Thea Devine - Fascinated

But the Book at Heeton's was the be-all and end-all of the Club. It was infinitely more exclusive than the one at White's, private, secure and sacrosanct; nothing written in the Book ever went beyond the doors of Heeton's for fear of total ostracism, and The Four Crack Hands guarded it as if it were the crown jewels.

Bodley was the Keeper. "Here's a familiar face, gentlemen"-he raised a toast-"and not a wager as to when he might reappear amongst the living after dispensing with the fair Marguerite…"

Jeremy blanched as he shook hands all around. Marguerite? After all this time? Still?

"How did we slip up on that plum pot…?" This was Berkleigh already calculating guineas lost, a sum that didn't bear thinking about. "When did you get back to Town, exactly?"

"Three days ago. I didn't snuff it, gentlemen. I've been rusticating. And now I'm back in full cry. So what's to do?"

"Oh, you're a one," Fallowell now. "You think you ain't chatter broth already? Let me disabuse you of that notion. Even if we didn't know, every matchmaking mother in Town was aware to the instant when you stepped foot back in Port-man Square."

It was so true, he had to smile. An eligible man was nothing short of a bon bon, to be savored, chewed over, and eventually swallowed whole by one or another of the beauties of the Season.

It was every man's destiny-when he wasn't being a remedy; when he wasn't educating a virgin to be a mistress. When he wasn't being swallowed whole by her.

Oh, God____________________

"Speaking of that," he said, his voice raw, "what's the Book this week?"

"You won't believe it."

"Try me."

"Raulton."

Jeremy lifted a brow. Worse and worse. Damn damn damn….

"It's true. He's been prowling the sidelines and the on dit is he's out to hang up the ladle." The amusement factor was enough to send Bodley into transports. "And there's much interest in some quarters. They're pounding deep on this one," he added, patting the Book.

"Who's the front line?" Jeremy asked, casually, he hoped.

Bodley ticked off the names. "Miss Law, The Honorable Miss Garland, Lady Olney, Miss Soames. This week anyway."

"A tidy cat-patch," Jeremy commented impassively. Re-gina's name booked? Already? Damn, damn, damn and hell.

"Your presence could kick things up a bit," the reticent Rustington suggested

"I daresay it will." Jeremy took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. God, if he thought he needed liquid sustenance before, it was nothing to how he needed it now. Those bettors were among the highest flyers in the land, Personages who didn't discuss their business in public. Or their vices.

Raulton's matrimonial chances would be fair game at White's within days, by the looks of it. Too many people were talking already, and that inevitably and always led to book.

Damn and hell.

He had no time at all to get Regina out of the line of fire.

"And so how did it end with the fair Marguerite?" Berk-leigh asked.

Damn again. They were as insatiably curious as women. Better he dispense the story of his congé than let them speculate. At least his version would be all around Town by morning. "As you might imagine, gentlemen. She caught a warmer scent and she rode out of town without a backward glance." That they all understood. Who hadn't been given the mitten by a ladylove whose affection was sold to whomever was plumpest in the pocket?

"Ah, poor Jeremy." Bodley again. "It is ever the way with them dashers. Damned shame, but there it is. Well, welcome back, my boy. And let us toast the indomitable Marguerite, wherever she may be." He lifted his champagne flute. "May she be dished up and dashed down and never make another man miserable again…"

So there it was. She had permitted a man to touch her, to possess her in the most intimate and erotic way, and she saw nothing different about herself when she looked in the mirror.

Maybe a little different. Her eyes were brighter; her skin seemed to glow. Perhaps she stood a little taller to emphasize her breasts. She was tellingly aware of her body and her capacity for sensual gratification.

She felt strong, powerful. There was a world of knowledge in her bearing and in her gaze.

And she felt no shame. Rather, every part of her felt sumptuous, carnal, untamed. Clothed, she felt her body spurt to life at her intemperate thoughts. Jeremy must must must come back to her tonight.

But that was not to the point this morning. She was so late to breakfast, her father would already have ordered his midday meal, and there was no ducking that.

It was just that he would be over concerned about her, about the pace of their days and their social commitments being too much for her.

And now they were, she thought irritably, as she checked her hem one more time and then made her way downstairs. Now she wanted every evening free for Jeremy, even supposing he would come to her every evening; anything else seemed insipid and banal.

But this game must be played as well. And she must contain her impatience and her clamoring body, which, even as she entered the dining room, was erect to all the possibilities of the day.

"Father." She seated herself and poured a cup of tea.

"Regina. Are you all right, my dear?"

"Oh, yes." She sipped. Easier not to talk.

"And Jeremy saw to everything last night? He said you had a headache."

"He was solicitous as ever you would be, I promise you. I spent the night in bed." Not a lie. Not wholly the truth. "And I'm up to the mark for whatever's on tonight." Yes, yes. She had to be, because she saw clearly she couldn't be lolling around waiting for him. That would be the height of folly and confer far too much power on him and his prowess.

Her body stiffened.

Don't think about it…

"I'm glad to hear it," Reginald said. "It is but a small party at the Petleys'-cards, refreshments, perhaps some dancing. Nothing onerous. Everything amiable and early home. Do you feel the thing? Will you come?"

"I'm happy to," she murmured. Anything to preserve the pretense that nothing had changed.

Everything had changed, and she became more aware of it by the minute, not least her consuming impatience over the trivialities of the day. Receiving guests. The ride in the park. The hour calling on friends and acquaintances. Another half hour shopping for furbishments at Clark and Debenham. Over to Hatchard's for a book that she likely wouldn't read. A nap, fruitless by herself alone. A bath, which only served to heighten her awareness of her body.

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.