The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  Abby shuddered. “Good heavens. I don't even want to think about that. I am so grateful that Spencer agreed to see to the rest of it. He's managed to ferret out most of Rupert's and Lavinia's cohorts. Whatever his methods for getting confessions from them might be, they're very effective.”

  Emme smiled sadly. “It's best all around not to speculate on that. Whatever he's doing, there is a cost to him... Spencer isn't a very happy man.”

  “And your sister? Is she happy?” Abbi asked.

  Emme's smile faded completely. “I don't know that happiness is in the cards for Larissa. She's been quite distant of late and preoccupied with something that she will not share with me. I suspect that it has a great deal to do with Spencer, but I fear that pressing her would be counterproductive. But enough about that. We cannot fix what they will not share with us. Are you truly content to stay at Southwood? Have you no wish to return to your home?”

  Abbi couldn't stop the shiver that overtook her. “I don't think I'll ever return to Blagdon Hall without wondering if their nasty spirits are lurking about!”

  “I'll come for a visit and let you know,” Emme offered.

  “No, no, and absolutely not,” Rhys said as he entered the room, Michael following him. He moved forward and kissed his wife on the cheek. “No more nasty spirits. We've had enough of those for a lifetime. Only the befuddled ones, those you can help to your heart's content.”

  “Rhys, that isn't how it works! It's my duty to help all of them... and to help the living who are occasionally tormented by them. We discussed this.”

  Rhys looked at Michael. “Is your wife this obstinate and difficult?”

  Michael shook his head as settled onto the small settee next to Abby. “I cannot answer that question without implying that my wife is either better than, worse than or equally difficult to yours. I think I'll simply avoid the question altogether.” With a kiss of her cheek, he stole the last biscuit from her plate and popped it into his mouth.

  “Thief,” she muttered.

  “It's on account,” he offered with a wicked grin. “I'll pay you for it later.”

  Abby blushed, Rhys laughed and Emme scolded Michael for misbehaving. “Rotten. Utterly rotten!”

  Michael rose, kissed Emme's cheek and tugged Abby up from the settee, taking her by the hand. “So that my wickedness does not offend, I will steal my wife away and leave you to scold your own husband.”

  In the hallway, just outside the ducal chambers, Michael kissed her soundly.

  “What was that for?” she asked.

  “Because I can. If I haven't kissed you senseless at least several times a day then I'm failing in my duties as a husband,” he replied.

  “Funny, I don't recall that being part of our vows.”

  He moved along the hallway, leading her toward their rooms. “Really? I recall specifically that the vicar told me I should—.”

  “Stop! For goodness sake! Do not bring the vicar into this. It's blasphemy!”

  He chuckled softly as he opened the door to their chamber, propelling her inside. “It sounds so much better when you're blaspheming. 'Oh, God, Michael!' It's music to my ears when you say that.”

  She laughed in spite of the blush that stained her cheeks. “You are the most wonderfully wicked man I've ever known.”

  “Only that you've known? Not in the entire world?” he asked as he picked her up and tossed her on the bed. “I shall have to try harder.”

  “That sounds promising,” she replied cheekily.

  “Minx.”

  “Rogue.”

  He looked down at her. “Not anymore. I'm thoroughly redeemed. Wickedness doesn't count if it's conducted with one's wife.”

  “Where do you find all these rules that work so well to your advantage?” she asked. By the time she'd finished asking the question, she no longer cared for the answer. Michael's hands were roaming beneath her skirts, his mouth trailing hot kisses over her neck.

  “Do you really want to talk about that now?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. You can make up all the rules you want, just don't stop doing what you are.”

  “Have I told you today,” he asked, punctuating each word with a soft kiss, “How much I love you? And how incredibly lucky I am to have found you wiggling your lovely bottom in the air as you scolded a cat?”

  She smiled as his mouth moved over her neck, his teeth gently grazing her earlobe. Her entire body was suffused with heat, but it was the tenderness that filled her, swelling within her heart at the sweetness of his words that truly left her breathless. “Tell me later... after you've shown me.”

  THE END

  Part I

  The Enticement of an Earl

  Chapter One

  The windows were open as she entered the library. The lamps had been doused hours earlier, the entire household was abed. Larissa had been as well, but the heat had always been unforgiving of her. Clad only in her night rail and wrapper, it was hardly modest, but she hadn’t the heart to dress fully when all she wanted was the solace, or at minimum the distraction, of a good book.

  If she were completely honest, she would admit that it wasn’t simply the heat that had left her sleepless. It was him. He’d been so quiet at dinner, hardly engaging in conversation at all and ignoring her entirely.

  For some time, she’d been aware of the growing distance between them and had wondered at it. Had he guessed that her feelings for him were far deeper than friendship? Was his aloofness some witlessly senseless, masculine attempt to spare her further hurt and embarrassment? It was anyone’s guess, she supposed. Spencer would never speak of it and she would never ask. They tiptoed around one another like the ghosts that had once haunted Briarwood Hall. In the seven years that she’d known him, since he’d rescued her on that fateful day and brought her to the safety of her family, he’d never once behaved in a manner that suggested his feelings for her went beyond that of a dear friend.

  As she perused the shelves, Larissa was acutely aware of every creak and noise in the house. She had it on the good authority of her sister that all of Briarwood’s restless spirits were now at peace, only the living remained. Of course, no one knew better than she the danger they posed. It was the living she feared, and while there was no one in residence at Briarwood in particular that she considered a threat, past experience had made her wary.

  It was only her vigilance, a heightened awareness that alerted her to the fact that she was not alone, for not a sound had been made. A startled gasp escaped her as she turned to face the open French doors and the man who stood there. She knew him instantly, his face as familiar to her as her own, but seeing him in only shirtsleeves and breeches, his boots dangling from one hand, she was taken aback. Spencer was always impeccably groomed, turned out to the very nines, and always, always proper. As he stood on the terrace in the open doorway, he was anything but.

  “You startled me,” she whispered.

  “You startled me,” he replied. “What are you doing here at this hour? You sought your bed ages ago.”

  Those were more words than he’d spoken to her in the week that they’d been at Briarwood. A country house party, Emme had insisted, would be just the thing to divert them all from the boredom and heat of summer. How wrong her sister had been! Trapped in the country with a man who clearly couldn’t wait to be out of her company was hardly her notion of an enjoyable time. Still, the olive branch he’d offered to ease the strain between them was one she would not ignore. “I couldn’t sleep. This heat is unbearable,” she admitted, just as she noticed that his shirt was quite damp. He’d gone for a swim. The damp linen clung to firm muscles and it parted in a V at his neck to reveal bronzed skin that fascinated her. The realization that she’d been quiet for too long and stared too intently prompted a blush. “It seems you found a remedy.”

  He smiled, but the expression seemed more sardonic than amused. His gaze traveled over her and her blush deepened. Neither of them was dressed to be in company and th
e intimacy of the situation was not lost on her.

  “It has proven to be a short-lived remedy,” he stated cryptically. “Have you found a book to while away the hours, then?”

  “No. I’ve only just arrived.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, breathless and husky. Her belly tightened with nerves, or perhaps it was anticipation. She’d wanted to be alone with him though hadn’t the courage to seek him out. Fate had intervened on her behalf.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” he said with a nod and turned toward the door.

  Panic seized her. It was her only chance. Her lips parted of their own volition and she asked, “Perhaps you can recommend something?”

  He paused, glanced at her over his shoulder and sighed. He hesitated for just long enough that she could tell he would rather be anywhere else. Still, he turned and crossed the room, his long strides ate up the distance until he stood next to her before the shelves. “Perhaps Marlowe,” he suggested.

  Larissa frowned but kept her gaze fixed firmly upon his face. The ticking of a muscle in his jaw, the firm set of his lips and the harsh lines that formed between his brows all indicated just how annoyed he was to be in her presence. It had been that way for months, though she couldn’t fathom why. In an attempt to keep the conversation going, to stall just long enough to find enough of her wits and courage to confront him, she said, “I didn’t take you for an admirer of such flowery prose.”

  He glanced at her. “While I lack any ability to wax poetic myself, there have been moments when I have felt that lack quite keenly. Marlowe is a bit heavy handed, but he makes his point well enough.”

  Larissa was acutely aware of him. The heat of the room was nothing in comparison to the heat that blazed from his skin, separated from hers by only a few inches of space and dampened linen. With his shirt collar undone and as close as they were, she could see the fine texture of his skin and the crisp, golden hair that adorned his chest. It fascinated her, drew her eye repeatedly. She’d never attempted to articulate what she felt for Spencer. It was part hero worship, part infatuation, all mixed together with confusion and longing. It had become second nature and was simply a part of her. But he didn’t long for her, that much was clear to Larissa.

  At one point in time, she’d thought perhaps her feelings would be returned. No, she admitted, she had hoped that her feelings were returned, but then Spencer had taken to avoiding her and she’d realized the painful and ugly truth. She’d made a cake of herself, mooning over him when clearly he would never see her as anything other than the desperate and frightened girl he’d rescued. Few people knew the truth of her past, of the ugliness she had been subjected to at Lord Moreland’s hands, not even her sister, in whom she confided almost everything. But Spencer knew. He’d been the one to rescue her at that posting inn when she’d run away and both Moreland and her villainous stepfather had pursued her. To believe he could ever see past that had been nothing more than utter foolishness on her part.

  “I will defer to your judgement,” she replied softly.

  He gave her a sharp, sideways glance as he pulled the volume from the shelf and pressed it into her hands. “A collection of romantic poems… your sister, in her devotion to Byron, would approve.”

  Finding her courage, she met his gaze far more directly than was her habit. “Spencer, may I ask you something?”

  “You may ask me anything you wish,” he replied and his tone, though gentle, implied that she might not receive an answer.

  She drew in a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze. “Have I offended you in some way? I thought… I thought we were friends at least, and it seems of late as if you cannot be away from me soon enough. If I have given you offense, you must know it was never my intent—.”

  “You could never offend me,” he interrupted her. “But we cannot be friends. You are an unmarried woman and I am a bachelor, quite confirmed. Any connection between us would be viewed unfavorably.”

  “And is that why you won’t even speak to me here? In the privacy of Briarwood, with no prying eyes, and you rush to be away from me?” Her voice trembled and tears threatened, but she struggled to hold them back. Pride wasn’t something she had in abundance, but what she did possess recoiled from such a display.

  He said nothing for the longest time, simply gazed at her with an inscrutable expression on his face. He moved slowly, reaching out, he covered her hand with his, trapping it against the cover of the book she held. The warmth in his touch arrowed through her. It was the first time he’d touched her, the first time she’d allowed it. The connection was instantaneous, far beyond anything even her unusual abilities had prepared her for. The intensity of it staggered her. She could feel the longing, the anguish and the doubt that filled him. It left her weak.

  When he did speak, his voice was pitched low and there seemed to be a wealth of meaning in his words. “Thomas Moore’s is a particular favorite of mine from that book. You’ll find that page to be quite worn.”

  Breathless, uncertain, Larissa pressed him for more. “Which one is it?”

  “They Know Not My Heart,” he said, and with his hands, positioned hers so that the book fell open in her palms to the page he’d mentioned. It was worn, the edges clearly showing how many times it had been perused.

  “And you are entirely to blame for the disintegration of that poor page?” she asked.

  He turned then so that her shoulder brushed against the warm, solid wall of his chest. “Not entirely to blame. What man reads such things when a woman has not driven him to it?”

  Her earlier happiness, her hopefulness, dimmed and jealousy blossomed inside her, dark and ugly. Were those emotions she’d sensed in him for someone else after all? “A woman? Have you formed some attachment, then?”

  He leaned closer and in that moment she could smell the brandy he’d consumed, apparently in large quantity. “No, there is no attachment. My admiration is firmly one sided. Have you experienced that in your young life, Larissa? A deep and overwhelming devotion to someone who seems to barely know you are alive? To someone who recoils from your touch as if you were a contagion?”

  There was no question then that he was speaking of her. If she’d had any doubt at all, that would have allayed it. “It isn’t that. It was never that.”

  He cocked his brow at her, his expression grim and his doubt obvious. “Pray tell what it is then. I’ve a keen desire to hear it from your lips.”

  Larissa lowered her head. She couldn’t tell him. No one knew of her other gift, not even her sister. It had developed later in life and the power of it was overwhelming for her. Of course there were other concerns with it, as well. Would Spencer ever trust her if he knew the truth? “I cannot tell you why… but you must believe me when I say it is not what you suspected at all. Please, Spencer?”

  “It is a lot to take on faith, Larissa, when you have given every appearance of being repulsed by me,” he replied. “Thankfully, I have managed to convince myself it is all men who leave you so utterly unmoved and not simply me.”

  Breathless, she met his gaze with false courage. Perhaps it was the darkness, or it might have been the heat that suffused her and had nothing to do with the still, summer air, but she wanted to be bold and brazen. She wanted to feel passion and to believe, even for a short moment, that she inspired it in him as well. “Perhaps you could kiss me… that would surely offer you proof that my feelings are not what you have imagined.”

  “You do not know what you ask,” he replied.

  “No,” she agreed. “I do not. No man has ever kissed me… not with my consent.” He knew that, of course, and immediately she feared that reminding him of it was a mistake.

  He said nothing further. She wasn’t certain if he moved or if she did, but somehow their lips touched. It was surprisingly gentle, the brush of his mouth against hers. He hadn’t shaved since the morning and the rasp of his skin against hers was surprising but not unpleasant. Heat emanated from his skin, seeping into hers. As
warm as she was already, she found it strange that she savored that warmth, that she wanted to step closer to him and feel it envelope her entirely.

  Thought gave birth to deed, and she found herself pressed against him, chest to chest. The dampness of his clothes invaded her own, but she paid it no mind. Her focus was attuned completely to him, to the feeling of being close to him, of his lips on hers. It was what she’d dreamed of for so long.

  He pressed her back against the book cases. There was a small frisson of fear. He was large and strong, but she pushed that thought from her mind. It was Spencer, after all. Yes, he wanted her, and as much as it frightened her, she also gloried in it. The book was still clutched in her hands, but he removed it, dropping it carelessly to the floor. It thudded against the carpet, but neither of them paid it any heed. He brought her hands up, pressing them against his chest. She could feel his heart beat beneath her palm, fast and sure. His hands moved to her waist, settling on the curve of her hips. He gripped her firmly, his fingers settling into her flesh, not painfully, but certainly proprietarily.

  The kiss did not remain gentle. His lips firmed on hers, they demanded and took and she gave willingly. When his teeth nipped at her lip, she gasped in surprise. He had clearly anticipated her response and took full advantage. The first stroke of his tongue against hers, the taste of brandy and something that was simply him invaded her senses, but it was her response, the heat and tension that coiled inside her that frightened her. It sparked a need in her she hadn’t thought herself capable of feeling. She had meant only to kiss him, but this was so much more and she was not ready for it. The yearning that it evoked inside her, the heat and the rush of desire had not been accounted for.

  It might have been her panic, but the well-earned control that she’d managed to muster over her gift failed her entirely. No longer was there simply a trickle of his feelings or thoughts into her mind. It became a flood.