Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  And how could he not? To avoid the parties and balls meant leaving Serena to Devlin.

  Ned’s jaw muscles clenched. ‘To keep an eye on my brother.’

  He took a long sip of wine. Her brow creased, looking disappointed.

  She excused herself shortly thereafter, to leave him to his port. As she walked by him, her hand slid across the back of his chair, her fingertips lightly touching his back. The sensation remained long after she departed.

  He went straight to his room after that, carrying a brandy decanter with him and freeing himself from his neckcloth as soon as he crossed the threshold. His valet appeared to assist him out of his coat and waistcoat. After his man hung up the clothing, Ned dismissed him.

  He kicked off his shoes and sat in the worn leather chair that had been in this room for as long as he could remember. Stretching his legs, he poured himself a generous supply of brandy, but his hand hurt like the devil when he picked up the glass. No comfort in brandy if it brought pain. After draining the contents, he set down the glass and replaced the decanter’s glass stopper. He hoped the brandy would help him sleep.

  The drink fulfilled its promise, and dreams drifted though his slumber, disturbing dreams of Serena and Devlin and losing them both.

  A soft voice called his name. ‘Ned? Ned?’

  He opened one eye and shot out of the chair. Serena stood in front of him, her pale hair and thin white nightdress glowing in the faint light from a branch of candles behind her.

  ‘What has happened?’ he cried, sure that only something dire would bring her into his room of her own accord.

  Her hand swept through her long silken tresses. ‘It was awful, Ned.’

  ‘What?’ He could not help it. He reached for her.

  She seemed to crumble in his arms. ‘The dream.’ She shuddered. ‘I could not find you anywhere. You were gone.’

  Returning to the chair, he settled her on his lap. She cried softly against his shoulder.

  ‘Shh, my love,’ he murmured. ‘I am here now.’ He stroked her hair, inhaling the rose scent that always lingered there. She felt soft and warm, and his loins ached with a need he could scarce bear not filling. She’d best leave soon or he could not vouch for his control.

  Her breathing finally relaxed. Not knowing if he wished her to stay or to go, Ned asked, ‘Are you ready to go back to bed now, love?’

  She grasped his shirt tightly. ‘No, please. May I sleep with you? I cannot bear to be alone.’

  When he placed her in his bed and stripped out of his clothes, he could have sworn that she smiled.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here…’

  The sonorous voice of the rector echoed through the small church. Tears streamed down Madeleine’s cheeks.

  Sophie looked beautiful as she never had appeared to Madeleine before. She supposed beauty had led to Farley’s interest in Sophie, but by the time Madeleine got to know her, fear had obscured the girl’s looks. This day, standing next to her stalwart protector, Sophie looked radiant.

  The dress Sophie had fashioned for herself was a vision of pale pink that swirled like a cloud whenever she moved. The colour put a bloom in her pale cheeks. Madeleine had woven a crown of tiny pink roses, the same colour as the dress, for Sophie to wear in her shining gold hair. Sophie gazed upon her loving groom with all the wonder and innocence of a virgin.

  The clergyman droned, ‘…signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his church…’

  Madeleine was grateful beyond all measure that her friend had found the love of the good, solid Bart. She also envied Sophie painfully.

  The humble furnishings of the church suited the parishioners—shopkeepers, merchants and other working people, useful people. It was not dissimilar to the church in her home parish where she used to receive angry glares from her governess for her fidgeting. As a child, she’d never been able to sit still for Sunday services. Now, what she would give for the peace of that country church. Perhaps if she had attended to her vicar’s sermons, she might have avoided her sinful life.

  Sophie coughed, bringing such a look of loving concern to Bart’s face that Madeleine nearly started weeping again.

  ‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her…’

  Madeleine glanced at Devlin. Linette’s tiny hand nestled in Devlin’s strong one as they stood in front of the altar. He had never looked so handsome. He wore a simple morning coat of tobacco brown. Except for the superior cut, his clothes could not be distinguished from the style worn by Bart and other men walking about their business in this neighbourhood. He’d chosen attire that did not outshine the bride and groom.

  Madeleine sighed. Truth was, Devlin looked exactly as she’d so often fantasised him, an ordinary man with whom she might share a cottage and a simple life. She shook her head. It was nonsense to hope. Soon she would never see him again.

  Linette pulled away from Devlin’s grasp and lifted both hands in the air. Automatically, Devlin reached down and picked her up. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

  Madeleine’s throat tightened. How would losing Devlin affect Linette? He had become so much a part of her world.

  ‘…keep thee only to her, so long as you both shall live?’

  Bart responded in a strong, firm voice. ‘I will.’

  Madeleine imagined Devlin standing before an altar making these same vows. It would be a grander church, of course, St George’s, perhaps. Would his bride, like Sophie, radiate innocence and suppressed passion? Would Devlin look upon her with the same astonished joy as that written all over Bart’s face?

  It did not bear thinking of.

  Devlin turned toward Madeleine. His eyes, which he quickly averted, were filled with pain.

  ‘I now pronounce you man and wife,’ the rector concluded, raising his voice as if there were a church full of people to hear. ‘You may kiss the bride.’

  Sophie blinked rapidly and Bart’s face turned beet red. He bent toward the tiny woman, his movement tentative, but he raised Sophie’s chin with a gentle finger and placed his lips lightly on hers. They held the kiss for a long time until Madeleine thought she might break down in sobs from the pure beauty of the moment.

  Bart and Sophie put their marks in the register, and the small party left the church to walk to a nearby inn. Devlin had arranged a private parlour for a proper wedding breakfast for the five of them. The room was comfortable, a place where Sophie and Bart could relax. Breakfast consisted of all manner of fare: chocolate, sliced ham, boiled eggs, pastries, sweetmeats and dishes of berries and cream. Devlin proved an excellent host, keeping up cheerful banter, so that Madeleine was able to laugh when she otherwise might have dissolved into tears. Even Sophie smiled, though Devlin’s gentle teasing made her blush.

  Devlin had secured a room for the night for the couple, stocked with wine and other delicacies. He had offered them a wedding trip, but Bart refused. Neither had family to visit, Bart explained, and unfamiliar places would only unsettle Sophie.

  Madeleine hugged her little friend tightly when they said their goodbyes. Though it was for a mere night, the marriage meant that she and Sophie would never have quite the same relationship as before. Sophie clung to her for a moment, whispering in Madeleine’s ear, ‘Oh, thank you, Maddy. I am so very happy.’

  Evening shadows darkened the bedroom while Devlin sat with Linette, trying to encourage her to sleep. Her eyes were red and puffy with fatigue from the excitement of the day, but stubbornly she refused to keep them shut.

  After leaving Bart and Sophie to their wedded bliss, Devlin had been loath to return home. He had insisted upon taking Madeleine and Linette to the nearby shops where he showered trinkets on a reluctant Madeleine and an eager Linette.

  Linette’s bed was now littered with a family of handsome horseflesh. A mare, stallion and filly, fine
ly painted with acute accuracy and beauty, were nestled next to the child, but were not helping sleep. Linette checked and rechecked to see if they were tucked in properly. Devlin made up stories about them, setting their antics in the rolling acres of Heronvale, where they galloped and frolicked and got into mischief.

  Linette’s eyes widened and twinkled, but did not close.

  ‘I believe you need nice, dull nursery stories.’

  Devlin glanced over to see Madeleine in the doorway. His heart leapt into his throat. No more than a silhouette in the dim light, the curved lines of her body made his pulse quicken.

  ‘I can remember none of them. We need to purchase a book, I suppose,’ he said, trying to ignore the alluring scent of lavender that always surrounded her.

  ‘Perhaps if you sang to her.’

  He gave her a soft laugh. ‘If I sang to her, she might never sleep again.’

  ‘Fustian. You have a fine voice.’

  He reached out his hand. ‘Come. You sing to her.’

  Madeleine walked over to the bed, and he nestled her in front of him, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder.

  ‘My sweetling,’ she said, fussing with Linette’s blanket, ‘you must try to sleep now. It is very late.’

  Linette gave her a mutinous look.

  ‘What if we sing to you together?’ Devlin asked.

  Linette nodded, eyes stubbornly open.

  In a quiet baritone, he began, ‘Hush a bye. Don’t you cry. Daddy’s gone for a soldier…’ Madeleine joined in with her sweet clear voice, ‘When you wake, you shall see all the pretty little horses…’

  Neither of them could remember more of the song, so they repeated the lines over and over until Linette’s eyes finally grew heavy. Devlin admired her will. The child clung to her happy day.

  It had been a happy day indeed for Bart and Sophie, but for Devlin, one of excruciating agony. At the church, the vow Bart spoke to Sophie was the same one he would soon speak to a woman he did not love. He would never feel the unrestrained joy that shone on Bart and Sophie’s faces when they were pronounced man and wife. By that time he would have packed Madeleine and Linette off to some comfortable cottage, never to see them again.

  ‘…Daddy has gone for a soldier…’ Madeleine sang. As Devlin accompanied her, the words echoed in his mind, Daddy has gone…has gone…has gone.

  Linette’s eyes remained closed, surrendering to the inevitable, as he would ultimately do.

  Madeleine rose from the bed, a finger to her lips. He followed her silently out the door, which she closed soundlessly.

  ‘Finally.’ She sighed. ‘I thought she would never sleep.’

  Devlin could not speak, his emotions too raw. The faint pounding of French drums touched his ears.

  Madeleine smiled at him. How did she remain so calm when life was a shambles? ‘You must be late dressing for the evening. Shall I assist you?’

  He stared blankly. ‘I am not going out.’

  Her shoulders relaxed slightly. Perhaps she was not so calm after all.

  ‘I would not leave you alone, Maddy.’

  As soon as he’d said it, the irony of those words struck him like the Frenchman’s lance.

  He stroked her hair away from her face and leaned down to touch his lips to hers. Her arms wound around his neck and he lifted her, kissing her as if she were the air he breathed.

  How could he ever let her go?

  In the days ahead, he vowed, he would savour each moment with her. He would provide her with as many pleasures as he could contrive. Dancing at Vauxhall. Riding in Hyde Park. Searching nearby shops for whatever she fancied.

  This night he would love her with every muscle in his body, every sinew, every nerve. He would give all of himself, and glory in her response. He would show her that, although they must part, his love would endure throughout eternity.

  Devlin swung Madeleine into his arms and, like a groom might carry his bride over the threshold, he carried her into his bedchamber.

  The next evening, the air was chilly as the boatman’s oars splashed rhythmically into the Thames. With shaking fingers, Madeleine adjusted the black mask covering her face. Wearing a mask again reminded her of her nights with Farley, although this soft cloth rested almost like a caress against her skin. With a shiver, she wrapped her paisley shawl more tightly around her shoulders. When they reached the dock and Devlin assisted her out of the boat, the night air felt warmer.

  She took Devlin’s arm as they walked to the arched entrance of Vauxhall Gardens. He grinned at her, his matching mask making him resemble a devilish bandit. In his trousers and coat, he might have been any young man about town. He’d promised her anonymity, more important to her than a night of music and dancing, or a chance to again wear the golden evening dress he had purchased for her.

  People from all walks of life crowded the entrance, many masked like she. Shop girls, she imagined, and clerks, maids and footmen, all mingling freely in their finery, differences of class obscured by the darkness. Was it the chance to pretend or the chance to hide that led others to conceal their identities? For Madeleine, the need to hide provided the chance to pretend. She vowed to pretend that life existed only within these intriguing walls, at least for the space of this one night.

  Devlin paid the six-shilling fee, and they stepped through the entrance.

  Madeleine gasped. She had stepped into the heavens. Glittering lights shone everywhere like stars come to dwell on earth. Not stars, really, but Chinese lanterns hung everywhere in the elm trees flanking the Grand Walk. The faint sound of music grew louder with each step they took.

  ‘What shall we do first, my love?’ asked Devlin, holding her tightly against his side. ‘There is much to see.’

  ‘I hardly know.’ She glanced around her as they came to the Grand Cross Walk.

  ‘Let us walk the paths, then, ’til you fancy to stop.’

  Devlin took her for a stroll down the South Walk with its arches and painted ruins. He kept a wary eye on the young bloods waiting to pull an unsuspecting female into the darker byways. Plenty of men ogled her, and he was glad the glittering surroundings caused her not to notice.

  The music was near as they wandered through the Grove, strains of Haydn contributing to the magic that was Vauxhall. As they walked past the supper boxes, Devlin noticed several familiar faces. This had been deemed the fashionable night for the ton, he supposed, but who decided one night over another was a mystery to him. Emily Duprey had told him she would not be in attendance. He was pleased. He wished to forget her existence for this one night and pretend there was no one but Madeleine.

  Wearing the mask gave him a freedom he would not otherwise have enjoyed. With the mask, he could stroll through Vauxhall, brushing elbows with earls and dukes, Madeleine proudly on his arm, not hidden in the apartments near St James’s. He was merely a man escorting his woman, not a gentleman with his mistress. In anonymity, he and Madeleine were like all the other strolling couples.

  He smiled at Madeleine’s delight, as they passed each new sight on the South Walk. She swore the painted ruins looked so real, she could walk into them. He wished they could walk into them and never return.

  But the South Walk ended, returning them to the Grove. ‘Time for us to dance, my love.’

  He led her toward musicians playing in a balcony near the supper boxes. The conductor started a waltz just as they arrived, as if he were signalling their appearance. Devlin took Madeleine in his arms and, smiling down at her joyous countenance, whirled her to the strains of the music.

  A short distance away in a supper box nearest the dancing, the Marchioness of Heronvale tugged at her Marquess’s arm.

  ‘Ned, did you see? I believe that is Devlin and Madeleine.’

  He circled his arm around her waist. ‘Madeleine, is it? Informal, are you not?’ He nuzzled her neck, more interested in the scent of her hair and the softness of her skin than in two people dancing.

  ‘Do behave,
Ned,’ she scolded, making no effort to move away. ‘Look over there. It is Devlin, I am sure.’

  He glanced where she had indicated. ‘Wife, they are masked.’

  ‘I am sure it is they.’ She pulled him out of the box. ‘Come, dance with me. We will get closer to them, and you will see. She wears the same dress as she wore to dinner.’

  He needed no coaxing to hold her in his arms. These past nights together had been filled with a passion he had not dreamed existed for him. He knew not what had caused the transformation, nor did he care. Happiness was too tame a word for what he felt.

  In his gratitude, he would do anything for her. Anything. Even dutifully dancing her near the couple who gazed at no one but each other.

  Serena stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, ‘See, it is they.’

  Ned took the opportunity to hold her closer. He agreed it could be Devlin and his Miss England. He recognised the look in the man’s eyes. It reflected what sang in his own heart. A pinprick of guilt pierced his happiness, for if that were his youngest brother, Ned’s dictates forced the loss of that love. Now Ned understood how that would feel.

  ‘Forget them, Serena,’ He murmured gruffly. He clasped her against him in a manner that would get them banned from Almack’s forever and would help him not think about the decisions he had forced on his brother.

  Serena laughed, a sound more beautiful than the music. With a wicked gleam in her eye, she rubbed her hips against a part of him that now ravenously craved her.

  Ned forgot about his brother and turned his thoughts to private recesses of the Gardens where two lovers might retreat. He swept Serena to the edge of the dancing area and led her by the hand to the narrow pathway of the Dark Walk.

  Devlin barely heard when the music ended, barely registered the other dancers moving off the floor. Dancing with Madeleine had been magical. Stopping had been like coming out of a spell. She shook her head, as if sharing the same feeling.

  He glanced around him. He was not two paces from Amanda Reynolds. Momentarily fearing she would recognise him, Devlin shifted away from her sight. He quickly realised it did not matter. Miss Reynolds would not trouble to notice someone dressed as gentry.