Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance)

by Candice Hern

  "Oh, famous! I have so been wanting to dance with you again, Max. You are by far the best dancer I know. Let's go!" She grabbed his hand and tugged him along as she dashed down the stairs. "Do you suppose they will play a waltz?"

  "I shall see that they do," he said. "I hate to think, though, what will become of my reputation if I am seen to be dancing with a boy."

  Rosalind giggled, destroying any attempt to appear as a young man. "Just pull up the hood of your domino, like this. No one will recognize you. Do you like my costume, Max? Fanny helped me with it."

  He eyed her up and down, admiring the curve of hip beneath the tight breeches, the long legs and shapely calves. With her short curls artfully tousled and her slim, tall figure, she did look something like a boy. But Max was very much aware of the slight swell of breast beneath the tight-fitting livery jacket and waistcoat. "You look most fetching, my dear. Whose page are you meant to be?"

  " 'I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page, and therefore look you call me Ganymede.' Do you not see my cup?"

  She did indeed have a small gold goblet hanging from her waist as a sort of fob. A modern cup bearer to the gods. "How stupid of me. Who else would heavenly Rosalind pretend to be but Ganymede? Shall I pen verses and hang them about the place?"

  Her laughter rang out in the stairwell. "Please do not. Unless you are a secret Byron?"

  "Alas, my verse would be as hackneyed as poor Orlando's. Let us dance instead, fair Rosalind."

  As luck would have it, the orchestra leader informed Max that the next set was to be a Viennese waltz.

  "Is this not an ingenious setting, Max?" she said as they strolled about the edges of the stage. "I have yet to see an opera here, and so it is my first visit. What a fabulously beautiful place this is!"

  "I suppose so. I never really noticed." He wasn't noticing now, either, for he was captivated once again by her intensity, by the way she hungrily drank in every detail, eyes and cheeks glowing.

  "Oh, how could you not? Only look at the painted ceiling and the crystal chandeliers. It is almost like a French chateau. And tier after tier of boxes. How I would love to see an opera here someday."

  "Is that on your list, too?"

  She laughed and slapped him playfully on the arm. "Of course it is. But tonight is an altogether different sort of treat. All of these spectacular costumes and laughter and music," she said, and spread her arms wide. "And the whole stage turned into a gypsy camp. Is it not marvelous?"

  Her face flushed so sweetly in her excitement, Max could not resist touching it. He ran a finger against a cheek. It was as soft and warm as he'd expected. "Very clever," he said. She gave a bit of a start at his touch and so he backed off. He ought to leave now before he did something truly stupid. Rosalind was an innocent, not one of his worldly widows or bored wives. He must keep reminding himself that she was not for him.

  Max glanced idly about the stage, avoiding her eyes, when he saw something that might serve as a momentary distraction.

  "Do you see the old gypsy woman over there, sitting beneath the wagon?" he asked. "She appears to be reading the tarot cards. Shall we have our fortunes read before the next dance?"

  "No!" Her answer was so sharp, he spun around to look down at her. She seemed embarrassed at her brusque response and looked away. "I need no gypsy to tell me my future." Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her over the noise of the crowd.

  How odd. It was the first time he had ever seen the fearless, high-spirited girl refuse to do anything. What was she afraid of?

  Chapter 9

  "Come along, Max," Rosie said, pulling him by the hand away from the fortune teller. "Let us sit over here and watch the dancing until the waltz begins." She led him to a rustic wooden bench just vacated by a giggling Columbine and a man in Tudor doublet.

  "Would you like something to eat, minx? I seem to recall they put on a decent spread here. What do you say?"

  "Perhaps just a little something to drink. It is quite warm in here."

  He gave her a slow wink. "Wait here. I shall not leave you alone above a moment." He walked away with the languid, rolling grace that would have revealed his identity even in the most concealing costume. Not to mention that strong line of jaw revealed below the mask. She had recognized him in less than an instant.

  Rosie experienced a twinge of guilt at having abandoned the others in Lady Kirby's box, especially Lord Radcliffe. The young man had been hanging about her all evening, playing the cavalier with exaggerated chivalry. He had gone so far as to request that he be seated beside her at dinner. Lady Kirby had told her so in confidence while the gentlemen lingered over their port in the dining room. He had already danced with Rosie twice, including a waltz, and clearly intended to maneuver her into a private corner for a kiss. But Rosie had made sure that such an opportunity had not arisen. She liked him well enough, but not enough to warrant another kiss that did not do all those things Fanny had mentioned.

  When she had recognized Max, she had run after him with unseemly eagerness. What must he think of her? The simple truth was that Max interested her more than any of her other admirers. Not that Max was an admirer. He probably found her an occasionally amusing departure from his usual sophisticated women, nothing more. Even so, Rosie could not help but believe that Max above all others could show her some of those pleasures her aunt had mentioned. Who better than the one man of all she'd met who could set her heart to racing with a glance, whose closeness during their waltz had been so intoxicating she had almost swooned, whose whispered flattery was recollected word for honeyed word?

  Lord Radcliffe had flattered her, waltzed with her, even kissed her, and yet she felt nothing. She wished it could be otherwise, for no matter how much she wanted Max, she was unlikely to have him. There was no time to waste chasing after a man she could never have.

  On the other hand, there was nothing to lose by trying.

  Max was as good as his word, returning after barely more than a few minutes, carrying two glasses of wine. "If you hoped for lemonade, you are out of luck, my dear. It is served in the supper room downstairs and would have taken half an hour or more to obtain. Luckily, there are wine tables scattered about."

  Rosie took the glass from him. "Wine is perfect, though you must not scold me if I become lightheaded and silly. I've lost count of how many glasses I've had this evening."

  "I shall stay on my guard," he said, and seated himself beside her. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

  "Oh, yes. Indeed, I have not stopped enjoying myself since I arrived in London."

  "And how is the list progressing? What new delights have you enjoyed these last days?" The look in those heavy-lidded eyes could twist the meaning of even the most innocent words.

  "Let me see," she said. "I have been to St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey and the Guildhall. I had a delicious lemon ice at Gunter's. I was allowed to drive Mr. Hepworth's cabriolet in the park. I've been kissed. And I saw Mr. Kean at Drury Lane."

  Max arched an eyebrow. She expected him to make some remark about being kissed, but instead he said, "Kean, eh? And what did you think of the little man?"

  "He was magnificent," Rosie said, breathless at the memory of the extraordinary performance. "He played Macbeth, and I declare I've never seen anything so wonderful. I was positively spellbound."

  "I'll bet you were." His voice was full of lazy amusement. Rosie blushed to think what a green rustic she must appear to such a man. "Ah, the reel has ended. Shall we take our places for the waltz, my Ganymede?"

  "If you are sure you want to risk your reputation dancing with a boy."

  "Anyone who mistakes you for a boy, minx, is a fool whose opinion is not to be considered."

  A moment later, Rosie was once again swept up in the pure joy of the dance. The stage was crowded, the other dancers were rowdy and wild and probably drunk. No one noticed or cared that Max held her too close, that his arm was wrapped around her back rather than held decorously at her waist. She closed her e
yes and gave herself up to the sheer sensual pleasure of his embrace as he guided her through the waltz.

  He did not speak this time. No words of flirtation or flattery, of amusement or seduction. No words at all. His silence allowed Rosie to relish the nearness of him, to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders and the solid muscle beneath her hand, to breathe in the musky male scent of him, to be carried away by the sensual, graceful movements of the dance.

  Finally, Rosie opened her eyes to find his gazing down at her with a look that caused her breath to catch in her throat. His gaze moved to her mouth and she unconsciously licked her lips. He is going to kiss me, she thought, and a thrill of anticipation sent her heart to thumping wildly in her breast.

  At that moment another couple jostled them, the movement causing Rosie to lose her balance. The moment was lost as well. Max caught her before she stumbled, and the customary glint of amusement had returned to his eyes, replacing the heated expression of a moment before.

  Blast! Rosie looked away in frustration, then gasped in sudden horror. Burying her head against Max's shoulder, she said, "Good God! Hide me, Max."

  "What the devil?"

  "It's my brother," she said in a muffled but agitated whisper. "He mustn't see me!"

  Blast and double blast. Why did Thomas always have to show up when she was doing something thoroughly improper? Why hadn't he stayed in the Lake District as planned? What an exceedingly tiresome brother he had become.

  "Steady, my girl. Keep your head down. Which one is he?"

  "The tall, dark-haired man in the blue domino dancing with the pink sprite. Is he looking?"

  "Not at the moment. The sprite has all his attention. But wait. He does seem to be darting glances in this direction. I don't believe he has quite figured out who you are. Thinks he recognizes you, but cannot place you, I suspect."

  "Curse it! We must get out of here before he does recognize me."

  "Follow my lead, minx."

  Max danced them toward the edge of the stage, then pulled her down the stairs to the stalls. As they hurried down a side aisle, Rosie glanced over her shoulder to find Thomas standing center stage, watching them. "Hurry, Max! He's recognized me. Hurry!"

  Max swung himself over the side of one of the lower tier boxes, turned, grabbed Rosie by the waist, and lifted her up and over into the box. "Beg pardon," he said to the astonished occupants of the box. Fortunately, they were all thoroughly foxed and thought it a great lark, laughing merrily as Max tugged Rosie through the curtain at the back.

  Her hand tightly clasped in his, Max hurried along the crowded corridor and up the first stairway he found. They passed only one couple on the stairs, and when they reached the empty landing Rosie pulled him to a halt.

  "Stop!" she cried. She had to catch her breath, but after a moment, breathlessness was replaced by laughter. She collapsed against Max's chest, laughing too hard to speak. She could feel his chest shaking with his own laughter, and it only made her laugh harder. He wrapped his arms around her and together they laughed and laughed.

  Finally, Rosie pulled away from him, pushed her mask up onto her head, and wiped her eyes. "Oh, Max," she said, her voice still quivering with mirth, "what must those people have thought, to find us bounding into their box like that?" She dissolved into giggles once more, thinking of the looks on the faces of the men and women in the box.

  Max removed his own mask, keeping one arm tightly around her waist. He continued to chuckle softly as he ran a thumb across her wet cheek. He looked younger somehow, laughing and grinning like a boy. "Look what you have reduced me to, my little minx. Running and leaping about like a madman. If I was recognized, I shall never live it down. And it is all your fault."

  Chortling merrily, Rosie considered Max's reputation as a bored sophisticate, loathe to exert himself more than was absolutely necessary. "You are caught out, Max. I knew all that cynical ennui was no more than a fashionable pose."

  "Be quiet, minx," he said, and forced her to do so by lowering his mouth to hers.

  He kissed her. Thoroughly. He nibbled and tasted slowly, tenderly, as though savoring ripe fruit. After a moment of gentle exploration, he teased open her lips and took her breath away.

  His arm tightened around her and he brought the other hand up to run his fingers through her hair, all the while his lips and tongue performed magic with hers. She felt as though her legs would collapse beneath her.

  When his lips moved from her mouth to trail kisses down her neck, she thought she had never felt anything so wonderful. It was just like Fanny said it would be. Her toes had quite literally curled up in her slippers.

  "What was that about toes?" he murmured against her ear.

  Oh, Lord. Had she spoke her thoughts aloud? She turned her mouth toward his and pulled him into another kiss. What better way to keep from uttering nonsense out loud?

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought a groan from Max, and he ended the kiss. Reluctantly, Rosie thought. The couple hurried past them, staring and sniggering.

  "Damn," Max said when they had gone.

  "Did you know them?"

  "Yes."

  "Will they think you were kissing a boy?"

  He smiled and gazed down at her with sleepy eyes. "I don't care what they think, my Ganymede. Let me return you to Lady Kirby before you get me into any more trouble."

  * * *

  Max spent only a short time in Lady Kirby's box, accepting a glass of wine but refusing to join the others in a lively contre danse right inside the box. He made his excuses and his exit while the most of the party lined up within the confines of the small curtained space. Rosalind gave him a wink as she was led down the line on the arm of Frampton.

  Lord, what had he done? It was bad enough, the way he had danced with her, though in a masquerade setting, propriety was routinely tossed to the winds. But what the devil had possessed him to kiss her?

  Stupid question. She had been perfectly irresistible, that's what had possessed him. Rosalind Lacey had been nearly irresistible since the moment they'd met. Or at least from that second meeting, after she had been transformed from the little brown mouse. Her incredible joie de vivre had affected him just as it had every other man. Max had thought himself above the rest, superior to other men in his detachment, his indifference, his dispassionate control.

  Yet he was no more immune to her charm than the most callow youth, and he could not have stopped himself from kissing her if he had tried. He had wanted to kiss her all evening, but each time he came close, he caught himself in time. But her uninhibited, joyous, infectious laughter had been his undoing.

  She was irresistible.

  She was also an unmarried young woman from the country. Had he just committed himself with that kiss?

  Would she now expect him to make an offer? Would Fanny?

  Rosalind, however, was not the inexperienced green girl he had thought her to be. The minx playfully admitted to having been kissed by someone else, and demonstrated without question that she knew what she was about. Her words and the look in her eye had been a blatant invitation. She had wanted Max to kiss her, and her response ... Lord, her response. She had practically melted against him, had kissed him back with exquisite passion, and had even initiated a second kiss herself. There was nothing naive or inexperienced about her response. He ought to have known she would approach a kiss with the same enthusiasm she gave to everything else she did.

  Egad, but the girl was alive!

  Perhaps all she said was true, that she was in town for a lark with no more intention than having a good time. To be sure, she was wide-eyed with wonder, but who wouldn't be at her first experience of the Metropolis? That did not mean she had remained an innocent in Devon. Max recollected that secretive visit from Sir Nigel Leighton.

  No, the girl—the woman —was no young innocent. He need not feel obliged to make an offer.

  Max experienced a niggling twinge of disappointment. Had he wanted to make an offer? Idiot! He wanted not
hing of the kind, never had and never would. To be sure, Rosalind Lacey had affected him as no other woman before, but he would not make a fool of himself at this stage in his career. He would, though, take what pleasure he could, and enjoy every moment of it.

  As he rode in a hackney on his way back home, Max found himself fingering Freddie Moresby's note tucked out of habit in his waistcoat pocket. He always kept it close as a sort of talisman, to remind him of a way out when boredom overwhelmed him.

  But Max had not been bored in weeks. Without conscious thought, the notion of following Freddie's lead had been discarded some time ago. Rosalind's tireless energy, the way she grabbed life by the horns and held on had not only affected him, it had infected him. When was the last time he'd scrambled about the Opera House, jumping into private boxes, stealing kisses in stairwells? When was the last time he'd laughed so hard? When had he last felt so young?

  After so many years of raking about town that nothing piqued his interest, Max found himself wanting to absorb some of Rosalind's vitality. He wanted to feel as alive as she did, not bored literally to death. Like Freddie.

  If only Freddie had met someone like Rosalind Lacey, he might still be alive.

  * * *

  Rosie awoke the next morning with another pounding headache. Still not as severe as those she'd suffered at home, it nevertheless reminded her of how little time she had left. She curled up on the chaise near the fire and sat quietly for a half hour, sipping the tea Violet had brought.

  Ignoring the pain in her head, she contemplated the activities of the evening before. To be perfectly truthful, she contemplated Max's kiss and little else. As enjoyable as the masquerade had been, nothing could compare with those precious moments in his arms. Every detail was recalled to mind: the softness of his lips, the expert way he used them, the taste of wine on his tongue, the caress of his hand against her back, the touch of his fingers in her hair.

  Fanny had said the right man would make her feel exactly as she had felt last night with Max. What would her aunt say if she knew Rosie had found the right man, and it was none other than her late lover's son?