Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

Jack had been a dream. Except surely good dreams did not leave your heart hammering and your mouth dry and the most improper feelings turning your in-sides to jelly.

      ‘Lady Billington says the only thing to be done is to retreat to the country and try again in the summer. Now, where can we go? She suggests Brighton, which means we ought to think about renting something as soon as possible or all the best places will be reserved.’ Mrs Herrick’s brow was furrowed in thought. ‘And what do we tell people?’

      Lily let her cloak fall to the floor and sat down. An hour ago she had been ready to follow her chaperon’s advice and run away. Now she was not so sure. She was unused to not getting what she wanted. Of course Jack was right and there were things money would not buy. But as well as money she had a brain, and pride and—Jack. Not that she was quite certain how he would contribute to her reinstatement in polite society, but there was an idea stirring at the back of her mind.

      ‘Not yet,’ she said slowly, thinking as she spoke. ‘Not until I try something tomorrow, and not until after Lady Frensham’s dance.’

      Chapter Seven

      The next day Jack breakfasted early, applied a plaster to his temple and set out on a round of visits. Two possible investors who had sent cautiously encouraging responses to his letters and Sir James Arbuthnot, considered to be one of the authorities on steam power in the south of England, promised a full day, especially for a man intending to walk and not waste his blunt on hackney carriages. And besides, an early start meant there was no risk of running into Lily.

      Not that the thought of an encounter with Lily was unwelcome—the reverse, in fact, which was what worried him. Jack shifted his portfolio from left hand to right and crossed Oxford Street, flicking a coin to the crossing sweeper as he went. He should never have kissed her. Worse, he was beginning to believe that the earlier kiss, the one he had convinced himself was a feverish dream, had been real.

      Under normal circumstances any young lady twice kissed by a man would have considerable justification for expecting an offer. Jack passed the end of Berners Street, dodging a coal cart, a sedan chair and almost getting his boots splashed with milk from the buckets suspended from the pretty seller’s yoke. ‘Cup of milk, sir? Yours for a penny and a kiss, sir.’ She fluttered her lashes at him and Jack grinned back.

      The smile faded as he strode on towards Bloomsbury. But these were not normal circumstances. The young lady in question could buy him out twenty times over. At least. Just how rich was she? What Lily France wanted was not kisses, but a title and a place in society. She might be surprised by what Jack Lovell could offer her, but a place in London society was not included. In any case, if he fell to one knee and offered her marriage in return for having compromised her, she would laugh in his face. Thank goodness.

      It was a long day, and a mixed one. Sir James had offered encouragement, confirmation that his ideas were not as outlandish as he feared, and some useful papers to read. But no suggestions for investors.

      His two prospects might have been reading from the same script. They were dubious about his projections for the growth of demand for heating coals in London; personally, they preferred to concentrate on the markets in the Midland factories. But the canals did not exist to get the coal to them and they treated Jack’s suggestion that steam power might eventually be harnessed to a network of tramways reaching far out into the country as fantasy. They agreed that it was so used in one or two localities in Wales—but only close to the mines. Steam locomotion was the province of dreamers and visionaries, not down-to-earth businessmen, they explained with a patronising tolerance that set his teeth on edge.

      He was beginning to get heartily sick of keeping his tongue between his teeth. He was used to action, to making his own decisions and not to waiting on other people’s convenience or pandering to their opinion. London made his skin itch. He wanted to tear off his starched neckcloth, tie a red spotted Belcher handkerchief round his neck instead, and go and work off his frustration by wielding a pick alongside the men.

      By the time he reached Chandler Street he was, as he admitted to himself, as cross as a bear with a sore head and within an ames’ ace of packing his bags and going home. His mood was not improved by finding the street outside the house a scene of activity, although this time it was orderly and respectable.

      A groom on foot was holding the reins of a grey gelding that made his mouth water with envy. A second man waited alongside, mounted on a respectable bay cover hack, and Lily’s maid was poised on the steps, a whip and gloves in her hands.

      Other than crossing to the other side and striding past, he had little choice but to slow down and acknowledge the staff. In any event, one close look at the gelding brought him to a standstill. ‘Is this Miss France’s?’

      ‘Aye, sir.’ The head groom was respectful, although what he thought of Jack’s status, given his lodging over the carriage house, Jack could not tell. ‘Her agent bought it for Miss Lily at Tattersalls last week.’ As though recognising the attention, the grey tossed its head and rolled an eye at Jack.

      ‘Something of a handful?’

      ‘Miss Lily’s a good rider, sir, she likes them with a bit of spirit. This one’s not got any harm in him.’

      ‘Admiring Spindrift, Mr Lovell? I am bound for Rotten Row.’ It was Lily, pulling on her gloves and smiling at him from the top step. If she felt any awkwardness after yesterday evening, it did not show. She probably regarded it as a trivial incident or was too innocent for it to cause her any anxiety.

      Not that he could concentrate on her face—he was too struck by her riding habit. A deep sea green, it was form fitting up to her bust where the plain fabric was laced and ornamented by row after row of military frogging. There was a pert little jacket made without fastenings, which served only to emphasise her curves. The sleeves were cut and frogged, the shoulders of the jacket bore epaulettes and the train of the habit swept over her arm.

      To top it off, she wore an outrageous hat, modelled vaguely on a shako. But no soldier ever wore anything as frivolous as this concoction with its cockade of French lace and its plume of ostrich feathers.

      The whole outfit was ostentatious, showy and extreme and Jack realised, quite against his expectation, that she looked magnificent in it. He found that his mouth was open and shut it hastily. Lily was regarding him with a twinkle in her eye and he saw that she, too, knew just what effect she was having and what a figure she would cut as she rode her eye-catching horse in Hyde Park at the height of the fashionable hour. It was a declaration of war on her part.

      No wonder I love her. The thought came into his mind unbidden and he fought to control the shock and his expression. No! Impossible …

      Now what is the matter with the man? Lily buttoned her second glove, took her whip from Janet and came down the remainder of the steps. Jack had looked quite pleased to see her, not at all embarrassed after yesterday evening, which she was afraid he might be. Now he was looking positively stony. Perhaps he had seen her own feelings reflected in her face and that had annoyed him. Perhaps he was afraid she would expect something of him after that kiss.

      Drat. She had thought she could manage matters so they could remain friends, despite the fact that her heart was thudding at the sight of him and her mind whirling with the thought that perhaps he might kiss her again. And she had thought for a moment that he understood why she was wearing her outrageous new habit. But, no, doubtless he saw only that it was ostentatious and, in his eyes, vulgar.

      ‘What do you think of my horse?’ she persisted, determined now to get a response from him other than disapproval and a blank face. And Jack Lovell, once he assumed that flinty expression, looked every bit as forbidding as she imagined his blighted northern crags to be.

      ‘Very fine. I was admiring him—and coveting him for my eldest sister, Caroline. She is an accomplished rider.’

      Approval for something at last! ‘I am exceedingly pleased with him.’ Lily ran her hand down the horse’s neck, then let Peters give her a leg up into the saddle. He sidled and she let him for a moment before