Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  Bess rushed with Robby and bent to touch the earl’s face. He looked up at her and whispered, “My love, something in … the drink.”

  “Yes, yes, we know.” She turned to Donna and said, “Have a servant bring him coffee, Donna, please.”

  Holland released a roar and had started for Bess with the obvious intention of doing her harm when Robby stepped in and pushed him so hard he toppled over furniture on his way to the oriental carpet.

  The earl grinned and said, “Thank. Ye. Been. Wanting. To. Do that.”

  “Hush, my love, hush,” she said and laid her head on his chest.

  The earl looked at Saunders and managed to murmur, “Permission …” as he made a ring sign over his finger.

  “Indeed,” Bess’s father said jovially, as though they were at a private party. “I have been ready to give you permission to marry my daughter from the first moment you looked at one another. The two of you reminded me of her mother and myself just before I realized I couldn’t live without her.”

  Bess and Donna both started to cry and laugh and cry and laugh as Robby said bluntly, “Let’s get this damned business over with so that we can go home and get something to eat!”

  Epilogue

  WHISPERS AND GOSSIP were abhorrent to both the earl and Bess’s father. Bess thought that they should beat Holland to a pulp and then throw him to the sharks, but the earl had laughed and told his love that he had something far worse in mind.

  And in fact, that very night Bernard Holland suffered the fate he’d meant for the earl. The earl had the minister, Mr. Stokes, marry Holland to Sally Sonhurst with the special license she had obtained. Dunkirk gave them a choice: prison or marriage. Holland rather thought they were much the same.

  When Sally balked, Bess’s father advised her that her marriage and a trip to visit her family’s plantation in the islands were just what she needed. He was very clear and very hard. She had no doubt that he would at the very least ruin her if she did not comply.

  Holland did not overly object. Marrying Sally Sonhurst would remove his financial woes, and, after all, they had no need to spend any time with one another once the deed was done.

  Thus, they were married and, a week later, accompanied by Saunders and the earl to a ship leaving for Barbados. What Holland couldn’t know but the earl immediately suspected from something Sally let slip was that she was planning to be a widow once more and in the very near future. So be it—they deserved one another, though he rather thought Sally would not have as easy a time becoming a widow with Holland as her husband.

  The next month was spent in preparations, as Bess’s father wanted a posting of the banns and time enough to plan a lovely wedding at their country home for his daughter and the earl.

  Bess made a beautiful bride, and as the earl watched her walk towards him, with Donna holding her train, he thought his heart would burst with the emotion he felt.

  In that moment he wondered if he had the right to so much bliss. How had he found her, his lass? He dinna know the answer to that, but he was bloody well sure he would make his bride happy all the rest of their days.

  He started working on that by taking her to Venice for their honeymoon.

  Their gondola cut through the mill pond water, passing under the lights of ancient villas and laughing party goers, and he squeezed Bess back against his chest.

  A blanket covered her legs, but she shivered as she pulled away just a bit and regarded him with a rush of feeling.

  He whispered, “Are ye cold, lass?”

  “No, hot, lad, hot,” she said saucily.

  “Och then, shall I take ye right off this thing they call a boat and up to our room?” He grinned wickedly into her eyes, those green eyes he loved so much, and then she turned and snuggled back against him.

  “No, this is so lovely,” she said contentedly.

  They cuddled in the gondola while one man steered and the other played a violin. It was everything any couple in love could dream of, and he wondered at the coincidences that had brought him to this point. Or was it fate? And did it matter? Because whichever it was, he was thankful.

  “I promise ye, lass, I promise ye I will never let ye down,” he said vehemently all at once.

  She looked around at him. “Och, but I know that, lad, for if ye do, ’twill be the devil to pay.” The tease was in her eyes as well as her voice, and then she brought him to his knees as she always did when she uttered the words, “I love you, John of Dunkirk.”

  His heart shot rockets into his brain, and he crushed her to him as his mouth took hers, and he breathed fire and hoarsely told her, “I love, adore, and worship ye, Bess of Dunkirk.”

  After the love of her life is taken from her at Waterloo, Jenny is sure that joy and love are lost to her forever. But life has more in store for Jenny,

  After the Storm

  Prologue

  THE WIND, NO longer warm from the rays of the sun, bit at her face, causing her to blink. Long, chestnut-colored hair whipped around her slender neck and her lashes. She put one ungloved, delicate hand up and brushed the thick strands away from her face as she stopped her determined steps.

  Desolate eyes stared at the tall oak—their oak. They had carved their initials there when they had a future, when they had hope.

  “Johnny,” she whispered. “Oh, my Johnny.” Finality infiltrated her tone and resignation the slope of her shoulders. Anguish tempered by time swept through her body as she dropped to her knees, heedless of the damp grass.

  A year had passed—one entire year since the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, since the last time she had kissed his lips, seen his face—one year since Waterloo.

  A sick sensation swept over her when she tried to recall his face, that wondrous, boyishly handsome face as he stood before her that awful night.

  They went, all of them, almost merrily to Waterloo. Even then—with those dreadful drums beating throughout Brussels—even then, they looked as though they were off to a parade.

  Jenny remembered the sound of those drums, calling their men to arms. The officers attending the Duchess of Richmond’s ball had left hurriedly, some actually going off to battle in their ball attire, and Johnny, her Johnny had been among them.

  Exploding cannons—the sound filled the atmosphere, as the beau monde breathlessly awaited the outcome. So many of her friends, so many of the English gentry were there in Brussels that spring.

  Napoleon had escaped, gathered his army, and begun to march. The Duke of Wellington, their hero, went off to meet him. The English believed Wellington would win the encounter with the Frenchman and were there to witness it.

  No one had anticipated the amount of blood it would take to fulfill their expectation. Thus it happened on June 18, 1815, that Wellington met Boney at Waterloo, and her John was lost forever.

  Mac had been there. He had lived, and while she searched for Johnny, Mac found her. Lieutenant William McMillan had taken hold of her shoulders, and when she saw his distorted features she backed up from him screaming. She wasn’t sure anymore what she had screamed.

  “Jen, Johnny’s last words to me were of you. He said he loves you and that you have to move on …”

  Jenny thought she could no longer cry and was surprised at the tear that made its way down her cheek. She closed her eyes. She had come to their tree to say good-bye, but could she? She didn’t feel ready. “Haunt me, Johnny, come to me as a ghost,” she hugged herself and prayed. “Stay with me forever.”

  Her father and aunt had hurried her home to Devon, and even for their sakes it had been so very difficult not to fall into a decline. For weeks all she wanted to do was go to sleep and not wake up.

  Her father had coaxed her outside by telling her the horses she loved needed attention. And that had worked to get her out a bit. Slowly, albeit listlessly, she began to eat, talk, walk, but she felt as though all joy in life had been snatched away.

  She got to her feet and touched the tree before turning towards home. She loved
the quiet solitude of her beloved Devon landscape. It was like a tonic that soothed her. Johnny had never quite been at home in the country. He was too restless.

  She crossed the open field with slow, long strides and felt the overgrown grass brush against the thin material of her stockings at her ankles and calves. The day had been touched with scudding clouds, and they hovered with the tease of rain.

  It was still mid-afternoon, and yet, because of the overcast sky, it appeared later. Jenny’s gaze swept upwards, and she made the decision to take the shortcut across Farmer Cubbins’ field. She reached the roadside fence, picked up her skirts, climbed nimbly up, sat on the aged wood stocks, and then pushed herself forward onto the country dirt road.

  She had been so engrossed with getting her skirts past the splintered rail and her feet over the ditch that lined the road that she hadn’t noticed the rider coming around the bend.

  Her sudden descent onto the road caused the horse to rear and champ at his bit. This startled Jenny, and before she knew what had happened, she had released a screech, stepped forcefully backward, and landed herself in the very ditch she had tried to avoid.

  ~ One ~

  A LOW, STRONG MALE voice cursed beneath his breath as Jenny tried to recoup and get to her feet.

  As she pressed her hands into the earth and tried to straighten, she heard him dismount and within an instant felt herself pulled up into a standing position, though she wasn’t sure her shoes were touching the earth.

  A pair of startlingly blue eyes glared angrily down into her own, and the voice said in a tone that made her open her eyes wide, “Well, well, at least it’s a pretty wench that’s detained me.”

  He sounded as though he were some huge giant about to eat her, and without another word, and before she realized what he was doing, that was what he did.

  Jenny found herself being ruthlessly kissed! In that moment, with this stranger’s lips on hers, she was almost too shocked to react, but she was just a bit aware of a tingling sensation that journeyed through her body.

  At length her mind returned to her and she made an effort to resist by putting her hands to his chest and pushing hard. This, however, did not budge him. He seemed to hold her in a vice-like grip. She should have been afraid but was too astonished to consider that.

  She was, however, furious at his daring, and when he put his head back to look at her and laugh, she felt something of her old self return. The old, vibrant Jenny would never stand for such treatment!

  As he got into position, obviously meaning to kiss her again, she reacted and, feeling both outrage and anger, formulated a quick plan.

  She immediately relaxed in his arms and allowed the scoundrel to believe he had conquered her. As she expected, his grip eased up.

  Jenny had just enough time to bring her booted foot into position and then thrust it hard and forcefully into his shin.

  She felt a great deal of satisfaction as he cried out in pain and paused only briefly to wag her finger and tell him, “Fie, sir—fie!” Then she ran. She held her skirts in hand and put the road behind her as fast as she could, only stopping when she sighted the green lawns of her home, Ashley Grange.

  Once on her own estate, she leaned up against a tree and, breathing hard, hurriedly glanced behind her. Thanking providence her assailant had not deemed it worth his trouble to pursue, she sucked in a long, delicious breath of air and then proceeded to the house. Oddly enough, her anger abated and just a touch of amusement tickled her senses as she thought of the way he’d reached for his injured leg. Ha, served him right.

  Enjoy a sneak preview of

  Netherby Halls

  A young woman just coming into her powers as a white witch, hidden evil in a school for high-born orphan girls, a dashing marquis with a hidden agenda of his own.

  ~ Prologue ~

  Sutton Village, England

  1815

  SASSY WALKED THE short distance from the livery, where’d she left her cob horse and curricle, and made her way to the curio shop that also served as their village book shop. It was a busy time of the morning, nearly lunch, and the wide avenue was bustling with people, horse-drawn wagons, and quite an impressive number of carriages of all sizes, ages, and styles for their quaint village.

  The dust they kicked up didn’t do her well-worn blue cloak any good. With a grimace, she brushed and shook off some of the offending dirt as she made her way to the lead-paned window of Mrs. Plummet’s Curio Shop and stepped beneath the awning.

  A little bell announced her arrival, and the tall, buxom woman Sassy had known forever looked up from the counter where she was arranging a stack of the new and latest novel that had only just come in. The woman smiled and welcomed Sassy. “Hallo, m’dear, and how is the vicar today?”

  Pushing a stray hair away from her ear, Sassy adjusted her chip hat and sighed as she gave Mrs. Plummet a warm smile. “Papa is cranky today, I am afraid. He shooed me off and told me to come into town and purchase a book to keep me busy. He says I am always fussing about him, and he won’t have it.”

  Mrs. Plummet laughed and said, “Good then, Sassy love. If he is feeling feisty, perhaps we will have a small miracle and he will take a turn for the better.”

  Sassy almost released her pent-up emotions but fought back the urge to dive into Mrs. Plummet’s arms and cry. She held herself in check and unconsciously rubbed the ring on her right hand beneath her glove.

  She couldn’t very well tell Mrs. Plummet about the guilt she carried because, once again, she felt useless. She hadn’t been able to save her mother two years ago when she had suddenly fallen ill and died within a week. What good was the power if she couldn’t rid the ones she loved of disease?

  Now, her father was not getting any better, and not all the tisanes in the world were helping. Not even those her mother had taught her to concoct had worked to do more than ease his discomfort.

  She picked up the latest novel by an author whose name she did not recognize and looked it over. “What do you think?”

  “I started reading it last evening. It was very … absorbing.”

  “Right then, I’ll give it a try.” Sassy fished in her knit purse for a coin. She shouldn’t be wasting her father’s money on a book, but he had insisted and she didn’t want him to worry about her. It was all he talked about these last few days—her future.

  She knew she was going to lose him, and her heart was being ripped to shreds at the thought. How could she do without him and his guidance, especially now?

  When her mother had passed, Sassy had been left to carry the burden of what she was alone, except for her father. He had kept her secret, even as he had her mother’s. Now that she had reached her majority, she was experiencing the ‘transition’; without her mother to advise her, only her father could help her.

  She should, of course, be able to turn to her mother’s family, but they had disowned their only daughter when she’d defied them to marry a poor young man of the cloth. No, Sassy would get no guidance from them, although like her they had the ‘power’.

  She set these disturbing thoughts aside as she took up the package Mrs. Plummet handed her and made her way outdoors.

  Before crossing the avenue, she meandered down the walkway, stopping to look in the window of the village dress shop. It was still there—a gown that had caught her eye the week before. It was breathtaking. Yellow and in the fashionable A-line, low cut, trimmed with Belgium lace, and much too expensive for her. She sighed as she turned away from it.

  Her own ensemble beneath the aged cloak, though once a pretty shade of blue, was becoming threadbare. She hadn’t thought much about refurbishing her wardrobe in the last two years. She had been devastated at her mother’s death, and then this year, while her father’s health dwindled, socializing had been out of the question.

  The sound of laughter across the street caught her attention, and she glanced in the direction of the hearty noise.

  Two men stood at the curbing at the edge of the avenue
, but only one of them stood out. It was as though the atmosphere around him glowed, and her heart actually skipped a beat and then made up for the offense by beating faster.

  His beaver-skin top hat was set saucily on his head of black silky hair. His black cloak had been rakishly thrown back over one shoulder, revealing not only the cream silk lining but the breadth of his obviously muscular chest.

  As Sassy’s gaze traveled up to his face, unconsciously a small breath of air left her lungs, swished up her throat, and escaped in an audible gasp.

  He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, but more than that, he was the man who had been making passionate love to her in her dreams!

  This was madness. This was … Before she could complete the thought, it happened. Only this time it was different. This time he was right there. He was nearby—the man of her dreams was standing only thirty feet away.

  His blue eyes had suddenly locked with hers, and all at once she felt herself transported to another place.

  It was a bedroom—and she recognized the bedroom, for she had been there many times in her dreams. It was as though she were in a theater shamelessly watching herself, watching him—watching, experiencing things she had no physical knowledge of.

  She was a virgin, and yet in her dream she had been his intimately many times. Now, with him so near, she saw herself naked and lying across dark, smooth sheets.

  He was bending towards her, his blue eyes glittering, his black, silky hair falling across and touching her breasts as he licked her nipple and then suckled there with expertise that sent her body into a convulsion of pleasure. His fingers moved over her flesh, and she could feel herself clench with desire as he touched—