The Rogue of Her Heart: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 2)

by Nina Mason

  Sweating and satisfied, he rolled onto his back. “I want to spend the rest of my life loving you.”

  “I want the same.” She rolled toward him and trailed a finger down his body. “But only if we can be together.”

  He looked at her, wounded by her answer. “And if we cannot?”

  “I want to forget you as soon as possible.” She pressed a kiss to his chest before lifting her gaze to his. “And be spared the agony of living without you.”

  Seventeen

  The young lovers cuddled and talked for an hour before Christian drifted off. Too keyed up to sleep, Georgie got up to stoke the dying fire. When it was going again, she began to pace back and forth before the chimneypiece, her thoughts clouded with concern about what had just occurred.

  Fine ladies were not supposed to enjoy their marital duties. Though this, as with all things of a sexual nature, she’d only gleaned from vague innuendos overheard and what she’d witnessed with her own two eyes. For matters having to do with reproduction in any form had never been openly discussed in her presence. Consequently, she had been exceedingly distressed when, on the cusp of adolescence, she began to grow breasts and sprout hairs in places previously bald.

  Needless to say, she got the shock of her life when her courses began.

  Later, upon consulting her mother, she was told these things were normal occurrences in the female maturation process. “Then why did you not tell me what to expect?” Georgie asked her reproachfully.

  “For the simple reason that it is unseemly for ladies to speak of such things,” was all her mother said in reply.

  “Such things” also included the perfectly natural processes of conception and childbirth. If mentioned at all, these taboo subjects were discussed only in hushed tones and obfuscating euphemisms. Once upon a time, women were said to be “round-wombed,” “with child,” “brought to bed,” or “delivered.” Now, ladies “in a family way” simply informed their friends they expected to be “confined” in a few months hence.

  Had it not been for the livestock thereabouts, together with her extensive scientific reading, and what her father forced her to witness, Georgie might have had no notion how conception occurred prior to laying with Christian. And she would certainly have been in the dark about how to prevent it, had he not explained the various methods to her.

  What he’d done—withdrawing before he’d spilled his seed—was called “Onanism,” he explained, after a character in the Old Testament who practiced the method (much to God’s condemnation) to avoid impregnating his brother’s widow.

  “It was the custom in ancient times for a man to marry his brother’s widow and then raise any children he produced with her in his brother’s name,” Christian explained while holding her close. “Onan wasn’t keen on the arrangement, so he withdrew from her on the brink of climax to avoid putting a child in her.”

  “Is that the only way to prevent conception?” Georgie had asked.

  “No,” he said. “In France, to prevent fertilization, men wear something akin to sausage casings over their members, whilst ladies place a sponge soaked in brandy at the entrance to their wombs. Here in England, the use of such devices between married couples is perceived as uncouth, so gentlemen take mistresses to spare their wives—and pocketbooks—the strain of too many offspring. An argument can be made, therefore, that husbands are doing their wives a favor by breaking their marriage vows. And perhaps they are, if their spouses are glad of their disinterest.”

  “I hope you have no such plan after we are married, for I can assure you I would not look upon your infidelity as a courtesy,” Georgie told him in no uncertain terms. “Furthermore, I find both customs glaring examples of religious hypocrisy.”

  “Do you? How so?”

  “Are the French not by and large Catholics? And does not their faith forbid the use of measures to prevent conception? And, as for the Englishmen and their concubines, I know for a fact the Church of England condemns adultery through the Scriptures and Ten Commandments. So how can either set justify their behavior in the eyes of God?”

  “I do not scruple to confess that most men are hypocrites, Georgie, as are a goodly number of women also.”

  The memory of her conversation with Christian brought forth another: Edmund Goddard’s sermon last Sunday on religious hypocrisy.

  “Generally, we call a man a hypocrite when he pretends to be one thing while he is another. He might pretend to be pious and good, for example, while he is leading a profligate life in secret … or pretend to believe certain doctrines, while at heart he disbelieves them. A hypocrite, in short, is a scoundrel and knows it, but does not want others to see the truth. He deceives others, that is to say, but knows himself.”

  There was another kind of hypocrite, the vicar went on to explain: the kind who deceived himself as well as others. “I will not say which of these is worse, as it is not my duty to judge any man. I shall, however, declare that there are such people, and too many of them; that we ourselves are often in danger of becoming such hypocrites; and that the Pharisees, in Christ’s opinion, were the latter sort of hypocrites: those who not only deceived others, but themselves also; who thought themselves perfectly right, honest, and pious; and were therefore astonished and indignant when Our Lord pointed out their self-deceptions.”

  Then, as now, the vicar’s words gave Georgie much to consider. Her father, she was reasonably certain, was the first kind of hypocrite: he hid his unapologetic wickedness behind a public mask of rank and respectability. If people knew he collected erotic books, forced his wife to indulge his depravities, and shamelessly committed adultery in front of at least one of his daughters, they would be shocked out of their wits for certain.

  But far be it from her to shed light on her father’s true nature in the tiny hamlet in which they resided. Being an unrepentant sinner herself, she had no right to cast stones at anyone. She was, after all, a fornicator who coveted another woman’s betrothed. Yes, Miss Stubbs had trapped Christian in her snare, but Georgie doubted God would trouble himself with such nuances when deciding where to send her soul.

  But was it not better to burn in hell than pass the rest of her days reading sermons and embroidering cushions? Yes, it was. Because now that she’d caught the fever of love, she could never again be satisfied by the sedate existence consigned to most of her sex.

  Georgie must have dozed off while ruminating because a loud knock on the door jolted her awake. Fortunately, it also roused Christian from slumber. Before they could discuss what to do, the knock sounded again. Seconds later, a young woman called through the door, “My lord, are you up? It is the chambermaid, come to make up the fire.”

  “Oh, Christian,” Georgie said, wringing her hands, “what should I do?”

  “Hide.”

  “Where?”

  He looked around the room for a suitable place. “Under the bed or in the wardrobe seem our best bets. Take your pick, but do conceal yourself quickly.”

  Georgie chose the wardrobe and quietly slipped inside. His clothes, which left little room for her to squeeze between them, smelled pleasantly of his woodsy cologne.

  Her heart and mind raced as she crouched in the dark, listening as the maid shoveled out the cinders and laid new wood in the grate. Worrying her lip, Georgie tried to think how she might get back to her room without being seen … or what excuse to give if she was caught in the hall in naught but her dressing gown.

  She might say she fancied a bath before breakfast … and was only looking for a maid to bring up hot water. Yes, that could work. Or, better still, she could wait until the rest of the party went down to breakfast. That would certainly reduce her chances of being found out.

  When the maid left, Christian helped her out of the wardrobe. He’d put on a robe and looked adorably disheveled. “I think you should go down to breakfast first, to avoid arousing suspicion,” Georgie suggested. “Then, when everyone is gathered, I shall make my escape, dress quickly, and come down mys
elf.”

  “An excellent plan,” he said, giving her a quick kiss.

  With hungry eyes, she watched him dress, seizing the opportunity to study his naked physique in the daylight. Lean and well-proportioned, he was as muscular as a laborer, yet as fair-skinned as an aristocrat. Her gaze moved slowly downward, taking in the particulars: his shoulders were broad, his arms powerful, his chest contoured, his stomach flat, his obliques pronounced, his thighs lean, his calves shapely, and his feet fine-boned yet manly.

  He was, in short, the very picture of virile masculinity and a swoon-worthy sight to behold.

  Disappointment nipped at her heart when he put on a fresh shirt, which he tucked around his unmentionables before slipping on a pair of knee-high stockings. He then stepped into camel-colored trousers, which he buttoned and secured with braces before moving to his shaving mirror. There, he wrapped, twisted, and knotted his neck-cloth, which he festooned with a ruby stickpin. Next came a well-cut white-silk waistcoat, a pair of leather shoes, and a double-breasted, blue-velvet tail-coat.

  Now fully attired, he showed himself off to her. “Well, how do I look?”

  “Very smart. And devilishly handsome. Beau Brummel himself never looked better, I’ll wager.”

  An endearing blush colored his cheeks. “Though you are too excessive in your compliments, it gladdens me to know you approve of my appearance.”

  He came to where she sat on the bed, propped against the headboard, and kissed her lingeringly before taking his leave. She waited for what seemed a reasonable interval of time before approaching the door herself. She opened it a crack, then wide enough to poke her head through the gap. Looking up and down the hallway, she saw no one about. So, heart in throat, she took her leave and crept back toward her bedchamber.

  Just as she reached the top of the stairs, Benedict Churchill came up. So sudden was his sudden appearance, and so unexpected, that Georgie was taken aback.

  “There you are, Miss Bennet,” he cried, startling her the more. “And still in your dressing gown, I see. Dear me. You are not unwell, I hope.”

  “N-no,” she stammered. “I was only looking for a maid to draw me a bath.”

  A look of disappointment overcame his features. “But you will miss breakfast.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  She was, in fact, ravenous—as well as impatient to get away from him and into her room. For she had almost no clothes on, which he could not have failed to notice.

  “You will be attending today’s rehearsal, I hope.”

  “I believe so. Despite having no role.”

  He smiled and tilted his head. “I beg leave to disagree, my dear Miss Bennet. For where would we be without our prompter? Though, admittedly, some of us require your services more than others.”

  His cologne was similar to his brother’s, though not the same. While she could detect notes of bergamot, moss, and citrus, sweeter floral notes predominated. “You refer, I presume, to Miss Stubbs?”

  “I do indeed. Though I hate to be unkind, I daresay the dear lady is hopeless as an actress. How dearly I wish you had not given up the part of Amelia.”

  “But I have, Mr. Churchill,” she said, wishing to be importuned no longer, “and cannot ask for it back without giving offense. Now, if you will excuse me…”

  She turned to go, but looked back when he said, “Miss Bennet … before you take your leave, there is something I wish to ask you”—he cleared his throat—“having to do with Miss Raynalds.”

  The mention of Winnie both surprised her and hooked her interest. “I will oblige you if I can, Mr. Churchill. What is it you wish to know?”

  “Is she out?”

  “Out?”

  “Yes. Has she had her debut? Does she go to balls? Does she entertain suitors?”

  “As to her being out, I cannot tell you,” Georgie told him in earnest. “I do know, however, that she often attends the balls held at our local assembly rooms.”

  “Then she is out,” he said, looking pleased. “Do you think she would welcome my attentions?”

  Georgie smiled as she thought back to what Winnie said about Benedict being the handsomest and most agreeable man she’d ever seen. “Yes, I believe she would. But, if your intentions toward her are sincere, might I suggest you speak to her brother before paying your addresses to her?”

  He appeared a bit nervous as he asked, “Do you suppose he will look upon the match with a favorable eye?”

  “That, I cannot tell you,” she said. “But this much I can: the Captain is very protective of his sister, whom he raised as his ward after their parents died. I would highly recommend, therefore, that you not disappoint either of them. For their sakes, as well as your own.”

  “I understand you, Miss Bennet,” he replied with a tip of the head. “And thank you for your counsel, which I shall respectfully bear in mind as I go forward.” He paused before adding, “Oh, and do keep this between you and me for now, will you, Miss Bennet?”

  “Of course,” she said without thinking it through.

  Georgie walked away, thinking how lucky Winnie would be to get a man like Benedict Churchill, even if he did not inherit his father’s title and fortune in Christian’s stead. Would he? Would Lord Wingfield really cut off his eldest son without a penny? As sincerely as she hoped he would not, she could not see any other way to entice Miss Stubbs to release Christian from their engagement.

  And she must release him. She simply must. Because Georgie’s heart would break if she could not marry Christian.

  She reached her own chamber and hastened inside, breathing a sigh of relief as she shut and locked the door behind her. She was safe, thank the Lord; in this, at least—and now was free to savor the honeyed memories of the night before.

  * * * *

  Three days passed and still, the Earl of Wingfield had not yet replied to Georgie’s letter. Meanwhile, Christian felt like a condemned man, awaiting the judge’s decision on his final appeal, while watching the gallows being built outside his prison-cell window.

  Well, at least his other projects were progressing nicely, especially where the play was concerned. The actors and actresses had mostly learned their lines (with one notable exception), the costumes were almost finished, and the Captain’s Billiard Room, with the curtain and scenery now in place, looked rather more like a playhouse than a gaming parlor.

  A small, make-shift one, mind you, but a theatre nevertheless.

  The Christmas tree also looked more splendid by the day, due exclusively to the labors of Georgie and Winnie. To the almond-raisin strings and paper snowflakes, they’d added apples, clove-studded oranges, and little bundles of sugar-plums, sweet meats, and cinnamon sticks. They’d also wired tiny tapers to the branches, which he was eager to see aglow. The ritual lighting, of course, would not take place until the party on Christmas Eve, to which he also looked forward.

  There were, of course, other vexations aside from his father’s failure to write. His brother’s conduct, for one, was exceedingly confounding. Which young lady he preferred, Christian could not make out, despite observing very closely Benedict’s conduct toward both. To each, he was excessively attentive and complimentary.

  He would have asked Georgie if she detected any particular regard on his brother’s part had the opportunity presented itself. But alas, she’d stopped coming to his bedchamber at night, claiming it was far too dangerous. This was true, of course, but her prudence also prevented them from engaging in intimate intercourse (of more than one variety), to Christian’s considerable frustration.

  No less baffling were Benedict’s concerted efforts to ingratiate himself to the Captain and Mrs. Raynalds. Why did he endeavor so earnestly to garner their favor? Because he sought their approval to court their ward or because he’d elected to impose upon their hospitality longer than planned? He now meant to stay on until after Twelfth Night, much to Christian’s chagrin. The trip to Wales, apparently, had been given up in favor of whichever young lady he might f
avor.

  Oh! But which one might it be?

  At the present moment, the whole company was gathered in the drawing room, The Captain and Mrs. Raynalds occupied the place of honor on the sofa opposite the fire, whilst Benedict sat between Georgie and Miss Stubbs on the adjacent Chippendale settee. Winnie, in the chair opposite his own, was reading out to them a poem by Lord Byron:

  Think’st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,

  Suffus’d in tears, implore to stay;

  And heard unmov’d thy plenteous sighs,

  Which said far more than words can say?

  To this recitation, Benedict listened raptly, causing Christian to wonder if his attention owed to his feelings for the reader or his great love of poetry.

  “Which do you prefer,” Benedict said to Georgie, “Byron, Scott, or Pope?”

  “Oh, Byron without a doubt,” she replied with more enthusiasm than Christian cared to see.

  There was a time, not so long ago, that Christian admired Byron’s romantic verses, as well as envied his unrestricted lifestyle. But since the poet’s notorious affairs with Lady Caroline Lamb and Augusta Byron Leigh, he’d become more circumspect about the man’s wicked ways.

  Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,

  When love and hope lay both o’erthrown;

  Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

  Throbb’d, with deep sorrow, as thine own.

  The poem told of the break-up of his tryst with Lady Caroline. Four years ago, after meeting at a society function, Byron relentlessly and passionately pursued her, despite her being the wife of William Lamb, an up-and-coming politician. While publicly decrying each other, they privately pledged their love over the following months.

  Byron referred to Lamb as “Caro,” which she adopted as her public nickname. After Byron broke things off, her husband took his disgraced and desolated wife to Ireland. The distance did not, however, cool Lady Caroline’s ardor for the poet, with whom she corresponded during her exile.