When She Loved Me (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 1)

by Rebecca Ruger

  And she cried unabashedly now, her shoulders slumping while her hands lifted to cover her eyes. And it broke him. He placed his hands on her slender arms, rubbing them up and down then turned her around and gathered her in his arms. “Shh,” he soothed, his lips at her hair.

  When she was capable of speaking again, she only said, “Please don’t marry Sabrina.”

  He kissed her to quiet her. They would talk but just now, he needed to touch her and taste her. He pressed his mouth to her forehead. He touched his lips to her eyelids, taking tears away with him. He lowered his head then, and at the same time, tilted her chin up with a finger beneath it. Their lips met and any calm she may have sought was surely shattered with the hunger of this kiss. His mouth was hard and searching, forcing her to open for him, sliding his tongue inside, circling it around hers. He felt just an initial resistance, but it was short-lived and soon she gave herself up freely to him, her response eager. This is where she belonged, he knew,

  He drew back, taking his lips from hers, but did not relinquish his hold completely, only set his hot lips upon the skin at her neck, and along her bare collarbone, pushing aside silk as he progressed.

  “My God, Trevor, what are you doing to me?” She asked, her voice husky, velvety.

  “I am loving you, Nicki,” he answered at her breast, nearly melting at the sound of his name fallen from her lips. He pulled the silk gown and cotton chemise completely away, baring her dusky and hardened nipple to him. He flicked his tongue over it and Nicole jumped, the unexpected pleasure of it shocking her. But she pressed herself right back against him and he did it again, and then took the entire nipple into his mouth, drawing gently on it. Soon the other breast was freed and was lavished with the same attention, while her hands crept up into his short, thick hair, holding him to her.

  Then Trevor stood straight again, his eyes holding hers, communicating without words his desire of her. While they stared at each other, breaths hurried and mingling, he took one of her hands and placed it over his erection. Her lips parted at this touch, at the hardness of him. Curiously, she rubbed her hand over him, up and down to read the complete size of him. He felt as if he grew tenfold more, as she stared at him as if they were the only two people in the world, and at that moment, her soft and experimental touch was everything to him. He growled low then and drew her once again to him, crushing her to his chest. At her next breath, he was skimming one hand low, along her waist and hip and over her bottom, pulling her up hard against him. As his kisses moved lower, so then did his hands. His lips settled on a spot just above her bosom, while his hand began to scoop up the fabric of her skirt, his fingers and palm caressing the outside of her thigh, up from her knee. And then his fingers were moving between her legs and he was sure he felt her knees buckle.

  Nicole cried and jerked away from Trevor though she remained within his arms. Trevor stilled, obviously sensing that the tone and sharpness of her gasp suddenly had nothing to do with passion. He didn’t move immediately allowed her time to bring her person to rights. Frantically, Nicole pulled at her bodice and tugged down her skirts, but she did not meet Trevor’s eyes.

  Finally, Trevor turned to face the door, where stood his betrothed and Baron Kent and Lady Cavendish, wearing varying expressions of shock.

  Trevor said not a word. What did one say at a moment like this? He felt Nicki trying to peer around his shoulder, saw that her father’s face was reddened with enormous rage, and her sister’s visage held something of a sly grin. Lady Cavendish, although her eyebrows were lifted with a certain level of surprise, seemed unaccountably unaffected.

  “Sabrina, take your sister immediately to the carriage,” Baron Kent ordered when he finally found his voice. The sound of it was possibly unlike anything Nicole had ever heard, if her tiny and frightened squeak was any indication.

  Lady Cavendish stepped fully inside the room but stayed near to the walls as to be unobtrusive. Sabrina entered, beckoning with an outstretched arm for Nicole to come.

  Nicole spared a quick glance at Trevor as she moved around him. He looked at her not at all but exchanged steely glares with the baron, though he was peripherally aware that Nicki let Sabrina wrap her arm around her.

  And then the most incredible and damning part of the entire evening took place as Trevor very clearly heard Sabrina say to Nicki, her voice pierced with derision, “Little sister, when I asked you to assist me, I’d never have thought you’d go to these lengths to see me freed from my betrothal.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Earl of Leven married Baron Kent’s daughter on the Saturday following “The Incident” at Lady Cavendish’ home. Being that the only witnesses to the trauma were interested parties or family, it was then not difficult to keep under wraps the exact and detailed reasoning behind the sudden switch in the earl’s choice of bride. But it also caused not any person a great stretch of imagination to perceive why the younger sister was the intended bride, and not Sabrina—there were only so many reasonable explanations available, after all, for such an extraordinary last-minute swap.

  So it was that Nicole Kent walked down the aisle of the Leven chapel at the Wentworth country estate, and took her place beside her groom, barely contained joy simmering within. She smiled at Trevor, shyly, but with great hope. She’d been allowed to see him not at all since their discovery in Lady Cavendish’s salon. She’d been forced, however, to listen to a two hour lecture—at times not much more than a shouted diatribe—on proper decorum, and questions posed by the baron, such as ‘where did I go wrong?’

  She’d been genuinely sorry for the pain she had knowingly caused Gregoire and had personally visited with him to tell him that she could not, after all, marry him. He had many questions, most of which Nicole had side-stepped with great embarrassment. At the end of their meeting, she was sorry that she had lost her friend, but had thought the marquess had been a proper gentleman in receipt of such sorrowful news.

  It had all been worth it, she thought, standing now beside Trevor while the priest read passionately from the good book, preparing them to take their vows. True, it was likely not how she might have liked to obtain the hand of Trevor, but they could be together now, and lose all this nasty business that had been between them since the first moment he had kissed her. When she was not his, that had led to nothing but pain and trouble, but all that was over now, she thought wistfully. He hadn’t looked at her, seemingly caught up in the cleric’s heartfelt reading and message. If her hands weren’t so nervous, gripping tightly her bouquet—or rather Sabrina’s bouquet—she would have reached for his. His hands were folded together sedately at his waist, his head inclined ever so slightly.

  That they hadn’t spoken had bothered her somewhat. She’d have liked to express to him that she would make him happy, that she would love him endlessly, that he would never be sorry he’d been forced to marry her. But she mulled over this lack only briefly, sure as she was that Trevor must know all this already. She’d made it rather obvious—as he had—where her desires lay. Nicole wished suddenly for the priest to speed this ceremony along. She’d brooded all these weeks over Trevor, and had been without him for so long, and had been forced to see him not at all in the last three days, and she wanted only to get on with their life together, to get on with loving Trevor.

  Yet all these pretty thoughts of a happy future flew out of her head the minute the priest declared them husband and wife, and gave Trevor leave to kiss his bride. Nicole turned to face him, her love bright and shining, an expectant flush to her features as she awaited his kiss. She blanched immediately as he pivoted and faced her. In his eyes, where once there had shone passion and a want of her, there was now only a cold and tortured anger. Nicole stiffened in front of him—indeed, she recoiled within at the sight of his distaste—and then barely felt it as his lips pressed so briefly against hers. She squeezed her bouquet between them, her hands suddenly sweaty. It was hard then to remain coherent while he’d shown no more affection than he might hav
e had Sabrina been standing here. Confused, Nicole obediently turned, as he did, to face the small and cheering crowd in the chapel. She thought she might have smiled, or thought she might have tried, anyway, but could manage nothing, it seemed, but to recall the storminess in his eyes.

  He was livid, she determined quickly, but could put no cause to it. He’d claimed he’d wanted her. He’d intimated that if there were any way for him to marry her, he would. He had nearly made love to her. He’d said—his exact words had been— “I am loving you, Nicki.” My God! She thought. What had changed in three days?

  “Let us lead the people abovestairs for the feast on such a blissful occasion,” he said coolly, mockingly. And now he grabbed her hand but there was no warmth or fondness there.

  The bride cried, but any onlookers thought this merely tears of joy. Leaving the chapel, Nicole caught sight of Sabrina, and nearly blanched at her sister’s expression of haughty rebuke. Swallowing the despair in her throat, Nicole squared her shoulders and marched on alongside her new husband.

  This was then, without doubt, the longest day in Nicole Kent’s—Wentworth, she corrected piteously—young life. She sat stoically through the wedding breakfast, being completely ignored by her groom, who chose to speak to absolutely anyone else save his wife. She wanted to beg him to tell her what or how things had changed but knew this was not the venue to do so. She accepted the well-wishes of almost one hundred people and wanted to scream at them that she saw nothing to be happy or hopeful about. Her father was still quite annoyed—even worse, she imagined, he was disappointed in her—and he, too, seemed to be of a mind to have no relations with her today.

  So she pushed food around on her plate, the very idea of sending it down to her already churning stomach nearly enough to send her running for the chamber pot. She cast forlorn glances at her husband but was presented with not much more than his profile or back on most occasions. And she thought with a certain and definite dread that she still had to endure several hours ensconced in the coach with only him as they traveled to his estate in Sussex.

  God help me, she prayed.

  Trevor sat inside the comfortable traveling coach, directly across from his wife, with his legs stretched negligently before him, his arms crossed with seeming nonchalance over his chest. He pretended to sleep, his eyes being mostly closed, but in reality, he watched her through the carefully held slits of his lids.

  Admittedly, she was lovelier today than he had ever seen her. Dressed in what he assumed had been intended to be Sabrina’s gown, likely it had been hurriedly fitted for Nicki. It was a frothy confection of silk and lace, being neither too heavily adorned nor lacking any sort of decoration. Her dark and beautiful hair had been left to hang loose down her back, coming to her waist, but covered in a bridal veil of exquisite white lace stitched with small pearls. Her smile, as she’d come to him this morning, had been resplendent. Undoubtedly, not a person present questioned her want of this union, being written so clearly on her face. She’d been shy, he recalled, having not the nerve to look into his eyes straight away, but when she finally did, he let her see the complete disregard in which he held her. Instantly, then, her face had fallen. Why, she had literally been drained of all that lovely color. If he’d experienced a moment’s pang at her discomfiture at that very instant, it was quickly, ruthlessly, pushed away.

  She’d manipulated this scheme. She was the one who set this unfortunate event into motion. Funny, he’d not have known of it, if not for Sabrina’s parting words as they’d left the salon that fateful evening. He knew that Sabrina had yearned for him to hear it, but he still didn’t believe that Nicki had wanted him to know that she’d set him up, that she had agreed to betray him, and cuckold him, all to save Sabrina from having to marry him. She’d allowed him to touch her, to love her—she had prostituted herself—to save her sister. How far might she have gone? Would Nicki have allowed him to make love to her? Would she have stripped bare right there in the salon just to keep a promise to her sister?

  Any benevolent emotion he might have previously attached to Nicki had been wiped out at that moment. Gone, just like that. And to look at her now, as she fidgeted anxiously with her hands, now aware of his revulsion, he suffered with no bouts of sympathy for her. Let her squirm and stew and suppose whatever she wanted. She would pay and pay dearly for her crimes against him.

  And the greatest, most tragic irony of all? In that parlor at the home of Lady Cavendish, he’d known he couldn’t marry Sabrina, that he must call it off. He wasn’t sure then, still hadn’t determined, if this revelation had come when first he saw Nicole that night after all those weeks apart. His heart had thundered in his chest, to some degree of painfulness as he’d realized that all the weeks she’d been gone dissolved instantly with only one glance. The affirmation might have come later, when he’d spied her dancing with Cheseldon and felt only the need to rip her away from the man’s arms and shout to any who might hear that she was his. But he knew for certain that by the time he’d started kissing her that evening, that he could deny it no more— he couldn’t not know Nicole, couldn’t not be with her, couldn’t possibly wed Sabrina, not even to save Leven.

  And when he’d started kissing her, as soon as his lips had touched her, and he’d felt the most unnatural urge to weep from such enormous emotions at having her again in his arms, he’d known that he loved her.

  But that was before she had committed her sin. Now, his thoughts of her teemed only with rage and he readily expressed inwardly disgust at himself for not having seen her true colors, for having imagined that she was as innocent as she’d appeared, that her heart and soul were pure, untainted by wrongdoings or malice.

  When finally they arrived at his grand, but admittedly neglected estate in East Sussex, called simply the Abbey—but officially known as Hyndman Abbey, after some long forgotten ancestor—he sensed that Nicki was at the end of her emotional rope. He’d made no conversation with her whatsoever, indeed he had discouraged the very idea with his purposeful and persistent brooding glares and pretense of sleep, that she seemed all but ready to cry again. Trevor was moved not at all by the occurrence or expectation of her tears.

  He jumped nimbly from the coach no sooner had it stopped, allowing the coachman to see to his wife. He’d not bothered to send word ahead that they were indeed coming, as his plans were unformed, and he knew, produced solely by emotion and certainly not by necessity. What he was forming in his head would surely turn his dear little wife’s.

  The enormous door to the abbey slowly creaked open as he mounted the steps, his heart racing at what he was about to do, what he been setting up in his head while they’d driven here. Behind the door, there appeared a little round woman of indeterminate years, her beady eyes skinnied as he stopped before her.

  “We ain’t no hostel, guv,” she informed him warily, closing the door as slowly as she’d opened it.

  Trevor stuck his hand between the door and the jamb, pushing it open while the woman skittered backwards and shrieked. “Cease, woman,” he called imperatively. “I am Leven.” He glanced further into the home he was yet barred from, spying another servant creeping forward. This one, a manservant, shuffled his feet along to the door, but had yet to lift his eyes, as his shoulders were slumped to such a degree that it was impossible to hold his head up. When he was close enough, he turned just slightly sideways, that he might better view their visitor out of the corner of his eye. Trevor rolled his own eyes impatiently at this, believing that the recent lack of funds in the dried-up Wentworth well might have something to do with the despicable state of domestics here at the abbey.

  “Tis Leven, ye are?” Asked the stooped man. “I’d be Franklin, my lord. And this here is yer housekeeper, Mrs. Abercorn, but we jus’ call her Abby,” said the man in a surprisingly strong voice. “We were not made aware of your coming, lord, or we’d have had the abbey readied for you...and your guest.” His one eye searched behind Trevor.

  Trevor sensed Nicki’s presen
ce behind him. “Yes, well, here we are,” he said dismissively, wanting only to get on with this unpleasantness. “I bring my wife, Lady Leven, to you.”

  “Tis Lord and Lady Leven,” the man then yelled in a horrifically loud voice, of which even Trevor was forced to take notice. “Did ye hear me, Abby?”

  “I heard ye,” said the old woman. “I’ll ready the rooms.” And she began a plodding and painstaking climbing of the stairs, which caused Trevor pain to watch.

  “You only need to make accommodations for one room, Mrs. Abercorn,” he called out after the woman. Of Franklin, he inquired, “Are there other servants housed here?”

  Franklin pursed his lips, mentally considering for a moment. “Only Abby and I, lord, and two footmen. We haven’t need for more—house hasn’t been used in a dozen years.”

  Yes, that sounded about right to Trevor. He knew he, himself, hadn’t been to the abbey since he was a child. “Perhaps a lady’s maid can be procured from the village?” He asked hopefully.

  “Perhaps,” Franklin said with a shrug.

  With that, Trevor turned to Nicki, emptying his pockets of what notes he did possess. He pressed them into her hand, their first contact since that cold and chaste kiss at the altar. She jumped at the suddenness of this action, or at the very touch of him, he did not know. Finally, he met her eyes. Her green orbs, once thought to be so beautiful, so beguiling, were filled with confusion, and a scant measure of terror at this untidy circumstance.

  “I’ll set up an account for you to manage the household and take on more staff, but this should see you through a couple of days, at least.”