Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Charlotte tilted her head on his shoulder so he could more easily hear her. “When you were in hospital, recovering from your burns,” she replied sleepily. “They couldn’t care for you in Petworth. The doctor there had no experience with burns, so I arranged to have you moved to the one where I volunteer in Westminster.” She didn’t mention the doctor in Kirdford who had managed to keep him alive those first few days. The man had obviously had experience with burn patients, but his clinic’s medicine cabinet was woefully understocked; the mor­phine was gone after the second day.

  Joshua considered what her words meant. He remem­bered the travel in the back of a wagon, remembered how a woman pleaded with the driver to be more careful in how he negotiated the rough road, for with every sudden movement, his body screamed in pain, and he would blackout for some amount of time. Blissful time, he thought, remembering he felt no pain when he was out like that. But he was strung up in some kind of hammock that allowed for the worst of the bumps to simply sway him as the wagon made the agonizing trip to London.

  “You did?” he replied, not remembering seeing her during his stay in the London hospital. Perhaps she was the woman who sat with him, gave him sips of water when he was some­what conscious, spoke to him in quiet reassuring tones, read to him. He sniffed her hair again, the scent a gentle reminder.

  “I wanted you to have the best chance to live,” she explained, knowing her reasons were as selfish as they were humanitarian. With his older brother dead, she could be his duchess; if he died before they wed, her father would simply arrange another marriage, only the next man would be an old decrepit earl still lacking an heir, like the Earl of Gisborn.

  She shuddered, so relieved her father was not this very minute pursuing her to force that marriage on her. Her mother had seen to that, she considered, somewhat thankful for what her mother had done but so very sorry it had come to such a horrible situation for her father.

  “How did you … how did you even come to know what happened?” he wondered, turning his body on his side so he could look down on her face. Even at this angle, he hoped his facial scars were still mostly hidden in the shadows of the dark room.

  He could feel her shrug but also heard a faint gasp, as if she were suddenly in pain. “I … a footman delivered the news the day after it happened,” she whispered, her eyes opening so she looked into his. “And I spoke with the doctor at St. Bar­tholomew’s where I volunteered as a nurse in the children’s ward. We left for Sussex that very afternoon. I was so very frightened you wouldn’t survive. Most who are burned as badly as you were do not,” she spoke quietly.

  Joshua furrowed his brow, shocked that news of his inju­ries could incite such a response in a woman who had only danced with him at a couple of balls. “But you barely knew me,” he countered.

  Charlotte fought back tears. “You were my betrothed. I have spent my entire life preparing to be your wife,” she replied, her breath catching at the end.

  Shutting his eyes for a moment, Joshua considered her words, still stunned by her conviction to duty. For that was all it was. Her true betrothed was his brother—had been since the two were quite young. With his brother’s death, perhaps she was his betrothed now. But she didn’t know him, didn’t know his character or how he treated his servants or how he conducted the business of the dukedom.

  She is a fool, he thought suddenly. But he cursed himself, thinking that, if she was, then so was he. If he hadn’t been the only surviving son of the seventh Duke of Chichester, he wouldn’t have been required to take on the duties of the dukedom. He could have continued his life as the second son, enjoying the fruits of the dukedom and the life of bedding mistresses, of gambling all night in gaming hells, of attending balls and soirées without any intent to marry. He could have had that life had he not been the one remaining son still alive after the disastrous night of the fire.

  All the responsibilities of the duchy were now on his shoulders.

  “Given the situation, I … I would insist … I should insist you find another, more worthy candidate to be your husband,” he whispered, thinking if he got her out of his bedchamber without a servant seeing them together, her reputation would remain intact and she could still be considered biddable.

  “No!” she nearly shouted, her body wiggling up the front of his so she could better make eye contact. The mere move­ment of her satin-covered breast against his chest sent desire shooting through his loins. It took all of his resolve not to take her maidenhood right then. “I do not wish to be married to another,” she added quietly, knowing her comment sounded naïve to him. It was too early to tell him she had fallen in love with him during the days she had spent at his bedside, the endless hours holding his hands and tending to his wounds. It had been torture for her to have to hurt him when the doc­tor insisted she be the one to remove the burned skin with tiny tweezers, sure each touch of the bare metal teeth to his raw flesh sent searing pain through him. “He will not cry out if a woman is doing it,” the doctor explained, his comment sounding so cruel she nearly had him removed from Joshua’s care. “I have an obligation to …” You, she almost said. “…This dukedom. And I intend to fulfill my obligation.”

  Especially now. Especially after everything else that had happened since Wisborough Oaks had burned, killing Josh­ua’s family and rendering half the main estate house useless. Once she was sure Joshua was on the mend, but not yet being old enough to marry, Charlotte had returned to society life in London. She attended balls and socials and insisted her betrothed would be as good as new when the time came for their (she hoped) spring wedding.

  But most in London society were of an opinion Joshua Wainwright would never fully recover from the burns that covered so much of his left side. They knew of his penchant for wearing a leather mask over half his face, to protect curi­ous eyes from seeing a sight worthy of hell as much as to protect the tender flesh from further damage. And after sev­eral months in London, where he only left his townhouse to attend Parliamentary sessions at the House of Lords, Joshua had returned to Wisborough Oaks to oversee the rebuilding of the estate house and take on his duties as the eighth Duke of Chichester, never returning to London since before Christ­mas, for the Season or for Parliament. He sent Garrett McEl­liott in his stead when estate business required it.

  “You think me worthy as a duke?” Joshua wondered, the fingers of his left hand threading themselves through her silken hair. He watched as she closed her eyes, heard her purr­ing as his fingernails combed against her scalp. Felt her fingers lightly caress the ropy skin that now made up the scars of his chest and hip. The pleasant sensations she induced coursed under his skin, and he found himself struggling to maintain his sanity.

  “Of course,” she replied, wondering why he seemed so hes­itant about marrying her. Could he truly be so self-conscious about his burns that he would refuse her on those grounds? She was ready to offer herself as his mistress if he still insisted on not taking a wife. What else can I do? she wondered. She had come to Wisborough Oaks to marry him, to take on her duties as the duchess, to bear him children. And to love him, she thought with a bemused smile. “I believe you to be a per­fect duke. From all I have heard, you were respected in the House of Lords, you are well regarded by your staff, and by the townspeople and those who do business with you,” she mur­mured, her fingers still absently stroking his healing skin.

  But Charlotte’s father was not so convinced Joshua Wain­wright would make the perfect husband for his perfect daugh­ter. When he hinted he was searching for a more suitable hus­band for her, one who wasn’t so disfigured he couldn’t appear in public without causing a scene, Charlotte assured him she was quite satisfied with her arranged betrothal. She was even looking forward to the day she would move to Wisborough Oaks to be reunited with her recovered patient. To become his wife.

  Convinced the Duke of Chichester was burned beyond recognition and not fit to even be a member of the ton, Ells­worth had decided to seek a different husband
for her, settling on the Earl of Gisborn. But when Charlotte insisted she was going to fulfill her obligation to the Duchy of Chichester by marrying Joshua Wainwright, Edward Bingham became quite angry. At her willful refusal to even consider the arrangement, her father had sworn at her, called her names she was sure were meant to describe the harlots of London, and then drunk an entire bottle of scotch whiskey whilst she and her mother attended a music soirée in Westminster.

  When Charlotte and Lady Ellsworth returned to their townhouse, there were no servants about despite the early eve­ning hour. Lord Ellsworth, even more angry than when they had left, pulled Charlotte into his study, ordered her to remove her pelisse and then lashed her across the back with a horse whip, claiming he wasn’t about to allow a man with half a face to have his daughter unless she shared some of the same ugly scars. Despite the corset protecting the lower half of her back from the slicing leather, the pain she felt had taken her breath away, and then when she did breathe, the pain seemed even worse.

  The rest happened so quickly she thought she was merely experiencing a vivid nightmare from which she would awaken at any moment. For as her father was about to whip her a sec­ond time, her mother flung herself at him, pushing her hus­band hard enough so he stumbled sideways. He fell hard, his head impacting the edge of his desk. The pool of blood …

  “Well, this perfect duke will need to take an early morning ride to discover what damage this storm may have caused,” Joshua said, the right side of his mouth quirking up as he repeated her word for him. He expected Garrett would plan to make the ride himself, but there was a lot of land to cover; better that both of them ride and cover as much ground as possible. “And I must ask that you return to your bedchamber now,” or you’ll be losing your maidenhood, he almost added, and then thought perhaps she wouldn’t find that as undesir­able an outcome as she should.

  Relieved to have had her gruesome recollection inter­rupted, Charlotte nodded her understanding. “I heard a tree … break,” she said then, remembering the sound of splinter­ing wood as she entered his room, thinking it was so close the limbs might crash through his bedchamber window. “And glass breaking.”

  “I heard that, too,” he answered, reluctantly pulling his fin­gers from her hair and turning onto his back, sure his erection was causing the counterpane to form a tent over him. He saw a wince cross her face as she moved to wrap her dressing gown around her middle and wondered if she had caught sight of his face. “So … you were truly one of my nursemaids?” he asked then, realizing she had probably seen him—all of him—at his worst.

  “I was,” she answered with a nod, her expression not indi­cating if she felt ill from thinking about it. “May I join you on your morning ride?” she asked then, knowing her still healing wound would probably cause her pain the entire time. But she wanted the opportunity to see the lands of the duchy. And she wanted desperately to ride a horse again. It had been far too long since her last ride in Hyde Park.

  “You can ride?” Joshua asked, doubt evident in his voice.

  “Of course,” Charlotte replied with a grin, crawling out from under the covers without exposing Joshua’s naked­ness. “I have been training to be a duchess my entire life,” she reminded him.

  Joshua caught sight of one of her long, bare legs before the dressing gown fell around her and covered it. He struggled to keep a growl from escaping his throat. “I plan to leave at nine. Can you be ready by then?” he asked, thinking she was prob­ably used to waking at noon as most of the ladies of the ton were wont to do.

  “Of course,” she said in a whisper that held humor. She moved to straighten the bed linens and counterpane, smooth­ing the fabric where her body had been. “Thank you … for enduring my time as a watering pot,” she said then, giving him a curtsy.

  “You are most welcome,” Joshua replied with a grin as he watched her move to the door. Vixen, he thought as he rolled his eyes.

  Charlotte pulled her dressing gown closed, crossing her arms in front of her as she peeked out the duke’s bedchamber door. Sure no one was about, she stepped out and closed the door behind her, careful to make sure the latch didn’t click too loudly.

  Padding softly down the hall to her room, she contem­plated what had just happened. She had gone to Joshua’s room with the intention of pretending to be a frightened chit— scared of lightning and thunder—in the hopes of making her­self seem vulnerable to the man. Their earlier argument in the study had probably left him thinking she was too willful, too stubborn to be a suitable wife. If she could somehow convince him she needed him (as much as he needed her), he might reconsider their betrothal and ask for her hand.

  And then, just as she entered his room, the windows had filled with white-orange light and the sound of a huge explo­sion, followed by the crackling and splintering of wood and breaking glass. Startled, she had let out a yelp that had the effect of waking the duke (if the loud boom hadn’t of its own accord) and set her heart to pounding so hard she was sure he could hear that, too. No longer having to pretend her fright, she fell into his arms, not aware until just before she buried her head into his neck that he was nude. The bit of the glow from a lightning strike had illuminated the room as he shot up from the bed, highlighting his broad shoulders, his muscular torso and legs, the dark hair and almost black eyes, and the scars that covered the left side of his body and head. He had picked her up as if she was a change of clothes, and she had held on as if her very life had depended on it. Before she could even comprehend what was happening, she was in his bed and pressed against him.

  The frightened part of her clung to him while the logical side realized, far too late, he was naked and smelled faintly of sandalwood and tobacco and brandy. And the part of her that was woman was quite aware of his arousal and her own body responding as she pressed against the hardness of his body, as he wrapped his muscular arm around her shoulders, as he murmured soothing words and stroked her hair while she feathered her trembling fingers over his ruined flesh.

  Despite not having any experience in the matter, she might have been able to seduce him, she considered. But his arm around her shoulder had lowered to cover the part of her back where it was still sliced open from her whipping. The pain had shot through her, causing her to wince and bring her entire being back to the here and now. Whatever was I think­ing to visit his room? she wondered then, chastising herself for being such a fool. She could have been discovered in his room, and then she would be ruined!

  At least she had been able explain herself and to make a graceful exit, she thought. Joshua seemed to believe her fright; it was real, after all. He would have certainly felt her hammer­ing heartbeats against his chest whilst she took comfort in the strong, even pulse of his. And he had agreed to allow her to join him on his early morning ride.

  Now she just had to develop some fortitude and hide her embarrassment when she met him in the morning.

  Closing her bedchamber door behind her, she took a deep breath. The scent of him was still in her nostrils, still on her dressing gown, still on her nightgown. Surely he felt something for her if she could cause him to be so aroused his hardened manhood would remained pressed against her belly during their time together. He certainly had that effect on her, she realized, remembering how the feel of him made her entire abdomen flutter with a pleasant sensation, the space between the tops of her thighs turn to liquid heat, her nipples harden into tight buds that strained against the satin of her nightgown. Had he decided to take her virtue, she would have gladly given it to him, propriety be damned. Only after being away from him these last minutes had she noticed the feeling of warmth slowly fading from her torso.

  As she moved carefully toward the bed, the one candle she had left burning having gone out sometime during her visit to the duke’s room, she kicked something. It skittered a bit, hitting something else while making a tinkling sound. She felt air move through her hair and turned toward the window. The pane had broken, no doubt from a tree limb, leaving shards
of glass strewn across the Aubusson carpet. Having no way to relight the candle without going back out to the hallway, she thought it best to wait until morning before ringing for a maid to see to the broken glass.

  Climbing into the large bed, she gingerly settled herself on her side to avoid causing additional pain to her back. It hurt though, a constant reminder of what had happened that awful night when Edward Bingham was left unconscious and immobile.

  Her father’s injury was ruled an accident by the Bow Street Runner who was dispatched to investigate, the man imme­diately noticing the empty bottle of liquor and the smell of scotch whiskey permeating the entire study. By the time he had arrived, her mother had bandaged Charlotte’s back enough the seeping blood from the gash across her back could be hidden under the pelisse she had worn to the soirée. The tears she shed while answering the Runner’s questions were not for her father but for the searing hot pain she felt every time she moved or took a breath. And her mother had seen to it the whip was returned to the stables, taking it herself and hanging it on its hook just inside the carriage house door. There were no servants there that night to witness what had happened.

  That had been just five days ago, Charlotte realized, think­ing of the whirlwind of activity that occurred before her depar­ture to Wisborough Oaks. The hospitalization—her father was still in a coma, as far as she knew—, the packing, and her travel arrangements in a borrowed coach that brought her to the Chichester duchy and into the arms of her betrothed.

  He has the body of a god, she thought as she remembered the feel of sculpted muscle under her fingertips, the feel of the light dusting of hair that covered his chest. And although his scars would be with him for the rest of his life, his flesh had healed so there were no longer any open wounds that could become infected. And her touch hadn’t seemed to cause him any pain. Unlike mine, she thought as she cursed her father.