Regency Society Revisited

by Susanne Marie Knight

  Brockton sighed. He avoided Lillian's direction and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Well, hope the pair of you control your explosive tempers. Bad ton to create a brouhaha at m'mother's party."

  "Not interested in Lillian, Os. Looking for Serry Steele. Talk to you later."

  Needing to ferret out the widow, Nicholas suddenly noticed a slender figure dressed in black. Her gown was solid, yet in close rows, shiny spots shimmered in the chandelier light. The material hugged Mrs. Steele's feminine curves, and flared short sleeves circled her upper arms. A toque of the same fabric added extra height to her already unfashionable inches, and a black rose twinkled seductively at her left ear. He was reminded of a black widow spider.

  "Disgraceful,” he muttered. No proper widow would wear that wrap-around gown.

  "I quite agree,” said a bewigged matron, obviously mistaking his words.

  Another fawning busybody, eager to get on his good side.

  "I find this ratafia not only warm but also lacking fruit flavor,” she continued. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of punch instead, milord?"

  Nicholas ignored the woman and purposefully strode in Serry Steele's direction. Not only was this harpy after his father, but here she was toadying up to that poor excuse for a soldier. Blast it, a set of regimentals could seduce a woman faster than the finest French brandy.

  The heated blaze of Nicholas's stare must have attracted Serry Steele's attention. Her gaze met his from across the ballroom. Even at this distance, she must have known he was angry with her.

  As he gained ground toward her, she seemed to hover indecisively. She stood on tiptoes to whisper into the military man's ear. What was this? The man guided her onto the dance floor.

  Nicholas smiled a humorless smile. In her haste to avoid him, Serry Steele apparently forgot her widow status. Now she was fair game for any and all toe-steppers who requested a turn about the parquet floor—including him. She would not be able to escape from him again.

  Osborne's solicitous voice startled him. “Brockton, old fellow, you really are making a spectacle of yourself. Do cease and desist your unholy sulks. Your eyes are issuing storm warnings, for God's sake. Get yourself a drink. Who is her partner, by the bye? He looks familiar."

  Nicholas turned his back on the graceful black-garbed widow and headed for the refreshments, his friend at his heels.

  After downing a shot of brandy, he growled, “You remember the colonel, Osborne. Colonel Jenkins, of late at White's Whist tables."

  "Ah yes, a Captain Sharp, I believe we agreed. I ought to warn Mrs. Steele.” Osborne placed his crystal glass down to await his opportunity to approach the widow, but Nicholas stayed his hand.

  "No, let her find out for herself. See how she hangs on his shoulder and acts as if she is memorizing his every utterance? Do her good to cross swords with one as dishonest as she is. Jenkins will keep her busy and away from ... my father."

  After Nicholas completed his words, Osborne widened his eyes. “Lord Rotterham!” he choked out. A few people turned their heads at his interjection. “Nicholas, are you coming down with ague? Have you a fever?” he urgently whispered.

  "The old man is balmy about her, I tell you,” Nicholas wearily explained. “He came tonight just to see her."

  "As your father is in one of the adjoining rooms playing cards, I can give your statement all the merit it deserves—none! Brockton, you need to forget all this. Have some fun. Quit brooding. Just the thing, have a dance with Caro Lamb. She is a wild thing, they say."

  "Too old,” Nicholas commented into his glass. “Seven and twenty. And indiscreet as well. I pity poor William, her husband. You go on, Osborne. Your mother is signaling to you. I shall wait for my opportunity with the Willowy Widow."

  Lord Wilfred Uffing now led Serry Steele through the steps of a minuet, and Nicholas raised an eyebrow. The widow was popular, wasn't she? Who else had she sunk her claws into tonight? But Uffing was such a parody, the woman could barely conceal the chagrin on her face. Who could? Uffing's yellow and purple striped waistcoat was at odds with his thinning red hair. Pathetic!

  * * * *

  After the dance set, Serenity sent Lord Uffing on a mission to procure a glass of lemonade. She had to get rid of him; her nose threatened to explode in multiple sneezes. Luckily, he gladly assented. Once he was gone, she took off in the opposite direction. In her haste to escape the fragrant fop, she bumped into Georgiana.

  "Serry! Am I glad to see you. I am prodigiously happy you took my advice and decided to take a few turns about the floor. Your hand has been sought after as much as our own incomparable Zeena. Faith! I will wager Lord Uffing is prepared to make you an offer tonight."

  Serenity winced. Her toes still throbbed from the baron's overzealous stomping of his heeled shoes. Her lightly clad feet protested being a willing victim to his abuse.

  She had agreed to dance only to avoid an approaching confrontation with Lord Brockton. Why had he glowered at her? Hadn't he said, “let's cry friends?” Of course, that was a while ago.

  But still.... Damn, was he inconsistent.

  She had to put a halt to Georgiana's expectations. Uffing offering for her ... please! “I told you early on, Georgiana, I'm not interested in husband-hunting. It's not been a year yet.... “Serenity hung her head to emphasize grieving for her fictitious husband.

  Immediately, Georgiana's cheerful expression changed. “I know you are still mourning your Gerald. Not a day goes by that I do not think of my own dear Trent. But life goes on. Even I might consider the married state again. With the right man, of course."

  She blushed with this confession, and Serenity impulsively gave her a hug. Georgiana would thrive with the right person's attention. Serenity was beginning to think the right man was—

  Lord Harrison Osborne interrupted her thoughts. “A thousand pardons, beautiful ladies, but I must disrupt this tête-à-tête. Lady Trent, your mother begs for a few moments of your time. She is waiting for you in the Rose Salon."

  "So formal, Harry.” Georgiana laughed and then flashed a sheepish grin at her two friends. “Mama is probably having trouble with those feathers in her toque. I warned her not to wear so many."

  With a quick apology, the dutiful daughter headed in the Rose Salon's direction.

  After a companionable silence, Harrison asked, “Mrs. Steele, might I have the next dance?"

  She turned, saw his friendly face and twinkling brown eyes, and decided to be honest. “Lord Harrison, I'd much rather sit this one out. In fact, I hadn't intended on dancing this evening. Somehow it just happened and I feel uncomfortable about it."

  He led her to a gold-studded sofa placed off the main ballroom. “I do understand how you feel, Mrs. Steele. War is a terrible thing. A close friend of mine was also killed in battle. Sometimes, I look around at events like this one, and think of my friend. His young life was snuffed out to preserve our right to drown ourselves in English excess. Doesn't seem right, you know."

  Harrison sat by her side, and for a moment his sunny nature dimmed.

  Serenity was overwhelmed by this British nobleman opening up to her. She hadn't expected to find morals, ethics, and conscience tonight in this grand ballroom. She moved closer to try to alleviate some of the man's pain.

  "I'm sure your friend died as my husband did. Proud, knowing he protected English society as a whole. Their sacrifice, while perhaps not appreciated now, will enable their birthplace to continue free from foreign oppression. They'll earn the gratitude of the Britons of the future."

  "Mrs. Steele,” he whispered, the words seeming to stick in his mouth. “Mrs. Steele, I feel humbled in the presence of such a sage. Astonished at the wisdom of your words. Your husband was a lucky man to have wooed and won you. And I am a lucky man to know you."

  It was Serenity's turn to be tongue-tied. She tried to brush away his extravagant praise.

  But he insisted. “May I have the honor of addressing you by your first name? I would b
e pleased if you call me by mine. My friends call me Harry."

  After Serenity agreed, he commented, “Surrey is an out-of-the-ordinary name, if I might say so. What can your parents have been thinking of, to name you after a county? You were not, perhaps, conceived in the bushes, were you?"

  After he spoke, he blushed pink at his indelicate words. “Please, you must forgive me. I did not mean any disrespect."

  She grinned. His guess fit the circumstances for her middle name. But she wouldn't mention that. “Well, you must admit, ‘Serry’ is better than being called ‘Dorset,’ or ‘Berkshire,’ or ... ‘Norfolk!'” she joked, naming other English counties.

  "But no, Harry. It's not S-U-R-R-E-Y.” She spelled her nickname for him.

  They both laughed at his mistake.

  * * * *

  Leaning on a nearby Corinthian column of white marble, Nicholas intently watched Osborne and the Steele woman's exchange of words and levity. Nothing would convince him that this upstart was not after every male member of the bon ton. Now Osborne had fallen into her clutches. Just look at him—enraptured by her devious smile. Look at her, moving closer, cozening him.

  No envy tainted Nicholas's observation. Why would he be envious? But he did admit a sense of disappointment. At what? Osborne's behavior? Or was it Serry Steele's?

  Whatever.

  Nicholas had to get away. If he watched the pair of them any longer, who knew what he would do?

  Nearby, he spotted Lillian Fairfax talking to a wealthy, portly squire. She was provocatively dressed in a silver satin gown. The décolletage must have been giving the stout squire heart palpitations. Nicholas eyed her bosom and weaved his way through the crowd to her.

  As he reached Lillian's side—or well-exposed bodice, he heard Serry Steele's distinctive voice. She and Osborne must have also reentered the main ballroom. From a close proximity, she said, “Like a Regency Buck in rutting season!"

  Who the devil was she talking about? Puzzled, he turned around to follow her line of vision. She was looking directly at him! He caught her gaze and she reddened.

  Osborne, damn him, laughed. “Serry, you are an original. A rutting buck indeed.” Then he winked at Nicholas and guided her to a far corner, out of harm's way.

  Rutting buck! The jade referred to him! For one second, he saw purple. The next second, he vowed his revenge. He would make her think twice about crossing swords with him.

  Unfortunately, Serry Steele's reputation gained prestige. Osborne did not call every good-looking woman an “original.” As stories of the widow's latest “conquest” drifted through the titled revelers, he left an open-mouthed Lillian, to wreak havoc on the widow's black-toqued head.

  Where had she gone? There! He found the new society wit in the midst of being asked to supper by the color-clashing Lord Uffing.

  Serry Steele obviously did not want to insult Uffing. Yet she probably did not want to spoil her appetite by sitting next to his wafting scents. By hemming and hawing, she was stalling for time.

  He took in the situation and strode to the widow's side. “Sorry, Uffing. Mrs. Steele promised to dine with me."

  After Uffing drooped away in disappointment, she murmured a low, “Thank you, my lord."

  Not replying, he held out his arm for her to take. When she looked up at his face, her expressive eyes widened and her creamy complexion paled. Good. She now realized she made a mistake in refusing Lord Uffing's invitation.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She was in for it now. Serenity followed a silent, but deadly Lord Brockton to a secluded table adjacent to the main area. Passing rows of fashionably attired members of the Upper Ten Thousand, she glanced at their gilt-edged plates loaded with foods as appetizing as turtle soup, quail, and some small items that looked suspiciously like deer tongues.

  Who could eat a heavy meal so late at night? Her own stomach bubbled at her. More to the point, who could eat under the relentless gaze of Nicholas Wycliffe? What bad luck for him to hear her totally inappropriate remark back inside the ballroom. No wonder his eyes blazed fire at her. As she realized early on in her dealings with him: this man could be a dangerous opponent.

  Under the shadow of a potted palm tree, they sat, facing each other. The quiet before the storm was about to end.

  He gestured for a servant to bring some food. “So, Mrs. Steele, how are you enjoying your many successes tonight?"

  "My successes?” No hurricane winds there. The only success she could think of was in buttonholing Colonel Jenkins to talk about the war. “I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

  Brockton's steely stare bore into her; he scrutinized her every action. As she peeled off her long black gloves, he somehow made it seem as if she indulged in a striptease.

  Maybe she was over-reacting.

  He helped himself to the Russian caviar. “Come now, m'dear, don't play the coquette with me."

  She met his gaze, then looked down. “I'm not, honest."

  He was devastatingly handsome tonight. Also dressed in black, he had only the whiteness of his starched cravat and shirt as contrast. His sole jewel, a diamond stickpin, linked his stark apparel with that of the over-jeweled, over-colorful guests.

  After choosing a thin shaving of ham to nibble on, she concentrated on cutting it. Her peripheral senses, however, indicated Brockton still keenly observed her every movement.

  His full attention was something other women diners wished they had. Especially one half-dressed blonde shooting daggers at her and Brockton. Maybe Serenity should feel flattered that he chose to dine with her instead of those walking mammary glands!

  Heavens, what was wrong with her tonight? Embarrassed, she again focused on her dish.

  Brockton brought out the worst in her!

  He tapped the tine of his fork against her plate and remarked, “You have not placed enough food on your dish to feed a bird, m'dear. You could use additional ... padding.” He raked his gaze over her body, stopping on the soft swells revealed in her décolletage.

  Even from this distance, she felt the heat from his stare penetrate her skin. Her traitorous nipples hardened and her breath quickened.

  Cool it, Steele.

  His lean face held a sardonic grin and his heavy-lidded eyes missed none of her body's reactions to him.

  Recovering her dignity, she dabbed at her lips with a cloth napkin. “Indeed, my lord, if I aspired to attain your ideal of womanhood, I'd have to consume mass quantities of edibles.” She nodded in the direction of the blonde bombshell.

  He acknowledged Serenity's hit with an amused “Touché, Mrs. Steele. And, if I may ask, since you are not interested in becoming my ideal, whose did you have in mind?"

  She placed her silver fork down to emphasize her next words. “Lord Brockton, I believe I told you. I've said it enough times to your family. I am not in the market for a husband. One was enough. With that out of the way, why don't we change the subject?"

  Now she was going to get down and dirty. “Your father told me you were in the Navy a few years ago. Frankly, I find that hard to believe. You don't seem like military material. But, since you're a former officer, I'd like to hear your views on the war with France. And also on England's continued impressment of American sailors."

  She purposely taunted him. Maybe because of his “padding” comment. But if she angered him, he might answer her questions more truthfully than in his present state of detached coolness.

  Maddeningly, he just smiled. Buttering a hot potato roll, Brockton's thoughts obviously weren't on her question. “That is a change of topics, m'dear. Discussing the war is not as engrossing as you."

  He must have seen her lips pinched with disapproval. “You are an unusual woman, Mrs. Steele. You prefer to converse about serious subjects, rather than yourself. But I must hasten to assure you, I did serve in His Majesty's Royal Navy. Actually promoted to commander. Not as high as your colonel, but I did my job.” He waved a depreciating hand.

  Her colonel? As she puzzled over
his statement, she tilted her head. Must mean Colonel Jenkins. But Brockton didn't pick up on her request for information. She'd have to get blunt. “Back to the war. With waging an overlong conflict to the east, don't you think it's foolhardy to disregard the threat of war with the United States to the west? A war fought on two fronts dilutes a country's defenses. By necessity, because resources, like men, ships, and ammunition, have to be spread over more territory."

  A parallel could certainly be drawn between Great Britain's situation here, and the United States during World War II—Germany to the east and Japan to the west.

  One of Brockton's eyebrows arched higher than the other. “Very well, I shall indulge you. We Britons have nothing to fear from the United States. In spite of all their posturing, they are ill-prepared to fight. Most of the impressed sailors are Englishmen, in any event. Besides, war is not inevitable with them. However, combat with the Colonies would be a new and unwelcome wrinkle to a very old war."

  "I think it is inevitable.” Serenity spoke with the knowledge that the War of 1812 would be declared in June—two months from now. “The United States sees its neutrality rights violated. As a new nation, it has no choice but to defend its shipping lanes."

  "Ah, there you are wrong, my dear. There is always a choice. I must admit a certain inquisitiveness. How have you become an expert on our young neighbor across the ocean? Your comments show considerable intelligence. Beauty and brains. What a volatile combination. Tell you what I will do. I shall discuss your concerns at the next session in Parliament."

  The sarcasm in his voice frustrated the heck out of her. To add to that, he hadn't offered any of his opinions. Fortunately, she'd had better luck with Colonel Jenkins.

  Beauty and brains? To quote Ebenezer Scrooge, “Bah humbug!"

  "Don't trouble yourself to patronize me, Lord Brockton. I don't care a fig what you think."

  She finished her glass of champagne and pushed her chair away from the table. She had enough of his “indulgence.” Though different in appearance, for some reason, Nicholas Wycliffe reminded her of the obnoxious Stanhope DeVries in her own century. All talk, no action. Odds were that Commander Wycliffe resigned his naval commission at the first sign of bloodshed. She was certain of it.