Rogues, Rakes & Jewels

Check out this excerpt of

Myriah Fire

One

LONDON, 1813

CASCADING RINGLETS OF fire framed an elf-like countenance of peaches and cream. Dark brows and curling lashes accentuated the almond shape of the blue-green eyes. Champagne organza fell alluringly about a form as delicate as it was provocative, yet the owner of these enviable attributes gazed at her reflection in the gilt-edged looking glass and sighed deeply.

A maid popped her linen-covered head into Lady Myriah’s dressing room and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Tch tch, m’lady, here you be, idling your time away with your papa that anxious for you down in the ballroom! Why, gracious, the music is sweet to hear, and the dancers looking fine as five pence … and here you be, looking that sad! Why, it fair sets me in a huff, it does!” said the middle-aged woman, taking all the liberty that years of faithful service had won her.

Lady Myriah raised an eyebrow, and there was warning in her look though her tone was light. “Now, now, love, don’t be hipped with me. ’Twould never do! I don’t see why I must go down just yet, especially when I feel disinclined.” She stopped abruptly and noted the troubled look on the older woman’s face. “Oh, very well, don’t worry yourself over me, I’ll go,” Myriah said with one of her spontaneous smiles.

“Good girl—’tis that much those fine bucks below be wanting a look at yer sweet face!” her maid said, nodding and returning Myriah’s smile.

“Nonsense, Nelly, love. They have seen it all this season and last! All right, all right, don’t get yourself all puckered up again. I’m going!”

Myriah made her way down the red-carpeted, circular staircase, a slight frown between her eyes. The music floated up and enfolded her gently. Usually its mesmerizing effects lifted her spirits, but now she only sighed.

Whatever is the matter? This one question haunted, irritated, and left her burdened. She did not know the answer, but she did know that she had no wish to hear the music she loved and no need to join the merrily waltzing ton in the ballroom below.

About to embark upon the glorious age of one and twenty, Myriah had already enjoyed two London Seasons and was about to take on her third. Yet the young lady was bored—bored and totally disenchanted with the beau monde, London, and all its frivolous activities.

She was Lady Myriah, the only child of Lord Whitney, and he was well able to indulge her many whims, and he had always seen fit to do so in the past. Lately, however, her worthy father had begun to lose patience with his headstrong darling. She lived in an age where women were supposed to be demure and submissive—which did not work for Myriah.

Beautiful, wealthy, and socially prominent, still Myriah was completely unattached and unspoken for. This last and somewhat astounding fact had not been achieved without some exertion on her part, to be sure, for Myriah had received no less than a dozen offers. Her papa and numerous interested relatives had spent much time and effort in their attempts to convince her that at least four of those offers were most exceptional, but Myriah had held out and refused them all. Perhaps it was because of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels—or her own imagination. She had often heard her aunts pompously deplore her father’s leniency in allowing her to read such material. Perhaps it was Tom Moore’s provocative poems or Sir Walter Scott’s gallants. Regardless of the reason, by the time Myriah had reached her eighteenth year she had become most regrettably romantic. During an age when people of her class married for many excellent reasons, none of them having anything to do with love, she had the very odd notion that love was the most important prerequisite to matrimony. But, strangely, Myriah had never been in love.

She did not pretend her heart, which was as passionate as it was gregarious, had not yet been stirred. Several fine young bucks, in fact, had stirred it very well. However, it had not yet received its coup de grace. Thus it was that Myriah’s heart remained intact, albeit restless and seemingly fickle.

Myriah’s father, however, was not concerned with frivolous notions of romantic love; he had to contend with his sisters, who nagged him non-stop about her behavior. But though the dowagers frowned, though Lady Jersey chastised gently, though Myriah’s relatives wagged their fingers, Lady Myriah’s weighty family name and its accompanying fortune allowed much. So, in spite of her wayward nature, Myriah was as popular as ever with the fawning ton. Amused with her mild indiscretions, they called her ‘naughty puss’ and chuckled over her whimsies.

Myriah accepted their adoration as her due. Still, though she laughed at her aunts’ admonishing, she was aware her father would not tolerate her caprices much longer. He told her he had to get her married and soon. If she didn’t pick out a husband for herself, he was going to damn well do it for her!

Sighing at the thought she had little time before her father would press her to decide, Myriah gazed at the ballroom that lay before her gleaming with hundreds of candles in wall sconces and chandeliers. The marble floor could scarcely be seen as the waltzing feet of fashionable dancers glided around in time to the music.

Beautiful, delicate, and commanding in style, Myriah stood a moment at the entrance before she was surrounded and heralded into the room. Her name was on all their lips. Where had she been? Why hadn’t she come sooner? Promise a dance, Myriah. One for me, Myriah!

Suddenly she felt suffocated. She broke loose with a laugh and caught her father’s eye. He smiled warmly across at her, and she composed herself and blew him a gentle kiss.

“Sweet Myriah, have you a smile for me?” asked a quiet male voice.

She looked up into the face of Sir Roland Keyes, and a twinkle crept into her eyes. Now here was a diversion. “You, sir, have no need of such wispy things,” she said coyly.

“Although I don’t wish to declare you wrong, I need that and much more,” he said, taking her hand and leading her firmly onto the dance floor. They moved in rhythm to the music of the violins, and many eyes glanced curiously at them.

Sir Roland, a bachelor of nine and twenty, had many attractive qualities, and more than one of Lady Myriah’s suitors had noticed her apparent preference for the dratted fellow’s company. Sir Roland’s height was good, and his frame was such as to catch any maid’s eye. His thick, curling locks were auburn with a hint of gold. He always seemed to entertain Lady Myriah with an adroitness that kept her amused.

As the waltz ended, Myriah gazed quizzically up into his bright eyes. “Sweet Myriah, shall we continue our play on the dance floor, or shall we seek privacy??

?? he teased, kissing the wrist of her gloved hand.

“I think, Sir Roland, we had better remain here. I have already found that playing alone with you can be quite dangerous!” countered the lady.

“Dangerous for whom, sweet beauty?”

She laughed amicably, for as always his forwardness excited her. He had skill, and there was no denying it.

“You know very well for whom! Never say you fear for yourself?” she said.