The Book of Love (Books 1-3): A Regency Romance Collection

by Meara Platt

  “Poppy, we’re running out of time,” Penelope said in a whisper, holding her back while her brother and Pip walked ahead. “There’s only one night left before we’re descended upon by Nathaniel’s London friends. Can you win Nathaniel’s heart by then?”

  She shook her head. “Perhaps, but that isn’t the right question.”

  Penelope quirked her head, peering at her in confusion. “It isn’t? Then what is?”

  “I may win his heart tonight. But will Charlotte steal it back tomorrow?”

  Penelope groaned. “No. Never. I refuse to consider the possibility.”

  But Poppy had to, for her own heart was at stake and Nathaniel had the power to crush it.

  *

  “A man has certain sensitive spots on his body,” Nathaniel said, turning Poppy to face him as they stood beside the pond in the last glimmers of daylight. There was a light breeze blowing off the water toward them, one strong enough to keep the pesky gnats from swarming around them and biting their skin.

  They’d go for Poppy first, for her skin was sweeter.

  Soft and sweet.

  But he shook out of the thought. He’d brought Poppy out here in the amber glow of twilight because the grass was thick and soft and he didn’t want her hurt if she tripped and fell. Not that he would ever purposely harm her, but defense required feints and lunging and quickness of feet. It was not uncommon for an untrained warrior to get his feet tangled and take a fall.

  He would be gentle with Poppy, of course.

  But not so gentle that she’d learn nothing.

  He cleared his throat. “Everyone has certain sensitive spots. The eyes. The throat.”

  Poppy nodded. “Nathaniel, you are blushing.”

  “I am not. It’s just that…” He raked a hand through his hair, knowing he could not skirt the issue. “A man is also sensitive in the area between his legs.”

  She grinned. “You already look pained.”

  And she hadn’t even struck him there yet. Not that he wanted her to, but he wanted her to know it was a potential spot. The best spot to strike if a young lady wished to take down a male attacker. “Hitting a man there with sufficient force will drop him to his knees in agony.”

  “Interesting.” She stared at the spot, which caused him to respond with agony of quite a different sort.

  Lord, what was he thinking?

  The girl was making him brainless again.

  He put his arms on her shoulders and turned her away from him so that she was now facing the water and not his tightening loins. “Now, if a man approaches you from behind. You must–”

  “Is that it? Am I to learn no more about the vulnerable spot between your legs?”

  Lord Almighty.

  “There’s nothing more to say. You hit a man there with all your might and run.” He held her firm and kept her turned away from him. “Now, if a man comes at you from behind.” He started to put his arms around her, inhaled her lavender scent, and absorbed her soft body now lightly pressed against his, and stopped.

  Hell, this wasn’t working out.

  What had he been thinking when he offered to tutor her in the art of defense? “I’m going to give you a pistol. Hide it on your person.”

  As he relaxed his grip, she turned to face him. “Where?” she asked, rolling her eyes and motioning downward toward her gown.

  It hugged her body, outlining her magnificent curves. And she still wore the necklace that plunged beneath the fabric in the valley of her breasts.

  He was a nitwit. His gaze shot straight there even though he knew it shouldn’t. He’d read The Book of Love. He understood the science behind his responses. Yet, he was still responding. And aching. “Doesn’t matter where you hide it. If someone comes after you, take out the pistol and shoot him.”

  She cast him one of those rare and magnificent Poppy Farthingale dimpled smiles. She knew she had him on her hook. She knew he was helplessly dangling and unable to break away. She’d caught him.

  However, her smile was not one of triumph. It was one of sheer love.

  He groaned in agony.

  He needed to marry this girl for the sake of his own sanity.

  He needed her beside him for all the days of his life. “Poppy, damn it. Will you–”

  The rattle of carriages rolling through the manor gate and up the drive distracted them from this magical moment, although starting a marriage proposal with “Poppy, damn it” might not have been his cleverest move. “Hellfire, they’ve arrived early.”

  Poppy looked crestfallen.

  He took her hand and gave it a light squeeze to assure her all would turn out well. But what if it didn’t? Not that he had any doubts about his feelings for Poppy, but these friends were not going to accept her so easily.

  They weren’t friends such as Beast and Thad were. They would not stand beside him and support him to their dying breath. No, these were his Upper Class acquaintances who would look upon Poppy as his dalliance, unable to conceive that he would prefer a merchant’s daughter over the daughter of a wealthy and powerful duke. “We’d better head back to greet them.”

  She hesitated. “You go on ahead. I’d like to stay out here a little while longer. I’ll be back before dark. You needn’t worry about me.”

  Of course, he’d worry.

  But to appear with Poppy by his side would force a confrontation with Charlotte before the carriage wheels had rolled to a stop. “Very well.”

  He greeted the duke and Charlotte who were the first to step down from their carriage. “Welles,” Charlotte said, casting him a jaded, let’s-have-sex-tonight pout, “our journey was beastly and we are all famished.”

  “I’ll have Cook prepare something for you.” He turned to the duke, arching an eyebrow in question. Why had they arrived a day early?

  The old man cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought my daughter could do with a good dose of country air. London is a little stale at the moment.”

  “Lady Hawksworth is a jealous, old biddy and spread malicious lies about me. If she weren’t so old and withered, and a lady, but in name only, for we all know that she is common and no amount of fine clothes or titles will change that. The point is, if she were a man, my father would have called her out.”

  He didn’t bother to ask what Charlotte had done. No doubt the poor woman had caught Charlotte in a compromising position with her husband, Lord Hawksworth. The man was old, not particularly handsome, but his marriage to Lady Hawksworth had been considered a successful one. Perhaps not a love match in the fiery, passionate sense, but one in an abiding friendship sense.

  He could see by the amused gleam in Charlotte’s eyes, she had considered it a lark to destroy their loving bond.

  Lord, what had he done?

  Charlotte wouldn’t hesitate to set about destroying Poppy next.

  He turned to greet his other guests. Although most were mere acquaintances, there were some decent souls among them. He liked Thomas Halford, the Earl of Wycke. He’d brought his sister, Anne Halford, and his mother, Countess Wycke, with him. They would be pleasant company, for all three of them were jovial and good-natured. They would get along well with Penelope and Poppy.

  Also present were Lord March and Lord Jameson, bachelor friends of his. They often made the round of parties together, and while Nathaniel would sometimes join them afterward in the gaming hells and other entertainments, he’d long ago grown bored with these outings and rarely joined them now. But March and Jameson still enjoyed their freedoms and indulged in them a little too heavily for Nathaniel’s liking.

  They weren’t bad or immoral men. However, he would not like them getting too friendly with Poppy or his sister. They had some reforming to do. He’d have to watch those two.

  He’d invited a few other prominent, ton families, social acquaintances of Lavinia’s who also were well acquainted with Charlotte and her father because they all traveled in the best circles.

  Within the hour, his guests were
all settled in their chambers and assigned maids and valets to assist them in changing out of their travel clothes. Those who were hungry would soon come down for the light repast his cook had hastily cobbled together. Soames had overseen the setting of the dinner table in all its finery and made certain his footmen were in their livery, ready to serve the lords and ladies as they sat down to dine.

  Nathaniel had a few minutes to spare before the horde migrated downstairs. He went in search of Poppy, needing to make certain she’d returned to the house. But it was more than that. He wanted her under his protection, not only from his bachelor friends, but also from those who would cast her condescending glances.

  He had just stepped into the entry hall when he spotted her coming out of his library with a book in hand.

  She smiled when she saw him, which eased his heart tremendously. “What have you there?”

  “A book on travels to Tuscany.”

  He groaned, for the damn book she was reading about the fictional Lady Cordelia’s adventures in Tuscany was putting ideas into her head. It was worse than The Book of Love, which had scientific merit. But the Tuscan adventure was nothing more than an illicit, sexual romp.

  His thoughts must have been obvious, for she put her hand on his arm and cast him another gentle smile. “Lady Cordelia married her count. They fell in love and lived happily ever after in his Tuscan castle. He did do naughty things to her and with her before they married.” She tipped her head up and regarded him with a steady gaze. “But he loved her, and she knew it. She was no mere dalliance to him. It just took her a little longer to trust her own feelings and admit she loved him.”

  “And you, Poppy. What are you feeling?”

  He felt her fingers tense on his arm, but he never found out her response, for his guests began to make their way downstairs before he received an answer from her.

  Poppy quickly released his arm and skittered up the servants’ stairs.

  Damn it.

  She wasn’t the hired help.

  He wanted her to stand beside him.

  He wanted to proudly introduce her to one and all as his betrothed.

  He supposed he ought to propose to her first, actually get the words out instead of merely think them.

  Charlotte came toward him and took his arm. “Will you escort me into the dining hall?” She purposely leaned into him so that her breast rubbed against his arm.

  “Charlotte, stop it.”

  She drew back in surprise. “Stop what?”

  He worried that he’d been too abrupt with her, but she appeared impatient and annoyed rather than hurt. He was interfering with her game and she didn’t like it. That’s all he was to her, a game to relieve her boredom.

  But he also wanted her to know the blackmailer was no longer a threat. Looking at her now, he wondered whether she had ever been blackmailed.

  He shook his head and sighed. “What do you know of a man named Andrew Gordon?”

  She paled and drew her hand off him. “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s been run out of England. He will never threaten you again.”

  “Threaten me?” She blinked and shook her head. “What makes you think he and I have anything to do with each other?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I felt it was important you were made aware. You seemed to be unhappy. You struck me as desperate to–”

  “Desperate? How dare you!” She gave a theatrical toss of her hair and her eyes blazed as though outraged.

  “Cut out the mock indignation, Charlotte. You’ll draw attention to yourself. I’m not the one with something to hide. But I think you are. Do you want my help or not?”

  She ignored the question and walked into the dining room ahead of him.

  If she was overset by what he’d told her, she didn’t show it. Indeed, she put on an ovation-worthy act, tossing a dazzling smile at any man who would look her way, and they all did.

  She reveled in their besotted responses.

  Having read The Book of Love, he understood the gleam in every man’s eye. Charlotte was the fertile female they all desired. They were welcome to her. Looking at her now, Nathaniel wondered how he’d ever found her appealing. He’d succumbed to her charms only the one time, the day he’d been to the docks and seen those coffins lined up. He’d arrived at Lord Angstrom’s ball drunk and continued drinking in order to numb his pain.

  But when sober, he’d never trusted Charlotte. He may have been attracted by her beauty, but never enchanted. Her affected pout had never drawn him in.

  However, despite having absorbed the science in that book, having read and reread it from front to back and memorized several of its passages, he still found women confusing.

  Why wasn’t Charlotte relieved to no longer be under threat from Andrew Gordon?

  She was acting oddly.

  He shook his head and sighed, knowing he’d done what he thought was right. He’d tried to protect her from that villain.

  Even Poppy confounded him, and she was the most open and honest girl he’d ever met. Not that she was purposely trying to confuse him. She was doing nothing but being helpful. In truth, she had done nothing to lure him. She hadn’t used a single spell or trick or recipe, or whatever one wanted to call the advice in that book.

  She had given him the book to read.

  Yet, he still responded to her like a low-brained simpleton, even more so now.

  He took his seat at the head of the dining table. Penelope took the seat opposite his and was as charming and delightful a hostess as he could ever have hoped. She engaged their guests and asked after their travels. Even listened to their petulant complaints with compassion.

  Lord Wycke passed him a whispered comment. “Your sister is charming, Welles. I understand this is her first year out. She’ll be married off quickly.” He laughed and shook his head. “I might do it myself. She’s utterly delightful.”

  Nathaniel merely nodded.

  Perhaps Penelope was only obstinate and defiant with him.

  And Thad, of course.

  Lord, she tortured Thad.

  Penelope delightful? He loved his sister, but he wasn’t blind to her faults. Stubborn. Rabid, at times. Often up to mischief. He’d be relieved when she fell in love and found someone else to torment.

  Lavinia came down a few minutes later escorted by Poppy. Whatever pleasure he felt at the mere sight of Poppy was shattered when Charlotte’s father passed a comment. “You allow your aunt’s companion at your dinner table, Welles? Quite extraordinary.” He made no effort to be discreet or civil.

  “Miss Farthingale is not Lavinia’s companion.” Nathaniel fisted his hands to stem his anger. “She’s a valued guest in my home.”

  “A dear friend to all of us,” Penelope responded similarly. “Our families have been close friends for years. Do come sit next to me, Miss Farthingale.”

  Lord Jameson leered at her. “There’s an empty seat beside me as well.”

  She thanked him and sat beside Penelope. While seating order would be adhered to more formally tomorrow and through the weekend, this repast was set out for anyone who wished to come down to dine and therefor the arrangements were casual.

  Lord Jameson came around to sit on the other side of her. “Are you anything like those sisters of yours? I hear you’re all named after flowers. The eldest girls did quite well for themselves.”

  “I believe you are referring to my cousins. And yes, we are named after flowers.”

  “Soft and beautiful,” he murmured.

  “Intelligent and compassionate, I hope. We are neither delicate nor mere ornaments to adorn a man’s arm. I fully expect my cousin, Lily, to become the first female Fellow in the Royal Society.”

  “I daresay she will not,” the Duke of Winthrow intoned. “Impertinent, ill-mannered girl. I shall never cast my vote for her.”

  “Why not, Your Grace? Oh, I know she’s young still and only beginning her scientific research in earnest. But in time, you’ll recognize her bri
lliance and be as proud of her as we all are.”

  Lord Jameson drained his glass of wine and held it out for a footman to pour more. “And what is your flower, Miss Farthingale?”

  “Poppy.”

  Nathaniel emitted a soft growl, not liking the way Jameson was looking at her. As though he wished to pluck her petals.

  Over his dead body.

  Or rather, Jameson would be the one found dead if he ever laid a hand on Poppy.

  Penelope guided the conversation to safer ground, reviewing tomorrow’s planned entertainments. “Tea and archery for the ladies. Riding and hunting for the men.”

  “But what’s to be our sport for this evening?” Lord March asked, turning to Poppy. “I’ll deem it an honor to partner with you, whatever game it is.”

  “Welles, I claim you,” Charlotte said.

  By her tone, Nathaniel knew she meant it in more ways than a genteel party game. He’d talk to Charlotte later. “We’ll play whist.” He ordered Soames to set up card tables in the salon.

  He partnered with Charlotte for no other reason than to keep her from menacing Poppy. To his surprise, Poppy appeared to be handling Jameson and March quite well without any assistance from him.

  The men were behaving themselves, but for how long?

  “Welles, do pay attention,” Charlotte said with marked impatience. “It’s your turn.”

  The card games ended well past midnight, and his guests finally retired to their chambers.

  Nathaniel was tired and eager for sleep by the time he closed up the house and returned to his quarters. As he entered, he realized he was not alone. Charlotte was naked in his bed. “Let the real sport begin,” she purred, beckoning him to her.

  As she motioned to him, the sheet slipped down to expose her breasts.

  His low brain didn’t respond.

  He wasn’t surprised.

  Having made his choice, he had moved beyond the primitive brain function. Poppy was the girl he wanted.

  “With your father next door? I don’t think so.” He reached for the nightgown she’d tossed on the floor. “Get dressed. Go back to your own room. Don’t come in here again.”