Let's Misbehave Read online

  Let’s Misbehave

  by Rae Summers

  Let’s Misbehave

  1st Edition © 2010 by Romy Sommer

  2nd Edition © 2013 by Romy Sommer

  Cover Art by Viola Estrella

  www.EstrellaCoverArt.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form other than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Praise for this book

  “At only 80 pages, this novella never seems rushed or forced. Instead the story conveys a depth of feeling that is not reached by many novels triple its size. Brava, Summers! Let’s Misbehave is a story that will resonate with readers who recognize emotional parallels between today’s world and that of the 1920s.”

  - RT Book Reviews

  “Summers has a true talent of making two people who could not be more wrong for each other from outside appearances, appear absolutely perfect for each other underneath. This story will take you through a whirlwind of emotions and leave you very pleased that you read it.”

  - Once Upon a Chapter

  “Let’s Misbehave bubbles with life and has some sizzling love scenes that take the breath away. Good entertainment!”

  - Long and Short Reviews

  “LET’S MISBEHAVE displays the excellence every novella should aspire to. The writing is clear, sharp, and precise with wonderful description.”

  - The Romance Reviews

  Dedication

  To my beloved daughters,

  for teaching me to push my boundaries

  Table of Contents

  Praise for this book

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One of Dear Julia

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The vibrant, jazzy notes of percussion instruments drifted up towards the high ceiling, mingling with the swirling smoke and the sound of voices.

  Gabrielle stepped up to the microphone and projected her voice above the music.

  She loved this song. It was a lively number, written by the young American composer Cole Porter. She had made it her anthem and sang it at the beginning of every evening. Nothing brought the dancers to their feet and started the champagne flowing like “Let’s Misbehave.”

  “There’s something wild about you, child,

  That’s so contagious

  Let’s be outrageous—let’s misbehave!”

  Her voice swelled, rising above the clamour of the nightclub. The music pumped through her, inspiring her, daring her.

  ***

  Sebastian entered the nightclub, surrounded by a knot of his friends. The music was loud, the din of voices even louder, but he was arrested by the quality of the singer’s voice, an hypnotic voice, superbly controlled and self-assured. As they jostled through the writhing crowd to their table, he strained for a glimpse of the songbird.

  She was beautiful, in the gamine way currently fashionable. She wore her dark hair short and straight in a severe Eton crop. Her pale silver shift dress, soft and loose and barely covering her knees, made her figure appear straight as a board. The style was modern, and not at all to his taste. He preferred curves to this current tendency towards boyishness among women. But there was something arresting about the waif-like figure, a vitality that flowed from her, the same quality that lifted her voice over the noise of the crowd.

  The waiter seated them in a plush booth, and served champagne while Sebastian took stock of his surroundings. He would never have chosen this as the venue for his bachelor’s party, but his old Cambridge friends had insisted. Ornate gilded Corinthian columns rose to the ceiling, where an enormous gold chandelier cast bright electric light over the dancers. Despite the light and space, the suffocating air seemed to press down on him.

  He had visited clubs in his Cambridge days, but the frenetic air of this nightclub seemed tinged with desperation. As the decade rushed headlong towards its finale, his generation grew increasingly feverish. It didn’t help that he’d begin to feel increasingly feverish too.

  The song changed, swinging into another energetic number.

  “Isn’t this joint just it?” Pinkie called out above the noise. His friend had earned the nickname in their school days for being able to twist even the dour matron around his little finger. He no longer had the endearing schoolboy looks, his face turned florid from drink, but he still had the charm. And the arrogance.

  They swigged back the champagne, flowing like water tonight, and watched the dancers gyrating on the dance floor. The music flowed seamlessly from one song into another. Sebastian did not often listen to jazz, but he had to admit he liked it. His foot tapped an involuntary rhythm beneath the table.

  The bewitching voice, rising cool and clear over the din, soothed him. Or maybe it was the champagne.

  When the set finally ended and another band took their places on the bandstand, Pinkie stood, waving his arms wildly over the heads of the crowd. “Over here.”

  The songbird threaded her way through the crowd towards their table. “Alistair, dah-ling! What a surprise to see you here.”

  Sebastian wondered if he was the only one to catch her dry tone.

  “I want you to meet my old university chums.” Pinkie wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as he introduced everyone around the table. A little too close, if the narrowing of her eyes was anything to go by.

  Gabrielle. The exotic name suited her. She looked Sebastian up and down, and he was surprised at the shrewd intelligence in her dark, kohl-lined eyes. So she was more than a pretty face.

  “Seb is about to be married,” Pinkie said. “He’s the reason we’re celebrating tonight.” Not that Pinkie ever needed a reason to celebrate.

  “One last fling, eh, old boy?” Though he spoke to Sebastian, Pinkie’s gaze remained fixed on Gabrielle’s breasts. She ignored him.

  “Congratulations.” Her voice was soft as silk, but Sebastian sensed a hard edge beneath it. Every word seemed mocking. Definitely not his type of woman. He preferred them soft and agreeable. Feminine.

  He enjoyed a fleeting moment of amusement, though, when Gabrielle pulled away from Pinkie to reach out to a debonair older gentleman in top hat and tails passing by.

  “Later, Alistair.” She blew Pinkie a kiss as she drifted away on the stranger’s arm, coquettishly sliding a hand around the newcomer’s waist.

  Throughout the evening, Sebastian caught glimpses of the sleek dark head, dipping and weaving gracefully between the dancers on the floor. Though a few of his friends danced, he did not.

  His gaze drifted across the room as he half- listened to Pinkie telling an involved joke, the punch line of which eluded him. Out on the dance floor he spotted Gabrielle. Her movements were lithe, her limbs light as air, as she twirled among the other dancers. There was something ethereal about
her, as though she were a butterfly, or as intangible as a dust mote.

  An unfamiliar tension grew inside him, and he recognised it as desire. He shook his head, contemptuous. He did not lust after strange women.

  Not that he was a complete prude, either. He had known a few women in his wild younger days at university, had honed his skills with women just like Gabrielle, women who were easy on the eye and easy on the heart.

  But those days were far behind him. In a couple of weeks, he would be married to a very sensible, very suitable young lady. He would never need to look at another woman with a pretty thing like Lilly at his side.

  In time, he hoped he would learn to love her, too.

  Deliberately, he turned his attention away from the dance floor and back to his friends. He sipped at the golden bubbles of his champagne and the knot in his stomach slowly unclenched. He even laughed at Pinkie’s next joke. Then a hand on his shoulder intruded. A slight hand, pale as marble, which woke all his dulled senses with nothing more than the most fleeting touch.

  “Would the guest of honour care to dance?”

  No woman had ever asked him to dance before.

  He looked up into Gabrielle’s dark eyes. She was smiling, no longer coquettish, but with a lively warmth—and she was sober, he realised. More sober than anyone else in the room, himself included.

  “Thank you.” It wasn’t what he meant to say. Perhaps the champagne had affected him more than he realised.

  He rose and took her arm, guiding her back to the dance floor. Up close, her fragrance surprised him, soft and delicate as a budding rose, with none of the brashness he’d expected.

  The music was softer now and couples swayed together beneath the chandelier’s sparkling light. She turned into his arms, the movement naturally graceful, and swayed against him as they moved into the steps of the Foxtrot. She was as light on her feet as she appeared.

  “You dance well,” she said, looking up at him through long lashes.

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “You haven’t danced all evening. I thought perhaps you don’t enjoy dancing.”

  “I don’t. At least not these abandoned, hedonistic dances currently in vogue.”

  Her eyes flashed. “You mean dances like the Charleston?”

  The hard edge was back in her voice. Then she sighed and turned her head away and he knew he’d disappointed her.

  He understood. She thought him dull. A typical, staid Englishman. Though he didn’t have to explain himself to her, he wanted to. “Dancing should bring two people together, but these dances that are all the rage drive the dancers apart. They’re so busy throwing themselves around the dance floor, there’s no longer a connection between them.”

  He had her interest; her expressive eyes burned with sharp intensity as she re-evaluated him.

  “The energy expended in the dance seems to be nothing more than an attempt to fill the emptiness inside.”

  “And you don’t feel that emptiness?”

  Of course he did. It had been growing in him ever since the war. Since he’d lost his beloved older brother, and with him his own freedom. But he shook his head. “Escaping from reality isn’t the answer.”

  She lifted her chin. “Then what is?”

  “To embrace reality. To treasure the bonds of duty, tradition and family. These are the threads that hold our society together.”

  “Bonds. A good choice of word.” She almost spat the word out. Then the hard edges of her face softened and she smiled. “You are entitled to your opinion. And I am entitled to my freedom.”

  She twirled away, leaving him stranded alone in the middle of the dance floor.

  No woman had ever left him standing before either.

  He returned to his friends, determined to forget this strange creature. Yet no matter where he looked or how much champagne he drank, his gaze seemed to find her.

  As soon as he could do so politely, Sebastian extricated himself from the nightclub. He paused on the pavement outside to enjoy the fresh breeze that drifted between the buildings, clearing the heavy air, before he lit a cigarette and took a deep breath of the calming smoke. It uncurled inside him, unwinding the tension.

  Except for that rare moment on the dance floor with Gabrielle, he’d played a part all evening, pretending a happiness he didn’t feel. Wariness dragged at him. He stubbed out the cigarette beneath his shoe and headed towards Charing Cross in search of a cab.

  ***

  Gabrielle danced as though the hounds of hell were after her. As perhaps they were. She was damned to hell anyway. She’d been told so often enough by her mother, by the vicar, by her governess. The only person who had ever smiled at her mischief or encouraged her tomboy ways had been her father, and he was gone.

  Too often she felt as though she was poised on a precipice, about to fall. So she drank more, danced harder, laughed louder. Living every moment as if it were her last.

  The music changed, swinging into the lively Charleston, her favourite dance. She threw her head back with joy and laughter and kicked up her rouged knees. The press and heat of the bodies about her on the dance floor comforted her, easing the nagging unease within her.

  She didn’t want the connection she’d felt with Sebastian on the dance floor. The invisible barriers the Charleston put between her and the other dancers suited her just fine.

  She didn’t want to think about him. So she tossed back her head and threw herself into the dance, seeking the escape he’d decried.

  When the music ended, she reluctantly left the dance floor, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as she headed back to the bandstand.

  As her band slid into their places, she cast a glance around the room, unconsciously seeking out the table where Alistair ‘Pinkie’ Freeman and his friends sat.

  Pinkie was still there, completely foxed, but his serious, formal friend had gone. She wasn’t surprised. He had seemed so out of place in this fluid, frenetic place. She didn’t pause to examine the twinge of disappointment she felt. Behind her, the band launched into an upbeat jazz standard, and she stepped up to the microphone and began to sing.

  Chapter Two

  Sebastian sipped his tea, admiring the familiar, discreet elegance of the Savoy Hotel’s dining room as he tuned out his father’s voice. Waiters strolled between tables clad in ivory linen, offering tea from tall silver teapots. The clink of porcelain teacups and the hum of muted conversation overlaid the soft classical melody played by an unobtrusive string quartet.

  He’d learned the skill of pretending interest at his mother’s knee. She smiled across the table at him now, a complicit smile. They were both used to his father’s monologues. This one had something to do with current economic policy and impending doom. The only impending doom Sebastian could contemplate right now was a lifetime of pretending interest. His future as a member of parliament yawned ahead of him,

  Their waiter returned, wheeling a trolley loaded with scones, sandwiches and appetising cakes, and his father broke off his the speech to make a selection. Under cover of the distraction, his mother leaned towards him. “Are you all right? You don’t look happy.”

  He tried to give her a reassuring smile, infused with as much joy as he could muster. Which didn’t feel like much these days.

  “I’m fine.” Hopefully it was just marriage jitters. For weeks now, a lead weight had hung around his heart, a sense of dread that he was making a very big mistake with his life.

  Which was silly. Lilly was a wonderful girl. She was demure and sweet and well-behaved, and she admired him. It was nice being admired. And perhaps the duty of marriage would even be good for him. Maybe Lilly, with her innocence and gentleness, would be the one to quiet these rebellious urges stirring in him.

  Raised voices broke the tranquil air.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do?” It was a woman’s voice, a melodious voice that stirred something in Sebastian.

  All heads in the room turned towards the wi
ndow table where a slight young woman had risen to her feet, her face flushed with anger. She flung her napkin across the table at the man seated opposite her. The dramatic gesture caught Sebastian’s eye and he gave the young woman a second look.

  She wore an elegant tweed Chanel suit, a hint of lace above the collar, and a string of pearls. Because of the conservative clothing, Sebastian nearly did not recognise her. Then the bobbed head turned and afforded him a view of a pert profile he recognised with a tightening in his groin.

  Gabrielle. The nightclub singer.

  Her companion looked livid. He rose to tower over her, grabbing her wrist and forcing her back into her seat. She winced with pain.

  “You are not going anywhere.” Though the voice was a hiss, it carried across the silent room.

  She was partly blocked from Sebastian’s view by a heavily fronded palm, but he could imagine the flashing anger in her eyes from the set of her shoulders and her ramrod-straight back. Even in the face of a bully, she would not be cowed.

  “Poor, brave girl,” his mother whispered, dabbing her mouth with a napkin in a gesture of distress Sebastian recognised. The other diners returned to their tea.

  “That’s what today’s young women get for shearing their hair and wearing those short skirts,” his father said. “They have too much freedom.”

  His wife’s eyes blazed. “No woman deserves to be treated like that by a gentleman, no matter how she dresses.”

  It was on the tip of Sebastian’s tongue to point out that the man was probably no gentleman, more likely a lover with more money than manners. He only refrained because it would upset his mother more. She still watched the scene before the window, where Gabrielle sat, back ramrod straight, silent and stone-faced.

  “Go to hell.” The man’s voice bellowed across the restaurant, once again stunning the diners into silence. And with the maître d’hotel bearing down on them, it seemed the spectacle was about to get worse.”