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Rogues, Rakes & Jewels

Page 16

by Claudy Conn


  Damnation. Life, in fact, as he had known and enjoyed it, was certainly quite at an end. There was nothing for it: he would go to his friends, and they would all become royally inebriated together. This decision was taken on with great zeal and enthusiasm as his intimates toasted him and the end of his bachelorhood at White’s Club.

  Usually Sky found he was able to drink most men under the table before he began to show signs of being foxed. He was, however, certainly in his cups when he rose suddenly from the table, called for his coach to be sent for, and announced his intentions of departing the club for home.

  “What’s that you say?” Sir William attempted to sit up, for he had been resting his head on his bent arm, which was laid on the card table. “You leaving, Sky …?”

  “Must, Billy-boy. Have to present myself to my future bride in the morning. Don’t want to scare the chit with bloodshot eyes and a haggard face …”

  Sir William grinned broadly. “Too late, lovey.” He slid back against his chair and surveyed his closest friend through half closed lids. “Don’t do this, Sky. You’re not ready, and you don’t even know her. You will be tied for life, and that is hard enough when two people like each other. What if you hate her?”

  His lordship’s hand found Sir Williams’ gold, silky hair and ruffled it affectionately. “’Tis done … I have already offered. Can’t be undone. Never mind—you will be following my lead soon enough, and then we will muddle through marriage together.”

  “Blister the words—damn if ever I will marry!” Billy retorted caustically.

  His lordship laughed, bade everyone good night, and made his way outdoors. His driver and coach stood waiting, but Sky signaled his intention to walk, for he wanted the night air to clear his head.

  While his conveyance followed at a discreet distance, he took a long drag of the strong, cool breeze, but it in no way cleared the fog through which he was unsteadily walking . This was ascribable in part to the very excellent brandy he had managed to imbibe and in part to the heavy, gray fog that had indeed descended upon London. He turned a corner, frowning over the fact that he could scarcely see more than ten feet in front of him, when something startled him into a sharp, uncharacteristically awkward movement.

  *

  Cheryl was not in the habit of riding her horse hard on pavement, let alone on a dimly lit street, and even though the circumstances warranted speed, she maintained a quiet pace. She had no doubts about her situation as she slowly trotted her mare toward freedom. She was sure she was doing the right thing. She would not be forced like some meek nothing of a girl into a loveless marriage. Her dear friend Lizzy had been forced into one just last year, and she was miserable while her awful husband chased everything in a skirt! That was not for her.

  She had been so caught up in her defiant thoughts that she had not yet considered the dangers of her expedition. A fog had set in. She made an incorrect turn, backtracked, and found herself suddenly surrounded by a group of young, grimy street urchins. They blocked her path, and she put on a stern look as she commanded, “Do stand aside.” Her tone was firm and showed no signs of the sudden panic that she was beginning to feel.

  “Whot’s this? Why—’tis a mort, God love ye! A blooming mort. Fancy, ain’t she?” one of them said as he moved closer.

  Cheryl lifted her crop out of her boot and held it menacingly. “I wouldn’t come any nearer if I were you.” A threat hovered in her voice and in the style of her movement.

  He looked at the four boys with him now spreading around Cheryl and her mare and snorted. “She do be warning us, lads … whot say ye to that?”

  Cheryl didn’t wait for their answer. She gave Bessy some leg, and they moved immediately into a canter and headed straight for him. He cursed out loud and jumped out of her way.

  They rounded the bend in the street, and there Bessy found something that frightened her more than the boys she had just encountered. The poor mare spied something dark and weaving ominously towards her, and as she blew out a snort, she hopped and bucked. Cheryl released a surprised cry, for she hadn’t expected this, and grabbed at her horse’s neck as she attempted to regain her seat and control of her reins. Bessy shifted to the left, and the force of the movement sent Cheryl the remainder of the way to the ground!

  She landed on her feet but lost her balance and reeled backward into a body that felt more like iron than man.

  *

  She didn’t see him until she was on him. She felt a hard body and then a pair of large hands take hold of her shoulders and steady her. Instinctively, she reacted to his tight grip by stepping on his foot. Instead of letting her go, his grip tightened on her. She didn’t have time for this—from the way Bessy whinnied and jostled about, it was clear the mare was getting ready to bolt. He still held her fast as she tried to yank out of his steel grip. “Let me go, do please, I have to reach Bess!”

  He looked hard at her face, and she watched the flitting expressions cross his countenance, noting that he was, even in the dim light, quite handsome. However, he raised an eyebrow and said, “What the devil is a beauty like you doing out here alone at night?”

  “My horse!” is what she answered as she tried reaching for Bess’s reins.

  “Stay here!” the stranger said as he turned and moved gently towards the mare and managed to gather her reins. Bess snorted but made no attempt to run from him as he spoke soothingly to her and led her towards Cherry.

  “Your horse,” he said softly.

  “Thank you, but you didn’t have to … if you had just let me go, I could have gotten her and been on my way,” Cheryl returned, feeling suddenly shy. Here was this fashionable, handsome rogue, and she felt she must look a fool.

  “Ungrateful girl, and after you nearly knocked me down,” he teased. His speech was only slightly slurred but enough for Cherry to raise her brow and regard him with some amusement.

  “But I did not knock you down, and you, sir, were the cause for all of it,” she answered, a smile curving her lips. “Whatever were you doing walking about in the middle of the road?” It was a counterattack to save face.

  “I? Well, I was looking for an angel, and I found one …” So saying, he had her well into his embrace, heedless of the fact that the driver of his coach watched with some keen interest at his back.

  She did not know why, but she was not frightened in the least, although as his tongue probed and found hers with an expertise that made her feel warm and willing, she was surprised at herself. She pulled away hard, although she didn’t have to and lost her balance as he released her immediately. He reached out to steady her, and she slapped his hands away, saying, “Well, you haven’t found one—an angel, that is, for no one has ever called me that!”

  With one devilish movement he had her back in his arms, and his voice was husky with the intent of his measure. “Are you not?”

  She didn’t have the opportunity to reply, for his lips were already on hers, already parting. His tongue found his way easily and teased with gentle expertise. His hand pressed her body against his own, and she felt a frightening surge of desire.

  Cherry was astonished, as much at herself and her reaction as she was at his sudden move. She had certainly been kissed before, often in fact, but this was the first time she had been so totally aroused. He was a stranger—ah, perhaps the excitement of the adventure was at work here, she told herself.

  She slapped at his shoulder, and when he released her she felt his eyes look into her hers. She made a face at him and announced in a whisper, “You, sir, are taking a liberty. I am at a loss, for you are taller, stronger, and perhaps wicked enough to pursue this further. If that is what you intend … proceed, for I have always wondered what it would be like to be ravished on a London street.” This was meant to make a mark and hit his sense of honor, and it did that very well.

  He pulled himself up to his full six feet and stared hard at her. “My dearest child, I am not in the habit of ravishing young women on London streets.”
/>   “Ah, are you not? Then I do apologize,” she said meekly. Again a flush hit.

  He growled at her. “What the bloody hell are you doing out here alone anyway? ’Tis folly.”

  He sounded to Cherry as though he were fast sobering up in spite of the drink she had tasted on his delicious tongue.

  “I am running away from my … er step … father.” She tweaked the truth just a bit, as she didn’t need anyone putting two and two together.

  “Why?”

  “I cannot tell you that, but it would be very nice if you would let me go on my way before I am caught,” Cheryl returned, smiling charmingly at him, but she could see by the curious expression on his face that he wasn’t about to let this go so easily.

  “Running away? Stepfather? This sounds like some blasted fairytale. You can’t go about London alone at night. Might be accosted by any number of scalawags.”

  “So you have made me aware …” she started, but he took up her arm and led her towards his coach.

  “I shall take you to where you wish to go.”

  She could now see she had been wrong. He was not in the least bit sober.

  “But I am going to the New Forest,” she answered doubtfully.

  “Are you? Whatever the hell for?” he asked, his brows well up.

  “My nanny lives there. She will know what to do.”

  “For no good reason, that makes sense. Take you to your nanny,” he announced happily.

  Want another Risqué Regency romance?

  Check out this excerpt of

  Myriah Fire

  One

  LONDON, 1813

  CASCADING RINGLETS OF fire framed an elf-like countenance of peaches and cream. Dark brows and curling lashes accentuated the almond shape of the blue-green eyes. Champagne organza fell alluringly about a form as delicate as it was provocative, yet the owner of these enviable attributes gazed at her reflection in the gilt-edged looking glass and sighed deeply.

  A maid popped her linen-covered head into Lady Myriah’s dressing room and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Tch tch, m’lady, here you be, idling your time away with your papa that anxious for you down in the ballroom! Why, gracious, the music is sweet to hear, and the dancers looking fine as five pence … and here you be, looking that sad! Why, it fair sets me in a huff, it does!” said the middle-aged woman, taking all the liberty that years of faithful service had won her.

  Lady Myriah raised an eyebrow, and there was warning in her look though her tone was light. “Now, now, love, don’t be hipped with me. ’Twould never do! I don’t see why I must go down just yet, especially when I feel disinclined.” She stopped abruptly and noted the troubled look on the older woman’s face. “Oh, very well, don’t worry yourself over me, I’ll go,” Myriah said with one of her spontaneous smiles.

  “Good girl—’tis that much those fine bucks below be wanting a look at yer sweet face!” her maid said, nodding and returning Myriah’s smile.

  “Nonsense, Nelly, love. They have seen it all this season and last! All right, all right, don’t get yourself all puckered up again. I’m going!”

  Myriah made her way down the red-carpeted, circular staircase, a slight frown between her eyes. The music floated up and enfolded her gently. Usually its mesmerizing effects lifted her spirits, but now she only sighed.

  Whatever is the matter? This one question haunted, irritated, and left her burdened. She did not know the answer, but she did know that she had no wish to hear the music she loved and no need to join the merrily waltzing ton in the ballroom below.

  About to embark upon the glorious age of one and twenty, Myriah had already enjoyed two London Seasons and was about to take on her third. Yet the young lady was bored—bored and totally disenchanted with the beau monde, London, and all its frivolous activities.

  She was Lady Myriah, the only child of Lord Whitney, and he was well able to indulge her many whims, and he had always seen fit to do so in the past. Lately, however, her worthy father had begun to lose patience with his headstrong darling. She lived in an age where women were supposed to be demure and submissive—which did not work for Myriah.

  Beautiful, wealthy, and socially prominent, still Myriah was completely unattached and unspoken for. This last and somewhat astounding fact had not been achieved without some exertion on her part, to be sure, for Myriah had received no less than a dozen offers. Her papa and numerous interested relatives had spent much time and effort in their attempts to convince her that at least four of those offers were most exceptional, but Myriah had held out and refused them all. Perhaps it was because of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels—or her own imagination. She had often heard her aunts pompously deplore her father’s leniency in allowing her to read such material. Perhaps it was Tom Moore’s provocative poems or Sir Walter Scott’s gallants. Regardless of the reason, by the time Myriah had reached her eighteenth year she had become most regrettably romantic. During an age when people of her class married for many excellent reasons, none of them having anything to do with love, she had the very odd notion that love was the most important prerequisite to matrimony. But, strangely, Myriah had never been in love.

  She did not pretend her heart, which was as passionate as it was gregarious, had not yet been stirred. Several fine young bucks, in fact, had stirred it very well. However, it had not yet received its coup de grace. Thus it was that Myriah’s heart remained intact, albeit restless and seemingly fickle.

  Myriah’s father, however, was not concerned with frivolous notions of romantic love; he had to contend with his sisters, who nagged him non-stop about her behavior. But though the dowagers frowned, though Lady Jersey chastised gently, though Myriah’s relatives wagged their fingers, Lady Myriah’s weighty family name and its accompanying fortune allowed much. So, in spite of her wayward nature, Myriah was as popular as ever with the fawning ton. Amused with her mild indiscretions, they called her ‘naughty puss’ and chuckled over her whimsies.

  Myriah accepted their adoration as her due. Still, though she laughed at her aunts’ admonishing, she was aware her father would not tolerate her caprices much longer. He told her he had to get her married and soon. If she didn’t pick out a husband for herself, he was going to damn well do it for her!

  Sighing at the thought she had little time before her father would press her to decide, Myriah gazed at the ballroom that lay before her gleaming with hundreds of candles in wall sconces and chandeliers. The marble floor could scarcely be seen as the waltzing feet of fashionable dancers glided around in time to the music.

  Beautiful, delicate, and commanding in style, Myriah stood a moment at the entrance before she was surrounded and heralded into the room. Her name was on all their lips. Where had she been? Why hadn’t she come sooner? Promise a dance, Myriah. One for me, Myriah!

  Suddenly she felt suffocated. She broke loose with a laugh and caught her father’s eye. He smiled warmly across at her, and she composed herself and blew him a gentle kiss.

  “Sweet Myriah, have you a smile for me?” asked a quiet male voice.

  She looked up into the face of Sir Roland Keyes, and a twinkle crept into her eyes. Now here was a diversion. “You, sir, have no need of such wispy things,” she said coyly.

  “Although I don’t wish to declare you wrong, I need that and much more,” he said, taking her hand and leading her firmly onto the dance floor. They moved in rhythm to the music of the violins, and many eyes glanced curiously at them.

  Sir Roland, a bachelor of nine and twenty, had many attractive qualities, and more than one of Lady Myriah’s suitors had noticed her apparent preference for the dratted fellow’s company. Sir Roland’s height was good, and his frame was such as to catch any maid’s eye. His thick, curling locks were auburn with a hint of gold. He always seemed to entertain Lady Myriah with an adroitness that kept her amused.

  As the waltz ended, Myriah gazed quizzically up into his bright eyes. “Sweet Myriah, shall we continue our play on the dance floor, or shall we seek privacy?�
�� he teased, kissing the wrist of her gloved hand.

  “I think, Sir Roland, we had better remain here. I have already found that playing alone with you can be quite dangerous!” countered the lady.

  “Dangerous for whom, sweet beauty?”

  She laughed amicably, for as always his forwardness excited her. He had skill, and there was no denying it.

  “You know very well for whom! Never say you fear for yourself?” she said.

  “For myself, never—ah, but for my heart, that is something altogether different. I have not attained my years and remained unshackled by toying with danger.”

  Her eyes flickered. “Well, there certainly is no danger of your becoming … how did you put it? … shackled to me? No, Sir Roland, you need have no fear on that score with me, as I have already told you I cannot marry you.” The teasing quality of her voice had begun to ebb.

  Sir Roland smiled and took her hand. Without speaking, he led her into a country dance. He was aware Myriah was attracted to him, and though he had not yet discovered the means to win her, he had no intention of giving the sport over. She was far too wealthy, and Sir Roland needed her money! His lands were heavily mortgaged, a state that had been achieved by his father’s heavy gaming debts. He had tried everything else, even resorted to gaming himself with the little blunt he had left. Now, deeper in debt, he was desperate. Putting his estates in order had become all-important, and he needed an advantageous marriage to achieve this end.

  If his financial affairs were not reason enough for wanting to marry Myriah, there was his desire for the chit. She teased him until he knew he must possess her—nay, not just teased but dallied with him, taunted him, and flirted with him outrageously. However, she had made it clear her virginity went only with marriage, and indeed a maid of her class could not be taken any other way.

 

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