The Demure Debutante - a Regency Novella Read online

  “Miss Harcourt?”

  Emilia's body froze when she heard Arthur's voice. As soon as she saw him, Emilia's knees buckled, so she grabbed the statue to hold herself aloft. With his midnight blue greatcoat, black breeches and wavy brown hair, he was easily the handsomest man in the room. If not for the fact that her brother was marrying his sister, she knew he would never spare a moment of his time for her. Emilia was as plain as plain could be; gentlemen like Arthur Rochefort did not give her the time of day.

  “Mr. Rochefort.” As she said his name, she kept staring at the statue. Emilia could not make eye contact with him for too long; his arresting good looks were too much to bear.

  “How are your feet?”

  “My feet?”

  “The other day?” Arthur reminded her. “When you were lost. Were they not causing you some pain?”

  “Oh... yes,” Emilia squeaked a reply. “I'm better now.”

  “Good, I'm glad to hear it... because I would like to dance with you. I wanted to check the status of your feet before I led you out for the quadrille.”

  “Dance with me?!” Emilia's breath was momentarily sucked from her lungs. “Really?!”

  “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “I...” Emilia closed her eyes for a few seconds and tried to envision herself dancing with Arthur. The thought of it made her forearms prickle, and the hairs on her nape went rigid. “I, um... I...”

  “You'll dance with me?” Arthur flashed a smile as he finished her thought. “Come. They're lining up for the dance right now.” He held out his elbow, which left her no choice. She took his arm and followed him to the middle of the room, where the sparse dancers were lining up for a set.

  Since no one ever asked her to dance, Emilia could barely remember the steps, and the fact that Arthur was her partner did nothing to improve her focus. Her hands were covered in a nervous sweat; his close proximity was making her light-headed.

  “You're a good dancer, Miss Harcourt,” Arthur said.

  Emilia knew it was a falsehood, so she had to laugh. “I am barely passable, I'm afraid. You, however, dance wonderfully.”

  “On the contrary, I think I'm quite shoddy. I never dance.”

  “Nor do I,” Emilia confessed.

  The steps of the dance separated them, and during his absence, she tried to think of a topic of conversation that would interest him. Unfortunately, he was something of an enigma. She did not know enough about him to properly engage him.

  When he returned, she said, “I'm sad.”

  “And why is that? It isn't my fault, I hope?”

  “No. I was just thinking about how I lost my flowers,” Emilia explained. “When I went for a ride the other day, I had stopped to pick some flowers. When I realized my horse had abandoned me, I dropped them. I was just lamenting that fact.”

  “I can have one of the servants bring some flowers to your room?” he suggested.

  “No, that isn't necessary. I just wish I had kept them. It seems cruel to pick them, only to discard them a moment later. Did you ever find Greymare?”

  “Your escaped steed?” Arthur chuckled. “Yes. She found her way home last night. Let us hope she got the adventuring out of her system.”

  The dance was over before she knew it. Arthur took her arm and led her back to the statue, as if he assumed that was where she wanted to be. He hovered beside her for several awkward seconds, but neither of them knew what to say. Arthur did not want to remain at her side for too long, for fear that it would be improper, or that people would assume he was her romantic interest. She was, after all, more like a sister to him than anything.

  “So, Miss Harcourt...” Arthur cleared his throat. “Thank you for the dance.”

  She went back to fidgeting with the statue. “Thank you, Mr. Rochefort.”

  “I should take my leave. I... I need to speak with my sister.”

  “Of course.”

  Emilia's heart ached as she watched him go. The longer she was in his presence, the more obvious it was.

  Arthur Rochefort would never care for her—not in the way she wanted him to care for her.

  * * *

  Brittley Christian's ennui was enhanced by his present company. There wasn't a single beautiful woman in the room, apart from Willow. But she was getting married soon, and this party was in her honor. With an amused grin on his lips, Brittley stared at her from across the room. What was she playing at, the silly girl? She was wearing white, but Brittley knew better. Willow had been in his bed at least a dozen times. White did not suit her, for she was hardly chaste and virginal.

  He kept scanning the room in search of something to pique his interest—and then he saw her. The girl was obviously a wallflower. She was standing by herself, tucked away behind a statue of Aphrodite. He could tell she wasn't a beauty, nor was she particularly pretty. She was tall, with a goose-like neck and a long face that slightly resembled a horse's. Brittley moved closer, hoping to get a better look at her. The girl's appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. Her dark blonde hair was as dull as murky water, her nose was too long, and her lips were too thin.

  However, it wasn't her face that attracted him. Brittley could practically smell her innocence, and that is what caught his attention.

  Brittley swept in, not unlike a hawk pursuing its prey. “Good evening,” he greeted her.

  “Um... good evening,” squeaked his pure little peach. Her reluctant response was enough to make his loins tremble.

  “This is an absurdity,” Brittley said. He leaned closer to her, but not so close that he would terrify the girl. Brittley was a master in the art of seduction, and he knew his limits. “A pretty girl like you, all alone? It's unthinkable!”

  “I'm not pretty.”

  “And why would you think that?” Brittley countered. “You're very pretty. I've looked around, and believe me, you're the prettiest girl in the room.”

  “I don't know about that...”

  “You need to learn to accept a compliment!” Brittley coached her. “I am sure it will not be the last one you receive. So... your name?” He took her hand, raised it to his mouth, and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Will you end my misery and tell me your name?”

  “Umm...” Emilia nervously scanned the room, hoping someone would save her. She had not been given a proper introduction to the man standing in front of her, and she wasn't entirely sure she should be conversing with him at all. However, he was quite handsome, and his smoke-colored eyes were warm and gentle. Was there really any harm in it? “I'm Emilia Harcourt.”

  “And I am Brittley Christian... your servant.” As he bowed, he kept his eyes on hers. She was blushing, the poor thing, and it was obvious. “Harcourt. Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “My brother is marrying Wilomena Worthington.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Are you acquainted with Willow or my brother?” Emilia asked.

  “Willow and I are definitely... acquainted,” Brittley said, grinning as he stressed the word. He still remembered what it was like to have the widow squeezing him between her thighs. “We have a bit of a history.”

  “Oh, really?” Emilia raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, but nothing scandalous,” he lied, because he didn't want to frighten her off. “We've been friends for a long time.”

  Emilia nodded. A part of her enjoyed being in the presence of an attentive and handsome gentleman, but for the most part, she missed her solitude. She had no idea how to converse with men, and there was something about Mr. Christian that unsettled her.

  “You look very young, Miss Harcourt,” Brittley observed. “Might I ask your age?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Ahh...” Brittley grinned. His untouched flower was ripe for the plucking. “I, myself, am nearly thirty. I hope you don't think I'm too old?”

  “Too old for what, Mr. Christian?” Emilia asked, as heat flooded her cheeks.

  “Too old to be your suitor. Too old to call o
n you.” Brittley gently brushed a finger across her cheek. It was improper, but it was worth it. Her ivory skin was the softest thing he had ever touched, just like a supple peach. “I would certainly like to see you again, Miss Harcourt.”

  “I--”

  “I want to know everything about you.” Brittley's hand lingered beside her face, so he swept a lock of hair behind her ear. “Forgive me for being so straightforward, but I find myself... drawn to you.”

  “Surely you... jest?”

  “Not at all!” Brittley exclaimed. “I spotted you from across the room, and now that I'm standing in front of you, I can feel my heart slipping away. You're beautiful, but it's more than that. I can feel the kindness pouring from your eyes, I can feel the warmth in your smile.”

  Emilia turned her eyes to the ground. She was ill-equipped to handle herself in a situation such as this!

  “Do you think I'm handsome?” Brittley whispered.

  She tore her eyes from the floor and forced herself to look at him. “I do.”

  “So you wouldn't mind if I called on you tomorrow?”

  “I... wouldn't mind.”

  “Believe me.” Brittley peeled her glove from her hand, then pressed his lips against her bare wrist. When his warm mouth made contact with her skin, Emilia gasped. “It will definitely be something to anticipate.”

  Suddenly, Arthur Rochefort was the furthest thing from her mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Willow was heading down the hallway when, all of a sudden, she felt someone slip an arm around her waist.

  “Edward!” Willow giggled. Her assailant pulled her backward and trailed kisses across her neck. “You're certainly feeling your oats today!”

  When she felt his lips suckling her neck, she should have known better. “I'm not Edward.”

  Willow whirled around. As soon as she saw her former lover's face, she shoved him as hard as she could. “Brittley! What on earth do you think you're doing?!”

  “Kissing you.” As he closed the gap between them, Brittley caressed her cheek with an index finger. “Haven't you missed me?”

  She gently pushed his hand away from her face. “No. How did you get in here!? Considering our history, I highly doubt the servants of Sanborne Hall would let you in.”

  “I got in the same way I always got in,” Brittley said with a grin, “through your bedroom window.”

  “You can't do that!”

  “And why not?” Brittley shoved her against the wall and placed an arm on either side of her body, boxing her in.

  “And you can't do this!” She tried to push him away, but he wouldn't budge. “I'm getting married next week!”

  Brittley's brow furrowed. “Really? So soon? Are you really sure that's wise, my dear Willow? I've seen your fiance, and he's nothing special. You'll soon tire of the boy.”

  “No, I won't!”

  “You will,” Brittley insisted. “You'll miss having a lover like me.”

  Willow opened her mouth to protest, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Brittley Christian was an amazing lover, she had to give him that. When they were together, he did such amazing things to her, he had her seeing stars. He was a better lover than Philip, and certainly better than an untrained lover like Edward could possibly be. For a few seconds, Willow's gaze drifted to his hair. Wavy and blonde, it begged to have her fingers in it.

  Then she snapped back to her senses.

  “I love Edward!” she exclaimed.

  “Please,” Brittley scoffed. “Love doesn't exist. And even if it does exist, it doesn't last longer than a year or two.”

  Willow held up her chin with pride. “Obviously, you've never been in love!”

  “And you have?!” He laughed at her. “With the boy?”

  “With Edward,” she corrected him, because she wasn't comfortable with calling Edward a boy, even though he looked quite youthful. “And yes. I'm in love with him!”

  “You need a man, Willow.” As he purred into her ear, Brittley cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand. “You need me.”

  “What I need...” Willow ducked under his arm, freeing herself, “is for you to leave me alone!” She could only imagine how mortified she would be if Edward caught her cavorting with Brittley—even if it wasn't her fault.

  “He'll never satisfy you like I could.”

  “Be that as it may... I am in love with him.” Willow started heading down the hall, away from Brittley, but not before flashing him the most heated glare she could muster. “And you, Brittley Christian, are a thing of the past!”

  “Very well.” As Brittley watched her go, he indifferently hitched a shoulder. “I'll just find something else with which to amuse myself.”

  * * *

  As Arthur pushed her mother's Bath chair through the garden, Emilia was quietly impressed with how thoughtful he was. It was, after all, Arthur's idea to take her mother for a stroll. Her mother rarely went outside, but it wasn't as if she didn't enjoy the fresh air. It was Augusta's mobile ineptitude that prevented her from enjoying herself.

  Emilia trailed a few paces behind Arthur and Augusta. She tried to resist the urge to stare at his perfect posterior, but she caught her eyes wandering a few times. And who could possibly blame her? His snug breeches and muscular legs would have been a temptation for anyone, even a chaste young lady such as herself.

  All of a sudden, Emilia was tackled by a tremendous gust of wind, which threw her off balance and nearly swept her off her feet. While she did not fall, her straw hat was not so fortunate. The wind whisked her hat from her head and carried it away.

  “My hat!” she gasped. She started to chase after it, but the hat went too far too quickly. The wind carried it a great distance before finally depositing it on a red fern.

  “I'll retrieve it for you, Miss Harcourt. Wait here.”

  Emilia stood beside her mother as Arthur rushed away. When she looked down at Augusta, her mother was grimacing and biting her knuckle, as if in pain.

  “What's wrong, Mama? Are you hurt?”

  “No. But that man is painstakingly handsome!” Augusta exclaimed. “It almost hurts to look at him. Do you think you could marry him? I bet you would have beautiful offspring.”

  “Mama! You're terrible!”

  “If he looks that good in his inexpressibles, imagine what he might look like in his unmentionables!”

  Despite the biting wind, Emilia could feel her cheeks getting warm. She could not believe her mother was sharing her thought about Arthur and his amazing breeches. “Mama, have you no scruples whatsoever?! I cannot believe you would have this discussion with your daughter!”

  “Oh, pish tosh,” her mother said dismissively. “You mean to say your eyes haven't wandered to his hindquarters? You shouldn't lie, dear.”

  When Arthur returned with her hat, he was smiling innocently, which could only mean he had no knowledge of the ladies' scandalous conversation. If he happened to hear any of their discussion, Emilia thought she might die from embarrassment.

  Arthur handed Emilia her hat and returned to Augusta's Bath chair. He steered her into the shade of a large tree, where they would have shelter from the wind. Augusta had three books in her lap, which she passed to her young companions. Augusta kept one of the books, donned her spectacles, and started to read. After scanning the first sentence, she declared, “Well, this is pleasant!”

  Emilia sunk to the ground and opened her book. “What, Mama?”

  “This is pleasant!” her mother raised her voice as she repeated her statement. “The breeze, the shade, the company. I couldn't ask for a better day!”

  Arthur sat next to Emilia—perhaps a bit too close, because their knees were nearly touching. “I am glad you're enjoying yourself, Mrs. Harcourt.”

  Augusta reached for Arthur and patted his head. “Please, dear, call me Augusta.”

  “Very well, Augusta,” Arthur said, displaying a smile that secretly melted both ladies' hearts.

  Emilia started to read, but f
or the first several minutes, she could barely concentrate on the words. As always, Arthur's close proximity had a muddling effect on her. She could see him in the corner of her eye, and he was close. Too close. She could feel her pulse quickening every time she glanced in his direction. However, his attention was fully focused on his book. If only he knew what effect he had on her!

  After gathering her wits, Emilia finally started reading. Her mother was right; it was a remarkably pleasant day. From chapter to chapter, her eyes devoured the words. However, when she was several pages in, she came across a word that gave her pause.

  “Arthur?” Emilia held her book toward him.

  “Hmm?”

  “What is this word? I don't think I've ever seen it before.” Her finger prodded the page as she pointed out the troublesome word to Arthur.

  “Legerdemain,” he read aloud.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It's a trick,” Arthur explained. “A sleight of hand.”

  “Oh. Well... thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Emilia turned her attention back to her book, but for the next few seconds, her mind was clouded by lustful thoughts. On top of everything, Arthur Rochefort was a man of intelligence. Emilia was starting to feel as if his perfection was ruining her life.

  After several more minutes elapsed, Augusta held out her book. “Arthur!” As she squealed his name, she wagged her book under his nose.

  “Did you need me to decipher a difficult word as well?” Arthur asked with a chuckle.

  “No. I want you to read to me... if you don't mind?” Augusta requested. “My eyes are going a bit fuzzy.”

  “I don't mind at all.” Arthur took the book from Augusta and held it in his lap. “Do you mind, Miss Harcourt?”

  Emilia closed her book and shook her head. When she saw her mother's grin, Emilia understood the reason for her request. Augusta's eyes weren't going fuzzy, she just wanted an excuse to listen to Arthur's deep voice. Emilia rolled her eyes at her mother's blatant idolization of Arthur.

  Of course, Emilia wasn't going to complain. When she closed her eyes and listened to Arthur's silky voice, a chill rippled down her spine. A sad realization dawned on her. Through Willow and Edward, she and Arthur Rochefort would forever be linked—and he would never be hers. For the rest of her life, she would admire him from afar.