The Trials of Alaric (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #8)

Chapter Thirteen

B ea knew that Viscountess Stowell was rude, but she had forgotten quite how unpleasant the lady could be. Alaric was pressing his lips together so tightly that they were white. “Lady Stowell, Mr. Redhaven and I are hoping you can help us with a problem.” There. A reminder to herself as well as Alaric that they needed Lady Stowell’s compliance.

Alaric took her cue. “Yes, indeed, my lady. May we escort you to Lady Claddach and tell you all about it on the way?” He offered his arm with a courtly bow.

Lady Stowell sniffed. “Your manners are acceptable.” She sounded surprised.

He remained slightly inclined, his elbow crooked, and after a moment the viscountess laid her hand on his arm. “Very well, young man, Lady Beatrice, what are you buttering me up for?”

Alaric put on what Bea assumed was his most ingratiating expression. “We have been speaking to Lord Beverley, my lady. He tells me you are the foremost lady of the island, after the earl’s ladies, and the most prominent and influential of all the ladies who have been good enough to be judges for today’s fête contests.”

“Lord Beverley is too kind,” Lady Stowell said, preening. “Although I am the third highest ranked lady on Claddach, behind Lady Claddach herself and Lady Beatrice. This is true. I suppose others do look up to me.”

Bea, who was on Lady Claddach’s other side as they entered the front door of the castle, said, “It is a matter of the schedule, Lady Stowell. Lord Beverley made some changes, no doubt very well thought out, but unfortunately…” She spread her hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “His ideas came too late. The contest schedule was posted a month ago, and to change it at this late stage is impossible.”

Alaric spoke quickly before Lady Stowell could speak whatever indignant reply her expression presaged. “My lady, we have close to a thousand contest entries, and the entire contest area has been organized around the published schedule. I know you will understand how difficult it would be—how impossible—to find every contestant and tell them the schedule has been changed. And then, imagine the chaos, when some are working to one schedule and some to another.”

Another annoyed sniff. “I suppose you are telling me I will have to judge on the original schedule,” Lady Stowell grumbled.

If Alaric had directed that pleading smile at Bea, she would have given him anything. “My dear Lady Stowell, I knew you would understand. I realize how annoying this must be for you, and I admire the grace with which you are prepared to put your own feelings aside for the good of the fête. And, of course, of the orphanage and the church roof, the two causes that will benefit from the contest fees.”

He looked around Lady Stowell and caught Bea’s eye. “Isn’t that wonderful, Lady Beatrice? You were certain Lady Stowell would set an example of leadership to the other lady judges, and you were right. With Lady Stowell prepared to make the best of the situation, who else could possibly complain? Thank you, my lady. Thank you so much.”

“Thank you,” Bea repeated. “It is going to make all the difference, I am certain. Lord Beverley is speaking to the other judges, and he will be thrilled to be able to tell them that you understand how important it is to accept the original schedule.”

Lady Stowell looked rather dazed, and well she might. Alaric had simply assumed she would comply and left her to choose between being the gracious lady he assured her she was and showing herself to be self-centered and petty. “Well. Yes. They are such good causes, after all.”

They had arrived at the drawing room door.

Alaric bowed again, and Bea curtseyed. “Thank you again,” they chorused. Lady Stowell inclined her head, but one last thought made it all the way out of her mouth before Alaric could head it off. “This means I will have to wait between contests. I shall not wait with servants and farm workers, Lady Beatrice. You cannot ask it of me.”

“Of course not, Lady Stowell,” Bea assured her. “My cousin Beverley has a tent set up just for you and the gentry. I shall ensure suitable refreshments are waiting for you.” Alaric had opened the drawing room door and was holding it for the viscountess.

“ Hmmph ,” said Lady Stowell. “That will do, then. But I shall be expecting the schedule to be better organized for next year, mind.”

With that final word, she sailed into the drawing room and, in the moment before Alaric shut the door, Bea could hear her saying, “Dear Lady Claddach. And Lady Lewiston, too. How splendid to see you.”

“ Will the schedule change for next year?” Alaric asked Bea.

“I should put her on the organizing committee,” Bea grumbled, “and leave her to figure it out. Except we would very likely finish up without an organizing committee.”

He touched her hand. “We achieved what we needed,” he pointed out. “Time enough to worry about next year after this year is over. Thanks to you, Bea. You were brilliant.”

“And you were charming,” she pointed out. “We make a good team, do we not?”

He leaned closer. “The best.” His eyes seemed to darken as his pupils expanded.

Had his mind gone to the same place as hers? There was a simple way to find out. “What are you thinking, Alaric?”

“I am wishing I could kiss you,” he admitted.

Her lips tingled and her belly felt suddenly soft and hollow. Her heart leapt for joy. She had been waiting so long! Well. A week, but it felt like longer. The answer was “yes” and “now” and “hurry.” It was with difficulty that she swallowed those words to say something a modicum more sensible.

“Not here, where anyone might come upon us,” she replied. “Follow me.” Was she really going to do it? She was. She had been thinking about it for days, and they might not get another time when most of the servants and all the younger house guests were out of the castle, as well as Papa, Uncle Lewiston, and the other gentlemen.

Just beyond the head of the stairs was a linen closet. No one would have any reason to enter it. It was perfect for their purposes. She opened the door and led Alaric inside, then shut the door behind them.

Shelves full of household linen, sorted by type, quality, size, and color, lined both sides. Light filtered in from the direction of the back wall, which had a high round window above a table for folding linen before putting it away and a basket for anything that required mending.

Bea turned to face Alaric. Now what? She hoped he knew what he was about, for she had never before been kissed.

“Are you sure?” he asked her, his voice husky. He was certain, it seemed, for he was holding his arms out to her.

She nodded as she stepped closer to him. His hands came to rest on her waist, and he gazed into her eyes. What was he about? This was not what she had imagined. The weight and warmth of his hands on her waist felt wonderful, but it was not enough. It was not kissing. After a moment, she asked, “Are you going to kiss me?”

“I am,” he assured her. “I am just deciding where to start.”

Bea frowned. Surely one simply pressed their lips to the lips of the other person. Was that not the whole point? But she had no time to ask, for he used one hand to tilt her head to one side and placed a kiss on her neck, just below her ear. A shiver ran down her neck and through her body.

He kissed her again, this time on her jaw, less than an inch from the first kiss, and followed along her jaw line. Not just kisses, either. He scraped his teeth over her skin then soothed it with his tongue. By the time his kisses reached the other ear, she was plastered against him, her knees too weak to hold her up.

Then he came back across her cheek and at last reached her lips. Now he would settle his mouth over hers, as she had seen men do with their wives or lovers when they thought themselves unobserved. Good. His ministrations so far had set her whole body tingling, and particularly her womanly core. She could not wait to find out what his lips felt like on hers.

But no. The rain of kisses continued. She tried to object but could manage nothing beyond a moan. An indignant moan, but hardly a clear request for more. Still, he responded, settling his mouth over hers. It felt amazing, but she still needed something else.

He opened his mouth and ran his tongue along her lips. No. That wasn’t what she was waiting for. Not quite. Then, he nipped her lower lip with his teeth, and she opened with a gasp. Alaric slipped his tongue into her mouth.

A long interlude of learning one another followed. He tasted warm, if warmth could be tasted, and sweet. When she pressed her tongue against his, he hummed with pleasure, and when she chased his tongue into his mouth, he hummed even more loudly, then he followed her back, and their tongues tangled and danced while his mouth moved and his hands held her firmly against his body, one in the middle of her back and one grasping her behind.

She had no idea how long they kissed. The need for more returned, more urgent than ever. Her breasts felt heavy and ached in a way that demanded a soothing touch, and so did that area she had been taught to ignore between her legs.

Eventually, Alaric withdrew his mouth, sighed, and moved his hand from her buttock up her back to her head, holding her in place while he rested his cheek against her hair. He was breathing heavily, she was pleased to note as she was panting, as if she had run from the castle to the beach. And back.

She stood leaning against him, waiting for her breath to settle while all the thoughts that the kiss had driven from her head came crowding back into it.

“I must go,” she said at last. Her voice shook, and she was still not certain her knees would hold her up. “I do not know the time, but the girls setting out the food on the castle stall will be looking for me.”

“And the contestants for me,” Alaric admitted. “I ought to warn you it would have been a bad idea to remain here together, even if we could. That kiss…” He shook his head, slowly. “It was a promise of more, dearest Bea. And we cannot take more. Not without being wed. I would not dishonor you or your father. Not for the world.”

A promise of more. Bea had sensed that. And while her body was perfectly willing to explore that more immediately, her mind knew better. “It was a beautiful kiss,” she told him. “My first. I shall never forget it.” She stepped backward and he dropped his arms and let her go.

His expression appeared alarmed. “Your first? And I kissed you in a closet among the linens? You deserve better than that.”

“I think a kiss any better than that would kill me, Alaric,” she replied.

*

A kiss that would kill her! Bea’s innocent remark had Alaric thinking about what the French called la petite mort —“the little death.” That brief loss of consciousness accompanying the most exquisite of climaxes. How he would love to bring Bea to that moment, and to watch her as she experienced her first petite mort .

He would have preferred to linger in the linen closet remembering their kisses. Or to go for a long walk to think about what made that kiss different to anything he’d ever experienced before. Sadly, he was needed at the fête. Anything might have happened while he was absent.

Luke had everything under control, however, though he was pleased to hand over the responsibilities to Alaric. With the increasing number of arrivals, Luke was needed to supervise those who were shepherding carriages, carts, and horses to the prepared waiting areas, and checking pedestrians as they entered at the outer gatehouse.

After that, Alaric had no time to think about anything but the contests, the contestants, and the judges. Or, at least, all the judges who did not happen to be gentry. Beverley was being diligent about looking after the upper class only. The middle sort and the working class were beneath his attention, and Alaric didn’t want to make a fuss while others were around, so he got away with it, the arrogant blellum.

By the time Lord Claddach announced the opening of the fête, the grounds were already crowded. “Has everyone on the entire island downed their tools for the day to come to the fête?” Alaric wondered aloud. The people who were waiting patiently in the sun for the produce tent to open chorused a resounding, “Yes,” though one woman added, “Those who can be spared.”

The contest schedule and Maddrell’s pocket watch were seldom out of Alaric’s hand after that. He had a cadre of contest stewards—footmen, maids, and volunteers from the town—but not a minute went by without a question to be answered, a difficulty to be smoothed, an ego to be stroked. Thank goodness many of the stewards had done this before and could help out when he was stumped.

He moved from contest to contest, staying long enough to congratulate winners, commiserate with losers, and thank judges, then hurry on to the next. Beverley appeared occasionally, escorting a judge he regarded as lofty enough to merit his consideration.

In the heat of the sun, Alaric soon left his cravat in his coat in one of the judges’ tents. Even so, he welcomed the moments under one of the marquees erected to shade the animals, even with the noise and accumulating smell.

Beverley was least in sight when several of the bull pens proved to be more fragile than intended, and a trio of bulls made a break for the pens holding the heifers.

Fortunately, one took exception to the romantic intentions of the other two, and while they were disputing the matter, Alaric managed to organize the owners of the bulls and a number of other islanders, sending a contingent to shore up the bull pens, and setting the others to diverting the bulls toward the pall-mall alley, with its sturdy walls.

Thank goodness for Luke! He saw what was happening and brought the men answering to him to help with the herding, so the incident was soon over, and Alaric could get back to the next contest.

When the last of the contests ended, he still was not finished, though Beverley had left with the judges who were invited to dinner. Someone had to supervise an orderly clean up, and Alaric supposed that someone would be him.

A group of three people—two men and one woman—approached him. Alaric, with an internal sigh, gave them a smile and prepared to listen. He’d met them all in the course of the day, though he’d lost their names in the flood of introductions the day had held. A church warden from the other side of the island, the wife of the island’s foremost boatbuilder, and the town’s mayor. The church warden spoke first.

“Well, boyo, it’s a good job ye’ve done this day.”

“Aye,” said the mayor, “the job of three men.” He chuckled. “Or, I should say, of two men and one woman.”

“And that we know for a fact, you darlin’ man,” declared the boatbuilder’s wife, with a broad smile. “For would’na we three have been after doin’ what you did today if his lordship had’na set you to the task?”

Alaric stared at them, speechless.

“Aye, lad,” the mayor confirmed. “Ye’re looking at the contest steward.” He spread his hands in a gesture that included all three of them.

“We’ve come to take over, boyo,” the church warden told him.

“Ye’ve earned a rest, and so you have,” the boatbuilder’s wife said, kindly.

“Besides, ye’ve got a fine dinner to dress for, I understand,” the mayor reminded him.

It crossed Alaric’s mind to wonder if this was one of Lord Claddach’s tests. Was he supposed to insist on working on till everyone had gone home? But the woman was right. If he did so, he was likely to be late for dinner.

Then Luke strolled up, with Meadowsweet and Fairweather. “Ah, good,” he said, with a nod and a smile at the three islanders. “I see you’ve got your marching orders. Come and walk up to the castle with us.”

Looking up at the path to the castle, Alaric could see others walking that path. “Howard and Dashwood have already gone,” Luke told him.

It must be right, if the others were gone .

He shook the hands of each of the islanders, thanking them. “Not at all, lad,” the mayor said.

“You did us a favor, boyo,” the church warden told him. “First time in years I’ve had fête day off.”

The boatmaker’s wife seized him by the shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss on the cheek, which she then patted. “Thank you, Mr. Redhaven. You’ll do.”

He grabbed his coat and cravat and returned to the castle. Colyn was waiting for him, and there was time for a hot bath and to dress, but not much more. Alaric was not the first in the drawing room, where they were gathering before dinner. He was the first of the suitors. But no. Wait. Beverley was there, in the corner, admiring himself in the mirrored backboard of a tall whatnot.

“Cousin Beverley cannot seem to walk past a mirror.” The wry comment came from Bea, who had stepped up beside him. “He is in love with himself.” He met her gaze and smiled at her. The room suddenly seemed brighter and warmer.

Love. And yes, just so. I have gone and done it , he realized. I have fallen in love with Lady Beatrice Collister .

But then, he realized what she had just said. Ah yes! Beverley’s in love with himself . The thought triggered another. “His love affair with himself,” he repeated, out loud.