Candice Hern

by The Regency Rakes Trilogy

  As he closed his own bedchamber door and turned to head down the hall to the landing, an overheard snippet of conversation in Meg's room stopped him up short.

  "He asked you to be his mistress?" Gram said, her voice rising on the last word.

  "Yes," Meg replied in a soft, quavering voice. "He offered me carte blanche. He even mentioned a house, jewels, and carriages."

  Terrence stood unmoving in the middle of the hallway, his hands balled into fists at his side. Someone had offered Meg a slip on the shoulder? Who, by God? What scoundrel had so insulted his only sister?

  "Good heavens," Gram said. "I am afraid I truly misjudged that young man. He seemed so amiable. I would never have expected Lord Sedgewick to suggest such a sordid arrangement."

  Sedgewick! Good God. How dare he!

  Terrence moved away from the door, afraid to hear any more details. Afraid to vent his anger in front of Meg, in case she might misconstrue it as directed at her. He hurried down the two flights of stairs to the entry hall. Sedgewick must have been at the Portland ball. That is why poor Meggie was so upset that she had to leave. How dare he insult her so!

  As Terrence entered the carriage that had waited on the street in front of the town house, he suffered an anger stronger than any he had felt in his life. Dear, sweet, beautiful Meg. Innocent Meg. How could any man presume to make her such an offer? And Sedgewick, of all people. A man who had accepted Terrence's own hospitality. Who had been rescued and nursed back to health in Terrence's home. Who had spent hours and hours alone under the same roof with his sister.

  Oh, God. How far had he taken his insults? Had he attempted to seduce Meg at Thornhill?

  Terrence recollected the warnings of Sedgewick's cousin Albert Herriot. He had thought them ridiculous at the time. It had never occurred to him, never once, that Herriot might be right. Even worse, it had never occurred to him that Meg would inspire that sort of attention.

  How could he have been so blind? She had grown into a beautiful woman. He knew that. He had recognized that for some time now, especially when some of the stablehands ogled her long legs clad in a pair of his own breeches. But she had always seemed like such a... a tomboy. He had simply never imagined she would willingly receive any man's particular attentions.

  What a fool he had been. Since coming to London—and for the first time he thought he understood why she had wanted to come—he had seen her for the beautiful young woman she was. He had seen men drawn to her like bumblebees to red clover. And he had watched her handle her circle of admirers with ease. When had she grown up so?

  But he had known about Sedgewick. Herriot had warned him. He had known, and had done nothing to stop it. My God, what had he done? How could he have allowed such a thing to happen to his sister?

  Oh, Meg. Please forgive me.

  The more he thought about Sedgewick, the angrier he became. The man had seduced the entire family. Gram doted on him. Terrence himself had liked him immensely. He had used that dammit-all smile to twist them all around his finger.

  By Jove, he would have satisfaction from that blackhearted scoundrel. The man would be exposed for what he was: a charlatan and seducer of innocent young women. Terrence would see Sedgewick dead or exiled, he cared not which, so long as he never laid eyes on the bastard again.

  Terrence had never felt a hatred of such pagan intensity. His preference would be to kill the rascal with his bare hands. To put his fingers around his throat and throttle him until the last breath was squeezed from his body.

  But he could not do that. Justified as he was, he could not do that. Like all gentlemen, he was bound by the rigid rules of honor. But he would get satisfaction. By God, he would.

  As the carriage wound its way through the traffic outside the Portland ball, Terrence pulled off his right glove and began absently slapping its fingers against his left palm.

  * * *

  Meg sat up in her bed, pillows propped up high behind her. Gram sat at her side, holding her hand, legs stretched out next to Meg's. Two sets of bare toes peeked out from beneath white muslin nightgowns.

  Gram had been so wonderful. Meg did not know why she had kept all her worries to herself for so long. Sharing them with Gram was akin to purging her soul of shame and heartache. She felt so much better, so much less stupid. For Gram had understood. She had not scolded or lectured or belittled the matter. She had understood.

  "I remember the first time my Henry kissed me," Gram said.

  "Grandpa?"

  "Yes, though he was no one's grandpa yet, of course. He was not even my husband." Gram smiled as her eyes gazed off into some private distance. "He was so handsome. I think I loved him from the moment I clapped eyes on him. One day he took me for a walk in my father's garden. He took me into the shell grotto—you know the one, Meggie—and kissed me." She chuckled softly and squeezed Meg's hand. "I had never been kissed before, and I thought it was the most wonderful thing in the world. I actually thought my knees would buckle and send me sprawling."

  "Yes!" Meg said. "That's exactly it. That's how Sedge made me feel when he kissed me. That and ... well, that and more."

  "Suddenly warm and tingly all over? Especially here?" Gram laid her free hand just below her belly.

  Meg felt her cheeks flush. "Yes."

  "Sweetheart, don't be embarrassed. All women feel that way. With the right man."

  "But don't you see?" Meg said. "That is precisely why I thought Sedge was the right man. Why I so shamelessly threw myself at him. He made me feel that way. He made me tingle from head to toe." Meg blushed again, embarrassed to be speaking of such things. And with her own grandmother! But there was so much she wanted to know. "Gram, does that mean he is the right man?"

  "Not necessarily," Gram said. "I do not like to believe that a man who would make such a dishonest offer to you could be anyone's right man. It just means that he is the first man to stir something in you. That special something that makes you a woman. Someday, dear, another man will come along who sets your senses on fire. A good man who will treat you right."

  "Oh, Gram, I don't know. Look how long it took me to find this one!"

  Meg turned her head to catch Gram's eye, and they both burst into laughter.

  "But look at ail the young men chasing after you this Season," Gram said when their laughter had subsided. "Why, the drawing room is filled to bursting with flowers. None of them, as I recall, from your precious Lord Sedgewick. Now that you have come to Town again—as I have begged you to for years—you see how popular you are with the gentlemen. Any one of them could be the right man, if only you gave him the chance."

  "But none of them makes me feel the way Sedge does," Meg said. "I knew the moment I saw him tonight that none of the other gentlemen would ever affect me the way he does. None of their hand-kissing and poetry and flattery and flowers has touched me in any way. And yet, only looking at Sedge across a crowded ballroom made me weak in the knees. No other man can do that to me."

  "But one will," Gram said. "Someday. If you continue to go out socially—and not keep yourself secluded so much at Thornhill—more and more gentlemen will come to your notice. And someday, I promise you, my dear, someday one of them will cause your knees to buckle, just like this unfortunate young man has done."

  "Oh, but, Gram. I loved him so!"

  "Yes, I know, dear." Gram stretched a plump arm around Meg's shoulders and pulled her closer. "And there is nothing more painful than love."

  "I think I would like to return to Thornhill," Meg said, resting her head against her grandmother's.

  "I think it best that you not decide just now," Gram said. "You are too heartsore to be thinking clearly. Besides, it may be wiser to remain in Town. I would hate to see you run away."

  "Is that what I am doing? Running away?"

  "Perhaps," Gram said. "Not only from Lord Sedgewick, but also I think, from yourself. I have never known you to run away from difficulty, Meggie. Look how resolute you are with the horses. You set your mind to some
thing, and you do it."

  "You always said I had a stubborn streak as long as my legs."

  Gram laughed. "And so you always have. So, set your mind to mending your poor heart and getting on with your life."

  "But what if I should run into him again?" Meg asked. "I do not think I could bear it. What should I do?"

  "After what he has done, I recommend the cut direct."

  Meg curled up against Gram's neck and chuckled.

  Chapter 22

  "Stop laughing. Jack. It ain't funny."

  "Lord Pemerton waved a dismissive hand, unable to speak through convulsive laughter. Rocking back in his chair in the subscription room at White's, his feet danced a spirited jig against the hardwood floor, while one hand slapped his thigh again and again as he hooted with laughter.

  "Jack, please!" Sedge pleaded.

  But still his friend laughed. A few other gentlemen were drawn to the merriment and wandered over to see what was the joke.

  "What's with Pemerton?" Lord Alvanley asked Sedge, cocking a thumb in Jack's direction. "Seems to have lost a screw, what?"

  Jack howled at Alvanley's words and doubled over in renewed peals of laughter.

  "I say, Sedgewick," said Poodle Byng, who had sauntered up along with Alvanley, "you really must tell Pemerton to control himself. Not quite the thing, don't you know. Bad ton, and all that. Very bad ton. What set him off, dear boy?"

  "If you don't mind," Sedge replied, irritated to have gathered a crowd, "it is a private matter."

  "Private joke, eh?" Alvanley asked.

  "Quite," Sedge said.

  "Th en, why ain't you laughin'?" Poodle asked in his most practiced drawl while deftly flicking open a snuffbox and delicately lifting a pinch to his nostril.

  "I b-beg your pardon, gentlemen," Jack sputtered as he appeared to gain control of himself. "Hope I haven't disturbed your play. It's just that... that..." Another whoop of laughter burst forth before he could continue.

  Sedge sincerely wished he had never met up with Jack as he left the Portland ball, that he had never agreed to accompany him to White's, and, most of all, that he had never confessed his fears to him. Up until this very moment, Jack had been the best of friends. But just now, Sedge wanted to plant the man a facer.

  "You see, gentlemen," Jack continued when he was able, still grinning from ear to ear like some jackass, "our friend Sedgewick suffered a blow to the head recently."

  "Ah, yes," Poodle drawled. "Thought I detected a new scar. Quite ... provocative, Sedgewick."

  "And now," Jack went on, a wicked gleam in his eye, "poor Sedge thinks he may have ... may have suffered brain damage. You see, he believes he has lost his mind!" Jack succumbed once again to laughter, wiping tears from his eyes with the edge of a tablecloth.

  "What's this about Sedge losing his mind?" Albert Herriot said as he joined the group.

  Oh, Lord, Sedge groaned to himself. Not Albert, too. This was all he needed.

  "And what, my dear boy, makes you think you've lost your mind?" Alvanley asked, one side of his mouth lifted in a cockeyed grin.

  "Wait!" Poodle cried. "Don't tell me. Let me guess." He removed his quizzing glass from the buttonhole of his waistcoat, and tapped it against his chin while he narrowed his eyes in mock contemplation. "I have it!" he announced after a suitably dramatic moment. He raised his chin and lowered his voice. "A woman."

  Sedge dropped his head into his hands and groaned while all the gentlemen gathered around him guffawed boisterously.

  "Is that it, Sedgewick?" Alvanley asked. "Has one of the fairer sex set your head to spinning?"

  Sedge looked up and glared at the portly man but did not respond. God, but he wished he had never come here tonight. He could have just as easily gone home alone to wallow in misery in peace. He did not need all this.

  "He has discovered that he doesn't understand women," Jack said, "and believes that means he's lost his mind."

  "Ha!" Alvanley exclaimed. "If that were the case, then we'd all be bloomin' idiots."

  More general laughter followed, and Sedge felt the corners of his mouth begin to twitch upward into a smile.

  "So I have tried to tell him," Jack said. He turned to Sedge and laid a hand on his shoulder. "'Tis the nature of the beast, Sedge. They are trained from the cradle to make a man forget if he's coming or going. It has nothing to do with your powers of reasoning. When a woman enters your life, you might as well throw reason out the window."

  "Here, here," Alvanley said, raising a glass in salute.

  "So, who's the lucky lady?" Albert asked.

  Just then, Poodle was nudged aside by a newcomer. "I say!" he said in an offended tone as he applied the quizzing glass to his eye and raked the man from head to toe.

  Sedge looked up to find Meg's brother glaring down at him. Good Lord, this could be awkward, considering the direction the conversation had taken.

  "Sir Terrence," he said, nodding a greeting. Sedge turned toward Jack to begin introductions when he heard someone gasp and the room grow suddenly silent. Turning back, he recoiled at the sting of gloves slapped purposefully across his face.

  What the devil!

  Sedge sprung from his seat and stood facing Sir Terrence Ashburton in the tense silence that followed his assault. The rage emanating from the young man was palpable in its intensity. What on earth was going on?

  "Name your seconds, Sedgewick." Without another word, Meg's brother spun on his heels and left the room.

  For a few heartbeats, the group of gentlemen did nothing but stare at the retreating back of the angry young man. In the next moment, the room was abuzz with the din of a thousand questions, all directed at Sedge. But he did not hear them. He sank back into his chair, once again experiencing the strange sensation of walking through a dream. This could not be happening. It was not possible. It did not make any sense.

  Finally, Jack held up an imperative hand to quiet the group. When he had obtained silence, he turned toward Sedge.

  "Sedge," he began in a quiet voice, "who the devil was that and why the devil did he challenge you?"

  Sedge swallowed convulsively and stared straight ahead. Though still not completely certain this was not a dream—a nightmare—he reluctantly proceeded to play the part he had been assigned. "It was Sir Terrence Ashburton," he said in a steady voice.

  "Ashburton?" Jack's voice rose in surprise. He would know the significance of that name.

  "Yes," Albert piped in. "Sedge and I were guests of his recently. At Thornhill. You know, the stud farm."

  "Thornhill!" Poodle exclaimed dramatically. "That Ashburton. Good heavens, Sedgewick, is this all over some nag?"

  "No," Sedge replied, still stunned and confused. "No. I do not know what it is over."

  "You don't know why he challenged you?" Alvanley asked.

  "Sedge," Jack said in a conspiratorial whisper, "you saw his sister tonight. Could she have—"

  "I don't know! I just don't know."

  Jack's eyes darted around the interested group that had now grown two- or threefold. His eyes signaled to Sedge that they would speak of it later, in private.

  "There is nothing for it now, old boy," Alvanley said. "He has challenged you. You must fight him. He is not required to state his offense, you know. Unless your seconds can convince his seconds to divulge it."

  "I will second you, cuz," Albert said with unexpected enthusiasm, considering their recent disagreements. "In fact, I have a new pair of Mantons you may use. Recessed breech, elevated rib, trigger spring—the best. It's your choice of weapons, after all."

  "Thank you, Bertie. But I... I have my own set."

  "But, Sedge—"

  "You know you can count on me as well," Jack said. "It is the least I can do. As the challenged, you choose the ground as well as the weapons. May I suggest that we repair to either my house or yours to discuss the terms in private."

  "Mine," Sedge muttered.

  "Good," Jack said as he rose from his chair. "Herriot, you wi
ll join us, please. Gentlemen." He nodded at the assembled group as he led Sedge and Albert through the crowded subscription room.

  As they descended the brief steps to St. James's Street, Sedge's stomach knotted up once again, as it had earlier in the evening. He was so confused he could not think straight. He had no idea how he managed to put one foot in front of the other. His legs seemed to move of their own accord, like some lifeless automaton. Though the night was clear, he might as well have been walking through a thick fog. Or a nightmare.

  How had it come to this? All he ever wanted was to marry Meg, and here he was, about to meet her brother in some secret place at dawn. It was now an affair of honor, whether or not he understood the cause.

  And he most certainly did not understand it.

  * * *

  After Gram left her room, Meg felt decidedly better, though still somewhat overwrought. There was no possibility of sleep. Too many thoughts raced through her head. She sunk deep into the stack of pillows, reviewed all her encounters with Sedge, and considered what she might have said or done in each instance so things might have come out differently.

  She appreciated Gram's encouraging and comforting words, but it was not as simple as all that. Gram had never lost the man she loved. Until Grandpa died, that is. She had enjoyed a long, happy life with the only man who had ever kissed her, who made her feel warm and tingly all over. She could not know how hard it was to forget a man like that. Meg did not know how she could ever forget Sedge, how she could ever stop loving him.

  She rolled onto her side and flipped a pillow over, savoring its coolness against her cheek. She listened to the sounds of the street below. It was hard to get used to the constant noise of London. It never stopped, even in the wee hours of the morning, she listened to the rhythmic clip-clop of horses and the grating of carriage wheels on the cobblestones and then realized the carriage had stopped in front of their house. She heard muffled voices, footsteps, and then the sound of the front door opening.

  Terrence must be home. The sound of someone bounding up the stairs like a Hessian soldier proved her correct. She heard her brother shout for Droggett, his valet, and close his bedchamber door. In that moment, Meg wanted very much to talk to her brother. Needed to talk to him. It had been a long time since they had shared a nice coze. She could not, of course, tell him all she had told Gram. She could not tell about Sedge's offer, or about her offer to Sedge. He was her brother, after all. He would not be at all understanding about such things. But perhaps she could talk to him about returning to Thornhill.