Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  Suddenly their eyes met, and Bess saw a look of male appreciation in his. She knew that look. She had had quite an education during her first Season on the London scene.

  His look filled her with anticipation, and this feeling spread through her with a sense of wild abandon. However, she was immediately deflated when he looked away from her to respond to something a new arrival, Annabelle Wilkes, had said to him. The older woman had just arrived alone, and Bess hesitated on the next step as she watched him politely hand Annabelle off to the Huxleys, who were on their way to the ballroom.

  Bess managed the last of the steps, unable to look his way lest he look back at her and see her doing so. No wonder, she thought, he must think her too young to take seriously—she was certainly feeling and must be therefore acting like an absurd girl instead of a sophisticated woman.

  The next thing she knew, he had somehow managed to span the distance across the central hall and arrive at the foot of the staircase to take her fingers lightly in his hand in greeting.

  His smile held and mesmerized her. His blue eyes glittered and made her heart flutter, and his voice stroked her when he said, “Ye look ravishing, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Bess, please. I have grown quite used to my nickname over the years and find that I prefer it … and thank you.” She openly looked him over with a twinkle in her eyes, knowing she was being absolutely outrageous. “So do you.”

  He nearly snorted with his amusement but restrained himself so that he could instead gently kiss her fingers. His eyes were alight as he came up to answer, “Ye are very generous, lass. Ravishing, am I? And so I wish I could be, so long as it pleased ye.”

  She took away her hand.

  Stunned. She felt stunned by everything he said—everything he did. This was the man she had been waiting for. Here was that knight riding across the battlefield to scoop her up and take her away. She loved the way his blonde hair fell around and framed his handsome face. She loved his cavalier, even presumptuous style, but she had to get control of herself. She had on this meeting already gone a bit too far.

  He obviously felt her withdrawal and seemed to find it amusing. He probably found her amusing, as one often found children amusing. Her pride kicked in and made her want to put up her chin and saunter off. She had been right to believe he was merely dallying with a child. He was simply amusing himself in the moment, nothing more.

  He said, “Lady Bess, then. ’Tis pretty enough, ye know, but I fear I doona like it as much as I like the name Elizabeth. I think I shall call ye Elizabeth.”

  She wrinkled her nose and looked up at him. “Oh, please do not—I would not like that at all.”

  He looked surprised. “Such vehemence, lass? Why not, then?”

  She sighed and avoided his blue, inquiring eyes. “You will think it silly.”

  “Will I? I doona think so. Nothing could be silly coming from yer lips.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “You are teasing me, and I am not fooled. I know you think me no more than a schoolgirl,” she said with a rueful shake of her head.

  He laughed out loud and touched her elbow to stop her from walking any further towards the drawing room, and she was forced to look askance up at him as he said, “How should I think ye such a thing, when any dolt can see ye be a woman fully grown. In fact, I think someone told me ye just turned twenty.” He shook his head. “Nearly an old maid then.”

  She giggled and wagged a finger in mock rebuke. “An old maid, indeed, my lord.” She then eyed him and asked, “Did someone suggest such an awful thing? Old maid, humph.”

  “Aye, for a certain. Mrs. Huxley gave it as her considered opinion that any young woman past the age of twenty would find it difficult to make a match,” he answered promptly. “Only this afternoon, she told me ye were out an entire season, and though ye had offers a plenty, ye took to none. Said if ye weren’t careful ye would end an old maid as ye had just turned twenty.”

  Bess laughed and then grimaced at him teasingly. “Why were you even talking about me?”

  “Aye then, as we were all planning to coom here for dinner tonight, yer name very naturally came up,” he said.

  “To what end? To call me an ‘old maid’? That does not fadge.”

  He chuckled. “As it happened, lass, I asked aboot ye. I wanted to know how it was such a beauty as yerself had not yet been snapped up.”

  She felt her cheeks get hot and cast him a quick glance. “You are quizzing me.”

  “Aboot what?” He looked surprised.

  “That you should call me a beauty after what you must be used to,” she answered easily.

  “M’lovely Lady Bess, ye canna be unaware of yer looks? I am no offering ye a piece of flattery, mark me on that.” He had an easy smile and gave it to her as though reassurance of his words before he asked, “So, tell me, how is it ye aren’t engaged yet?”

  “Why not ask Mrs. Huxley that question,” she said with a tease in her voice, “the next time you two choose to gossip about me?”

  “I already did, and she directed me to ask ye,” he said easily.

  Bess laughed. “Well, I should think the answer rather obvious. I was not in love with any of my very fine suitors. I do not wish to marry for convenience.” She felt herself blush, as she didn’t know this man well enough to discuss such a private matter.

  He surprised her further by asking softly, “And what of Fleetwood? Ye two seemed destined,” he said and smiled encouragingly at her. “Ye look shocked, lass. But ye must realize that the two of ye seem much in accord with one another.”

  She was shocked, shocked at his daring to pose such an intimate question. All at once, though, friends surrounded them, allowing no opportunity to respond to his provocative remark.

  Donna arrived with Robby in tow, but she sent him off. She then nudged Bess and stepped back to twirl for her and asked, “What do you think? Is not this gown lovely? You didn’t think the color would suit me, but it does, doesn’t it?”

  Bess bit her bottom lip and agreed, “Indeed, Donna, I was wrong, and this shade of brown and gold suits you quite well. I suppose I thought it a bit daring, but then you are married and may do so.” It was too late to do anything about it. Donna had insisted on buying this gown, and the truth was she was too large a woman for its busy print. Reaching up and touching her dangling auburn curl, Bess said, “I like your hair tonight. The style makes you look like a Greek goddess.”

  “As soon as you are wed, you can wear a daring gown like this!” Donna teased.

  “Ah, but perhaps I need something more daring than I have to catch the interest of the man I wish to wed,” said Bess archly.

  “Oh, no, Bessy, what are you saying? Get that Scotsman out of your head. He is not for you. He is an outrageous flirt, and I see he has already caught your interest far too much. This will not do. Robby says he is a confirmed bachelor and if he marries anyone, it will be that wretched woman, Lady Sonhurst.”

  “Hmmm, I was forgetting the Lady Sonhurst,” Bess said thoughtfully and glanced towards Dunkirk. Just at that moment, he looked her way, and their eyes met. She felt her heart shaken loose from her chest as it broke free and flew across the room into his hands. Whatever was wrong with her? She had to get control. This was absurd.

  Sir George Fleetwood arrived at that moment. He had dressed, it appeared to Bess, with more concern than usual. He wore a dark blue cutaway that fitted his tall and lanky self quite nicely. His brown hair was combed in the windswept style, and his hazel eyes came to life as he found hers and called her name, even as he put away the distance between them in long, hard strides.

  She and ‘Fleet’, as she had always called him, stood on no ceremony whatsoever. He arrived before her, took her hands, and held her away to say, “Stunning little pet!”

  Donna rapped his arm and did a twirl for him. “What do you think of my gown?”

  He eyed her. “Too busy, and brown even with the gold makes you look like a dowager. And I don’t like the fandangles a
t the shoulders—makes you look absurd.”

  “Oh,” said Donna, touching the beaded short sleeves of her gown, “I loved the beads.”

  “Do not pay him any mind. He is a man—what does he know about high fashion?” Bess said and laughed.

  Sir George didn’t reply to this, and in fact, Bess doubted that he had even listened to it. He was already off and heading for her father. She shook her head and said to her friend, “He seems rattled tonight. I wonder why.”

  “He always seems rattled,” Donna said and laughed.

  They were both whisked away by other guests, and it was a few moments before Bess made her way back towards her friend. She looked at Fleet for a long moment. Why had the earl thought that she and Fleet were anything other than friends? It was silly. True, he, along with Robby and Donna, had been neighbors and friends since childhood, and when Robby and Donna had paired off, Fleet had sometimes accompanied Bess to local events. And Fleet was very dear, but she had never thought of him in a romantic fashion. He was not much more than a boy, while Dunkirk … oh, he was a man.

  However, when she gave herself to someone, she wanted that someone to be a man who wanted to give himself completely to her. She didn’t see Dunkirk as that sort. Thus, she was in a quandary. Perhaps Donna was right and she had better just forget him while she still could?

  It was at this precise moment that she glanced towards Dunkirk and he turned to once more lock his gaze with hers in a look that sent heat rushing through her body. She was more than attracted by this big, handsome man. She knew all about such things, for she and Donna had discussed the subject of lovemaking and what it entailed. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what she was feeling, and it was saucy—very, very saucy.

  “Bess, where are you? Come back to me,” Donna said.

  “What?” Bess turned her head.

  “I have been talking to you for a few moments, and all you do is sigh. Where are you?” She clucked. “I know where. You are daydreaming about that Scotsman. You must forget him, Bess. He is not for you.”

  “Indeed, so you keep telling me,” Bess said with uncharacteristic meekness. “I understand—I am not stupid. He is not for me.”

  “Really, you understand that?” Donna said doubtfully.

  “I dashed well do, but that won’t stop me from … er … looking,” Bess said and giggled.

  Chapter Three

  IT WAS A BRIGHT early spring morning. Dunkirk had not bothered riding the hour plus to his home last night but had put up at the local inn and was now enjoying the sweet smell of spring—and the vision of Bess as she rode her horse across the open field. His own horse pranced as he held him in check.

  Bess was an exquisite and refreshing beauty, with the delicious and enchanting lure of innocence.

  She was a rule-breaker, and he liked that.

  She rode astride in a tomboy style all her own. Her long black hair was carried by the wind, no hat hindered its silky locks, and she seemed not to have a care in the world.

  When had he ever been so carefree? He could not remember.

  She was tempting. She wore a weathered black wool riding jacket, and it fit her figure tightly, displaying the fullness of her breasts and the smallness of her waist; his breeches became instantly uncomfortable.

  Without concern about the proprieties, she wore a pair of boy’s tight-fitting breeches and dusty riding boots, and he couldn’t help but notice the alluring shape of her derriere as she lifted off her saddle and urged her horse faster.

  Heat shot through his blood, and he thought the rise in his breeches would tear through. Damn, but she was a provocative little hoyden, and besides her stunning good looks, he had found that he liked her.

  He trotted his horse towards her as she approached the fence line with ease and took it in fine form. She stopped on the other side to pat her horse and saw his approach. She waved with a smile that lit in his mind.

  He was mildly taken with her and did not believe any harm could come from a bit of dalliance with her while he was at Searington; in fact, he rather looked forward to a little flirtation. He put up his hand in answer to her welcome and said, “Ho there, lass—what a fine, morning, eh?”

  She beamed, but he could see as he got closer that her cheeks were bright red, and he smiled to himself. He knew she was embarrassed that he’d caught her riding like a scamp of a child in boys’ breeches.

  “My lord,” she said in greeting, just a bit out of breath from her run.

  Giving her no indication that he noticed her style of dress, he touched the tip of his hat and said with amiable grace, “Are ye headed back to yer Grange? I am on m’way there now to meet yer father and yer head groom—Chris Hubbard, is it?”

  She looked surprised. “Are you? Whatever for?”

  He laughed. “Nosey little miss.” He saw the sinking expression on her face and laughed again as he relented and said, “Did yer father not tell ye then? Good—I like a man who keeps his women where they belong.” He had meant this as a tease and was very amused to witness the indignation that swept over her face.

  “And where, my lord, do you think women belong?”

  “In a man’s eyes, in a man’s arms, and out of his business.” He was teasing still, as he wanted to enjoy a moment’s banter with her. However, he saw that she was a ‘knowing’ little puss and had seen right through him.

  Her green eyes twinkled at him, and she said, “Of course—where else would any woman in her right mind want to be but in a man’s eyes and in a man’s arms and out of his business!”

  He roared with amusement. “Saw right through m’bamming, eh?” His horse had fallen in step beside her mare, and he eyed her sideways. “As it happens, I am coming to have a look at that black mare yer father is so proud of. We are thinking of breeding her to m’stallion, Bold Tim.”

  “Oh my, is Bold Tim, yours? I never realized … why, I have seen him race. Faith, but he is magnificent.”

  “Aye, and to my way of thinking, if yer father is in the right of it, we could get some exceptional foals out of that mare of yers.”

  “But where do you keep him?” she asked curiously.

  “Och then, doona ye know even that? Most women would have known where I live, what I like to eat, the name of m’dog …” He chuckled as he watched her take slight offense and stiffen.

  “Of course, you being the catch of the century, I am told,” she returned a bit sharply. “I, however, am not most women.”

  She was an interesting little thing, he thought as he said, “Right then, I keep m’stud at Searington. M’mother was English, and I inherited her little estate when I lost her a couple of years ago. I’ve had Bold Tim standing at Searington for a couple of years then, even though I wasn’t here the entire time.”

  “Searington? I did not realize Searington was yours.” She seemed astonished. “Everyone has always admired the foals that come out of Searington. I think, in fact, I met your mother when I was much younger.”

  “Indeed?” For some unknown reason this pleased him. “She loved having a hand in the picking and choosing of mares to studs, and though Henry Gibbens does an excellent job here as our estate manager, she used to like to keep her ‘hands on’. M’da always brought m’mum to Searington for a month or two at a time.” He thought about his parents, gone now, and sighed.

  She touched his arm sympathetically. “I am sorry … I did not mean to …”

  “Nonsense, only good memories there—nothing to be sorry about,” he answered.

  “But Searington is famous for your mare, Lady Mirabel, amongst others—why the interest in our mare?”

  “New blood is always a good thing,” he answered softly.

  * * *

  His soft, sensual voice slipped inside her, and when he said, ‘new blood’ she wanted to purse her lips and invite him to kiss her. The smile in his blue eyes made her want to press herself against him and feel those arms of his slip around her body.

  She wasn’t completely inexperi
enced, after all. She had a Season and had allowed a few bucks a kiss or two. How else was a girl to know who she wanted, she had told herself while she experimented.

  In her early years, away at school with Donna and all their friends, they had met ‘town boys’; all the girls had dared a kiss or two in the dark with them. It had been clandestine, it had been wildly naughty, but it had been a part of growing up. That had been wayward behavior, indeed, but she wasn’t sorry for it. Her philosophy was simple. Men could kiss and move on—why not women? How else would a woman know what it was all about?

  She had overheard servants talking about men and how they wanted a lady on their arm and a tart in their bed. Well, she wanted to be both for the man of her choosing. The notion tickled her.

  She was now at twenty quite ready for more than stolen kisses. She was at that dangerous ‘yearning for more’ stage.

  She was more than curious, and her body demanded what only lovemaking could do for her—make her feel complete, take the girl and turn her into a woman. Here was just the man to take her to that stage, but he didn’t appear to be interested in getting serious, and she needed it all: the flirting, the fun, the love-making, and the marriage! She sighed because she knew she was really out of her league with the Earl of Dunkirk.

  What the devil was wrong with her? This man was a rogue, a charming rogue, and she knew, absolutely knew, he was only conducting a mild dalliance. Surely he flirted with her to pass the time and could not be in earnest. She had no doubt that flirting, for him at least, was probably no more than a hobby he had perfected. However, it didn’t matter. She was enjoying it all too much to care what his motives were.

  “Our mare is a maiden,” she said and felt the blush fill her cheeks in spite of the fact that she had put quite a bit of effort into sounding casual and sophisticated about it.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Bold Tim is quite the gentleman, skilled, experienced, and he will know just how to approach her, and unlike other stallions, he won’t hurt her when he is done,” he said on a low, seductive note.