Maybe-a thought occurred to her-just maybe this ridiculous scheme of her father's would quiet the gossips. Maybe they would think she had been waiting all this time for Jeremy to come to point.
Wouldn't that be perfect, to turn the tables on Jeremy and use him to distract her father all the while she pretended to pursue Marcus Raulton?
She contemplated that lovely idea for a long moment. Exactly the thing. Overlay the forbidden with a healthy helping of respectability. Make everyone think it had been Jeremy for whom she had been waiting.
And… and… oh, this was most excellent: somehow put him in the untenable position of aiding her pursuit of Raulton.
How delicious was this?
But she had to think it through and plan it thoroughly and completely.
Wasn't she her father's daughter?
Poor Jeremy. He hadn't dealt with her in years. He had no idea what he was in for.
Oh, God she was as bad as her father.
And the Season had only just begun.
London, Spring 1812
The next big event this early in the Season was the Skef-finghams' ball.
This was the one it was most likely that Raulton and Jeremy might both attend, and so Regina had carefully dressed in her favorite pearl-encrusted jonquil yellow crepe, the matching pearl necklace and earrings that had belonged to her mother, and a lustrous strand entwined in her raven black hair.
But this was too soon, she thought edgily, plucking at a curl. They had been back in Town a mere two days, and they had already been to dinner at the Tatums' the night before, and now this. It was too much, especially on the heels of the tiring trip to and from Hertfordshire and the fact she hadn't yet wholly formulated A Plan.
"You look all the thing, my dear," her father told her, wrapping her shoulders in a matching gauze shawl. "Are you ready for this?"
She was ready for nothing, let alone a crush of dozens and dozens of conveyances crawling up to the Skeffingham house at the far end of the elite enclave, Bromley Close. Its gates were thrown wide now, and an openly curious crowd gawked as carriage after carriage drew up and discharged passengers dressed in the height of fashion who vanished inside the front door of the stately three-story brick residence as if the footman had waved a magic wand.
They crowded into the reception hall and wound their way down the long hallway lined with gilt-framed portraits of generations of Skeffingham ancestors and into the two-story ballroom.
It didn't seem possible, but the room appeared full to overflowing already, the stuffiness thankfully mitigated by long french windows at either end of the room that were wide open to the cool fresh air.
Candlelight glimmered everywhere, reflected in dozens of mirrors, the light softening every detail and giving the room an intimacy and a most flattering glow. Chairs lined the walls on two sides, and already the matrons who would not be dancing had gathered with their bosom-bows for an evening of exquisite gossip.
Servants hovered, accommodating every request, and on a balcony ten feet above, a string quartet played under the discreet hum of conversation. And ten feet above that, angels hovered, flitting in and out of puffy clouds on the beautiful painted ceiling.
But no angels here on earth, Regina thought irritably, as she and her father paused at the threshold of the ballroom to be announced, just Jeremy and her father, devils both of them. Since there was nothing yet she could do, she moved through the crowd on her father's arm, greeting friends and acquaintances she had seen a mere five days before.
She was grateful, finally, to see Ancilla Hoxley-Marshall, her dearest friend, who was obviously on the lookout for her. Ancilla was the best person, as sweet and self-effacing as a nun, and yet she was always a repository of the most current on dit, especially in a gathering this size.
Regina grasped Ancilla's hands which were cold as al-abaster. "Ancilla! What a crowd. Have you seen Marcus Raulton?" Time to go forward. She had thought of a strategy, it couldn't even be called a plan, but it involved feeding her father's worst fears by making sure she was seen with or near Mr. Raulton as often as possible. It wasn't a perfect scheme, but it was something, and it just might serve for this evening until she thought of something better.
"So many people," Ancilla murmured. "But I say that every year, do I not? No, I have not been aware of Mr. Raulton's presence. Good evening, by the way, Regina. Oh, look! There's a new face. Could that be-could it-? Jeremy Gavage? After all this time…?"
Blast it. Regina whirled, and her breath caught. Blast! Her heart started pounding. Jeremy... She hadn't expected him, not this quickly, not this soon and… looking so different- and so much the same.
She felt as if she had taken a header. So much for plots and schemes. How like a man to just show up and throw everything top over tail.
She couldn't take her eyes from him. Even through the crowd the faint halo of smoke, the water-light music, and Ancilla's sweet voice droning in her ear, her whole attention was fixed on Jeremy.
She didn't expect this reaction to Jeremy. Oh, God. Jeremy. Father's knight errant. Purged by the battle of loving a woman who loved her sovereigns more. And now willing conspirator to save her innocent self from taking a pounding at the hands of the most notorious bachelor in London. So appropriate. Truly-errant was the word.
He seemed taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader, his hair longer, his frown utterly forbidding, but that could be the effect of the high ceilings and low light. Certainly the dark look on his face reflected the fact that he was not pleased, not with anything. Especially not her.
But why should he have any opinion in the matter at all?
She could not take her eyes off of him.
Nor could he stop staring at her.
He had been thinking all along he would be dealing with the artless child she had been, only a few years older, of course, and instead he was looking at a woman full grown and aware of her power, a woman with presence and passion. A woman old enough to wed.
It was the most stunning revelation.
Reginald should have warned him. Damn him-Reginald should have told him. He felt as if he had fallen off a steep cliff, as if everything-every preconception, everything he knew-had been wrenched out from under him.
And to make matters worse, there was Raulton, strutting and preening around the perimeter of the room, accosting the ladies who would speak with him, and commanding her avid attention as she seemed to follow his every move.
Damn, damn, damn. Those eyes. As bright and blue as ever he remembered. But not that womanly body, or that beautiful face. He didn't remember her looking like that at all. Damn Reginald. Damn him.
And standing next to that pale blond woman in white, she positively glowed. Did he not see Raulton slide a proprietary look of interest her way?
Damn it damn it damn it…
Thank God he had come tonight; thank God he had seen her before he had started any intervention, because he couldn't trust himself to go to her now, knowing what he knew.
And he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. Or Raulton.
Things could heat up at the instant, he thought, watching the man warily. Raulton meant business, and there was no more beautiful business in this ballroom than Regina.
And from the way she was looking at Raulton, Reginald had it exactly right. Regina didn't care a fig about his reputation or any improprieties. All she saw was the virile cock-of-the-walk.
So like a woman, he thought mordantly. Never looking beyond the outward appearances or the size of a bankbook.