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

by Brenda Hiatt

  For a last moment, he gazed out the window and bade farewell to Valerian Caine. Never again would he be the carefree, self-indulgent rake he’d been a century ago. Although that would require an act of will at every moment, he realized. Valerian Caine was gone in name only. Jocelyn Vayle had not shed any of his weaknesses for drinking or gaming or women, and temptation would ever dog his tracks.

  But for Gwen, he could change. ’Struth, she would keep him in line whatever his fleeting inclinations to wander. And he was glad of it.

  As the sun of Christmas morning gilded the room, he turned away from the garden. He would walk that path again, the one he’d paced with a dueling pistol in his hand, but this time with Gwen on his arm. They were both too curious to resist exploring the place where he had died.

  Meantime, he’d a new life to begin, and he couldn’t think of a better way than making love. He started for the bed, but from the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a bare-chested man wearing rumpled breeches. Curious, he approached the cheval mirror and studied his reflection.

  By heavens, he could see himself! And he looked exactly the same, save for the short hair that was unfortunately fashionable these days. At least he was still a handsome devil, with the lean muscled body of a fencer and rather exceptional green eyes. Women had always found him attractive, and he hoped that Gwen did, too.

  He’d little else to offer her.

  Gwen awoke to find herself alone in the bed. Valerian had been snatched away while she slept!

  Her heart turned to ice.

  Rolling over, she clutched to her breast the pillow where he’d laid his head. And then she saw him. He was staring out the window, head bowed as if in prayer.

  Silently, she formed a grateful prayer of her own. Now she would have a chance to say goodbye and thank him for the most wonderful night of her life. She could tell him, again, how very much she loved him.

  As she watched through lowered lashes, he turned and started for the bed. But he paused, a look of surprise on his face, and swung around in front of the mirror.

  If she hadn’t known he was unable to see his own reflection, she’d have thought he was admiring himself. He ran long fingers through his tousled hair, flexed his muscles, and nodded as if in approval.

  What in heaven’s name was going on? She sat up, clutching the sheet over her naked breasts. “Valerian?”

  Without turning, he held out a hand. “Come here, Gwen, and look at this.”

  She retrieved the green velvet robe from the floor, pulled it on, and crossed the room. Immediately he drew her into the circle of his arms, and they stood facing the mirror.

  “What do you see?” he asked softly.

  Confused, she studied the reflection and could find nothing out of the ordinary. “You and me, of course.”

  “That’s what I see, too, Gwen. You and me.” He hugged her warmly. “It’s proof, I think. Now I am really here, all of me firmly planted in this century. Tell me you are glad of it.”

  Her knees gave way as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Distantly she heard his voice calling her name. She sagged in his arms, fighting for air. “What do you mean?” she whispered when the earth stopped shaking and she could breathe again.

  “Forgive me, sweetheart. I’m not handling this as I ought, but I’m more than a bit stunned myself. Come, let’s sit down and I’ll explain everything.” He led her to the chair beside the dressing table and tugged her onto his lap. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so. Did you mean it, Valerian? You are to stay here?”

  “Yes. Never mind how it all came about, because it doesn’t matter and I’m told that I will soon have no memory of the details. But while you were sleeping, judgment was rendered and here I am from now until I die again.” He grinned. “In old age, of natural causes, I hope. No more duels for me.”

  “Oh.” Her mind was spinning with a thousand words, but that was the only one that came out.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said after a moment. “Did you prefer me to vanish after all?”

  He looked so downcast she was sure she’d hurt him. Still, how could she be excited about what must be, for him, a disaster? “But this isn’t what you wanted, Valerian. Did you not wish to go back to what you were before? Take up your former life again?”

  “I found something better,” he said simply. “And by the mercy of God it was granted me.”

  “Oh,” she said again. A heavy lump seemed to have lodged in her throat.

  “I did have a choice, Gwen. Several, as a matter of fact.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I chose you.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes. “You have no obligation to me, Valerian. Truly. When you made love to me, we both assumed it to be for one night only. I never expected more. If you are to make a new life for yourself, do so freely. You are not bound to me in any way.” She willed a smile to her lips. “England is rife with wealthy, charming, beautiful women, and I expect they’ll all be vying for your attentions within a fortnight.”

  He gazed at her somberly, shaking his head. “What a foolish girl you are, Gwen Sevaric. Did last night mean nothing to you? Or have you forgot how we were together?” He pulled her into his arms. “Allow me to remind you.”

  There was nothing gentle about his kiss. And she could not mistake the passion of it as he claimed her with his lips and tongue, his hands seeming to touch her everywhere as they moved over her body. He struck fire at her waist and back, on her thighs and her breasts, until she burned for him again as she had done during their long night of love.

  And when he set her back, she felt beautiful again. This incredible man wanted her still. She gazed into his clear green eyes and was sure of it.

  “I’ll have no more of your bird-witted nonsense,” he told her firmly. “If you cast me off, do so for good reason. ’Struth, I cannot imagine why you’d have a man without history or title or fortune. I’ve a hundred pounds to my name, Gwen, and no skills to acquire more except at the gaming tables.”

  He gave an exaggerated smile. “I would suggest you look elsewhere for a more suitable husband, my sweet… had you not compromised me.”

  Flustered, she gazed into his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “And so you should. I was a virgin, in this century at least, until you had your wicked way with me. For honor’s sake, you must now offer marriage.” He grinned. “If you propose, I’ll say yes.”

  She broke out laughing. Insufferable man! “Why the devil should I propose to you?”

  His expression grew serious. “So I’ll know you really want this, Gwen. A few minutes ago you were at pains to set me free. I mean you to have the same freedom. You must decide if you can bear to spend the rest of your life with a rather useless fellow who has nothing to give you but his love.”

  She gasped. For his love, she would do anything, but the very notion took her breath away. Drab, homely Gwen Sevaric, married to a rake. A charming gamester. A rogue. God save her, the bride of a ghost!

  She reached to touch his face. The stubble of whiskers, faintly auburn, shadowed his chin. She touched the high cheekbones, the arched brows, the forehead creased with a troubled frown.

  Then she ran her fingers under the thick hair at his right temple and felt the traces of a scar where the bullet had struck him down. Valerian Caine.

  “What shall I call you?” she asked faintly. “When we speak the vows. I, Gwendolyn, take you…?”

  With a groan of relief, he kissed her deeply. “My love has a nice ring to it,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Y-yes,” she agreed, “but you’ll require a name, too. Is it to be Valerian? Shall we tell the others who you are?”

  “Were,” he corrected. “The truth must remain our secret, and there will come a time when it does not signify to either of us. Henceforth, I am plain Mr. Jocelyn Vayle.” Laughter danced in his eyes. “’Struth, Jocelyn is a foul name. I daresay ’tis Proctor’s notion of a jest.”

  Gwen started to ask and
then thought better of it. Proctor and Francis were supposedly his favorite saints—eaten by lions, as she recalled—and she was willing to go along. Whatever he chose to tell her about his century in the Afterlife, he would confide in his own good time.

  For now, there were more immediate problems to deal with. “You must return to your own room,” she said urgently, “before Max discovers you spent the night with me.”

  He stopped nibbling at her throat long enough to grumble a mild oath.

  “I am serious, Val—Vayle!” She tugged at his hair. “Whatever his personal inclinations, Max is a dedicated moralist where I am concerned. Men set one standard for themselves and quite another for sisters and wives. Unless you are keen to fight a second duel at Greenbriar Lodge, you must leave immediately.”

  With a last, fervent kiss, he set her on her feet. “If you insist, my sweet, but—”

  A knock at the door cut him off.

  The pounding at the door continued, like a carpenter hammering nails. It could only be Max.

  Swallowing an oath, Vayle put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Maybe he’ll give up.”

  “Max never gives up,” Gwen mouthed silently. “Quick, put on your shirt.”

  His lips quirked, and she glanced down at the velvet robe, far too large for her slender form, now gaping open from breasts to toes. Under his appreciative gaze, her entire body flushed hotly.

  From the hall, Max called out in a rousing voice. “Rise and shine, slugabed! It’s Christmas morning, and we’re ready to light the Yule log.”

  “Never fear,” Vayle murmured as he untied the knot at her waist, drew the folds of the robe around her, and secured the belt again. “Last night I stood at the brink of Hell, and believe me, my love, compared to Proctor, your brother is a lamb. Say something to get rid of him.”

  She cleared her throat. “Max? I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  He did not, as Vayle had hoped, take the hint. “I’ve a cup of chocolate for you. Let me in before it goes cold.”

  Gwen turned anxious eyes to Vayle’s face. “What shall we do? You won’t think him a lamb over pistols in the courtyard.”

  His heart gave a lurch. Dear God! Was this another of Proctor’s bitter jokes? Time seemed to collapse around him as a sudden vision possessed his senses—a door crashing against the wall, another enraged Sevaric charging into the room, a woman’s scream.

  “Cover yourself, Gwen,” Max warned. “I’m coming in!”

  “No!” she squealed, but it was too late.

  The door swung open and Max stepped inside, smiling cheerfully as he looked toward the rumpled, empty bed. Then he turned toward the window and saw Gwen, and the bare-chested man standing beside her, and the cup and saucer he’d been holding shattered against the floor. The chocolate splashed on the rug and the wall.

  In the frozen silence that followed, Vayle reached for Gwen’s small cold hand. Max was the very image of Richard Sevaric, lips curled in a snarl, eyes flashing with murderous intent. It’s not what you are thinking, he wanted to say, but ’struth, it was exactly that.

  Beside him, Gwen let out a tiny breath and he tightened his grip. It was up to him now, but he couldn’t think what to do. Was he to die again, in the same garden, at the hands of another avenging Sevaric?

  “Max?”

  The soft voice from the hall was followed by Dorie herself, and Vayle’s heart returned to its normal place in his chest. Even Francis would not have been more welcome than the imperturbable Lady Sevaric.

  She gazed briefly at the awkward tableau and moved next to her husband, the top of her head level with his shoulder. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Vayle!” she said, as if they had met on the staircase. “I tried your room, but the only response was Robin’s snore. Do finish dressing and hurry on down, will you? I’ve already set the table for breakfast.”

  Max shot her an astonished look, but she only locked his arm in hers and pulled him out of the room. He found his voice just as she closed the door firmly behind them, cutting off what promised to be a ferocious oath.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “At least he didn’t run for his horsewhip,” Gwen said with a gallant attempt at a smile.

  “Of course not! Max is a reasonable man.” And doubtless on his way to prime a pair of dueling pistols, Vayle added to himself as he reached for his shirt. “Dress for Christmas breakfast, love. I’ll talk to him.”

  “But you mustn’t! Not alone, while he is so angry. We’ll face him together. Max won’t hurt you if I’m there, I know!”

  He swallowed his first response to that unintentional insult and busied himself pulling the shirt over his head. On no account would he hide behind a woman, but Gwen was frightened for him. It was oddly touching, if unnecessary.

  “’Struth, I can take care of myself,” he said gently. “Without bloodshed,” he amended when she flinched.

  With a light kiss on the tip of her nose, he navigated past the shards of porcelain and set out to meet his fate for the second time in a century.

  Max was in the parlor, standing at the holly-bedecked window, looking out at the gray day. He turned as Vayle came in. “I had thought you an honorable man,” he said in a voice both reproving and sorrowful. “I trusted you with my sister.”

  Prepared for anger, or even a challenge, Vayle stopped short. There was a strange glint in Max’s dark eyes, and his posture was almost too relaxed for a soldier, let alone one readying for battle. What was going on? The man had every right to be furious. Why was he not?

  Vayle had the eerie sensation he’d just wandered into an ambush of sorts, and virtually unarmed since the whole truth was not his to tell. Not that it signified, of course. Unlike his sister, Max would never accept the truth, or credit that his former houseguest was really Valerian Caine.

  He assumed a pose designed to reveal nothing of his tension, hands clasped behind his back, bare feet set a little apart. “I cannot deny I have betrayed your trust, Lord Sevaric. I accept the consequences. But I am not wholly without honor, and must certainly delope.”

  “Delope?” Now Max looked angry. “What the hell will that accomplish? And how is it honorable to make Gwen a widow before she’s a wife? You, sir, will not squirm out of this so easily!”

  “Squirm?” What the devil was he talking about? “I had no intention of, uh, squirming out of whatever you think I’m trying to squirm out of.” He frowned. “Exactly what is that?”

  From behind him came Gwen’s cool, clear voice. “Yes, Max, what is it you mean?”

  Max made a disgusted sound. “It’s perfectly obvious. I expect Vayle to wed you, immediately if not sooner.”

  As relief swept over him, Vayle turned with a smile to Gwen. But her gaze was fixed on her brother, and he watched with interest as she ruffled up like an offended owl. By now, Max should have learned it was no use ordering her about like a raw subaltern.

  She stepped forward and planted herself by Vayle’s side, her slipper nudging the side of his foot. He recognized a warning to keep his mouth shut.

  “And I expect, dear brother,” she said in a tone so sweet it was surely concealing poison underneath, “that if there are any decisions to be made around here, it is my right alone to make them. I am of age, and you have no say in this matter. None whatsoever.”

  “The devil you say!” Max looked so stunned Vayle almost laughed aloud. “I am your brother. What’s more, I am the head of the Sevaric family, had you forgot? If I say the fellow’s going to wed you, by God he will. And if you don’t like the idea, well, that’s a pity, but you will nevertheless do as you are told.”

  Major tactical bungle, old boy, Vayle thought.

  Gwen marched straight up to her brother and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Hear this, Lord Head of Family. Just because you had to force your bride to the altar doesn’t mean you can do the same to me!”

  This was almost too entertaining to interrupt, but Vayle knew from experience what Gwen in a temper could do to a man. “Now, now, Miss
Sevaric, you know Max only wants what’s best for you.”

  They both looked at him as if surprised he was still in the room. Disconcerted, he cleared his throat. “Perhaps it’s time for us all to be reasonable. Miss Sevaric, I’m sure you meant no insult to your brother and his wife. And you, Lord Sevaric, would not dream of compelling your sister into a marriage she does not wish.”

  When Max looked ready to object to that, Vayle hurried on. “Thing is, whatever my personal inclinations in this matter, I am demonstrably not the best of all possible husbands.”

  “You’re good enough,” Max ruled immediately. “She must have thought so last night, or she’d not have admitted you to her bedroom.” As his voice faded on the last word, a flush stained his cheekbones.

  Gwen gave him a decidedly fiendish grin. “But Mr. Vayle was there as my lover. Max. Nothing more. And what is agreeable in a lover does not necessarily qualify a man for anything else.”

  Vayle was fairly sure she meant to tease, but her words stung nonetheless. “If I’m to be disqualified, could you be more specific as to the reasons why?”

  “There are no reasons,” Max said with a wave of his hand. “You’re a good enough husband for me.”

  “Then you marry him,” Gwen retorted.

  This was definitely getting out of hand. With Gwen more bent on outmastering her brother than achieving her goal, they could all wind up in the soup. “I am more than willing to wed her,” Vayle declared staunchly. “If she will have me, of course.”

  “Not to offend,” Gwen said with an unholy gleam in her eyes, “but what have you to offer beyond a remarkable talent for making love?”

  That question silenced both men for a long time.

  When Gwen tapped her foot, clearly expecting an answer, Vayle cast about for something to say. “I am charming?” he ventured.

  “Not at the moment,” she informed him. “But let me be of assistance. You are handsome. You have been kind to Winnie, and while Max may not appreciate this overmuch, you reconciled Robin to our family.”

  “Good enough for me!” Max put his hand on Gwen’s shoulder. “Kind heart, good looks, accomplished in the bedchamb—well, never mind that. What more could you want?”