Bainbridge deposited the empty glass upon the tray, and the footman moved on.
No. James wouldn’t use spirits to numb his senses. He’d done that every night for six months after Regine’s marriage. He might’ve wallowed in self-pity longer, but his law-firm partners had taken him firmly in hand and told him enough was enough. Either get off his arse, pull himself together and move along with becoming a solicitor, or see himself to the firm’s door.
He owed much to those two curmudgeons. Both avowed bachelors, with high expectations, treated him like a beloved son. But they’d refused to coddle him or allow him to continue to muck about, feeling sorry for himself. They’d given him the kick in the rear he’d needed to pull himself up by his bootstraps and move on with his life.
He’d be damned twenty times to Christmas if he’d ramble the convoluted path of courting Regine again. Really? And that’s why I must keep reminding myself of that?
Another covert scrutiny of the room revealed more guests had arrived. So absorbed in his musings, James hadn’t heard the butler announcing them.
“James?”
“Pardon?” He hauled his attention from the woman whose memory had tormented him these many years.
“That’s the third time I addressed you.” A distinct devilish twinkle brightened Sutcliffe’s eyes, and by God, Bainbridge hid a chuckle behind a raised fist and feigned cough.
Devil take it.
Devil take them!
James realized with an unpleasant jolt, he was the only person present, lacking a title. Heretofore, he hadn’t given a strumpet’s virtue about his common birth, but surrounded by this lot, most of whom he considered friends, for the first time he felt—
What?
Not inferior or inadequate. Just not quite up to par. The sole plow horse amongst thoroughbreds at Ascot’s racecourse or a Tattersall’s auction.
The dinner gong rang, and everyone trailed to the doorway. James held back, aware he was the lowest-ranking male present. There were no lower-ranking females, which meant some unlucky peeress would find herself accompanied to dinner by an inferior. His sister, Jessica, came to his rescue, looping her gloved hand through his elbow.
“Are you well?” Concern darkened her eyes, the hue so similar to his own. “I remember Regine. That is, the Dowager Duchess of Heartwaite.” Her sympathetic gaze swept his face. “I remember the two of you together.”
She’d been—what—twelve? And Theadosia thirteen to Regine’s eighteen?
Thank God, Jessica didn’t remind him she also remembered how broken he’d been. Or how, even as a little girl, she’d fretted about him. Her sloppily-written, rambling letters those months after Regine had left England had said all those things as she’d innocently attempted to comfort her older brother.
James patted her hand. He counted himself lucky to have three affectionate sisters. “I am fine. Tonight isn’t the first time the duchess and I have encountered each other since she came to London.”
He’d not mention Bullock’s Museum. That afternoon had ended pleasantly enough, but as he’d determined to do, he’d bid Regine an indifferent farewell—liar—with no intention of rekindling their relationship.
Though he might be a successful lawyer, he couldn’t offer her the lifestyle, position, or comfort to which she was accustomed. Besides, when she’d married Heartwaite, she’d made her priorities clear. Familiar bitterness and envy, tempered by a jot of regret, throttled up his throat, and he swallowed against the burning.
“You should know that Thea also asked me to extend an invitation to her grace for the Valentine’s Day ball Crispin and I are hosting.” Jessica angled her head, studying him much too intently for his comfort. “I shan’t invite her if you don’t wish me to.”
Did he want her to?
Jessica hesitated, worrying her lower lip. “It’s just that we’ve heard she’s not been well-received. And since our families were friends…” She hitched a shoulder. “We thought to ease her into Society.”
Ever kind, were his sisters. How could he begrudge Regine and Juliet an invitation or two?
“By all means, invite her.” He was capable of governing his emotions. At least he had been until she’d whirled into his life like an out-of-control dervish a few days ago. “I ask that you include her sister in the invitation as well.”
At his request, she arched her eyebrows high but nodded. “I’d intended to.”
“Good.” He couldn’t think of a more ingenious response since his musings had already leaped forward to next week.
God’s ballocks. He was out of his bloody mind. Attending a Valentine’s Day ball. The one day of the year set aside for romance and love and ridiculous tokens of affection. Poems. Odes. Sonnets. Sweets and flowers.
And he, like a lack-witted imbecile, had agreed to attend, knowing the woman who’d spurned him would be there. Another thought brought him up short. Would Jessica expect him to dance with Regine? No, by damn. A man could only take so much.
If James took her into his arms, he would never be able to let her go again.
Mayhap he could arrange to be out of the city. There was that ailing client in Bath…
As he and Jessica entered the dining room, he barely stifled an oath. His mouth thinned into an uncompromising line, he scowled at the table. His manipulating sister had placed him to Regine’s right, exactly as he’d suspected she would. Leveling her another accusatory glance that promised retribution, he filled his lungs with a steadying breath.
And—damn it all—inhaled Regine’s subtle perfume.
Apple blossoms. She always smelled of fresh apples and spice. Her shiny dark-as-a-raven’s-wing hair was piled high on her head, exposing her nape and the downy hair there. He itched to brush his knuckles down the graceful column and across her bare, gently sloping alabaster shoulders fringed with the finest blue silk.
For an extended breath, he shut his eyes against the maelstrom of unwanted sentiment her scent heralded. Jaw clamped, he clenched the back of his chair. His teeth might crack from the force of subduing his desire. Lungs cramping with longing, he took his seat and breathed in Regine’s tempting scent while spearing Theadosia a just-you-wait look.
She tipped her mouth upward at one side while rolling her shoulders.
In contrition or dismissal?
James snapped his napkin open and, after placing it on his lap, cleared his throat. He felt as awkward as he had at his first formal dinner. Taking a long sip of wine, he willed his awareness of the woman to his left to dissipate. Her warmth beckoned, and God help him, he could not dispel the aroma of apple blossoms from his nostrils.
Without conscious thought, he found himself leaning toward her, drawing in her essence. He fought not to close his eyes as the familiar scent wrapped around him, coiling through his gut and entwining his heart. Ah, her fragrance elicited such sweet memories. Sweet, tormenting memories reminiscent of another time.
For all of her affected poise, Regine seemed as uncomfortable as he, for she also sipped her wine and had yet to look at him. If they kept staring straight ahead, like dolls attired in the first stare of fashion on display, they’d soon garner the attention of everyone in the room.
Theadosia caught his eye and pointedly steered her attention to Regine. Always a superb hostess, she wouldn’t tolerate any of her guests feeling self-conscious. If he didn’t heed her silent warning, James would receive an ever-so-polite, but thorough tongue-lashing.
With a sideways, almost shy glance, Regine broke the silence first, “I thank you again for escorting us to the museum. Juliet hasn’t stopped talking about the excursion.”
“I appreciate she enjoyed herself.” He relaxed a trifle, some of the strain seeping from his shoulders and spine. Dining beside her wasn’t all that bad. He could manage for an hour or two. He signaled the footman to refill his wine glass.
At once, the well-trained servant poured him another glass of superb cabernet.
How many courses had Theadosia planned
for dinner?
Things marched along quite nicely, almost comfortably, for the next half an hour until Westfall, seated to Regine’s left, commented, “I ran into the Duke of Heartwaite at White’s this afternoon. Surprised me, I must say. He’s not usually one for London in January.”
Heartwaite had five and twenty years on Regine. No wonder Westfall hadn’t referred to him as her stepson.
Every bit of color leeched from her face, and she carefully set down her fork. “Indeed.”
A trace of something James couldn’t quite identify, but which raised his hackles, rendered her voice husky.
“You are correct, Your Grace. He prefers the comfort of his country estate during the winter months.” Her tongue peeked out to dampen her lower lip. “And by chance, did he happen to mention why he’d ventured to London?”
Rather than look at Westfall, she raised stricken eyes to James. Lost, hopeless eyes.
By God, what went on here?
Westfall shook his head as he forked a bite of horseradish crusted roast beef. “Not specifically. Said he had a legal matter he sought counsel about.”
“I see.” If possible, she paled further, her attention fixed upon her plate. The delicate pulse at the juncture of her throat fluttered wildly, her chest rising and falling swiftly in agitation.
She was well and truly upset. Why?
Seated on Westfall’s other side, Miss Greenville spoke to him, and, with an apologetic smile, he directed his attention her way.
“Regine? Is something amiss?” James raked his gaze over her. She was upset. Distraught even.
She met his eyes, and his stomach sank upon comprehending the fear pooling in hers. She bit her lower lip, her attention skipping over those seated nearest them before she edged closer.
“James, I know I have no right to ask, and I’ll understand if you cannot. But perhaps you can recommend another solicitor then. I know this isn’t the place, either.” She looked around the table, again, blinking slowly and appearing somewhat dazed.
Her anxiety had something to do with what Westfall had said. But what?
Apprehension and worry had replaced the poised façade she’d presented at the coffeeshop and museum. And even here, earlier this evening. He’d never seen her like this, and every protective instinct he possessed surged to awareness.
She might’ve tossed him aside as easily as burned bread, but James would unhesitatingly guard her with his life. The realization sucked the wind from his lungs. From the very room itself.
His focus narrowed, blocking out the sounds and sights surrounding him until it was just the two of them. A tiny island in a sea of guests.
Comprehension slammed into him.
He still loved her. He’d never stopped.
Fool. Fool. Fool.
He’d but buried his feelings, repressed and denied his hopes and dreams for a future with her. Love—resilient and potent—had remained, and now it pulsed through him, as steadily and as forceful as the blood in his veins.
“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I am at a loss as to what else to do—” Faltering to an abrupt halt, she inhaled deeply, the movement threatening to spill her ample bosoms from her gown’s respectable, but much-too-low-for-his-comfort-neckline. She flexed her fingers around her fork’s handle as if preparing to guard herself.
James had never seen Regine like this. Afraid. Uncertain. And needing him. He lightly touched the back of her stiff hand. God, she was genuinely distressed.
“What is it, Regine? I’ll assist if I can.”
She swallowed audibly, and hand shaking, lifted her wine glass.
More fool he, but he could no more deny her request than he could cut out his own heart.
“May I pay a visit to your offices tomorrow, James? I fear I require legal counsel, as well.” She raised those breathtaking pale blue eyes to his.
Forget-me-nots. That was the shade of her eyes. And he hadn’t ever forgotten her. How could he? He’d given her his heart all those years ago, and he’d never been whole since.
“My stepson seeks to overturn my bequeathment,” she whispered, brokenly. “Without the inheritance Heartwaite settled upon me, I have no means to provide for Juliet. No home. Nothing. I’ll be destitute again.” The last word immerged a tortured, husky rasp weighted with despair and hopelessness.
Again? Had she…?
An inkling took root. Did Regine mean what James thought she did? That she’d been in that place before? After her father died? Why hadn’t she told him?
Even now, she fretted about her sister and not herself. And how dare that fribbling dumpling, Heartwaite, challenge his father’s will? Admiration for her, as well as fury toward the duke, pounded in his blood.
“Of course. Come by my office at eleven tomorrow, and bring every pertinent document you possess with you.” Mindful, they weren’t alone, yet needing to offer her comfort, he touched her elbow. “Never fear. If the documents were legally drafted and witnessed, he has no case.”
Giving a short nod, she reached beneath the table and clasped his hand. “Thank you. I realize I’m asking much after I—”
“You are not alone.” He squeezed her slender fingers. Darling, Regine. Instinctively, he knew she needed to know that this time, she could count on his help. “I shall always be here for you.”
A tremulous smile arched her plump lips, and her eyes softened. “I don’t deserve your friendship, James. But I am ever so thankful for it.”
Friendship? God’s teeth.
He didn’t want friendship. Or gratitude. Or appreciation. He wanted her. I do. Even after all this time. Even though she’d cleaved his heart from his chest and ground it into powder. He wanted Regine.
You’re a damned fool.
Yes, he was. And he couldn’t claim a whit of regret.
At promptly eleven the next morning, clutching a slender leather portfolio against her side, Regine swept past James and into his office. Deciding the reason for their meeting called for a more conservative gown, she’d donned a navy-blue and pearl-gray walking ensemble and matching redingote. Elegant and unquestionably respectable. Just as a haut ton duchess should appear.
Ah, but her heart was that of a flamboyant gypsy wanderer.
A curious mixture of amusement and devilment played about the edges of his eyes and mouth. As if he were privy to a great secret which bubbled behind his breastbone and danced impatiently on his tongue, waiting to be revealed.
A hint of the carefree young man he’d been, hovered over him. It sent her heart to flopping about, and she couldn’t suppress her smile. He’d been so very young and charming. So eager to please her. The tiniest bit awkward, but endearingly so.
Before her mind took her down a path that was sure to cause more discomfit, she examined the tidy room representing so much of his life. He’d placed his desk so that his back faced a duo of tall windows, allowing him the most light to conduct his work as well as face the door. Two comfortable-looking, unpretentious, deep burgundy armchairs paralleled each other before the shiny, black walnut desk.
After tucking the file beneath her elbow, she removed her dark blue gloves and took in a pair of bookshelves. The leather-bound, scholarly tomes neatly arranged from largest to smallest on their shelves, claimed most of the west wall. A walnut-brown leather sofa and rosewood end tables graced the opposite wall.
Masculine, attractive, and sensible, through and through. A room very much like the striking man waiting expectantly for her beside one of the tufted burgundy armchairs.
“Regine?” He splayed one large hand across the top of the chair, a smattering of silky dark, whisky-colored hair atop the back. “Won’t you have a seat while I examine the papers you’ve brought?”
“Yes. Of course.” She nodded, and gloves clutched in one hand, and the documents in the other, crossed the earth-toned Turkish carpet.
Today James wore a royal blue superfine wool coat and an ivory jacquard waistcoat. Refined and elegant, but not ostentatious
. His black pantaloons hugged muscular thighs. All in all, he was a splendid specimen of manhood. And he could’ve been hers for all time.
Yes, but at what cost to him?
She ought to tell him why she’d married Heartwaite. Oh, she’d tried that awful day, but James had been too wounded to attend her pleas. Mayhap now that his position was secure, he’d listen. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could forgive her, and her soul might be at ease.
Scanning the office again, Regine pushed aside her redolent thoughts. She harbored no doubt that James wouldn’t be established in this comfortable office, a successful solicitor—no, a partner—in a law firm had she followed her heart.
The knowledge ought to console her. It did, but it didn’t ease the perpetual ache in her breast. His success had been as important as her family’s survival. As she slipped into the chair and set the documents atop his organized desk, she offered a grateful upward sweep of her mouth.
A heartbeat later, he sat across from her. Drawing the file near, he asked, “May I?”
“But of course. That’s why I am here.” She welcomed any excuse to be in his company, even if her reason today was alarming and unnerving. Her stepson, George-Curtis, was a slimy maggot.
If James found anything questionable in the papers, she didn’t know what she’d do. However, she sought comfort in the knowledge that Heartwaite hadn’t been frivolous when it had come to business matters. Confidence that James could offer valuable legal advice, should she require it, also soothed her frayed nerves a trifle.
In all honesty, Regine had no right to impose upon him, but he’d been so unbearably kind last night. Almost as if the past wounds had been erased, and he still cared for her. If only that were true. The unexpected news that George-Curtis, a podgy, pallid turnip-of-a-man who craved creature-comforts almost as much as he lusted after money, had ventured to London had rattled her composure.
No, the news had been as frightening as if a violent earthquake had shaken the Sutcliffe’s home, stripping the ceilings of their decorative plasterwork and the walls of their gilded frames. She’d been overwrought, and she’d sought succor from the person she still trusted most in the world. She wasn’t ignorant of the manner in which James had stiffened when she arrived for dinner, nor the starchy glances passing between the Duchess of Sutcliffe and her austere brother.
Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance Page 35