Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (13 page)

"Tell me, aunt, what is the single most precious memory in your life? If you were allowed only one memory to take with you to the grave, what would it be?"

Without hesitation, Fanny said, "Making love with the one man I truly loved, lying in his arms and knowing he loved me, too. That is the greatest memory of all. I would sacrifice all the rest, everything in life, but I would not give up that memory."

The words were spoken with such quiet passion that Rosie could feel the sting of tears building up behind her eyes. She had asked the question in hopes of learning the one perfect thing to be experienced before she died. And now she knew what that was.

Rosie saw that Fanny's eyes glistened with unshed tears of her own. "I am sorry I never knew Uncle Roderick," she said. "It is wonderful that you loved him so much."

Fanny looked up, puzzled. "Parkhurst? Good heavens, my dear, I was not speaking of my husband. I was fond of him, to be sure. But there has been only one true love in my life. Basil Davenant, the Earl of Blythe. Max's father."

"Oh." Rosie had assumed the relationship had been merely one among many, a brief affair, nothing more. She had no idea it had been so important. No wonder Fanny was so fond of Max. He must remind her of Basil. Her one true love. "Why did you never marry him?"

"I was married to Parkhurst when I met Basil. He was married, too, and had four children. But it did not matter. We loved each deeply until the end of his life."

So, the one experience Rosie truly ought to have before she died was to make love with a man. She supposed there were any number of gentlemen willing to take on the task, but she had no idea how to go about it. Inviting a kiss was one thing. This was quite another.

"And so, the greatest experience in your rich and full life was of making love to a man?"

"Not just making love, my dear. One has many lovers throughout one's life, even at my age." She grinned so girlishly Rosie could see how she still attracted a man's attention. "But making love with a man you love deeply and completely and who is madly in love with you..." She sighed and a wistful softness gathered in her eyes. "There is nothing to compare with that, my dear."

This might be even more difficult than she'd thought. How was she to get a man to fall madly in love with her? "Are you saying one needs to be in love in order to appreciate the ... the act of love?"

Fanny gave her a quizzical look. "What are you planning, my girl? Has one of those young men suggested an assignation of some kind?"

"No, aunt. Nothing of the sort, I promise you. I am merely curious. My mother died when I was a young girl, you know, and I never had a chance to speak with her of such things."

"Ah. Well, then, to answer your question, no, it is not at all necessary to be in love to enjoy sex. One must open up oneself to all life has to offer. Physical pleasure is one of our greatest gifts and I believe one should take advantage of every opportunity to partake of it. But when one is in love, ah, that is something else. More than merely physical. That is what I meant, my dear."

Rosie reached into the pocket of her skirt, retrieved her notebook, and added a new entry to her list.

*          *          *

It was almost midnight when Max arrived at the Opera House. He did not know what had possessed him to come. These masquerades were always vulgar affairs. It had been years since he engaged in seeking sport among the lower orders. For the sort of women to be found here, he may as well have prowled the streets near Covent Garden.

The deliciously low nature of the entertainment, however, was precisely what drew some of the aristocracy and other high-borns to attend.

Lady Samantha Kirby, a young wanton left to her own devices by her gamester husband, had invited Max to be among her party this evening. She was a brazen creature who had been sending out lures to Max for some time. He had shown no interest, however, finding her rather ordinary and entirely predictable. He had declined the dinner invitation, but agreed to join the group later at the masquerade. He might not have come at all had he not heard she had also invited Rosalind. The possibility of another waltz with her was enough to have him donning a black domino and loo mask.

He had not seen the minx since the Easterbrook ball, when she had strolled through the terrace doors on Radcliffe's arm. The look on her face had told the entire assembly the young buck had been kissing her. Max had left shortly afterward, not wishing to see what else the girl might do.

He stayed away from Fanny's all week. He had not wanted to face Rosalind for it would mean facing his anger at her behavior. Why should he care if she kissed every man in town? Max had puzzled over it for days. What did it mean that he hated the thought of her kissing anyone else? What did it mean that he could not shake the memory of holding her close on the dance floor? What did it mean that he had not, for once, had to recite contrived flattery from an oft-used and well-memorized litany of seduction, but instead had spoken from the heart words of absolute truth?

This radiant young woman piqued his interest as no other woman had before.

He did not like it.

Max had a rule about women. He never allowed a woman the upper hand in a relationship. The merest hint of possessiveness, and he broke it off. He could not bear the thought of a woman running his life, which is precisely what they all meant to do, whether the commitment was marriage or something less formal. He preferred women who wanted no more involvement than he did, who sought nothing more than a few moments of pleasure. Such woman never aroused even a flicker of sentiment.

Max did not understand this absurd obsession with a little country mouse. She was not at all the sort of woman he preferred. It was precisely that difference, of course, that intrigued him. Innocent yet not innocent. Perhaps it was her passionate approach to life, her incessant curiosity and breath-taking, wide-eyed wonder that fascinated him. In that respect, she was as unlike Max as she could be.

Maybe it was true that opposites attract.

He had put on his domino and mask while still in the hackney, and now made his way toward the stage where the ball was in progress. Each Opera House ball had a different theme, utilizing stage settings and props to suggest various exotic or pastoral settings. Tonight's set appeared to be a gypsy camp. A painted backdrop showed a motley caravan, brightly colored fabric was draped all about, and a covered gypsy wagon had been placed at the rear of the stage.

The dancers, cavorting with drunken abandon in a country dance, included harlequins, Turks, nuns, jesters, shepherds, queens, red Indians, Cavaliers, and every other sort of character, along with dominos of every color. Lady Kirby's box was to be on the second tier, and Max made his way upstairs.

Riotous laughter spilled through the partially open curtain of the box. Max held back the heavy velvet and glanced inside to find it filled almost to capacity. He saw a scantily clad huntress—Diana, no doubt— who was clearly Lady Kirby. She was draped seductively across a chair, laughing with a tonsured monk who offered her a glass of wine. Other women included an Indian temple dancer draped in yards of silk, a shepherdess, and an elaborately garbed Queen Elizabeth. Two others wore only dominos and masks. One of them he recognized as Lydia Allardyce, but he could not have named any of the others. He was, however, fairly certain none of them was Rosalind. She must be on stage dancing with one of her swains.

Having surveyed all the women in the box, Max turned his attention to the gentlemen. Radcliffe was there, his blond hair giving him away beneath a broad, plumed cavalier's hat. He was speaking to a page boy in full glittering green and gold livery. A priest, who might have been Sir Cedric Bassett, was flirting with Queen Elizabeth. None of the other domino-clad gentlemen was recognizable, though one might have been Lord Frampton.

None of this company interested him, and so Max drew the curtain closed and made his way toward the stairs. He would see who he could find on the stage. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Max!"

He spun around to find the liveried page boy grinning at him. How had he missed her? He ought to have recognized the sensual line of lip beneath the mask. He should have known that mouth anywhere.

"Do you not recognize me, Max?"

"I do now, minx. And how did you recognize me, pray tell? I took such pains with my domino."

"I knew you at once. I could not say precisely what gave you away. Your chin. Your hair. Your shoulders. The way you walk. Any number of things. But I knew it was you. Why are you leaving so soon?"

"I am not leaving. I was on my way to the stage to see if there were any minxes willing to dance with me."

"Oh, famous! I have so been wanting to dance with you again, Max. You are by far the best dancer I know. Let's go!" She grabbed his hand and tugged him along as she dashed down the stairs. "Do you suppose they will play a waltz?"

"I shall see that they do," he said. "I hate to think, though, what will become of my reputation if I am seen to be dancing with a boy."

Rosalind giggled, destroying any attempt to appear as a young man. "Just pull up the hood of your domino, like this. No one will recognize you. Do you like my costume, Max? Fanny helped me with it."

He eyed her up and down, admiring the curve of hip beneath the tight breeches, the long legs and shapely calves. With her short curls artfully tousled and her slim, tall figure, she did look something like a boy. But Max was very much aware of the slight swell of breast beneath the tight-fitting livery jacket and waistcoat. "You look most fetching, my dear. Whose page are you meant to be?"

" 'I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page, and therefore look you call me Ganymede.' Do you not see my cup?"

She did indeed have a small gold goblet hanging from her waist as a sort of fob. A modern cup bearer to the gods. "How stupid of me. Who else would heavenly Rosalind pretend to be but Ganymede? Shall I pen verses and hang them about the place?"

Her laughter rang out in the stairwell. "Please do not. Unless you are a secret Byron?"

"Alas, my verse would be as hackneyed as poor Orlando's. Let us dance instead, fair Rosalind."

As luck would have it, the orchestra leader informed Max that the next set was to be a Viennese waltz.

"Is this not an ingenious setting, Max?" she said as they strolled about the edges of the stage. "I have yet to see an opera here, and so it is my first visit. What a fabulously beautiful place this is!"

"I suppose so. I never really noticed." He wasn't noticing now, either, for he was captivated once again by her intensity, by the way she hungrily drank in every detail, eyes and cheeks glowing.

"Oh, how could you not? Only look at the painted ceiling and the crystal chandeliers. It is almost like a French chateau. And tier after tier of boxes. How I would love to see an opera here someday."

"Is that on your list, too?"

She laughed and slapped him playfully on the arm. "Of course it is. But tonight is an altogether different sort of treat. All of these spectacular costumes and laughter and music," she said, and spread her arms wide. "And the whole stage turned into a gypsy camp. Is it not marvelous?"

Her face flushed so sweetly in her excitement, Max could not resist touching it. He ran a finger against a cheek. It was as soft and warm as he'd expected. "Very clever," he said. She gave a bit of a start at his touch and so he backed off. He ought to leave now before he did something truly stupid. Rosalind was an innocent, not one of his worldly widows or bored wives. He must keep reminding himself that she was not for him.

Max glanced idly about the stage, avoiding her eyes, when he saw something that might serve as a momentary distraction.

"Do you see the old gypsy woman over there, sitting beneath the wagon?" he asked. "She appears to be reading the tarot cards. Shall we have our fortunes read before the next dance?"

"No!" Her answer was so sharp, he spun around to look down at her. She seemed embarrassed at her brusque response and looked away. "I need no gypsy to tell me my future." Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her over the noise of the crowd.

How odd. It was the first time he had ever seen the fearless, high-spirited girl refuse to do anything. What was she afraid of?

Chapter 9

"Come along, Max," Rosie said, pulling him by the hand away from the fortune teller. "Let us sit over here and watch the dancing until the waltz begins." She led him to a rustic wooden bench just vacated by a giggling Columbine and a man in Tudor doublet.

"Would you like something to eat, minx? I seem to recall they put on a decent spread here. What do you say?"

"Perhaps just a little something to drink. It is quite warm in here."

He gave her a slow wink. "Wait here. I shall not leave you alone above a moment." He walked away with the languid, rolling grace that would have revealed his identity even in the most concealing costume. Not to mention that strong line of jaw revealed below the mask. She had recognized him in less than an instant.

Rosie experienced a twinge of guilt at having abandoned the others in Lady Kirby's box, especially Lord Radcliffe. The young man had been hanging about her all evening, playing the cavalier with exaggerated chivalry. He had gone so far as to request that he be seated beside her at dinner. Lady Kirby had told her so in confidence while the gentlemen lingered over their port in the dining room. He had already danced with Rosie twice, including a waltz, and clearly intended to maneuver her into a private corner for a kiss. But Rosie had made sure that such an opportunity had not arisen. She liked him well enough, but not enough to warrant another kiss that did not do all those things Fanny had mentioned.