Regency Romp 03 - The Alabaster Hip

by Maggie Fenton

  “We shall see about that,” Lady Elizabeth said with an ominously determined tone to her voice and began to take down Minerva’s hair.

  “Who knows? Perhaps Mr. Essex shall be in attendance tonight,” Minerva said teasingly, hoping to lighten her friend’s unusually somber mood. “And he shall indeed fall in love with you.”

  Lady Elizabeth’s reaction was not at all what Minerva was expecting, however. The girl’s expression went curiously blank, and a blush crept on her cheeks. “Yes, well, I have quite abandoned that particular hope,” she said after a moment, sounding strangled.

  Minerva was shocked at this about-face. The girl had been extremely committed to her objective not two days ago. “What? When did this happen?” she demanded.

  Lady Elizabeth refused to meet Minerva’s eyes in the mirror. “Er…when I read ‘The Alabaster Hip.’ It is patently obvious the poet’s affections are already engaged.”

  Though privately Minerva thought the poem was, at heart, more a lament about the poet’s inability to write—which explained the last three fallow years—it was hard to deny Lady Elizabeth’s claim. It was indubitably a love poem. Essex hadn’t penned one of those since his early sonnets—though even then, those had been about heartbreak more than anything else.

  “The Alabaster Hip” was different from anything else the poet had ever written: overt eroticism without even the pretext of a heroic epic surrounding it, and a melancholic longing for romantic love he’d long since seemed to put behind him in his other works. It was at once the saddest thing she’d ever read and the most utterly romantic. The Misstophers were doubtless flinging themselves on divans with mournful sighs all across London. Even she’d felt like doing so just a tiny little bit, but she had so far restrained herself. She’d settled for a mental swoon. And another reading. But as for the poet having fallen in love . . .

  Well, that seemed a rather large leap for Lady Elizabeth to have made. Something deeper was at work here.

  “I’m not so sure you can tell that from one poem,” Minerva said doubtfully.

  “Perhaps not,” Lady Elizabeth murmured, though she didn’t sound the least bit convinced. “But though I will always be a loyal admirer of Essex, I have decided to move on to more . . . realistic goals.”

  “That sounds . . . practical,” Minerva said, feeling oddly disappointed about the girl’s sudden show of maturity. She’d hoped that Lady Elizabeth would come to her senses on the matter of her infatuation, but now that it had come to pass, she was surprised to feel little relief. She didn’t like seeing Lady Elizabeth so subdued.

  “It is what I must be, until I am free of Poxley,” Lady Elizabeth said firmly.

  “I do hope this works, then,” Minerva said, infusing as much optimism into her voice as she could. “And surely Lord Marlowe shall discover some way to warn off Oxley.”

  Lady Elizabeth’s wry smile revealed her doubts on the matter. They both knew the earl had the upper hand, and Minerva’s heart sank over her friend’s bleak future. “Perhaps. The viscount’s willingness to subject himself to an evening at Almack’s shows that he is at least trying.”

  THE VISCOUNT WAS indeed trying, for he joined Minerva and his sister in the front hall that evening looking like a true disciple of Brummell. His broad shoulders were stuffed into a midnight-black tailcoat that clung to his powerful body like a second skin, a snowy-white cravat folded into an elaborate waterfall and pinned by an enormous jewel at his throat. His long, lean legs were encased in tight white trousers, his usual scuffed hessians had been traded for shiny black dancing pumps, and his usually untamed locks were pomaded and shaped into something more fashionably tousled.

  He held a chapeau bras in one hand and white gloves in the other, and he looked as if he were about as comfortable in the rig as a wolf might be in sheep’s clothing. Only the admonishing—and rather teary—looks from Pymm, who trailed after his master with a clothes brush as if unwilling to abandon his masterpiece, kept the viscount from pulling at his cravat and ruining the whole effect.

  Minerva hoped he managed to restrain himself for the night, for he looked . . .

  Well, he looked rather delicious. Just when had the debauched Lord Marlowe transformed himself into such a fine specimen? Or had it been there the entire time she’d lived in his household, underneath all of his cant and banyans?

  She felt that same hot, slightly queasy feeling she had in the gardens when the viscount had caught her in his arms, and she suddenly knew what it was—finally let herself acknowledge it.

  Attraction.

  Oh, good Lord, she was attracted to the viscount. More than that, she feared she had already tipped over into full-fledged infatuation, judging from the way she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him at the moment or control the blush that was sure to be evident on her cheeks.

  At first, she’d thought her feelings toward the viscount were purely those of exasperation and, on occasion, utter bewilderment at his eccentricities, but over the past few weeks, it was hard to ignore the shift toward . . . something else. Though she had tried. Valiantly.

  So yes, she was a bit thrown. At one time, she’d not expected to last a week in his employment, yet now she was wondering if she should leave not because he annoyed her, but rather because he did something even worse: he made her feel things she never thought were possible.

  She’d no doubt that he loved flirting with her, but beyond that, she could never quite read him. He was surprisingly inscrutable for all that he presented himself as a transparent buffoon. So whether he was truly attracted to her remained to be seen, but the way he was looking at her right now, as if he too could not help himself, despite everyone else gathered in the hall, told her that maybe . . .

  Maybe.

  Which was dismaying and electrifying in equal measure, for even if it were a mutual attraction, what good could possibly come of it? Aristocrats were not in the habit of marrying their governesses, and she was certainly not going to become his latest light-o’-love (and she was not naive enough to think he hadn’t had his fair share of those).

  The only way she could see this ending was in a stalemate, at best, and her departure, at worst. But she was nevertheless unable to completely quell her own hidden excitement at the thought of having her regard returned, as inappropriate as it was.

  She was, quite possibly, doomed.

  MINERVA HAD HOPED Lady Elizabeth would reclaim her usual high spirits, but she hadn’t counted on the girl smirking meaningfully at both of them the entire ride to the Assembly Rooms, as if they were being horribly transparent. Minerva knew she was. She couldn’t seem to stop looking at the viscount. But she certainly didn’t need Lady Elizabeth pointing it out.

  Minerva was still reeling from her revelation in the hallway and would have much rather been thousands of miles from Mayfair at the moment, for the things she was beginning to feel for the viscount—inappropriate, dangerous things, toward an inappropriate, dangerous man—were as terrifying as they were baffling. Somehow, through some strange alchemy of word and deed, he had worked his way under her skin in a way that Arthur at his sweetest and even Christopher Essex at his most eloquent had never done.

  She glared at the back of his head (which had been suspiciously turned out the window the entire journey), for it was all his fault. It had to be. He was rather like hookworm, really: dangerously catchable and annoyingly persistent. But unlike with hookworm, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be rid of him.

  Which was the most frightening thing about the whole situation.

  Lady Elizabeth finally cleared her throat and resolved to break the silence at last.

  “Isn’t Miss Jones looking fetching tonight, Evie?” she asked with far too much mirth in her voice for Minerva’s liking.

  Marlowe grunted rather rudely, his cheeks flushing, which was response enough, and refused to turn his head.

  Minerva gave Lady Elizabeth a quelling look, but the girl continued, undaunted. “Perhaps while we’re ther
e, we might find a suitable match for Miss Jones as well. She can’t remain a governess forever.”

  She could, thank you very much, and that was just what Minerva intended to do, unless . . .

  Well, there was no use in thinking of what could never be.

  “She’ll be too busy fighting off your swains to find her own,” Marlowe muttered.

  “Then perhaps we might find you a wife,” Lady Elizabeth continued teasingly. “I am sure we’ll stumble upon one or two tonight. Pymm has outdone himself.”

  Marlowe flushed even more, looking as if he might take to clawing at his cravat after all. His squirming was not adorable. Not at all.

  Though it was.

  Oh, God, she was even worse off than she’d feared if she found his pouting attractive.

  “No one is finding a wife. Or a husband tonight,” he lobbed out a bit desperately. “I cannot believe Astrid talked me into this ridiculous idea. Almack’s.” He shuddered eloquently.

  Lady Elizabeth patted his hand. “Miss Jones and I shall protect you.”

  “See that you do.” He glanced out the window when the carriage stopped and paled. “Oh God, we’re here,” he muttered. “So quickly.”

  Minerva tried to put the last half hour from her mind completely, though that was rather hard to do when the viscount handed her down from the carriage and she could feel the warm strength of his grip even from beneath two layers of gloves.

  But tonight wasn’t about her, she reminded herself sternly. It was about Lady Elizabeth, after all, and their campaign to save her from Oxley. Revelation of her own mad infatuation aside, she had a mission tonight, and it didn’t involve being distracted by the viscount’s broad shoulders. Or eyes. Or legs. Or derriere, though that was looking particularly spectacular tonight in his new trousers.

  Not that she was looking. Much.

  She raised her eyes to a more appropriate level and followed her charge and the viscount past the front door, held open by a liveried servant. They were immediately hit by a wall of heat and reluctantly began down a long entrance hall lit by gaslight. The sound of a slightly out of tune orchestra drifted in the air from the ballroom at the corridor’s end, along with the overwhelming stench of stale perfume and sweat. A queue of guests trailed down the corridor, waiting for entrance, and all three of them let out a collective groan at the sight.

  “I can already tell I’m going to hate it,” Lady Elizabeth muttered. Minerva had to agree with her prediction. It already looked dreadful, and they’d not even been inside the ballroom.

  They joined the end of the line and were immediately scrutinized by their neighbors. Marlowe had obviously been recognized, for the ladies began whispering behind their fans, and the gentlemen gave him gruff greetings, which he even more gruffly returned.

  “I suppose you should start introducing me,” Lady Elizabeth said to her brother in a low voice.

  “Let us get past the dragon first,” he muttered, nodding toward a tall, brown-haired lady in a glimmering ice-blue silk gown holding court just inside the ballroom door, two ostrich feathers sprouting from the top of her head. “Damn. It’s the Countess Lieven. She has never liked me.”

  “What did you do?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

  “Nothing. Why do you assume I did something?” he protested much too innocently.

  Lady Elizabeth and Minerva both just leveled him with a knowing look until he finally cracked. “I may have, possibly, called out a man at one of her house parties,” he admitted in a rush.

  Lady Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “How were you even invited in the first place?”

  Marlowe side-eyed Minerva and blushed. “That’s not important,” he muttered.

  Lady Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “One of your mistresses was invited, wasn’t she?”

  Marlowe’s cheeks were scarlet. So were Minerva’s. “Keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake, Betsy,” he hissed. “And how could you . . . no, don’t even bother answering, for I know all too well how your mind works.”

  Lady Elizabeth grinned unrepentantly.

  “And for the record, I do not have a mistress,” he continued lowly, glancing at Minerva as he did so. “Not anymore.”

  Well, at least he was honest, though Minerva was sure that she didn’t care. The feeling of relief that flooded through her at his denial made it hard for her to pretend this was true, however.

  Lady Elizabeth threaded her arm through Minerva’s and grinned far too knowingly down at her companion. “You have become so boring these days, Evie. Perhaps you really should just get a wife and have done with it.”

  Before he could stop spluttering long enough to respond to that, they were standing before the Countess Lieven, a sweating, liveried servant handing her their vouchers and looking seconds away from passing out from the heat.

  “Lord Marlowe,” the countess intoned rather sourly. “I hardly recognized you.”

  He gave her his best leg. “Countess, it has been too long,” he said.

  “Not long enough, I daresay,” she said.

  Minerva thought the woman rather rude for being a leader of society, though knowing Marlowe, he probably deserved it.

  He politely pretended not to hear the countess. “May I present my sister, Lady Elizabeth Leighton,” he forged on. “And her companion, Miss Jones.”

  They both took it as their cue to curtsy. The countess’s ostrich feathers bobbed on her head as she studied Lady Elizabeth top to toe. The girl must have passed inspection, for the countess was all too soon turning her attention to Minerva. She held her breath as she was scrutinized. This was the moment she’d been dreading all night. She was sure to be barred entry, and then they’d all have to go home, for even the viscount knew he couldn’t be his sister’s only escort.

  It was a foolish idea anyway. She couldn’t begin to fathom what the duchess was thinking to give the third voucher to her.

  But all of her worry was for naught, it seemed, for in the end, the viscount managed to bungle things all on his own. The Countess Lieven, done with her inspection of Minerva, turned her attention to Marlowe. She took one look down her long nose at Marlowe’s legs and winced ever so elegantly. She folded her fan with the snap of her wrist and held it up to her left cheek.

  It wasn’t an encouraging sign.

  “Oh dear,” Lady Elizabeth murmured, sounding more amused than anything else.

  “What?” Marlowe demanded of the patroness with his usual forthright tactlessness when he finally sensed something was wrong. “What’s happened? Why are you doing that with your fan?”

  “You are wearing trousers, Lord Marlowe,” the countess said as if it pained her to have to explain herself.

  “What’s wrong with trousers?” he demanded. “They’re all the crack, ain’t they?”

  “Gentlemen must wear silk knee breeches, or at the very least pantaloons, Viscount, or one cannot enter the Assembly Rooms,” the countess replied loftily.

  Marlowe glanced down his long legs. “That would explain why Pymm were in tears when I wouldn’t wear the silk breeches tonight,” he murmured. “Are you sure there is no way to . . .”

  “Even Wellington himself was not allowed an exception, Viscount,” Countess Lieven snapped, her accent becoming more pronounced. “I certainly won’t make one for you.” Her expression softened somewhat when she noticed the curious audience that had gathered around the exchange. She was a politician’s wife, after all. “But should you come back next Wednesday suitably attired with your charming sister . . .”—she paused, ran her eyes over Minerva once more, and pointedly did not include her in the invitation—“I am sure you shall be allowed entry.”

  “I look forward to it,” he said, though he sounded as if he’d rather eat glass.

  A few moments later, they found themselves in the corridor once more. Marlowe and Lady Elizabeth both were looking relieved more than anything else, but Minerva didn’t know how to feel. Other than vaguely irked. She couldn’t regret not having to spend the rest of the
night in that greenhouse of a ballroom, sweating through her lovely gown and avoiding being trampled by waltzers.

  “Thank hell that’s done with, then,” the viscount murmured.

  “At least I might breathe out here,” Lady Elizabeth said, fanning herself. “How could anyone possibly enjoy themselves in such a stink?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s supposed to be enjoying themselves,” Minerva replied.

  Lady Elizabeth began to giggle. “Oh, the duchess is going to murder us,” she cried, though she didn’t sound the least bit bothered. “We didn’t make it past the door!”

  “Breeches!” the viscount muttered. “Can’t believe it were over breeches!”

  “Next time, don’t bully poor Pymm. He obviously knew what he was doing,” Lady Elizabeth said pertly.

  “He’s the bully,” Marlowe retorted like a child, then yanked on his cravat as he’d wanted to do all night. He sighed in relief as the complicated folds gave way.

  Minerva wondered not for the first time how she had managed to lose her head over such a man.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. We shall find other ways to keep the earl at bay,” Marlowe said, though Lady Elizabeth seemed anything but upset to have been turned away. “Almack’s ain’t the only way.”

  Lady Elizabeth patted her brother’s hand. “That I managed to haul you even to the Assembly Rooms’ entrance is a small miracle. Besides, being turned away at Almack’s will make us more popular than if we actually attended. If this doesn’t make the papers, I shall be shocked.”

  “Never let it be said I don’t try,” Marlowe said with a smirk.

  “I don’t think that shall matter to Elaine and the duchess when they hear of our failure,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  “Then perhaps they ought to escort you the next time.”

  Lady Elizabeth made a face. “I shall endeavor to make sure there isn’t one,” she murmured.

  So would Minerva. One moment more under Countess Lieven’s scrutiny, and she probably would have punched the woman.