The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  Leaning forward, he hissed in her ear, “Not such a high and mighty bitch now, are you?”

  On a small table next to the bed, the maid had left her sewing basket. With Lavinia pinned beneath him and Rupert rendered practically insensible from the herbs he'd smoked, he held all the power there at that moment.

  Blevins opened the basket and retrieved the shears inside. He allowed the twin blades to open slightly before slipping them over the tip of Lavinia's ear. Pressing the handle, he brought the blades just close enough together that she could feel the kiss of cold steel against her skin. “Do you want to stay pretty, Lavinia? Cutting off the tip of an earlobe would hardly be a disfigurement that would impede your social ascent.”

  With that, he dragged the point of the blade over her cheek allowing it to scrape lightly over her skin until he reached her nose. “I've heard that in the Colonies, there are native tribes that will cut off a woman's nose for her infidelities.”

  “I've only been unfaithful because Rupert asked it of me!” Her protest was muffled, her voice rising with fear and pain.

  The Squire smiled again, his body hardening in response to the fear in her mewling voice. Spanking Lavinia was no longer a challenge, the harder he hit her, the more she liked it, but this... taking her control away entirely, striking a bit of real fear in her, that excited him. “With me, yes... and Allerton. Well, and the others who attend our little parties. But what of Ellersleigh? You don't want to fuck him for Rupert's benefit! You want him!”

  “Only because we need the chalice!” she cried out.

  He allowed the blades of the shears to graze her flesh once more. “No! You want him, you lying quim! Admit it or I swear, I'll make you regret it!”

  To prove his point, the Squire lifted the blades of the shears from her nose and with a delicate snip, cut a lock from her blonde hair. Lifting it up, he let the single curl fall on the bed in front of her face. “Tell the truth, you whore, or I'll cut off something that won't grow back!”

  Lavinia screamed a mixture of terror and anger that only heightened his ardor. “Yes... I want him. I want to have him and I want Abigail to weep over the fact that I've had him!”

  “You hate her so much... why?” he demanded. Placing the shears back on the table, he tugged at her skirt and petticoats, bunching them up until her lovely arse was bared him.

  “Because she's a pious bitch who doesn't deserve the love and devotion of the people around her,” Lavinia spat. “Our parents, the servants, the people in the village, always singing her praises! And then both Rupert and you panting after her! She doesn't deserve it!”

  “Because you're jealous,” he corrected. “Because you're petty, small-minded, and have a wicked heart!” When she didn't respond, he slapped her bottom. She didn't moan with pleasure the way that she normally would. Her anger at being mastered this way was far too potent to let her give in that easily. “Say it! You're a spoiled, jealous child!”

  “Yes! I'm jealous. I hate that everyone loves her, everyone bows and scrapes to her... and that he wants her! I hate her for it!”

  The Squire smiled, but before he took her, he looked at Rupert who was watching the tableau with a feverish and excited gaze. The sickly man nodded eagerly. He'd long since given up fucking his wife himself, and instead preferred to watch others service her or vice versa.

  “Spread your thighs,” he instructed her.

  “You can go to hell!”

  He leaned over her pinned body, gripping her chin firmly enough to bruise. “I wasn't asking, Lavinia... Besides, dear Rupert will be so disappointed if we don't give him a show!”

  When she didn't comply immediately, he held her chin in a bruising grip and turned her face toward where Rupert watched. “Now, spread your thighs!”

  She moved beneath him, her legs parting in invitation. His suspicion aroused, he lifted her skirts and shoved one hand roughly between her legs. She was wet and eager for him, protests aside.

  Abby fumed until dinner, to the point she’d considered pleading an aching head and staying in her room. It would do little good, and as they did have a guest, certain protocol should be followed.

  Ignoring the pain in her head, only part of it caused by the blow and the remainder of it to be laid solely at her husband's feet, she dressed in one of her new gowns. In deference to the cut behind her ear, braided her hair and tied it with a simple ribbon. The idea of coiling the mass up and prodding her aching head with a dozen hairpins was unwelcome at best.

  As she entered the dining room, Michael and Lord Wolverston both rose. Spencer smiled at her warmly while Michael just leveled her with a cool and assessing stare. His raised eyebrow sparked her ire anew.

  “Lady Ellersleigh, you look charming as always.”

  Accepting Lord Wolverston’s compliment with a gracious nod, Abby thanked him. Turning to Michael, she offered a cool hello. “Good evening, my lord.”

  Michael smiled back at her, though his expression was hardly warm. His eyes traveled over the thick braid of her hair, down to the ribbon fastening it that rested just beneath her breasts. Even angry at him, that look brought a blush to her cheeks.

  “Good evening, my lady wife,” he said, and his tone was civil, at least. “I assume you have sufficiently recovered from your unfortunate accident this afternoon?”

  At his cool tone and remarkable understatement of the events, Abby offered an icy smile. “Quite recovered, my lord, as hale and hearty as ever,” she shot back. He might leave her breathless, even witless at moments, but she wouldn’t kowtow to him and his high-handed ways.

  Taking her seat at the table, she accepted the wine gratefully and did her best to ignore the tension in the room, especially as she and Michael were the root cause of most of it. However, as the meal progressed, she noted there was a fair amount of tension between Michael and Spencer as well. It seemed to ebb and flow between them. At times, they were fast friends but at others, there was an enmity between them that left her puzzled.

  For his part, Lord Wolverston’s attempts to keep the evening civil were not well met. Every pleasant word from him elicited an opposing response from Michael. The acid from Michael only seemed to spur Spencer on; for every cutting reply or monosyllabic response, he would endeavor to be even more charming and delightful.

  In all, the meal was interminable. Tense, fraught with angry undercurrents and general misery, Abby found herself wishing that it would just end. Her head ached, and she could sense that if it didn't end soon, the men would come to blows.

  Mrs. Wolcot served the bread pudding she’d made for dessert. It was certainly only a token for Lord Wolverston’s benefit as she had yet to warm to Michael at all. Abby pleaded a headache and made her escape. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I’ll retire for the evening.”

  Michael rose, and the tension between them faded in the face of genuine concern. “You should be resting in bed... After such a blow to the head, coming down for dinner was too much for you.”

  “I'm hardly such a delicate flower, Michael,” she replied, forgetting for just a moment how angry she still was with him. “I'm simply fatigued.”

  “You're certain?” he demanded, even as he reached toward her and tilted her head toward the light. “Any nausea? Impaired vision?”

  Pushing his hand away firmly, Abby spoke resolutely. “Good night, my lord. Good night, Lord Wolverston.”

  Watching her go, Michael frowned, his lips firming into a hard line. He was still concerned about her injury, but there was something else that was weighing just as heavily on his mind. “Spencer, please refrain from flirting with my wife.”

  Spencer smiled beatifically. “Was I? How very interesting… I was under the impression that we were having civil discourse over dinner.”

  Michael turned toward him then, raising an eyebrow. “You never engage in civil discourse with anyone, Spencer. It’s practically a declaration of your affections… Admittedly my experience of wives has been limited to those belonging
to others, but I find myself less than inclined to turn a blind eye to someone attempting to seduce my own right before my eyes.”

  Spencer’s smile broadened and he leaned back in his chair, grinning as he sipped his wine. “Do you know that I haven’t seen you jealous of a woman since … well, since Melisande. You haven’t cared enough for any female to be possessive of one since we were boys. I find that fascinating.”

  It infuriated Michael, primarily because he knew it was true. “I don’t give a bloody damn what you find it.”

  Spencer nodded, still smiling as he leaned back in his chair with a look of supreme satisfaction. “Perhaps some assurances, then? I have no designs on your wife, my friend. In truth, I feel that she would be less than welcoming of any advances as she can hardly take her eyes off you… This is quite unlike you, Michael.”

  Michael sank down into his chair. With his elbow propped on the table, he rested his head in his hand and with his other hand, pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache of his own. When it failed to provide noticeable improvement, he resorted to alcohol instead. Draining his wine in one gulp, he stared dismally into his empty glass. “She’s maddening! Willful. Stubborn. Reckless. It's as if she has no idea of the danger she's in.”

  Spencer's reply wasn't flippant or superior. For just a moment, the years of animosity between them faded to nothing and they were once again boyhood friends. “And you’re terrified you’ll fail her as you believe you failed Melisande?”

  Startled, Michael’s head flew up in response to Spencer's comment, ready to do battle. Just as quickly, he relented and sat back with a sigh. Spencer wasn’t assigning blame. Melisande’s death was perhaps the one thing that Spencer didn’t blame him for. “Must we revisit ancient history?”

  Spencer shrugged. “Not so ancient. It appears to be very present with you… daily. More so than I had realized. No one ever blamed you but you. No one was to blame for that tragedy except Alistair and Lady Eleanor. They have both paid dearly now—isn’t it time you stopped?”

  Uncomfortable with both the topic of conversation and with his own turbulent emotions, Michael settled back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why the sudden concern for my conscience, Spencer? I’m stunned you’ll admit I have one.”

  Spencer didn't take the bait. Rather than revert to form and keep their bickering alive, he said the most unexpected of things. “I've many things that I need to ask of your forgiveness. I allowed myself to believe the worst of you when I should have known better, and for that I am sorry.”

  Michael reached for the bottle of wine, and finding it empty, placed it back on the table with a soft thud. “Contrition doesn't suit you.”

  Spencer shrugged, “I'm beginning to care less and less about what others think would suit me. I’m willing to admit that I’ve been a judgmental ass, and for that… Can’t you be willing to accept that you did little to dissuade me from believing the rumors of your profligate reputation?”

  It was true enough. Once Spencer had decided that he was dissolute rake, Michael hadn’t bothered to correct his views. He’d made it a point of honor to needle his friend and even exaggerate his exploits. “Fine. That still doesn’t explain your present concern.... The state of my relationship with Abigail is none of your affair.”

  Spencer leaned forward, steepling his hands beneath his chin. “You have a chance at happiness with her, Michael. Much the way Rhys is now happy with Emme… and I am envious. Not of your lovely wife, for she is completely yours, whether you realize it or not, but of that happiness. Envious as I am, I do not begrudge it, and would do all that I can to help you hold onto it.”

  “And what of Larissa? Do you mean to pursue your happiness with her?”

  Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Michael rose from the table, retrieved a bottle of brandy from the sideboard and poured liberal amounts into two glasses. As he passed one to Spencer, he met his friend’s gaze. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I know just how capable you are of always playing the gentleman. I might not have put it together without Abigail's insight, but I've noticed it before... the way you look at her.”

  Spencer rose, draining the glass, and pointedly not addressing the statement. “I should seek my bed. And if you are a wise man, you will seek yours and your wife’s favor.”

  Watching Spencer walk from the room, Michael quickly finished the remainder of his drink; the question of Larissa was hardly finished. The lovely redhead was still fragile and finding her footing in the world, but when she did, Spencer was in for trouble of the kind only a willful woman could bring about in a man’s life. As for seeking his bed and his wife’s favor, it was good advice and he would follow it.

  Climbing the stairs, he moved toward the master chamber at the end of the hall and the welcoming light visible beneath the door. At least she wouldn’t be feigning sleep.

  Entering the chamber, he saw that she was in bed, wearing both her night rail and a thick wrapper in deference to the chill. She held a book in her hands, and as he walked in, she glared at him over top of it.

  “You behaved like a wretched, spoiled boy tonight,” she accused.

  “True enough,” he admitted as he began removing his neckcloth. “I find that I am less than pleased to see you hanging on my friend’s every word. I believe the appropriate term for what I am experiencing is called jealousy. As I have not experienced that emotion since I was, in fact, a wretched and spoiled boy, it’s a fair assessment.”

  “This is the point, my lord, when you should make your apologies for such horrid behavior,” she remarked pointedly.

  “No. I will not apologize for being jealous, for being possessive of my wife. Spencer was deliberately provoking because he wanted to spur just such a response. He received his just desserts.”

  “And have I received my just desserts?”

  He smiled. “I had intended to make it up to you... I can demonstrate if you like.”

  Clearly disarmed by his admission, she closed her book, resting it on her lap. Her brows furrowed as she frowned at him. “I simply cannot make sense of you.”

  He removed his jacket and then his boots. Clad only in his breeches and shirt, he moved toward the bed and his wife. “That is a fate we share, Abigail I struggle to make sense of you on a daily basis… and fail.”

  Her shoulders went back, her chin coming up in warning. She was spoiling for a fight. “I cannot see why. I am perfectly logical.”

  That was a debate he wasn’t about to be drawn into again. Taking the book from her, he placed it on the small stand beside the bed. “Can we not save our arguments for daylight hours?”

  Her eyebrows rose in suspicion, “And what would you reserve our night time hours for, my lord?”

  Michael leaned forward, pressing his lips against the satiny skin of her neck, just above the pulse that beat there. It quickened beneath the heat of his mouth and regardless of her ire, he knew she was not unaffected. “For those pleasant activities that will leave us too exhausted to pursue our daylight arguments.”

  A sigh escaped Abby’s parted lips as she leaned back against the pillows. “You could charm the devil.”

  “The devil doesn’t need charming, just you… and the rewards,” he said, parting the laces of her night rail until his fingertips grazed her bare skin, “Are much sweeter.”

  Abby’s eyes closed, her back arching as she moved into his touch. Michael smiled, leaning forward to press his mouth to the skin he’d just bared. Pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along her rib cage, over the swells of her breasts, as tempting as her pert nipples were, he was in no hurry.

  Perhaps jealousy was his motivation. He could admit to himself that it probably was, but he wanted her weak, breathless and pleading, shuddering beneath him. He wanted her undone by passion, and he wanted to be the one who wrought her downfall.

  Slow, languorous strokes of his fingers over her skin; each one dipping lower, parting the fabric
of her clothing further; elicited soft sounds of pleasure. Her hands moved up to clutch at his shoulders through the linen of his shirt. As his hands moved over the soft mound of her belly, drifting toward the dark thatch of curls nestled at the apex of her thighs, she parted her legs, eagerly welcoming him.

  Rather than slip his hand between her parted thighs and partake of the warmth she offered, he instead stroked the tensed muscles of her legs. Moving past her knees, he altered the pressure slightly, dragging his hands back up to her hips, his fingers pressing deeply into her flesh.

  Abby groaned. “Michael, why are you tormenting me this way?”

  He kissed her then, his lips moving over hers firmly, tracing her lips with his teeth and tongue. When their lips parted, he smiled down at her. “Not torment, my dear wife, there is a method to the madness… the longer I delay your pleasure, the greater it will be for us both.”

  Abby’s skin burned where he touched her, each stroke of his skilled fingers upon her flesh only fanned the flames. Impatient to feel him against her, inside her, she tugged at the fine linen of his shirt, her hands delving inside, moving over warm skin and firm muscle. As his fingers burned a tender path along her inner thighs, her nails scored his shoulders, tugging him closer, demanding more of him.

  He was frustrating, infuriating, maddening and in all those things, still she burned for him. With only the slightest touch or a single, knowing glance, he could set her body ablaze.

  Moisture gathered between her thighs, her body aching for the release that he could offer. Still, he didn’t touch her as she longed for him to. He teased, his hands dancing over her skin, but stopping just short of the places where she ached the most.

  “Michael, if you don’t—.”

  She didn’t finish the statement. His hands bracketed her wrists, pinning them to the bed, and he was atop her, his weight pressing down, the hardness of his body imprinting upon her. Her breath seized in her lungs as she stared up into his midnight eyes. There was no hint of playfulness, only heat.