The Counterfeit Lady_A Regency Romance

by Alina K. Field

  “Jenny. Bring wood to the bedchamber, and hot water,” he said without pausing, and then she was bouncing against him, his heart pounding, his breath ruffling the hair near her ear.

  He kicked open the bedchamber door, and Jenny rustled by. The girl dropped kindling and wood in the grate and knelt before it with the tinderbox, striking sharp flares.

  “Let’s get these clothes off.” Fox tore at the knot on her sopping neckcloth. He finally gave up and pulled out his knife. “Don’t move.”

  She closed her eyes during the delicate slicing and concentrated on not shivering, letting the first delicate spirals of smoke curl into her with promises of warmth. She heard the knife clatter on the table and felt her neck lighten as he unwound her.

  He inhaled sharply and muttered a curse. Strong hands cupped her shoulders.

  “Oh, miss,” Jenny whispered.

  They both stared at her neck. “Is it bruised?”

  His gaze scorched her. Fox was well and truly angry.

  “Jenny, hot water.”

  Jenny hurried out.

  He pressed his lips together and finished unwinding the cloth, tossing it aside. Then he turned her around, pulled off his damp coats and tugged at her soggy ones.

  She pulled away from him. “Stop. I’m feeling much better. I can undress myself.”

  “No.” He tugged at her sleeve again.

  “You are too rough. Too angry.” Sudden tears sprang and she swallowed them back.

  She was yanked back against him, into his heat and his trembling, and she remembered. He was soaked also, and freezing. He needed dry clothes.

  She covered his hands with hers. “Go and change, Fox. Jenny can help me when she comes back.”

  “No.”

  His heat and his anger vibrated through her. “I won’t go anywhere.”

  For the rest of my life. A sob bubbled inside her. Father would lock her up for her foolishness. Her hands curled into fists, and she bit hard on her lip.

  She must do the honorable thing and report this threat to the King, even at risk of her freedom. She would not cry. She would somehow survive this and find another way to break free.

  He released her and went back to tugging on sleeves, this time more gently, removing her coats.

  “Sit down, now.” He moved a chair near the growing fire.

  The heat made her skin ripple. Fox knelt before her and removed one of her boots. Money spilled out, coins and bank notes. She picked up one of the notes. It was only a little damp. A night drying by the fire and she could still use it.

  Fox’s eyes narrowed. He collected the coins and notes and set them next to his discarded knife.

  He lifted her other foot. “I suppose this one has the jewels.”

  Her face heated as he poured out her gold chain, the pink garnet ring she’d received for her eighteenth birthday, a cameo fob, and a slim bracelet dotted with turquoise. It was paltry. All the best of the jewelry was locked in Bakeley’s safe. How had she thought to subsist on these items? She watched him gathering them, noticed how he kept his face carefully neutral. He’d slipped from anger to pity.

  Jenny entered with a steaming bucket.

  “Put it there.” He pointed to the hearth.

  “I’ve tea ready also.”

  He nodded. “Get it. Some biscuits also, or bread if there’s any.”

  As soon as the door slammed, he eased her out of the chair, yanked out her shirttails, and tore the shirt over her head.

  She plopped her hands over her breasts. “Fox.”

  His fingers tore at her trouser buttons. She barred an arm and hand over her breasts and slapped at his busy hands with the other.

  Buttons flew. The loose breeches peeled down her hips and pooled at her feet. He swept a gaze over her, his eyes darker than usual, and walked into the dressing room.

  She glanced around the chamber. Where had she left her dressing gown? Where had Jenny put it?

  In the adjoining room, he was slamming cabinets. As his footsteps neared, she dropped into the chair, drawing her knees up and huddling into them.

  She peered up. Her robe hit the bed where he tossed it. A pile of towels fell to the floor next to her chair. She swung her gaze around, her field of vision at the level of his waist. He’d shed his wet shirt and—holy saints. His trousers strained with an erection worthy of the Godolphin Barb.

  Liquid heat poured through her, pooling at the part of her she was trying so desperately to conceal.

  He wanted her, just as franticly as she wanted him.

  She heard the door latch turn. A towel floated over her head, covered her, and began to rustle through her tangled damp hair.

  “Put it on the table,” he said.

  Dishes clattered.

  “Sir, let me—”

  “Out.”

  Jenny must have paused, the brave little thing.

  “Get. Out.”

  The door snicked closed. The towel came off. Lips pressed against hers, hot and demanding, pushing her chin up, breaking the grip she had on her knees. He’d kissed her on the beach, jolting her back to breathing, back to life, but this—this was so much more.

  She reached for him and he pulled her up, his hot length burning her, melding her to him. She squirmed closer, fingers tracing wide shoulders, bunched muscles, hard strength. A fresh, pink scar knotted his chest and she lifted her head to look. Before she could ask about it, he kissed her again, a hot demanding press of his lips, his tongue searching and twining with hers.

  She slid her hands down to his waist and squeezed her fingers along hot muscles, and lower. She wanted to see more, feel more.

  He tugged at her hand, lifted his mouth away, and said “No.”

  His eye glowed with so much anger, her heart sank.

  His gaze dropped to her breasts, plumped against his bare chest. Stepping back, frowning, he stroked her cheek. “You’re injured.” He traced the length of her arms, picked up her wrist and studied the bruising. “No skin broken,” he said, and the words grated as if they pained him.

  Lifting her chin, he focused his gaze at her neck. “But this…I’ll kill him.”

  “I’ve promised myself that reward.” Perhaps his anger wasn’t directed at her.

  Fox’s fingers trailed over her breasts, down her sides, to her waist, his gaze stopping a moment at the thatch of hair between her legs before moving on. “Your knee is bleeding.”

  Indeed it was. “I stumbled. I’m clumsy as ever.”

  He settled his hands on her shoulders. His eyes still burned darkly, but his lips twitched. “It’s hard to walk on pound notes and garnet rings.”

  Before she could protest, he whipped her around, and a tremor shook both of them.

  “Perry, take a breath for me.”

  He’d assumed the composed tone he’d used earlier that evening to send her away, stirring her anger.

  “Why?”

  Fingers trailed lightly over her back, the sensation sending ripples of pleasure through her.

  “Does that hurt?”

  She swallowed. “No.”

  He probed more closely and she gasped. “The scrawny one punched me there.”

  “Does it hurt to breathe?”

  She inhaled deeply. “Only a little.”

  He touched her at waist level. “And here? Does this hurt?”

  “It feels tender. He hit me there also.”

  “The scrawny one. He’ll die, as soon as I can identify him.”

  “Yes, and I’ll be the one to—oh.”

  His fingers slid over her bottom and fire blasted through her. She gripped the chair back, and he tugged her bottom against him.

  Oh, God. She’d seen the outline of his erection earlier tonight and now she could feel it.

  “Fox.” She had no breath to say more. One of his hands, with those artist’s long fingers, had curled round her and was threading that warm thatch of hair at her center.

  She gasped.

  He froze. “Am I hurting yo
u?”

  She shook her head.

  One arm pulled her to him. He nuzzled her neck, kissing and licking in a flurry of sensation that drowned out any aches. His other hand stayed busy, stroking, sending liquid heat through her. He backed them to the bed, and seated himself, pulling her onto his lap and taking one of her breasts in his mouth.

  That busy hand flattened against her sensitive nub and a finger slid into her.

  She touched his arms, his shoulder, his back. She raked her fingers along the soft hair of his arm, through the fuzz of his chest, along the prickly stubble covering his jaw.

  The tension built higher. She clutched at his shoulders, reaching for something, in an agony of feeling, and—

  Pleasure exploded in her and she gripped tightly while it pulsed.

  Oh, oh, oh. She squirmed and gasped and settled.

  He’d gone still as a statue, his finger still nestled inside her, his forehead pressed to her shoulder.

  So this was it.

  Now she understood. When women whispered about marital pleasure, this was what they meant. Not just the kissing and touching, which were wonderful, but…a woman would do much for this kind of pleasure. And men—no wonder the unhappily married members of the ton chased each other shamelessly.

  Fox lifted his head, his face in a grimace.

  This she’d heard whispered about also—a man engorged for too long was a man in pain.

  She couldn’t bear to leave Fox in pain.

  She slipped to the floor in front of him, ignoring her scraped knee, and reached for his buttons.

  He pulled at her hands. “No.”

  His tone was as hard as his cloth-covered rod.

  Tracing a finger down his length, she watched his jaw tighten.

  He squeezed her hand. “We’ll not go there tonight.”

  “But you’re—”

  “I’ll not ruin you any more than I have, Perry.”

  “Ruin me?”

  She sat back on her heels. Fox sounded so angry, and he’d averted his eyes, as if she was unpleasant to look at. But minutes ago, he’d had a finger in her most private of parts.

  Perhaps the pleasure had addled her brain, and the lack of pleasure had addled his. She reached again for his fall, and he pulled her hand away.

  “You don’t understand. I don’t know if I can—”

  “Control this great manly rod?”

  He grimaced.

  “I see.” That was it. She’d seen stallions at work. He was afraid to unleash that wildness, that mad desire.

  In her center, miraculously and without any touching, the pleasure had started again. Fox’s mouth parted hungrily. His eyes had gone completely black and feral in a way that sent tension spiraling through her.

  Whatever tomorrow might bring, she wanted this tonight. She wanted ruination. She wanted Fox.

  She reached for his damp boots and yanked off first one and then the other. His wet trousers clung so to his narrow hips and long, muscled limbs, he might have been naked. He was as beautiful as an Italian marble, and in his own way, as vulnerable as she tonight. Except that she was fully naked.

  A lock of his unfashionably long hair touched his cheek, and in his eyes, need and hunger flashed while his tight fists bunched the bedclothes.

  They had come to a crossing point.

  Chapter 21

  The mattress dipped as Perry climbed up, dumping her closer.

  Dear God, she was so beautiful. “Perry—”

  She kissed him, stopping his words.

  He eased her onto his lap again. She slipped a hand round his neck, and let the other trail down his center.

  “No.” He lifted her hand from his trouser placket.

  “I want—”

  Flipping her onto the bed, he clamped a leg over hers, kissing her, teasing her, stroking her, making her writhe.

  “Please,” she said. “Plea—”

  She shattered again and went limp.

  He rolled her over and pulled her against him, gritting his teeth, willing his cock into submission. She was a dream—willing, responsive, beautiful.

  And he couldn’t have her. He could never have her that way.

  “Fox,” she said, and he heard tears in her voice. “Fox, why…why not? I care for you, and I know you care for me.”

  Why not? She is here. She is willing. You’re here at this cottage with only a servant and MacEwen.

  A cottage that had belonged to her mother. They were, in fact, in her mother’s bed. “And it’s because I care for you, I won’t dishonor you.”

  She lifted his hand away and rolled toward him, wincing.

  And then there was the matter of her injuries. “You’re hurt.”

  She pressed a hand to his cheek. “This is not dishonor, Fox. This is love.”

  The lamp cast shadows across her face and chest but the dark of the bruising stood out.

  She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Oh, hell.

  Tears glistened in the light. He swept a finger through them.

  “Perry, I have nothing to offer you but this…physical pleasure. Beyond that, it would be a life lived in shabby rooms on the fringe of society, wife to the season’s interesting painter. And in the long run it won’t be enough.”

  She raised up on one elbow and her face lit in a smile. “Marriage has crossed your mind also? Oh, Fox. My dowry will come to me, no matter who I marry.”

  He closed his eyes.

  He shouldn’t have alluded to marriage. “Turning over your fortune to a husband would never satisfy you.”

  In his younger days, he had upon occasion, lived off a patroness he might like but didn’t love. True, besides the bed sport, he’d produced portraits for his commission, but it had all become loathsome. There was no honor in those arrangements, neither for the woman nor for the man. He’d rather starve.

  Over her silence, the open window let in the sound of waves crashing, rhythmically.

  He should be listening for other sounds—voices, the soft rustle of a horse’s hooves on the gravelly path, movement downstairs.

  He smoothed back the hair from her face. She looked pink, breathless, and completely undone. No one could look at her and not know what they’d been doing.

  “I might not want to turn my dowry over to a husband, but as I’ve mentioned, it’s my main attraction for suitors. It might as well go to a man I care for, who sometimes cares for me.”

  “Oh, Perry.” Anger swelled in him. She didn’t know her own worth. “It’s not true. I’ve told you that. You’re beautiful. You deserve everything. You deserve all the best.” He lifted her hand and kissed it.

  Hurt shimmered in her eyes. She reached for her robe and covered her nakedness.

  What a fool he was. This had been a mistake.

  “You offer me…everything…and then yank it away. You care, and then push me away.” She took in a shaky breath. “Give me this night, Fox. Please. Take me.”

  “You’re a lady. You deserve to marry honorably, with your father’s blessing.”

  Shaldon would never allow them to marry, and she knew it.

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “A lady wouldn’t beg for a man who is not her husband to make love to her.”

  How wrong she was there.

  “Just tell me one truth. Putting aside your honor, my supposed great beauty and my dowry, do you care for me?”

  He sat up next to her. “There’s nothing supposed about your beauty.”

  “Stop dodging and answer me.”

  Dear God. He wanted her, in his bed, in his arms, arguing, bolting, occasionally falling out of trees. Always. He couldn’t tell her that.

  She fell back onto the bed, frowning. “I don’t even know your first name.”

  He dropped a brotherly kiss on her forehead, unsmiling. “Yes, I care for you. And you may call me Reynard.”

  She grimaced and choked out a laugh, as he’d wanted her to. He stood and looked for his shirt.

  He need
ed to leave, and now, before she started probing again.

  Perry rolled to sitting. “You are not Reynard the Fox. What is your Christian name, Fox?”

  He pulled on his stockings. He had stopped using his true name years ago. It had been part of his cover, and then became who he truly was.

  “I suppose should you ever marry, one might find your full name in the marriage lines.”

  He shook out his shirt.

  “Arrgh,” she said. “It’s a curse to love a man so honorable.”

  His gaze jerked to her. She loved him.

  Well, of course she did. She had for years. It would pass.

  Still, the anger in her voice and in her expression flayed him. And how had he been honorable? He’d just stripped her naked and brought her to pleasure twice. And now she perched on the edge of the bed, hair floating in a wild halo that suited her much better than the Rapunzel locks she’d left on the bedside table.

  His heart clinched. A woman well-loved, a goddess ready to issue a command—he would remember this vision and paint it someday. He let his damp shirt fall over his head and cover his desire.

  “What’s honorable, Perry?” He came and helped her into the dressing gown. She shoved her arms through the sleeves, biting her lower lip. He thought of her brother’s ball. He’d been drawn to her, pulled by an invisible tether.

  He picked up his damp waistcoat. Dry clothes, that’s what he needed. He pulled on the waistcoat anyway. “I won’t lie to your father. When he shows up, and you know he will, eventually, I’m telling him everything.”

  She straightened, the fine muscles around her mouth and her eyes barely moving.

  “You won’t,” she said.

  “I will. Are you afraid for me, or for yourself?”

  Her gaze dropped and she squeezed her lips together. “I hardly know my father. If it doesn’t involve the fate of England, I don’t believe he’ll truly care.” She shook her head. “Or he might lock me up and arrange a quick marriage, to some rural squire. I don’t know. My brother Bakeley, though, he’s more likely to kill one of us.”

  “Bakeley won’t kill his sister.” Fox sat on the chair and pulled on his boots. They were damp on the inside.