The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  Blushing furiously, Abby averted her gaze while trying valiantly not to think of what he might or might not be wearing beneath those bedclothes. Still, there was no denying his masculine beauty. With his chiseled features and perfectly sculpted form, he reminded her of the statues she’d seen in the books she wasn’t supposed to look at.

  Of course, he was physically without flaw, she thought somewhat bitterly. What had she expected? That he would suddenly develop a hunchback that would render him undesirable? Stifling an irritated sigh, she moved forward into the room. It was time to meet her fate.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Good evening, wife,” he replied. His tone was low and intimate, his deep voice rumbling in the silence of the room; each word was like a caress, and his knowing glance was a weight on her.

  She stepped deeper into the room, her hands shaking as she closed the door behind her. She could only hope that he wouldn’t notice. As it was, she could feel his gaze traveling over her, no doubt taking note of the fact that she was still fully clothed.

  “Won't you join me?” The question was asked innocently enough, or as innocently as a man like her husband could manage.

  Turning back toward the bed on a deep breath, she was once again taken aback by his naked torso. A thought crept into her mind, a very disturbing one. “What are you wearing?”

  “Not a thing… If you prefer, I can come to you,” he said and began lifting the covers.

  “No!” she said hastily and moved toward the bed. “But do not think for one minute that I will be climbing beneath the bedclothes with you.”

  He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “I’ll just have to do my very best to sway you.”

  Uncertain of how to proceed and feeling incredibly awkward about the entire ordeal, Abby sat down on the bed, and then reclined against the pillows. She kept her hands folded neatly in front of her, as if she’d been laid out in her coffin. She was so prim and restrained, not even her elbow touched him. Her lips were pinched into a thin, grim line, and her jaw was set with stubborn determination.

  Michael turned onto his side, the bedclothes dipping dangerously low over his lean hips. He trailed the tips of his fingers over the backs of her clenched hands and her forearms. “I’ve married an angry corpse,” he said

  She turned her head, glancing at the clock, and then back at him. Her lips were compressed into a thin line as she said grimly, “You have eight minutes, my lord.”

  Michael chuckled. She looked as if she was going to the gallows. He was still smiling when he kissed the stubborn curve her jaw and when he dipped his head to lick the delicate shell of her ear. By the time he closed his teeth gently on her earlobe, the smile had faded and was replaced with determination.

  He wasn’t so arrogant that he wouldn’t acknowledge the very real chance he might not succeed in seducing his new bride. Never had he encountered a woman with such remarkable pride and fortitude. For that matter, he'd never met a woman so resistant to the idea of being seduced by him. It dawned on Michael that he was perhaps a bit spoiled to the fairer sex succumbing easily to his charms. Was he indeed capable of seducing a woman who wasn't already eager for seduction? It was a lowering thought.

  It wasn't all pride and reluctance; he rationalized. Fear was certainly playing a part in her resistance. No fear was greater than the fear of the unknown; the intimacies of married life were notoriously shielded from young women, ofttimes much to their detriment. Coupled with the fact that the men in her life had, to date, been either grossly irresponsible or lecherous oafs, she had little enough reason to trust his intentions. With those doubts plaguing him, taunting him with the knowledge that he might not succeed, he set himself to the task of introducing her to desire.

  He made a careful study of her, noting the pinkness of her cheeks, the slight hitching of her breath. Yes, she was reluctant, but she was far from unaffected. With determination, Michael employed all of his considerable skill in the very enjoyable task of seducing his wife.

  Each touch, each caress was intended to awaken her passions. His mouth on her neck, the scrape of his teeth, the rough glide of a whiskered cheek over delicate skin—all were alien sensations to her. Every surprised gasp that softened into a sigh, every tensing of her muscles that gave way to languorous relaxation spurred him on. It wasn’t until he felt her shiver that he claimed her mouth. His tongue slipped boldly inside, tangling with hers, sliding sensually between her lips, mimicking the act that he hoped would follow.

  He could feel some of the tension draining from her, but her hands remained clasped together. He gently pried them apart and placed her arms around his neck, bringing them closer together. Her palms flattened on his shoulders, her breasts crushed against his chest. The reduced distance between them allowed him to deepen the kiss further.

  He threaded his fingers into her hair, loosening pins and pulling the ropes of braids free as he angled her head to take her mouth more fully. She moaned, and he knew it to be a sound of pleasure.

  Inspiration struck him as he imagined that the weight of her hair had to bring some discomfort. With his hands buried in the silken strands, he began to gently massage her scalp and the back of her neck. Any remaining tension in her body fled as she became boneless and pliant in his arms. Her guard was down, and he seized the opportunity to increase the level of intimacy. He closed his hand over her breast, kneading gently, lifting the generous globe and teasing the nipple until it pebbled beneath his questing fingers. He treated the other breast to the same tantalizing touch, before tugging the bodice down and baring her to his gaze.

  Abby started at the unexpected rush of cool air on her naked breasts. She didn’t even know how they had gotten to that point. She only knew that she felt languid, her body warming from the inside out. The tension that had settled in her neck and shoulders had migrated to a place deep inside her. Her body was coiled tightly, waiting for something. Menace. He was truly a menace; she thought. Those words were becoming a near constant refrain for her.

  She wasn’t entirely ignorant of the process. Having grown up in the countryside, it was impossible not to understand the mating process. Living with Lavinia, even for the short time that she had, had provided quite the education, as well. She knew the words, even if she didn’t know precisely how it all worked in practice.

  Nervous, because he had managed to rattle her so already, she glanced at the clock. Two minutes. He’d left her mindless and half naked in only two minutes, which meant he had six more to go. Was she as wanton as her stepsister after all? Her mother had always cautioned her against passion, but then her own father had turned away from his wife and sought out another. Perhaps her mother hadn't been the most reliable source of information.

  Michael turned her face away from the clock, kissed her again, before dipping his head to take one tightly furled nipple into his mouth. The sensation was too intense for her to remain silent and a soft whimper escaped her lips. Her resolve to resist him wavered more with each passing second as the damp heat of his mouth ignited a fire in her. She could feel moisture at the juncture of her thighs, the ratcheting of the tension inside her and her mind fogged again, falling prey to his sensual onslaught. She was under siege and losing ground rapidly.

  Abby felt the overwhelming urge to move her hips, to press herself against the hardness of his thigh, but she didn’t. She forced herself to remain still, to be as passive a participant as possible. It was the only way she would walk out of that room tonight without giving up more of her pride than she was willing to, and other things, she thought grimly. Another glance at the clock and she nearly wept. Four minutes in, and an eternity to go.

  Abby steeled herself against her own traitorous urges. It wasn't simply the heat and the coiling need. Even innocent as she was, she could acknowledge the true nature of her feelings. It was also curiosity, a little voice whispered in her mind, beguiling her. If ever a man could show her the nature of desire, it was Michael. But did she truly want tha
t? Her mother had not been a passionate woman, but she'd loved Abby's father. His infidelity had broken her heart. Michael would never be a faithful husband, too handsome and far too used to the attention of other women, how long before he strayed? She needed to guard her heart, and that meant guarding her body, as well.

  She was not as passive in the experience as she wanted to be. He touched her, and her body strained toward him. Blood rushed in her veins, flowing hotter and thicker beneath every sweep of his hand. He made her burn and no matter how much she resisted, they both knew it.

  Clenching her fists at her sides, Abby ignored the yearning, the ache building inside her. She forced herself to lie there, accepting his attentions, but never returning them, never assuaging her curiosity about the silken texture of his skin, the firmness of muscle or the heat that emanated from him.

  Michael felt the slight withdrawal. He knew, at some point, her infernal brain had begun to work again telling her the million and one reasons that existed for her to deny him. He reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it until he could see her stocking clad legs. Her legs were long and shapely, her rounded thighs tapering to firm calves and narrow ankles. He reached down and removed her shoes, before drawing her knees up. He lifted her right leg gently, drawing it up until he could clasp her foot in his hand. With the pad of his thumb, he stroked firmly from the arch of her foot up to her toes and back. He massaged her foot with firm but gentle pressure, all the while he played at the bounty of her breasts with his lips and tongue.

  Her breathing became progressively more labored. Whether she relented or not, he knew that she craved him, even if her reason bid her to deny him. A small, doubting part of him thought that might have to be enough to sustain him. He moved his hand from her foot to her ankle, still using soft, gentle strokes.

  Gradually, he worked his way up her calf and then her thigh. His own breathing had become ragged by then. His erection had progressed to the point of agony. He was so hard that he ached and the lush, silken heat of her body called to him. He longed to sink into her, to ease them both, in the same way that he longed for breath—it was simply necessary for his survival. As his hand brushed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, she placed her hand over his, halting his progress.

  “Your eight minutes have run out,” she said. Her voice trembled slightly, and there was a breathlessness to it that only added to his misery.

  “You’re really going to stop now?” he asked, incredulous. While he’d acknowledged the possibility that it might happen, he couldn’t quite grasp the reality of it. Of course, the truth of how little blood was actually flowing to his addled brain was undeniable. Thinking was not a priority at the moment. He knew that she wanted him that she had enjoyed every touch.

  “Yes, I really am,” she said, and extricated herself from his arms. That her knees trembled slightly as she rose did not offer any appeasement for the agony of desire she'd left him in.

  “Good night, my lord,” she said, moving towards the door without sparing him a backward glance.

  In his bed, his body aching and needy; Michael stared at the door in utter dismay. The possibility of it had existed for him, but the reality was unfathomable. She had truly walked away. It should have hurt his pride or at the very least nicked his ego, but he was still too dumbfounded to process it fully.

  Angry, frustrated, and randier than an adolescent boy, he glared at the clock on the bedside table before hurling it across the room. Though it smashed against the hearth, the destruction did nothing to ease his misery. There was only one thing to do. Like any untried youth, he faced the less than satisfying prospect of seeing to his own sexual satisfaction.

  He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, his body on fire and his mind numb. A line from the Merchant of Venice entered his mind then, ‘Lovers ever run before the clock’. It was shockingly apropos considering that his wedding night, depending upon perspective, could be considered both comic and tragic.

  Chapter Seven

  The following morning, Michael was still in a foul mood. That his new wife appeared quite chipper as she went about her daily chores only aggravated him further. When he saw her carrying clothes down to wash, his temper got the better of him. “We have servants for that!” he snapped.

  Abby glanced over her shoulder at him, “We do not, my lord.”

  “Michael,” he corrected through clenched teeth, “And we bloody well do. Mrs. Wolcot is one of them.”

  “Mrs. Wolcot is our housekeeper, and she has been with the family for ages. She has also not been paid in ages. She only remained at Blagdon Hall because she has no other family to go to! Also, because Lord Allerton refused to provide a reference for her to go elsewhere,” Abby explained, her tone patient, as if speaking to a child, or perhaps a simpleton. “I won't even mention the fact that she's at least a score beyond our combined ages, and should not be toting baskets of clothes larger than she is!”

  “You have just mentioned it!” His tone was biting. “Her wages have been paid by me…And I will see that she receives the back wages as well, now that I am aware they are owed to her. Now, you are a viscountess and not a bloody laundress! I will not have you carting clothes back and forth to the wash.”

  Abby smiled at him the same way one would smile at a petulant, but still adorable child. “That is all well and good, my lor—Michael. But you cannot hire people from the village. They will not work at the hall as most of them are petrified of our resident spirit… and as your valet has not yet arrived with all your belongings, the wash will not wait until you can obtain someone from an agency in London. So, in short, this particular viscountess will also be your laundress, at least for today.”

  He watched her sail from the room, unaffected by his protests and every societal edict she was violating. The basket of dirty clothes balanced against her hip and the door banged shut behind her. He swore violently, if Allerton weren’t already dead, he would have called the blackguard out. There was no excuse for having left her to eke out such a mean existence. She should have been given a season in London, along with a dowry and the opportunity to have the genteel life that was due her by virtue of her station. Instead, she’d been subsisting in a rundown hovel of a ramshackle keep on a pauper’s portion.

  The front door opened behind him, and he heard a feminine voice calling out a greeting from the great hall. He turned and headed in that direction, only to find himself face to face with Lady Whitby. His morning had just gone from bad to worse.

  Lavinia smiled warmly at him, looking rather like a crocodile just before it snapped up its prey. “Good morning, Lord Ellersleigh, my new brother in law! How exciting to have my dear stepsister married at last.”

  More disturbed by her abrupt about face regarding their marriage than her presence, Michael raised an eyebrow, “Your excitement appears to be a recent development and quite a departure from your attitude the night of our engagement.”

  Lavinia laughed, a musical sound that was, nonetheless, chilling. “Well, of course, I was less than thrilled that night, my lord. I was quite overset by the horrible circumstances… Poor, dear Allerton! What a pity that was!” She moved closer to him, laid her hand on his arm and gazed up at him with an expression that contained more sincerity than she was capable of feeling. “Surely, you can see that my reception of the news was marred by my shock at discovering him so,” she dabbed at her eyes, though no tears were visible.. “I just couldn't bear it if my awful behavior forever marred our little family! You must understand, surely? ”

  ”What must we understand?”

  Michael turned to see Abby walking in from the kitchen. Her face was flushed as if she’d hurried in from outside. Her question had been posed in a serene voice, but there was murder in her eyes. Perhaps she was feeling protective, he thought, considering that sharing a room with Lavinia was like walking into a darkened pit filled with vipers. The strikes would come, but who knew from where?

  “Your sister was just correcting me
on a misunderstanding,” he said, his tone light and yet infused with sarcasm. “It appears she is quite pleased about our marriage, and that her reaction, only three short days ago, was prompted by her shock over Lord Allerton’s untimely death.”

  Abby met Lavinia’s gaze with a direct one of her own; one eyebrow arched imperiously. “I was under the impression it had more to do with the fact that she had attempted to seduce you and failed miserably.”

  Lavinia’s lips firmed into a hard line as she took a step back. With that small retreat, she stood directly in a shaft of light pouring through one of Blagdon's dusty windows. The sun, coupled with her harsh expression, revealed some of the damage from her dissolute lifestyle. She was still a beauty, but it was glaringly apparent that she would not hold that title for much longer.

  “Always so judgmental, Abigail,” Lavinia accused softly.“But if you insist, then the answer is no, I am not pleased with the situation. In part because I had made other plans for Lord Ellersleigh, but also because of the scandal. There is no need to air our family differences for public consumption.”

  Abby turned to Michael, whose response was his familiar shrug. “What did you have in mind, Lavinia?”

  With a smirk, Lavinia explained, “We’re having another house party. Not our normal sort, mind you. We’ll save those entertainments for later. No, we’ll be having a formal house party with very respectable guests. Naturally, living as close as you do, you need not stay for the entirety of the party, but certainly coming for a few days should shelve most of the gossip.”

  Michael didn't wait for Abigail to respond. He knew, unequivocally that she would refuse. But if he wanted to get to the bottom of the torch lit, midnight gatherings in the woods, then getting back into Wilhaven was a necessary evil. “We will attend,” Michael said. Instantly, he felt Abigail's censorious gaze settle upon him. Ignoring her chilling glare, he continued with an admonishment, “But, if there is even a hint of impropriety, you will rue the day you hatched any such scheme.”