by Candice Hern
"It is not enough," she had complained, "that you embarrassed the family beyond repair by your unseemly behavior. But now you must marry that ... that libertine. The man is notorious. Lord, Rosie, you are as bad as our aunt. How shall I ever hold my head up in Society again?"
Papa had been delighted with the outcome of his and Fanny's machinations. After so many years of estrangement, Rosie hoped to see a renewed affection between them. She had scolded her aunt for frightening her with feigned illness, and she extracted a promise that Fanny would come to Wycombe Hall for the wedding. Papa had gladly seconded the invitation.
Fanny had arrived two days before the wedding, in the company of Lord Eldridge and the bridegroom. The entire family had been on hand to greet the arrivals, including both Pamela and Ursula and their husbands. Max was on the spot with a very long and very satisfactory greeting, not giving Rosie the chance to object to so public a display. Ursula's gasp only incited him to prolong the kiss. When he finally pulled away, he announced to all assembled that he had happy news to report.
He tugged Fanny forward by the elbow, her bright primrose sarsnet dress and dashing Calendonia cap catching the morning sun. "I am pleased," Max said, "to introduce newlyweds Lord and Lady Eldridge, married just three days."
"Aunt Fanny!" Rosie threw her arms around her aunt and kissed her cheek. "What a wonderful surprise. Why didn't you tell me?"
Fanny looked to her beaming husband and smiled. "All this talk of weddings got me to feeling sentimental, I suppose. Jonathan's been asking for years, and I finally decided to take the plunge. And let me tell you, my girl, it is a most pleasurable state, even at my age. I highly recommend it to you."
After further congratulations, including an unexpected hug from Sir Edmund, and introductions to the gathered guests, Fanny tugged Rosie inside and eventually managed to arrange a moment of privacy with her niece.
"I expect Max will be pleased to see his family," Fanny said as she accepted a cup of tea from Rosie.
"He will, if the twins give him any peace. It is their life's ambition to return to school with the most artistically arranged cravats ever seen at Harrow. They have been waiting rather impatiently for arrival of the Master of Neckcloths. I hope they allow poor Max five minutes alone with his family."
"Have they all arrived?"
"Indeed," Rosie said. "The earl and countess are here, as is Lady Gresham, Max's sister, though her husband, the marquess, is out of the country on business. And Colonel Davenant and his wife are here as well. Ursula has been quite beside herself to be in such elevated company. She has undergone a complete change of heart and decided that my marrying Max is not such a bad thing after all, since it brings an earl and a marchioness into her circle."
"Hmph. As if they would have anything to do with the foolish girl. How are you holding up, my dear?"
"To be perfectly honest," Rosie said, "I just wish it was over and Max and I could get on with our lives. Such a lot of fuss and bother!"
"Why don't you escape?"
"What do you mean?"
"You have the license. You and Max could simply dash off and get yourselves married somewhere else and leave the rest of us to our own devices."
Rosie raised a questioning brow. "But all the planning, the guests, the parties, the—"
"So? What does it matter? It is all nothing more than an excuse for friends and family to gather together. Well, we're all here now and can enjoy ourselves just the same, with or without a wedding."
"It wouldn't be proper," Rosie said, though her mind began to whirl with possibilities.
"Confound it, girl, you sound just like that blasted sister of yours. You never cared for what was proper when you were in London."
"I know, but—"
"And what did it get you? A lifetime of solitary repentance? No, it won you a perfectly marvelous man every woman in town has been angling after for years. If you had not thrown propriety to the winds, he might never have given you a second glance. Now that you've got him, what the devil does it matter if you do the thing by the book? Why not just do as you please?"
Rosie gave a wistful sigh. "Oh, I should dearly love to escape all the hubbub and just be alone with Max."
"What's stopping you?"
Nothing at all, as it turned out. Less than an hour later, she smuggled a small bandbox into the boot of the curricle she'd borrowed from Thomas and coaxed Max into taking a brief drive.
"What's all this, minx?" he said. "Anxious to display your driving skills on an uncrowded country road?"
"I just felt like a bit of kidnapping."
"Egad, are you stealing me away? How delightful." He snaked his arm around her and gave a provocative squeeze. "Someplace very, very private, I hope."
"Not too private. We will need witnesses, I believe."
His head jerked up from nuzzling her neck. "Witnesses? What the devil are you up to, minx?"
"We're eloping, Max."
"What?"
"I have the license in my reticule and a bag packed for the night. We must hurry, though. It is not a special license, so we must be married before noon. I think we can make Plymtree if I really push the team."
Max gaped at her open-mouthed for a long moment before his face transformed itself into a smile. "By Jove, you are the bold miss I knew in London after all. I knew it. I told you it could not have all been pretense. You really are a minx." He tilted her face toward him and kissed her.
"Stop it, Max! We'll never make it by noon if you distract me."
"Forgive me, my love. I am your captive. Drive on."
Less than a week later, a new print by Mr. Rowlandson was displayed prominently in every print shop in London. Entitled "The Matrimonial Race, or The Bride Gets her Man," it showed a sleek sporting vehicle with a dashing young woman at the ribbons, dressed all in red, and a terror-struck man at her side, hanging on for his life, his leg shackled to hers. Below it was written:
When Mr. D------ offered for Miss L----
'Twas a thing so great and rare
She drove top speed to the nearest church
To marry him then and there.
Such brash behavior goes to show:
When seeking wedded bliss
The newly married Mrs. D-------
Was no milk and water miss.
###
If you enjoyed Miss Lacey's Last Fling, don't forget to post a review at Amazon.com.
MORE REGENCY ROMANCES FROM CANDICE HERN
The following traditional Regency Romances are available for your Kindle. Click on any title to download it.
The Regency Rakes Trilogy:
A PROPER COMPANION
A CHANGE OF HEART
AN AFFAIR OF HONOR
The Country House Party Duo:
A GARDEN FOLLY
THE BEST INTENTIONS
MISS LACEY'S LAST FLING
"DESPERATE MEASURES" (a Regency short story)
Here's an excerpt from A Garden Folly:
Oh, but it was grand to be back in the country again! To smell clean air, fragrant of summer blossoms and wood smoke. To enjoy clear, blue skies unblemished with coal soot, and sweeping expanses of brilliant green parklands. To have so much space to oneself.
Catherine had not realized how much she missed the country. She had not been out of Chelsea since going there to live with Aunt Hetty after her father's death. Dorland, the small Forsythe estate in Wiltshire, had been lost along with everything else when their father died. All her young life she had longed for a Season in Town, but Sir Benjamin Forsythe's precarious finances had never allowed it. More than two years of scraping to make ends meet in Chelsea, however, had shattered any romantical notions she might have once held regarding the glories of London. Oh, there were glories to be seen in Town, to be sure; but not for the likes of impoverished single ladies in Flood Street.
Perhaps if—when!—she and Susannah contrived to find rich husbands at Chissingworth, she would not mind so much going back to London. In style,
this time.
At the moment, she was simply happy to be back in the country. Chissingworth was famous for its gardens and Catherine was anxious to see as much of them as possible. She loved flowers of all kinds, especially wildflowers. At Dorland, one of her greatest pleasures had been painting detailed watercolors of her favorite blossoms. She still kept a portfolio of her paintings of which she was really quite proud.
It had been a long time since she had been able to afford paints and brushes and decent parchment. But she had brought along to Chissingworth a few rolls of foolscap and two or three pencils, one of which was tucked in her pocket at the moment. She harbored secret hopes of finding new and unusual specimens to sketch while in residence at the famous estate.
With this in mind, she wandered through the surprisingly informal arrangement of gardens. In the dressed grounds nearest the house, high, clipped shrubbery hedges of sweetbrier, box, and hawthorn surrounded each garden. Moving through the enclosed hedges was akin to walking through the various rooms of a house, each room different from the last. One was awash in the bright colors of summer, the gravel paths bordered with stocks, pinks, double rocket, sweet Williams, and asters. The morning sun fell upon spires of delphinium sparkling with dew. Her artist's eye was drawn to the glitter of moisture on the indigo and royal peaks, and she paused to seat herself on a nearby stone bench. She pulled a pencil and a scrap of paper from her pocket and roughly sketched the familiar blossoms.
After a few moments, Catherine moved on to the next garden, which was devoted to roses of all shades. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and breathed in the heady fragrance of so many blossoms. She did not, though, stop to draw any of the roses. She instead wandered through a break in the hedge to another garden, this one laid out in a large circle. The plantings graduated in height, from tiny candytuft and sweet mignonette, to lupin, poppies, mallows, and sweet peas. Towering above them all in the center were enormous sunflowers. Catherine was much taken with the harmonious arrangement of such humble varieties as she slowly skirted the circular path, looking for a specimen that she might want to capture on paper.
"Oh! How wonderful!" she exclaimed as she came upon a patch of sweet violets flourishing in the shade of the larger plants. Kneeling down, she carefully caressed the dark purple blossoms of what could only be a pure viola odorata. She had never actually seen one before, most common violets being hybrids of other violaceae. But she recognized the pure ancestor of the ordinary sweet violet from pictures in one of the illustrated flower books she had once owned. She really must sketch this one. Perhaps if she made a detailed-enough sketch, she would one day be able to paint it in color, from memory.
Leaning in closer, she began to carefully examine the soft, fragile petals, holding the blossom ever so gently between her fingers.
And suddenly, she was knocked backward with a thud.
What on earth?
"Damnation!" muttered the man who had apparently come careening around the garden path directly into her. He grabbed at Catherine's shoulders in an attempt to balance himself.
Instead, he knocked her flat on her back and fell directly on top of her.
Catherine gasped, her face crushed against a dirt-covered smock. "Get off me, you oaf!" she sputtered, pushing against the man's chest.
Muttering something unintelligible, he raised himself slightly and looked down at her. His hat had been knocked away and a curl of dark brown hair fell over his furrowed brow. Green eyes flickered with annoyance and his mouth was a thin line of irritation. But the most noticeable thing about the man at the moment was his weight, which was crushing the breath right out of her.
"Get off!" she repeated.
* * *
Stephen gazed down into the flashing eyes of a very pretty little termagant. Bloody hell! He was in for it now, for she was no doubt one of his mother's guests. He hadn't expected anyone in the gardens this early. He had not been paying much attention to the path, his eyes surveying the center garden as he hurried past. He had not seen the girl as she knelt down at the edge of the gravel walk. And here he was sprawled atop her in a most improper manner.
If it wasn't so awkward, he might be tempted to enjoy it for a moment. She really was very pretty. Dark blond curls were revealed beneath the bonnet that had been knocked askew. Her brows and eyelashes were a much darker color, providing a striking contrast to her fair hair. Her eyes, framed by the long, dark lashes, appeared to be gray.
She really was very pretty.
"Get off me!" she repeated in a choked voice.
Coming to his senses, he realized he must be practically smothering her, so he quickly rolled to the side. "I beg your pardon," he said as he struggled ungracefully to his feet. He extended a hand to help her up. "I am terribly sorry. Are you quite all right?"
She grabbed his hand and allowed him to pull her to a sitting position. She neither looked at him nor answered him, but adjusted her bonnet. "You might have looked where you were going!" she said in a petulant tone. She sat up on her knees and Stephen offered his hand again. She took it, pulled herself upright, then immediately dropped it to shake out her skirts.
"I am terribly sorry," he repeated, brushing himself off and searching the area for his hat. He did not know what else to say. He was reluctant to get into a conversation with the young woman, attractive though she may be. If she recognized him as the duke—which she had thankfully not yet done—there was no telling what sort of fuss she would make. He must get away as quickly as possible before the chit realized who he was and went squealing off to the other guests that she had sighted the elusive duke.
Damn his mother and her parties, anyway. Why couldn't they leave him in peace to putter in his gardens?
"I am so sorry," he said again, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he retrieved his broad-brimmed straw hat from beneath a patch of blue gentian. He slapped it against his thigh a few times and plopped it back upon his head. "It was my fault completely. I trust you are uninjured?"
"I am fine," she said, still straightening her skirts and not looking at him. Stephen's stomach seized up with the notion that she had not yet got a good look at him. There was still a chance she might recognize him. "No thanks to you," she continued in that irritated tone. "And of course it was your fault. I was simply minding my own business, admiring the—" She stopped as she looked down at her hand. "Oh, dear."
Stephen moved closer, thinking she might have injured her hand and cursing himself for his own carelessness. "What is it? Have you—" He paused as he saw that she was not injured, but was holding on to a crushed purple blossom.
Good God! It was one of his violets.
His prized, rare, pure-bred violets.
Forgetting for a moment his own culpability, he raged at the girl. "How dare you pick my flowers without asking! Do you think these are placed here for anyone to pluck at will? Don't you know—"
"Your flowers?" she said, her eyes widening in surprise.
Good Lord. He had given himself away. What an idiot! He was in for it, now.
But his poor violets.
"Oh! You must be the gardener," she said.
The gardener? Looking down at himself, he realized that no one would take his scruffy appearance for that of a duke. He experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. "Yes," was all he could say. They were his gardens, after all. And he did design them and work in them. So in a sense, he was the gardener.
"Well, you still might try to watch where you are going next time," the girl said.
By God, she was looking him straight in the eye and truly believed he was the gardener. It was too good.
"I am sure you are quite busy and all," she continued, "with such a large estate to care for. But you must know that the duchess has a house full of guests who might be wandering the gardens at any time. You really must be more careful."
The petulant tone had disappeared and she seemed less offended. Interesting. He would have expected most young women of her stat
ion—for she must be aristocratic to have been invited by his mother—to disdain the working staff. He would have expected her to rail against his clumsiness, to threaten to report him to his employer, to exert all the superiority of her station. Instead, she looked wistfully down at the crushed blossom in her palm.
"And I was not picking your flowers, if you must know," she continued. "I was simply admiring them. I must have accidentally grabbed at it when you fell over me."
"Yes. Yes, of course," Stephen muttered. His cheeks felt warm and he knew he must be blushing as he recalled how he had been sprawled atop her. "I should not have shouted at you. It is just that..." He paused and looked down at the remains of the tiny purple flower. "Well, you cannot know how precious that little plant is."
"Oh, but I can," she replied. "It is a pure viola odorata, is it not?"
"Why, yes," he said, completely taken aback that this young girl would know such a thing. "Yes, it is. How did you know?"
"Oh, I have never actually seen one before," she said, "not really, anyway. But I have seen many pictures of them. I love flowers, you see and have— had—many books on the subject. Some with lovely colored prints of various blossoms. Violets have always been my favorites, the simple viola odorata most of all. When I saw this patch of them," she said, gesturing to the clump of purple blossoms at the edge of the path, "I could not resist examining them up close. You must have cultivated them especially to bloom so long into summer, did you not? I thought to sketch one, you see. Oh, and I had also considered drawing this one, too," she added, bending to admire the fringed gentian. "Very unusual. The dark blue coloring and the fringed edges are a combination I have never before seen. Are they a special hybrid?"
Stephen's breath was almost knocked out of him as he listened to this extraordinary speech. Here was a very pretty young woman, with dark blond curls spilling out of her bonnet and huge gray eyes peering at him guilelessly, who knew about rare flowers and special hybrids—his favorite subjects—and wasn't fawning all over him. And she actually had no idea who he was.