Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter

by Larissa Lyons

  Was concerned if he didn’t escape now, but waited, the urges would strengthen and he might cover her again. Mount her and this time not have the wherewithal to remain outside the alluring body presented so willingly to him.

  And while he might profess to hate his brother—and the woman who’d made Blake both stronger than Nash ever thought to witness, but weaker as well—he respected and revered the man far too much to risk coming between him and his love.

  No wonder Nash always did everything he could to avoid commitments, avoid so much as looking at women when he took them. Why bother? One was just as good as another. And he wasn’t about to get duped into caring for one. Not with this curse business always looming every summer.

  So he’d take himself off to the chamber his brother always kept readied for him, despite it only being used a handful of nights each year. Clothing, money. His perfect brother would have arranged for both, well before the season warranted it.

  From there?

  To the entrance hall, to upright the table and anything else he’d smashed. Tidy what he could.

  And then? Was anyone’s guess.

  Mayhap back upstairs to sleep the day away…find another faceless, willing London wench tomorrow night.

  Mayhap…Scotland. Or perhaps…Cornwall and a dockside doxy.

  At the doorway, he couldn’t resist a last glance, would have denied with his dying breath the envy inherent in it, upon seeing the intertwined couple.

  For no matter how many times he told himself he hated Francine, God help him, he wanted someone exactly like her…

  Someone who would look at him the way she gazed at his brother. Someone who would risk everything to see him unharmed and cared for…

  Withdraw yourself, and leave them here alone, his blighted brain once more misquoted. But wisely.

  And so he did.

  Erasmus woke alone, the bed empty, curious what time it was but not really caring.

  Francine was gone. Nothing else mattered.

  Stale sweat and sex permeated the air, doubling his regret. Why had he not spoken to her sooner? Attempted to explain the…inexplicable?

  You know why.

  He did.

  Fear. The very real possibility that she’d have nothing to do with him once she knew the truth.

  Too late for regrets now. All he could do was look to the future.

  He walked to the window, naked and fully upright, his hair, face and form returned to their customary appearance. After so many days denying himself physically, his cells had altered to the point that he’d feared harming Francine—or anyone else who dared enter his domain. Hence, his demand that Nash restrain him.

  Nash, who had suffered almost equally, the ease he’d found in various women since his unexpected return lasting only a brief time, their proximity causing The Change to affect them both differently than they’d experienced before—when Erasmus wasn’t denying himself. But at least his brother had managed to find some moments of clarity.

  For Erasmus, the past few days—even most of last night—were a haze. A haze of pain, longing and regret. And hatred. Couldn’t forget that, now could he? Hatred turned inward for being such a clodpate as to think he could dally with innocence and allow it to remain unscathed.

  Drawing open the ruined drapes, he unlatched the shutters, inviting fresh air into the chamber.

  Though it was raining, a persistent sheeting turning everything grey and dreary that had started sometime during the night, all he saw, felt, breathed was sunlight.

  Sunlight.

  Sunshine.

  Francine.

  Steeling himself against the pain of her loss, he idly wondered how his other male relatives might be handling The Change. Especially Phineas, poor bastard, the cousin once closest to him and also the person who had suffered more than any other because of their affliction. Alive or dead, sane or crazed, the not knowing…

  God, he was a wreck. He leaned against the shutters, inhaling the humid air, imagining he could smell her again. Fresh. Unspoilt.

  Before they’d gotten their wretched claws in her. He and his brother.

  Nash had vanished again, during the night, likely taking the first ship to France or the first stagecoach to Scotland. Leaving the country like he always did—another sudden arrival and abrupt exodus—leaving Erasmus to make do with nothing more than the half-arsed correspondence he’d send once or twice a year and always from a different location.

  The blackguard, availing himself of the purest part of Erasmus’s heart—Francine—and then abandoning him to deal with the aftermath alone.

  Always alone.

  Eyes squeezed tightly shut against emotions he didn’t want to face, he bellowed, “Franklin!”

  His valet could attempt the unenviable task of making him presentable. Then he’d present himself, hat in hand, at Rowden House, seek an audience—

  Not today, you won’t.

  “By the devil.” How could he have forgotten? His valet, along with the entire staff was on paid holiday for the month. A tradition started by his father, one that made the various Hammond residences much-desired places for employment.

  He’d thought the loneliness might be over, that the companionship and, yes, love, he’d so unexpectedly found with his Francy might carry him through this year, give him the strength to control the beast within. To resist altering into a maniac.

  He’d been wrong.

  He might have been able to resist the lure of other women, which had been less difficult than he’d anticipated, but as the sun crept into Leo, his traitorous cells had grown more demanding every day, until now, not even near the zenith of the zodiacal sign and he’d been near destroyed, broken. Without the respite garnered from her welcoming body, he shuddered to imagine what—

  The sound of someone furiously assaulting the front door broke through his thoughts.

  Probably the constable, come to cart him off to Newgate. Or Francine’s uncle, come to cart him off to the dueling field.

  The man, once he’d returned to town, had been agreeably tolerant of the amount of time Erasmus spent with his niece. And—after Erasmus dropped a hint or two, leaving Francine’s aunt little choice but to confess her nefarious plans concerning Francine’s inheritance, along with her own gambling foibles—he’d been completely supportive of their “betrothal”.

  That last dinner—before The Change snuck up on him and he whisked her off to have his wild and wicked way with her—he’d even thought he and Rowden might become something of friends… So much for that now.

  If it was her uncle come to put a ball of lead through him, ’twas nothing less than he deserved. Exposing Francine to himself—and his brother—as he had, using her precious body for their own gain…he was a prigging animal. Who deserved to be shot. Drawn and quartered too.

  Dipped in hot oil, rolled in grouse feathers—

  The persistent clanging reverberated throughout the house. Threatened to burst his overly sensitive eardrums.

  Damn him. He should have confided in her long before now.

  You think of that—now?

  One of the few clear moments he had of last night were her last words to him, crying for him to leave her alone, to stop touching…

  Nay! Leave!

  Had anything as heart wrenching ever crossed his ears before?

  Which is where the bulk of the self-castigation came from. How his selfish actions had brought her to that place.

  More pounding attacked his chest and head.

  Leave off castigating yourself and answer the damn door!

  Wrapped in a dressing gown, still moving sluggishly from the effects of The Change and the hours of bliss-induced relief he’d give anything to recall with more clarity, he made his way down the stairs to the entrance hall where the noise only increased, the blasted thumps clamoring in his brain.

  “’Tis not even locked!” He wrenched the door open before the person on the other side broke the blasted thing down. Snarling, “What in
Hades—”

  Only to be brought up short when a dripping umbrella poked him in the chest.

  Francine barreled her way in, looking more pure than a heathen even had a right to behold. The umbrella hit the floor and her reticule collided with the side table just as vehemently as her accusing gaze collided with his, her vibrant eyes magnified by the eyeglass lenses.

  An avenging angel come to life, but his angel no more? If that’s what she thought, he’d correct her soon enough.

  Let her say her piece. Let her ire carry her through, however she needed. He’d give her the remaining three weeks, while he got through somehow, and then, by damn, no matter what she said to him in the next few minutes, he was going after her. And he was going to claim her. Forever.

  “I am here to conclude our bargain, my lord.” She faced him, removing her spectacles and carefully placing them on the small table with her reticule. “But first, I rather think I deserve an explanation. A thorough one.”

  “Aye, you do. Apologies, as well. But you may not believe what—”

  “Erasmus.” Exasperation coated her tone. “I saw your brother practically turn into a slathering lion and you were not far behind.” Calm, cool, her voice held no accusation, simply truth, as her fingers went to the bow beneath her neck, untying the bonnet she wore. “I daresay I can safely guarantee I shall believe most anything you have to tell me. Now start flapping your jaws.”

  As she drew out the long ribbon, he noticed scratches her gloves couldn’t hide—the ones that streaked down her arms. Sheer surprise made him recoil.

  “Oh-no-you-don’t!” Francine fisted one lapel of his dressing gown, halting his retreat. “Do not dare turn from me as you tried to last night. How can you think that I—”

  “By the blazes. I hurt you. Look!” He raised her hand and pointed to the thin cuts crossing her sun-browned forearm above the glove. And the paler skin on her upper arm when he runched her sleeve. “Here too?”

  She gestured to her arms. “These happened when you were trying to push me away and I was holding on for dear life. Did it occur to you that keeping me with you might have been safer than sending those dratted notes?”

  Knowing he looked guilty—because he felt guilty—he didn’t complain that she’d pinched skin when grabbing him. Too damn relieved to see her. Have her in his home again.

  “When will you get it through that thick, sometimes furry skull of yours—I cannot claim to know why, but I like it when you become wild and on edge—and a little rough. I know that makes me…”

  “Wicked.” Did she know that the more she spoke, claiming to like his wild ways, the more perfect she seemed? Nothing could please him more.

  “Depraved,” she countered on a frown.

  “Debauched.” He grinned when he said it. An unholy grin that spread his lips wide and showed off—dare he hope?—normal-shaped teeth. “I must say, I do like how very debauched you have become, Francy.”

  Everything would be all right between them. For, after that confession, he’d move heaven and hell to make it so.

  “Stop tempting me to wipe that wickedly alluring grin right off your face,” she huffed, her frilly untied bonnet still perched upon her unhappy hair, gloved hands propped at her waist, slippered toes tapping, face full of righteous indignation.

  “You are smashing in high dudgeon, did you know that?”

  “I am unwilling to simply banter—no matter how tempted—when still more exists to resolve between us.” She grew deplorably serious. “You should have told me before now. Not kept me utterly in the dark. After all we have shared!” That did it. Wiped the mirth clean off his expression. “You would have saved us both some angst.”

  “I concur. Can only claim my wits went begging.” He groaned, slamming one hand on the side table, causing something to flutter to the floor. Distracted, he looked down, muttering, “Surprised you can bring yourself to look at me this morning.”

  “’Tis accomplished quite easily, I assure you. Magnificent specimen and all that.”

  But he was no longer listening, bending to pick up the fallen, folded paper.

  She jerked it out of his hand and tossed it back on the table, skewering him with no small amount of ire. “Have at it. Enlighten me. Thoroughly.”

  And best make it good. She’s as pissed as she has a right to be.

  “I… We…” Since when did he ever fumble about? Staring into pale blue expectant inquisitiveness, he swallowed and tried again. “My family— The males that is…”

  How could he just blurt it out? He battled the multitude of lies that rose to his lips and finally surrendered to the truth—most of it, for now. Beneath her imploring regard, he could do no less. “Our grandfather was on African safari, hunting elephants, lions, zebras—anything he considered exotic enough for his trophy room. He was still a relatively young man and boasted more pride than sense.”

  Unable to bear the distance, he stepped forward and hauled her to him, burying his face in the warm curve of her neck, knocking her bonnet off and not giving a damn. Her frizzed, not-about-to-be-tamed, pinned-up hair muffled his next words. “After the greedy bastard had already killed more animals than he could even transport home, he came upon a herd of lions and…”

  “And what? I need to know,” she whispered, hugging him fiercely. Not saying nay now, is she? “And you, I believe, need to tell me.”

  He lifted her off the ground so that her feet dangled, holding her as tightly as he dared. “He had already brought down two and was reloading for a third kill when another lion came from behind and attacked. Grandfather nearly bled to death right there on the savannah.”

  “Oh, Erasmus…” Her fingernails scraped along his scalp, pushing him away or pulling him closer, he didn’t dare contemplate.

  “’Twas no more than he deserved, extinguishing those beautiful animals for nothing more than sport, hoping to impress his friends back in England.” And how could he be condemning his grandfather’s actions? Since when did he feel empathy for the blasted animal whose form tried to overtake his own every year?

  Her nails dug deeper. “Then what? Did your grandfather recover?”

  “A tribal healer was summoned from a nearby village. He told Grandfather that the disembodied familiars were angered over his greed and disregard for life. The man said he had called on Felis leo spirit medicine, but it would only be available if a reciprocal exchange was offered. The healer gave him two options—either agree or surrender to fate and most likely die.”

  “He agreed,” she whispered when he paused, squirming in his embrace. “Tell me the rest.”

  He lowered her feet to the floor but held fast, inhaling the subtle scent of lilacs, sunshine and earthy, fragrant woman, absorbing the refinement she exuded, his soul soothed for the first time since he’d come to and found her gone. “On the verge of his last breath, Grandfather consented, unaware of what he had done, as the man had spoken in another tongue. Grandfather only knew what the single remaining packman had shared—the others having scattered—which was a fraction of the truth.”

  “How did you discover the rest?” she asked, still gripping his hair, now making him face her.

  “From letters and journals. My father’s and grandfather’s. Only studied a fraction; some is in code.” He tilted his head, nuzzled his cheek along hers, wishing—for her sake—that his stubbled face had seen the sharp side of a blade in the last week.

  “Mother gave them to me after his death. Actually, arranged to have them delivered into my safekeeping after she left.”

  Those had been dark days, not long after his father’s bloodied body was returned to the family amidst scandal and speculation. The rumor circling round being that the prior marquis took the embarrassing, foolhardy, dicked-in-the-nob way off the shores of England and shot himself in the head; the truth suspected by him and his mother even more ruinous to the family name than that spot of tragedy.

  “I glanced carelessly over things, shared the absurd claims with Na
sh and Phineas.” Somehow, he no longer held her nor her him, instead he now paced across the entrance hall, as though to outrun the naïve memories. “We thought ’twas rich amusement, the whole lot of it nothing more than a jolly tale.” What else could they have thought?

  ’Twas nonsensical blather claiming that he and his brother and cousin had Roho ya Simba coursing through their veins, the Spirit of the Lion. And him having to track that tiny spot of knowledge down by consulting with a scholar interested in African tribes and their various languages.

  “We were convinced ’twas merely something our parents had contrived—a jest on wild boys to keep the oat-sowing to a minimum. ’Tis all. Thought Mother shared when she did only to keep my focus off where she had gone.

  “We never believed it. None of it. Not even her letter confiding the mangling of her leg was not a carriage accident at all but the result of our father turning on her the first time he faced The Change.” Now that he’d started blathering the family secrets, seemed he couldn’t stop.

  “It was not until later, when our cousin Phin had his devastating wedding night and disappeared in a flurry…” He came upon another wall and paused, slapped his palms to the decorative paper he hadn’t changed since inheriting the London home so many years before. Stood there, breathing hard, staring at the floor between his bare feet. “Not until we saw the bridal room he left behind, the mangling of blood and golden fur, did Nash and I finally believe. Then I battled the curse the very next year. Nearly succumbing, until I had no choice but to take my father’s impassioned warnings to heart and do everything I could to stop it. As I have been doing every year since.

  “And you know the rest.” Or enough of it.

  “The curse? Have you knowledge of how?”

  He nodded abruptly. There were still journal entries, additional ramblings he’d yet to share. There’d be time enough in their future. She hadn’t run screaming yet; he’d no intention of ever letting her go. Even if he couldn’t face her quite yet. “In parts. Not everything.”

  “Why did you not struggle when we first met?” She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t control the flinch that ran through him. “Why now?”