Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “So, let me understand this correctly,” she said, stepping back and retreating toward the fireplace. He was entirely too close. It was not conducive to clear thinking. “You plotted my ruination to gain vengeance against Harrison—”

  “He shot my brother—”

  “Yes, well, I believe we all understand your motives,” she retorted sharply.

  “Do you?” His voice was strange. Sad. “It was not my intention that you should suffer needlessly.”

  “Perhaps you should have considered that before—”

  “But I was hardly alone on that terrace, my lady.”

  The softly spoken words jarred her terribly, not because they were false. Because they were true. This scandal was as much her fault as his. More, perhaps. She was the one who had been betrothed to another man. She was the one who had allowed foolish fantasies and romantic nonsense to weaken her. He had come to the door with devious intent, yes. But she was the one who had swung it wide.

  “You believe our marriage will quiet the scandal,” she said.

  For the longest time, he did not reply. His eyes explored her face, his expression almost concerned. “I believe without it, your reputation will never fully recover. I do not wish that for you.”

  Neither did she. In truth, what he offered was a gift. She would have preferred it to come without accompanying suspicions, but it was hardly an offer she could discard easily—or perhaps at all. “I could marry another. If I waited a year …”

  He was shaking his head, giving her a dark look. He held up three fingers, wiggling each one in turn as he spoke. “Engagement. Scandalous liaison. Wedding.” His arm dropped and his head tilted slightly. “Tell me, Lady Victoria. What would they say about your husband if he were not one of the first two?”

  She hated him. Hated his mocking little gesture, hated the arrogant tilt, the assurance in his voice. Most of all, she hated that he was right. “Fine. Let’s say I agree to marry you.”

  His half-smile returned. “Let’s.”

  “Where would the wedding take place?”

  Glancing around the drawing room, he said, “Why not here?”

  “When?”

  “As soon as it can be arranged. I shall need only a few days to acquire a special license.”

  A few days? Blood rushed from her head, sped on by a heart that doubled its pace. “Th-that soon?”

  He was still for a moment, then walked toward her slowly. Cautiously. One finger rose to stroke her cheek. She jerked back, startled. It caught briefly on a curl at the top of her jawline, then disappeared. “You would not regret becoming my wife, Victoria,” he whispered. It sounded like a vow.

  She felt hunted, herded into a corner from which there was no escape. And the hunter was also the bait. Tempting. Seductive. More than that, however, she felt the walls of duty pushing her toward him. She had made a terrible mistake. One whose price must be paid. She glanced up at the portrait of her mother, serene and golden and perfect. A woman of grace, if not great beauty. A woman who had always done the proper thing. “You would be my husband.” It was a whisper to herself, but he heard.

  “In every way,” came his hoarse confirmation.

  Nodding, she clasped her hands at her waist, then dropped her gaze to her twisting fingers. “Would we have children, Lucien?”

  “Yes.” His tone was softer, gentle.

  Lifting her head once again, she stared for what seemed like years into his beautiful, storm-cloud eyes. In the few moments they stood gazing at one another, she imagined an entire lifetime with this man. Their wedding. The nights when he would make love to her in their bed. Children with his raven-black hair and perhaps her blue eyes. Sons who would grow tall and strong and handsome like their father. Daughters who would be doted on and spoiled. A family.

  “Then that is my answer.”

  His eyes widened and he grew intent, seeking a confirmation in her face.

  “Yes, my lord, I will marry you.”

  ~~*

  Chapter Five

  “Clever battle strategy often resembles madness. Knowing the difference … ah, well, the victors have the privilege of defining that, do they not?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham upon news of Napoleon’s escape from Elba.

  “Is marrying the chit really necessary, Luc?” James Kilbrenner, the Earl of Tannenbrook, muttered from where he sat slumped in a leather chair near the hearth in Lucien’s library. A glass of brandy dangled negligently from his long fingers, and the firelight played sinister games with his craggy features.

  Lucien placed the stopper back in the bottle with a clink after pouring a glass of his own, then walked back to the fireplace to stand with an elbow propped on the mantel. “I thought we agreed it was the only way to achieve a measure of justice.”

  James waved his free hand in the air as though to sweep aside Lucien’s statement. “I know what we said. It’s just … she is an innocent. Seems unsporting.”

  Lucien frowned. He did not like James echoing his own doubts. With a plan such as this, and an enemy such as the Duke of Blackmore, doubt led to mistakes, which meant failure. He refused to fail. “She will be well cared for. As my wife, she will enjoy every comfort. It is clear she desires children. She will have that, as well. Eventually.”

  A look of skepticism came over his friend’s face. “The original plan was to punish Blackmore, not his sister.”

  It was true: Lucien had not intended to involve Victoria at all. At least, not at first. “We tried. The law stops at the ducal crest, it seems. The only place Blackmore is vulnerable is his family. His brother is … well, there is nothing we could do to Colin Lacey that he hasn’t already done to himself. That leaves the sister.”

  James sighed and took a drink. “If only he had called you out over the Gattingford incident. You could have shot him, and the scales would have been balanced.”

  Shaking his head, Lucien moved to sit in the chair opposite James, sinking down into its well-worn comfort and draining the last of his brandy in a quick motion. He felt its mild sting as it slid down his throat and settled warmly in his stomach. He had never been much for drink, but right now, he was willing to try many uncharacteristic things to dampen the rage that had burned inside for the better part of a year.

  Inside of a blink, his mind flashed back nearly nine months. He stood at the graves of his brother and sister on a sodden, strangely chilled August morning, wondering how it could have happened, how they could have both died within days of one another. He recalled glancing over to where his parents were buried and thinking he was cursed to survive while all those around him died. It had happened on the battlefield, and now here. The stark truth of it was an endless black pit. No air, no light, no escape.

  He squeezed his eyes shut against the memories. James had been there, bullying, nudging. What could possibly be worth living for without so much as a cousin left for kin? Lucien had asked. It was then, perhaps in desperation, that James had offered him a torch for his darkness: vengeance.

  Brought back to the present when his friend rose to stare down at the fire, Lucien picked up the thread of their conversation. “Blackmore loathes scandal. The odds of him escalating matters by calling me out were always rather slim.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Besides, the scales can never be truly balanced. Taking his sister from him is the best I can do, under the circumstances.”

  “Yes, but haven’t you already done that? The scandal means she will have to be shipped off to some distant estate or sent abroad. Let it be enough, Luc.”

  The fury that rose inside Lucien in that moment was as unexpected as it was uncontrollable. Like a black, sulfurous cloud, it filled him and spilled out in a volcanic explosion. In one swift move, he stood and threw his glass against the far wall, the splintering crash barely registering before he roared, “It is not enough!”

  James jerked when he heard the glass break apart, then slowly turned to face Lucien, a look of wariness and alarm on his face.

&n
bsp; “Enough will be when he remembers her as she was at seven years, all ribbons and gap-toothed smiles, and misses her as he would a severed limb. Enough will be when he reaches for a pen to write her and realizes she will never read his words. Enough will be when he understands that she is mine, by God, and I have taken her from him.”

  “You are still grieving. Think about this.” James’s voice grew rough with concern. He reached out to place a hand on Lucien’s shoulder, but Lucien shrugged him off and stalked across the room to stand with his back turned, his hands on his hips, breathing harshly.

  He despised what was inside him, a monster of hatred and pain and fury. But he could do nothing other than try to appease it. “It’s what I have to do, James,” he rasped.

  After a moment, he felt James’s hand at his back, his friend’s solid presence helping him regain his composure. “I know.”

  “If there was another way …”

  “I know,” James repeated. “It is better than leaving her to the ton’s tender mercies.”

  Lucien nodded.

  “What do you plan to tell her?”

  It was a good question. “Nothing.”

  A single, shaggy eyebrow lifted. “And you think that will work?”

  Lucien mimicked the gesture and added a small smile. “She fancies me.” The look that emerged on the Earl of Tannenbrook’s face sent an unexpected burst of laughter through him. “That hard to believe, eh?”

  “No. But you’re mad if you think you can tup a lass into forgetfulness. Might work for a night, but not forever.”

  Lucien crossed the room and sank into the chair James had vacated. “Not forever. Until we leave London?” He shrugged. “Eminently achievable.”

  James grunted and propped his hands on his hips. “You don’t think you’re overestimating your charms just a wee bit?”

  Chuckling, he replied, “It’s clear you do. But, then, your judgment is flawed. You are not a woman.”

  His friend snorted and shook his head. “Thank God for that. I’d be an ugly one, no doubt.”

  Hours later, after James had left and quiet had settled over the house that once belonged to his brother, Lucien stood at the rear window of the library, contemplating the garden his sister had loved. Modeled after the gardens at their country estate, Thornbridge, but on a smaller scale, the shapes were less orderly, more curved and natural than current fashion would dictate. Still, they were lovely with winding paths, lush plantings, and a small fountain with a stone bench at the center.

  Three days. In only three days, he could claim victory. Then Blackmore’s true punishment could begin. While grim satisfaction seized Lucien, knowing his goal was within sight, it did not blind him to the longer-term implications of his plan. For days now, James had been trying to help him see past the moment of triumph and point out there was a marriage after the wedding, a woman who would be a permanent part of his life, the mother of his children.

  He knew it well. Could not stop thinking about it, in fact. Twinges of guilt mixed with no small measure of lust filled him each time he contemplated having Victoria all to himself for the remainder of his days. By God, when the duke had thought to deny him, Lucien had very nearly lost his head and attacked the man full on. Fortunately, Victoria had interrupted at just the right time. Her knack for falling rather neatly into his hands was one of her more endearing qualities.

  At the thought, his mind veered immediately to Victoria as she had been on Lady Gattingford’s terrace that night, her breasts covered by nothing more than moonlight and his mouth. He recalled her taste (milky and sweet), her smell (lightly floral; hyacinth, he thought), and the breathless moan she’d uttered when she reached her peak. He gripped the window sill, let his forehead rest against the cold glass, and gritted his teeth against a wave of longing.

  His desire for her was entirely out of proportion. Despite his flowery words to her that night, she was no grand beauty. Oh, she was pretty enough in a way many young women were: golden hair, big blue-green eyes, a soft mouth, and creamy skin. Her features were even and balanced, her demeanor calm and serene. In truth, one could find nothing to fault in her appearance, but neither would many consider her a diamond of the first water.

  Then what is it you find so enthralling? This girl who fades into the background has you twisted up with lust.

  He had wondered more than once since first seeing Victoria at the Gattingford ball if his passion for revenge had somehow transmuted into this rather unseemly preoccupation with her. Perhaps, he thought, his hatred had begun to infect his dalliances with women. Even if that were so, however, it did not alter his plans for her.

  After months of research into Blackmore’s life—everything from his finances to his politics to his bloody valet—Lucien and James had found nothing more damaging than disgruntled former servants complaining about the duke’s terribly exacting standards of cleanliness and thrift. Fortunately, they also discovered how deep and abiding was his connection with his sister. And so Lucien had continued investigating, but his target had become Lady Victoria Lacey. With the aid of the duke’s ex-servants, Lucien was able to glean a great deal about Victoria’s character. She was known as the Flower of Blackmore, her pristine reputation fiercely guarded by both Blackmore and her sponsor, Lady Berne. But, he soon learned, beneath the mannerly mask, she was a hopeless romantic. As one maid had put it, “At heart, her ladyship is as sweet and fanciful as a pot of honey.”

  It had presented the ideal opportunity: All he had to do was sweep her off her feet and directly into the path of scandal. From there, he reasoned, events should fall into place of their own accord—the engagement Blackmore had manufactured would be finished, the duke would be humiliated, his beloved sibling so tainted that he would have to distance himself from her permanently. Everything had gone precisely as Lucien had envisioned—better, even.

  Except for one small problem: It had not been satisfying. Not even a little. He still did not entirely understand why. The idea of making her separation from her brother permanent by marrying her himself had only occurred to him a day later. Instantly, he had known it was the answer.

  Now, the marriage was poised to happen, and all he could think about was her. It made no sense at all. This was not about gaining a wife, it was about punishing Blackmore. But, then, he had not anticipated Victoria.

  Recalling how she had rather boldly taken the reins of his conversation with Blackmore and proceeded to interview him for the position of husband, he shook his head and felt himself smiling. It had been shocking enough to hear her consent to marry him, but after shooing him out the door, she had somehow managed to persuade Blackmore to allow it. That had been astounding.

  Hell, Lucien had been prepared to seduce her into eloping to Gretna Green. But it had not been necessary. Blackmore had paid him a visit yesterday to repeatedly threaten his life if “so much as the hem of her dress is harmed in any way.” They had negotiated the terms of the marriage settlement for less than a quarter of an hour, with Lucien conceding nearly every point. The marriage itself gave him full control of her, which was all that mattered. What she would be paid in allowance or how his family’s secondary properties would be distributed to their children were of no importance to him.

  What mattered was that she would be his. In the window’s reflection, he watched his private smile turn grim, determined.

  In three days, she would be his.

  ~~*

  Chapter Six

  “Love? What rubbish. Grandchildren for your poor, beleaguered mother. Now, there is a sound reason to marry.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her only son, Charles, upon his refusal to enter Almack’s.

  The dress was even more beautiful than she had imagined it, Victoria thought as she gazed at the vision before her. It was white silk, overlaid with the sheerest muslin, rich with tiny embroidered flowers in a vivid peacock blue and leaves of pale spring green. On the short sleeves and just beneath the scooped bodice, tiny pleats in the muslin for
med panels bordered by ornate silver ribbon. The overall effect was dreamy and exquisite.

  She wanted to cry.

  “My dear, you are enchanting in that gown,” said Lady Berne, currently seated on the sofa behind where Victoria stood gazing at herself in the full-length mirror of the Bond Street dressmaker’s shop. “Mrs. Bowman is a marvel. And to have it finished so quickly! I can hardly credit it.”

  Victoria swallowed and gave the countess a weak smile over her shoulder. “Yes, she is extraordinary. Fortunately, I had already arranged to have the dress made last month. So, no rush was necessary.”

  A long pause followed this statement as Lady Berne realized the gown would have been Victoria’s wedding dress for her marriage to Lord Stickley and now instead would be worn for her rather precipitate nuptials with Lord Atherbourne.

  “Oh,” Lady Berne finally responded. “Well, that is, indeed, fortunate.”

  Victoria sniffed and straightened her spine. “Yes, I thought so.”

  She turned as Mrs. Bowman came back into the room and knelt at her feet, pinning the hem for one final adjustment. “Mrs. Bowman, what do you recommend for my headdress? I have heard some ladies choose to wear turbans for their weddings.”

  The sable-haired dressmaker glanced up at her with a look of disgust. “No, no, no!” She waved a hand wildly in the air above her elegant coiffure, her light Italian accent evident even in those three short words. “You must wear flowers, my lady. The, eh, mughetto. Lily of the Valley. It is a dress of delicate beauty. It deserves flowers, not a turban.” She spat the last word as though it were particularly repugnant.

  Victoria hid a smile. Opinionated and headstrong when it came to fashion, Renata Bowman was perhaps the most talented clothier in London. However, while she was married to an English textile merchant, she was Italian rather than English—or even French. To make matters worse, she struggled greatly with showing proper deference to her titled clientele. In Victoria’s opinion, this was the sole reason Mrs. Bowman was not the ton’s most sought-after modiste.