The Regency Romances

by Laura Kinsale

  Ah la, then he came to his true love’s window,

  He knelt low down upon a stone,

  Then through the glass he whispered softly,

  Are you asleep, love, are you alone?

  It was an old song, sad and dreaming, one of the sweet Irish airs that Geoffrey had taught her. As she reentered the maze of sheds and shadow she left off her singing and kept her attention centered, occupied mainly with placing her feet and catching her breath and transferring the bucket from one hand to the other as her fingers went numb from the handle’s bite.

  It was a man’s low voice that alerted her first. She stopped in the shadows, suddenly aware that the horse had a visitor.

  He stood outside the box, speaking softly to the stallion as he leaned against the shed. She knew instantly who it was.

  Not through her gift. Through the failure of it.

  She squinted in the moon-tricky darkness, panting softly, and set down the bucket—slowly, slowly, so it did not rustle in the drying grass. He had abandoned his coat and neckcloth, and his shirt shone pale as the starlight, with sleeves rolled up and collar open. From the interior of the box, the stallion radiated satisfaction, having been finally fed, although he was looking for more when he sniffed Roddy and the bran mash. His fine head came out of the box, craning in her direction.

  The earl stood back. “Greedy bastard,” he said, in a tone that didn’t match the words. “Deserve an extra measure of corn, do you?” He reached up and did something, she couldn’t see what—patted the horse or flipped a stray piece of black mane onto its proper side. “To hell with you, then. I’ve hardly the blunt to feed myself. Not now.”

  The stallion swung his head up and down and then whinnied, demanding that Roddy quit dawdling with that fine-smelling mash. It was a funny thing, a small strange pleasure, to stand and listen to the earl’s rich voice speaking softly in the darkness. Even the stallion liked it, which was why he was not making more of a fuss in his impatience.

  The earl turned a little, leaning his shoulders against the shed and staring out into the night. In the moonlight, Roddy could see his face clearly, white and stark black with the shadows. He ran long fingers through his hair and down his face with a low groan. “We’ve lost it, old friend,” he said. “You let me down.” He lifted his face to the dark sky. “Ah, God. I can’t believe it. Iveragh.”

  The name seemed to hang in the air, vibrating with love and despair. He turned, in sudden violence, and slammed his fist into the wooden shed with a blow that made both Roddy and the stallion jerk back in startlement. “Damn.” It was vicious. “God damn them all.” He moved as if to hit the shed again, but midway in his motion he checked the blow and stood still, his face a shadowed mask.

  Roddy stared at him. She had thought at first he meant to strike the horse, but instead he let out a long, harsh breath of air, and buried his face in the animal’s neck with a wordless sound of desolation.

  It was then that the idea came to her.

  She tilted her head.

  To do such a thing—to even think of it…

  But why not?

  Why turn away from a chance—one chance—at the life that her gift denied her? He had trusted her. That counted for something. That counted for a lot.

  She stood still, her mind racing, and then bent very quietly to pick up the softly steaming bucket of mash. She retreated in silence back behind the shed row before going forward again, whistling warning with a loud, cheerful stable tune that Old Jack had taught her long ago.

  By the time she turned the corner, the earl had composed himself. He looked up at her approach with cool disinterest.

  Roddy smiled inwardly. An actor. A fine one at that, and Roddy was an excellent judge. He seemed suddenly fascinating, all the more attractive for his unpredictability. She nodded when she met his eyes, and gave him a brisk country greeting.

  “’Evenin’ to ’ee, m’lor’. I thought ’ee wudn’t a-comin’ back.” She hefted the pail of bran. “I brung ta beast a bit o’ hot mash, wi’ yer permission, sir.”

  He gave her a narrow look, and nodded briefly. Roddy set the pail of bran in the eager stallion’s box. She came out and closed the door, then took up a negligent position nearby, as if waiting for the horse to finish.

  She half expected Iveragh to turn curtly away and leave, but he only stood, a little in the shadows where she could no longer see his face. She sought for something to say, some way to broach the subject that she wanted to discuss, but now that the moment was here, it seemed so outrageous an idea that she could think of nothing. Finally, after tapping her fingers nervously against the hard wood at her back, she blurted, “It near floored me, m’lor’, that ’ee took me at me word this day and scratched ta beast.”

  He shrugged. “It pleased me at the time.”

  Roddy couldn’t help herself; her eyebrows went disobediently upward as she looked at him.

  He stared back at her gloomily, and added after a moment, “I’d a mind to give my groom a setdown.”

  Oh, certainly, Roddy thought. A setdown for a groom. And scratching your horse only cost you your estate.

  She hid a wry smile in steady concentration on the tip of one boot. His stiff pride, maintained even in front of a mere stableboy, was perversely endearing. The plan in her head took on more appeal.

  “’Er’s a lovely beast, anyway,” she said nonchalantly. “Me young missus would pay a pretty penny for him, I vow, even if he can’t race no more. Put him to her Eclipse mare, she would. That’d be the Delamore stud, m’lor’, up to Thomton Dale.”

  “Your mistress,” he repeated, and Roddy thought there was the faintest trace of interest in his voice. “Mrs. Delamore?”

  She jumped at her chance. “Oh, no, sir. Her daughter. Miss Roderica Delamore. She breeds her own stock, y’see. Happen she can spot a winner, too, even if she’s not yet twenty.” Which was perfectly true. At age twelve, Roddy had picked a black filly from her father’s yearling crop that had gone on to win the Oaks in her third year, under Lord Egremont’s colors.

  “How happy for her,” the earl said dryly.

  “Oh, that ain’t the half of it.” Roddy warmed to her topic. “She’s rich as Croesus, too—she’s got three hundred thousand in her own name, free and clear, and all a-goin’ to the man she weds. Come full into it a year ago.”

  He shifted a little, but did not move out of the shadow. “How do you happen to know that?”

  She hesitated, frustrated by her inability to discern his true reaction. It was that blindness again, the uneasy sense of treading unknown ground. But he seemed by his question to be curious, and she plunged ahead. “’Tisn’t rumor, m’lor’. She speaks of it now and then.”

  “You work in the stable?”

  “Aye, m’lor’.”

  “You seem to be on rather familiar terms with a daughter of the house.”

  Roddy bit her lip, aware that she’d made a misstep. “Well, she ain’t uppity, if that’s what you mean,” she said quickly. “Not silly and missish at all. She don’t mind carryin’ feed an’ water if we’re pushed down at the stud. For meself, I can’t see why some town dandy hain’t plucked her right up. An heiress like that. She even hunts. Make a fine wife for any man, I’d reckon.”

  The earl seemed to be looking at her rather oddly, but his position in the half-shadow made it hard to tell. “Perhaps she’s ugly,” he murmured.

  “Ugly!” Roddy straightened indignantly. “I hardly think so. ’Tis just that they keep her locked away in the country. I’m sure she’s as pretty as any London miss, and maybe more than some. An’ she kin sing. Like a lark; they all say that. And dance,” she added, determined not to miss any of her strong points. “Why, I’ve known her to dance all night at a ball!”

  A small exaggeration. Roddy had never been to a ball, but she’d often slipped out of the house to whirl and leap in time to imaginary music when the moon was high and full.

  She took a breath and went on recklessly, “You shou
ld see her. Why, I warrant she’d be pleased at the attention of a fine gentleman like yourself. You’re just what she’s looking for in the way of a husband, m’lor’.”

  He moved then, out of the shadow. Before she could prevent it, he had reached up with one smooth motion and flipped the cap from her head.

  Roddy froze, with the bright loose curls tumbling down across her shoulders. She stared up into his face, turning crimson, feeling mortification paralyze every muscle and bone. Her mouth opened and then shut, fishlike, and no words came out.

  “See for myself,” he echoed softly. He touched her bruised cheek with one finger, tracing down her jaw, and a slow smile curved his fine mouth. “Perhaps I shall.”

  She blinked, distracted by the unexpected gentleness of his hand on her skin. His eyes looked very blue in the moonlight. He did not move away, and for one wild moment he was so close that she thought—but no, surely not, it wasn’t possible…

  Would the Devil Earl want to kiss a stablehand?

  Of course not. Even if the stablehand was a girl. Roddy strained to catch some hint of what he felt, and found only that disconcerting blankness. In its loss, her other senses seemed to stretch and heighten. She felt the warm, faint touch of his breath on her skin, and caught a pleasant waft of tangy scent—masculine scent, which seemed new and familiar at the same time. His face was outlined in the moonlight in perfect curves and planes, so close that she could see the beat of his pulse beneath his loosened collar. She licked her lips; tried to make her breathing settle to a rational pace. She’d never been kissed before. It had always been something her brothers tried to do with the buxom little kitchen maid if they caught her in the pantry. And the kitchen maid liked it, even if she pretended not. Roddy steeled herself, determined not to flinch if he should try.

  But the clatter of the stallion’s empty feed bucket broke the spell. The earl dropped his hand and held out the cap. “Put this back on,” he commanded. “I’ll see you home.”

  Roddy hesitated, stupid and confused in the way the thing had gotten out of her control, and he acted for her, sweeping up the tangle of gold and pulling the cap over it with brisk efficiency. An instant later, Roddy found herself on his arm, being led firmly down the hill. She mumbled something about the stallion, and he shook his head. “Where are you staying? At the Star?”

  “In my father’s pavilion—” She stopped in chagrin, realizing that she had just established her identity beyond doubt.

  The earl glanced at her. “You needn’t look so disgusted with yourself, Miss Delamore. I’d guessed.” He frowned down at her upturned face. “Your father allows you a fine measure of freedom. I saw him dining in town. Did he leave you alone?”

  The implied disapproval aroused a quick resentment. “Of course not! He left my brother to watch me.”

  “Ah.” He scanned the horizon. “Your brother must have amazingly good eyesight.”

  Roddy tried to pull her arm away. “It’s none of your affair.”

  He stopped suddenly and caught her back. “But it is my affair. No young lady I intend to court is going to be found wandering Newmarket at night in the clothes of a stable lad.”

  Roddy stared up at him. “Court?” she repeated shakily.

  “Yes.” His face was as beautiful and cold as his namesake’s in the moonlight. “Isn’t that at what you were hinting so broadly, Miss Delamore?”

  “Well—” Roddy floundered. And then: “Well.”

  He laughed, a sound that was tart and rich, like her first taste of champagne. “I perceive that you’ve lost your nerve. But I’m persuaded that the young lady who sent Patrick to grass with one well-aimed kick will come round.”

  Roddy could think of no answer for that, though she tried very hard. They reached her father’s tent in silence. The earl stood aside and held up the silk, bowing as formally as if he were handing her back from a dance. “Good evening, Miss Delamore. It has been a pleasure. I shall be standing watch at a discreet distance until I see your brother return.” He waited as she stepped into the tent, and then added, “In view of this rare demonstration of responsibility on my part, I would advise the postponement of any further plans you might have for the evening.” He gave her a dark and charming smile. “Go directly to bed, my love.”

  “I won’t have him here,” Mrs. Delamore declared, in a voice which Roddy and her father well knew.

  “Matty, my dear.” Her father spoke soothingly, but his movements were agitated as he took a brisk turn before the carved mahogany mantel. “Will you throw our good Cashel’s friends in his face?”

  Roddy’s heart gave an old and familiar twist at the mention of Geoffrey’s name. For half her life, it seemed, Roddy had been waiting. To grow up, to become a woman instead of the child she knew he thought her. But to Geoffrey, Roddy had never been more than a lovable waif with disturbing gray eyes, just as the small property he owned in Yorkshire was only a pleasant place for a holiday. Lord Cashel’s heart was in Ireland, always, with the great estate that his family had held for centuries.

  He adored his new Irish bride, too. It was a storybook kind of love, because Geoffrey was a storybook prince, perfect and kind and brave. Roddy knew that. She knew him to his toes. A man of principle, a man of ideals. He had his weakness—he liked a prettily-turned ankle almost as much as he admired a well-turned phrase—but he never suffered from the graver faults that plagued Roddy and the rest of mankind. Like jealousy. Like selfish spite. Roddy ached with it. No one would ever love her as Geoffrey loved Mary…unconditionally, no matter what Roddy’s strange talent might be. It was too much to ask; Great-aunt Jane’s marriage had been proof enough of that. Jane’s husband, too, had adored his wife, until he discovered the witch-gift of the Delamores.

  “Friend,” Mrs. Delamore snorted, lifting herself to her greatest height, which came well below her husband’s broad shoulders. “The man’s not fit to kiss a viper, far less call Lord Cashel his friend.”

  Roddy’s father took a sturdy swig of his brandy. “Dearest, you must understand. Geoffrey’s been close to Iveragh since they were boys. I simply don’t see how we can exclude him from the dinner party without giving offense.”

  “Nonsense.” Her mother tapped her palm with her fan and eyed her husband suspiciously. “There must be horses in it.”

  Roddy wanted to smile. Sometimes it was as if her mother, too, had the gift, so well could she penetrate her husband’s follies. Along with Geoffrey’s note to her father informing him of Cashel’s yearly arrival in the neighborhood had come a curt letter from his houseguest Lord Iveragh, stating bluntly that he recalled Mr. Delamore’s interest in Iveragh’s string of Thoroughbred broodmares, which were currently up for sale upon the closing of his racing stable. Lord Iveragh was at Mr. Delamore’s convenience, if he wished to discuss the matter.

  Her father cleared his throat. “I’m sure there’ll be no talk of horses at table,” he said smoothly, and then added, with an ill-advised spurt of honesty, “At all events, not when the ladies are present.”

  Mrs. Delamore made a face. “I thought as much.”

  “Well, my dear,” he said mildly, “if you see fit to rescind an invitation which I’ve already proffered, I’m sure I’ll stand behind you.”

  “Already proffered—Frederick, you didn’t!”

  “I’m afraid I did. I saw Geoffrey this morning, and Iveragh, too, on my usual rounds. I must say, he didn’t seem such a dreadful fellow to me. Quite the gentleman, really.”

  Once again, Roddy kept her amusement to herself. Her father was as contemptuous of Iveragh as her mother, but when he saw a chance for some profitable horsetrading, the opportunity overcame all scruples.

  Mrs. Delamore bowed her blond head, touching the bridge of her nose with her fan in an attitude of suffering. “For Geoffrey’s sake,” she mused unhappily, “I suppose I must endure it. But I dread the talk.”

  “Well, he’s Cashel’s guest, after all,” her husband said in a deliberately jovial tone. “I hardly th
ink the county can cut you for his lamentable presence in the neighborhood.”

  “Perhaps not.” Mrs. Delamore sighed, and looked up at her daughter. “But I won’t have Roddy present. You may go down to your cousin at Thirsk.”

  Roddy came alive at this threat to her plans. “I won’t! I’m not a child, if you please. And I’ve already made Lord Iveragh’s acquaintance.” A wave of dismay emanated from her father at this announcement, but Roddy ignored it. “Twas at the races, a month ago. I liked him very well.”

  Her mother looked at her sharply. Roddy knew she had used strong ammunition, for her family never took her opinion of a stranger lightly. She smiled at her mother, trying to appear very reassuring and adult, and was rewarded with an immediate relaxation of concern.

  “Did you really, darling? Are you sure?”

  Roddy nodded, feeling like a charlatan, since she had no more idea what went on in the dark recesses of Lord Iveragh’s mind than her mother did. But he had come, and she was not about to be sent into exile at her cousin’s for the duration of his stay. In the past month, she had thought of him often, and it seemed almost prophetic that the Devil Earl was an old friend of Lord Cashel’s.

  “I’ll call on them tomorrow, then,” her mother said briskly, “and have it over with. You may drive me, Roddy, if you wish.”

  September sunlight flashed in and out among the garden trees as the chaise rattled past the courtyard walls of Geoffrey’s Moorside Hall. A tug and twitch, a soft word, and Roddy’s gray mare swung between the stone pillars, into the yard bright with crimson vines against cream-colored stucco walls—those walls she had always coveted for her own. Such plans she’d had, for additions and improvements, changes which would have suited Moorside Hall as little as the childish dreams she’d nourished of molding Geoffrey himself into a horseman and farmer, instead of the man of pen and parchment and political passion that he was.

  It was as well, really, that the truth had been forced on her. She and Geoffrey would not have suited: he with his honor and idealism, and she with her arguments and challenges. Often she’d annoyed him by her ability to see the other side of some question to which he’d applied his strict ethical principles. She’d tried to understand, but the realities of human will and weakness meant more to Roddy than philosophy. His vague and pliant bride Mary was by far the better choice for him—as Roddy would have known years ago, if she had not let her own longing blind her to the truth.