Regency Masquerade

Chapter Eleven

Downstairs, Lord Carleton finished his dinner in solitary state; Mrs Madden, as usual, having refused to join him. Alone, he found himself dwelling on Rosamond's duplicity. Why had she led him on to think she would welcome his attentions if she was in love with someone else? He didn't think now, that he had really loved her but it had been close - he called for a second bottle of claret.

It was a pity Peter had gone to bed, he could have talked him out of the black mood that was pressing down on him. He sat for a long time gazing into the fire and drinking steadily. Eventually he stood up rather carefully and made his way up to bed. The household had retired and quietness lay over everything like a blanket, the light he carried threw vast shadows over the walls.

When he reached his room he looked around for Fanshaw before remembering he had told him not to wait up. Oh well, surely he could manage to take off his own boots for once. He undressed with careful concentration, not that he was by any means drunk by Jove, no, just a little tired. The faint glow from the fire showed the curtains still open around the bed and - he froze. There was a girl's face on the pillow, a girl actually sleeping in his bed!

His mind confused by the claret, he didn't stop to think who it could be or how she had got there. There was only one reason a woman would be in his bed and his first reaction was to throw her out. Before he had even moved however, he had second thoughts. Why not take advantage of what was offered for once? It had been so long since he had slept with a woman. Casting caution to the winds he leant across the bed and kissed the soft lips.

Startled grey eyes opened and the mouth was wrenched away from his. A strong hand thrust him back and a voice cried "No! My lord!" in a shocked, fierce, horrifyingly familiar tone.

In a flash, Carleton was standing back from the bed, his face white with shock. "Oh God! I'm sorry - I didn't - I thought - Oh my God!" he repeated, gathered his clothes up in one arm and fled.

Frances stared after him, her heart thudding like a hammer. What in the name of heaven had he been thinking? He'd looked devastated at her reaction, but how could he seriously believe she would just fall in to his arms? It took a while for her jangled brain to realise Carleton had not been horrified because he thought he had kissed a woman, he thought he had just kissed Peter Francis.

The disaster ran round and round in her mind like a mouse in a cage, trying to find a way out. For a brief moment she considered packing her bags and climbing out the window, but that smacked of bad melodrama. On a more practical note, her boots and breeches were still in the care of Fanshaw, she would have to leave in the morning. Could she pretend she did not remember what had happened? She fell into an uneasy sleep.

Morning came eventually, but no further solution had occurred to her by the time she had packed her bags and made her way down to the breakfast room. To her great relief it was empty. Her stomach was churning, and she helped herself to coffee, unable to face the thought of food. What could she say to him?

Carleton came in. Frances went bright red and could not meet his eyes. "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, "I'll go straight away."

"I suppose that's the only thing to do," Carleton replied, his voice harsh with strain. He cleared his throat and continued jerkily. "Will you believe me when I say I did not know it was you? I had forgotten we'd changed rooms and when I saw you ... I thought -" he stopped. He could hardly say he'd thought Peter was a girl! "God knows what I thought, but I didn't think it was you, Peter!"

"I know," the words came out in a whisper.

"My God, if I was another type of man I could laugh about this and pretend it was all a jest in poor taste!" He paused again. "You won't - won't speak of this to anyone?"