The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Gerard was no knight on a white charger arriving to save her from her dragons.

  “You will let me take you to supper,” Lord Graves said, his jaw jutting. “You promised.”

  More whining. She contained a sigh of impatience and nodded gravely. “I am looking forward to it.” It would be different when they were married. He’d be less inclined to remain underfoot. “If you will excuse me, for a moment, I have a torn flounce that needs pinning.” And a headache brewing.

  The darling boy looked anxious. “Hurry back. I will fetch you some champagne.”

  Oh how she longed for respite from his constant youthful chatter and jealous eye. Feeling as if she might at any moment die of suffocation, Charlotte fled the ballroom.

  It would be fine after they wed, her mind repeated like a mantra as she hurried along the hallway to the ladies’ withdrawing room. She would make him a good wife. They would retire to the country. Breed lots of children she could love. And Father would be saved.

  An arm shot out from a doorway, curling around her waist and dragging her into a darkened room.

  Her stomach jolted. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out when a warm finger pressed against her lips and a familiar voice said, “Hush.”

  The scent of his bay cologne swirled around her. “Your Grace?”

  “Charlotte.”

  He spoke her name in his deep voice. He cupped her face in his hands. “Have you forgotten my name so soon, sweet?”

  The endearment tore at her heart, ripped open the wounds she thought long since healed.

  She jerked her head away to no avail. “Let me go.”

  He sighed. “I wish I could. Say my name.”

  “Gerard,” she spat at him, desperate for release in case she committed the error of this morning. “Let me go, before someone sees us.”

  He released her. Her cheeks felt suddenly chill. She stared at a face shadowed from her gaze, the shadow of her girlish dreams and the shadow of her lonely nights. “Why are you doing this?”

  “This?”

  “Plaguing me? Following me?” When you never followed when I most needed you, the broken voice whispered in her head. The voice she usually ignored. She turned away, strode to peer through the gloom at a portrait above the mantel. “Why did you drag me in here?”

  The striking of a tinderbox sounded behind her. Candles flared to life, the room, a library, took shape around her as he lit the scattering of candelabra and the sconce between the bow windows.

  She swung around. “Why, Gerard?”

  He blew out the taper and tossed it in the empty hearth. A wicked smile touched his lips. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  She tossed her head. “You and a hundred others.”

  “You’ve grown cruel, Charlotte. The adulation of striplings has gone to your head.”

  The words were spoken lightly but they lashed like a whip. “You were the same kind of stripling once,” she replied, wielding her own lash.

  In three strides, he came to stand before her, his body no longer that of a boy but of a powerful male. Large and full of arrogant confidence. He gripped her shoulders, his gaze searching her face, his lips thin, his eyes hard enough to break her. “That boy is gone,” he said softly and his mouth descended on hers. Ravishing. Punishing. Blissfully hot. The kiss of a bold, hungry man.

  How she longed to yield, to feel again the joy, to relive their passion. Her body trembled with eagerness. Pride came to her rescue. She stiffened against his onslaught, fought for command of her traitorous body and heart.

  He lifted his mouth, but didn’t release her. “Why?” he murmured against her lips. “Why, Charlotte?”

  She shrugged free from the circle of his arms, strode with short impatient steps to the window and shifted the edge of the drape. Outside, street lamps wavered in the mist, blurring her vision. An image of her father languishing in a French debtors’ prison hardened her resolve and her voice. “Why what?”

  He came up behind her. “Why did you leave?”

  She spun around. Incredulous. “Why would I stay?”

  His jaw flickered. “And so here you are back again, married, widowed and once more plying your wiles on a green youth.”

  Pain like a clenched fist in her stomach almost doubled her over. “He is a fine young man.”

  “And wealthy.”

  Heat rose to her hairline. He made it sound so sordid. She paced away from him, her silk skirts catching at her legs, her heart beating a retreat. She clenched her fists against the fear. A terrible fear she could deny him nothing. “What makes you think you can once more interfere in my affairs?”

  “Affairs? A good choice of words.” He gave a hard laugh. “Have you forgotten what we had together?”

  An ache carved a swathe through bone and muscle all the way to her soul. “We had nothing,” she cried. “And you know it.” She eyed the distance to the door. If she ran . . .

  He cut off her retreat with one smooth step, held her upper arms. Fury blazed in his eyes along with the hotter fire of possession.

  “We had this,” he growled and claimed her mouth with a plundering kiss.

  Even as she began to fight, he softened his mouth, wooed her with his sensual lips, planted small kisses to the corners of her mouth, the tip of her nose, her closed eyelids.

  Every inch of her face garnered his attention and her heart opened like a parched rose in the desert to a gentle rain.

  Yielding, she sighed and twined her arms about his neck as her body remembered the sensations of his touch. He nuzzled her throat, kissed the pulse beneath her ear, and murmured, “I missed you.”

  “Oh, Gerard.”

  More kisses rained on her face and lips, tastes and licks remembered and yearned for over long tearful nights.

  One step at a time he eased her into the window embrasure. Under the spell of his delicious mouth, she startled when the window frame touched her back. He pressed into her, his thigh parting her legs, his hands cradling her face. “Remember?” he asked.

  She laughed, a poor broken sound

  He closed the curtain around them. Their own private world. As if they were young and innocent again. And deeply in love.

  His mouth found hers. Thought slipped away as their tongues tangled and danced to the music one heart played to the other, until dizzy and breathless she broke free. “How could I forget? It was a conservatory then, though, not a library. And your father almost caught us.”

  He kissed her jaw, her ear, nibbled the lobe, tasted her throat when she arched back against the wooden frame to give him access.

  Her insides ran hot, like melted honey, warm and golden and sweet. His scalding breath shivered across sensitive skin, his lips teased the rise of her breast.

  She ran her hands through the silk of his hair, across the breadth of shoulders more manly, stronger than she remembered.

  He licked the hollow between her breasts, his long clever fingers working free the tapes of her stays at the neckline of her gown. He tugged the confining fabric down and found her nipples beaded and aching.

  He suckled.

  She moaned at the surge of desire. She clenched her fists in his thick wavy hair and her body tightened, remembering the bliss. Yearning.

  Gently his hand trailed down her hip, caressed her thigh, and inched her skirts upwards. He stroked the bare flesh above her stockings.

  “Gerard,” she warned half-heartedly.

  “Hush, sweet,” he whispered and flicked her nipple with his tongue.

  She melted.

  He pushed against her with his knee and the sweet pressure made her squirm. So delectable. But not nearly enough.

  “Put your leg up on the seat,” he said softly. “Remember how you liked it like this?”

  “Gerard, we can’t. We mustn’t.”

  He chuckled, deep and low. “Say no then, love. Say it now.”

  Love. Her heart stilled. How many times had he called her his love? Remember?
How could she ever forget? Free will seemed to flee. She could not deny him, for to do so would be to deny all the years she’d been so alone. And lonely.

  Dear sweet heaven, she’d missed him.

  One large warm hand raised her thigh and she rested her foot on the window seat. One hand drew her gown languorously to her waist and cupped her buttock, steadying her, the other roved ever higher.

  He took her mouth as he caressed and teased her body, until she could do no more than moan her pleasure.

  “You are ready, sweet,” he said. “Let me in.”

  She gasped her assent and raked her hands through his hair, kissing his mouth as he unbuttoned his falls. He cupped both hands beneath her and easily lifted her up. She brought her legs around his waist and clung to him. A moment later, his hard flesh sought entrance to her body.

  She lowered herself on to him, with a sigh.

  He groaned against her neck. “My Charlotte,” he said. “Mine.”

  Pleasure cast her on to tossing seas where tempests raged. He held her in arms of steel, driving her, deep and hard, her spine protected from the harsh wood at her back by his hand. She was transported to another realm, a place of naught but pleasure. A place where she gave as much as she took and the bright light of completion beckoned.

  A place where love reigned supreme.

  His ragged breaths rasped in her ear. “Now,” he demanded. “Now, darling.”

  She ground against him, seeking to break the bonds of earth.

  He thrust into her, his hips sensually twisting.

  She shattered. He came with her.

  Together they drifted on the warm current of hard-breathing bliss. His forehead dropped against her shoulder. “Dear God,” he muttered.

  Suddenly aware of her surroundings, of what they had done, thoughts rolled around in her head, while her body stretched like a luxuriating cat’s. She shifted in his arms and he carefully lowered her to her feet. He fixed his clothing, then helped her with hers, tying her tapes, hiding her bosom, rosy with his kisses.

  He drew open the curtain.

  The library door swung back. She couldn’t see the intruder as Gerard moved in front of her, protecting her from view.

  “Your Grace?” Graves’ voice.

  Charlotte shrank into the shadows.

  “My cousin said you wanted to see me? Am I interrupting some . . .”

  Gerard moved, shifting as if to shield her, but somehow failing.

  “Charlotte?” Graves choked out.

  Her face flamed as she met his distraught gaze. All her hopes crumbled.

  “Pardon my intrusion,” the young lord said, all stiff and hurt.

  The library door slammed shut.

  Fool. Such a fool. She’d let the memory of pleasure forgone destroy her life.

  Gerard turned to face her, regret in his eyes.

  “He was looking for you,” she whispered. “How did he know to find you here?”

  “I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded guilty.

  She frowned. “How could he possibly know?”

  He shrugged.

  She had to find Graves. Find some way to explain. She ran to the mirror, saw what he had seen – her hair in disarray, her face flushed. What had she done?

  She turned to leave.

  The door opened to admit a thin pale gentleman. “It worked,” he crowed. He halted as he realized she was still there. Lord Graves’ cousin, Brian Devlin, winced. “Madame Bouchere.”

  She looked over at Gerard, who was frowning at him. Everything tumbled horridly into place. A pain seared her heart. “You planned this. How could you, Hawkworth? You deliberately ruined my life once, you and your father. How could I not have guessed you would do it again?”

  She rushed for the door.

  “Charlotte,” Gerard said. “Wait.”

  Hand on the door handle, she paused, staring at the ornate panelling. She could not bear to turn and see the triumph in his eyes. “If you ever come near me again, I’ll have O’Mally run you through.”

  She escaped out of the door. Something hot and wet rolled down her face. Tears. She dashed them away. It was the pain in her heart she couldn’t bear. The well-remembered pain of betrayal.

  Damn. Bugger. He’d made her cry. He’d hurt her. The expression on her face when she saw Graves in the doorway had been like a kick to his chest by a metal-shod carthorse.

  Bloody hell. He’d been so sure she didn’t care tuppence for the fellow; sure he’d be able to woo her back into his life with the one thing they’d had that was perfect. Where had he gone wrong? Doubt niggled in the pit of his stomach. What had she meant about his father? He had the unusual feeling he’d made a terrible mistake.

  Dev rubbed his hands together and Gerard wanted to hit him.

  “That’s it, then,” Dev said. “I had the hell of a time convincing him not to call you out, but he finally agreed that she wasn’t protesting, and therefore she must have been willing.”

  Gerard shot him a glare. “What do you mean, bursting in here like that! Listen to me well. Say one word about this, you or your idiot cousin, and I’ll cut out your tongues and feed them to the lions at the Tower.”

  “What do you take me for? The lad is hurt and a little bitter, but he’ll do as he’s told. Now perhaps he’ll find a girl of suitable station.”

  Red blazed behind Gerard’s eyes.

  “Not that she isn’t . . .” Dev began. He stared down at Gerard’s fist bunching his coat. “Oh hell. What is the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  His friend’s eyes widened. He groaned. “Not you too. Is the wench some sort of witch?”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Gerard strode for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  Gerard thought for a moment. A wry smile pulled at his mouth. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Heaven or hell. But first I need to find my carriage.”

  “Will you not tell me what happened, dear heart?” Miles O’Mally followed Charlotte from the clothes press to the trunk she was filling. She turned and glared. “His Grace the Duke of Hawkworth happened.” She dropped the armful of clothing into the trunk.

  “What did he do?”

  “She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “You will find out soon enough. It will be all over London tomorrow, if it isn’t already.”

  “Young Graves didn’t come up to scratch?”

  “No. And he won’t. He caught me in a compromising position with the Duke.”

  “I’ll kill him,” O’Mally said. “Hang him up by his thumbs. Damn! I’ll make him marry you.”

  “I wouldn’t marry him if he was the only man in London.” Not that he’d ever make her an offer. He considered her nothing but a soiled dove. “Get out of my room. I’m packing.” She marched back to the clothes press.

  “Where are we going?”

  She stopped and took a deep breath. “Damn it, Miles. I don’t know.” She dropped her head and covered her eyes with her hands. She choked on a lump in her throat that refused to be swallowed. She took a few deep breaths. “There’s no help for it. I’ll have to accept Count Vandome’s offer.”

  “You will not.” The shock in his voice made not the slightest impression on her flayed nerves. “The man is a pervert. Old enough to be your grandfather.”

  “I have no choice. He’ll be generous. I’m ruined here and he promised to pay Papa’s debts.”

  “Ah, damnation.” The Irishman’s voice was thick with tears. Miles cried easily. Unlike her. Until last night, when the tears hadn’t ceased for hours. That was yesterday. Today, she was wrung out. Dry as death.

  All the starch seemed to go out of the old man, he sagged on to the edge of the bed. “Don’t do it, girl. I love your father like a brother, but he’s not worth a life of misery. You know he will succumb again. He can’t help himself. One roll of the dice and he’s lost to reason. I should never have encouraged him to go to France.”

  “I thought if we c
ame back to England and lived in the country. Away from temptation . . .” But there was no hope of that now.

  “Your pa doesn’t deserve the sacrifice. Walk away while ye can.”

  “I can’t.” Father needed her help.

  A knock sounded below.

  Miles cocked a brow.

  “It’s probably the carter for the trunks. Go away and let me pack.”

  A deep voice drifted up from the hallway.

  “Doesn’t sound like a carter. Sounds more like an argument.”

  Her heart sank. The only person she could think it might be was her erstwhile suitor. She’d wounded him dreadfully. He no doubt wanted an explanation. She’d have to face him. She straightened her shoulders. “It must be Graves. I’ll go down.”

  “I’ll come with you. Make sure the young hothead does nothing rash.”

  She worked her way around the trunks piled up on the landing. Miles followed her down the stairs.

  The gentleman at the bottom of the stairs was facing away from her, but he looked too big to be Graves, too broad.

  “Hawkworth.” Her hands clenched into fists.

  He turned. “We need to talk.”

  “Let me at him,” Miles said. “You’ll talk to the point of my sword, Duke. Or better yet, speak with the mouth of my pistol.”

  Hawkworth would hurt him. “No, Miles. He’s done quite enough damage.” She stared at Gerard’s hard angular face, the bleak eyes that only seemed to warm when they rested on her. Her heart quivered. No. No, she would not let him do this to her again. “Please leave, Your Grace. You are not welcome here.”

  He glanced up at the baggage. “You are leaving, then.”

  “Of course I’m leaving. You made sure I couldn’t stay. I’m going back to France. Now, go away.”

  “Not until you hear me out. You owe me that much.”

  “You dog,” Miles roared.

  Charlotte put out an arm to hold him back. “I owe you nothing.”

  “Then do it for old times’ sake, love.”

  She froze. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Damn it, Charlotte.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her down the last couple of steps and pushed her into the drawing room.

  “Blackguard,” Miles yelled, hurrying after them.