The Regency Romances

by Laura Kinsale

  “Perhaps he is a little shy.”

  “I never thought he would look like that! He is so...” She shook her head.

  “Devilish?” Melinda suggested wryly.

  “Decidedly satanic!” Folie exclaimed. She spoke in jest, but a shiver seized her.

  “I thought him quite handsome. Rather beautiful, really. For a gentleman.”

  Folie shook her head again. “He cannot be Robert Cambourne,” she exclaimed. “My God, his eyes. I believe he is mad!”

  “Mama, you are working yourself into a state. This is not like you.” Melinda gave her a hopeful look. “But perhaps you are just rehearsing for your novel?”

  Folie realized that she was well on the way to frightening her stepdaughter. With an effort, she summoned some steadiness. “Oh, there—you’ve found me out!” she said with forced cheerfulness. “Where have they put you, next door?”

  “Round the corner,” Melinda said. “The bedrooms are quite lovely, and every one we passed is different. Mine is all in red and yellow chinoiserie. I think they’ve just been fitted out not long ago.”

  “Oh, that is a bad portent,” Folie said balefully. “Prepared for our arrival! We had best make a thorough inventory of the secret doors.”

  TWO

  Robert stood in the small room off the passage. It was empty and dark, the haunt of long-vanished butlers—one place without the torrid furnishings and carvings that consumed the rest of the house.

  He put his palm against the stone. It felt cold and blessedly smooth. He did not think he could bear one more phoenix or griffin or Chinese dragon, to see or to touch them. They worked their way into his demented dreams, and sometimes out of the corner of his eye he thought he caught them moving, but when he looked, they were only perfect decoration on perfect tracery, beautifully executed, carved by a master in wood. Feverish stuff: wyverns with necks that coiled like snakes; bodiless wings and claws; strange smiling faces and arabesques growing like rank foliage on every mantle and alcove and ceiling and staircase.

  Amid that madness, she had come. He felt a spinning relief, to be certain that she was real after all.

  He touched the miniature in his inner pocket. The painter had not caught the truth of her; she was less handsome and far more alive in reality. A face of glowing simplicity—not pretty, no, nothing like her extraordinary stepdaughter; in fact when she had turned and frowned at him, she was endearingly plain, with ordinary brown hair and features he had already forgotten, except for such expressive eyes that looked at him and right through him.

  She terrified him. It had seemed imperative that he bring her here, safe within his protection, and yet he was afraid she could see through him. He was afraid he could not protect her. He was afraid there was no danger at all, and yet he walked through each day in a state of spring-wired tension, primed to defend himself, as if hands might rise out of the floors or the walls and pull him down and strangle him.

  He must discipline himself to go outside again, because the sun would not kill him, the open space would not annihilate him.

  It would not. It would not.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his fists and his face against the cold stone wall.

  In her shock, Folie had noticed little of the interior of Solinger Abbey on her way up the stairs, but on the way down she could hardly disregard it. Though the house itself was old, it appeared to have been entirely refitted, with no regard to cost.

  The decoration was extraordinary. Everywhere were outlandish carvings painted in a delicate white. Some scaly beast even wound about the banister, so finely rendered that every shadow revealed an exquisite detail. No hands had marred the carving or worn off the paint—it was as immaculate as if it had been created only yesterday.

  “This is gorgeous,’’ Melinda said, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “It must have cost a fortune!”

  “Lord only knows how they dust it!” Folie said, daring to reach up and touch a delicate wooden bell that hung from a carved falcon’s jesses. The hunting bird had been caught in its moment of bounding upward from its perch; its curved beak was slightly open, as if it panted for the sky.

  “A nabob,” Melinda said wisely. “He can afford someone to go about blowing on them all day.”

  Folie made a face at the dusty black mark on her glove.

  “Well, they had better put their lungs to work. This is positively squalid.”

  Melinda poked her fan at Folie’s waist and whispered, “Do be civil to him, Mama! Only think what a debut I might have!”

  “Of course,” Folie said with a hurt look. “I should be civil to the devil himself for your debut. What sort of mother do you think I am?’’

  “And please don’t use warm language.”

  “Let us hope he is easier to please than you!”

  Melinda merely answered with her saucy grin. Folie thought it an expression that would win more male hearts than any number of lavish debut parties, but there would be no telling that to an eighteen-year-old. And there was still the problem of bringing her into the proximity of suitable male hearts, so all in all, Folie was determined to gird her loins and charm the satanic Lieutenant Cambourne down off his mound of bloody skulls.

  He awaited them in the drawing room, dressed with old-fashioned formality: knee breeches and an unadorned tail coat of black silk. That appeared to exhaust his fund of conventional behavior. He barely looked at them, except for a swift, potent glance when Folie opened the door. There was something faintly startled in it, as if he had forgotten they were coming. Without delaying for small talk or an announcement from a servant, he merely made a taut bow and indicated the dining room doors.

  Folie and Melinda exchanged a fleeting glance. Folie could read her stepdaughter’s thoughts. An odd volume, this Lieutenant Cambourne. She started to precede them into the dining room, supposing Mrs. Cambourne must be awaiting her guests there, but to Folie’s surprise, he suddenly walked forward and offered her his arm.

  Folie felt that she must jump out of her skin, but she managed to place her fingers lightly on his sleeve. The dining room was empty as they entered. “Mrs. Cambourne is not to join us?” she asked breathlessly.

  It was something of a relief to hear her own voice. She had not been certain she could force it out of herself.

  “Mrs. Cambourne died over a year ago,” he said to the air in front of him.

  All Folie could hear was her own heart and the swish of her skirt against his leg. She walked with him in a blank daze. She had heard nothing of his wife’s death. It seemed impossible, as impossible as the fact that she walked with her hand touching his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and had no idea if it had emerged as a whisper or as a steady sentence.

  He lifted his eyebrow as he looked down at her, rather as if he were inspecting something that did not quite impress him. His height accentuated the air of aloof inquiry; he was quite tall, elegantly proportioned.

  He gave a brief nod, saying nothing. His black hair, a little sun-burnished, a little too long, curled over his neckcloth in a disorderly way. He brushed it back from his ear with open fingers.

  “Our rooms are wonderfully comfortable,” she said, vexed to feel her heartbeat tremble in her voice.

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” he said, without a trace of pleasure. “My father had the place fitted out sight unseen by correspondence from Calcutta. No one has lived here since.”

  “I see!” Folie murmured, trying to appear perfectly nonchalant about the four huge white dragons that adorned the corners of the dining room ceiling, their barbed tails hanging down to coil about the wainscoting.

  Melinda followed them into the dining room. She gave a faint gasp. “It is—marvelous! I’ve never seen anything quite like.”

  “They tell me the carpenter was mad,” Lieutenant Cambourne said dryly, holding Folie’s chair at the middle of the long table. “I’m quite certain he went mad in the process, at any rate.”

  “But you have something s
o unique here—” Melinda took the chair across from Folie, seated by the same young butler who had greeted them. “It must surely captivate all your party guests.”

  He left that hopeful gambit untouched, turning to nod at Lander, who began to pour wine.

  “Yes,” Melinda said gaily, looking up at the looming dragons. “We should give them all names, and make the guests conjecture.”

  Lieutenant Cambourne did not veto this notion, although he did not approve it either. He looked briefly at Folie and then down at his wine glass. It was his skin, darkened in a lifetime of tropical sun, that made his eyes seem so light and strange, she thought. And his black lashes, as extravagantly long and thick as a woman’s, under black eyebrows that were straight and severe and entirely masculine.

  “I’ll take that one,” Melinda said, lifting her hand toward one corner of the room. “I shall christen him...mmmmm...Xerxes! That sounds grand. Now you, Mama.”

  As the butler spooned clear soup into her bowl, Folie tilted her head to address the eagle-eyed dragon to her right. “Boswell?” she inquired politely.

  Melinda laughed. “Of course!” She looked toward their host. “Now you must name one, Lieutenant.”

  For a moment he seemed as if he did not understand her. Then he said, “I’m no longer an officer, Miss Hamilton. I left the army several years ago.”

  “Oh, we are to call you Mr. Cambourne, then?”

  Once again he did not answer. Folie had never seen a man who appeared bewildered by a query on his own name. He frowned at the clear soup as Lander served Melinda—such a deep frown, so lost in himself, that Folie suddenly spoke to reach him.

  “Robert?” she said softly. And then instantly her heart began to beat in her ears, drumming a retreat from such impertinent forwardness, such a betrayal of...of the person he did not seem to be.

  He gave a brief nod, watching Lander move to serve him from the soup tureen. “That will do. Call me Robert.”

  Melinda glanced at Folie, looking a little nonplussed. It was an informality, not quite proper, but Folie gave a slight shrug of permission. They were cousins, and he was Melinda’s guardian, after all. Though Folie wasn’t certain he was even paying attention to them; he was still concentrated on Lander and the soup.

  Melinda said brightly, “That is very kind of you, sir, if you don’t feel it’s too bold.” She put on what Folie recognized as her best party smile. “Well, now we have named two of these beasts and my guardian. What will you call your dragon, sir?”

  He seemed to draw his gaze away from his cover with a visible effort. He looked at Melinda. “I’m not—fond of the dragons,” he said. He paused, and then a savage life came into his voice. “Frankly, I loathe them,” he said, his mouth curving.

  Melinda’s sunny expression turned to mortification. “I’m sorry, I didn’t perceive—I beg your pardon!” she said in a small voice.

  Her stepdaughter looked so crushed that Folie was hard put to contain a tart remark on his manners. But she merely gave Melinda an encouraging smile, took a sip of soup, and asked, “When did you arrive in England, sir?”

  He looked at her quickly, still with that hostile set to his mouth. As his eyes focused on her, light and fierce, she had the sensation that she had decoyed a wild animal away from its intended prey.

  “A month ago,” he said. “Or two. I’m not certain.”

  “Not long, then,” she said politely. “Did you come direct from the east?”

  “The east?” He was looking at her so intensely that he did not seem to grasp the question.

  “From India.”

  “Yes,” he said, and scowled. “Why?”

  Folie lost her patience. “I am merely attempting to make a little conversation, sir. If you prefer I shall cease and desist, and Miss Hamilton likewise, and you may eat your meal in silence.”

  Melinda’s blue eyes grew large at this rebellion against the guardian and host whose goodwill could prove so vital a support to them. But if Robert Cambourne had any emotion or reaction, he reserved it to himself. “I came from India, yes,” he said, his tone easing a slight degree.

  Folie took this to mean that he was not entirely averse to discourse. Perhaps he was merely eccentric. He seemed so removed from the charming knight of her letters that she could only think of him as another person entirely.

  “Do you plan to remain here, or return?” she asked.

  “Remain here,” he said immediately.

  Encouraged by that ready answer, she said, “Have you collected enough material for your book on the Indian mysticism?”

  He tilted his head. After a slow sip of his wine, he said, “I had forgotten that I’d told you of that.”

  Folie looked quickly down, mortified to have brought up a reminder of their correspondence. Of course he had forgotten; no doubt he had forgot the whole of what he had written. She vehemently hoped it was so.

  She studied him under her lashes as she toyed with her soup. He had never truly described himself to her, and yet as she looked at him now, she knew that she had held a picture of him in her mind and heart; a bright image of a man who laughed easily, perhaps light-haired, with gentle brown eyes. He loved legends and tales of magic and adventure; puns and wit; dragons and firebirds were alive for him. Between the lines, she had read that he was not very happy to be a soldier, that he felt misplaced, that his powerful father thought him hopelessly frivolous and a severe disappointment to the family.

  None of those things seemed to fit the man before her; none even seemed possible. In true life his strongly angular cheekbones and gray eyes gave him a baleful look, and if his mouth ever managed a smile, it would be the grin of a predator. She could not imagine him laughing. He was too haughtily tall to be her Robert; he was dark where he should be fair; he was taut and broad-shouldered where her Robert should be easy, perhaps even a little slouched from so much reading. Folie was woman enough to have hoped he would be handsome, but in a...a more friendly way. Not this brutal sort of male purity, for Melinda was right—he was in his own bizarre manner as gorgeous as some maddened night prowler in the Indian jungles.

  She could not see him as her own dear Robert. It was simply impossible. There was no connection at all.

  With a sense of relief, she ceased to try. He was a stranger, Melinda’s guardian, an eccentric gentleman she had never met or known before. The thought brought a lift of her spirits; she could bear with him that way. She had a goal, Melinda’s debut, and he could add a great deal to the success of it if he would.

  She took a sip of soup. “If you are to be established here now, Mr. Cambourne, we hope that you will honor us with a visit during Miss Hamilton’s coming out,” she said, firing her first serious shot in the campaign. “We plan to go up to London by the first of April—though I have had some difficulty in locating a suitable town house.”

  He shook his head. “You must stay here.”

  “Here?” Melinda echoed faintly.

  “Oh, you will be thinking of expenses,” Folie said, “but I have put by quite a nest egg just for this purpose.” That was true, although after paying for Melinda’s wardrobe, the egg was hardly large enough to let a shabby house in Kensington.

  “Expense is not a consideration,” he said flatly. “I desire you to remain here.”

  ‘But—’’ Melinda began.

  “Pray do not be pert, Melinda,” Folie said sternly.

  Melinda gave her a look, a wry combination of surprise and distress. She was not accustomed to being pulled up short; in fact more usually it was she who chided Folie’s transgressions against propriety. But she bent her head in obedient silence, soft light blonde curls falling over her shoulders, the picture of a chastened girl.

  Folie made no comment on this convenient transformation, though she could think of several. But they were in league now, with the same aim in view.

  “Certainly we will be delighted to visit here for as long as you wish,” Folie said to him, “but you will agree that Miss Hamilton
must be in London well in time to be launched properly. I have already seen to her introduction at Court; she is invited to attend the Drawing Room on the twelfth of April.”

  “That is out of the question,” he said, looking down at the table before him as Lander removed his untouched soup.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Cambourne, but it is—”

  “You are to call me Robert,” he said abruptly.

  Folie took a silent breath. “Perhaps you are not aware, Robert,” she said evenly, “that your ward will turn nineteen in June. It is perfectly appropriate for her to be introduced into London society this spring. Indeed, it is quite vital.”

  He looked at Folie with a cool lift of his black eyebrows. “Why?”

  Melinda made a faint sound, but then pressed her lips together tightly, looking to Folie with anxious eyes.

  “She must have a wider circle of acquaintance, of course,” Folie said.

  “Oh, fancy!” he said sarcastically. “Is she not happy with the available gossip now?”

  The mocking sting in his voice startled Folie. She simply looked back at him blankly.

  After an instant’s stare at one another, he dropped his eyes and said in a distracted tone, “I did not mean that as it sounded.”

  Folie said carefully, “An abundance of gossip is not our desire. London society is.”

  “But why?’’ he asked in a more reasonable manner, lifting his hand to beckon Lander.

  “It appears that I must be unpardonably blunt,” Folie said. “We are on a hunt for eligible bachelors.”

  He paused in mid-gesture. His fingers curled. His eyebrow lifted again, a cool disapproval. “Indeed!”

  “I’m sorry to have to mention it so forwardly, but yes— ‘indeed!’“

  He sat still and straight. “You wish to marry again?” he asked frostily.

  Folie opened her mouth to retort, and closed it. She thought she heard Melinda make another faint noise, but when Folie looked at her, her head was bent demurely over her plate.