Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  Anger and hurt twisted through Nicholas. John Robert Abercrombie, the Seventh Marquess of Beaumond, lay on the couch, trousers laid open. Josephine’s dress was hitched up to reveal white, silk stockings held in place by white garters trimmed in lace.

  He took four steps to the couch, seized Josephine’s arm and yanked her to her feet. Then turned his stare onto the marquess. “My sister wasn’t enough? You must have everything that belongs to me?” It hadn’t been just his sister, but she’d been the final straw, and the one that had mattered most to him…until now.

  Beaumond rose and began tucking his shirt into his pants. “I didn’t take anything, as you can see.”

  “We will meet tomorrow at dawn,” Nicholas said.

  Josephine’s gasp was cut off by Beaumond’s snort of disdain. “I do not duel.” He fastened his pants.

  “That is your misfortune,” Nicholas said. “Tomorrow morning, you will wish you had more practice.”

  Josephine grabbed his arm. “Stop being stubborn, Nicholas.”

  “Quiet, Jo,” he ordered.

  The marquess smoothed back his hair. “I have no intention of dueling, and you would be wise to get the notion out of your head. If you got off a lucky shot that killed me, you would hang.”

  “Luck will have nothing to do with it,” Nicholas said.

  “Skill or luck, I won’t be there. Dueling went out of fashion years ago.”

  “Fashion be damned,” Nicholas snapped.

  The marquess started toward the door.

  “You will be there Beaumond, or I’ll drag you out of bed and beat you.”

  He stopped and turned. “I am sorry, Grayson, but even if I were predisposed to dueling, it wouldn’t be over a piece of muslin.”

  Nicholas lunged and drove a fist into the marquess’ belly. Josephine cried out as Beaumond doubled over with a loud groan. Nick seized his lapel and propelled him toward Henry, who stood in the doorway. Henry caught the man and steadied him on his feet.

  “See his lordship to his room, please, Henry, and be good enough to send the proper notices to his seconds.” With that, Nicholas slammed the door shut and faced Josephine.

  * * *

  Josephine took a step backwards before catching herself. Facing Nicholas alone was far more frightening than being caught half naked with his rival. He seized her free wrist, his fingers like manacles, and she gave a startled cry. He stared for a long moment, the dark rage now mingled with a sadness she too often saw in his brown eyes these days. Pain twisted her heart, but she kept her gaze emotionless.

  He released her. “Do you hate me so much, Jo?”

  His question shocked her—then she realized this reaction was exactly what she’d wanted. She still clutched her bodice in an effort at modesty and started to turn aside to slip her arms back into the sleeves, then stopped. What better way to remind him of her infidelity than to remain half naked?

  Josephine gave a careless laugh. “A man can take as many lovers as he likes, and we women are to accept it, but when a woman wants the same privilege, you men take it personally. Once we are married, what’s to stop you from taking a mistress?”

  “Shouldn’t I commit the crime before you make me pay for it?” he said.

  “I saw you dance with Rebecca Evans the other night at Lady Graham’s soiree. For all I know, you’re already guilty.”

  The hurt in his eyes deepened. “You know better than that.”

  She lifted her chin. “Do I?”

  “Would you really sabotage our marriage before it’s even begun?”

  She gave a careless laugh. “Lord, you are dramatic.”

  “This isn’t a childish jibe like dancing too many times with another man,” he said. “Or flirting shamelessly in front of me. You let Beaumond touch you.”

  Josephine repressed a shudder of revulsion. Allowing the marquess to touch her had taken all her powers of determination. She hadn’t even been able to conjure the desire for Nicholas that plagued her in order to arouse herself when Lord Beaumond opened his trousers. But Lord Beaumond it had to be, for Nick would never forgive her for fraternizing with the man who seduced his sister.

  “Let the past go, Nicholas. Your sister recovered from her affair with Beaumond. She married well and has two children she dotes on.”

  “You didn’t console her in those terrible months after he tossed her aside as if she were an old rag,” he said more to himself than her, and she knew he was remembering eight years ago, when Deanna had fallen prey to Lord Beaumond’s charm at the age of eighteen. The affair carried on for two months before Nicholas discovered a letter from his sister that gave away their liaison. “We feared for her life,” he said in a bitter voice.

  But Josephine remembered all too well. When Beaumond appeared at the house party yesterday, Josephine knew God—in His perverse amusement—had answered her prayers. She had accepted guilt as her ever-constant companion, and bowed even now to the reminder that allowing Lord Beaumond to seduce her was a sin not only against God, but her family and the only man she had ever loved.

  Josephine waved her hand dismissively. “Young lovers are dramatic. God knows, we were.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized it, and she hurriedly added, “But never mind that. Forget the duel. Lord Beaumond is right, if you got lucky enough to kill him, you would hang.”

  Nicholas’ gaze bore into her. “Would you shed a single tear if I was hanged?”

  “Of course,” she snapped. “I have known you since I was a girl. I care about you.”

  “But you don’t want to marry me.”

  Josephine turned, afraid he would see in her eyes how very much she did want to marry him. She sauntered to a table where bronze figurines of a poet and his muse sat on a marble table. “Why should I want to marry anyone?” Jo traced a finger along the poet’s toga-clad body. “Marriage means I go from being owned by my father to being owned by my husband.” Her fingers tightened around the fabric she still pressed against her breasts. Being owned by Nicholas would be heavenly. Something inside her shattered and she found herself forcing back tears.

  “Your father never treated you like chattel,” he said. She heard the clink of glass and realized he had gone to the sideboard and was pouring a drink. “He adores you and your sister.”

  “You call being bartered off to a rich earl adoring?” she retorted.

  A moment of deadly silence drew out between them. “A rich earl who loves you,” he finally said. “Me.”

  Josephine’s heart constricted. He did love her...and she loved him. But love was the very thing that could destroy them.

  “Papa accepted your offer because it came from the great Earl of Grayson,” she said. “Along with more money than anyone else was willing to offer, of course.”

  “Did it occur to you that I made sure he couldn’t refuse my offer?”

  She swung to face where he leaned a hip against the sideboard. “Oh, indeed, it did. When I refused your offer, you bought me. I am not at all surprised that you defend my father. You two are much alike.”

  Yes,” he said, his voice hard. “We both know how to get what we want. I am not sorry, Jo. I won’t live life without you.”

  “And you had the resources to buy me.”

  “Don’t you think your father accepted my offer because he knows I love you?” Nicholas said. “That I will care for you…protect you?”

  “From myself, you mean,” she retorted.

  “Don’t act as if it hasn’t been necessary. Today is a perfect example.”

  In a flash, she closed the distance between them. He slammed the glass down onto the sideboard and straightened as she went up on tiptoes in an attempt to get nose-to-nose with him.

  She was still forced to tilt her head up, but narrowed her eyes, and said, “I had the situation with Lord Beaumond perfectly well in hand.”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “So I saw.”

  “I lived without you for six years, Nick—and quite well, if you must know.
Yet you act as if I cannot take care of myself, or worse, as if no other man has ever loved me.”

  “No doubt you left a string of broken hearts from Inverness to Edinburgh. But none of those poor devils knew you. God knows, if they did, they would have put as much distance as possible between themselves and you.”

  “How dare you?” she breathed. “I suppose you know me, but still manage to love me?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “I love you more than life itself.”

  She drew a sharp breath. His brow furrowed in question, then understanding glimmered in his eyes.

  He leaned closer and Josephine could feel his breath on her face. “You could have accepted any of the half dozen offers you received while I was gone. Not to mention, the two offers you received in the month since my return. You didn’t love a one of them.” He grasped her shoulders. “Be done with this foolishness. Admit you love me.”

  The truth rushed to the surface as if to break free of its own volition. Her heart sped up and for an instant she feared she would tell him the awful truth despite her resolution to keep silent.

  She broke free and backed up. “If you expected sentimentality, you made a bad bargain. Now, forget the duel. It isn’t worth your life.”

  “You should have thought about that before you let Beaumond undress you.” He picked up the drink and finished it on one long swallow, then turned to refill the glass. “Why did you do it?”

  “I’m not the seventeen year old girl you left behind. As you say, today is a perfect example. Beware, Nicholas, Lord Beaumond will put it about that I was here with him of my own free will and that you have no call for challenging him. You will be a laughing stock.” Walk away, she mentally willed him. Call off the wedding and walk away.

  Nick’s head snapped in her direction and for an instant Josephine wondered if she’d spoken the last words out loud.

  He faced her. “You know as well as I that Beaumond won’t spread a single shred of gossip about you. In fact, I will be forced to drag him from his bed tomorrow morning—if he is still here. I doubt he’ll stay in Inverness. Knowing him, he will take an extended holiday in France.”

  Just as he had done after his affair with Deanna.

  “No, Jo, he won’t spread that, or any other, rumor about you,” Nicholas continued. “Though I don’t give a damn if he takes out an ad in the Times announcing that he took your virginity.”

  “Rumor?” she repeated.

  His gaze bore into her. “It’s been six years. If you didn’t wait for me, I would understand.”

  But she had waited for him. Two long years, she’d clung to the two letters he’s sent. But a third letter never came and when he didn’t return even after his father’s death, she finally accepted that he wasn’t coming back—at least not to her. Despite his silence and her anger, all other men paled beside his memory. She told herself she was remembering a man of such character and sentiment that no flesh and blood man could rival the memory…the legend. Then he’d returned. A man who made the memory seem like a mere shadow.

  “I suppose I’m to blame,” he said with a bitter laugh. “I was a fool to think I could allay our families’ fears by going away until you turned eighteen.” He released a breath. “I said it a dozen times. But you won’t talk to me.”

  Yes, he’d said it a dozen times in the last month. I never dreamed your father would betroth you to Lord Helmsley the week after I left. I had no idea you didn’t marry him. I love you. I’m here now. Marry me.

  The truth was, she longed to know why he hadn’t gone against his father’s wishes and eloped with her. Everything would have been different and they would have been happy—until the truth surfaced. And it would have. It always did. Just as it had only two days after she signed the marriage contract.

  “Please, Nicholas, no more explanations. It is too tedious.”

  “As you wish, no explanations. But I will not withdraw my offer.”

  She gave a hollow laugh. “Of course not. It would cost you half your fortune.”

  “Not quite that much,” he replied. “But I don’t give a damn about the money. I care about the fact that you waited for me. You love me.”

  Josephine snorted. “You professed love, Nicholas, not me.”

  He nodded. “You forget that first kiss after my return, before you got into your head whatever it is that has you rebelling.”

  Why, oh why, had he mentioned that kiss? She remembered it like yesterday. Nick appeared at some party she attended. She’d been so startled to see him that when he’d asked her to dance, before she realized it, he’d whisked her out onto the balcony and into his arms. Her stomach gelled with the memory. How could a single kiss plague her so? But she knew the answer, for the one and only other kiss he’d given her before he left had plagued her all these years, as well.

  She had been seventeen. He was twenty-five. Her parents took her to London where it would be more difficult for her and Nicholas to run back to Scotland to marry. He swore to be gone one year, then return for her. Then he’d drawn her to him and brushed his lips against hers. She was sure he intended an almost chaste kiss, but she’d melted against him and he’d pulled her across his lap and swept his tongue into the depths of her mouth until she trembled in his arms and begged him to do more. He’d held her so fiercely, as if he’d never let her go…as if he was afraid to let her go. Then he did.

  The sting of tears pressed more fiercely against her eyes. She disguised the moisture she feared shone in her eyes by slanting him a sultry look from beneath her lashes. “I am a passionate woman. You are an attractive man. Passion is inevitable.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Aye, and it occurs to me I have been remiss in that regard.” He set his glass down and stepped close to her. “I notice you’re still half dressed.”

  Chapter Two

  For a long moment, they stood toe to toe, Josephine’s heart pounding wildly. Then Nick’s arm lashed around her and he yanked her to him. His mouth crashed down on hers. Her head whirled and she shoved at his chest, as much to stop him as to halt the torrent of emotion that rammed through her. But Nicholas remained as unmovable as a stone wall, her hands trapped between them, his chest rising and falling with each powerful thump of his heart. This was all wrong, wasn’t what she had planned, and would ruin her. Worse, would ruin him. But his mouth moved on hers, hungry, demanding, as was his way with everything. He would have what he wanted. And he wanted her. God help her, she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

  He groaned, deep and ferocious, and her knees weakened.

  “Jo,” he murmured against her lips.

  She couldn’t stop herself from entwining her tongue with his. He sparred, then sucked her into his mouth. Her stomach did a flip. Her father would never allow Nicholas to cry off if she gave him her virginity. She had to stop this, stop him. His hand slid down her back and over the curve of her buttocks and he undulated his arousal against her abdomen.

  Her head spun. What was that spell he cast over her? Her defenses—her resolve—had gone weak to the core. His fingers tightened on her derrière and he thrust against her again. In the next moment, he was backing her up. Her legs bumped into the couch and he lowered her onto the cushion. His body came down on hers, his weight pressing her down, one heavy thigh between her legs. This wasn’t the young man’s rise to passion as it had been when she’s been seventeen, and was well beyond the heart-stopping kiss they’d shared on the balcony a month ago. This raw male need demanded what had long been denied. What belonged to him.

  His tongue thrust unhurriedly into her mouth while he slid a hand over the curve of her breast. Josephine shivered, all too aware of the hard ridge of his erection against her mons. He slid his mouth along her jaw, then her neck, and still lower. His lips grazed the rise of one breast and she gripped his shoulders. He teased, gently nipping at the flesh. When he levered himself up onto an elbow and grasped the first hook on her corset, panic shot through her.

  “Nick,” she cried. “W
e can’t.”

  But he silenced her with a kiss, and in seconds had undone the hooks on her corset. Her breasts sprang free, taut against her chemise. He came down fully on top of her, and kissed her again, hard and without mercy.

  Through the muddle in her brain, she became aware of his warm palm covering a breast. The thin fabric of her chemise offered little protection against the heat of his flesh. He grazed a thumb over her nipple and a delicious sensation connected directly with the juncture between her legs. His fingers, long, warm, and strong kneaded the flesh, and she couldn’t bear the sensation. He thrust his rod against her mons and she suddenly understood the true danger was in the demand he was creating inside her, in that secret place that she had for so many years dreamed he might one day touch.

  He broke the kiss and before she realized his intent, he sucked a nipple into his mouth and drew on the pink bud through the fabric. Pleasure shuddered through her. This was nothing at all like what Lord Beaumond had done to her. He’d pulled down her bodice and stared at the rise of her breasts above the corset as he unfastened his trousers. It had begun just as she’d hoped, quick and without emotion. Another moment and he would have taken her maidenhead without ceremony—and without any of the pleasure that was bombarding her senses now.

  Nicholas shifted, then grasped her thigh. Cool air wafted across her legs and she realized he was pulling up her petticoats and skirt. She started when his fingers grazed the inside of her thigh. He stroked higher. A shiver rippled through her. A finger slid between the slit of her drawers and rubbed her lightly. Josephine gasped. Nick released her breast and kissed her again, this time gently. She shoved her hands beneath his coat and around his back. Muscle rippled beneath her fingertips. He groaned and eased his shaft along her thigh while still stroking the place between her legs.

  Jo writhed beneath him, half desperate to break free of the overwhelming sensations and needing release so badly it hurt. But he caged her with the weight of his body, rubbing her a little quicker while flicking his tongue against her mouth. His breath came in short pants and Josephine vaguely realized that desire was heating his blood. Panic rose to the top. This mustn’t happen. She couldn’t bear to hurt him this way.