The Mad Herringtons Read online

  Cover

  The Mad Herringtons

  Aphrodite Herrington has always been the prim and sensible member of an otherwise outrageous family—her parents frequently display an unseemly amount of public affection, while her siblings must forever be rescued from their own compromising situations. And as much as she loves them, she’s grown weary of being their keeper and wishes only to find a steady man with whom she can have a calm and quiet marriage. Thankfully, the very staid and predictable Frederick Horne has made just such a proposal to her.

  Thomas, Viscount Warwick, is everything Frederick is not. As one of society’s most scandalous rakes, Warwick has a reputation for openly moving from one flirt to another without a care for their well-being. With a bemused smirk he’s vowed never to fall in love himself, but happily joins his cousin Frederick at their family estate to celebrate the forthcoming announcement of Frederick’s betrothal to Aphrodite.

  But Warwick and Aphrodite share a secret from their past, a chaste yet meaningful kiss that broke her heart and left him wanting more. As Aphrodite’s family descends on the estate in their usual chaotic fashion and all the partygoers strike up new and surprising liaisons, a suddenly love-struck Warwick and passionately awakened Aphrodite must decide whether to throw caution and common sense to the wind to embrace the promise of a true love they’ve found in each other.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2002 by Jane Myers Perrine.

  Material excerpted from Persy and the Prince copyright © 2003 by Jane Myers Perrine.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-940846-18-7

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Excerpt from Persy and the Prince

  Books by Jane Myers Perrine

  About the Author

  Classic Regency Romances

  Chapter 1

  The Mad Herringtons.

  Blast them all! Aphrodite Herrington cursed to herself.

  Through the swirling white of the debutantes’ gowns, the deep blue of the coats worn by the gentlemen and the brilliant hues of the waistcoats favoured by dandies, in the light of hundreds of candles, Aphrodite could just catch a glimpse of her parents. She glanced at them for a moment, unable to tear her eyes from the glorious couple, then blushed and turned away.

  At Almack’s, the most exclusive assembly rooms in London, where the crème of society came to observe the mating ritual of the seven hundred, Aphrodite’s father and mother, the Marquis and Marchioness of Temple, seduced each other to music while the ton danced and gaped. Polite society gaped politely, of course, behind fans and over padded shoulders, but, nonetheless, they gaped.

  Aphrodite peeked over her shoulder and caught sight of her mother walking her slender white—and shockingly gloveless—fingers up the marquis’s neck and through his thick hair. The marquis looked at his wife with a passion usually reserved for a new chère amie in a bedroom covered with scarlet velvet, or so Aphrodite had heard.

  “Isn’t it romantic?” Athena, Aphrodite’s younger sister, said breathlessly as her mother placed her other hand behind her husband’s head and pulled his lips toward hers. “Oh, I want to find a man to love the way Mama loves Papa.”

  “I would think it excessively uncomfortable, not to mention demanding, and exhausting.” Aphrodite shifted her eyes toward her sister, who appeared lovely and innocent, an exterior which belied the underlying folly that infected the entire family except Aphrodite herself. Athena’s dark lashes fluttered over ethereally blue eyes and fanned translucent skin and pink cheeks. Then Athena’s gaze crept around the room and pounced upon the Viscount Warwick.

  Aphrodite’s eyes followed Athena’s glance to Warwick, heir to the Earl of Wharton. “No, Athena.” She could read her younger sister’s thoughts as if they were written across her alabaster forehead, which, for all practical purposes, they were. Again, with the exception of Aphrodite, the Herringtons’ faces conveyed every impression, every absurd idea that passed through their artless but passion-filled brains.

  “He’s so handsome, Ditie.”

  “Yes, I know,” Aphrodite admitted. Warwick was taller than any of the other men. His blue-black hair had been fashionably sculpted around a face of such beauty that it was only saved from being feminine by a crooked nose and a pair of thick, dark eyebrows. When Warwick turned to talk to Fothergill, his muscular body showed through impeccable unmentionables and broad shoulders rippled under his perfectly fitted coat.

  Aphrodite ruthlessly forced down a frisson that Warwick’s appearance caused and said, “But he’s not the man for you. He’s a man of society, hardened. He wouldn’t treat you the way you should be treated. He flirts outrageously and has other women . . .”

  “Mistresses, Ditie?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  The tears that gathered in Athena’s eyes didn’t mar her beauty. They only made her eyes sparkle like diamonds shimmering through the clear, blue water of a fathomless pond. “I wouldn’t like for my husband to have a woman friend, other than me, or you, or, perhaps, Mama.”

  “You should be first in his heart, Athena,” Aphrodite agreed. “You deserve that.” She turned and searched the floor, delighted that her parents had waltzed from her sight and onto the balcony. Her eyes fell on the young sprig who came toward them. “Mr. Horne is an unexceptionable young man. Why don’t you dance with him?”

  “Ditie, I believe he wants to lead you out.”

  Indeed, the young man stopped before Aphrodite and bowed. “May I have this dance?”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Horne. I do not waltz, and Athena has not received approval from the patronesses to waltz.”

  “Please forgive me.” The young man straightened and looked into Aphrodite’s face. “Neither do I perform that scandalous dance. Please do not believe that I would ask a woman of such high standards to join me in flaunting good taste. A most wicked activity. I don’t believe a woman of good reputation can be comfortable standing within a man’s arm while oth
ers witness their intimacy.”

  “But Mama and Papa . . .” Athena began.

  “Are married,” Aphrodite completed the sentence.

  “But next is a country dance and the sets will be forming in a few minutes. If you would grant me the pleasure?”

  “I would be delighted,” Aphrodite said with a tilt of her head.

  When the waltz ended, Mr. Horne led Aphrodite onto the floor. Although her partner had to concentrate on his steps to the virtual exclusion of conversation, she was pleased to find in the few sentences they exchanged that Mr. Horne was so nice in his manners and that his beliefs were close to hers.

  “It is a delight to meet a man so young but with his ideas so mature and well-founded,” Aphrodite said as the dance ended and her partner escorted her to a chair.

  “I owe it to my mother. A most unusual woman with great strength of character.”

  “I have not met her.” Aphrodite settled herself on one of the gilt chairs, and Mr. Horne sat next to her. “Is she spending the season in London?”

  “No, she hasn’t visited here for many years. Her health has never been good but she insisted that I come for the season. I do return home to see her often. Not from duty, but because I have always found her to be the wisest of women.”

  “Oh, Mr. Horne, you are a good son.”

  “Thank you, my lady. It’s not a quality admired by many of the ton.”

  “Those who judge by higher standards find love of parents a characteristic to respect.”

  “If you will excuse me?” A voice came from above the two. Aphrodite looked up to see Warwick. “May I have this dance, Miss Herrington?”

  “As you can see, I am engaged in a conversation with Mr. Horne.”

  “Aah, but you can always converse with Horne.” Warwick took Aphrodite’s arm, lifted her from the chair and led her onto the floor.

  “That was high-handed,” she complained as he began the steps of the dance.

  “Certainly you didn’t want to continue your conversation with Horne?”

  “Should I not?” Aphrodite turned to the gentleman on her right and bowed.

  “He’s the most boring . . .” Aphrodite thought Warwick had said but she wasn’t sure, for the steps of the dance had taken him away from her.

  “He believes just as he should,” she said when Warwick returned to stand next to her.

  He looked down at her; his eyes held a look she couldn’t decipher. He was studying her but his expression was not the warm one she had extinguished in other men with a few words spoken in a carefully modulated voice.

  “You really do find Horne an interesting conversationalist?” he asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

  Aphrodite turned away from him again as the dance required, then said as she was once again close enough to her partner to speak, “Not exactly interesting but very well-mannered and comme il faut.”

  “Oh, yes, very comme il faut. You find that attractive in a man?”

  “I would not expect you to understand, but it is enjoyable to talk to a man of sense,” Aphrodite said as steps of the dance parted them.

  “Enjoyable?”

  “And unusual. It’s worthwhile to talk to a man of superior understanding.”

  “Understanding superior to whose?” Warwick said as he turned away from her and back.

  Was he struggling not to laugh? Aphrodite wondered. His lips were quivering. Certainly not! Their conversation was hardly amusing, nor did people ever find what she said to be entertaining. “Superior to the conversation of the fribbles who inhabit these halls or who attend the balls and assemblies of the ton.”

  “Would you say most members of the ton are fribbles?”

  “Many are.”

  “Please excuse me, Lady Aphrodite, but I must ask. Are you really a Herrington?”

  She stared at him, but the glare that had withered dozens of young men glanced off him. “Of course I am,” she stated. “However, I am unlike the other Herringtons.”

  At that instant, her parents glided past her. They waltzed in spite of the fact that the orchestra played and the rest of the assembly danced to a quadrille.

  “I am different from the other Herringtons,” she said, with conviction echoing in her voice.

  “I thought so. With any other Herrington woman, if I were to whisper in her ear . . .” As he moved around her in step to the music, Warwick dropped his mouth to speak into what Aphrodite discovered was a most sensitive area. “If I were to whisper in the ear of one of your sisters, she would shiver, delightfully.”

  Aphrodite turned away from the Marquis, bit her lip, and took a deep breath. She forced herself, with an effort of which she hadn’t known she was capable, to continue the steps of the dance, keep her voice level, and not display the shiver he had foretold, although the intimacy of his touch sent an amazing flutter through her entire body. She could only hope no one was aware of her heaving chest. “Indeed? And why is that?” she asked with remarkable control.

  The intricate steps of the dance occupied both until Aphrodite again took Warwick’s arm. “Aah, because they are Mad Herringtons, ruled by passion. And you, of course, are not.”

  “I, clearly, am not.”

  After Warwick escorted her back to a gilt chair, Aphrodite sought refuge in the retiring room. To the surprise of all the women who were there to repair a torn hem or smooth an unruly curl, she opened the window and leaned out, taking deep breaths and fanning herself.

  “It is quite brisk for a spring day,” one of the women stated, but Aphrodite ignored her.

  How does he do it? she wondered. How could a man leave a woman in such a dither? Her heart still hammered, and she knew her cheeks must be crimson—and fifteen minutes had passed. Oh, he was everything his reputation said. She doubted any woman could withstand such an assault.

  “What a fool you are,” she whispered. “You can. You are not just any Herrington. You are Aphrodite Myrabella Herrington and can handle a host of Warwicks.” With that, she closed the window, turned and strode toward the ballroom.

  • • •

  The next day, floral tributes came for Athena: posies from all the young men who had drowned in the depths of her eyes, the cards stated. As she opened each, Athena held the bouquets away from her, careful not to allow any leaves to land on her enchanting morning gown of white lace with a rose underslip.

  “I just wish these bouquets did not shed so,” she complained as she brushed an offending petal from her lap.

  For Aphrodite there were flowers sent by both Mr. Horne and Warwick. From Mr. Horne, a corsage of white carnations. Tasteful and exactly what a well-mannered young man would send.

  From Warwick came a yellow rose nestled in a bed of red ones. The card read, “Beautiful and unique.”

  “Oh, did you get one from Warwick, too?” Athena shouted. “I did too—pink roses, and the note says, ‘To a rare beauty.’” She leaned back in the chair covered in rose satin that accented her fair beauty and her pale blond hair so well.

  “It’s obvious that you have snared another admirer.” Aphrodite placed the roses back in their box and admired Mr. Horne’s tribute. She sat across from her sister in a straight-backed chair, next to the carved table with lion’s feet where she had placed her two bouquets. Her robe was of a dark green chambray, a colour which, she always thought, complimented her light auburn hair and brought out the shades of green in her eyes. Not, of course, that she was in the least bit vain or cared to emphasize what others might consider her best points.

  “Why would the man you say is my admirer send flowers to you?” Athena furrowed her perfect brow as she struggled to understand the concept.

  “I would imagine he hopes to win me over so he will have success with you.”

  “Oh. How odd. Why would he do that, Ditie?”

  “I would imagine he knows I do not approve of him and his crowd.”

  “But all of this is imagination?” Athena asked with rare insight. “I didn’t think you wer
e capable of such flights of fancy.”

  “It’s not a flight of fancy, and it is more than my imagination. I do believe that is Warwick’s plan.”

  Athena pondered this for a moment, her finger against the blush of her cheek. “I see. How flattering that Warwick would go to so much trouble. Should I reward him?”

  “Athena, he is a—”

  “Oh, Ditie, it is so easy to put you in a pelter. I was only funning.”

  Aphrodite did not find the remark amusing. Athena had spent the years since she began to develop into breathtaking young womanhood flirting with the most ineligible of men and boys. Aphrodite would never forget the first time she’d stumbled upon fourteen-year-old Athena being heartily kissed by the stable boy, an experienced youth of eighteen. “Might I remind you that you have displayed an interest in the most unsuitable men.”

  “Oh, Ditie, don’t be tiresome. You’re not going to mention the time I was stranded in the rain with the squire’s son.”

  “But the time with the soldier, Athena. Oh, that was nearly an unfortunate blot.”

  “It was only a kiss, Ditie. There’s nothing wrong with a kiss.”

  “It’s been more than one kiss, Athena. Every unacceptable . . .” Aphrodite began, then stopped herself. It would not, after all, do any good to be angry with Athena. The child enjoyed the company of males, any male, and kissing was a pleasant pastime for her. Nothing—no lectures, no frowns, no appeals to her virtue—had convinced the chit to behave properly. Even her parents agreed that the best solution was to marry her off quickly, while she still had her reputation. That was the reason she was spending a season in London when she was barely seventeen. It was up to Aphrodite to find for her sister a man she could admire and who would think her freshness appealing, a man of character who would not allow such antics.

  “Oh, Ditie, I do try to be good, but sometimes I just can’t help it.” Athena clasped her hands in front of her, but Aphrodite knew she was far from being chastened. Athena’s eyes and skin glowed. “Do you know how wonderful it is to kiss a man? To feel his lips soft against yours?”