The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection (6 page)

“One has to work to find it,” Aunt Winnie once told May. “You cannot sit idle and hope happiness will discover you. It takes courage and a heart filled with faith to find one of life’s most precious treasures.”

“Why haven’t you ever found happiness, Aunt?” the impertinent child May of years ago had baldly asked.

“Haven’t I?” Winnie had given May a hug then. But even a child could see the regret reflected in her eyes.

“Remember, dear. It takes a heart filled with faith,” her aunt had whispered in May’s ear just an hour ago before leaving May to spend the rest of the afternoon with Uncle Sires and Mr. Tumblestone.

Faith. May blinked up at Mr. Tumblestone. His round cheeks did hold a certain merriment. His clothing was the height of fashion. Though he was missing a few teeth, his breath smelled clean. If only he wasn’t so old.

“Mr. Tumblestone is a neighbor of mine,” Uncle Sires said as they strolled about the Pulteney Bridge.

Cozy homes and apartments had been built upon the wide bridge, lining both sides. The only evidence suggesting they were standing on an arched bridge-way were the glass-domed pavilions crowning the ends.

“He lives not more than a thirty-minute carriage drive away from Redfield Abbey. You will never be far from Winnie, you see.”

Uncle Sires was proud of himself. May could see it in the sparkle of his brown eyes. He was doing his duty as head of the family, taking care of its members to the best of his ability—whether they appreciated it or not.

Oh, how low May felt at that moment. The night before she had cursed her uncle and his scheming ways, convinced his actions were aimed at stealing her parents’ small fortune.

She saw now how wrongly she’d judged him.

With a grand sweep of his arm and a wink, Uncle Sires directed May and Mr. Tumblestone into a small shop that sold ices and paid for the cool treats without hesitation. What May considered a fortune had to be naught more than mere pocket change to a man as wealthy as her uncle. She was guilty of doing what so many had done to her, judging without taking the time to look beyond the surface.

May set aside her spoon and smiled up at Mr. Tumblestone. “Please, sir,” she said, her dream of one day finding a handsome, young prince fading, “please tell me all about your home.”

Chapter 5

That evening lights twinkled high in the street lanterns as crowds dressed in their best finery promenaded toward the fancy ball held in the Upper Assembly Room. May had purchased a season subscription to all the balls and concerts, knowing how such events pleased her aunt. The fancy ball, held every Thursday night during the summer, was Aunt Winnie’s favorite and in turn May’s.

Uncle Sires and Mr. Tumblestone escorted the two women to the spectacular event. They arrived in her uncle’s carriage, making quite an impression with the
ton
. Her uncle’s presence was greeted with warmth and genuine enthusiasm. Since titled gentry were scarce in Bath this year—the most fashionable choosing to follow Prinny to Brighton—even an old bachelor like the Earl of Redfield created quite a stir.

Mr. Tumblestone, by association, was fawned over shamelessly by many of the matrons, who twittered like schoolgirls as they gathered around the two new faces. Mr. Tumblestone’s manner shined as he charmed the older women while never failing to keep an attentive eye on May.

Though she felt nothing more than a faint gratitude toward him, May had to admit the aging Tumblestone did cut a handsome mark dressed in a shimmering pale green satin coat trimmed with the softest forest green velvet. He looked younger and slightly thinner draped in such expensive fabrics.

May felt quite the dowd promenading through the Upper Rooms beside such a finely turned-out gentleman. She had donned her second-best gown, a ruby ermine trimmed pelisse worn over a rather simple white satin gown with matching ruby colored flounces dancing down the front. The outfit was topped with a Henry the Eighth hat of ruby velvet sporting two white feathers pinned to the front. The hat was an extravagance Aunt Winnie had insisted she purchase. Though the neckline of her gown was modest compared to current fashions, May felt uncomfortable. Her rather embarrassingly full breasts pulled the material tight.

Her unseemly shape must have embarrassed Mr. Tumblestone as well. His watery gaze slipped toward her bosom more than once as they processed through the Octagon Room to enter the long ballroom.

The ballroom never failed to take May’s breath away. From the high ceiling hung five glass chandeliers that provided a dazzling light for the room. Adding to the brilliance, two gilt-framed looking glasses at each end of the ballroom redoubled the chandeliers’ glow. The whole of the ballroom was lined with Corinthian columns and entablatures resembling statuary marble.

Whenever she came here, May liked to imagine herself stepping back in time to ancient Rome—to a place where no one knew the circumstances of her birth or the abandonment by her parents. She’d spent many an hour reading about fantastic ancient places. Surely this ballroom rivaled any ancient Roman palace in its magnificence.

Yet no matter how comfortable the fantasy of faraway places and nameless heroes, May couldn’t allow herself the luxury of such dreams this evening, nor could she fade into the background. Her mission was clear. For her aunt’s sake, she had to please Mr. Tumblestone and convince him to agree to marriage with her.

She danced two country-dances with him and two more with her uncle. All the while her gaze raked the crowd. Her heart beat an unsteady rhythm as she continued searching.

“Whom ever are you watching for?” Aunt Winnie asked partway through the evening.

Until that moment, May had not realized that she had been craning her neck to peer through the thick crowd.

Whom indeed was she searching for? Certainly not that despicable Viscount Evers. Why ever would she be interested in him?

“No one, Aunt,” she said, forcing her eyes to keep steady on one point. “Why, there are just so many people here dressed in such a splendid array of colors.”

“Poppycock!” Aunt Winnie scolded. “Lying is so unbecoming, May. This night is no different than the week before, nor the week before that. In fact, these events are fast becoming quite a bore. Who has turned your head?”

“No one has.” May felt her face heat. “No one of import.” Definitely not the dashing Lord Evers.

“Mr. Tumblestone appears quite taken with you this evening, does he not?”

May caught herself before giving into the temptation of peering around the crowded room again. Although the viscount often attended, he rarely lingered long in the ballroom. For a rake like Evers, the card room better filled his needs. Certainly she wasn’t searching for the viscount, was she?

“Yes, he does,” she answered absently.

“And what do you think of him?” her aunt asked. “Do you think he would be able to make you happy?”

“No,” May answered thoughtlessly.

Did she spot the viscount’s square shoulder through the crowd? No, that gentleman with the stark black coat was Mr. Rankcor, a happily married London banker.

Aunt Winnie’s pursed lips and carefully set frown startled May back to reality. Winnie cared as deeply for May’s happiness as May cared for Winnie’s. And Winnie would willingly move to Redfield Abbey to live in luxury with her brother if she was confident that May was happily settled. If not for concern over May’s future, Winnie probably would have already agreed to let Uncle Sires care for her.

May fluttered her hands. “I mean, Aunt, I don’t really know Mr. Tumblestone, do I? He seems a very kind man.”

“He does.” Aunt Winnie sat back on her bench and peered out from half-lidded eyes. May felt as if her aunt’s gaze was trying to tease out the truth. “Marriage is an important decision, May. You would be wise to avoid doing anything rash.”

How could Aunt Winnie know that despite Mr. Tumblestone’s behavior being the model of propriety, May was already wracking her mind with plans to wiggle out of a marriage with him?

“I promise to consider all aspects of marriage before making a decision, Aunt.” She would have to marry Mr. Tumblestone . . . if only for Winnie’s happiness. No other man had ever offered.

“There is something you must know, dear.” Winnie leaned forward and whispered. “Before you make up your mind. You must understand—”

Mr. Tumblestone approached with a confident swagger. Winnie blushed prettily as she looked up and noticed his approach. Whatever May needed to understand must have slipped Winnie’s mind as she straightened her skirt and gave May’s suitor a welcoming nod.

Tumblestone smiled widely, his gaze lingering again on May’s embarrassing chest while he bowed. “The night grows late, ladies. It is nearly eleven o’clock. The last dance begins.” He offered Aunt Winnie his arm. “And yet, my dear woman, you have not yet danced a set.”

How kind Mr. Tumblestone was. How thoughtful of him to think her aunt in need of rescue. Aunt Winnie, who rarely danced a set since the onset of her illness, fluttered her hands and accepted graciously. She looked decades younger as she batted her lashes while accepting Mr. Tumblestone’s hand.

“Please be careful, Aunt,” May could not keep herself from warning. Country-dances contained vigorous moves. Winnie mustn’t overexert herself or her heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

“Oh, pooh! You worry overmuch. You’re no different than an old clucking hen sometimes. I daresay I’m strong enough to survive one mild dance,” Winnie said as Mr. Tumblestone led her out to the marble dance floor.

May settled on the wooden bench in the spot Aunt Winnie had vacated. Her gaze continued to search as she watched the last set of the night begin.

No prince appeared from the card room nor from deep within the crowd. Why should she expect him to? He never danced.

May swallowed hard and straightened her spine.

She was a fool, naught but a fool.

There were no magical princes lurking in the shadows . . . at least, none searching for her.

Chapter 6

“Tell me you haven’t sunk into a foul mood again,” Wynter demanded of Radford when he barged into the drawing room in typical Wynter fashion.

The two had avoided each other for most of the day after parting in anger the previous morning. After the incident in the Pump Room—which still left Radford cringing—Wynter had dressed him up and down, using language colorful enough to make the most hardened rough-and-tumble foot soldier flinch.

“Gentlemen, no matter how arrogant or high-in-the-instep, do not treat women as if they were naught but sotted servants,” Wynter had said finally.

Though Radford agreed, he refused to put voice to his holding the same opinion or to promise to change his ways. He merely professed a willingness to court the young Lady Lillian. A confession that sent Wynter into another rage.

“But, Wynter, you must see the benefits,” Radford had said with hopes to sooth his friend’s ire. He then patiently listed the lady’s qualifications. She was young, soft-spoken, fair-haired, born into a respected family, and known throughout England as an accomplished horsewoman.

“What else could a man want in a wife?” he asked.

What else, indeed?

To that question, Wynter simply could not give a coherent answer. And with them at such an impasse, they had parted ways.

Today, they’d plans to meet for drinks before escorting Radford’s mother to a private concert the Duke of Newbury was hosting. The lovely Lady Lillian had penned the invitation with her own hand, Radford had been told. All was moving forward smoothly with his plans to woo her properly.

Yet, this disagreement with Wynter left Radford feeling slightly askew. He wondered whether his friend would appear as planned or leave him to face the lovely lady and her mother on his own.

But sure as the rains, always dependable Wynter arrived on time. When Radford growled his regular greeting, Wynter, quite uncharacteristically, growled back.

Curse his foul moods. Try as he might, Radford couldn’t seem to settle his own flaring temper that evening. Perhaps it was because it wasn’t just his mood that pained him.

Radford had hurt more than his pride with his near fall in the Pump Room the day before. His foot throbbed with a devil’s vengeance. He’d retreated to the parlor that evening and propped up his foot on the sofa cushions while waiting for Wynter’s arrival.

“Once again, I find myself having to ask you to forgive me,” Radford said, grateful for the few friends who’d stayed with him despite his infirmities and sour moods. It wasn’t good form to snap at Wynter without a worthy cause. “It pleases me to see you willing to put up with a worthless blighter like me.”

“That tone is even more pitiful than your growl,” Wynter said while tugging on his waistcoat—a sure sign he was on the verge of losing his temper. “If you don’t stop feeling sorry for yourself, I will feel compelled to bash your head into the ground.”

“Bash his head—?” a missish voice preceded a delicately boned, fair-haired, willowy woman into the parlor. She was dressed in a pale peach silk sheath that hid how much weight she had lost in the past year. “I will allow no such violence in my home, young man.”

Wynter bowed his head. So did Radford. His mother was a beguiling force no man could resist.

“Lady Evers,” Wynter said. He swept across the room and took up her hand in his, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “May I say your beauty tonight puts the fragrant nosegay you hold to shame?”

“Flatterer,” she hissed. A smile creased her thin lips as she batted him away with her silken fan. The stresses of the past year had etched deep lines on her slender features. To lose a husband and watch her only son crippled by war within a span of a few months had taken a harsh toll. Radford thought it a wonder she could find it in her to smile at all.

“Are you certain you are up to the concert tonight, Mother?” Radford asked. He pulled his leg from its soft perch on the sofa and struggled to his feet.

Lady Evers rushed to his assistance, tugging on his arms and fluttering her hands about him. “What have you done with your cane? The doctors say you should use it. Look at you, ready to fall. My word, you will be the death of me.”