Scandalous Regency Nights

“Who the hell are you tangled up with now?” Christopher said with a frown. “You’ll find yourself on Primrose Hill with a bullet lodged somewhere in your person.”

“Nor do I bandy about a lady’s name.” Garth stalked off down the hall, the slight stagger an indication of the quantity of brandy he’d consumed on the drive over.

Tony smothered a yawn. Garth’s legendary exploits among the ton’s females had palled long ago. “Let’s leave.”

Christopher expelled an impatient breath. “I’ll wait for him. He’ll no doubt be too foxed by the end of the night to get home in one piece. Join me in a game of whist?” He gestured to a nearby table with three men and a pile of tokens waiting for a winner. “At least it presents a challenge.”

“I pity the woman who holds the bank at your table,” Tony said.

Christopher laughed. “It’s a game of chance. I simply count better than most.”

The blonde holding the bank had a lovely face and hard calculating eyes. The kind of woman Tony had found appealing when he first made his bows. “You know, I think I’ll wander about for a bit.”

“See if anyone strikes your fancy?” Christopher said, his eyes twinkling.

“See if they have any food. I haven’t eaten for hours.”

Christopher raised a brow. “Bon appétit. He headed for his chosen victim and Tony spared a second’s worth of pity on those about to lose their money to his friend’s mathematical acumen.

He strolled down the hall and peered into a library lined with books and occupied by a couple sprawled on a couch. The next open door revealed a drawing room. No food there either. A young dandy, perhaps no more than twenty, knelt at the feet of a gorgeous creature in a red gown cut low across a magnificent bosom. The severe smoothed-back style of her dark-brown hair emphasized her prominent cheekbones and, along with her almond-shaped eyes, gave her face an exotic look. The boy seemed to be sobbing, while the striking brunette patted his shoulder.

Tony started to back away, but she raised her head and their gazes met. She rolled her eyes heavenward with rueful smile of full lips and a glimmer of laughter in her dark eyes. An instant of connection, yet he was sure he’d never met her before. One thing he knew for certain, her melting brown eyes contained a cry for help. He bowed.

“May I be of assistance?”

The boy raised his head. “She won’t have me.”

“I didn’t mean you, you puppy,” Tony said. “Madam, may I remove this watering pot?”

The young man sat up then, and fumbled in his pocket.

The woman handed him a scrap of lace. “Use this, Radcliffe. A man with puffy eyes and a red nose is rarely taken with any degree of seriousness.”

“A red nose?” The boy sprung from the couch and ran to the mirror between the two tall windows overlooking the square. “‘Pon rep. You are right.” He dabbed at the offending aristocratic proboscis.

The blatant sensuality of the woman’s smile, as she watched the lad, held Tony captive. No wonder she had the youth on his knees at her feet. And her breasts? Well, they were magnificent. Glorious mounds of pale, soft flesh. He didn’t need another glance for confirmation. Didn’t care to look, because her smile intimated she’d discovered life’s greatest jest and hinted that if the right person found the key, she might share the joke. He wanted that key.

“Vanity,” she said, with a mock shake of her head at the lad. “It does wonders for a broken heart. I recommend cold water at once.”

Radcliffe spun around. “Cold water, madam? Will it not make it worse?”

She laughed, a throaty chuckle with a pulse-quickening effect. Had he lost his mind?

“Not at all,” she said. “Take the word of someone who has cried many tears.” She turned her amazingly liquid eyes on Tony. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

Tony smothered a smile as the young man paled. “Without a doubt. As one who has been the cause of many tears.”

The woman laughed outright. More heat to his blood. Good God, he’d never met a woman who so instantly aroused his interest. Aroused. An unfortunate word, with hardening results.

“Countess, you will forgive me if I go in search of cold water?” Radcliffe asked, returning to stand in front of her, much like a lad before a governess. “I will return. Then you will listen to me.”

“Try some ice,” Tony said. “I suggest you use it elsewhere on your anatomy. Cool your ardor. Can’t you see you are bothering the countess?”

“Am I, Countess?” Radcliffe asked with a boyish smile. Tony wanted to punch him in the mouth.

The woman smiled. “Darling boy, I am old enough to be your mother. Now run along and find a nice young girl of your own age.”

Radcliffe pouted. “You are not old enough to be my mother. She is ancient. And girls my age are dull.”

The boy needed a lesson in manners. Tony took a half step into the room. “The lady is being polite to protect your manly pride. I, on the other hand, have no such scruples. If you don’t leave now, you might find your nose a deeper shade of scarlet.”

The countess’s handkerchief held to his nose, Radcliff scuttled from the room.

The countess sighed. “I made a mistake in letting him speak to me alone. I had intended to let him down gently and instead, seemed to have raised his hopes. The dashing of them was hard, I think.”

“I apologize for my countryman, Countess.”

“Oh la, sir. No need for that. I’m as English as plum pudding, born and raised.”

Not plum pudding. Perhaps baked apple with cinnamon or a succulent lemon curd, or a rich honey cake. He pulled back from the images and smiled. “I did wonder, given your lack of accent. I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. Anthony Darby, at your service.” He bowed and as he rose, raised a brow in question. “Countess …?”

She inclined her head and held out her hand. “My deceased husband was a Russian count. I am recently returned to England. I was beginning to think I would require the help of a servant to release me from the poor boy’s clutches. Thank you for your timely intervention.”

A widow and thus available. Something feral and hungry sharpened its claws in Tony’s gut even as he noticed she had not supplied her name. Damnation, he was mad, because instead of bidding her farewell, he took her hand and pressed his lips to the filmy lace covering her fingers.

The view of creamy breasts rising from plush red velvet, and the shadows in their valley sucked the breath from his chest. Even so, he inhaled the subtle fragrance of lavender. “The pleasure is all mine.” He was surprised at the low growl in his voice

She tilted her head, a flicker of amber in warm brown eyes. Interest. Perhaps even challenge. Definitely not fear.

She withdrew her fingers slowly, lingeringly.

He regretted the loss. “I was looking for something to eat. May I escort you to the dining room?” He blasted well hoped food was laid out somewhere, because he needed something to counteract his light-headedness.

“Why not?” she said, rising.

Only then, did the full glory of her figure reveal itself. Full bosomed, tall for a woman—almost his height in fact—and with long, elegant limbs, she embodied each and every aspect of female charm he preferred.

Perhaps he wasn’t in such a hurry to depart, after all. Dash it. Hadn’t he said less than five minutes ago that he didn’t want any commitments? He held out his arm.

Margaret put her hand on the sleeve of the man holding out his arm with élan, felt muscle and sinew beneath the dark blue superfine coat as they walked. An athletic man, as lithe and sleek as a racehorse. Quite beautiful, in fact. Unlike the bear-like Russians to whom she’d become accustomed, this man oozed finesse. And he was tall. Lovely and tall.

She studied his profile. Handsome in that narrow-faced, rather vulnerable English way, he’d looked too young at first glance. On closer inspection, the cynical mouth and the world-weary silver-gray eyes marked him as older. Around her age, or a little older, some thirty summers, she guessed. He glanced at her, caught her staring. The flicker of heat in the depths of his steely gaze had the same effect as too many glasses of champagne on her blood. A dizzy sort of breathlessness.

“I don’t suppose you know where we might find supper?” he asked with a heart-stopping smile, his deep voice hinting at seduction. The dark, wicked places in her body responded with a delicious thrill. This man positively created havoc on her senses.

“Aah,” she said, indicating the direction. “This is your first visit to Lady Falstow’s infamous establishment.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “But not yours?”

“No indeed.” In a rash moment of utter abandon, she bit back the information that her only previous visit was for afternoon tea. After all, such an admission would weaken the armor of scarlet gown and carefully constructed air of confidence. After five minutes alone with young Radcliffe, she’d decided her wild flight of fancy to experience a little danger, to savor some of the joys she’d missed these past many years, wasn’t really her cup of tea. Now she was wondering if perhaps this man could change her mind. It was a long time since her heart had fluttered, and right now it beat within her chest like a caged wild bird. A heady and youthful sensation she’d almost forgotten.

“This must be it,” Darby said, ushering her into a room at the back of the house. A table set with epergnes and covered dishes lined the wall opposite the door. Artfully scattered small round tables allowed for groups of guests to talk, while equally tasteful screens permitted an element of privacy for those who wished it.

Margaret tensed at the sight of an inebriated noble plying his female companion with champagne. Couples and groups also occupied some of the other tables. An army of burly footmen hovered throughout the cream and gold painted room ready to intercede, as her ladyship had promised, should matters get out of hand. Margaret wasn’t ready for this. She wished they’d remained in the drawing room’s seclusion.

Their hostess, a gargantuan figure in a gown of gold tissue, and shimmering with diamonds, circulated among her guests, her plump face beaming, her be-ringed hands gesturing volubly. She surged towards them in a tidal wave of hastily moved chairs. “There you are,” she cried. “I heard you’d gone off with young Radcliffe. I was about to send Peter—” she gestured vaguely at one of her minions “—to see if you were all right.”

A rush of warmth filled Margaret. It had been a long time since anyone cared about her comfort. “Thank you. As you can see, I am quite rescued already.”

Lady Falstow turned her gaze on Margaret’s escort. “Darby, isn’t it?”

He bowed. “Good evening, my lady. I regret I did not see you when I first arrived.”

“Came with the Everndens, did you not? The youngest brother is going to ruin me.”

“I hope not, my lady.” Darby grimaced as his gaze swept the room. “You have a full house tonight?”

Apparently, he also did not relish the crowd.

“Looking for a quieter spot, are you?” Lady Falstow tapped Darby on the shoulder. “Tell the fellow at the buffet what you would like, and run along to the conservatory where it is quiet.”

A perceptive woman, Lady Falstow. Margaret lowered her lashes, fearing her eagerness to flee the room might show. As Darby headed for the food, she pulled her hostess aside. “What do you know of him?” she asked in low tones.

“A younger son, I think. His friend Stanford’s a bit of a rake. Not sure I know much about Darby.” She frowned.

“Married?” For some odd reason, Margaret held her breath.

The older woman shrugged. “I don’t believe so. I’d have warned you off right away, if that were the case.”

Margaret winced. She needed more than a guess and Darby was headed their way with a bottle of champagne tucked under his arm and two flutes held in one large hand.

Lady Falstow leaned closer. “Take my advice. If you want to enjoy him to the full, don’t play the innocent.” She held out a sliver of metal. “This opens the door to the room I showed you. It is up to you whether you use it.” The heavily ringed hand caught Margaret’s as she reached for the key. “Courage, lass. If you change your mind, ring the bell. You will find one in every room. A footman will arrive in an instant. I promise, you will be fine. Not one of my ladies has ever complained about their treatment in this house.”

Swallowing, Margaret tucked the silver key into her reticule before Darby reached her side.

“Now,” he said with a smile sweet enough to make the older lady flutter her eyelashes. “Where is this conservatory?”

Lady Falstow fanned her face as if suddenly hot, sapphires, diamonds and rubies winking and glittering. “At the back of the house. Run along. The food will follow in a moment or two.”

They wandered in the direction indicated, and Darby opened an etched-glass panelled door.

Margaret gasped. A glass cathedral met her gaze. The domed structure ran the length of the side of the house. Air, warm and moist and redolent with fragrance, filled her lungs. Orange trees, lemons and limes too, lined the walks among splashes of red, yellow and blue blossoms.

“Look at this,” Darby said, indicating a long stem crowned with waxy petals of the palest cream and leopard-like spots. “An orchid. Did you ever see anything so delicate?”

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

“Like you,” he murmured.

She glanced up to see hunger in his eyes, naked and raw. A surge of heat rushed up from her breasts to her face. Blushing like a schoolgirl, dash it. And the color no doubt clearly visible in the light of the torchères strategically placed along the walkway. “La, sir, a compliment indeed.”

He tilted his head as if puzzled by her coquettish tone. Did he see through her defenses to the rapid beat of her heart? He smiled and waved his bottle. “Let us find somewhere to sit. We can open this and talk.”

Further on, they did indeed find a loveseat fashioned from bamboo and wicker, and cushioned with chintz, and set in an arbor of vines.

“How lovely,” she said.

“A perfect setting,” he replied and led her to the seat. While she settled her skirts, he eased the cork free with a gentle pop. Vapor issued from the neck of the bottle. He filled the glasses, not spilling a drop.

“You do that with great expertise,” she said.

“Had lots of practice.” He glanced upwards. “I didn’t dare shoot the thing though that lot.” He grinned with nothing of the cynic about his mouth. Her heart tumbled slowly and pleasurably.

She raised her gaze to the gleaming arch of glass. “Oh, gracious. No indeed.”

Their voices mingled in laughter swiftly absorbed by the verdant greenery. A companionable sound. Her stomach clenched. A painful longing within the joy of discovery of a kindred spirit. What would it have been like to marry a man with the ability to laugh? She forced the thought aside. Regret had no place in this evening. Lady Falstow had advised her to live for the moment. After all, she’d paid her full dues as a dutiful wife.

Darby handed her a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed. Little shimmers of something hot ran up her arm. A shiver of anticipation ran across her skin.

The quick uplift of the corners of his lips said he, too, felt the spark. “To your beautiful eyes.”

“To your lovely mouth,” she replied and drank deeply, the champagne cool and tart on her tongue, the bubbles misting her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

“My lovely mouth?” He raised a brow and leaned back against the cushion, his eyelids lowering a fraction as if to hide the heat in his gaze. Not possible. She was veritably scorched.

“I like the way it smiles.” Oh, lord, one mouthful of wine and she sounded foxed, when in reality it was he who made her feel giddy. Or perhaps it was the perfume of so many flowers? “You must think me a fool, Mr. Darby.”

“Please, call me Tony. And no, I find you … delightful. Uniquely charming.”

Her heart beat a little faster. Her skin tingled. This was how it began, the dance of intimacy. Words and looks and sighs. Only she wasn’t sure she remembered the steps. Still, she would not sit like the proverbial wallflower and let the music pass over her head.

“Tony.” She shook her head. “I think I prefer Anthony. And I am Margaret.”

He took her free hand in his large warm one. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Margaret. It suits you.”

“Plain and proper is what my father said.” She smiled, remembering her beloved father’s face.

“I see nothing plain and proper about you, Margaret.” His gaze drifted lower, and once more, betraying heat rose up her neck and blazed in her cheeks. “You cast a hothouse of exotic flowers into the shade.” He leaned closer and breathed in slowly. “You smell wonderful.”

Carried by his soft outward sigh, the words brushed her collarbone. Her heart picked up speed, a breath caught in her throat, her lips parted. Things were moving far too fast with this man. She knew nothing about him. Yes, she would indeed live for the moment, but only if the moment was right. She sipped at her champagne, using the glass as a shield. A poor one, to be sure, but a symbolic gesture any gentleman would recognize.

He leaned back with a smile, his hand along the back of the sofa, a hairbreadth from her shoulder. “So, you are recently returned from Russia. How did you find it?”

“Cold.” She laughed, because she really did not mean the weather. “My husband spent most of his time at court, but in the summer we traveled to his estate. The country is vast and very different from here.”

“In a good way, I presume?”

How did one express five years of homesickness without whining? “I learned a great deal about the land and its people, but I am glad to return to England.”

Another question lurked in his eyes. She could see him trying to decide whether he should ask it or not. She asked, “What do you want to know?”

He smiled. “Am I really that obvious? I was wondering if you left ties back in Russia. If you will return there?”

“A politic way of wondering if I have children, perhaps? And no. I have no ties and no intention of returning. My husband had more than one heir from a previous marriage. His position at court required a hostess. I learned Russian. I can organize a banquet for a thousand people or a tête à tête for two.” Why was she telling him all this? He would think she was looking for another wifely position, when nothing could be further from the truth. “My husband left me a comfortable independence, and I now seek my own amusement.”

“Was it really that bad?” he murmured.

The gentleness in his voice cut through her carefully constructed defenses, not something she wanted on a night such as this. “You mistake me. It was not bad at all. The Russian court glitters beyond anything imaginable. The czar is all powerful.”

“And many of the people are serfs.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t see how it can last. Look at France.”

The man was talking to her as if she had a brain. She shook her head. “You are right. I do not see it lasting either. And nor did my husband. He advised following England’s lead. Alas, I do not see anyone taking up his standard. Certainly not his heir.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For your recent bereavement. It was tactless of me to remind you.”

“Ah, once again you mistake the matter. Konrad died more than a year ago. I mourned his passing, but he was not a young man, he lived a full life, and I fulfilled my duty.”

He withdrew his hand from the sofa’s back and for a moment she thought she might have given him a disgust of her callousness, but he lifted her hand from her lap. He gently turned it over and bared her wrist of glove with his forefinger, then leaned down to brush the pulse point with his lips. Tingles ran across her shoulders and lifted the hairs at the base of neck. “Now it is your turn for life,” he said softly.

Footsteps rang on the flagstones. She snatched her hand back. They jumped apart like guilty children. She laughed.

He grinned ruefully. “Dash it. The food.”

She arched a brow. “You said you were hungry, Anthony.”

“I’m starving,” he said. The low growl in his voice did not speak of bread and meat. Her inner muscles tightened pleasurably. She shivered.

The footman coughed loudly, then appeared round the corner carrying on high a silver tray loaded with several small plates. He dragged a small table from concealment behind the trellis and set the tray in front of them. He unfolded the napkins, placed one on each of their laps. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Anthony eyed the tray. “Thank you, no.” The footman withdrew.

He had selected nothing but the best. Oysters nestled in ice, caviar in a silver bowl, mouthwatering frosted grapes, light temptations designed to sharpen the senses. A hedonistic feast.

Anthony picked up an oyster and held it to Margaret’s lips. Tipping her head back, she swallowed the delicate flesh, salty and sweet and tangy with lemon. She licked her lips.

He leant forward and tasted the corner of her mouth with a delicate lap of his tongue. “Delicious.”

A flutter pulsed between her thighs. Wicked man. “Me or the fish?”

“Both, of course.”

She smiled and heaped a tiny water biscuit with a mound of blue-black beads. The finest caviar, all the way from the Black Sea. She knew, because she had ordered it, sent packed in ice. When she raised her gaze from her hands, she found his gaze fixed on her face, intent, hungry and hot.

“Open,” she murmured, the thrumming in her veins growing stronger, more demanding.

He did, and his grin was that of a wolf about to be fed a small tender morsel. She popped the tiny cracker in his mouth and watched him chew, experiencing the delightful burst of salty flavor in her mind as his eyes closed in pleasure.

He picked up his wine glass and held it to her lips, watching as she sipped and swallowed, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

How did he breathe so evenly, the wretch, when her heart raced out of control? She reached for her glass, determined not to be beaten. The glass shook only a little as she brought it to his mouth. His eyelashes flicked up as the rim touched his bottom lip, his gray eyes, glinting with more than laughter, met her gaze. Her hand trembled. He grasped her wrist, held her hand steady and drank deep. She felt so weak, he might have been draining her blood.

He took the glass from her slackened grip and placed it on the table. Fine trembles ran through her body, running deep beneath the surface, an ache in her center, a yearning in her heart. The heart she could do nothing about. The rest? Well, time would tell. She managed a smile.

He returned his attention to the platters, his hand hovering above the dainty offerings, looking for the choicest piece. For her. She felt like some medieval lady, with her knight searching his trencher for the most tender cut of meat. He settled on a crescent of pastry. It hovered at her lips, and unable to resist the gentle urgaing in his expression, she opened her mouth.

Dear God. It tasted wonderful. What was in it, she could not tell. Something savory rather than sweet: spiced meat perhaps. The pleasure was all about him, his look of satisfaction, the slight curl to his lips, the scorch of his eyes. He selected again and again, little bursts of heaven filling her mouth, until she put up a hand in defeat.

He dabbed at her mouth with his napkin. “Crumbs,” he said. He refilled their glasses. They chinked them together and drank an unspoken toast that was all about what would happen next. Her pulse beat faster.

“Eat something,” she said, her voice husky.

He leaned forward, tilted her chin with the tip of his finger, and pressed his lips to hers, a gentle brush, a butterfly wing of a kiss, a sweet touch of his tongue. Sweet sensations tingled in her breasts, tightened her stomach.