The Regency Romances

by Laura Kinsale

  He raised his eyebrows in perfect innocence.

  “Damn you,” Roddy shouted. “It isn’t funny.” She pulled the cloak around her shoulders and started for the door, too angry to avoid the obvious trap. His arm swept out as she passed, his fingers tangling in the cloak and catching one bare ankle. Roddy stumbled and stopped. “Kindly unhand me,” she said, in her best haughty tone, which was somewhat strained by the necessity to make little hops on her free foot to keep her balance.

  He tugged lightly on her ankle. “Come here. Your muttonheaded husband wants his cape back.”

  “Cretin,” she said scathingly. “Numbskull. Lackbrain. Clodpole. Let go of my foot.”

  He did not. He only looked at her with that quiver around the corners of his mouth.

  “Bastard,” she hissed, which took care of the quiver. His blue eyes narrowed.

  “Goose,” he said, and gave a hard pull which brought her toppling down in a tangle of cloak and legs. Before her shriek had died away, he had pinned her beneath him on the floor. “Greenhorn,” he said, very close to her face. “Has no one ever told you not to call a spade a spade when he’s got hold of your foot?”

  She pressed her lips together in frustration, but Faelan ignored her wriggling attempts to escape. Instead he cradled her face between his hands and ran his thumbs over her cheekbones. “Roddy,” he said. “Listen to me. Listen to me now, for I’ll only say this once, my love.” He waited, watching her until she had stilled, and then bent to brush her mouth with his lips. “You weren’t a virgin on our wedding night,” he said softly.

  She froze. “What?”

  Instead of accusation, there was apology in his voice. “Not that I could tell.” He kissed her again, his mouth moving gently on her parted lips. “Forgive me, little love,” he whispered. “I’m a bastard indeed, for doubting you.”

  Roddy stared up at him and drew in a savage breath. “You…are…impossible!” she said between her teeth.

  “No,” he murmured, exploring the corner of her mouth and cheek with light kisses.

  She tried to push him away. “Get off me.”

  He said, “No,” again, this time to her temple and her hair.

  She threw her head back. “I shall go stark, staring mad,” she groaned.

  “Then we’ll be a pair.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, thinking in despair that if he changed again so swiftly she would be fit for Bedlam. “We’ll be a pair.”

  He pulled the cloak around her and took her with him as he rolled onto his back. With his hands on her shoulders, he held her above him. “Make love to me,” he commanded, and then arched his head back and moved against her hips. “Please.”

  Roddy closed her eyes. That one word was magic. Please. It made her want to hold him and hug him and melt into wax. It did not even matter that he still wore his boots and his traveling clothes while the dark warmth beckoned and flamed through her limbs. She worked just enough buttons to reach him, and shivered to his groan of pleasure as she sank down on his waiting hardness.

  The way his exposed throat tightened and his eyes slid closed in response sent a surge of excitement through her. She leaned over, spreading her fingers across his chest, gathering fine linen into her fists. She feathered kisses down the line of his jaw, running her tongue over the faint, scratchy stubble and then the soft skin beneath his ear. He turned his head, giving her access, and raised his bare hand to cup her breast. When he ran his thumb over the sensitive tip, her whole body tautened around him.

  “Ah…God—Roddy.” His voice was hoarse. He gripped her waist, holding her down as he rose within her. Roddy welcomed him, reveling in the way her slightest flexing sent pleasure or agony or something like both chasing across his fire-lit features. Between her thighs, the soft doeskin breeches radiated his heat as if it were his own skin she touched. She held his face between her hands and kissed him the way that he did her: hard and deep and fierce, as if she could reach his hot center and drink the fire.

  He moved strongly beneath her. His hands slid down and grasped her buttocks. He tore his mouth away and drove upward, breathing hard, pulling her down again and again to meet him. When Roddy spread her legs to accept him more fully, he groaned her name, twice and then three times, as if he were dying and she could save him.

  She arched her back and leaned over, basking in her power to bring him to this. Her mouth curved into a wicked smile.

  “Not Roddy,” she whispered. “Cailin sidhe.”

  He answered, a shuddering moan that turned into a cry as his fingers dug into her skin and his body stiffened and burst into hers. His harsh sound of ecstasy filled the room, mocking the French tables and gilded chairs: a wild primitive music in the civilized hall.

  Roddy rested on his chest, feeling the dampness of sweat through his linen shirt. The sound of his heart and his ragged breath were all she could hear as she lay against him. Without raising her head, she reached up and traced his jaw, following the firm curve of it blind, down to his chin and up across his lips.

  He kissed her fingers, his breath warm and heavy on her skin. She smiled ruefully into the darkness.

  Fit for Bedlam.

  Or wherever else he might care to lead her.

  Chapter 9

  From somewhere, Minshall had found flowers. Red anemones, purple-veined tulips, and white narcissi, forced in some nurseryman’s succession houses, lay scattered over papers on a polished table in the blue withdrawing room. Roddy placed another tulip in the tall Florentine vase she was filling, and watched with resignation as the flower drooped awkwardly and then fell out of the vase, taking two anemones along.

  She wasn’t very good at flowers.

  Unfortunately, though Minshall had brought her the floral offering with a gloomy face, underneath his surface expression had been every expectation of pleasure and praise. Roddy hadn’t had the heart to suggest that any maid in the house could do a better job of arranging. She picked up a spray of narcissus and gave it a dubious frown.

  “Lovely,” came Faelan’s low voice from the open doorway.

  Roddy half turned, and smiled at him over her shoulder. “You’re too gallant, sir,” she said. She glanced back at the sagging cluster in the half-filled vase. “Or you have a good imagination.”

  His boots made no noise on the carpet as he came toward her. He caught her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest, twisting her chin up for a hard, lingering kiss. “I have an excellent imagination, cailin sidhe,” he murmured, sliding his hands down from her waist to her hips. “My memory isn’t wanting, either.”

  The forgotten narcissus dangled and fell from fingers that grew too weak to hold its weight. Roddy leaned against him, feeling his shape all down her spine and along her thighs. It was as well, she thought hazily, that she knew all the servants were busy at distant tasks. When he touched her like this, all sense of shame and decency vanished.

  It was then, while he caressed her bare shoulder with his lips and molded her body to his, that she felt the intrusion.

  The mental touch was peculiar. Unfamiliar. She tensed, and in another moment Faelan had realized her resistance. His head came up in question just as the unmistakable sounds of arrival filled the courtyard outside.

  His blue eyes narrowed beneath their thick brush of lashes. He bent and kissed her earlobe. “Later,” he whispered. “Later.”

  He was standing behind her with one hand on her arm—the always-possessive touch—when the front doors thundered open. The sound of a feminine voice echoed through the hallway and into the drawing room.

  Faelan let go of Roddy.

  “Faelan, my love!” the woman cried, sweeping into the room with a footman in her wake. “You can’t guess where I’ve been these two months! And who is this child? Ah, I do despise this miserable house.” She let the servant take her rich cloak without a break in her flow of words. “The drafts, I declare, nothing could be worse. With the exception of Iveragh, of course. Nothing could be worse than Iveragh.
I have been to the Lakes, my dearest boy. Who did you say this young person was?” Her vivid blue eyes rested for a split second on Roddy and then passed over. “Ah, Keswick—you would adore it! I have bought a house, the most precious cottage; you must pack and return with me on the instant. Your Uncle Adam insists. Of course, I knew he would; he dotes on you, Faelan dear…”

  The stream of words flowed on without a pause. Roddy stood, nonplussed, staring at this slender, olive-skinned matron with shadowed eyes as blue as Faelan’s. Her movements were quick and jerky as she pulled off her gloves and moved about the room, examining each table and chair, picking up figurines and turning them over in her hands as she talked without ceasing. The words obscured her thoughts from Roddy, obscured even her identity. In her restless circuit of the room she came to where Faelan stood and raised her hand to be kissed. There was a momentary pause in her monologue, and he bowed over her fingers.

  She smiled up at him coyly. “Not even a hug, my only son? But no, you would ruin my hair, and Tilly worked for an hour—two hours—to dress it.” She looked at Roddy. “What do you think? Too much height, I told her. Make it au naturel, I said. Like yours, my dear. How pretty and unusual you are. But no, my Tilly says, it’s not for you, ma’am. I must have height, she says. Well, so it will be. What is your name, my dear?”

  Roddy kept her eyes downcast. “Roderica,” she said hesitantly.

  “I knew a Roderica once. No, I did not. That was the name of Clara Walters’ great-aunt. Or was it her spaniel? My lamentable recollection. Have we met? I declare, I cannot recall your surname, child.”

  “Savigar,” Faelan said in a still voice. “The Countess of Iveragh.”

  “The Countess of Iveragh.” She turned toward her son. “You must be married, then. My congratulations. My warmest regards.” She turned back to Roddy and gave her a perfunctory embrace. “When did this happy event take place? I see that I’ve rusticated far too long. And Adam must be told, of course. He’ll be delighted, I assure you. But why did you forget us, you naughty boy? Do ring to have my room prepared. I must have a nap.”

  “Your room is ready, m’lady.” Minshall appeared in the doorway, not showing a hint of the haste with which he had rushed to the drawing room when he heard his mistress had arrived.

  “You are a treasure, Minshall. I shall retire directly. Send Tilly up. Has the fog been so horrid all week? I declare, it wants to hang in the very drawing room. I shall not stay above a fortnight, I dare swear; I won’t be able to abide it. But you don’t think she’s a trifle young for you, Faelan? I suppose it’s all the crack just now—child brides…”

  She left the room still talking. Roddy could hear her voice echoing as it drifted away up the stairs.

  Silence hung in the study, thick as the dowager countess’ fog. Faelan had a strange look—too neutral; his dark features set in unnatural calm.

  “Allow me to present my mother,” he said at length. “I’m sure she’s honored to meet you.”

  Roddy stood in silence. She could think of nothing to say. Above her the dowager countess’ presence whirled, a giddy torrent of nonsense, unsettling in its very banality. It was as if the marriage of her son and the drafts in the house occupied equal importance in her mind, and neither of them very much.

  After a long moment, Roddy managed to say, “She seems an excellent person.”

  His mouth drew taut in a humorless smile. “Do you think so indeed?”

  They sat at opposite ends of the polished table, Faelan and his mother, with Roddy at a place in between. The huge room sent back every little chink of silver in echo and made the few words spoken sound hollow and strange.

  The dowager countess ate with the same jerky restlessness with which she moved. Roddy had begun to see a pattern. The older woman was either talking or silent. She never conversed. Just now, she was silent, her mind a babble. The dowager countess’ thoughts darted up one path and then another, meeting blank walls and doubling back, twisting down narrow strands of logic, ballooning into volumes of nothing, chasing some thought about the initials on the silver and then envisioning the whole room washed in a metallic gleam with a focus so powerful that Roddy saw the room that way herself for an instant. She attempted to ignore the chaos, careful never to meet the other woman’s eyes, concentrating instead on the flavor of the food in her mouth and the way the candles reflected in the crystal and on the shining wood.

  Her control was flawed, for if Lady Iveragh’s glance happened to light on the same image, Roddy’s hard-fought barriers were no match for the intensity of the doubled vision and she found herself dizzy and sick with the peculiar sensation of seeing the epergne on the table from two sides at once. It was a problem that she had not experienced since childhood, before she had learned the rudiments of control over her talent.

  “Where will you live?” the dowager countess asked suddenly. “You won’t take her to Iveragh. I’ll speak to Adam about a house in town. It will have to be leased, of course. Perhaps he can raise your allowance. You’re a sad wastrel, my dear, but I’m sure I can convince him—”

  “You needn’t convince him of anything.” It was the first time Roddy had heard Faelan interrupt the countess. “Adam is no longer my trustee.”

  Lady Iveragh picked up her wineglass and set it down again. Twice. “I suppose you mean that silly agreement you insisted upon. Really, my dear, you know Adam only went along because it seemed to mean so much to you. It can’t possibly change anything.”

  “Yes.” Faelan smiled bitterly. “A sop to my pride, there’s no doubt. But the fact remains that Adam relinquished part of the trust. Iveragh is fully mine now. Debt and all.”

  “Exactly my point. Adam tells me there’s not a bit of income to be squeezed out of the place. Not without mounds of money to be invested first.”

  Faelan ran his forefinger over the intricate pattern on a sterling-silver knife. He said slowly, “Nevertheless, that was the bargain I chose. You and Adam keep the money, and I hold Iveragh.”

  “‘Keep the money.’ Really, Faelan, what a vulgar way to talk. I’m sure Adam—”

  “Adam will do well to stay out of my sight,” he said, in a tone so soft it chilled Roddy down to her toes.

  The countess waved a vague hand. “How dark it is in here. Ring for an extra candelabrum, Faelan. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean about Adam, my love. Have you and Adam had a disagreement? I won’t have quarreling between my two favorite men, you know. My brother does his best for you. Think of the years he’s spent looking after your interests. All those trips to that godforsaken place since your father—”

  “Don’t.”

  The word hung in the air. Roddy stopped in the motion of lifting her fork. She stared at her plate, afraid to look right or left. In spite of her efforts, the soaring agitation in the countess’ mind leaked through Roddy’s weakened barriers, muddier than ever in its increased turmoil.

  Very quietly, Faelan said, “You won’t speak of my father again.”

  “Faelan, I can’t imagine what’s troubling you this evening. Not speak of your father—why ever shouldn’t I? I’m sure he was a fine man. An excellent man. I’ve missed him sorely.” She glanced at Roddy without ceasing the quick movements of slicing a cube of cheese into tiny pieces. “This Stilton is a trifle dry, don’t you agree? I pray you never know the agony of raising a son alone, my dear. Particularly a boy like Faelan, wild as he always was. After his father was killed, he—”

  They both looked up at the violent scrape of Faelan’s chair. He stood at the head of the table. “That’s enough.”

  The countess gave him a pleased look, as if she had just noticed him standing there. “Have you seen Lord Geoffrey, dear? Minshall told me he had been here. What a charmer that boy is.” She smiled at Roddy. “I declare, I fell in love with him when he was ten years old. Has Faelan dared to introduce you? He’ll not be anxious to do so, I imagine.”

  “Lord Cashel is an old friend of my family, ma’am,” Roddy said, ke
eping her eyes from where Faelan stood at the head of the table.

  “Oh—then you’ll be as much in love with him as all the other girls. He’s a slyboots, is my Lord Cashel. I do believe he’s stolen the heart of every young lady my poor Faelan ever cared for. But you’re the exception, aren’t you? I can’t tell you how very grateful I am that a girl has finally seen my son’s true worth. You’ll hear rumors, my dear, but don’t give them a thought.” She smiled up at Faelan. “We’ve survived those vile stories for years, haven’t we, darling boy? We don’t pay them the least mind.”

  Roddy said, “Of course not, ma’am,” in a thin effort to neutralize the dowager countess’ tactlessness. His mother might be unaware of the tension in Faelan’s still figure, but Roddy was acutely conscious of it. She caught a swift thought out of the jumble in Lady Iveragh’s mind and pursued the topic. “Tell me about the house in Keswick, ma’am, if you please. I’ve never been to the Lakes.”

  “Call me mamá, my dear—do.” The countess gave Roddy a charming smile. “Keswick is fabulous. The most adorable little town right on the lakeshore. My house—it’s naught but a cottage, I assure you. I shan’t be able to keep more than a half-dozen domestics when I’m in residence. But that’s the fun of it, dear. One is so intrepid and isolated…”

  She rambled on, and after a few moments, Faelan looked at the plates and glasses before him. He sat down. His hand curved around his wine goblet and he emptied it. A footman was there to refill the glass twice before Lady Iveragh had said everything she had to say about the “cottage” in Keswick.

  “I’m sure we can find you something just like it,” the countess said. “I shall set an agent on it immediately. We can all go back together, though I shan’t have room at my house for you both, I fear. There’s a delightful inn where you could stay while you look over the available properties.” She squeezed her hands together. “Oh, ’twill be such fun. The lakes, the mountains—I tell you, there’s nothing to compare with it.”