Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  Wearily, she sank onto one of the other small chairs that flanked the fireplace and willed the nausea to pass. It was done. The wound, all together, had been relatively minor, but that did not mean he was safe. He would have to be monitored closely to prevent fever.

  He did look at her then. “This was too much for you,” he said. “This kind of thing should not have fallen to your shoulders.”

  “I am not so fragile,” she protested. “It had to be done and there was no one else to see to it.”

  “In a house full of servants, there was no one else?”

  “Would you have preferred one of them? Truly?” she asked. “There was already talk—gossip about your scars. Would you have preferred that I send the housekeeper up and let her carry tales back to everyone below stairs?”

  “What do I care what they say?” he challenged. “Better for them to gossip than for you to cast up your accounts! You take too much upon yourself, Beatrice.”

  “And you were not shot by a poacher,” she fired back. “Also, I have come upon some information that may be useful.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “How did you stumble upon information when you were not to leave this house?”

  “I did not leave the house… I accessed the tower through the passageways that the servants use. Betsy helped me,” she said. It was a difficult thing to blurt out, to speak of such intimate things to him while they were alone in his room, regardless of the circumstances. “Eloise is—she has been having an affair with Christopher. And there’s more! There are documents spread out upon the desk where someone has been researching the means necessary to have you declared legally dead and the title passed on to Christopher.”

  “Of course they want that!”

  “Edmund has been insistent, yes! But I cannot fathom why Eloise and Christopher would be focused on such a task together! I fear that the plots and machinations occurring under this roof go far deeper than either of us realized, Graham! And I cannot help but feel this nonexistent poacher who put a pistol ball in your shoulder is part of it!”

  When he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet. “Do not put yourself at risk again… not for any reason!”

  “We needed to know what was going on in that tower!” she protested, frustrated and furious with him for ignoring what she felt was vital information.

  “I needed to know,” he corrected. “You needed to remain safe!”

  “You’re being ridiculous! There was very little risk.”

  She had no time to respond as he grasped her by her arms and hauled her up, pulling her to him as he loomed over her. There were scant inches separating them and she could smell the brandy on his breath.

  “There is nothing in this house, not the wealth or the title, not even the whole bloody estate is worth the risk to you… none of it!”

  There was no time to ask what he meant. Despite his injured state and the not so small amount of brandy he had consumed, he moved quickly, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that seared her to her soul. Everywhere he touched, she burned. It left her shaken and breathless, clinging to him with a desperation she did not understand. Every time he touched her, it stoked the tension that had been building inside her since his arrival, heightening it, ratcheting it to a greater intensity until it felt as if she would simply shatter from it.

  His lips moved over hers ravenously, but they did not stop there. They moved along her jaw, down the column of her neck, and when they pressed against the pulse beating there just beside the hollow of her throat, she felt her knees weaken. Had he not been holding her so tightly, she would have collapsed at his feet.

  It wasn’t the soft or romantic feelings she had anticipated. This was not the gentle love or desire that poets wrote of. It was darker, more consuming, more primal than all of that. The more he gave, the more she craved.

  Of their own volition, her hands migrated beneath the tattered remnants of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the dusting of hair that covered firm flesh so different from her own. He was more dangerous to her than anyone or anything else could be. He made her reckless, gave volume and force to that little voice whispering inside her mind to simply give in to temptation. And she was tempted—terribly so.

  He pressed closer to her, holding her even tighter. Somehow, he had maneuvered them toward the wall without her knowledge and she could feel the firmness of the stone at her back. As her knees had gone weak, the added support was welcome.

  Beatrice couldn’t think. In truth, she could barely breathe. Her heart pounded wildly and the blood rushed through her veins until she was dizzy from it—or perhaps it was simply the heat. Her body burned, heat pooling low in her belly and spreading outward until her limbs became languid with it.

  He pulled back from her, drawing in a deep, gulping breath. “We cannot continue this.”

  “Did I do something wrong?” She didn’t want it to end. She wanted him to continue kissing her until they were both breathless and weak from it again.

  He pressed his forehead to hers, a slight smile playing about his lips, perfectly framed by the shadowy darkness of the day’s beard. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Beatrice. Far from it. When I kiss you I lose all sense of reason… I want more and more from you but I do not think you are prepared for what that means.”

  She was not entirely ignorant of what he meant. Having grown up in the country, the basics of carnal knowledge were at least familiar to her, and the giggle-infused whispers of parlor maids had filled in a few blanks. But it wasn’t the physical act that left her hesitating.

  They could not ever have anything lasting between them. His station and the precarious nature of the estate’s finances would not permit it. And as painful as it was to imagine letting him go, the idea of doing so after sharing such intimacy left her shaken and afraid. She did not relish the notion of having her heart broken. Yet, she was fully aware that he already had the power to do so.

  “I should go,” she whispered, lowering her gaze. “No doubt, Betsy will be looking for me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Graham felt her withdraw. It was as if a wall had suddenly sprung up between them. “Do not do this,” he said softly. “This is merely a pause in the dance we have been doing since I first set eyes on you here.”

  “This isn’t wise,” she replied. “Whatever this attraction is between us… we both know it can go no further. Continuing to put ourselves into situations where we will be alone together—we’re tempting fate each time, Graham. I cannot risk it.”

  “What is it that you would be risking?” he demanded. He had called a halt to their lovemaking out of a misguided sense of honor, out of the belief that a woman like Beatrice should be wooed slowly and with far greater romance and tenderness than he was capable of. It seemed he had only complicated an already tenuous situation.

  She did look at him then, her stormy gray eyes revealing far more of herself than he knew she intended. Everything she felt and everything she feared was right there for him to see. It humbled and terrified him all at once.

  “You have the power already to break my heart… if I let you. And consenting to this, to being intimate with you, would be precisely that. I cannot give my body without giving my heart and you are not in a position that would allow you to accept them both,” she finished sadly.

  “The only obstacles in our path,” he countered angrily, “are the ones you place there.”

  “The estate—”

  “The estate be damned!” he snarled. “If this is what it means to be a lord, to have others telling me what I can and cannot do and what I can and cannot have—well, it’s not so different from being a sailor then, is it? I’d walk away from it tomorrow, Beatrice.”

  “You cannot,” she objected, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “We cannot be so selfish! It would destroy Lady Agatha to have you returned to her only to see you vanish again. And there are other considerations, Graham. You saw the village when you came here the first time and when you left for
York this morning. You’ve seen how much the estate needs someone who will put the tenants’ needs first.”

  He stepped back, raking his hands through his hair. He had seen them and he could only concede her point. The farms and businesses should be profitable, yet the entire area looked rather derelict and ill-kempt. Edmund was eager to collect the rents but far more reluctant to provide the upkeep and care that was warranted to allow those tenants to prosper. It was shortsighted and it would see Lady Agatha lose everything. It also lent credence to Beatrice’s theory that the funds were being directed elsewhere. But he was no one’s hero. He needed her to understand that about him.

  “I’m a selfish man, Beatrice. I will find a way to have what I want, eventually.”

  “And what is that? A tumble with me like some dockside tavern wench?” she demanded angrily. “I’m not available for such and you are not free to offer anything else!”

  “No, dammit! That isn’t what I want.”

  “That is all we could ever have,” she stated with finality. “And I am not willing to settle for it. This cannot continue between us. Eventually, you will have to marry according to the needs of the estate and I cannot—” She stopped and drew a shuddering breath. “I cannot give you my body without giving you my heart, especially knowing that someday someone else will be your wife and bear your children.”

  Graham threw his hands up in the air. “Why do you insist on placing obstacles in our path? The only person insisting I marry an heiress is you! Why? What possible reason could you have for thinking that?”

  “Edmund has insisted for years that the estate is hovering on the brink of ruin—”

  “Aye, and it is. It has been for nigh on a decade. This estate was always profitable until he took over the management of it. Once that is wrested from him, it will be again,” he replied.

  “But an heiress—”

  He laughed at her, but it wasn’t amusement. There was meanness in it. “What heiress would have me? I was born a gentleman, yes. But I’ve not lived like one. I’ve a crumbling estate, manners and bearing that belong to a laborer and a body so scarred most women would faint at the sight! I don’t want some weak-willed miss without a spine to call her own, even if her family coffers could fill the great hall!”

  “You are Lord Blakemore, Graham, and there are responsibilities. You’re being unreasonable.”

  “I bloody well am not,” he shouted. “And I don’t give a damn about being Lord Blakemore. I lived almost two decades of my life not knowing who I was beyond a first name. I can just as easily go back to it!”

  “Then why did you come here?” she asked. “If it wasn’t to be Lord Blakemore and reclaim your position, why?

  “Because I wanted to know where I belonged, where I’d come from, and because, God help me, in some twisted way I believe I was looking for you.”

  Those words stung her to her soul, they offered a hope she dared not give wing to. “The people of this village, the tenants on this estate, need you. It isn’t about what you want.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s about what I need… what I crave. It’s about what I require to survive,” he said, the words coming out between clenched teeth. “I’ll marry you, Beatrice Marlowe, or I’ll not marry at all.”

  She could not have been more stunned if he’d told her he was the Archbishop of Canterbury. Marriage had been discussed, but only in the context of him marrying someone else. He’d never made any statements regarding such intentions for her before. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  She asked the question, hating herself for it, but needing so desperately to know. “Do you love me?”

  He looked at her, hands on his hips, his posture rigid with anger and his jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I don’t love you.”

  Her heart stuttered in her chest. Was it guilt then? Some misguided sense of responsibility because she was a ward of the family and he had taken her innocence.

  “Love is too tame a word for what I feel,” he continued. “Love is what sailors promise women in a dozen ports just so they’ll have a warm bed and a warmer body awaiting them. It’s trinkets and promises and silly dreams between people who don’t know how ugly the world can be.”

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take in the enormity of what he was saying to her. Slowly, Beatrice sank onto the edge of the chair. But he was far from done.

  “I crave you, every moment of every day. We’re entwined you and I, twisted up together in a way that we can never be fully taken apart… whether or not we are together, a part of you will always live inside me. And whether you like it or not, Beatrice, a part of me will live inside you. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be there. And heaven help you if you ever dream to take another man to your bed, because my ghost will hover between you.”

  It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t hearts and flowers and odes written to the beauty of her eyes. Those things had always seemed silly to her anyway. What he professed was primal, instinctual, tinged with darkness and a bit of the brigand he’d confessed to having been. It spoke to the part of her that was wild and irresponsible. It called to the selfish child within her who wanted to have him regardless of the cost.

  “Then you should ask me to marry you,” she said.

  He laughed again, bitterly, and when he spoke, his voice held a wealth of warning. “So you can tell me no? I don’t think so, Beatrice. I’ll not ask again. When it’s time, I’ll simply toss you over my shoulder and cart you away. I’m done with asking.” He swooped in then, pulling her hard against him and kissing her so soundly it was all she could do to draw breath. He consumed her with that kiss, ravishing her completely, and she reveled in it.

  When the kiss broke at last, she was weak from it, her knees quaking and her heart thundering in her chest. She looked up at him, but it wasn’t love or anything so tender she saw in his gaze. It was victory. That sparked her ire enough to alleviate the passion-fueled haze he’d created in her.

  “I will find a way… I will find a way to save this estate and to have you. Mark my words!” he challenged.

  Beatrice moved toward the door, but paused with her hand resting on it. She didn’t turn to look at him, but kept her head down as she spoke. Angry as she was, she wasn’t foolish enough to count on her own strength of will in that moment. “This isn’t a fairytale, Graham, where people get to have happy endings and marry those of their own choosing with no thought to the consequences. I had made peace with what I thought my lot in life was… to live here and care for Lady Agatha in her old age, to die a lonely spinster living off the charity of others. I’d accepted those things. And a part of me hates you for making me want more than that.”

  *

  In the hall, Beatrice finally drew a deep breath. It was as if she had to escape his presence in order for her lungs to expand. The weight of desire, of longing and regret, the taunting visions of all that might have been clamored in her mind. He was not for her, and she knew that whether he was willing to accept it or not.

  She was not the only one struggling to make peace with her choice. The sound of breaking glass came from behind his closed door and a growl of what she could only assume was frustration. He had not yet accepted the truth of their situation, of his duty to Castle Black. But he would. In the short time he had been there, she’d seen him step more confidently into the role he had returned to claim.

  Retreating to her room, she closed the door behind her and sank against it. Betsy was there, readying her things for bed. The maid looked up, took in her disheveled appearance and sighed.

  “I hope no one else saw you like that,” Betsy said, her tone light. There was worry in her gaze, however, and Beatrice understood that only too well. She was worried for herself. He held too much sway over her—physically and emotionally.

  “No one saw me,” she said. “Everyone else has gone to bed or, at the very least, has settled into their respective rooms for the nig
ht. I wish I knew what to do, Betsy.”

  The maid approached the dressing table and picked up the brush, gesturing for Beatrice to take a seat there. She did so, sighing with relief as the pins were removed from her hair and the heavy mass was freed entirely. The monotonous rhythm of the brush working through the heavy strands eased her, offered a mindless relaxation that allowed her to recover from the charged atmosphere that existed between her and Graham.

  “Some things,” Betsy said softly, “are just meant to be.”

  “I don’t believe in fairy stories and happy endings, Betsy. I never have really. There is no good end for Graham and me,” Beatrice replied.

  “Never said it had to end well, Miss. Just said it had to be.”

  Beatrice frowned at her in the mirror. “I cannot decipher such cryptic nonsense right now, Betsy!”

  The maid sighed again and gave her a baleful stare as if she were being willfully obtuse. “You can fight against it all you want, but you both are tied to one another in a way that there’s just no getting away from. Others see it, feel it when they’re in your presence. The two of you could fair set a room on fire.”

  Beatrice hung her head, letting her forehead rest atop the dressing table. “Is it really that obvious?”

  Betsy picked up a heavy lock of hair and kept brushing that section as Beatrice bemoaned her fate. “No one is saying you’ve done anything improper. Nothing like that, Miss. It’s just that when two people have the kind of connection you and his lordship do, it shows.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Betsy? I can’t let myself love him… not when I know I won’t be the woman who gets to keep him.”

  “It’s a little late to stop that now, don’t you think? You already love him and, if you’re right, you’re going to lose him anyway. So why not take what you can for yourself in the meantime?”

  Did she love him, Beatrice wondered? Not yet. But it was inevitable as Betsy had said. Every day she stepped closer and closer to that precipice. All the caution and circumspection in the world would not save her from her own heart.