by Candice Hern
There was no question that Lord Radcliffe had been thorough, and Rosie had enjoyed it. He had held her very close and had done more than simply press his lips against hers. Much more. Why, then, was she somehow reluctant to check the item off her list, as though the kiss had been less than satisfactory? Or less than thorough?
"Heavens, child, are you going to eat all that?" Fanny swept into the breakfast room and took a seat opposite Rosie. Her aunt seldom joined her for breakfast, and Rosie wondered what brought her downstairs so early this morning.
The footman had followed Fanny into the room and proceeded to serve her tea, bread, and jam from the sideboard. She looked across at Rosie's plate and grimaced. "Do you eat like this every morning? I do not know how you do it."
"I am not usually so piggish, aunt, I assure you. But I am especially hungry this morning." Rosie grinned sheepishly. "And I did not think anyone would be witness to my gluttony."
"Caught out!" Fanny said. "How you stay so slender on such a diet is a mystery to me."
"What brings you down so early?"
"I wished to have a word with you. I forgot to mention it last night. It just flew right out of my head."
"What did?"
"Who, not what. Thomas. I saw Thomas at Almack's."
"Thomas?" Rosie looked around for the footman of that name. Surely he had not been at Almack's.
"Your brother, my dear. He was watching you waltz with Max."
Rosie almost choked on her eggs as a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. "Thomas? Here in London?" Her brother had been on a walking tour of the Lake District with two of his friends from Cambridge. What was he doing in London? She had been so certain none of her family would be in town during her visit— no one to see her new mode of dress, her indiscreet behavior, her curricle racing, her flirting, her waltzing, her kissing rakes. But now Thomas had seen. "Oh, God."
"Yes, I thought you might not be pleased. I fully expect the boy to turn up on my doorstep this morning and demand to take you home to Edmund."
"No!" Not yet. She was not ready to go home yet. There was still so much she wanted to do. She would not allow her brother to spoil what time was left to her. "No, he will not," she said with conviction. "I am of age—four years his senior in fact. He cannot tell me what to do."
"That's the spirit!"
"If he comes, I shall be happy to see him. But if he kicks up a ruckus over what he saw last night, I shall send him packing. But truly, aunt, Thomas has never been so very high in the instep. Not like Ursula. I do not believe Thomas will give me away. Did he see anything else? I mean, besides the waltz? Was he at the Easterbrook ball as well?"
"I did not see him there. Were you afraid he might have seen something, for example, like your return from the terrace on Lord Radcliffe's arm with your lips swollen and your cheeks flushed?"
Rosie's hands flew to her cheeks, which were flushing even now. "Oh, no. Please tell me you exaggerate, aunt. Please tell me it was not so obvious."
"Only to those who were looking." Fanny smiled broadly and then began to chuckle. "Of course, almost everyone was looking. After your Almack's waltz with Max—who, by the way, received a good scold from me for looking as though he meant to ravish you on the spot—all eyes were upon you through the rest of the evening, even those that pretended they were not. Word of your little spectacle spread fast, my dear."
"Oh, dear. Did I make a complete cake of myself?"
"On the contrary," Fanny said. "I am persuaded every woman there was green with envy. First, every rake and rogue at Almack's gathers around you, and ignores the crop of young chits trotted out by their mamas. Do not underestimate the irresistible lure of a rake, even for the most sober and respectable of women. They may snort and scowl, but you may depend upon it, each one of them wishes it had been her that attracted the attention of so many interesting men. Then, the most celebrated rake of them all leads you into a waltz during which he dances altogether too close, and with you looking wide-eyed and completely enthralled. What on earth was he saying to put such a look in your eyes?"
Rosie sighed at the recollection of Max's words. "He said I looked beautiful in red."
"Hmph. I suspect he said a great deal more, but never mind. Then, after dancing with every attractive man at the Easterbrook ball, you disappear for a quarter hour with Lord Radcliffe and return looking well kissed, and him looking smug as the cock of the walk. All in all, I would wager you had a better evening than any other woman in the room, and they all knew it."
Rosie could no longer hold back her smile. "It was rather wonderful. All of it."
"Tell me about William Radcliffe and his kiss. Was he any good at it?"
A laugh exploded from Rosie like a sneeze. Her aunt's audacious question took her quite by surprise. But if anyone could help her sort out her feelings, it would be this worldly woman with all her experience of men. "I am not sure," Rosie said with perfect honesty. "He seemed to know what he was about."
"I should think so." Fanny's eyes were alight with amusement. "But your reaction tells me something was lacking."
"I cannot think what it could be," Rosie said. "He did more with his lips and his—" She stopped, feeling suddenly awkward to be speaking of such intimacies.
"His tongue?"
Rosie's cheeks flamed with embarrassment and she knew she must be glowing bright as a strawberry. "Yes. Let us say simply that he did more than I expected. And yet..."
"He did not set your soul on fire? You did not feel your toes curl up in your slippers and your knees grow so weak you would have collapsed had he not been holding you?"
Rosie stared at her aunt. "Is that how it is supposed to be?"
"With the right man. Unfortunately, it sounds as though Lord Radcliffe is not the right man. Pity. He has such lovely golden hair. Well, no matter. You must simply keep looking for him."
"For whom?"
"For the right man, of course."
"But I am not looking for the right man," Rosie said. "I have told you I am not shopping for a husband. I only want to enjoy a few things before—" she almost said before it's too late, but caught herself in time "—before I return to Devon."
"Quite so. And who said anything about husbands? Enjoyment has nothing to do with them. And I do believe, despite the less than perfect kiss, you rather enjoyed yourself last evening."
"Oh, I did. Very much."
"Especially your waltz?"
"Yes, especially that. I am sorry it caused so much talk. I still cannot credit how those odious women are allowed to set the rules for everyone else."
"It was not so much your defiance of their petty rules as the way you and Max danced." A mischievous grin split her face. "My dear, it was almost scandalous. He held you much too close."
"Did he?" Rosie had been aware of little more than his eyes and his voice and the spell he spun with his words. She became warm all over at the memory of it.
"Yes, he did. Because you are older, I think you might have got away with breaking the rules had Max danced with you properly."
"I confess it seemed perfectly proper to me." And perfectly wonderful.
Fanny gave a crack of laughter. "He is a devil, that boy. Knows what to do with a dance."
"Rules or no rules," Rosie said, "I cannot wait to do it again. By the way, Lady Samantha Kirby has arranged a group to attend the Opera House masquerade this week. I told her I would go. I believe she invited Max as well." She was quite sure of it, actually. "And Lord Radcliffe, Alfred Hepworth, Dwight Newcombe, and several others. I hope you do not mind? Are they quite improper, these masquerades?"
"Sometimes. They are frequented by the cits and tradesmen and all sorts from the underclasses. But with everyone masked, one never really knows who is there."
"You do not mind if I go?"
"Of course not, darling. It is sure to be grand fun. I used to attend now and then, years ago."
"What did you wear?"
Fanny chuckled. "All sorts of daring costum
es. My favorite was a shepherd, complete with crook and lamb. And short pants. I was a classical shepherd, you see. A sort of Daphnis. My, but it was liberating to dance without the confines of skirts."
"How I should love to do that! Perhaps I can convince you to help me put together an equally shocking costume. But what I should really enjoy, if you will indulge me, is for you to tell me more of your favorite memories. What other shocking things did you do when you were younger?"
"So many things." Fanny gazed into the distance and smiled. Her blue eyes softened as though recollecting an especially pleasant moment from the past. "So many things. Those were wild and wondrous days."
They sat for some time, nibbling at their breakfast and sipping their tea, while Fanny related tales of her youth. When the footman looked impatient to clear the table, they moved to the morning room. Rosie sat in a large wing chair with her feet tucked beneath her skirts. Fanny snuggled into a corner of the sofa and stretched out her legs. At Rosie's prompting, she continued to tell stories of exotic parties, of yacht races, of dancing naked in Roman fountains, of Paris before the revolution, of risqué theatricals, of champagne baths, of Brighton and the Prince Regent. What a life her aunt had led! How Rosie wished she had not waited until it was almost too late to begin to know this remarkable woman.
"Tell me, aunt, what is the single most precious memory in your life? If you were allowed only one memory to take with you to the grave, what would it be?"
Without hesitation, Fanny said, "Making love with the one man I truly loved, lying in his arms and knowing he loved me, too. That is the greatest memory of all. I would sacrifice all the rest, everything in life, but I would not give up that memory."
The words were spoken with such quiet passion that Rosie could feel the sting of tears building up behind her eyes. She had asked the question in hopes of learning the one perfect thing to be experienced before she died. And now she knew what that was.
Rosie saw that Fanny's eyes glistened with unshed tears of her own. "I am sorry I never knew Uncle Roderick," she said. "It is wonderful that you loved him so much."
Fanny looked up, puzzled. "Parkhurst? Good heavens, my dear, I was not speaking of my husband. I was fond of him, to be sure. But there has been only one true love in my life. Basil Davenant, the Earl of Blythe. Max's father."
"Oh." Rosie had assumed the relationship had been merely one among many, a brief affair, nothing more. She had no idea it had been so important. No wonder Fanny was so fond of Max. He must remind her of Basil. Her one true love. "Why did you never marry him?"
"I was married to Parkhurst when I met Basil. He was married, too, and had four children. But it did not matter. We loved each deeply until the end of his life."
So, the one experience Rosie truly ought to have before she died was to make love with a man. She supposed there were any number of gentlemen willing to take on the task, but she had no idea how to go about it. Inviting a kiss was one thing. This was quite another.
"And so, the greatest experience in your rich and full life was of making love to a man?"
"Not just making love, my dear. One has many lovers throughout one's life, even at my age." She grinned so girlishly Rosie could see how she still attracted a man's attention. "But making love with a man you love deeply and completely and who is madly in love with you..." She sighed and a wistful softness gathered in her eyes. "There is nothing to compare with that, my dear."
This might be even more difficult than she'd thought. How was she to get a man to fall madly in love with her? "Are you saying one needs to be in love in order to appreciate the ... the act of love?"
Fanny gave her a quizzical look. "What are you planning, my girl? Has one of those young men suggested an assignation of some kind?"
"No, aunt. Nothing of the sort, I promise you. I am merely curious. My mother died when I was a young girl, you know, and I never had a chance to speak with her of such things."
"Ah. Well, then, to answer your question, no, it is not at all necessary to be in love to enjoy sex. One must open up oneself to all life has to offer. Physical pleasure is one of our greatest gifts and I believe one should take advantage of every opportunity to partake of it. But when one is in love, ah, that is something else. More than merely physical. That is what I meant, my dear."
Rosie reached into the pocket of her skirt, retrieved her notebook, and added a new entry to her list.
* * *
It was almost midnight when Max arrived at the Opera House. He did not know what had possessed him to come. These masquerades were always vulgar affairs. It had been years since he engaged in seeking sport among the lower orders. For the sort of women to be found here, he may as well have prowled the streets near Covent Garden.
The deliciously low nature of the entertainment, however, was precisely what drew some of the aristocracy and other high-borns to attend.
Lady Samantha Kirby, a young wanton left to her own devices by her gamester husband, had invited Max to be among her party this evening. She was a brazen creature who had been sending out lures to Max for some time. He had shown no interest, however, finding her rather ordinary and entirely predictable. He had declined the dinner invitation, but agreed to join the group later at the masquerade. He might not have come at all had he not heard she had also invited Rosalind. The possibility of another waltz with her was enough to have him donning a black domino and loo mask.
He had not seen the minx since the Easterbrook ball, when she had strolled through the terrace doors on Radcliffe's arm. The look on her face had told the entire assembly the young buck had been kissing her. Max had left shortly afterward, not wishing to see what else the girl might do.
He stayed away from Fanny's all week. He had not wanted to face Rosalind for it would mean facing his anger at her behavior. Why should he care if she kissed every man in town? Max had puzzled over it for days. What did it mean that he hated the thought of her kissing anyone else? What did it mean that he could not shake the memory of holding her close on the dance floor? What did it mean that he had not, for once, had to recite contrived flattery from an oft-used and well-memorized litany of seduction, but instead had spoken from the heart words of absolute truth?
This radiant young woman piqued his interest as no other woman had before.
He did not like it.
Max had a rule about women. He never allowed a woman the upper hand in a relationship. The merest hint of possessiveness, and he broke it off. He could not bear the thought of a woman running his life, which is precisely what they all meant to do, whether the commitment was marriage or something less formal. He preferred women who wanted no more involvement than he did, who sought nothing more than a few moments of pleasure. Such woman never aroused even a flicker of sentiment.
Max did not understand this absurd obsession with a little country mouse. She was not at all the sort of woman he preferred. It was precisely that difference, of course, that intrigued him. Innocent yet not innocent. Perhaps it was her passionate approach to life, her incessant curiosity and breath-taking, wide-eyed wonder that fascinated him. In that respect, she was as unlike Max as she could be.
Maybe it was true that opposites attract.
He had put on his domino and mask while still in the hackney, and now made his way toward the stage where the ball was in progress. Each Opera House ball had a different theme, utilizing stage settings and props to suggest various exotic or pastoral settings. Tonight's set appeared to be a gypsy camp. A painted backdrop showed a motley caravan, brightly colored fabric was draped all about, and a covered gypsy wagon had been placed at the rear of the stage.
The dancers, cavorting with drunken abandon in a country dance, included harlequins, Turks, nuns, jesters, shepherds, queens, red Indians, Cavaliers, and every other sort of character, along with dominos of every color. Lady Kirby's box was to be on the second tier, and Max made his way upstairs.
Riotous laughter spilled through the partially open curtain of the box. Max held b
ack the heavy velvet and glanced inside to find it filled almost to capacity. He saw a scantily clad huntress—Diana, no doubt— who was clearly Lady Kirby. She was draped seductively across a chair, laughing with a tonsured monk who offered her a glass of wine. Other women included an Indian temple dancer draped in yards of silk, a shepherdess, and an elaborately garbed Queen Elizabeth. Two others wore only dominos and masks. One of them he recognized as Lydia Allardyce, but he could not have named any of the others. He was, however, fairly certain none of them was Rosalind. She must be on stage dancing with one of her swains.
Having surveyed all the women in the box, Max turned his attention to the gentlemen. Radcliffe was there, his blond hair giving him away beneath a broad, plumed cavalier's hat. He was speaking to a page boy in full glittering green and gold livery. A priest, who might have been Sir Cedric Bassett, was flirting with Queen Elizabeth. None of the other domino-clad gentlemen was recognizable, though one might have been Lord Frampton.
None of this company interested him, and so Max drew the curtain closed and made his way toward the stairs. He would see who he could find on the stage. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard footsteps behind him.
"Max!"
He spun around to find the liveried page boy grinning at him. How had he missed her? He ought to have recognized the sensual line of lip beneath the mask. He should have known that mouth anywhere.
"Do you not recognize me, Max?"
"I do now, minx. And how did you recognize me, pray tell? I took such pains with my domino."
"I knew you at once. I could not say precisely what gave you away. Your chin. Your hair. Your shoulders. The way you walk. Any number of things. But I knew it was you. Why are you leaving so soon?"
"I am not leaving. I was on my way to the stage to see if there were any minxes willing to dance with me."