Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter

by Larissa Lyons

  After all, as peers, that was their primary responsibility, was it not? At least as far as the rest of the world was concerned—their duty, to make healthy boy babies to secure the line.

  “G-good God, no!” Tremayne coughed into his fist after sputtering that out. “No interest in…breeding.”

  We’re agreed, then, Erasmus wanted to share, but didn’t, long habits of keeping himself aloof and apart too ingrained. But not with Francine, that annoying part of his mind prompted. With her, you seem to jabber almost as much as a bunch of hens.

  Tremayne gave the women a lingering glance before turning back to Erasmus. “Happy to see… You found someone.”

  Uncomfortable at the thought of deceiving his friend, knowing he and Francine were a temporary—if convenient—match, he spoke without thinking. “But Louise? Still? Have you not grown tired of her?” Tired of her sometimes crass, sometimes flighty ways?

  “We suit.”

  Hardly.

  “In the bedchamber, no doubt,” he offered with his practiced air of not caring beyond anything save bed sport. “You are to be commended, then.” Commitment, whether to a spouse or one’s fancy piece shouldn’t be made light of, not in today’s society. “For finding and securing her.”

  “Not averse to change. Only…” Tremayne nodded once, almost as though convincing himself. “Convenient, she is.”

  Erasmus chuckled at that. “A man’s convenient, should be, do you not agree?” As talk turned to the last session in the House, he heard the women deep in discussion over the exhibit where they’d paused, studying the fly-eating Dionaea muscipula on display, the wicked little tipitiwitchet out of North Carolina.

  “Did you see this?” Francine asked her companion. “It says here ’twas discovered in America in the late 1760s or thereabouts…”

  Even with most his attention on Tremayne, he could so easily pick out her dulcet tones, savor their sweetness—

  “Seems America is good for something other than war with France or England, then,” Louise enthused, sounding as though she shuffled closer to the specimen. “What a sinfully delightful plant! Do you see why the British naturalist Mr. Ellis named it Venus’s Flytrap?”

  “I do indeed.” More hushed now, but no less appealing, his betrothed gave a light, almost embarrassed laugh. He eagerly listened and felt no compunction whatsoever at eavesdropping on the ladies’ discussion. Especially when Francine continued…

  “I used a mirror once—to see down there. Scientific curiosity and all that.” Erasmus smiled inside. Of course she’d used a mirror to look at herself, his inquisitive little innocent.

  He couldn’t be more proud.

  “La, my dear,” Louise exclaimed, “your face is as pink as this fly-catcher. Venus mound, indeed.” The auburn head tilted toward the bonneted blonde, as though imparting a confidence. He listened even more intently. “My compliments to you, Lady Francine. I am quite gratified to know you have no squeamish airs about you. Blakely and his kind are not the sort for squeamish misses. Not with…”

  “With what?”

  “The ribald group activities and such…”

  “Oh? What group might—”

  Time to halt that. “Let’s rejoin the ladies, Tremayne, shall we?”

  “All means.”

  “What all have you two been discussing?” Giving them no further time to exchange confidences—or for Louise to corrupt Francine (why should she need to, when you’re doing quite the spectacular job on your own?)—Erasmus barged right in, Tremayne on his heels. “What’s this I hear about a mummy?”

  “Interesting, seeing that,” his friend volunteered.

  Francine turned smiling, if curious—no doubt still thinking about that prior exchange with the blowsy redhead—eyes toward him. “Louise says there is a magnificent exhibit on the other side. Even a cat! Can you imagine?”

  How well he could, with all that he had seen in his life. And the exhibit, at least, explained the peculiar smell that had been plaguing him. Whatever embalming methods the Egyptians employed, seemed his cursed conk could still ferret them out.

  “Oh, do! ’Tis divine.” Evidently giving up on inappropriately stroking other men, Louise turned all her attention to the self-possessed one at her side. “After seeing the magnificent jewels that have been recovered in their tombs? I told Tremayne exactly what I want next!”

  His stoic friend gave a slight shake of his head, as if to impart, Women. “Storm’s likely lessened.” He glanced pointedly at his timepiece.

  “So…time we leave?” Louise pouted, then brightened. “Ah, since you think the rain has moved on by now”—she practically climbed up his side to loudly whisper in his ear—“can my strong man enjoy himself without a raincoat this time, eh?”

  As Tremayne once again restrained her overzealous actions, he shared both a look and a small smile with Erasmus. Louise might be lacking in finesse and tact, but she definitely made up for both with a lusty love of lewd lovemaking the other couple would no doubt be indulging in soon.

  Frisking? Or flirting?

  Still unsure exactly how he planned to go on, he nevertheless tucked Francine into his side, as they watched the other couple saunter off.

  “I like your friend. Though I have only interacted with him once or twice—and then even with the most fearsome bruising lining his jaw—I always thought that he has kind eyes.”

  Was that jealousy threatening to claw its way out? Because she merely said a man he also liked and respected had pleasing eyes?

  “Although… Louise now.” Francine took one step away from him, to better gaze off at the retreating couple, before lowering her voice to add, “I’m not sure I have her figured out. She did not even give us a chance to finish introductions before tugging me away. Though she seems friendly enough, she doesn’t quite seem a proper match for Lord Tremayne, does she?”

  A proper match? He didn’t try to subdue his grin, but did attempt to make it not quite so derisive. She’s not. At all. “Why? Who do you think she is?”

  “His wife?” Her tone lilted upward at the incredulous look he didn’t try to hide.

  He gave a bark of laughter. “Hanging on to him as she was?” Then Erasmus demonstrated, extending one arm toward his lady’s backside. “Brushing her fingers over my duff after she approached? Nay, my sweet, innocent Francine.” Would he shock her? Was he trying to? “She is his mistress.”

  “In truth?” Her eyes widened, the spectacles she wore only enlarging them further. “I do not believe I have ever met a man’s mistress before. Not knowingly.”

  And if he was any sort of gentleman at all, he would have ensured she hadn’t today. But instead of apologizing, of trying to shield his faux affianced, he all but boasted, “You have now.”

  What was it about this demure yet outspoken, inexperienced yet game lady that only made him want to corrupt her further? To bask in her enjoyment of the bawdy?

  Her brows knit in a frown and both hands came to her hips. “And the wretch put her paws on you?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He watched with interest as she breathed in, then out, lifted her shoulders up, then rolled them back and relaxed her arms out to her sides.

  Lightly, she flicked her gloved fingertips across his shoulders and chest, then walked around him, doing the same to his back—and lands lower—as though erasing the uninvited touch, the earlier caress he’d found oddly offensive, given its lack of welcome.

  “She did indeed,” he said once she again held his gaze.

  “Quite without your permission?”

  This time. “Quite. Utterly and completely.”

  What would his little debauched, pretend intended think of that?

  “I do not believe I care for her, after all,” Francine said primly, not a hint of jealousy in her voice. Only in her eyes, as she now stared daggers toward the no-longer-visible couple. “He can do better, I am convinced of it. Significantly better.”

  11

  Confessions & Warnings, and Promises
Be Damned

  Dearest Erasmus,

  Again I must beg of your indulgence. I had thought to return by now, but Fate has decreed otherwise.

  In finding the answers I once sought, my journey has taken me in an entirely different direction. One I must follow to its conclusion—alone.

  Do not seek me out. Nor let your brother think to. But remain bound to each other knowing that I love you with every breath, every sunrise, every cloud upon the sky…

  Now that I know what became of your father, I shall seek my own peace in time.

  For now…

  For now—

  For now, my dear boy, do not neglect to live YOUR life.

  * * *

  The writing within this letter, unlike the last she’d seen delivered into his hand so many moons ago, was shaky and blotched. Smeared in places. But no less dear.

  Ending abruptly and causing him to defy the edict set forth and seek her out, but to no avail. Weeks he’d searched on his own, only abandoning his efforts and returning home when the steward’s letter reached him, speaking of difficulties with tenants that needed a master at home to tend.

  Then for months after that, paying for the search to continue. Yet still without success.

  Until finally, one lonely sunrise, as he watched the clouds scud across the orange sky, thinking of his dear mama with every one of his breaths, he finally accepted her wishes and said goodbye…

  Upon leaving the museum, Erasmus told his coachman to circle London until directed otherwise. He wasn’t ready to end their little excursion. His huge escape.

  For once he returned Francine home, ’twas time for him to return to the unpleasant but necessary business of seeking out a killer. Damn his responsibilities.

  Rain still slicked everything, but now more of a drizzle than a deluge.

  He handed her into his carriage, that fancy bonnet hiding the Medusa-like, writhing strands of what could no longer be called hair. Not the way it moved every which direction, defying gravity—and now, even the bonnet.

  He climbed in and settled himself on the opposite seat. Before the horses even left the curb, he reached across and untied the ribbons at her neck. “Be comfortable,” he invited, pointing to the cushion next to her. Then he gestured to his temple. “Unless you need your spectacles here?”

  “Not this close to you.” They disappeared quickly inside her reticule, which she placed upon the seat. She hesitated but a moment before also removing the elegant contraption she wore, her fingers checking the multitude of pins she’d added—which didn’t do a damn thing to tame the frizzled, blond serpents if she but knew it.

  No time to entertain her this evening, blast it all. Not after being gone for several days. And while escorting her to a public place with the window curtains hooked back—only because he couldn’t take advantage of an open carriage on a day like today—had edged the line of propriety much closer than he’d like, at least it’d been daytime.

  He wasn’t about to risk an evening closed-carriage excursion with no semblance of chaperone in sight.

  Now you want to consider proprieties? Bats, buffle-head. They swarm your belfry like flies do a carcass.

  Shut the deuce up!

  The gentle touch upon the back of his hand halted the nagging internal voice. He removed his glove and flipped his hand upright, to grasp hers and tug her across the carriage next to him.

  “Tell me more of your family?”

  “Whatever for?” Could he help it if he sounded irritated by the simple question?

  “You never speak of them. I admit to vast curiosity.”

  “Choke it off.” He thought that’d be the end of it.

  Hardly.

  She gave his fingers a squeeze, then drew hers away to remove both her gloves while giving his side a nudge with her shoulder. “Do you not hear yourself? You can be quite abrupt at times. Severely private.”

  “Yet you refuse to heed it.”

  “For I know ’tis an act.”

  He missed her touch. And because he wasn’t above being an arse if it suited him, mouthed off, “Much like our betrothal?”

  “Nay. Vastly different.”

  Her speculative gaze, fixed decidedly upon his person, made him want to fidget. He stared straight across at the unexceptional, empty carriage seat as though nothing could interest him greater than her discarded bonnet. Pointedly refusing to apologize and make the effort to charm his way back into her good graces—as he knew he should.

  A few heavy seconds later, she said, remarkably evenly, “I could pout and flounce about, or do the opposite and pretend I care not, but you demanded honesty between us, so you shall have it.”

  She never stopped surprising him. Wasn’t going to whimper and whine? Was only going to employ logic to make her point?

  “You know much of my regrettable past, my sorrow. You knew my father, even. You know of my shame, my flighty cousin, the one I am—secretly—becoming friends with again. You know of my wastrel aunt. Even the disaster upon my head should rain dare to fall.” He finally looked at her, opened his mouth to halt the discourse, but she shook her head and only spoke louder, both to gain his attention and because raindrops started pounding the carriage. “You know of my lackadaisical uncle.”

  Ah, her uncle.

  Easily, could he cross paths with her uncle, attempt to have a conversation with him. He had no aversion to the man—other than his choice of wife. Would be good to befriend him, perhaps. Ensure he learned of his wife’s perfidy. Had they not sat on the same side of the vote the last time Erasmus had troubled himself to attend Parliament? Minute, but something perhaps to build upon.

  Build upon? Befriend him? Have your wits gone begging? It is not as though you are joining the family in truth.

  “You know of my fortune, my love of dirt, my—”

  “Stop.” He shifted to cup her cheek, tilt her head and lose his ire in the sky blue of her peaceful eyes. “Your point stands made and it gouges me right here”—he brought his other hand to his chest—“rather effectively.”

  * * *

  Francine sensed he wanted to huff and bluster about, to escape the carriage into the downpour and restrained himself from doing so only by the sheerest of wills, the impressively long and controlled breath he let lightly escape his slightly parted lips. “Francine… What is your second name?”

  “Sarah. Was I not the miracle child?” She referred to the Bible story of Abraham’s wife and the wonder of motherhood at an elderly age. “The one Papa so desperately needed?”

  At the self-mocking tone she employed, he slowly drew his fingers down and off her face, leaving tingles trailing in his wake. She closed her eyes a moment, to better savor the sensations. Then blinked them open to finish, honestly and without the hint of bitterness that had coated her prior sentence.

  “Although my choice to be born female proved entirely disastrous to Papa’s line, he never—not once—made me feel inferior or rejected. ’Twas loved and cherished from my earliest memories. It is the only reason I have managed to abide Aunt Pru’s criticism and restrictions, her harping and confining ways without circling Bedlam. The memories, the feelings of such a warm and lovely childhood.”

  Though his posture remained stiff, he swayed his upper body toward hers. “When you speak thus”—his tone had softened too—“I swear, Francy, I can feel the love. ’Tis quite disconcerting, I admit. Especially given how…”

  “How?”

  For a moment, he refused to reply, instead turned away, this time to look out the uncovered window, though no scene remained visible, not with the constant trickle of water streams parading downward, blurring the view beyond.

  She gave him those solitary moments and was rewarded when he lifted his arm to draw the curtain partially across it before turning back to her. He took up her hand, lacing their fingers tightly together to bring the back of her hand to his lips.

  The silky glide of his tongue upon the sensitive flesh threatened her concentration. So she
rotated to climb over his lap, ungainly perhaps in the smallish space, skirts rustling and bunched. But this way, for a moment at least, her hands now bracketing his face with him staring into her eyes and his lips no longer wreaking havoc upon her skin, she could attempt to finish what she’d started.

  “Shall I complete the thought?” Her fingers made his head nod while she mimicked his deep tone, “Why, certainly, my dear Francy, will you not avail me of your wisdom?”

  His lips quirked. Eyes started to glow.

  Still imitating his voice, she said, “I am at sixes and sevens, dearest, to hear your wisdom.”

  He snorted. “That, I would never say that.”

  She released one side of his face to trace the pad of one finger over his bottom lip. “What? That I am wise?”

  “Sixes and sevens.”

  Because his supple lips nibbling upon her flesh now threatened to snaffle her concentration, she finished in her regular tone. “Might you be disconcerted by feeling something given how, for some unfathomable reason, you have distanced yourself from people close to you?”

  Because the noise beyond their secluded space howled—his poor coachman, she couldn’t help but spare a second to think—she tensed her thighs and changed her hold from his face to brace herself upon his shoulders, speaking directly into his ear. “Though you appear to be surrounded by a great many friends at all times, I begin to think that is another fallacy you portray…”

  Beneath some bristly whiskers along his jaw, next to his intentionally thick side whiskers, a muscle pulsed. Hadn’t that area been smooth only scant hours before? “Your facial hair grows astonishingly fast.”

  When had his hands gripped her hips?

  She only noticed now as his strong fingers pressed in and slid up to her waist. Angled her until he caught her eyes.