Regency Rogues: Rescued By Temptation
‘No, I’m angry with him.’ Cecelia pulled herself to her feet, not wanting anyone’s pity or comfort tonight, not even Theresa’s. ‘When he recovered from the fever eight years ago, I asked him, begged him to write his will, to provide for me, not leave me at the mercy of Paul, but he wouldn’t. All his superstitions about making a will inviting death, his always putting it off until next month, next year until it was too late. Now, we’re lost.’
‘We aren’t lost yet.’
‘Aren’t we?’ She slammed the lid down on the trunk. ‘You saw everyone tonight, treating us like nothing more than colonial curiosities. How they’ll laugh when the money runs out, scorn us the way Paul did when he evicted us from Belle View and refused to pay my widow’s portion. Not one of them will care if we starve.’
Theresa fingered the wrapper sash. ‘I think one person will care.’
‘You mean Lord Strathmore?’ Cecelia pulled off the damp gloves and tossed them on the dressing table. ‘It seems I can attract nothing but men like him and General LaFette.’
‘I didn’t mean Lord Strathmore. I meant Lord Falconbridge.’
Cecelia gaped at Theresa. The memory of Randall standing so close, his mouth tight as he spoke of the difficulties of life flashed before her. Then anger shattered the image. She shouldn’t have bothered to comfort him. He wouldn’t have done the same for her. ‘I assure you, he’ll be the first to laugh at us.’
‘I don’t believe it. I saw the way he watched you tonight. Miss Domville did, too. She said he’s never looked at a woman the way he looked at you.’
‘I hardly think Miss Domville is an expert on Lord Falconbridge.’ Cecelia crossed her arms, more against the flutter in her chest than the ridiculous turn of the conversation. ‘And be careful what you tell her. We can’t have anyone knowing our situation, especially not Madame de Badeau.’
For all the Frenchwoman’s friendliness, Cecelia wondered if the lady’s offer to introduce Cecelia and Theresa to society had an ulterior motive, though what, she couldn’t imagine.
‘I don’t like her and I don’t like Lord Strathmore.’ Theresa wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s worse than General LaFette. Always staring at your breasts.’
‘Yet he’s the man we may have to rely on to save us.’ She paced the room, the weight of their lot dragging on her like the train of her dress over the threadbare rug. She stopped at the window, moving aside the curtain to watch the dark street below. ‘Maybe I should have accepted General LaFette’s offer. At least then we could have stayed in Virginia.’
‘I’d starve before I’d let you sell yourself to a man like him,’ Theresa proclaimed.
Cecelia whirled on her cousin. ‘Why? Didn’t I sell myself once before to keep out of the gutter?’
‘But you loved Daniel, didn’t you?’ Theresa looked stricken, just as she had the morning Cecelia and Daniel had met the newly orphaned girl at the Yorktown docks, her parents, Cecelia’s second cousins, having perished on the crossing.
Cecelia wanted to lie and soothe her cousin’s fears, allow her to hold on to this one steady thing after almost two years of so much change, but she couldn’t. She’d always been honest with the girl who was like a daughter to her and she couldn’t deceive her now.
‘Not at first,’ she admitted, ashamed of the motives which drove her to accept the stammering proposal of a widower twenty years older than her with a grown son and all his lands half a world away. ‘The love came later.’
Yet for all her tying herself to a stranger to keep from starving, here she was again, no better now than she’d been the summer before she’d married. Even Randall had reappeared to taunt her and remind her of all her failings.
She dropped down on the lumpy cushion in the window seat, anger giving way to the despair she’d felt so many times since last spring when General LaFette had begun spreading his vicious rumours. The old French General had asked her to be his mistress. When she’d refused, he’d ruined her with his lies. How easily the other plantation families had believed him, but she’d made the mistake of never really getting to know them. Belle View was too far from all the others to make visiting convenient, and though Daniel was sociable, too many times he’d preferred the quiet of home to parties and Williamsburg society.
‘Now I understand why Mother gave up after Father died.’ She sighed, staring down at the dark cobblestone street. ‘I had to deal with the creditors then, too, handing them the silver and whatever else I could find just so we could live. I used to hide it from her, though I don’t know why. She never noticed. I don’t even think she cared.’
‘She must have.’ Theresa joined her on the thin cushion, taking one of her cold hands in her warm one.
‘Which is why she sent me to Lady Ellington’s?’
‘Perhaps she didn’t want you to see her suffer.’
‘No. I think all my pestering her to deal with the creditors bothered her more than the consumption. The peace must have been a relief when she sent me away.’ Cecelia could only imagine how welcome the silence of death must have been.
Theresa squeezed her hand. ‘Please don’t give up. I don’t know what I’d do if you lost hope.’
Cecelia wrapped her arms around her cousin, trying to soothe away all her fears and concerns the way she wished her mother had done for her, the way her father used to do.
‘No, I won’t, I promise.’ She couldn’t give up. She had to persevere just as Daniel had taught her to do when his final illness had begun and she’d had to run Belle View, to pick up and carry on the way her father used to after every blow to his business. ‘You’re right, all isn’t lost yet. We’ll find a way.’
We have no choice.
Randall sat back, his cards face down under his palm on the table. Across from him, Lord Westbrook hunched over his cards, his signet ring turning on his shaking hand. A footman placed a glass of wine on the table in front of the young man and he picked it up, the liquid sloshing in the glass as he raised it to his lips.
Randall reached across the table and grasped the man’s arm. ‘No. You will do this sober.’
Lord Westbrook swallowed hard, eyeing the wine before lowering it to the table. Randall sat back, flicking the edges of the cards, ignoring the murmuring crowd circling them and betting on the outcome. In the centre of the table sat a hastily scribbled note resting on a pile of coins. Lord Westbrook’s hands shook as he fingered his cards and Randall almost took pity on him. If this game were not the focus of the entire room, he might have spared the youth this beating. Now, he had no choice but to let the game play to its obvious conclusion.
‘Show your cards,’ Randall demanded.
Lord Westbrook looked up, panic draining the colour from his face. With trembling fingers he laid out the cards one by one, leaving them in an uneven row. It was a good hand, but not good enough.
Randall turned over his cards, spreading them out in an even row, and a loud cheer went up from the crowd.
Lord Westbrook put his elbows on the table and grasped the side of his head, pulling at his blond hair. Randall stood and, ignoring the coins, picked up the piece of paper. Lord Westbrook’s face snapped up, his eyes meeting Randall’s, and for a brief second Randall saw his own face, the one which used to stare back at him from every mirror during his first year in London.
‘I’ve always wanted a house in Surrey,’ Randall tossed off with a disdain he didn’t feel, then slid the note in his pocket. ‘Come to my house next week to discuss the terms.’
Turning on his heel, he left the room, shaking off the many hands reaching out to congratulate him.
Chapter Three
Cecelia shifted the white Greek-style robe on her shoulders, the wood pedestal beneath her biting into the back of her thighs, the sharp odour of oil paints nearly smothering her as she struggled to maintain her pose. Pushing the wreath of flowers off her forehead for the third time in as many minutes, she sighed, wondering how she’d ended up in Sir Thomas Lawrence’s studio in this ridiculous position.
‘Lord Strathmore was right. You make the perfect Persephone,’ Madame de Badeau complimented from beside the dais, as if answering Cecelia’s silent question.
Cecelia shifted the bouquet in her hands, feeling more like a trollop than a goddess. Lord Strathmore wanted a painting of Persephone to complement one he already possessed of Demeter. Madame de Badeau had convinced Cecelia to pose, all the while hinting at Lord Strathmore’s interest in her. If it weren’t for the need to maintain his interest, Cecelia never would have agreed to this ridiculous request.
Her spirit drooped like the flowers in her hand, the weariness of having to entertain a man’s affection out of necessity instead of love weighing on her. Thankfully, business prevented Lord Strathmore from accompanying them today and deepening her humiliation.
‘Have you heard the latest gossip concerning Lord Falconbridge?’ Madame de Badeau asked, as if to remind Cecelia of how her last affair of the heart had ended.
‘No, I have not.’ Nor did she want to. She’d experienced enough cruel gossip in Virginia to make her sick whenever she heard people delighting in it here.
‘Lord Falconbridge won Lord Westbrook’s entire fortune. Absolutely ruined the gentleman. Isn’t it grand?’ She clapped her hands together like a child excited over a box of sweets.
‘What?’ Cecelia turned to face Madame de Badeau and the wreath tumbled from her head.
‘Mrs Thompson, your pose.’ Sir Thomas hurried from behind his easel to scoop up the wilting wreath and hand it to her.
She repositioned it on her head, her hand shaking with the same anger she’d known the morning Paul had turned them out of Belle View. ‘How could Lord Falconbridge do such a thing?’
‘My dear, he prides himself on it.’ The smile curling Madame de Badeau’s lips made Cecelia’s stomach churn. ‘The losses aren’t the worst of Lord Westbrook’s problems. Now that he’s penniless, the family of his intended has forbidden the match.’
Cecelia’s fingers tightened so hard on the bouquet, one flower snapped and bent over on its broken stem. She more than anyone knew the hardships Lord Westbrook now faced. ‘Surely Lord Falconbridge must know.’
‘Of course he does. All society knows. I think it most fortunate. Now Lord Westbrook will have to marry for money instead of love. I abhor love matches. They are so gauche.’
As Madame de Badeau launched into a description of the now-infamous card game, Cecelia fought the desire to rise and dismiss her. If she didn’t need Madame de Badeau’s connections in society, she’d have nothing to do with the shallow woman. Despite being an old friend of her mother’s, Cecelia sensed the Frenchwoman would gladly push her into poverty if only to provide a few witty stories for the guests at her next card party.
Cecelia thought again of Lady Ellington and all the unfinished letters she’d drafted to her since returning to London. The sweet woman had been such a comfort ten years ago, listening while Cecelia poured out her heartbreak over losing her father, her mother’s illness and, in the end, Randall’s rejection. The Dowager Countess was the only other connection she still possessed in England, though it was a tenuous one. They hadn’t exchanged letters in over eight years.
Cecelia shifted again on the dais, pulling the robe tight against the cold grief which had ended the correspondence. During her first two years at Belle View, she’d sent the Countess so many letters filled with the details of her life, from surveying her own fields to dining with the Governor. She’d written each with the hope the lady might share them with Randall and show him how far the ‘poor merchant’s daughter’ had come.
Then, after the loss of her little boy and the near loss of Daniel to the fever, all her girlish desires to impress someone half a world away had vanished.
Stinging tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back, determined not to cry in front of Madame de Badeau and risk the woman’s mocking laughter. Like her heartache, the sense of isolation from anyone of decency sat hard on Cecelia’s chest. She pressed her thumb into one of the thorns on the stem, forcing down the encroaching despair. She would not fail, nor give up on Theresa the way her mother had given up on her. The Season was still young. They would make new friends and meet the man who’d save them before the truth of their situation became impossible to conceal.
‘Madame de Badeau, I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you a patron of the arts,’ a familiar voice called out from behind her.
Cecelia’s back stiffened with a strange mixture of excitement and anger and the sudden movement made the garland tumble to the floor.
‘Hello, Mrs Thompson.’ Randall came to stand in front of the dais, towering over her, his tan pants covering his long legs while one hand grasped the silver head of his ebony walking stick. His other hand rested on his hip, pushing back his dark coat to show the grey waistcoat hugging the trim waist underneath. With an amused look he took in her draping-goddess dress and the basket of fruit at her bare feet.
‘Lord Falconbridge,’ she greeted through clenched teeth, annoyed at having to face the man whom, at the moment, she very much detested.
He bent down to pick up the garland, his hot breath caressing the tops of her toes and making her skin pebble with goose bumps. ‘I’ve never thought of you as a muse.’
She pulled her feet back under the robe. ‘You haven’t thought of me at all.’
‘Oh, I have, many times.’ His beguiling eyes pinned hers and she shivered. ‘But more as an adventurous Amazon in the wilds of America.’
He held out the wreath, the simple gesture more an invitation to forget herself than a desire to aid the painter.
She snatched it from his hands and pushed it down on her head. ‘How flattering.’
Randall straightened and for a brief moment appeared puzzled, as though surprised by the edge in her words. He quickly recovered himself, tossing her a scoundrel’s wink before strolling off to stand behind the easel.
‘I heard the most delicious news about you,’ Madame de Badeau congratulated, her wicked cheer grating. ‘You must tell me all about the game with Lord Westbrook.’
‘The subject bores me and I’m sure you already know the most interesting parts.’ Randall watched Sir Thomas work, irritation sharpening the lines of his face.
Cecelia wondered at his reaction. She expected him to boast about his win over Lord Westbrook, or revel in Madame de Badeau’s praise, not dismiss it as if he weren’t proud of what he’d done.
‘Then you’re the only one.’ Madame de Badeau sniffed. She wandered to the tall windows and peeked through a crack in one of the shutters covering the bottom and shielding Cecelia from the people passing outside. ‘Ah, there is Lady Thornton. I must have a word with her. Lord Falconbridge, please keep Mrs Thompson entertained until I return.’
His hot eyes pinned Cecelia’s. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
‘I don’t need company.’ Cecelia fixed her attention on a small crack in the plaster on the far wall, trying to avoid Randall’s suggestive look.
‘Tilt your head a little to the left, Mrs Thompson,’ Sir Thomas instructed and she obliged. Randall continued to study the portrait and Cecelia, but said nothing. Only the sound of the painter’s pencil sketching across the canvas, combined with the muffled clack of passing coaches outside, filled the room.
‘I have not seen the likeness yet,’ Cecelia remarked, the quiet making her restless. ‘Tell me, Lord Falconbridge, is it favourable?’
‘Hmm.’ He stepped back to examine the portrait and the subject. ‘It’s an excellent likeness. My compliments to the artist. However, the original is still more stunning.’
Cecelia arched one disbelieving eyebrow at him. ‘Thank you, my lord, but be warned, I won’t succumb to such obvious flattery.’
‘It’s the truth.’ His soft protest was like a caress and her heart ached to believe him, to know again what it was like to be valued by a man, not sought after like some prized cow.
She adjusted one hairpin at the back of her head, unwilling to believe that a man who’d bedded a number of society women possessed any real interest in her. ‘Tell me, Sir Thomas, how many times have you heard such compliments made in your presence?’
‘Many times,’ the painter chuckled. ‘But Lord Falconbridge’s are the most sincere.’
‘There you have it,’ Randall boasted. ‘I’m not lying.’
‘Or you’re simply better at it than most.’
They fell silent and the sketching continued until Randall said something to the painter in a low voice. She strained to hear, but the laughter of two men on the street muffled the words. Then, Sir Thomas rose from his stool.
‘If his lordship and the lady will excuse me, I need another pencil. I shall return in a moment.’
‘Don’t hurry on our account,’ Randall called after him.
‘You asked him to leave, didn’t you?’ Cecelia accused, wary of being left alone with him.
‘You really think I’d stoop so low?’ He came closer to the dais, moving with the grace of a water snake through a lake in Virginia.
She struggled to remain seated, eager to place the distance of the room between them as he rested one elbow on the half-Corinthian column beside her. ‘Based on the gossip I hear attached to your name, it seems you’re fond of ruining people.’
He dropped his chin on his palm, bringing his arrogant smirk so close, all she needed to do was lean in to feel his mouth against hers. ‘You think a moment alone with me will ruin you?’
She glanced at his lips, wondering if they were as firm as she remembered. ‘It’s possible.’
‘I shouldn’t worry.’ His breath brushed her exposed shoulders and slid down the space between her breasts. ‘Sir Thomas is a very discreet man.’
Neither of them moved to close the distance, but she felt him waiting, expecting her to weaken under the strength of his charm and throw herself at him like Lady Weatherly and heaven knew how many others. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his expectation.
‘You, however, enjoy boasting of your conquests.’ She leaned away and Randall jerked up straight.
‘You’re truly mad at me?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Why should you be?’
‘Because you ruined Lord Westbrook.’
‘Lord Westbrook?’ He had the audacity to look surprised before a scowl replaced the suggestive smile of only a moment before. ‘What interest do you have in him?’
‘None, but I can sympathise with his plight, something you’re obviously incapable of doing.’
‘How can a rich widow sympathise?’
Cecelia looked down, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders. Her situation was already precarious. She needn’t arouse suspicion by showing so much emotion. ‘Whether I can sympathise or not doesn’t matter. What you did to him is still wrong.’
‘Is it?’ Randall paced the studio, swinging his walking stick in time with his steps. ‘Lord Westbrook is a man with responsibilities and capable of deciding whether or not to risk his future at the gaming table. You should be happy it was I who played him. Others wouldn’t have been so kind.’
‘You believe ruining him is kind?’
He halted, jabbing his stick into the floor. ‘I haven’t ridden to his estate and turned him out as I assure you is quite common. Nor have I forced him to the moneylenders and outrageous terms.’
‘Yes, he’s very fortunate indeed. It’s a wonder people don’t speak more favourably of you when you’re obviously such a generous gentleman.’
A muscle in his jaw twitched and shame flashed through his eyes before he looked away. For a moment she felt sorry for him. She’d seen this expression once before, ten years ago, when they’d stood together under the large ash tree at Falconbridge Manor, the shadows shifting over his father’s plain headstone. Like then, the look didn’t last, but fled from his eyes as fast as he’d fled back up the lawn, hard arrogance stiffening his jaw.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside the studio.
‘Sir Thomas is returning,’ Randall announced, moving to examine a large landscape near the window, his back to her as Sir Thomas’s footsteps grew louder. He stood still except for his fingers. They toyed with the walking-stick handle, betraying a certain agitation, as if her words had struck a chord. Did he feel some guilt over what he’d done to Lord Westbrook? No, surely it was only the shock of being dressed down by a lady, something she was sure he rarely experienced.
‘Are you ready to continue?’ Sir Thomas asked, taking his place behind the easel.
‘Yes, please.’ Cecelia resumed her pose just as the curtain flew open and Madame de Badeau swept into the room.
‘You won’t believe what Lady Thornton just told me. Lord Falconbridge, you’ll think it sinfully good when you hear it.’
‘I’m sure, but for the moment, you’ll have to entertain Mrs Thompson with the story. I have business to attend to.’ He snapped his walking stick up under his arm and made for the door.
‘What a bore you are,’ Madame de Badeau chided, then turned to Cecelia. ‘My dear, wait until you hear what’s happened to Lord Byron.’
Randall barely heard two words of Madame de Badeau’s gossip as he stormed from the room, catching Cecelia’s reflection in the mirror near the door, disapproval hard in her eyes before she looked away.
He passed through the dark shop and out into the sunlit street beyond, tapping his walking stick in time with his steps.
He hadn’t expected to meet her in the studio today, especially not in a silky robe wrapped tight around her narrow waist, exposing the curve of her hips and breasts and making him forget all business with the painter. Once together, he hadn’t been able to resist tempting her with a few words, or trying to draw out the alluring woman who’d met his daring innuendoes at Lady Weatherly’s. Who knew his efforts would be rewarded with a reprimand?
Randall sidestepped two men arguing on the pavement, a crate of foul-smelling vegetables smashed on the ground between them.
Who was she to chastise him? What did she know of London habits? Nothing. She’d spent the past ten years among provincials, cavorting with heathens and who-knew-what society. Now she seemed to think it her duty to shame him the way his father used to.
He slammed his walking stick against the ground, the vibration shooting up his arm.
Why didn’t she stay in America?
Instead she’d returned to London, dredging up old memories like some mudlark digging for scraps along the Thames, determined to berate him like some nursemaid. She was mistaken if she thought she could scold him with a look, or if her chiding words meant anything to him. He wasn’t about to change because of her or anyone else’s disapproval.
He swatted a tomato with his walking stick, sending it rolling into the gutter, trying to ignore the other, more dangerous feeling dogging his anger. He’d caught it at the salon the other night and again today when he’d complimented her and for a brief moment she’d almost believed him. It was the faint echo of the affection they’d once enjoyed. Whatever she thought of his behaviour, somewhere deep beneath it, she felt the old connection, too.
He turned a corner into a square of fine houses, trying to concentrate on the bright sun bouncing off the stone buildings and the steady clop of horses in the street, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on Cecelia.
His anger changed to interest as he walked, twirling his stick. He’d ached to trace the line of her shoulders with his fingers, push back the tumble of brown hair sweeping her neck and draw her red lips to his. Even angry she was beautiful and he wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted any woman before.