Regency Desire. Margaret McPhee
Don’t you dare shed a single tear for him!
But her eyes were swimming and she felt she could have wept a waterfall. She swallowed down the lump in her throat, but no amount of swallowing could shift the boulder from her chest that felt like it was crushing her.
It was just sex. It had always been just sex. And the way she was feeling now, so scraped and raw and bleeding, was down to the shock of it; that was all. Razeby’s words had come out of nowhere, catching her with her guard down.
She breathed, calmed herself. Stared into the flames. She had survived worse things than this. She thought of her family back in Ireland, of her coming to London to find a job that she might help them, of the hunger and the desperation. She thought of playing the role of the masked Miss Rouge in Mrs Silver’s high-class brothel, her identity hidden from the world. So few people knew. But Razeby did. God only knew why she had told him. She was regretting that now.
Her eyes glanced across at the bed with its sheets still rumpled from their lovemaking. Amidst them she could see the sparkle of the diamond bracelet, so brilliant and beautiful and expensive. She gave a shaky laugh and shook her head at what a fool she had been.
Never let them see how much they hurt you. Her mother’s words, drummed into her across a lifetime, played in her head. The bastards can’t take your pride away from you unless you let them. Look life straight in the face, Alice, and always, always keep smiling.
Alice was not clever. She was not smart. But she was practical and hard-working and determined. And she still had her pride, every damn inch of it.
She turned her face away from the bed and, staring into the low golden flickers amongst the red glowing coals, made her plans.
Within the hallowed grounds of Almack’s ballroom, the chandeliers sparkled beneath the flames of a thousand candles. The walls were painted a soft cream and outlined in antique gold. The ceiling had recently been reworked in an array of white plasterwork. In its centre was a line of three elaborate roses, from each of which hung an enormous crystal chandelier. There was a three-piece matching peering glass set above the fireplace, with candles fitted to the fronts and a series of matching mirrored wall sconces positioned at regular intervals around the room. Small chairs and tables were seeded around the periphery. The musicians played from the balcony above, the music floating sweet and melodic to fill the ballroom and haunt Razeby.
‘I was not sure they were going to let you in,’ he said to Linwood standing by his side.
‘I did have to call in a few favours.’
‘I am glad you did,’ he admitted.
There was a small silence as the two men let their eyes wander to the other side of the dance floor and the crowd of white-dressed débutantes there that posed and giggled and chattered amongst themselves while their stern-faced turban-wearing chaperones looked on.
‘Does Alice know you are here?’ Linwood asked.
‘It is over between me and Alice.’ Razeby felt the weight of Linwood’s gaze, but he did not shift his own, just kept his face impassive and remained staring straight ahead so that nothing of his feelings showed.
‘I am sorry about that.’
‘So am I.’
There was the music and the droning hum of surrounding conversations and the tinkle of women’s laughter.
‘You could have kept her on at least until you found—’
‘No.’ Razeby did not let him finish. ‘A clean severance is for the best.’ He met his friend’s eyes.
Linwood raised an eyebrow. ‘I was under the impression that you and she dealt very well together.’
‘We do.’ He glanced away and corrected himself. ‘We did.’ He swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. ‘But she was my mistress, Linwood. And now it is time to find myself a wife.’
Linwood looked at him with that too-perceptive gaze of his, as if he could see the way that Razeby’s stomach clenched at just the mention of her name. He was doing the right thing, the thing that had to be done. The thing he should have been doing six months ago, before Alice Sweetly came into his life and changed his best-laid plan. Six months and he could regret not one day of it. Six months and… He changed the subject, pretending something of his usual lightness of spirit when what he felt was anything but.
‘See what you missed out on by not playing the marriage mart?’
Linwood smiled, which was a sight that was a deal more common since his recent marriage. ‘I would rather be tried for murder and catch a wife in the process,’ he said, referring to exactly what he had done just a few months ago. ‘Scandalous and dangerous—but more than satisfying in its end result.’ He smiled again and there was a softening of his expression so that Razeby could tell he was thinking of his wife, the former star of the Covent Garden stage, Venetia Fox. Venetia, who was Alice’s best friend.
A vision of Alice swam in his mind. Alice, with her mischief and her heart and her laughter. Alice standing in their bedchamber looking at him with that expression of shock in her eyes as he told her it was over. Something churned in Razeby’s stomach. He forced that last image away and turned his gaze to the hordes of white-frocked débutantes across the floor, one of whom by the end of the Season would be his wife, in his bed and carrying his child. He felt numb at the thought, but it had to be this way. He had had his fun and Alice had been more than he had ever anticipated, but now it was time to bite the bullet and do his duty… before it was too late. He turned his mind from all other distractions and summoned a cold determination.
‘So which lucky débutante are you going to ask to dance?’ asked Linwood.
‘The first one I come to,’ replied Razeby with a smile that did not touch his eyes and, setting his champagne glass down on the silver salver of a passing footman, he made his way across the room.
The day had been a long one, following a night in which she had not slept, but Alice was not tired.
It had been a mammoth effort and one which had seen her travel round half of London. But it had been worth it.
The large travelling bag lay open at her feet.
‘Shall I help you, ma’am?’ The maid hovered awkwardly in the doorway as if afraid to enter the bedchamber. The girl’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, her manner awkward. Alice saw the way her eyes dropped to take in the travelling bag before meeting her face.
All of the servants knew, even though she was sure that Razeby would have told them nothing of it. Alice had two sisters in service in Dublin. She knew that servants always knew these things.
‘No, thank you, Mary. I’ll see to myself. But if you could have Heston see that a hackney carriage is summoned for me.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to update the rest of the staff.
Alice went through the wardrobe, pulling out a minimal selection of clothes, all of which she had brought with her when she had come to this house, and ignoring the expensive silk dresses and accessories that Razeby had paid for.
She made short work of gathering up the rest of her possessions. There were not many. Alice travelled light. She preferred it that way.
It was when she moved to close the wardrobe doors that she stopped, her eyes drawn, as if not of their own volition, to the dress hanging on its own at the very end of the row. She hesitated, bit her lip, knowing that she should shut the door upon it just like all the rest, but unable to do so. Before she could think better of it, she slipped the emerald-silk evening dress from the hanger and folded it into her bag.
Of all the gifts that Razeby had given