Regency Society Collection Part 1. Sarah Mallory

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      Now, clothed in gold she felt like a beautiful butterfly released from a drab and never-ending cocoon, a woman who could spar with words and be admired for it instead of hit, and one whose opinions were listened to instead of being shouted down.

      When Emerald came and claimed her company she could only watch as Taris Wellingham walked with his brother towards the supper room, the pressing crowd swallowing them up before they were even ten yards away.

      All Taris wanted to do was to go home and make love to Beatrice. But he had promised himself distance and honour and all of the noble attributes of a man who might care about the future of a woman who intrigued him.

      The sound of gossip made him maudlin, and he longed to be in the country again. He had stayed in London this time longer than he had for all of the past eight years. Seven days tomorrow and still he had not instructed his valet to pack.

      Asher guided him towards the top of the room, where the smell of supper was stronger. ‘Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke is the most original woman here, apart from Emerald, and even then I should say they are about equal in novelty.’ His voice was measured as he carried on. ‘And the fact that you have been reduced to begging for a kiss in a crowded ballroom suggests a relationship different from the one you have implied…’

      ‘You are an inveterate spy, Ashe.’

      ‘With good reason to be so. My sources say that the Henshaw carriage was dispatched at five this morning to pick you up when you failed to return home.’

      ‘Jack told you that?’

      ‘He didn’t have to. The Henshaw driver is my valet’s brother.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘Emerald too has been pestering me to ask you what your intentions are as far as Mrs Bassingstoke is concerned.’

      ‘She knows about the conveyance?’

      ‘No. It was the waltz the other night I think that piqued her curiosity.’

      ‘Such a simple mistake,’ Taris returned, irony in his words.

      ‘Of course, if others find out about your midnight rambles…’

      ‘They won’t. There will be no more risks.’

      ‘This from a man who made love with words not less than two moments ago?’

      ‘Your penchant for nuance is legendary, Asher, as is your proclivity to exaggerate.’

      ‘You would say it is all a lie, then?’

      Taris was careful in his reply. ‘I would say that I am nearing thirty-two, Ashe, and have no need to answer to anyone but myself.’

      His brother laughed. ‘Ahh, that is what they all say, Taris, before they fall.’

      ‘Implying…?’

      ‘It would take a braver fellow than myself to explain it to you.’

      ‘Then don’t.’

      Silence ruled for a moment until Asher spoke again.

      ‘Your lady has been conversing with the Duchess of Castleton for a significant time, and if Anna Bellhaven deigns to give anyone an audience for more than a minute it is generally a highly regarded stamp of approval.’

      ‘The plan is a success, then?’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘In that case I shall leave for Kent in the next day or two.’

      ‘Perhaps you might take her with you?’

      ‘The Duchess of Castleton? Why on earth would I wish to do that?’ His deliberate misconception had his brother slapping him across the shoulder.

      ‘One day soon, Taris, you will wake up with a ring on your finger and a brood of children and the knowledge that you are in the only place that you want to be.’

      ‘Mrs Bassingstoke is a barren widow. Hard to raise a brood given that fact.’

      The peal of deep laughter was distinctly unsettling and he just wished that Bea might return to stand beside him and make everything simple.

      Beatrice watched Taris Wellingham from her place beside the Duchess of Castleton and the Duchess of Carisbrook.

      His left hand splayed across the smooth marble on the pillar and his right held the cane. Tonight he did not wear his glasses and a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, highlighting the amber in his eyes.

      Rakish. Dashing. A man who had absolutely no idea of how appealing he looked! But it wasn’t only his body that she found attractive. No, she loved the depth and breadth of his mind, with his wide-ranging opinions on anything and everything.

      She wondered what his library looked like. What books he read? What had formed his ideas when he was young? She also wondered how a man raised as an aristocrat could consider other less popular ideas that encompassed a change in the perception of how society would be moulded over the next hundred years.

      When the dancing began she hoped that he might ask her again. But of course he could not, given the excuse she had dredged up for Lady Arabella Fisher only a few minutes prior. She smiled, thinking it ironic that by helping him she had denied herself the chance to be once again in Taris Wellingham’s arms.

      The carriage ride home was full of Emerald’s chatter with her husband adding his say on the highlights of the evening. Taris remained silent, lost in his own thoughts, Bea imagined, though when they reached her town house he got to his feet and helped her down the two small steps.

      ‘I am certain that Lucy’s indiscreet chatter will have been put to rest.’ The wind snatched away his words even as he turned against its force, inadvertently shielding her reply from the ears of the others.

      ‘Thank you for making certain that my reputation remained safe.’ Bea could not think of even one other thing to utter. Her reputation? Last night’s loving lay between them like an unspoken shout.

       ‘Come in. Hold me. Lie down beside me and show me heaven. Again.’

      Not quite what one could say to a man who looked almost desperate to be gone, and a plethora of other transports wending their way home behind him, the occupants craning their necks to watch the antics around the Wellingham conveyance.

      Manners. Protocol. Exemplars and precedents. The world here was full of what was expected and what was acceptable and walking into the private residence on the arms of even a plain-looking widow in the wee hours of the morning was patently not one of these things.

      ‘Goodbye.’ His farewell contained no notion of intimacy, though he waited as two of her servants came to escort her in.

      When she reached her front door and looked back she saw that the horses had already been called to walk on.

       Chapter Eleven

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