London Ladies (The Complete Series)

by Eaton, Jillian

  “Lovers?” he sputtered.

  Her smile unmistakably feline, she reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. “I cannot help that I was once exceptionally desirable.”

  Lowering his head, he kissed the cheeky grin right off her face. “You are still exceptionally desirable,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.

  How right it felt to have her in his arms. In truth they should have been little more than strangers, uncomfortable and wary with each other. Instead it felt as though no time had passed at all. “Come back to Ashburn with me. We will leave tonight. I do not want to spend another night away from you, Abby.”

  She stilled in his arms. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course I am certain, Abby I—what?” Alarmed at the sudden sheen of tears he glimpsed in her eyes, he gathered her close, holding her curled protectively against his chest. “What is it?”

  Sniffling, she wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “It’s almost too good to be true, isn’t it? I feel as though this is all a dream. A dream I am afraid to wake up from for fear it cannot possibly be real.”

  “This is real, Abby.” To prove himself, he gently kissed her temple. “Did you feel that?” he murmured. When she nodded, he pressed his lips to her cheek. “And that?” Another jerk of her head. Slowly, patiently, as though all the time in the world was at their disposal, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was innocent at first. A gentle brush of lip against lip, of tongue against tongue, before he angled his head to the side and went deeper. She clung to the lapels of his jacket, her small fingers burrowing into the fabric, and lifted herself up to him.

  He moaned her name, already drunk on the taste of her. She writhed against him, her deliciously plump derriere pressing against his hard arousal, and the moan turned into a groan. The kiss became feverish, heated by a lust and a need too long denied. He nipped Abigail’s jaw, suckled her earlobe, and began to work his way down her neck. Her head lolled back and this time it was she who gasped his name as he tugged down the bodice of her gown and took one hard, pointed nipple into his mouth.

  Their position on the chair was precarious, but they were too absorbed with each other to care. Straddling him, Abigail pulled the hem of his shirt free from his trousers and streaked her nails up and over his naked flesh. Her fingers tangled mindlessly in his hair as he moved to her other breast and suckled the aroused bud.

  “Sweet,” he groaned. “Abby, you taste so sweet.”

  Her only answer was to arch her back. When the small movement nearly spilled them both onto the floor Reginald picked her up and laid her gently on the thick Persian rug. She sat up on one elbow, her eyes dark with desire, her hair spilling in a waterfall of white gold over her pale shoulders and the exposed tips of her breasts. Staring at her unabashedly, Reginald knew with complete certainty he had never seen anything more beautiful in all his life.

  “The door,” she said softly. “Lock the door.”

  He did so with all haste, and when he returned to her they undressed each other slowly, taking time to discover each other’s bodies. When Abigail shyly crossed an arm over her belly, he coaxed it away.

  “Do not hide yourself from me. I want to see you.” Stretched out beside her, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her gently rounded stomach. “All of you.”

  “I do not look like I did when I was young,” she said softly, her cheeks tinged with pink.

  “You are a woman. A stunning, voluptuous, perfect woman.” He covered her body in kisses, working all the way from her breasts to the tips of her toes and back up again. When his tongue slid along the inside of one delightfully plump thigh she started to close her legs, but he wedged his hips between her knees, refusing to let her deny any part of her body to him. “Let me, Abby. I want to taste you. All of you.”

  Reginald drank her in as though she were the sweetest nectar, and only when she trembled and sobbed his name did he stretch up, cradle her head lovingly in his arms, and slide slowly inside of her wet, welcoming sheath.

  It was like coming home.

  They moved in perfect unison for every slow, languorous thrust. Words did not need to be spoken. In the shifting shadows their eyes met and held. Their hands twisted together, finger interlocking, palms molding. When Abigail clenched around him and her breaths quickened he guided her sweetly over the edge and when his own release loomed and his back arched she did the same for him, holding fast to his shoulder and whispering his name against his neck as he succumbed to pleasure and spent his seed.

  In a mindless haze of bliss he collapsed to the side and dragged her with him so she sprawled over his chest, her long, tangled curls flying every which way. Catching a golden tendril he wound it around and around his finger, admiring the way it gleamed in the flickering candlelight.

  How many times had he dreamed of this exact moment? Of holding Abby in his arms. Of feeling her heart beat against his chest. Of matching every breath he drew with hers. To finally be with her after all these years… it was nothing short of a miracle. A miracle he had no intention of wasting. “You never answered my question,” he said quietly.

  She lifted her head from the nook of his shoulder. “What question?”

  “You know exactly which one.”

  “Oh.” Her nose wrinkled adorably. “That question.”

  He skimmed a hand up the middle of her back, caught a handful of curls, and gave a gentle tug. “Marry me, Abby. Marry me and be with me for the rest of my life. Marry me,” he persisted when she remained silent. “Abby, you have to marry me.”

  Reaching behind him, he took the ring he had already given her once from the pocket of his discarded trousers and held it out in the flat of his palm. It shone a dull gold in the candlelight, reflecting the Ashburn insignia worn smooth by time. His voice gruff, he said, “This was always meant for you. Only you, Abby. Wear it and be my wife, now and always.”

  Abby’s voice was small, her hazel eyes luminous. “I wore it once, and I took it off.” She extended her left hand. “I will not take it off again.”

  Reginald’s heart pounded as he solemnly slipped the ring onto her finger, but it did not beat with anxiety or regret or wayward second thoughts. It sang with joy. Pure, unadulterated joy and a happiness so pure it felt as though a light were bursting inside of him. He gathered Abby close to his chest and kissed her temple before he whispered the words he had been waiting forty years to speak aloud. “I love you, Abigail Mannish.”

  With a contended sigh Abigail rested her head over his heart. “I love you as well, Reginald Browning.” She left her left hand, twisting her wrist until the ring caught the light. “I cannot believe it still fits.”

  He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. His gaze steady on hers, he said, “We always fit, Abby. Ring or no ring, we were always meant to be.”

  And so they were.

  Epilogue

  One month later to the day, Reginald and Abigail were married in a small village church with all of their loved ones in attendance. Abigail wore a gown of pale blue – it was, after all, her new husband’s favorite color – and Reginald was properly dashing in formal gray.

  The reception was held at Ashburn, where Abigail had already been warmly received. The staff took to her instantly and within a matter of days she had transformed the dark, gloomy estate into a warm, sunny home.

  The curtains were the first things to go.

  “I cannot believe we are truly married.” Glancing sideways at Reginald, Abigail reached under the table and grasped his hand. After dancing for nigh on two hours straight they had retired to a secluded table at the back of the ballroom where they could watch the festivities while indulging in a few moments of privacy.

  Threading his fingers through hers, Reginald squeezed tight. “How does it feel to be a duchess?”

  “Wonderful. After all,” she said impishly, “that is why I married you.”

  “Is that the only reason?” Reginald asked, his eyes bright with am
usement.

  Abigail feigned a shrug and swallowed back a bubble of laughter. “There are a few more, I suppose, but they are hardly worth mentioning. I – Rocky!” she hissed, tugging up the sleeve he had just pulled down to expose the top of one breast. “People are watching.”

  With a lazy grin Reginald folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “They have already forgotten all about us. No doubt they think we retired early. We are old, you know.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Abigail snipped. “I have never felt younger.”

  “Or looked more beautiful.”

  She sighed, then sighed again when his fingers closed around the nape of her neck and began to rub in small, soothing circles. When his thumb worked into a particularly tight muscle she could barely contain a moan. “Do not stop.”

  But Reginald did, and quite abruptly at that.

  “What is it?” she asked when he shoved his chair back and stood up.

  “I need you. Now.”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” she scoffed as she twisted in her seat to face him. “The reception will not be over for at least another three hours.”

  “Now,” he repeated.

  To be wanted so fiercely… It sent a thrill of delight shooting through her and she allowed Reginald to pull her up out of her chair without another word. Arm in arm the newlyweds swept through the ballroom, intent on reaching their bedroom as quickly as possible.

  At the entrance to the main foyer, however, Abigail suddenly paused, a line of worry appearing between her brows. “Have you seen Dianna?” she asked, belatedly realizing she had not laid eyes on her niece for quite some time. Turning, she did a quick survey of the guests in attendance, but did not see a petite blonde among them.

  “Perhaps she went out for a breath of fresh air,” Reginald suggested, his mind clearly on other things as he caressed the small of his wife’s back. When his hand slipped lower and playfully pinched Abigail squealed, all thoughts of Dianna’s whereabouts vanishing as she hurried out of the ballroom and up the stairs with her husband right behind.

  Reginald was right – Dianna had stepped outside, although it was not for a breath of fresh air. Escaping out a side door, she sprinted across the grass towards the stables, soaking her dancing slippers and hem of her ball gown with evening dew.

  Her heart pounding, her breath coming in fits and starts, she collapsed against the far wall of the barn and drew in a ragged breath. Her chest felt unbearably tight and she clawed at the bodice of her gown to loosen it, but the heavy ache that had descended upon her with all the weight of an anchor had nothing to do with the fit of her clothes.

  “No,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “No, no, no.”

  The pounding of footsteps had her muscles tensing and she fought against the frantic urge to flee. She would have run to the ends of the earth if she thought doing so would save her. But you could not outrun your past, no matter how fast and how far you went. It was a lesson Dianna knew better than anyone. After all, she’d been trying to escape her past all of her life and now, at long last, it had finally caught up with her.

  Steeling herself against the inevitable, she opened her eyes to stare at the last man on earth she ever wanted to see.

  “Hello Dianna,” he said quietly.

  “Hello… Miles.”

  FORGOTTEN

  Fiancée

  { London Ladies, Book Three }

  JILLIAN EATON

  CAN THE FLAMES OF A PASSION REKINDLED

  BURN HOTTER THAN EVER BEFORE?

  “I loved you!” Dianna cried fiercely. Tears burned in the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away. “It may have been young love, but it was pure and true.”

  “You love me still,” Miles said.

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently from side to side, sending blonde curls whipping across her flushed cheeks. “No, I do not love you. I despise you.”

  “Liar.” Closing the distance between them in one long stride, he yanked her hard against him and claimed her mouth with his own...

  Forgotten Fiancée is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events

  portrayed in this novel are either products

  of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © by Jillian Eaton 2014

  2nd Edition © 2020

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Website

  Facebook

  All Rights Reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the

  reproduction or utilization of this work in whole

  or in part in any form is strictly forbidden.

  Prologue

  April 1811

  “Miles left? What do you mean, he left?” Standing in a pool of white lace and muslin while one seamstress plucked pins from the hem of her wedding dress and another adjusted the length of a sleeve, Dianna met her mother’s fretful gaze in the tall dressing mirror.

  Early morning sun spilled through the bedroom window, promising a day filled with light, laughter, and - most importantly of all - love. For today Dianna would finally stand beside the man she’d been engaged to marry since the age of eight. Today she would solemnly repeat the vows of marriage. Today her life as Miss Dianna Foxcroft would end…and her life as Lady Dianna Radnor, wife of Miles Radnor, Earl of Winfield, would begin.

  “Mother?” she repeated, the smile she’d been wearing since she woke slowly fading.

  The dried flowers on Martha Foxcroft’s hat rustled loudly as she gave a distressed shake of her head. “No one seems to know where he is.”

  One of the seamstresses stood up and murmured something around a mouthful of pins. Distracted, Dianna nodded absently. “Yes, whatever you think is best. Mother, I do not understand. Has anyone checked the stables? Or…or the gardens? Perhaps he merely went for a walk to clear his head before going to the church.”

  Her expression strained, Martha gestured for the seamstresses to leave. Eyes wide, they hurried quickly from the room, careful to shut the bedroom door behind them.

  In the sudden silence that followed their abrupt departure Dianna’s heart began to pound and an icy trickle of fear worked its way down between her shoulder blades despite the warm summer air floating in through the open window. “Mother, you are starting to frighten me. Where is Miles? Where is he?” she pressed when Martha remained eerily silent, her lips pinched in a thin, bloodless line.

  “Perhaps you had best sit down,” her mother said at last.

  “I do not want to sit down. I - I want Miles. I need to speak to Miles.” Not caring that she sounded more like a whining child instead of a sixteen-year-old bride, Dianna started for the door, but her mother’s next words stopped her cold and tilted her entire world on its axis.

  “Miles is gone. I am sorry, darling. I do not know how else to tell you.”

  “But…but what about the wedding?” As the very room itself seemed to spin, Dianna staggered over to her bed and sank down on the mattress, heedless of any wrinkles she was creating in her beautiful hand sewn skirt.

  How could Miles be gone? Why, just last night they’d sat side by side, celebrating their pending nuptials with both of their families. Unbidden, an image of his laughing green eyes and charming smile rose inside her mind.

  Gone? No. He couldn’t be gone.

  “Darling.” Coming to sit beside her daughter, Martha took Dianna’s cold hands in hers and squeezed. Their gazes met, and what Dianna saw in her mother’s clear blue eyes caused a tiny wail of despair to slip from between her lips.

  “No,” she whispered. “Please do not say it. Please do not.”

  But Martha had no choice. “There is not going to be a wedding.”

  Chapter One

  October 1815

  Wedding Reception of the

  Duke & Duchess of Ashburn

  “Miles… What are you d-doing here?” The moment the words were out of her mouth Dianna regretted
them. She’d spent the past four years practicing precisely what she would say if she ever saw Miles Radnor again, and ‘what are you doing here?’ had not made the list.

  It hadn’t even been close.

  ‘Where have you been, you bloody bastard!’ was her top pick, followed closely by ‘I have absolutely nothing to say to you’. If all else failed she’d planned on simply turning on her heel, tipping her nose in the air, and walking away…except now she’d ruined it. Four years of preparation wasted. If she were still capable of tears she would have cried, but they’d all been wasted long ago on the man standing before her. The man who she had planned to marry. The man who she had loved. The man who had broken her heart. The man who she had once prayed every night would return to her…and the one man she’d hoped never to see again.

  “You cut your hair.” His voice was deeper than she remembered. Rougher. Huskier. It was the voice of a man who’d seen world. The good, the bad, and everything in-between. A man who had truly experienced life. A man who had known both hardship and reward. Yet for all the differences between this voice and the one she remembered, the sound of it still caused her knees to tremble and her heart to pound.

  Stop it, she told herself crossly even as her fingers crept self-consciously to the pale blonde curls at the nape of her neck. You do not love him anymore, remember? He means nothing to you.

  “It has been this length for over a year,” she said briskly.

  Which you would know if you’d been here like you promised.

  “I like it,” Miles said, surprising her for the second time in less than a minute.

  He’d always loved her long hair. He used to run his fingers through the silky curls whenever no one was watching, whispering a string of endless compliments in her ear. Which was why, on what would have been their third wedding anniversary, Dianna had hacked it all off with a pair of blunt shears and worn it short ever since.