And a sense of herself observing, taking mental notes about what she felt, what she did and how her everyday life was impacted by her new knowledge.
She had grown up and, in the course of a day, grown away from virginal pursuits. When her maid laid out her gown, her only concern was whether it was adult enough, revealing enough, something a bold and coddled mistress might wear.
And indeed, where would someone virtuous come by clothes like that? Still, her maid could quickly alter a neckline, pare down a puffed-up sleeve, damp down her thinnest under-slip, find a patch to emphasize her best attributes.
And she had to be careful, so careful, that her father found nothing amiss with her appearance. For the party at the Petleys', she chose to wear a dress of cream-colored glacé silk overlaid with lace and trimmed with silk flowers. Innocent, beguiling. A little daring around the oval neckline which was cut low. Slippers to match, shawl and gloves. Her hair done up in a knot with a ribbon of the silk flower trim banding her curls.
Not too formal, she thought critically, surveying herself in the mirror.
Not too girlish. Not too fast. Passable for a private party.
Maybe.
She wrapped the shawl around her swelling breasts. Her father couldn't forbid it if he didn't see them beforehand. And if it was too much, she would just wear the shawl all evening.
And besides, there would be no one at the Petleys' who was not over the age of forty. This wasn't a night for pleasure games. It was simply an evening in which she was accommodating her father's desire to be with old friends.
That notion stood about as long as it took them to get to the Petleys' town house in Westcott Square, where it appeared the Petleys had issued an invitation to everyone in their set. By the time Regina and her father arrived, there were at least sev-enty-five guests crowding into the refreshment room, the card room and the grand parlor, and more guests coming behind them.
"Come, come-" Lord Petley at the entryway, a large, bombastic man whose satin waistcoat strained over his belly, a man with a good heart and an open hand to his friends. "Don't stand on ceremony here; there's plenty to do, food in the anteroom, and we're getting up an orchestra for dancing. Cards? To your left. Regina, my dear. Just your night. There's a game of loo about to start in chips. Mr. Raulton heads the table. I know your fondness for it. Do you join them."
Her heart almost stopped. Raulton, here? The man was everywhere. And it meant Jeremy might show as well. What luck. What good fortune.
"I would be pleased," she murmured. "Father?"
"Don't stay on my account," her father said, too heartily. "I can easily drum up some company or a game of cards." And drum Mr. Raulton right out of this house, but that was not his purview, nor could Regina refuse to join Raulton at the card table now without seeming churlish.
Events were conspiring against him, Reginald thought furiously, as he watched Regina glide into the card room and take her seat at Raulton's table. The man was too damned slimy and ingratiating, because if he weren't, the Petleys never would have invited him for the evening.
Nor could he stay and keep an eye on Regina. It was the most damnable thing. She was out to get Raulton, and like a plump plum, everytime she turned around, he fell into her lap.
He stalked into the refreshment room, not quite sure what he wanted to do, but vaguely planning to bring Regina something to drink and then spill it all on Mr. Raulton's head.
Not too subtle, that. He almost wished Regina had been laid low by her headache of the previous night. He hoped against hope Jeremy would come. He felt as helpless as only a father can feel when his beloved child has walked into a predator's trap.
He took a glass of lemonade and made his way to the card room. There was no way to observe them unnoticed. The honest thing was to present Regina with the lemonade and withdraw.
But when he caught sight of the table, with Regina, Raulton, and six other people besides, and saw that the cards had been dealt, and the first lead was in play, he changed course.
No use upsetting things. Nothing could happen there.
He needed a drink and something stronger than lemonade.
Damn, he needed Jeremy.
Jeremy was fighting his worst instincts, the invitation to the Petleys' crumpled in his hand, already a block from their town house and thinking it was the worst idea to spend an evening with all those browseabouts and bagpipes when he could be spending himself in his mistress.
But not this soon. Not after he had dressed her to the nines on the duties of a mistress to her keeper. Sheer folly to bend under the weight of his lust and give in to his clamoring penis. A man had to be stronger than that. Harder than that.
Damn hell.
A small card party with supper was just the thing to take his mind off of her. He would have to mind his manners and keep focused because Lady Petley had a great fondness for whist and for him as a partner.
Just the thing.
Maybe…?
He topped the town house steps and entered the hall. What the hell was this? A small, select group of what-a hundred?
And the noise! The music from the far parlor. The laughter in the card room. People playing cap-verses in the dining room, shrieking their clever rhymes above the din.
Typical Petley row. Damn. Hell. Now what?
He turned on his heel to leave, and just caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. Regina… Raulton… shit-
Damn her to hell.
He eased his way into the card room, every expectation met: there was Regina, sitting across from Raulton, beautiful, breathtaking, sensual, and the bastard couldn't keep his eyes off the swell of her breasts, which, with that abomination of a dress, she of course fully intended should happen.
She knew she would see him here, he thought venomously. Maybe she had even planned it. God knew, she had had the whole afternoon to weave her little web, to convince the Petleys perhaps to include him among the guests. Damn and hell, he never goddamned should have left her.
She was booked at ten-to-one at Heeton's. Hard in the running for that man's hand. Soames was fifty-to-one, even though everyone had seen them together at the Skeffinghams'. It was thought she was a little too green in the grass for him.
But Regina, with her breasts and her protruding nipples that even he could see from where he stood-Regina, with her beauty, her wit and her style-Regina with her newfound knowledge-Regina was perfect.
And Regina would never settle for being Raulton's mistress, no matter what she said.
Only his.
Well, by damn, that was enough. That was what they both wanted. He had paid for her, he owned her for as long as HE wanted her, and he would make sure that any other interested male could not mistake it.
He left to prepare, as her laughter rippled across the room.
"I don't like that Raulton," Reginald said, feeling as if he had had this conversation at least ten times already.
"He is an amusing man," Regina said. "Interesting. Excellent at cards. But I'm certain he was gentleman enough to let me win several hands."
"He wants to win your hand," Reginald said sourly, "and I tell you now, Regina, I will never countenance such a match."
She prickled up. This had been quite an evening, with
Raulton's attention all on her and her bosom, and Jeremy nowhere to hand. It made her positively irritable that he had not shown, and that Raulton was on her every moment, as if that little play they had enacted the night before entitled him to liberties. Blast him. Blast Jeremy.