Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  Julia gave a start as her eyes lifted to meet his. “Oh!” she managed to get out. When she attempted to stand, Alistair reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “There is no need for my lady to stand on my behalf,” he said as he moved to sit next to her.

  Her eyes widening at his impropriety—he had placed a hand on her!—Julia was about to rebuke him, but the groom continued speaking.

  “Especially when I owe you an apology. No,” he corrected himself. “Two apologies,” he said as he lowered his eyes. “First, please pardon my having ... touched you. You seemed a million miles away, and I didn’t wish to intrude on your reverie,” he claimed, keeping his voice low.

  “I ... I was, I suppose,” Julia admitted, her head turning to take in the man who sat next to her. He was nearly a head taller and so much broader in shoulder than she that he had to lean to his right a bit so that their shoulders didn’t collide. “Apology accepted, of course,” she added quickly, taking in a quick breath and letting it out slowly. “I was ... woolgathering,” she admitted then.

  Alistair noticed how she held her hands clasped together in her lap, hands he knew were small and delicate but that could play piano-forté and stitch exquisite embroideries. They could probably draw and paint and create eddies of exquisite pleasure just beneath his skin, as well.

  Alistair had to quickly blink to erase the suddenly erotic picture his mind had painted that very moment. A painting of her formed in his mind’s eye, an image of her stretched out naked and pale against the deep blue of his bed’s counterpane, her hair splayed out on the pillows beneath her body, her breasts topped with ruched buds that begged to be kissed, and her lips slightly apart, left so from having said his name in greeting. “Alistair,” she had said, his name barely a whisper as one of her fingers drew circles above his groin and moved into the dark curly hair that surrounded his hardening manhood. “Take me. I am yours,” he heard her say, the words so ethereal he couldn’t be sure she’d actually spoken them aloud.

  “Oh, Christ!” he said suddenly, straightening on the bench and tearing his gaze from her face.

  Startled by his outburst, Julia leaned away from him, even scooting away from him until her bottom was at the very edge of the bench, while her eyes did a perfect imitation of a black and blue saucer. “I hardly think my admission of woolgathering requires such a ... such a curse!” she countered, wondering if she should be merely annoyed by his swearing or frightened by it. But she had seen something cross his face just the moment before, something that made her think he was woolgathering, too.

  And making woolgathering look as if it was a rather pleasant experience.

  Alistair rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Now I owe you yet another apology, my lady,” he responded with a sigh. “I just remembered something I need to do in the stables. Something ... I meant to do earlier this afternoon,” he lied, hoping he could cover his outburst with a simple explanation. “I feel a bit ... guilty at having left Mr. Grimes to do all the work during our lesson,” he added before turning to regard her.

  Julia was shaking her head. “Mr. Grimes assured me he could get by without you this afternoon, and any other time your presence is required by ...” She paused a moment, the thought of Alistair being available to her whenever she pleased a rather ... pleasant one. Available for dancing. Available for trysts in the garden, or in her bedchamber, where she could remove all his clothes and admire his bronzed body as it lay spread out on her bed, admire his lips as they kissed every inch of her, his fingers as they traced all the curves of her body and made their way to that space between her thighs, where at this very moment her dark curlies were dampened by the sudden lust she felt.

  “Oh, Lord,” she spoke suddenly, her face suddenly turning away in an effort to ride her blushing cheeks.

  Alistair frowned, causing one eyebrow to angle down on his forehead. “I don’t really consider my work in the stables to be the Lord’s work, my lady,” Alistair replied with a shake of his head.

  Julia shook her own head, wondering how she could have allowed herself to imagine such a ... scandalous liaison with the groom!

  Seeing an opportunity to make things right with Julia, Alistair cleared his throat. “I apologize for saying what I did in the ballroom,” he said suddenly, remembering just then what he’d been thinking when she’d become so enraged at him. Her entire being had come alive, the color of her face pinking up in a most attractive display of anger and frustration, her cornflower blue eyes wide and framed with those long lashes that were at the moment resting atop her beautiful cheekbones, her chest thrust out so the tops of her breasts were pressed up and silhouetted in the fabric of her bodice.

  He’d been thinking the most effective means of calming her down would have been to capture her lips with his and silence her with a kiss that would leave her breathless and boneless and his to do with as he pleased.

  No one else had done that to her, he was sure. No one else had tamed her or gentled her anger with soft words and softer kisses. Perhaps he would have to try that approach the next time she raised her voice at him.

  Or not, considering she would probably report his rakish behavior to the head groom, and he would lose his position as a result.

  Julia turned her head so she could better see him. “What did you ... what did you really mean when you said, ‘There will be no satisfying you?’ and ‘That is your problem’?” she wondered, stilling herself so she wouldn’t lash out at him if his response angered her. In the ballroom, the accusation had angered her at first, but upon reflection, she couldn’t feel anything but hurt by it, as if he’d made the comment as a cut direct. But he was a groom! What right had he to judge her? Or assume she ‘never’—whatever it was he thought she hadn’t done.

  Alistair shook his head quickly. “My lady, I ... I meant nothing by it, really,” he replied, his head still shaking from side to side.

  Not convinced, Julia huffed. “You were angry with me. You ... meant something by it,” she pressed, determined to get the groom to admit what he’d been thinking when he spoke the words that she found hurt her more than any others she had heard that Season. Even Penelope Winstead’s comment about the dress she’d worn to Lady Torrington’s garden party last fall hadn’t hurt as much as what he’d said to her in the ballroom.

  Sighing, Alistair cocked his head to one side. He couldn’t admit it had to do with a momentary thought he had of her spread out on his bed, of his imaginary attempts to bring her to orgasm with nothing more than the fingers of one hand and her subsequent disappointment when he failed at the last moment, something always going wrong or interfering with his ministrations. If given the chance, though, he was sure he could pleasure her until she was quite thoroughly satisfied.

  Satisfied enough that she would ask for more later. But he couldn’t exactly tell her his comment had anything to do with imaginary sexual encounters.

  How then to explain himself? “You have probably never ... been kissed,” Alistair finally stated, thinking he should shut his eyes so he wouldn’t witness whatever her reaction was about to be.

  Either she would start to cry, or she would explode.

  Already prepared for the worst, Julia had forced her mouth to close, forced herself to take one breath ... two breaths before her chest seemed to tighten and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. He had meant to hurt her by his comment, she realized. And now that the words were repeating themselves over and over again in her head, she found she had no answer for him.

  Of course, she hadn’t been kissed!

  Did he think respectable young ladies of the ton should be kissed before they were betrothed? That they should indulge in such behavior before they had accepted a man’s offer of marriage? And could she really believe he meant only that she had never been kissed? Because, for just a moment there, she thought he was imagining far more than just kissing. She was quite sure he was imagining her naked on her bed and utterly and completely at a loss as to how to make love to him.
Because, at that same moment, she had imagined him completely naked on his bed, his bronzed body hard and ready and waiting for her to ... to do what, she wasn’t quite sure.

  I never ...

  Julia had to suppress the urge to let out a sound of frustration.

  How dare he?

  She could feel anger replace the feeling of hurt that clutched her heart, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to keep her temper in check, making it hard to keep the tears from dripping from her widened eyes.

  Alistair watched as Julia’s face changed, watched as tears welled up in her eyes, watched as she struggled to maintain control over her growing anger. Tears and an explosion? he wondered suddenly. She’s about to blow!

  Which meant there was only one thing he could do.

  Kiss her.

  It would take her mind off her anger toward him, and she might even like it. She would like it, he decided. She would like it so much, she would thank him for it, probably ask that he do it again. And again.

  Moving a hand behind her head, Alistair suddenly pulled Julia toward him as he leaned his head to one side and placed his lips over hers, pressing a bit too hard at first. If he’d meant to punish her, he found he couldn’t, not when she’d been so hurt by his comment. He softened the kiss, allowing her to take a quick, startled breath, but not letting her lips get away from his. Sliding his hand down the back of her head, he splayed his fingers along her neck while he threaded his other hand under her arm to capture the side of her waist. He resisted the urge to pull her onto his lap—she was slight enough he could have easily lifted her from where he sat. But a slight moan captured his attention, and he felt her lips respond to his, felt her resistance subside a bit, realized one of her hands was lifting to his shoulder. He wondered if she would wrap her hand around to the back of his neck and slide her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, use her nails to comb through his hair, lean closer to him so her breasts would be pressed against his chest ...

  But the hand that had been reaching for his shoulder suddenly made contact, shoving him so hard, the kiss was broken and Julia was staring at him from clear across the bench.

  How did she get away so fast? Alistair was left wondering as he blinked and tried to figure out what had happened. The look on Julia’s face sobered him quickly, though. He had never seen such an angry expression on a woman before.

  Not even on his mother.

  “How dare you?!” Julia whispered fiercely, her hands planted firmly on the bench as if she needed to anchor herself to the stone.

  Alistair’s eyes widened. “My lady ...”

  “Don’t say a word,” Julia warned, one hand coming up so a single finger could wag at him. “Not a word.” And as fast as she could, Julia was off the bench and hurrying to the back door of the house, seemingly oblivious to the snags her skirts suffered as they caught on the shrubs and branches she passed in her haste to get away. Alistair felt more than heard the back door slamming shut.

  Letting out the breath he’d been holding, Alistair rolled his eyes and leaned forward on the bench. He hadn’t meant to illicit any kind of response from the chit. He’d only thought to ... prevent the tears and explosion he knew she was about to exhibit.

  And he had, to some degree.

  But his body’s response to her had been completely unexpected. The way she felt beneath his hands, beneath his lips. All woman. Soft and pliable, dainty and delectable, curvy and sensual. And her scent! If he breathed deep enough, he was sure he could still capture the scent of lilies in the air. At least his arousal no longer showed behind the fall of his breeches. Her sudden admonition and quick retreat had taken care of that.

  Why had she grown so angry? He was sure she was returning the kiss, sure he heard her soft moans of appreciation.

  He briefly wondered if he would ever see her again.

  Should she tell her father what he had done, Alistair was sure he would be dismissed. Tamping down the bit of panic he felt at the possibility of losing his position, he had to remind himself that all would not be lost—his mother missed him. The thought of having to move in with her should he need a place to stay had him feeling panicked again, though.

  Sighing, Alistair stood up and slowly made his way to the back gate and the stables beyond.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Countess Arrives at the Inn

  Charity Wellingham angled her head away from the window of the coach, hoping that no one inside the Spread Eagle could see her from their vantage point. She still hadn’t decided on the best approach with regard to Gabriel’s supposed son and the boy’s mother. Halfway to Stretton, she’d thought to use intimidation until she had the chit in tears and willing to disavow any relationship with the earl. A mile away, she had grown soft and thought merely to introduce herself and allow the chit to make a fool of herself before disavowing any relationship with the earl. Now, having seen how different the Spread Eagle appeared since her last visit a few years ago, Charity wondered if she shouldn’t just act like any other visitor to the inn and use the visit as an opportunity to learn more about the woman who had her son so enamored.

  The place was obviously well kept. A fresh coat of whitewash had been applied to the stucco exterior. No windows were broken. The yard was covered in pea gravel, and strategically placed planks assured that travelers arrived at the front door free of muddy boots. Even now, as her coach was coming to a rest in front of the building, a stableboy and a groom were hurrying to see to the horses, asking the driver if he required a new team or if the beasts merely needed food and water.

  Her own footman opened the coach door. He had already placed a set of steps outside the door and was holding out a hand to assist her from the equipage when Charity moved to get up.

  She nodded and silently wished the driver had parked the coach so her door was positioned away from the front of the inn. Despite the relatively short trip—they hadn’t stopped from the time they left Trenton Manor—she felt stiff and thought a moment to shake out her skirts and stretch her legs would be required. Better she do that away from prying eyes. A quick glance at the inn, though, and the fact that there were no other coaches in the parking area made her realize that there probably wasn’t anyone watching her from inside the inn.

  “I’ll be spending the night here,” Charity said to the footman, knowing her simple words would cause an interesting series of events. Instead of the horses being fed and watered where they stood, they would instead pull the coach to a space on the side or behind the inn before being unhitched and moved to the stables. The driver and tiger would end up in rooms above the stables. And she and her maid would simply enter the inn, ask about rooms and be escorted to their accommodations for the night. A supper might be had in the public room, although Charity wondered if she would be offered a private parlor in which to eat her meal. Eating in the public area might make for some interesting reconnaissance, she considered, but the thought of being stared at by other travelers had her hoping for the private parlor.

  Fuller stepped down from the coach, allowing the footman to assist her as she did so. “Would milady like me to go in and make arrangements?” she wondered quietly.

  Smiling, Charity shook her head. “Oh, no, Fuller,” she replied with a hint of mischief. “I shall see to the arrangements,” she said simply. And with that comment completed, she headed for the front door of the Spread Eagle.

  “So, whose coach is it?” John Bristow wondered as the inn’s barkeep dared a peek around the calico curtains that hung on every window in the public room.

  “It’s marked, but I can’t make out the coat of arms,” Thomas Fuller answered, his attention still on the equipage that had just pulled into the yard out front.

  “Horses look good,” Mr. Bristow commented, standing back a bit from the window glass. In the event someone bothered to look toward the inn, he wouldn’t be seen from where he stood.

  “Matched set, no doubt,” Thomas agreed. He watched as a footman put down
a set of stairs next to the coach door. “Now, for the bet. I say it’s a woman,” he stated, thinking most men didn’t wait for a footman to open the carriage doors—they usually just jumped out of the coaches and made their way to the taproom as quickly as possible.

  “It’s one of those lords,” Mr. Bristow insisted, thinking the higher ranking aristocrats always took their time disembarking from their equipage.

  Thomas backed away from the window a bit, his breath held until he saw the unmistakable boot of a female step out of the black traveling coach. “I win,” he said as he pounded his fist into his other hand. He kept his eye on the coach, though, wondering if it contained a male passenger. When another female boot stepped from the coach, he held his hands in the air as if he had won a bare knuckle fight. “I win,” he announced again. His arms quickly dropped, though, when he took a good look at the second woman to depart the coach. “Mum?” he said under his breath.

  John Bristow regarded his barkeep for a moment before turning his attention back to the women who were surreptitiously shaking out their skirts and giving the inn surreptitious glances. “Which one?” he asked in surprise.

  “The maid, of course,” Thomas replied as he stared out the window.

  “So, who’s the older woman?”

  “Indeed, who is our visitor?” a feminine voice said from behind them.

  Both men started and turned in unison, surprised at finding Sarah standing and staring out the window at their apparent visitors.

  Thomas held a hand against his chest. “Miss Cumberbatch, you nearly scared me to death,” he claimed as he gave her a slight bow. Sarah merely nodded in his direction, her gaze still on the elegantly dressed woman and her maid as she held Gabe atop one hip.

  “How long have you been standing there?” he added, turning his attention back to the window.

  “Long enough to know the maid is your mother, which means you should know who our guest is,” she answered with an arched eyebrow.