The Belligerent Miss Boynton AND The Lurid Lady Lockport (Two Companion Full-Length Regency Novels)

Affaire de Coeur
, on
The Belligerent Miss Boynton
:

"Surely one of the best regency romances of any year ... a story one hopes will simply go on and on ... the most enchanting characters to be encountered in years."

Critical awards for
The Lurid Lady Lockport
:

Voted
Romantic Times
Reviewers Choice Best Regency Comedy of the Year (1984)

Romance Writers of America RITA winner for Best Regency of the Year (1984)

The Belligerent Miss Boynton
A Regency Novel
By
Kasey Michaels

First published in paperback by Avon Books, 1982.
Electronic Edition Copyright 2011 Kathryn A. Seidick

The Lurid Lady Lockport
A Regency Novel
By
Kasey Michaels

First published in paperback by Avon Books, 1984.
Electronic Edition Copyright 2011 Kathryn A. Seidick

Learn more about the author and her books at
www.KaseyMichaels.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author. This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Tammy Seidick

www.TammySeidickDesign.com

As far as the
Beau Monde
was concerned, the center of the Civilized World in 1811—now that Paris was lamentably in the clutches of that upstart Corsican and no longer open to them—was their own fair metropolis of London. After all, the metropolis had everything. Fashion. Frivolity. Foibles.

And best of all—it could boast of the most delicious gossip.

The first few gray, damp months of the year had already produced many newsworthy
bon mots
, all debated and discussed and dissected within the drawing rooms of the mighty few who presided over Society with wills and rules of iron.

The Prince of Wales, charming Florizel himself, had at last wheedled Parliament into passing the Regency Bill, finally gaining for himself some little bit of power, and dazzling his long–suffering creditors with his new importance—all while tumbling ever more deeply into their debt. But none of that was more interesting than speculation over the identity of his newest mistress.

That pesky Little Corporal might now claim most of Europe as his own, but England still ruled the seas, and as long as French silks and brandy could be smuggled into the country, Society glibly ignored the hubbub across the Channel.

Oh, no. Of much more importance to those pampered pets of Mayfair were the current
on-dits
about the eccentricities of, among others, that odd but harmless peer, Sir Lumley Skeffington. Better known as Skiffy, the dear gentleman had taken to penning mediocre plays and—horror of horrors—painting and perfuming himself with a liberal hand before strolling about the town in satin suits of varied but equally ghastly hues.

The
ton
tittered behind their goose-skin fans as they made absurd conjectures as to the persons Lord Alvanley had in mind when he'd scribbled in his Club betting book: "Lord Alvanley bets Sir Joseph Coply twenty guineas that a certain person outlives another certain person." Could it be Prinney and poor mad King George themselves his lordship had in mind? And who was to outlive whom? Ah, how delicious!

As the Spring Season neared, Society's attention became more and more centered on opening night at Almacks. Only the most lofty of their number were allowed entrance, of course, to drink its insipid warm refreshments, play at tame card games for tamer stakes, and dance to tunes a clutch of weary musicians halfheartedly ground out hour after endless hour. Here the matrimonial hopes of the maiden and the aspirations of her mama could be piqued and satisfied or mercilessly dashed forever in the space of one country dance.

And it was on the opening night of Almacks in that first flush of the Regency that a most deliciously titillating charade was to be played out before the avid eyes of this same exalted, easily titillated Society that prized a
scandale
above all things...

Jared Delaney bowed low over his partner's hand after he returned her to her hovering mama, then left her to regale the turbaned dowager with a word-for-word recitation of everything the handsome, eligible Lord Storm had said during their turn on the floor.

He strolled away, his lips curled into a secret smile as he recalled the girl's blushes when he had commented on the "fetching" neckline of her gown as they had come together during one of the movements in a boring country dance.

The giggling girl had only trod heavily on Jared's foot in her sudden agitation, but there had always been the chance that she would collapse in a horrified swoon in the middle of the floor—which would have rendered the exercise well worth a little personal pain. Anything, anything at all that might relieve the crushing boredom of his enforced visit to this absurd Marriage Mart.

As he considered the possibility of an early exit from the building, Jared spied his aunt beckoning to him from across the room, a Chatsworth chit done up like a Christmas pudding clutched to her side. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for his beloved Aunt Agatha, but he'd be damned if he'd squire that antidote. Miss Charity Chatsworth was cursed with a decided cast to one eye, so that one never knew which eye to look into when she spoke—not that she had ever said anything of interest in her entire life, which Jared considered to be her true fatal flaw. Not a one of the Chatsworth females was up to snuff, which was a pity for Baron Chatsworth, as there were so many of them.

Ignoring his aunt's frustrated signals, Jared quickly changed direction and made for the foyer, where perhaps he could bury himself until he could politely retire. He doubted he could avoid his aunt for long, as he was a big man, nearly a full head taller than most of the gentlemen present, and with the broad shoulders and slim hips of the sportsman. His profile, reflected in a nearby gilt-edge mirror, was a study in planes and angles, softened only by startling blue eyes that were surrounded by absurdly long, coal black lashes his aunt had once, to his horror, described as giving him the look of a fallen angel. Idly, he inspected his reflection, and giving an unaffected push to an unruly black curl that had burst the confines of his studiously casual Windswept style, he then silently cursed himself for at least the fifth time in as many minutes for being precisely where he'd promised himself he would not be, not ever again.

He had been lingering in the foyer for some minutes, wondering when his Aunt Agatha would realize the futility of her plan to snare him in some parson's mousetrap, when his attention, and his interest, were caught by a movement near the door.

First to enter through the hallowed portal was a little mouse of a woman, her thin cheeks flushed, her turban slightly askew. Hers was an understandable dishevelment, Jared supposed, as the hour had crept dangerously close to eleven—after which time not even Prinney himself would dare try gain entry to the Assembly.

Jared decided her charge must be unconscionably vain to have take this long at her toilette, then pushed himself away from the wall, his interest not extending to bearing witness to the arrival of yet another simpering debutante. Besides, it was time he ignobly sought out another bolthole safely out of his marriage-minded aunt's way. He wasn't being very brave, he knew, but he did have a healthy respect for Aunt Agatha's determination.

He had taken only a few steps in the direction of the main rooms when the door opened wider and a small female shape huddled in a black velvet evening cloak moved into the room.

As the young woman passed through the doorway she shook her head free of its enveloping hood, and Jared's breath unexpectedly hissed audibly through his teeth. She had hair as dark as night, yet shot through with flashes of gold as though lit from within; hair which cascaded in enticing curls from the topknot on her head, while wispy tendrils caressed her slim white neck. Intriguing...

But it was her face that captured and held Jared's frank interest. Brows like raven's wings perched above her darkly fringed, tilted eyes which—incongruously—reminded him of the color of old gold coins, and her pert nose, deep rose lips, and a stubborn, pointed chin all fitted nicely into her small face.

Gorgeous, Jared decided. Eminently gorgeous. And most definitely intriguing.

Two high spots of color appeared on the young woman's creamy cheeks as her gaze swept the room and finally encountered Jared's lazy, faintly mocking smile. Her expression immediately became imperious, one brow lifted in mocking derision, so that he found himself looking away in something akin to embarrassment—not a familiar sensation. He felt a quick, fleeting sense of anger at the infant. Who was this chit to openly bait him? And who was he, that he should feel even momentarily unsure of himself? Not that she would ever know he'd had a moment's confusion as he returned her look, stare for haughty stare.

He was about to introduce himself, dazzle her a bit with his infamous Delaney charm, when a footman relieved the girl of her cloak. The little mouse gasped as the gown beneath the rich velvet was revealed. Jared merely blinked. But, then, he had long ago learned to mask his emotions beneath a smile, a joke, or a casually cutting remark.

In a practiced and calculated move, Jared lifted his quizzing glass to his eye and proceeded to visually inventory the outrageously rigged-out young beauty. Strong men had been known to pale when the dangerous Lord Storm used his famous glass on them, although he sensed that this girl, this small, delicious slip of feminine illogic, probably didn't know that. Or much care, for that matter.

As the young woman proved his assumption correct by lifting her chin in an unspoken challenge, Jared's grossly magnified eye raked over a gown of dark golden silk—a color no debutante would dare wear, let alone to Almacks—its simple lines accenting a small but perfect body. Tiny puff sleeves capped creamy shoulders, and then the material plunged to a deeply squared neckline that did no credit to the girl's modiste, as it was sadly puckered in places, and a few rather large stitches were obvious to even the undiscerning eye.

Black velvet ribbons encircling her neck and accenting the high waistline, as well as the tiny matching bows marching along the hemline, did nothing to soften the gown's flamboyancy. She wore no jewelry over elbow length kid gloves other than two thin hammered–gold bracelets studded with topaz .

Innocence and decadence combined to shake Jared loose from his practiced ennui, as he was more than agreeable to being amazed by the sight of this perfect form clothed by this most impossible gown.

After slicing a quick, concerned look to her whimpering chaperone, the girl returned an assessing gaze to Jared's face, obviously searching out his reaction to her appearance. Her eyes lit with undisguised pleasure and she favored him with a dazzling smile—disclosing small white teeth and turning her pretty face into a thing of perfect beauty.

The quizzing glass fell unheeded to Jared's waistcoat as he made haste to cross to her side, all his boredom forgotten. Bless Aggie for insisting he attend Almacks first session. This little hellion, he felt sure, promised to be much more amusing than Faro till dawn at White's.

The small, silent byplay between Jared and the unknown girl took but a few moments, just long enough, in fact, for the little gray mouse to build herself into a high flight of hysteria. Her whimpers not fading a whit, she finally found her tongue to exclaim, "Oh, Miss Amanda!" at which point the poor lady's knees promptly buckled under the weight of her distress. She would have toppled headlong to the floor except for Jared's intervention, as he quickly stepped forward, deftly intercepted her downward spiral, then easily supported the swooning female with one arm until a footman could secure a chair for her in a nearby alcove.