by Trisha Telep
Trisha Telep was the romance and fantasy book buyer at Murder One, the UK’s premier crime and romance bookstore. She has recently re-launched this classic bookshop online at www.murderone.co.uk. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she completed the Master of Publishing program at Simon Fraser University before moving to London. She lives in Hackney with her boyfriend, filmmaker Christopher Joseph.
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Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2010
Copyright © Trisha Telep, 2010 (unless otherwise indicated)
The right of Trisha Telep to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN 978-1-84901-015-3
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
First published in the United States in 2010 by Running Press Book Publishers
All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Digit on the right indicates the number of this printing
US Library of Congress number: 2009943385
US ISBN 978-0-76243-992-8
Running Press Book Publishers
2300 Chestnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19103-4371
Visit us on the web!
www.runningpress.com
Printed and bound in the EU
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Candice Hern Desperate Measures
Anna Campbell Upon a Midnight Clear
Amanda Grange The Dashing Miss Langley
Elizabeth Boyle Cynders and Ashe
Vanessa Kelly His Wicked Revenge
Patricia Rice Lady Invisible
Anthea Lawson The Piano Tutor
Emma Wildes Stolen
Robyn DeHart Her Gentleman Thief
Christie Kelley The Weatherlys’ Ball
Leah Ball The Panchamaabhuta
Margo Maguire Angelique
Caroline Linden Like None Other
Shirley Kennedy The Catch of the Season
Delilah Marvelle French Intuition
Sara Bennett A Suitable Gentleman
Sharon Page Gretna Green
Julia Templeton Little Miss Independent
Deborah Raleigh The Devil’s Bargain
Barbara Metzger Kindred Souls
Michèle Ann Young Remember
Carolyn Jewel Moonlight
Lorraine Heath An Invitation to Scandal
Author Biographies
Acknowledgments
“Desperate Measures” © by Candice Hern. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Upon a Midnight Clear” © by Anna Campbell. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Dashing Miss Langley” © by Amanda Grange. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Cynders and Ashe” © by Elizabeth Boyle. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“His Wicked Revenge” © by Vanessa Kelly. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Lady Invisible” © by Patricia Rice. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Piano Tutor” © by Anthea Lawson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Stolen” © by Emma Wildes. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of
the author.
“Her Gentleman Thief” © by Robyn DeHart. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Weatherlys’ Ball” © by Christie Kelley. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Panchamaabhuta” © by Leah Ball. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Angelique” © by Margo Maguire. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Like None Other” © by Caroline Linden. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Catch of the Season” © by Shirley Kennedy. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“French Intuition” © by Delilah Marvelle. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“A Suitable Gentleman” © by Sara Bennett. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Gretna Green” © by Sharon Page. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Little Miss Independent” © by Julia Templeton. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Devil’s Bargain” © by Deborah Raleigh. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Kindred Souls” © by Barbara Metzger. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Remember” © by Michèle Ann Young. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Moonlight” © by Carolyn Jewel. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“An Invitation to Scandal” © by Lorraine Heath. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
Introduction
Sweet, sexy, heartbreaking and erotic, confined by corsets (all that complicated lacing be damned!) or secreted away behind closed doors, love in Regency England was a murky business. It was hardly recognizable – laced into ballgowns, peering out coquettishly from behind ivory-handled fans, whispering inappropriately under the noses of chaperones and being seduced into compromising positions. It was an emotion dealt out cruelly by a voracious and debauched high society on the one hand, and a great hypocrisy of social graces and propriety on the other. With innocence forever in the middle, trampled, torn and abused – as usual.
There were some things love and lovers should not do. But rules were made to be broken and all it took was a little ingenuity. When denial and frustration come to a boiling point, sparks fly bright and hot. Matches are made in haste to settle the possibility of scandal, marriages are bargaining chips to elevate stations and cancel debts – where there’s a will, there’s a way. And mothers! Those infernal, social climbing, unrelenting mothers! The bane of every debutante during her seasons out.
Under these circumstances, sometimes love needs a little harmless dishonesty, a liberal use of ruses, dupes and tricks, to flourish. For all those secrets and lies needed to maintain the order of the day, sometimes it takes a little underhandedness to get to the heart of the matter. Under the threat of Regency villainy, sometimes that’s what it takes for young lovers to come together, or older lovers to find their hearts again.
The gentlemen seem to be missing their appointments with their barbers left, right and centre, and the slightly long and unfashionable look attracts the ladies in droves. It is the carelessness, perhaps, among the almost-feminine care lavished by some of the men of the age, that appeals, I imagine, and promises other lapses in convention – like clandestine kisses, a quick grope in the sitting room, or maybe even some hot sex?
Take a look at all the well-dressed skeletons in the Regency closet. Because for all the babies out of wedlock, the midnight elopements to Gretna Green, the young women suffering marriages to old men in penance for a moment of brief happiness on a chaise longue in an empty retiring room – this jaded society has seen and done it all. Any discretion is just one more thing to hide away, to deny, to refute or to forget. But some sensations can be harder to forget than others.
Desperate Measures
Candice Hern
She was going to commit murder. If that scoundrel Philip Hartwell did not show up soon, Lydia Bettridge was going to track him down and rip his heart out. After all, this whole scheme was his idea. If he hadn’t suggested it in the first place, and if he and her brother Daniel had not gleefully concocted the plan, she would not now be waiting on pins and needles to learn whether or not it would work.
Or perhaps all that gleefulness had been at her expense. Had they been making a game of her, playing on her disappointment, poking fun at her unrequited affections?
By God, she would rip out both their hearts. With a rusty blade.
Lydia scanned the ballroom again, maintaining as casual an air as possible as she sought out Philip’s bright red hair among the crowd milling about in groups, waiting for the first set to begin. She was just about to stomp her foot in frustration when she saw him. Not Philip, but . . . him. Dear heaven, it was Geoffrey Danforth, the secret object of her scheme, and he was at that very moment making his way across the room directly towards her.
Her belly seized up in a knot of panic. What was she to do now? And where the devil was Philip?
“Here comes Danforth, my dear,” her mother said in hushed tones. “And he is smiling at you and looking exceedingly handsome in that gold waistcoat. The colour sets off his hair nicely, don’t you think? I hope you will not reject him like all the others. I suspect poor Philip must be delayed. You would certainly be forgiven if you did not wait for him any longer.”
Lydia had claimed a prior commitment for the opening set when asked to dance by three other perfectly suitable gentlemen, causing her mother to cluck and twitter with vexation. She was not pleased that Lydia had promised to be led out for one of the most important dances of the evening by her brother’s best friend, who had no marital intentions towards Lydia or anyone else, and for whom Lydia had no more than a sisterly affection. “Such a waste,” her mother had said more than once.
And here came Geoffrey Danforth, with his flashing blue eyes and a smile to make a girl weak in the knees. Oh dear.
He stood before them and sketched an elegant bow. “Mrs Bettridge. Miss Lydia. You are both looking very fine this evening.” His eyes swept over Lydia, hopefully admiring her new dress, which was cut a bit more daringly in the bodice than her usual attire. It had been a part of the plan, of course, to look as dashing as possible.
His gaze turned to her mother. “The yellow plumes are quite fetching, Mrs B. All the other ladies here must be seething with envy.”
Her mother giggled behind her fan and muttered something about a shameless flatterer. Geoffrey turned to Lydia and said, “I believe this is our dance.”
What?
“I beg your pardon?” She could have bitten off her tongue. Philip Hartwell was obviously not coming so their plan had to be scrapped. And yet here was Geoffrey, the object of her every dream and heart’s desire, asking her to dance – and she demurred. Why did she not simply take his arm and be quiet?
He grinned, an endearing lopsided grin that was somehow both boyish and rakish at the same time, and had set her heart aflutter since she was fifteen. “Hartwell is detained indefinitely and asked me to take his place.” Turning his head so her mother couldn’t see, he winked at her.
Dear God, did he mean what she thought he meant? Was he to take Philip’s place in more than just the dance? No, surely not. Philip would not be so heartless, would he? But then, he didn’t know.
Geoffrey took her hand and placed it on his arm. With a little tug – she was almost rooted to the spot, barely able to think, much less move, and so needed that bit of physic
al encouragement – he gently led her to the centre of the floor where sets were forming. “Don’t worry, Lydia.” He kept his voice low so others would not overhear. Deep and soft as butter, it was a voice that always made her want to close her eyes and allow it to melt all over her. “I know you must be disappointed, but I will do my best. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, but I daresay I can do a better job of it than old Hartwell.” He winked again, and her feet stopped working properly.
He placed his other hand firmly over hers and manoeuvred her skilfully across the floor without further incident. Surely he had noticed her falter, though he did not mention it. While they waited for the music to begin, he bent his head near hers and said, “Will you trust me to do the job properly?”
She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and decided to feign ignorance. “I have no idea what you mean.” Her voice sounded surprisingly steady, and she was rather proud of herself.
He smiled and gave her a little nudge with his shoulder. “No need to be coy, my girl. Hartwell told all. Had to, of course, since I was to take his place. But, quite frankly, Lydia, I was shocked to learn that you believed such a stratagem was necessary.”
“Oh dear. I suppose it does seem rather foolish.” More foolish than he would ever know.
“Indeed it does. I cannot imagine you have to work so hard to make some worthless chap take notice of you.”
“Worthless? You do not even know who he is.”
“Then tell me. It will make this easier if I know the object of this game.”
“No, I’d rather not tell who he is.” She’d rather die.
“It doesn’t matter. I know who he is.”
Panic prickled the back of her neck. “You do not. You can’t know.”
“I can and I do. He is an undeserving moron, that’s who he is. If he needs encouragement to notice your beauty, your charm, your wit, then he is certainly not worthy of you.”
His words sent a powerful yearning rushing through her veins. Did he mean it, truly mean it, or was he simply using flattery to squirm out of taking part in this fool’s errand?
“Does the fellow show an interest in some other young woman perhaps?”