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

by Brenda Hiatt

  Dorie glanced over at her husband and suppressed a sigh. If she had “captured“ him, she was finding him rather hard to tame.

  They spoke no more about Robin, or anything else of substance. But later that night, sleepless in her not-quite-conjugal bed, Dorie turned on her side and studied the bulky dark outline of Max’s shoulder.

  His breathing came in the light regular rhythm of sleep, and she was almost resentful. Here she was, relentlessly wakeful, and he slept as quietly as a child. But she supposed a soldier must learn to rest no matter what the turmoil in his environment.

  At least, she thought, snuggling down under the covers, his body kept the bed warm on this cold night.

  She couldn’t love a man who hated her family, could she? For didn’t that mean he hated her? She was, as much as Robin, the scion of the Caines.

  She never wanted the feud, though. A moderate, conciliatory child, she distrusted obsession, and tried to ignore her uncle when he cursed the Sevarics and plotted their downfall. Robin liked to join in and mutter a few curses of his own, but that was no more than a fatherless boy’s search for masculine approval. No matter what bitter sentiments Robin echoed, he was harmless, except to himself.

  But Max wasn’t. He had proved how dangerous he could be by completing the ruin of her family. And now he posed a special danger to Dorie. He offered her what she had always longed for—a home, a family, a beloved—but only if she surrendered herself and her past. And then what would she have left to give him?

  Quietly, without waking him, she pulled on her robe and slippers and left the room. Closing the door gently behind her, she found her way by memory down the stairs through the dark. In the chilly parlor, she lit a candle and sitting at her desk, took up her quill.

  The candlelight flickered on her blank page as she hesitated, wondering what salutation to use. “My dear Miss Sevaric” suited the young lady who had given her breakfast with a neutrality that bordered on scorn. “Dear Gwen” suited better the girl who helped her dress for the wedding. But neither suited Dorie’s purpose, to reach out to the one who knew her husband best.

  Finally, in a rush, she wrote:

  My dear sister,

  I pray you don’t mind that I call you sister, but we have by some chance become related, and I hope to make that true in heart as well as law. You were kind to me before my wedding, and I beg your kindness now.

  I have learned these past weeks that my husband esteems you, for he speaks highly of your wisdom and good sense. In that spirit, I turn to you for aid.

  Lord Sevaric has been kind to me, kinder perhaps than the circumstances of our marriage merit. I would like to return that kindness. I beg you to join us here at Greenbriar Lodge to celebrate this first holiday of our life together. That will make this truly a family occasion, and more joyful for Lord Sevaric.

  Stopping to mend her pen, Dorie had time to reflect on the meagerness of a family holiday with only three persons in attendance. What would the rest of the London household do for the holidays? The dragon Mrs. Fitzniggle had her own family, and probably they would have no choice but to take her at Yuletide. But Miss Winnie and Mr. Vayle, she suspected, had nowhere else to go. On impulse, she added,

  Perhaps Miss Winnie and Mr. Vayle could be persuaded to come also. Lord Sevaric has said that Mr. Vayle should consider Sevaric House his home, and I extend him the same welcome to my house.

  Before she went on, Dorie had to gather her courage. She wasn’t used to confiding her troubles in others, much less a new acquaintance who, she suspected, disliked her. But she had nowhere else to turn. Courage, she told herself sternly, and took up her pen again.

  Now I appeal to you as a sister. You know your brother best. I had hoped that our marriage would diminish his anger toward my family, but that has not occurred. Instead, his hatred of my brother seems only to have increased, so much that he expects me to prove my loyalty to him by abandoning Robin. As a sister yourself, you must understand how difficult that is.

  Perhaps you have some insight into his antipathy? If so, I beg you to share it with me. I feel certain if I knew why he feels this way about my brother, I might find some way to conciliate them.

  Please understand that I mean only the best for your brother. This union began inauspiciously, but I have the greatest respect for Lord Sevaric, and mean to be a good wife to him. If you can find it in your heart to help me, I would remain always,

  Your grateful sister, Dorothea Sevaric.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Thank you, Clootie.” Vayle folded the scrap of paper and slid it in his pocket. “I’ll make good use of this address tonight.”

  The valet produced the cheerless twist of his lips that served him for a smile. “I’ll send word ahead so that Mrs. Benson will be expecting you. Her clients are selected with discretion, as are the women she provides. You will not be disappointed. And if you prefer diversions of a more unusual sort—”

  “The usual will suffice,” Vayle assured him. “First I must endure a tedious musicale with the ladies and contrive an excuse to leave early. You needn’t wait up for me tonight.”

  Clootie might have winked, if his face weren’t so tight. “Should she ask, I shall inform Mrs. Fitzniggle that you retired with the headache and cannot be disturbed.”

  Vayle chuckled. “She runs a tight ship, when it suits her. I rely on you to cover my tracks. See that the butler has my hat and the rest, will you? I’ll take a glass of sherry in the drawing room while I’m waiting.”

  He chose brandy instead, to dull his senses for the amateur performances at the musicale, and consoled himself with thoughts of what was in store when he made his escape.

  At long last, he would have a woman in his arms. A naked, willing woman intent on pleasuring him. After his century of celibacy, every nerve in his body ached with longing.

  Proctor’s censure was inevitable. But he’d begun this enterprise expecting the worst of Valerian Caine and would not be surprised when his least-favorite charge fell from grace. No matter. Whatever the wages of sin, the erstwhile Valerian Caine intended this night to sample liberally from the garden of earthly delights. And on that thought, he poured himself another glass of brandy.

  ’Struth, he was already doomed. Only five days remained until Christmas, and for all he knew Max was still in hot pursuit of his bride. Dorie was wily enough to elude him for several decades if she set her mind to it. And as for Gwen—Gwen remained distant, obstinate, and mysterious.

  Women! Outside of bed, what man could satisfy any one of them?

  Wonderful creatures, though. They never failed to intrigue him. Even Gwen Sevaric, with her waspish personality, made him long to explore the source of her unquenchable spirit. More times than he could count, he’d put aside other interests to coax a smile from her.

  He never could resist a challenge, he reflected, pulling the snuffbox from his pocket. Only arrogance explained his determination to win her over. He’d a better chance of securing Proctor’s respect than Gwen’s affection, which made his efforts all the more ridiculous. Proctor would determine his fate, and Gwen could never be part of it.

  He sprinkled a bit of redolent powder on his wrist and inhaled deeply. After several failed efforts, Fribourg and Treyer had created a blend similar to the one he used to favor. The scent of snuff would be his last and only bond with his former life, unless Francis produced a last-minute miracle.

  For a Guardian, Francis certainly kept his distance. And he wasn’t likely to show up at Mrs. Benson’s establishment either, although the idea of Francis at a brothel tickled his fancy. Perhaps he’d rush in to—

  “Mr. Vayle?”

  Gwen stepped into the room, wearing the dark, plain sort of dress she favored when she stayed at home. Her hair was down about her shoulders, and her eyes were cloudy with distress.

  “Oh, my dear,” he said, moving toward her.

  She lifted a hand, effectively holding him at a distance. “I’ll not be joining you this evening,�
�� she said without inflection, as if she’d rehearsed the speech. “I see that you are already dressed. Mrs. Fitzniggle has no great interest in the musicale, but Lady Cameron does not admit unaccompanied bachelors. If you wish to attend, Mrs. Fitzniggle and Winnie have agreed to make up a party.”

  “Indeed they must not. I can amuse myself elsewhere.” He knew the precise location of “elsewhere,” and his spirits soared in anticipation. “You will require their company if you are ill.”

  “I’m perfectly fine!” After that brief outburst, she regained her self-control and stared down at her clasped hands. “There is one bit of news. I had today a letter from Lady Sevaric. She and my brother are at Greenbriar Lodge, her former home, and have been these last few weeks.”

  “Ah.”

  “So now we need not worry about them. And she conveyed a message to you from Max. You are to regard Sevaric House as your own for as long as you choose to remain.”

  “Most kind of Lord Sevaric,” he said quietly, “but I’ll be here another few days at the most. I daresay you’ll be pleased to see the last of me.”

  She regarded him steadily. “Do you expect me to deny it? If your vanity requires a token protest, I shall prepare a speech of flattery and regret to be delivered on the occasion of your departure.”

  He would have laughed, if not for the unhappiness in her eyes. “Is there anything at all I can do for you, Miss Sevaric?”

  “Of course not.” She turned, and then looked at him over her shoulder. “But thank you.”

  As he watched, her shoulders slumped. Her hand shook when she reached for the latch. And then she emitted a small sound, like a hurt kitten.

  Without thought, he rushed to the door and put both hands against it, imprisoning her with his body and arms. “Not yet,” he said firmly. “If you are to cry, you will not do so alone.”

  She went rigid, making herself narrow so as not to touch him. “I am not a weepy female,” she said in an icy voice. “I have never been that.”

  He lifted a hand and stroked it down her cheek. “I know, Gwendolyn. You are brave and strong to a frightening degree. But this is unmistakably a tear.”

  “My tear, and none of your business. Nor have you leave to call me Gwendolyn.”

  “True, but I am an impertinent fellow, as you have often remarked. And—”

  Her elbow planted itself in his ribs.

  With a loud Ooof, he took an involuntary step back and dropped the snuffbox he’d been holding. It landed directly between Gwen’s feet.

  Expecting her to flee, he was astonished when she gazed at it for a long moment. As if in a trance, she lowered herself, crouching on bent knees. Her hand went out, slowly, and picked it up.

  He waited in silence, wondering why it fascinated her so. He could see only the top of her bent head and her fingertips moving over the enameled crest.

  Then she uncoiled with the speed of a striking snake and slapped his face so hard black spots danced in front of his eyes.

  “Where did you get this?” She swung again, but this time he was quick enough to catch her arm and use it to pull her against him.

  “That’s enough, my dear. You have full leave to rip me to flinders if I merit it, but not before you tell me why.” Ignoring her protests and careful to evade her kicking feet, he pulled her to a divan and sat her down.

  As her fury subsided, the tears came in earnest. She let the snuffbox fall onto her lap, and didn’t protest when he drew her into his arms.

  Face buried against his shoulder, she wept hot tears he knew had been stored inside for a very long time. He felt them against his neck and held her close, rubbing her back gently, saying nothing. He had no idea how to deal with such profound grief. All he could do was give her safe harbor.

  She would not rest there long, he feared. She would emerge like a spitting cat, furious because he had seen the vulnerable woman under the prickly image she presented to the world.

  So proud and fierce, Gwen Sevaric. He admired her courage all the more now that she had yielded, momentarily, to her desolation.

  Obviously he was connected to it, beyond his unwelcome presence in her house, but how? Yes, he was a Caine. The originator of the feud, in fact. But she could not know that.

  Without question she had suffered because of the antagonism between the families, as had Robin and Max and Dorothea. And yet, more than the others, she had always seemed to him detached from the quarrel.

  Then he remembered what Winnie had said that first night he spent in this house. Until her father’s death, Gwen served him as housekeeper and secretary. She was permitted no life of her own, no come-out in society, no suitors. She never had a chance to live any of the dreams young girls cherish.

  All she had was her position here as mistress of the house. Dorie’s letter must have reminded her that soon she would be replaced. No wonder she was overset.

  But that wouldn’t reduce her to this storm of tears.

  Gwen had the strength and resilience of Toledo steel. Under ordinary circumstances, he was sure, she would take her brother’s marriage and its consequences without flinching. There had to be more to it. Something to do with that damned snuffbox.

  So much for his evening plans. His lips curved in an ironic grin. Proctor would not even credit him for resisting temptation, because given a choice, he would be writhing on satin sheets at Mrs. Benson’s brothel. But he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t leave Gwen alone.

  She had gone still, and with a sigh he leaned away from her, holding her shoulders with both hands. “Tell me what is wrong,” he said sternly. “I’ll not let you go until I’ve heard the whole of it.” When she failed to respond, he shook her gently. “’Struth, Gwendolyn, you cannot stay in hiding.”

  “You’ve no right,” she protested, pushing ineffectually at his chest.

  “I know. But I am here, and you must speak of this.”

  Her head lowered. “I already did, to Max, and that was a mistake. It only hurt him. Now his wife has asked me why he cannot let go of the feud while she is willing to end it. But he can’t, because of me. And if I tell her the reason it will bring her even more pain. Oh, damn.”

  She was making little sense, but at least she was talking. He let go of her and gave her his handkerchief. “We could both use a drink, I believe.”

  On the way to the sideboard, he stopped at the door, turned the key, and slid it in his pocket.

  “You needn’t lock me in!”

  “Merely assuring our privacy. Will Mrs. Fitzniggle succumb to the vapors when she hears of this, do you think?”

  She managed a faint smile. “In her judgment, I am too commonplace for scandal.”

  “Then she is a fool.” He handed her a glass of brandy and resumed his seat beside her. “Under the circumstances, that makes her an ideal chaperone.”

  The distraction had done its work, because Gwen’s hand was steady as she sipped from the glass. Her eyes widened in surprise. “It burns.” She took another drink. “But I quite like it.”

  He smiled, wishing they could simply play chess or talk of inconsequential things. He was good at easy social congress, without expectations on either side. But Gwen needed more, and he knew he could not give it to her in the short time that remained to him. Besides, whatever was tormenting her, she had already told her brother, and if anything could be done to help her, Max would have seen to it.

  He gazed at the snuffbox on her lap and at the initials winking at him in the light of the chandelier. However distantly, he was responsible in great part for her unhappiness. His throat tightened.

  “I am sorry for attacking you,” she said. “Your cheek is still red. Are you injured?”

  “Only my pride. Well, perhaps a bruised rib or two. In my defense, you rather took me unaware.”

  “I was not expecting it either,” she said. “You will find this difficult to understand, but it’s as though I was transported to another time and place when I saw this.” She lifted the snuffbox. “How ca
me you to have it?”

  “’Twas a gift,” he said carefully. “From Robin Caine.”

  “I should have known that. The two of you have become great friends. For that reason, I mustn’t tell you anything more. This is not your quarrel.”

  “No? However much you wish me to mind my own business, I’m as meddlesome as an old aunt. And more relentless than your brother, Gwendolyn. I doubt you have told him, or anyone else, the entire story. You struck out at me because you were unable to fight back in that other time and place. Am I right?”

  She regarded him warily. “On all counts. Has Robin spoken of—”

  “Certainly not. But he is convinced you despise him and takes care to avoid your presence. ’Struth, that is why he failed to attend his sister’s wedding.”

  “I do despise him, with reason. But I regret more than ever that this has affected Max and Dorothea. Because of me, they’ll never be wholly free to make a new life for themselves.” She stared broodingly at the snuffbox. “If only I could disappear as if I never was.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what it meant, my dear.” Gently, he took the snuffbox from her hand and put it on the cushion behind him, out of her sight. “What did Robin do to you? You still dream of it. Winnie told me you have nightmares, and a few minutes ago you relived a terrifying experience. Fear will continue to haunt you, I believe, until you face what happened straight on. Only then can you put it behind you.”

  “Telling you will accomplish that?”

  “Probably not,” he said honestly. “But it will be a start, and you may rely on my discretion. Give me everything, Gwen, from the beginning.”

  For a long time she was silent, staring into the brandy like a fortune-teller reading messages at the bottom of a teacup. He was casting about for some way to prod her when she began to speak, tonelessly, never looking at him.

  “My father died almost two years ago, and I was alone except for the servants until Max came home from the war. One afternoon I was returning from the shops, without my maid because she had a cold. A carriage pulled over, and I was swept inside. I tried to scream and was quickly gagged. Then something, a pillow slip I think, was pulled over my head.”