Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (10 page)

"Why the frown, Fanny? Do not tell me your charge has done something to displease you?"

Max had just arrived, admittedly late, at Almack's. Mr. Willis was ready to close the doors when Max had bounded through the entrance. He had been in the midst of an extraordinary winning streak at Brooks's and had been loathe to depart. It was only his promise to dance with Rosalind that prevented him from playing on into the wee hours.

If truth be told, it was not an entirely honorable commitment to a promise. He wanted to waltz with Rosalind, and not because he was obliged to do so. Max could hardly wait to take the girl in his arms and glide her through the dance, to hold her close, to feel her waist beneath his hand, to breathe in her scent, to gaze down into her flashing eyes.

He could not believe he was having such thoughts about an innocent rustic. She was not his style at all, but had somehow got under his skin. He must attempt to keep these foolish impulses under control. Despite her years, Rosalind was a green girl. She was not for him.

He had noticed her the moment he'd entered the room: a vision in scarlet among the white-clad debutantes. Max wondered if it was Fanny's doing that saw her niece so frequently in shades of red, or if the girl wore it simply to shock. No matter. She looked best in red. It suited her coloring and her unquenchable high spirits.

Rosalind's spirits appeared particularly high tonight as she danced the quadrille with Rodney Oswald- Jones.

Max looked back at Fanny, who still frowned. "Fanny? What has the minx done?"

"Nothing at all." She schooled her features into a smile that did not reach her eyes.

A tall, gray-haired gentlemen stepped up behind Fanny and said, "She is not displeased with Rosalind. She is concerned. Good evening, my dear." Lord Eldridge brought Fanny's gloved fingers to his lips. Max wondered when Fanny would put the besotted man out of his misery and marry him.

"Hush, Jonathan," Fanny said in an undertone, and directed her eyes toward the dance floor.

Max followed her gaze. "Egad, Fanny, do not tell me you are worried about that fatuous tulip, Oswald-Jones? The man's safe as milk."

"I have no objection to the young man," Fanny said, "except perhaps for that peacock-blue waistcoat with the lavender embroidery. What could he have been thinking? Do you suppose he merely seeks attention, or does he truly believe the thing is remotely acceptable?"

"Do not try to fob me off with non sequiturs, my dear," Max said. "Eldridge says you are concerned. What has happened?"

Fanny shot a look of displeasure toward Lord Eldridge, but then gave a resigned sigh. "I am sure it is nothing. And I am also sure Rosalind will not appreciate my telling you. Or you either, Jonathan. So I will trust both of you to keep this matter to yourselves."

"Of course, Fanny." Max experienced a moment of apprehension that Rosalind had, as he'd predicted, landed herself into some kind of trouble. For some inexplicable reason, the notion did not sit well with him.

"If you must know," Fanny said, "I am concerned for the girl's health."

"Her health?" Max looked across the floor at the dazzling figure of Rosalind, gracefully but energetically stepping through the dance, pure enjoyment radiating from the smile on her face. Her health was the last thing he would expect her aunt, or anyone else, to be concerned about.

"She spent almost an hour this morning with Sir Nigel Leighton," Fanny said.

Her words brought Max up short. "Leighton?" Good Lord, it must be something serious. The man was physician to most of the London aristocracy, but was especially noted for his no-nonsense, somewhat dispassionate approach to medicine. He did not suffer fools, and had been known to walk out on those who wasted his time on self-indulgent nervous conditions. He would not have spent an hour on a trifling case of the vapors.

"Why did he come?" Max asked. "She looks perfectly fit to me."

"She asked for a doctor," Fanny said. "She would not tell me why."

How curious. The girl must have a secret. All sorts of interesting possibilities leapt to mind. "What did Leighton say when he left?"

"Nothing," Fanny said, almost spitting out the word in disgust. "He would not tell me anything, save to remind me in no uncertain terms that what was said between a doctor and his patient was private. Controlling my urge to strike the impudent man, I asked for a simple reassurance that Rosalind was not unwell. As her aunt, I felt I had the right to know of anything serious. But all he would say was that I should not worry. How can I not worry? If nothing were amiss, why did he spend so long with her?"

Max's imagination spun off into all sorts of directions, most of them less than respectable, some downright scandalous. But if Rosalind was in that sort of trouble, it was unlikely to have happened in London. She'd only been here a few weeks. Was she not, after all, the innocent he believed her to be?

"You have grown fond of the girl, my dear," Eldridge said. "It is only natural to be concerned. But I cannot believe Leighton would not at least have given you a hint if there was something seriously wrong."

"I agree," Max said, thinking it best not to dwell on the topic. "If the most respected physician in London says not to worry, then I shouldn't worry. I declare, Fanny, you have become a veritable mother hen."

"Hateful boy! I am nobody's hen and I'll thank you to remember that. I am fond of Rosalind. That is all."

"Just so," Eldridge agreed.

"She is so different from what I expected," Fanny said, "so vibrant, so alive, so eager to do everything."

"Which includes flouting propriety at every opportunity," Max said.

"I know!" Fanny's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Is it not delicious? What do you suppose Edmund will say when he discovers his eldest daughter has become the talk of the town?"

"You are a bad woman," Max said. "Eldridge, what are we to do with her? She is hoping for trouble."

"If I know Fanny," Eldridge said, and winked at her, "she is merely looking for a bit of spice to flavor a dull Season."

"You are quite right, Jonathan, darling," she said. "Besides, I like her. I enjoy her. In fact, I cannot recall when I have so enjoyed a Season. She has more life in her than I would ever have expected from any of Edmund's brood."

"She's too lively by half," Max said, grinning. "And so irrepressibly high-spirited, she makes one's head spin. She's up to anything, I'll give her that. Intrepid as they come. You ought to have seen her driving Aldrich's team the other day. What a stir she caused!"

"So I heard." Fanny beamed with such pride it was all Max could do not to burst out laughing. Mother hen, indeed.

"And you are right," he went on, "she wants to do absolutely everything, or so she says. I tell you, she quite exhausts me just listening to all her plans."

"I know," Fanny said. "She has a list."

"Does she? Next you will tell me she has a guidebook as well."

"She bought a copy of
The Picture of London
the day after she arrived."

"Egad!" Max gave a shudder. "How horribly quaint." He reconsidered his interesting speculations based on Leighton's visit. He could not reconcile the idea of a fast sophisticate with someone who came to London with a pokey little guidebook and a list of things to do.

The quadrille had ended and Rosalind stood surrounded by an impressive company of swains. She had a smile, a word, a laugh for each one of them, and they buzzed about her like bees seeking nectar. Damn, but the woman confounded him. Truly, he could not decide if she was an innocent rustic stretching her wings, or a practiced flirt. Or, paradoxically, a bit of both?

Max turned his back to the vulgar spectacle in time to see several plumed and jeweled matrons glaring indignantly in Rosalind's direction. Stealing their charges' beaux again, he supposed, and putting all their insipid little chits in the shade with her bold red ensemble. He could hardly blame the gentlemen.

Rosalind was something new, something different. Whereas most of Society preferred an appearance of ennui, a total indifference to everything and everyone—an attitude Max himself had honed to perfection—Rosalind was unashamed in her excitement, her enthusiasm, her amusement, her gaiety. The pure joy of life glowed in her eyes and her radiant smile and her unreserved laughter.

Max had never known anyone quite like Rosalind Lacey. And neither had any of the other men clustered about her.

"Rosalind may be a grown woman," Fanny said, "but perhaps I really ought to keep a closer eye on her after all. She does seem to attract all sorts, does she not?"

"Indeed," Max said.

"Why, even Overton has entered her circle. I would not have thought her his type, but—"

"What?" Max spun around to see Lord Overton kissing Rosalind's outstretched hand. The man was a notorious libertine with the face of an Adonis. He was a devil, a cad, a blackguard of the first degree. Yet no woman seemed immune to his charm. Max could not bear to think of his innocent Rosalind succumbing to the man's oily seduction.

"I believe it is time for my waltz," he said, and hurried to the bandstand where he slipped the orchestra leader a five-pound note to change the order of tunes.

*          *          *

"Did I not tell you, Jonathan?" Fanny said when Max was out of earshot. She tried without success to suppress a grin. "The boy is smitten."

"You provoked him."

"I did no such thing. I simply mentioned Overton."

"Overton," Lord Eldridge said, "the only man in town ever to best Davenant. Stole Lady Fallon right from under his nose."

"Yes, poor Max did not fare well in that little escapade. He's never forgiven Overton. But his blond lordship is a formidable rival: devilishly handsome, charming, a clever seducer. If you want my opinion, the entire episode did Max a world of good. A taste of failure now and again builds character. Max was becoming too sure of himself. Too complacent. Bored with the game."

"Davenant is always bored."

Fanny smiled as she watched her young friend talking with the orchestra leader, exerting himself to a degree she had not seen in years. "Not any more."

*          *          *

Rosie could barely concentrate on all the gentlemen surrounding her, though they offered compliments and flattery enough to swell her head to bursting. Ever since she had seen Max Davenant arrive, she could think of nothing but that waltz he'd promised.

She had thought he wasn't coming and could barely contain her disappointment. The morning's headache and Sir Nigel's visit served to remind her of how little time she had left. She must not waste another moment. With every intention of making this evening especially memorable, Rosie had taken extra care to look her best tonight. She wore her favorite dress of crimson silk over a darker red satin slip edged in pink tulle quilling. A fillet of tiny pink blossoms had been woven through her short curls, and she even wore new pink kid slippers.

She had begun to believe her efforts had been wasted. The orchestra had already played one waltz, and Rosie had been tempted to dance it with someone else, though she would have been disappointed to do so. For some reason, she had got hold of the notion that she must dance the first waltz with Max and no one else. She had even dreamed about it the night before, about twirling around an empty dance floor in Max's arms, his liquid brown eyes smiling down into hers. But when hours went by without his making an appearance, Rosie had begun to consider another partner.

As it happened, she was spared the decision, for no one had asked her to waltz. The gentlemen of the ton seemed determined to honor the silly Almack's rule. It was a mystery how they knew she had not been granted the precious permission to waltz, but it appeared to be generally understood. So she had sat out the first waltz with Fanny and watched with envy as other couples twirled about the floor.

When she had sighed aloud, Lady Teresa Carmichael, seated in the next chair, smiled and said she wished she could waltz, too. A shy young girl in her first Season, Lady Teresa was a pattern card of propriety. "But I shall not receive permission until I have been presented."

"I have no intention of waiting for someone's permission," Rosie had replied. "If I had been asked, I assure you I would be waltzing this minute."

"You would waltz without permission?" Lady Teresa's eyes grew wide as saucers, as though Rosie had admitted to treason.

"Of course I would. So should you, and anyone else who wishes to waltz. I cannot believe a handful of top-lofty ladies can tell all of Society what to do. It is absurd."

"I am afraid I would not have the courage to defy the rules," Lady Teresa said.

"Well, I am not afraid to do so."

"You are braver than I, Miss Lacey. Braver than anyone, I daresay. But if you were to waltz, would you not be afraid people would think you fast?"

"Oh, but I intend to be fast," Rosie replied. "I have so much to do in so short a time, I cannot afford to be slow about it."

Lady Teresa gave her a quizzical look, but Rosie had been too wrapped up in her disappointment and did not elaborate.