The Rambunctious Lady Royston (18 page)

His wife commiserated with him. "Poor, poor Zachary, made to suffer so in your extreme old age, teetering as you are on the brink of the grave. You should have thought and thought again before wedding such a scapegrace as me."

"With bated breath, may I dare to inquire whether your new-found remorse, superficial as it is, is sufficient for you to promise to mend your hoydenish ways?"

"It could be, Zachary," she replied pensively, and then brightened. "But I seriously doubt it." She poked him playfully in the chest and made to turn over and go to sleep.

"Oh, no you don't, I'm not that old," St. John growled, diving after her, tickling her mercilessly. Within moments their play turned to passion, and as they sank blissfully down into the satin sheets, Samantha's hair splayed out across the pillows and Zachary moaned, "Fool that I am, I cannot resist you, Samantha my pet."

Her arms, marble-white in the darkness, slid up his chest to link behind his head. "Then we are a pair of fools, my lord," she whispered, her voice deepened by emotion.

Moments before his lips claimed hers, St. John—mindful of his own strictures—reminded her, "We must do our utmost to strive not to let our passions overcome us."

"Yes, my lord. As you say, my lord." Samantha breathed. "But for the moment, dear, sweet my lord, could you stop talking and kiss me?"

"Just one kiss, my lady?" he countered, his voice hoarse in his agitation. "It would seem a great waste to stop at just one kiss."

"Criminal," his young wife agreed, "absolutely criminal." St. John lowered his head for a slow, searching kiss before raising up slightly to look into Samantha's emotion-darkened emerald eyes.

"Say it," he rasped before he would allow himself to claim her eager lips again. "Tell me once more about this foolish notion you have. Just for now. Just for tonight."

A slow smile lit Samantha's face like a beacon. She breathed on a sigh, "I love you, Zachary. Just for tonight."

St. John's face—for once not the impassive mask he showed in company—suffused with triumph. "Sam!" he whooped loudly into the quiet chamber, then swooped down to capture his wife in his embrace.

The next few weeks—whirlwind days that made up the centermost chunk of London Society's annual Silly Season—passed in a hazy blur before Samantha's slightly bemused eyes. Her days all ran together to become a rose-colored fantasyland of fun and excitement, and the heady thrill of finding herself—overnight, as it were—the rage of the Season.

And her nights? Ah, those glorious nights!

Added to all this splendor was the news that Lord and Lady Foxx had been unexpectedly summoned to their country estate on "urgent family business" (that obvious farradiddle immediately became the punch-line for many a sly joke in and out of the clubs along St. James's), and would probably not return to the City until the Little Season in the fall.

Having so successfully routed her enemy (and having overheard St. John telling a friend he had given the woman her congé weeks earlier without suffering a flicker of regret) could very easily have gone to some young girls' heads, making them just the slightest bit cocksure of themselves and perhaps even a teeny bit giddy with their own power.

Samantha, however—being quite used to getting her own way for all of her headstrong young life—did not allow her pretty head to be turned by any such illusions of omnipotence. At least, not so that anyone would notice.

Wise beyond her years in the fickleness of the two-edged sword of victory, she refused to follow up on her triumph by sharing publicly the ton's amusement at Lady Foxx's expense. People invariably search to seek out flaws in their heroes eventually, she reasoned, and all the sooner if

that champion begins to look too satisfied with the elevated status to which his admirers have raised him. So Samantha simply ignored the jokes and the gossip, and airily dismissed her encounter with Lady Foxx as having not even the slightest thing to do with that Lady's precipitant departure for the wilds of Cumbria, before pointedly changing the subject. If, once safe in the privacy of her own chambers, she indulged herself for a moment or two, congratulating herself for routing Lady Foxx so handily, or quietly preening over her subsequent meteoric rise to such great heights of popularity—it was only because, of all the many adjectives that could be applied to Samantha, angelic was not one of them.

The Earl's days were mainly filled with government business that left him a few idle hours each afternoon to seek out male companionship at one or another of his usual haunts. Except for their never-missed early morning rides together (St. John looking magnificent mounted on his coal-black Arabian, and Samantha acquitting herself admirably on the bay gelding the Earl had cleverly dubbed Jester), the newlyweds were not in the habit of meeting during the day much before the dinner hour.

Samantha filled these hours with many of the customary feminine pursuits: shopping, visiting acquaintances, and attending tame ladies-only functions. Her purpose in all this was primarily to take advantage of any opportunity to show off her sister, Isabella, in Society. Aunt Loretta could not (although she was overheard to say she "would not," even before she was asked) keep up the mad pace normally set by a debutante bent on capturing a husband in a single Season, thus Samantha saw it as her duty to take up Aunt Loretta's slack. And take it up she did, bear-leading poor Isabella about Mayfair from morn till night, on the lookout for some likely specimen to present Isabella to, in hopes they would hit it off.

All this frantic matchmaking did not mean that Samantha had resigned herself to the role of dowager, not by a long chalk. The threatened turbans did not make their appearance, but a seemingly endless progression of one-of-a-kind parasols did.

Each day found Samantha dressed in yet another startlingly magnificent creation. Be it her green and black riding habit, her morning gown of palest pink
mousseline d'Inde
(so very striking with her red hair), her brown-and- gold matched walking ensemble that had every female who saw her grinding her teeth in despair, or her deliciously outrageous, diaphanous silver-spangled Zephyr cloak that caused such a stir at Almack's, Samantha had a matching parasol for every outfit, every occasion.

She flirted from over top of her lowered parasol, or peeked impishly out from behind it, or twirled it either to the music in the room or the variation of her mood. When one of her throng of admirers dared to be impudent she used her closed parasol to rap his knuckles. And if a gentleman was very, very lucky, when she was feeling fatigued she allowed him to stand behind her and hold the confection over her indulgent head.

Sonnets were written to Samantha's parasols, odes penned to their praises and hers, and soon, wherever one looked, one saw a multitude of parasols—multiplying and spreading like mushrooms until it became perilous to one's eyesight to become lax in the lookout for projecting parasol spines.

Alas, only Samantha thus far had the power to commission one young swain to hold her parasol (and looking perfectly ridiculous in evening dress and lace parasol in the process) while she joined in the dance with a second admirer. The rest of the ladies were forced either to abandon their precious creations to whatever fate usually befell unprotected parasols, or fold them and slip the ribbons over their wrists while they danced. As the gentlemen twirled their partners round and round the floor the parasols would swing in ever-rising arcs, until the musicians were nearly drowned out by the sounds of splintering wood and ungentlemanly grunts of pain. It wasn't sackcloth and ashes, but Samantha was well satisfied with her first excursion into the art of style-setting.

Evening entertainments were always spent in the company of her husband. The two of them graced with their presence at least two or three functions per night, but it was the nights spent at the theatre that most pleased Samantha.

"Ah, my pet," observed St. John, just as they were settling in their box in Drury Lane Theatre, "it seems we are to be graced with the royal presence this evening. Pudgy Prinney himself is just coming into the royal box."

As Samantha impolitely strained forward to seek out the Regent's party, Zachary gave out with a short crack of laughter and added irrepressibly, "Do hurry, if you wish to spot him. It's the third box down from Lord Worcester's party. You can't miss Lady Worcester, my dear: she's wearing so many diamonds it looks like she's dressed all in mirrors. Ah, good, you've spied him out. What think you now of our Regent?"

Samantha surveyed the royal personage intently. Closer to him now than she had ever been at any of the crowded balls he infrequently blessed with his august presence (St. John not being one of the Carlton House set), she told the Earl truthfully, "He is just about the most enormous man I have ever seen. He—he's bigger than life.'

Just then the Prince was called upon to rise, turning his back to his audience in order to lean over to retrieve his mistress's shawl and drape it around her plump, matronly shoulders. While Samantha hid her giggles behind her gloves Zachary intoned heavily, "Observe: the Royal Behind, truly one of the sights of London." As they rose for the customary musical salute to the Regent, Zachary was busily occupied thumping Samantha's back as she choked and coughed in a fit of suppressed mirth and, in the end, gained for herself cm annoying attack of the hiccups.

Even as the first act wound down, Samantha's hiccups showed no signs of abating, so St. John—making excuses for himself and Samantha to Isabella and her escort of the evening (they felt no need to wake Aunt Loretta)—guided his wife out into the hallway and the two went in search of a restorative glass of lemonade.

Once the drink was acquired, Samantha—her sides tender from the incessant spasms around her rib cage—longed only for a comfortable seat out of the way of the other playgoers until the lemonade could turn the trick and rid her of those awful hiccups. She trailed over to a curtained alcove and the narrow flight of stairs hidden to the rear of it. Then, heedless of her gown, she plunked herself down on the second step and crossed her arms about her ribs.

"Oh-h-h, this is all your fault, Za—
hic
—Zachary St. John. How cou—
hic
—could you so malign our Re—
hic
—Regent? It's not like you to—
hic
— be so pet—
hic
— petty-minded," Samantha rasped, looking up at the Earl with fiercely narrowed eyes that were betrayed by her smiling mouth.

St. John commiserated with his suffering bride (although in truth his condolences seemed a trifle tongue-in-cheek) and then informed her that those who served in the Peninsula were, as a rule, not too kindly disposed towards a man who lived a life of expensive indulgence in the safety of London while English soldiers were short-rationed and under-equipped in Portugal and Spain.

Samantha could see the dark shadow of remembered pain in his face—memories of hardship, brutality, and long dead comrades-in-arms—and quickly searched for a way to lighten St. John's mood. She turned her head to peer up the dark, narrow staircase that was so obviously not for general use. "What's up these steps, do you suppose, Zachary?" Before he could answer she was on her feet, her hiccups finally routed, and climbing rapidly she called over her shoulder, "Come on, Oh-aged-one. Perhaps this is the stairway to adventure!"

"Samantha, you come down here this instant," St. John called after her, his tone not to be denied by anyone less courageous (or foolhardy) than his young wife. "The gallery lies up there, and it's full to the rafters with unsavory characters who'd think you were a gift sent early from Father Christmas!" As he spoke he grabbed the rickety newel and swung around to climb after his wife, two risers at a time, catching up with her before she had taken more than a half dozen steps down the darkened hallway.

The play was once more in progress and, luckily, the actors were a bit of a sad lot. Thus, the patrons in the gallery were intent on loudly venting their displeasure by means of catcalls, foot-stompings, and the shouting out of lewd suggestions as to the hero's off-stage activities with the female lead.

St. John grabbed Samantha by the upper arm and hissed into her ear, "Let's get you out of here before one of those idiots spots you, or there'll be the devil to pay. I'm too old for drunken brawling—at least when I'm outnumbered twenty to one." The Earl had mellowed since his marriage, but he had not become senile!

Samantha, however, was in the mood for a little excitement. She perversely stood her ground as she cast her eyes about in the gloom to see all she could of the greasy hallway before Zachary picked her up bodily, intending to spirit her down the stairs, back to the stuffiness of Society manners.

"Wait just a moment, please, dear, dear Zachary," she pleaded in a whisper. "I just want to read that sign over there on the wall. No one has seen us."

St. John could have argued the point. Many a man (most particularly those who possessed less self-confidence than the Earl of Royston, who everyone knew had the devil's own arrogance) would have felt justified in hauling Samantha up over his shoulder like a sack of meal and beating a hasty retreat. But St. John merely gave the men in the gallery one more look, shrugged his shoulders, and accompanied Samantha over to the dimly-lit sign.

At first her shoulders shook only slightly above the emerald-green silk of her gown. Then a few repressed sniffs and a single choked snort escaped her. But as her lips, acting against her will, opened to let out her delighted laughter, Zachary clapped his hand across her mouth and propelled her down the stairway in much the same way as a gaming hell bouncer rousting a card-sharper.

Once safely back on the lower level, Samantha and the Earl were free to unleash their mirth, which they did—clinging to each other and chortling until tears appeared in their eyes. Not since his salad days had he felt so alive, so free.

"There you are!" Isabella called. Now that the butchered two-act play was done and the farce was about to begin, Isabella and her escort had been searching for their missing host and hostess. "What on earth has set you two off like that?" she questioned, chuckling a little herself at their obvious good humor.