Regency Desire

‘I thought you hadn’t heard the gossipmongers saying anything about him.’

‘And neither I have, Alice. But I can well imagine.’ Venetia raised an eyebrow. ‘I know what you are thinking.’

‘Do you?’ Alice looked into her eyes.

‘Do you really think he is interested in another woman as his mistress?’ Venetia asked quietly.

‘No. Maybe.’ Alice closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to think any more, Venetia.’

‘Whatever is going on with Razeby, I think you may rest assured it is not that.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Alice gave a sigh. ‘It shouldn’t matter a toss, even if he’s taking a different woman back there every night of the week. But a woman has her pride.’ But pride was only part of Alice’s problem.

Venetia gave a nod of understanding.

‘I best be away.’

‘You will not stay for some more tea?’

Alice shook her head. ‘Thank you, Venetia.’

They both knew it was not the tea Alice was thanking her for.

Alice tried to put Razeby out of her mind and get on with her life. The prospect of seeing him worried her, because she felt like something had changed in her and she knew it was more important than ever that she maintain a façade of normality. But she had to see him again, and she did, only two days after speaking to Venetia.

The musicale in Mr Forbes’s drawing room was in full swing, the formally arranged rows of chairs filled completely. Some gentlemen were standing against the walls at the back of the room and some at the sides. Forbes was a personal friend of Kemble’s. He was a wealthy man, but not exceptionally so. Precisely how he had managed to secure the talent of Angelica Catalani to sing for them tonight was a coup that had everyone asking the question. The soprano was famously difficult in temperament and her fee was reputed to be beyond the reach of all but the richest in the land. But when she opened her mouth and sang, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. She had a voice with true clear clarity, a voice that made Alice think of crystal and purity and perfection.

Alice was here with Kemble and his sister, the famous tragedy actress Sarah Siddons. Their seats in the middle row meant they had a good view of Madame Catalani, and were the optimal distance to appreciate the music. Alice was trying very hard to focus herself entirely on the singer. Trying to block out the knowledge that Razeby was sitting at the back of the room with Miss Althrope, who accompanied him this night.

The programme for the evening, neat and nicely printed, was lying open on her lap. Before the music had started she had pretended to read it, and chatted with Kemble and Mrs Siddons. As she had suspected, Kemble could not help himself running through the scheduled music and discussing each one. Alice had smiled and listened and added in her tuppence, conscious that Razeby could see her and her every reaction. It was important that she look as if she were having the best time in the world. Without him.

It should have been easier once Madame Catalani started singing. All Alice had to do was sit there, looking serenely engrossed in the music. But it grew strangely more difficult.

Madame Catalani’s voice was so haunting and melodic that it made Alice feel emotional. Emotions were dangerous. Especially emotions of the sort that were seeping into her chest. She glanced away from the soprano, seeking to distract herself, but all she could see were the fashionable red-painted walls around her. Red—pray God that they had been any other colour!

The applause sounded. Kemble glanced at her, applauding for all he was worth, nodding at her and smiling his enjoyment. She made herself smile back and clap all the harder. But then Madame Catalani began to sing again, a piece so devastatingly haunting that it had the power to pierce through all the armour Alice had donned. It moved her. It made her think of things of which she did not want to think. The truth of feelings and pretences.

It made her think of Razeby.

She dropped her gaze to rest on the programme lying on her lap. But the beautiful voice sang on and inside of Alice all of her emotions seemed to be twisting and turning and welling dangerously high. And there, ever present, was that burning awareness of Razeby sitting behind her with another woman. It was like a burr, cutting into her. Or maybe it was just the haunting voice and that music, and those red, red walls. All of it pressing in on her. Suffocating her, until she did not think she could bear it for another minute.

She leaned closer to Kemble, whispered near his ear, ‘If you’d excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Kemble. I’ll be right back.’

Kemble gave a nod, barely taking his eyes from Madame Catalani.

Alice made her way from the row as inconspicuously as she could.

Razeby was not focused upon Madame Catalani like everybody else in the room. Rather, he was watching Alice leave alone, and a few moments later the sleazy figure of Quigley slip out after her. No one noticed. Madame Catalani sang on. The whole audience was transfixed.

Razeby whispered his excuse to Miss Althrope. And went out after them.

The hallway was empty. Not a footman or a maid was in sight. Madame Catalani’s voice was softer, more muted in volume out here. Beneath it Razeby heard the quiet footsteps on the staircase. He moved silently to follow, reaching the top of the stairs just in time to see Quigley’s black-jacketed back at the end of the passageway disappear through a door signed as the ladies’ withdrawing room. Razeby’s eyes narrowed.

He made his way along the passageway.

Alice had no need to avail herself of the withdrawing room’s facilities behind the modesty screens. She could still hear Madame Catalani’s voice, even up here, but at least she was alone. And the walls were a cool pale grey rather than red. She could breathe. The sky was a clear blue through the windows, the afternoon sunshine lighting it brightly, but the sun was at the front of the house, and this room at the rear. It was cool in here, the fire unlit. And Alice was glad of it. It was just that aria, she told herself, and those red walls and the heat of the room downstairs. A few moments in here and she would be in command of herself once more. She took another breath just as the footsteps sounded outside the door.

Alice pretended to be smoothing down the skirt of her dress as the door opened behind her. She did not look at the reflection in the full-length looking glass, just lowered her eyes and turned to leave.

‘Why, Miss Sweetly. There is no need to rush off, my dear.’

She stopped dead in her tracks, the sight of the lecherous Mr Quigley standing there making her stomach tighten in shock. ‘Mr Quigley! What on earth do you think you’re doing in here? This is the ladies’ withdrawing room!’

‘Yes. I am well aware of what room this is. But I wanted to have a little word with you, in private. And it is so very difficult to get you alone.’

‘You’ll understand if I don’t oblige. Mr Kemble and Mrs Siddons are waiting down the stairs for me.’

‘Now, you cannot expect me to believe that Mr Kemble and Mrs Siddons, or indeed any person in that drawing room, are not so engrossed in Madame Catalani’s singing that they will miss you for a little while. And with you, I do only need a little while.’ He licked a tongue against his lips as if he could taste her upon them and she could not suppress the shudder of revulsion that went through her.

She made to pass him by, but he caught hold of her wrist lightly with his little claw-like fingers.

‘Now, my dear Miss Sweetly,’ he began. He smiled in a leering sort of way, leaning in close so that she could smell the stench of stale wine upon his breath. ‘I have had my eye on you for a long time. And now that Razeby is off the scene and you are left alone, without a protector, I thought I would do the chivalric thing and take you under my wing.’

‘Honoured though I am by your offer, sir, I’m afraid I must decline it.’ She said it politely but firmly.

‘Come now, Miss Sweetly.’ He put on a cajoling voice.

She looked pointedly at where his hand was fixed. ‘If you’d be kind enough to unhand me, Mr Quigley.’

‘Now, don’t be like that, little Miss Sweetly. Such a stern tone does not suit.’ His fingers tightened around her wrist and he dragged her close to him, sliding his hand round her hip and over her buttock to fasten there. ‘Just one little kiss for an old man.’

‘No!’ She tried to push him off, but he was surprisingly strong for a man of his age.

Her eyes met his and she saw the lust that had always been in them when he looked at her and the new intent that lurked there. And the panic rose in her.

It happened so fast she was not sure what had actually taken place until she saw Quigley, face pressed against the wall, his arm up his back, held there by a tall dark figure she knew too well.

Quigley gave a little whimper of fear.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing, Quigley?’ Razeby’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the sudden silence of the room like a whip.

She stared, unable to believe that Razeby was really here.

‘I thought you were done with her, that she was avail—’ Quigley gave a yelp as Razeby inched the older man’s arm higher. ‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry. Won’t touch her again.’

‘It is to Miss Sweetly you should be addressing your apology.’ Razeby’s face was like flint. She had never seen him like this.

‘Apologies, Miss Sweetly.’ Quigley’s words were strained and urgent.

She nodded her acceptance, her eyes darting from Quigley’s contorted face to the dark, dangerous expression on Razeby’s.

Quigley gave another moan of pain.

‘Let him go, Razeby. I think he’s drunk.’

She saw the snarl on Razeby’s lip. ‘Stay away from her, Quigley,’ he hissed.

Quigley nodded, his face powder white. ‘Message understood, my lord.’

Only then did Razeby release his grip on the man.

Quigley picked up his hat, which had been knocked off in the process of being slammed face first into the wall, and disappeared through the door.

Alice did not move and neither did Razeby. They stared across the few feet that separated them. Her heart was thudding hard enough to break free of her ribcage. Her blood was rushing so fast she thought she might faint. But neither were because of Quigley.

‘Are you all right, Alice?’ His voice was quiet, but intense and loaded.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He moved slowly to stand in front of her, his eyes raking hers. ‘He did not hurt you?’

‘No.’ She shook her head.

And all of the tension that was roaring between them had nothing to do with Quigley.

Their gazes were locked, unable to look away. Inside she was trembling so much she feared it would show.

‘I am glad of that.’ He reached his hand to hers and took hold of it, his fingers surrounding hers with warmth and strength and gentleness. ‘You are shaking.’

‘It’s cold in here,’ she lied.

He slipped off his tailcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

The scent of him enveloped her, bringing with it too many memories, too many conflicting emotions that warred and struggled within her chest.

‘No!’ She pulled his coat from her shoulders and thrust it back into his hands.

The silence hissed between them, the tension winding tighter.

And still she could not look away. And neither could he.

Their eyes held, conveying so many words, none of which could be spoken.

Her heart was thudding so hard she could feel each beat reverberate through her body. A shiver rippled down her spine and tingled across her skin. She was breathing faster now, more shallow, not knowing how much longer she could keep herself together.

He looked at her for a moment longer. Then he drew her a small incline of his head and walked away.

Through the open door she watched him pass the two young ladies who were poised on the brink of entering the withdrawing room.

‘Ladies,’ she heard him say politely as he calmly walked past them.

The two girls were giggling and gaping as they entered the withdrawing room. But they fell silent when they saw her standing there, their eyes growing wide with shock and speculation.

Alice held her head up, flicked some imaginary dust from her skirt, then sauntered out with all the dignity of a duchess, as if she did not give a damn that she had just been caught with Razeby in the ladies’ withdrawing room.

When Razeby came back into the drawing room Quigley’s chair was empty. Razeby returned to take his seat by Miss Althrope’s side, who was far too well bred to comment upon a gentleman’s absence. Whether she had noticed Alice leave he neither knew nor cared.

His blood was still pounding from the sight of her, his mind still focused and intent—with lethality towards Quigley and something else altogether for Alice. He could feel her in every beat of his heart.

It was not supposed to be like this. He was not supposed to feel like this. He knew that, but sitting there with Miss Althrope by his side, his eyes half on Madame Catalani, half on the door waiting for Alice to return, he did, and there was not a damn thing he could do to change it.

At last Alice slipped into the room, resuming her place beside Kemble once more. She did not so much as glance his way. Just sat there seemingly quietly intent upon Madame Catalani’s performance. But she did not need to look at him. He was so damned aware of her that Madame Catalani could have missed every single note and he would not have noticed. He could feel the sense of Alice thudding through his chest, feel the knowledge of what was between them in his blood and in his bones. He stared straight ahead, as if watching the soprano, but he was watching Alice for every minute of that concert. And he could not look away.

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