorpe never failed to dance with her twice, and it was all she could do not to laugh at the ardent expression on his sweet face. The Honorable Barry Leftbanks, heir to a great fortune, asked her at every opportunity when her brother was expected to return. Clearly he meant to make an offer, which she would naturally refuse although she’d not been able to dash his hopes. No man had ever courted her before, and she had no idea how to deal with adulation.

  That was the price of social success, she supposed. Always she had to guard herself. She dared not truly speak her mind because her witty remarks would be repeated, out of context, in parlors across London. And humor didn’t travel well. On a tabby’s tongue, Miss Sevaric’s most casual observation might be transformed into a poisonous, hurtful attack on someone she barely knew.

  Only with Vayle could she relax and be herself. He took no offense at her sharp tongue and sarcastic wit, even when it was directed at him. And he didn’t expect her to be a ninnyhammer just because she was a woman. In her experience, men didn’t approve of intelligence in a female, but Vayle seemed to delight in it.

  As she rang for another pot of tea, she felt his gaze on her, inquiring and amused. No doubt he was piqued that she had failed to attend to his every bon mot. How flattered he would be if she confessed where her thoughts had led.

  With his natural grace, he came to his feet and crossed to the game table. “Up for another clash at chess, Miss Sevaric? I believe you are down ten matches to nine.”

  Her heart took a leap, but she forced it back into place. “I thought you had an appointment this evening.”

  “It can wait.” He opened the drawer and began setting pawns and rooks and knights precisely in the middle of their squares.

  She joined him at the table, watching his long, graceful fingers align the ivory and onyx pieces, and wondering if his plans for later included a woman.

  Or perhaps he intended to join up with Robin Caine again. Now that she was in society, she heard all the gossip, and this particular rumor had not escaped her. Vayle and Lord Lynton fenced together, patronized fashionable clubs, and were all too often mentioned in the same breath. It was a good reason, if she needed one, to distrust Vayle and his attentions.

  Of late, Lynton was accounted good ton. She knew that was because Max had married his sister, and she loathed him all the more for taking advantage of the situation. When Max returned to London, with or without Dorothea, he’d soon put Robin Caine in his place.

  For now, she could only wait and watch as Vayle played his enigmatic games with them all.

  Tonight, though, chess was the only game that mattered. As the elderly ladies plied their needlework by the fire, Gwen took a white pawn and made a deliberately provocative opening move.

  Vayle chuckled. “No prisoners, I gather.”

  “None.”

  While he studied the board, plotting his strategy, she thought about her father and the chess lessons that began when she was scarcely out of leading strings. Craving his approval, she had taken care to master the game, but Papa lost interest when she was good enough to beat him. By that time, he was wholly obsessed with the feud.

  Although she was out of practice now, Vayle had come to respect her skill after their first few matches. He even admitted it. And she played her strongest against him, probably because she wanted so much to best him at something.

  How she envied his self-assurance. It was all the challenge she needed, if only to prove Jocelyn Vayle could not control her as he controlled everyone else, bending them all to his will with that offhanded charm and those luminous green eyes.

  To his credit, he never permitted her an easy win. On the contrary, he fought her tooth and nail, and this evening was no different. Finally, with the evening far advanced, they agreed to a stalemate.

  “What a reckless and tenacious creature you are,” he said, as he returned chess pieces to their drawer. “I wonder at the contradiction. First you lured me into outrageous positions with daring gambits, then you pulled back and waited for me to make a mistake.”

  “You never did,” she said with a rueful smile.

  “’Struth, this devilish encounter took all the concentration I could summon. And yet I cannot recall respecting an opponent more.” He didn’t let her enjoy that compliment long. Shaking his head, he added, “It is a pity, however, that you lost the gamester’s edge when you might have seized the advantage. Had you been a bit less cautious at the end, you might have taken my king.”

  True, she admitted to herself. But caution had become second nature, at chess and at life. Still the praise warmed her heart. And she was grateful for his advice, because it meant he saw her as a worthy adversary who could stand up to constructive criticism.

  “You might have won,” she reminded him, “had you refrained from sacrificing your bishop in that doomed assault on my queen.”

  He closed the drawer with a snap. “Bishops are meant to be martyred. What surer path to heaven, after all?”

  That was heresy, or something like it, but so very Vayle that she could only sigh. He seemed peculiarly fond of martyrs, with his devotion to… what were their names? Proctor and Franciscus?

  “Nevertheless,” he said with a wide grin, “I declare us evenly matched for now. Next time I shall be more ready for your astonishing lack of restraint in the early game.”

  “And I shall befuddle you with an altogether different strategy,” she retorted, pleased when her comment drew a laugh.

  Sometimes she could almost like him. He seemed to value her for the same qualities she valued in herself. But then he took out his watch to check the time, and she remembered how that slender hand had cradled Lady Melbrook’s breast.

  Did he plan an assignation with her tonight? Would he touch Lad
y Melbrook again, even more intimately, and forget all about the plain girl who only inspired him to the passion of a victory at the chess table?

  At least Gwen had no illusions. She was nothing special to him, although sometimes he made her feel that way. She had to keep reminding herself that he was not to be trusted on any count.

  His association with Robin Caine was evidence of that. And somehow, she suspected, he was implicated in the events that led to her brother’s disastrous marriage. By now, Vayle fully understood the state of war between the Sevarics and the Caines, never mind that her brother had deloped by marrying Dorothea.

  In that aspect Vayle was likely to be disappointed. An annulment was the only logical conclusion to the farce, and once Max had run his bride to ground, he would see to it. So far he had sent only the briefest of notes, very like the ones he had sent from the Peninsula: All is well. Don’t worry.

  She refused to believe he might have caught up with his wife. The possibility that they might consummate the marriage, making it real, was too horrible to contemplate.

  No, the battle wasn’t over. It had just moved to more treacherous ground, with Vayle serving both sides, consorting with her worst enemy while living in her house and exploiting her brother’s good name.

  She wanted him gone. She wanted him to disappear in a puff of smoke. She wanted, above all things, to stop wanting him.

  Suddenly cold to the bone, she stood and gave him a false smile. “Surely you must be on your way, Mr. Vayle, or you’ll miss your engagement. And I have developed a slight headache. Good night, sir.”

  After making her farewells to Winnie and Mrs. Fitzniggle, she made a somewhat breathless escape into the passageway. To her annoyance, Vayle followed, looking concerned. “Can I be of help?” he asked with unmistakable sincerity.

  Leave this house, she wanted to scream, Leave me alone. “It’s nothing,” she said evenly. “I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”

  His green eyes shone like emeralds on fire. “Dream of flowers,” he said mysteriously. “Flowers and children and love.”