Seduction in Regency Society: One Unashamed Night

A knock on the door made her stop, as she pressed her lips together and frantically rubbed at her eyes.

‘Yes. Who is it?’

‘It’s Sarah, madam. Might I come in?’

Looking at her face in the mirror as she stood to open the door, Beatrice grimaced, her eyes swollen and her cheeks blushed.

Sarah, her maid, stood at the door with a worried expression. ‘Cook says that we will be having chicken tonight and he will prepare it in just the way you like it.’

‘That will be lovely. Thank you, Sarah.’

‘If there is anything any of us could do to help, ma’am…’

‘I would certainly tell you if there was. Thank you again.’

Shutting the door, Bea felt like a woman who had let everybody down. She had had many servants before, of course, but never ones that had become her friends as these ones had.

Still, today she could not find it in herself to speak of anything, her disappointment in the character of Taris Wellingham such a calamity that she could barely believe it.

Was his over-drinking something that was known in society? It was only mid-afternoon and very early to be so befuddled and yet she had never heard even a whisper of it.

She breathed out and crossed to the window. The park opposite was filled with people, laughing happy people. People with lives that were so different from her own! Placing her palm on the glass, she enjoyed the momentary impression of cold and the frosted outline left when she removed it. Still here! Still attracted to men who could bring her nothing save heartache.

‘Taris.’ She whispered his name into the dusk. Strange that she had not smelt the liquor upon him as he had entered the room, which was something she had become adept at doing when Frankwell had returned home after a night out. No, all she had smelt was the tang of masculinity with an underlying hint of an astringent soap.

She wished she had not accepted Emerald Wellingham’s offer of afternoon tea because then she might have never known…

‘Stupid,’ she chided herself, and, tying back her hair, decided to spend the rest of the evening cataloguing her new books.

She saw Taris Wellingham again in the Book Society Library the very next afternoon, perusing the shelves with another man she did not recognise.

Today his clothes were immaculate and worn in the fashion of one who did not place too much importance on the way a cravat was tied or any other such frippery. The bruise on his cheekbone, however, had darkened and swollen.

It was too late for her to stand and make her way out as he was only a few feet away and coming closer. Consequently she merely sat, pasting what she hoped was an expression on her face that would relate the disappointment she felt in what had happened yesterday.

He passed her by without acknowledgement, and so close that she could hear what it was they were talking about.

Fox hunting and the hounds used at a ‘meet’.

The cut direct! She grimaced. In all honesty there were many after all who might consider the inability to stop heavy drinking as a small thing, and others who might laugh at the notion of a man who would lose himself in the unmindful disregard of drink. But these people could not have lived with someone whose very personality was being eaten away by it, exposing layers beneath that were hardly humorous.

As she had! She decided that to say nothing would be an act of cowardice on her behalf.

‘Excuse me, Lord Wellingham?’

He turned immediately and waited, as did the man with him. ‘Mrs Bassingstoke.’

‘I wondered if I might have a moment alone with you, sir?’

‘ Jack.’ Said with all the authority of a dismissal to the man next to him. Beatrice remained silent until the other was out of hearing range.

‘I would like to apologise for my behaviour yesterday, my lord. I realise that it was most unacceptable to leave a room in such a fashion, but in my own defence I might say that I have had some unfortunate experiences in my life because of heavy drinking.’

A heavy frown marred his forehead. ‘I was not—?’

She didn’t let him finish. ‘Denial is one of the first signs that something is amiss, as I am sure you must be aware.’

‘You think I cannot manage my drink?’

‘The poor effect it has on your balance is certainly a telling symptom especially so very early in the day.’

A smile began to play around his lips and Bea hated the answering heavy thud of her heartbeat when she saw it.

‘The good news is that there are remedies one might attempt.’ Today he barely looked at her, glancing over her head as though something was far more interesting across the room, though his next question was heartening.

‘What is it then that you would suggest?’

‘Some would say exercise to be the most beneficial.’

‘To keep my mind off the thought of another brandy?’

‘Exactly.’ She did not understand the humour that accompanied his question. ‘The most important thing, however, is to admit that you do have a problem; if one holds the notion that this affliction is trifling…’

‘I can assure you, Mrs Bassingstoke, that I do not think my affliction trifling.’

For the first time since she had begun talking to him she felt that they had the same viewpoint. ‘Your measure of honesty is something that should help then, my lord.’

When he remained silent she took her courage in hand. ‘Have you spoken to your family about this?’

‘As little as I possibly can.’

‘Would it help to speak to me of it?’

The silence was deafening.

‘I am a woman who would respect every confidence.’

‘I know you to be that.’

When his smile took on a quality of wickedness she realised exactly what he had said and flushed a bright beetroot red. ‘I did not mean, of course, to allude to the night we spent—’ She stopped as another thought struck her. Perhaps he had not meant that at all. She was too far in, however, to just pull back now. ‘I would never say anything of it—we had both agreed that we should not.’

As she moved to one side he did the same and their hands touched. She felt her heartbeat quicken, to know again that living spark of recognition.

Jerking away, she looked around to see if anyone watched them and was horrified to notice patrons hurriedly averting their eyes. Taris Wellingham was a man who drew the notice of all those around him, with his height and his presence and his bearing. He was a man who looked as though he did not fit into the dusty quietness of this reading room, but should be on a battlefield somewhere, danger imprinted in his eyes.

‘When could we start?’ His question in the light of such thoughts disorientated her.

‘Pardon?’