Taffeta & Hotspur

He did in fact follow Taffy as she came to stand beside her brother and she said, “Seth, what news in Parliament of Wellington, and what is your guess as to his future plans?” There, she thought, that should get the men talking.

“Devil is in it so no one can hazard a guess,” her brother answered with a frown.

“Not so,” corrected the marquis falling, as Taffy suspected, into the conversation. “Everyone has been guessing, but no one knows how far off his guess may be.”

She could see he thought himself very clever. She also noted Tarrant was watching her with interest. It appeared to her the rogue players in the room each had their agenda. Well, well … what is Tarrant doing now? He had risen from the sofa, leaving Catherine to his friend, Fenmore, and was unobtrusively making his way toward her. She felt a trickle of anticipation. She felt a shiver shoot straight up her spine. She felt drawn to him as he stalked panther-like toward her as though claiming possession of his prey. Oddly enough, she wanted him centered on her, even if he presently thought of her as prey. She knew she wasn’t … and she knew what she wanted.

Tarrant spoke to her brother, and she realized at once, the two had developed a friendship of sorts. How very strange, she thought.

“I think you are in the right of it, Seth.” To Taffy, he bent his head and whispered in her ear, “That was neatly contrived.”

She gave him a brilliant smile. He was so knowing—so up on every thing. It was most irritating.

What then, had he had noticed her friend was uncomfortable in Bruton’s company? Had he watched to see how she would handle the situation? Something inside of her lit with pride. He had approved, but something else berated her. Why should I care if he approved or not?

The men went on to discuss Wellington and Napoleon, and she quietly returned to her friend, sat with her, and pated her hand. “What we need, Cath … is some private time,” she whispered and was pleased to see her friend nod and give her fingers a light squeeze.

Some moments later, Tarrant bent over her hand and said, “Tomorrow then, sunbeam—a ride with me and my matched grays?” His voice cajoled, but it wasn’t necessary. She was more than willing to ride in a high perched phaeton for she had never done so before. She was also aware, all too aware, of the disappointment she felt when she realized he was leaving.

“Well as to that, I could never pass up a chance to ride with you in your phaeton, now could I? I am told that to be seen in your company must add considerably to my consequence.”

“Used, abused, and cut down in my prime by a snip of a girl!” he pronounced and chuckled heartily. He reached and tweaked her nose. His friend, Fenmore, nodded to him and said he would meet him at the club later, and returned his attention to Miss Frome.

Bruton descended on Taffy who decided to keep his attention away from her friend. She used flirtatious banter to accomplish this and saw her aunt heartily disapproved. Later, she would have to tell her aunt she was simply running interference because Catherine did not like Bruton.

Sighing heavily when she had a free moment from all these maneuvers, she realized what was most discombobulating was the fact she missed Tarrant the moment he walked out of the room. It was absurd. She wasn’t even sure she liked him—how could she miss him?

~*~

Taffy knew all about Vauxhall Gardens. It was a deliciously opulent place where those who wanted could hide in the darkness and steal a kiss and more—so much more.

Weeping willows hung with a welcoming and sensual invitation, affording lovers their secrets from the curious. Tulips and daffodils were arranged in a wild bold profusion of colors and were deliciously inviting to the eye.

Rogues, ladies, the elite, and the lowly strutted in their own style, as the Gardens were open to all. Youths laughed, dowagers clucked, and nearly everyone there felt at least a moment’s thrill.

It was the beginning of the Season, and Vauxhall was ablaze with torches and the newly installed gas lamps. Music filled the air. Jugglers and jesters paraded in mischievous abandon. Roués ogled, and Lady Taffeta drank it all in with innocent wonder.

“Cathy, are you as astounded as I?”

Her friend laughed and shook her head, “It is all a bit much for me, although I was surprised by Vauxhall the first time I was here last year.”

“It is all so full of wonder and yet oddly appalling at the same time.”

Catherine sighed, and then as though confessing a sin said, “I think I wasn’t made for all this gadding about.”

Taffeta laughed, “Isn’t it absurd, Cath? I swore I would hate London … and here I am enjoying every minute, and you always swore London was just the place for you … and have discovered that it is not.”

At that moment their attention was captured by a jester atop the circular wall that framed an ornate fountain. He lost his balance and tumbled into the water, throwing the Taffy and her friend into uninhibited mirth. When they had eased up on their laughter, Taffeta touched her friend’s arm and said, “There … that is better, you are smiling. Now, tell me before anyone comes to interrupt us, What is wrong, Cathy? For something is, and why are you frightened of Bruton?”

“Taffy … I … we … this is not the place … oh look, there is Lord Tarrant!”

Taffy turned and saw him, and for a brief moment, she was filled with a sensation she could not name, and then she saw an astoundingly pretty woman leaning into him and nibbling with wantonness at his ear.

Taffy felt a flood of emotion and immediately recognized it as jealousy. Jealousy? she silently asked herself. Impossible.

“Who is that beautiful woman with him?”

“Oh, that is the famous Mrs. Connors.”