The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  Lavinia laughed again, the sound no less chilling than before. “La, so suspicious! Guests should begin arriving within the next day or so…You will come to dinner on Friday, nearly everyone should be there by then,” she called over her shoulder, as she breezed out into the bright morning sunshine.

  Quietly fuming, Abigail waited until Lavinia had cleared the door, her elegant gown sweeping behind her as she made a grand exit. With her scheming stepsister out of sight and hopefully out of earshot, she turned on Michael. How dare he make such decisions without even consulting her?

  “I have no desire to step foot in Wilhaven ever again,” Abby said. Livid at his high-handedness, she wondered what harm would come of Lavinia's poisoned olive branch. Lavinia spread her expertly crafted misery to others with a skill and enthusiasm that was simply astounding, and yet, Michael had agreed to place them directly in her destructive path.

  Michael sighed, “I've no wish to argue about this. I need to get into Wilhaven, and this is the only opportunity we’ll have.”

  Abby eyed him suspiciously. Whatever he was about, she had a sinking feeling that she would not care for it. “Why? Why do you need to get into Wilhaven?”

  He was silent for a long moment, one in which his internal debate over what to share was plainly written upon his too-handsome face. Abby tapped her foot impatiently before finally saying, “Tell me, or I simply won't go!”

  He sighed heavily, resigned. “I can’t help but think there are no coincidences. Lord Allerton sought me out to play, and then played poorly even for him. I think your stepsister was behind it all… I think he intentionally lost Blagdon Hall to me so that you would be forced to seek sanctuary at Wilhaven. I also believe that your sister murdered him, because he was too vocal in his disappointment at having to give up the house.”

  It made a convoluted sense, and if Lavinia was anything, she was convoluted. “And you believe that can be proven by visiting Wilhaven?”

  “I think it would behoove us to keep a close watch on our enemies, especially those who pretend to be our friends. It's all conjecture at this point but until I know what Lavinia and Rupert's ultimate goal is the other pieces of the puzzle will not make sense. I don’t like not knowing what your stepsister is up to and the answers I seek are to be found at Wilhaven”

  A cold feeling of dread swept through her, it was dark and disquieting; she had the overwhelming sense of impending doom. Abby couldn’t believe she was saying it, but the words spilled out, tumbling over top of one another in her haste. “Let’s just leave. We can go to London and stay far away from Lavinia!”

  He shook his head. “No.” In a gentle tone, he added, “We can’t. It won’t be long before the gossip rags are publishing wild stories about our engagement and marriage. One will call us a love match and another will say we married to cover up my crimes, while yet a third will speculate on the premature birth of an heir. I've been the subject of enough rumors, but for you—you’ve no idea how vicious society can be, and Lavinia will never forgive you for being the more infamous sister.”

  “She won’t forgive you for rejecting her either,” Abby replied. It terrified her to think of what her sister might do. Lavinia was ruthless in ways she'd only just begun to realize. There would be no hiding from Lavinia, they would spend their lives looking over their shoulders.

  The question rose, in her mind, unbidden; it pained her to ask but forever wondering would only be worse. On a deep shuddering, exhale, she asked, “Why did you reject, Lavinia? Whatever else she is, she’s impossibly beautiful.”

  Michael glanced at Abigail then, noting the uncertainty of her expression, the vulnerability in the slight tremor of her voice. Did she not know how beautiful she was? He supposed it was possible. Abigail's brand of loveliness was more quiet than her sister's, less obvious, but all the sweeter for it. Lavinia was a classic beauty with her blonde hair and blue eyes, but her angelic appearance disguised a dark heart. “Lavinia is a beautiful woman on the surface, but she is cold inside—hard and perhaps even vicious. I’ve made it a point in my life to never bed a woman I would be afraid to turn my back on…Of course, there was also you.”

  “Me?”

  He smiled at her, just a slight quirking of his perfectly sculpted lips. “Yes, you. Whether scolding a recalcitrant feline or dodging your overly amorous brother in law, I found you far more entrancing than Lavinia could ever hope to be.”

  A derisive snort had accompanied her eye rolling before she responded. “I'm in no need of your flattery, my lord! When I asked about your rejection of Lavinia, I wasn’t fishing for empty compliments for myself.”

  Michael shrugged, the easy gesture belying the anger that burned in him—anger on her behalf. Had no one ever told her how lovely she was? Finally, he said, “I wasn’t offering them. You asked, and I answered. I only accepted her invitation to dinner because it would offer me a chance to see you. My reasons were two-fold, the first of which was guilt. I worried that I’d sent a seemingly innocent young woman into what I knew would be a den of iniquity.”

  “And your second reason?” she asked, her brows rising in disbelief.

  Michael answered with complete sincerity, his eyes never leaving her. “I couldn’t stop thinking of how lovely you are... your hair, your skin, your perfectly shaped bottom which had been so prominently displayed when first we met. You have many charming traits to recommend you, Abigail. If you'd but let me, I could demonstrate my devotion to your many lovely attributes.”

  Though his words were perfectly innocent, or at least most of them were, the hidden meaning was more than apparent. That she understood, his meaning was clear from the panic in her gaze. She stuttered a bit, as she said, “I need to help, Mrs. Wolcot.” Immediately, she began to beat a hasty retreat.

  Michael lunged forward, not willing to let her go so easily. She doubted his attraction to her, and in his somewhat self-serving viewpoint, there was only one way to disabuse her of such notions. He caught her around the waist, his arm snaking around her, hauling her back against him. His arms closed around her, pulling her close, feeling the softness and the warmth of her generously curved body pressing against him. The scent of her hair wafted seductively beneath his nose, and he inhaled deeply, savoring it.

  “I thought of you all of last night. I lay awake and thought of you,” he said, speaking low, his voice pitched seductively as he whispered the words against her ear. She shuddered in his grasp, and he smiled.

  In spite of her obvious response to his nearness, her tone was sharp when she replied. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”

  “It’s a transgression easily forgiven,” he said, his teeth scraping her earlobe gently. In spite of the abrupt end to their sensual exploration, and the frustration that had remained in its wake, the thrill of touching her, of learning her exquisite body, had been well worth it. “You have only to tell me that sleep evaded you, as well—that you lay in your virginal bed thinking of my hands and my mouth on your body.”

  She was silent for a moment, considering. When she spoke, the question was asked in a soft voice. “If I admit it, will you let me go?”

  “Yes.” It would be the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life, but he would abide by his word.

  Exhaling harshly, she offered up her reluctant confession. “Yes, I thought of you.”

  Michael groaned, the agony of his desire for her rekindled to a fever pitch. Stepping back, he let her go; every fiber of his being protesting - he should simply take what he wanted, what she'd just admitted that she wanted. But he'd never forced a woman in his life, and if he couldn't bloody well seduce her into wanting him then he didn't deserve to have her. With a muttered curse, he strode from the room swiftly and didn’t look back.

  Abby had avoided Michael for the better part of the day. Following their discussion that morning, she simply felt off balance with him. He could be the dangerous and seductive rogue one minute and a charming, surprisingly vulnerable man the next. Perhaps mor
e frightening was her response to him. He made her yearn for things that simply terrified her. It wasn't the physical intimacy of marriage that she feared so much; it was all that followed. She understood only too well that for most women, giving their bodies ultimately preceded or followed giving their hearts. With every pretty compliment and every searing kiss, he battered at her defenses. Her heart was not something she was willing to entrust to him or anyone else.

  That in mind, while she joined him for dinner, she remained distant, cool and kept her responses so succinct, he eventually gave up conversation altogether. Afterward, she retreated to her room again. When the knock sounded on the door, her heart sank. She had known, of course that he would claim his ten minutes. The question that burned in her, of whether or not she would be able to walk away again, hung heavily in the air as he entered her small chamber. “Yes, my lord?” she queried haughtily, as she opened the door.

  He sighed, “Are you trying to test my patience? My name is Michael.”

  “Very well, how can I help you, Michael?” she replied, and her tone was hardly dulcet.

  Michael noted that she was still dressed from dinner; her hair still tightly pinned in place. He had reevaluated his strategy during the course of the day. In her own room, she might be more comfortable; she might feel less threatened, and she might, he prayed, be more easily led astray.

  “I thought we might have a conversation about our delayed wedding night and all that it implies.” He watched the tension creep into her face. Her chin lifted, and her shoulders squared. Before she could unleash her temper on him, which he suspected could be formidable, he continued. “I need you to answer honestly… Is there anything that I did, any touch or caress that you did not enjoy last night?”

  Abby didn’t quite know what to say. It was not at all what she had expected to hear from him. “This is hardly a proper subject--“

  He chuckled. “No, it isn’t proper. It isn’t proper that we’ve been married for nearly two full days, and you have yet to share my bed. Propriety was forfeit, my dear, the moment I peered into your window, saw your contemptible brother-in-law and assisted you in your escape.” He paused then, his smile broadening as she blushed beneath his heated gaze. “Propriety is not for us, Abigail.”

  She had no argument for that, according to the church, she should not deny him at all as his wife. She was torn between what the teachings of the church demanded of her and her fear of having her heart broken irreparably by him. Regardless, she could not lie to him. “There was nothing you did last night that I found unbearable.”

  He smiled, “Good, because I plan to repeat most of it tonight.”

  Abby mentally girded herself for that. She knew what to expect, though, in some respects that did not help. Her mind had continuously wandered to those eight and a half minutes. She’d lost count of the minutes she’d spent revisiting them in her mind. The result was that she already felt hot and achy, and he had yet to even touch her. Her alarm grew as she watched him move more fully into her room, and then stretch out on the bed. Her bed, her haven, and he invaded it. Claimed, conquered and ruined, she thought, for she'd never look at her bed again without seeing him in it. Blast the man!

  “Join me,” he said simply.

  “There’s no clock,” she protested mildly.

  Michael pulled the watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and held it out to her. “You may time it to the second,” he said, “But I want every one of them tonight.”

  Abby swallowed convulsively. He looked predatory, which did not lessen his appeal at all. With a bravado that she did not feel, she approached the bed and took the watch from his outstretched hand, touching him as little as possible. It didn’t matter. She still felt the spark as their fingers brushed. “Then let us get it over with.”

  Michael grasped her wrist, pulling her down so that she tumbled into his lap. His lips were on hers immediately, hot and hungry. Abby tried to steel herself against the sensual onslaught, but failed miserably. He was too persuasive, too masterful. She sighed, unable to do anything else as she gave herself up to the sensation of his mouth on hers.

  His hands traced a familiar route, caressing her shoulders, her breasts, the length of her legs. He didn’t rush, but he’d learned the previous evening where she was the most sensitive. He’d created an erotic map of her in his mind, knowing exactly where to touch her to make her sigh, which spots would make her moan. The pressure of his touch was measured to a science. Firm but gentle, it left her shivering, her nerves awakened in such a way that everything was heightened, more intense and more compelling.

  She could feel the heat gathering inside her, the desire that burned as he stoked the flames higher. The watch was forgotten and tumbled from her fingers, it bounced onto the faded rug, ignored. She was somewhat mollified to know that he, the great seducer, was not unmoved. There was an urgency in the way he touched her that could not be denied. Whatever insanity burned between them, they were both its victim. Their senses were consumed with one another and the desire that had flared so hotly between them.

  Michael had been systematically removing her clothes while doing everything in his power to leave her mindless with passion. Every touch was designed to inflame her, and as she melted against him, an armful of lush, pliant, feminine curves, he knew he’d succeeded. He didn’t gloat, he was too far gone himself for that. This untried innocent affected him in a way that the most skilled of courtesans, that the most debauched and libidinous society wives had never matched. Every breath in his body, every beat of his heart was focused solely on her; winning her, claiming her, keeping her. At some point, a possessiveness heretofore unknown to him, had settled deep inside him. Abigail was his to keep, if only he could convince her of it!

  With that thought uppermost in his mind, Michael set himself to the task at hand. He continued to focus his energy, his attention, and all of his skill on keeping her lost in the maelstrom. Awakening her passion was the only way for both of them to get precisely what they wanted. If she turned him away—the possibility was inconceivable. The very idea of another night of miserable solitude was more than he could bear.

  When the gown slipped from her shoulders, baring her lush breasts entirely to him, he couldn't resist the temptation of that warm, satiny skin. He shifted her from his lap to the bed, coming down on top of her, using his hands and mouth to seduce and cajole.

  Every sigh, every moan, and soft cry was like a song to him. When she touched him, when her hands slid over his shoulders and around his neck of their own accord, he wanted to shout with joy. She toyed with his hair; her hands roamed over his shoulders, his back. Those innocent touches made him burn.

  But there was a part of him that needed more from her. He needed to hear it from her directly. It wasn't enough to simply seduce her and perhaps have her cry foul afterward. Or perhaps it was his cursed ego that demanded the admission of desire from her. Drawing back from her, from the heated kiss and the conflagration of all that had bloomed between them, Michael looked down into her bewildered brown eyes. “It has been more than ten minutes... I am many things, Abigail, which have been deemed less than honorable. But I am a man of my word. This only continues if you wish for it too.”

  Abby stared up at him. He wanted an invitation from her, an admission. It went against every belief she had about men, and against every doubt she had about her marriage to offer it. Men were not to be trusted. Her father's infidelity, Allerton’s ineptitude and Rupert's immorality were all proof of that. A man of Michael's reputation—giving ground to him would place her at a permanent disadvantage, she knew. The other option would be to push him away, to let him walk out of her room that night. It was lowering to admit that she couldn’t, she didn't want to. Denying herself what he offered, what he'd incited her to yearn for, was simply impossible.

  It terrified her. Wanting him could lead to needing him and needing could simply lead to disaster. He was an expert at making women fall in love with him. She would be no exception
and therein lay the problem. As his wife, if she was to truly be his wife, she should be the exception. A society marriage had never appealed to her. Fidelity, considered a simple and antiquated notion by most, was paramount to her. Would Michael ever be able to offer her that? In the end, it wouldn't matter. She had lost the will to resist him.

  “I don’t care,” she said, “I want you to stay.”

  Michael wasted no time in claiming her lips again, even as he stripped the gown entirely from her body. She was lying back on the bed, wearing only her chemise with stockings and garters. The chemise was askew, revealing dusky peaks that tempted him. Her ribs tapered down to a narrow waist and flared again into wide hips that beckoned to him. Beneath the fine linen, the dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs lured him.

  He stroked his hands up her legs, raising the hem of the chemise until she was bared before him. His fingertips skated over soft skin, tracing the muscles of her thighs, the arc of her hip bones, before brushing against the velvety curls.

  Abby closed her eyes, reveling in the sensations he provided. It wasn’t quite enough. She wanted to see him, to feel his naked skin against her. She reached up, sliding her hands between his coat, over the fine linen of his shirt. Something over his shoulder caught her eye, and she let out a yelp of shock. The Gray Lady stood near the foot of the bed, weeping silently and pointing towards the window. “Michael!”

  He kissed her neck, reveling in the feel of her hands on him. The sound of his name on her lips spurred him on, even if it did sound more strident than passionate. When she repeated it again, and yanked painfully at his hair, he raised himself up on his elbows and met her gaze. “Have you changed your mind, then?” He sounded like a man going to the gallows.

  “Michael, she’s here!” Abby said in a stage whisper and pointed to the room behind him.

  Michael cursed his luck, cursed the ghost of Blagdon Hall and cursed the woman in his arms that had driven him to the point of madness with lust. He rolled off of her and turned to face the spirit that had just interrupted what could well have been a momentous occasion.