The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  His breath felt warm on her cheek. “Philippa.”

  Her name was a whisper. Soft as a petal. Calling to her in a way that made her heart feel too big for her chest. No one had whispered her name like that since William. An endearment, his whisper was. So achingly sweet. She did not release him. In such moments of inaction were momentous decisions made.

  He lowered his head again, and his lips slid down her throat, trailing soft kisses. Gentle kisses. Needful kisses that brought tears to her eyes. His hand on her hip moved away, but only long enough to gather up her shawl and drape the end over her shoulder. He took a step forwards, holding her, moving them, she realized, deeper into the garden.

  Philippa’s eyes fluttered open and her gaze locked with his. She understood the look in his eyes, the touch of his fingertips, the reason they were now standing completely out of the circle of light from the house. If one of the servants happened to look out the window, they would not be seen.

  She shivered. Not because she was cold. These feelings were wrong, but, oh, since he’d been away he’d become a lovely man. Not a boy any longer. A man, fully grown. And her friend, too. They had written to each other, holding back so little of themselves. She knew so many of his secrets, and he hers. She trusted him. She knew him to be thoughtful. Principled. A gentleman.

  “Don’t go home tonight,” he whispered. “Stay with me. Even if only for a while, Philippa.” His voice slid between them, a low, enticing whisper. In the dark, in just the light from the moon, she had to strain to see him. He wrapped his fingers in the folds of her shawl and pulled her closer.

  She missed the passion of her marriage and now that this so very young man had awakened such longing in her, she wanted to say yes. She wasn’t sure she could do anything but assent. Seconds ticked away.

  “Christ,” he said, his voice low and dark. And he sounded like a man who knew what he wanted and intended to have it. “Don’t say no.”

  She cupped his face in her hands, leaning against his torso. “Alec, how can we?”

  “The usual way,” he said. “The way any man and woman do.”

  She shook her head then realized he probably couldn’t see her. Not well enough. His cheeks were smooth, but since he was so dark-haired, he’d probably shaved before he came downstairs for the ball. Once again, she didn’t step away. She didn’t even let go of his face.

  “Good.” He kissed her again, sweetly, cajoling her, keeping her close against him, and, Lord save her, she kissed him back again. Foolish. So foolish. Even while she thought that, her hand slid around to the back of his neck, and she wished desperately she wasn’t wearing gloves. She pulled back, and he drew in a quick breath.

  He let go of her and dug into an interior pocket of his coat. “There’s a private entrance round the back. The stairs exit directly into my room. We can go there now and see where this leads us.”

  “No,” she whispered. She pressed her palm over his hand, trapping it in his pocket. She could salvage this. Save them both the awkwardness of a moment lost to moonlight. “No. Alec,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I never meant for that to happen. To let you kiss me like that.”

  He worked his hand free of his pocket and caught her hand in his. “Lie to me if you like, but don’t lie to yourself.”

  Good heavens, he was throwing her own words back at her. Words she’d said to him years ago whenever he said something dishonest. She took a step back and shook out her skirt. She was horribly aroused. Her body tingled with anticipation and desire. “Touché, My Lord.”

  “I’m sorry you lost William.” He caught her other hand in his and held both hands tight. Her heart gave a twist in her chest. “I am sorry. Believe that if you believe nothing else I ever say to you. If he were still alive, I’d be happy for you.” He lowered his voice. “But he isn’t, Philippa. Don’t live as if you’d died, too.”

  “I thought I had.” To her horror, her voice hitched.

  He pulled her into his arms again. “That’s the reason you think you ought to marry that prig Bancroft, isn’t it? So you won’t have to love anyone again.” He closed the gap between them and put his mouth by her ear. “Don’t deny it.”

  And then, the wicked, wicked man’s tongue flicked out and touched the side of her neck.

  “You’re wrong,” she said.

  “Liar.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’m going to strip you naked,” he said. “And ask you to do a hundred sinful things to me.” The rawness of his voice set off a quivering need in her. He grabbed her hand and started walking and she, who could have objected, did not, even though he wasn’t heading back to the terrace.

  Four

  A thousand times between then and now Philippa could have objected. She didn’t. And the astonishing thing was that she wasn’t the least bit conflicted, even though she’d let him make the decision for her. She’d done so even though, since William’s death, she’d had to take control of her life and was now well used to dealing with her own affairs and making her own decisions.

  She was perfectly capable of directing the course of her life.

  Philippa followed him to the back of Frieth House and stayed silent when he fitted his key to the door. For now, she resisted the urge to lay her hand on Alec’s back. Instead, she imagined the warmth, the play of muscle underneath his coat she would soon feel if she were to do something so bold.

  Click.

  Not a moment later, they were inside with the door closed behind them, away from the moonlight and enveloped in the darkness of the stairwell. He let out a breath, low and soft as silk. They stood there by the door. Alec didn’t move. He didn’t give her space. She didn’t make any.

  “It’s been too long for me,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Time stretched to eternity. She might die from the anticipation of the next moments. Her stomach took flight when he leaned in. She did the same, leaned towards him. Alec took a step forwards, she took one backwards until there wasn’t any farther she could go. He kissed her there, with her head and shoulders touching the wall behind her. His kiss was slow. Tender. Thorough. She melted against him. Surrendered to him.

  Of course she had. She wanted this. This. So fiercely. The electricity in her belly, the warmth between her legs, the ache in her breasts, the way her breath caught in her throat. His mouth on hers. The taste of him. The solidness. The maleness of him.

  He planted his palms above her shoulders and pressed forwards. His torso touched hers, and she put her arms around his neck. While he kissed her and while she kissed him back, she slid the fingers of both her hands up into his hair and brought him closer.

  The past with Alec was exploded and had been since the moment they’d stepped out on the terrace. Now, she thought, This is Alec, this man who is holding me with such conviction. She couldn’t square this impossibility with her present condition, the heat that ran just beneath her skin, her desire to touch him, her desire to have him touch her. To do those hundred wicked things to him. And a few more besides.

  They broke apart, not far, and he gripped her shoulders and rested his forehead against hers, waiting, she realized, for his breathing to settle. “I can’t wait. I can’t wait,” he said in a low voice, “until I am inside you.”

  His bluntness shocked her. And aroused her. She wasn’t a prude, not by any means, but William had never expressed his desire for her in such frank words. She didn’t know if she ought to reply in kind and so said nothing.

  Alec held her hand while he led her up the stairs. At the top, she could just make out the faint outline of the doorway. Which meant there was likely someone inside. A servant. His valet most probably. He straightened his coat and ran his fingers through his hair before he glanced at her to make sure she would be out of sight when he opened the door. She stayed to one side, out of the crescent of light that appeared on the floor and ceiling of the landing.

  “Burns,” he said. H
e walked inside. His voice receded with his advance into the room. “I won’t need you tonight after all.”

  She listened to the murmur of a male voice and then to silence.

  “Goodnight, then. I’ll call you in the morning. When I’m ready.”

  There was another silence, and then Alec appeared in the arc of light and reached through the doorway to grab her hand and bring her inside. Into his room. “Stay here.” His gaze held with hers until she nodded. As if she were capable of withdrawing now. She wasn’t that strong. He reached behind her and shot the bolt home on the staircase door.

  He secured the other doors, too. He’d grown up in Frieth House, and this room, the master suite, had been his father’s – a fact she knew because she’d practically grown up here as the Fall family’s third daughter, even though she was no relation at all.

  The room had changed very little from what she remembered. Alec’s father had been a man of simple tastes. Spartan, even, but kind. He’d never forgotten her if he had gifts for his own children. She’d loved him as if he’d been her real father.

  The desk against the far wall was oak with a fold-out leaf presently lowered to show the drawers and cubby holes that would otherwise be hidden. In front of the desk was a plain oak chair. In the corner, there was a washstand with a white and blue basin and ewer, a towel nearby. The red highboy and armoire with an uncarved door were familiar sights. A tassel hung from the key still in the armoire lock. The bed was plain: no high posts, no canopy or hangings.

  Frieth House was Tudor and, like the previous Falls, Alec’s father had modernized very little. The walls and ceiling were square panels of carved mahogany. The wide plank floor was covered with a carpet that had probably been in place for a hundred years.

  Despite how little had changed since the last time Philippa had seen the room, there were signs everywhere of Alec’s imprimatur. Books on the desk, for example, one of them still open. Alec had always been an avid reader. At the foot of the bed was a black trunk with the coronet of his earldom painted on it in gold and silver, red and blue, with an occasional splash of yellow. A decanter of brandy sat on a table, a crystal tumbler next to it.

  She walked to the centre of the room just as Alec came back from locking the last door. He headed to where she stood and stopped too close to her for a man who was only a friend. Too close for safety. Not close enough for a lover.

  Her stomach fluttered. Alec seemed at once ineffably familiar and a complete stranger to her. The boy she’d known her entire life, the young gentleman with whom she had exchanged frank and even intimate letters, and this handsome, unknowable man whose touch made her feel alive.

  “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Good.”

  In all the time she’d known him, not once had she seen him the way she did now. As a desirable man. A man of substance and weight, of a surprising gravitas considering his age. She studied him, trying to understand what had changed. However long she looked, she didn’t think she’d ever know. Her eyes saw a man now. A man she desired.

  His irises were nearly black and his lashes were a thick, dark sweep across his cheeks. His father lived on in the angles of his face, the length of his nose, the distance between his eyes. The shape of his mouth was his mother. Sensitive, his lower lip slightly fuller than the upper. There was a dimple in his chin. She very much wanted to make love to him. To Alec.

  “Lovely Philippa.” He pushed her shawl off her shoulders, catching it at the crooks of her elbows and pulling the cashmere away to drape over the desk chair. His touch, light as it was, sent a quiver through her body. “I can hardly believe you’re here.” He took her right hand and worked her glove off her fingers. “That it’s you,” he said as he did this. He drew her glove off her arm and glanced at her before he went to work on the other one. He took the fan dangling from her wrist and set that on the trunk. When he drew off her other glove, she pulled her hand back. His gaze met hers and desire roared through her.

  He dropped her gloves on top of the trunk with her fan. A smile quirked his mouth, and she was reminded of the boy he’d been. His smile had always been infectious. The man before her had no hesitations about what he was doing. “You anticipate me wonderfully well.”

  “I am relieved, My Lord.”

  He reached for her left hand. Their bare skin touched. Hand to hand. The tips of his fingers slid over hers, once, slowly, over the wedding ring she still wore. “Do you miss him?”

  “Yes.” She spoke over the lump in her throat.

  “I miss him, too. His letters.” He slipped his arms around her waist and, as he pulled her close, he made a low sound in the back of his throat. Because he was a young and healthy man. Because he desired her.

  The tension in her eased. She put her hands on his chest and slid them down to the first button of his coat. Her wedding band glittered on her finger. She unfastened the button.

  His eyelids closed part-way. “Mm. What wickedness is this?”

  “Wickedness?” She darted a look at him before she started on the next button. “You are in your private quarters, My Lord. Surely you can be comfortable here without thinking yourself wicked.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He shrugged off his coat when she was done, but her hands followed the collar until the fine wool was sliding past his shoulders and down his arms until she could reach no further. He leaned away to drop his coat on the chair.

  “I think, Philippa, that I am still not as comfortable as I might be. Tell me, what ought we to do about that?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. His waistcoat soon joined his coat. And there he stood, in his trousers, shirt and braces, and he was simply too beautiful for words.

  “It strikes me,” he said, still smiling that familiar smile of his, “that you must be uncomfortable, too. And here—” he gave a quick look around “—I think we may both be as comfortable as we like.”

  Philippa held up her hands. “I’ve already removed my gloves. And my shawl.”

  “Very bold.” He ran his index fingers from the tops of her shoulders downwards, along the neckline of her gown. “But I worry that this lovely gown of yours restricts you too much to be at ease. Does it?”

  “Perhaps you’re right, My Lord.”

  “Mm,” he said. He moved behind her and began unfastening the hooks and ties of her gown. Before long, he was lowering the dress and she stepped out of her best evening gown. Her corset was next. Then petticoat. When he was done, he set his hands on her shoulders and his mouth by her ear to whisper, “Is that better?”

  She could only nod. She was now wearing only her shift and, of course, her dancing slippers and stockings. Alec stayed behind her and put his hands around her waist. She dissolved against his chest.

  “What a slender woman you are, Philippa.”

  “Does that disappoint you?”

  “No.” His hands slid up, his fingers slanted towards the floor. His hands stopped just beneath her bosom. She held her breath, longing for him to touch her yet enjoying the building warmth. She was liquid inside, a pool of desire when she’d once thought she was no longer capable of that sort of reaction.

  His fingers brushed the bottom curve of her breasts.

  Philippa faced him. He was looking at her as if he wanted to eat her alive. She pushed his braces off his shoulders. Alex shrugged, and they fell to his sides. She undid his neckcloth, then the buttons on the placket of his shirt. He reached between them and pulled it over his head, turning a little to let it drop away from where they stood.

  “What a splendid animal you are,” she whispered. “So sleek. So well made.” His body was the product of youthful vigour and lack of indolence. She touched his chest, sliding a finger over his nipple.

  “More,” he said on an intake of breath. He cupped the back of her neck and drew her towards him. She kissed him there, flicking her tongue over his nipple. One, then the other.

  He gathered
handfuls of her shift, and drew it up and over her head. She stood before Alec wearing nothing but her shoes and stockings. He stayed completely still, eyes on her body, lingering on her breasts. “So lovely.”

  With her eyes on his, she touched her breasts. The effect on him was gratifying. The wide-open eyes, the swift intake of breath. “Your hands,” she said, “need to be here.”

  His attention fixed on her hands, on her fingers. He took a step forwards and his hands came between them, one then the other, pushing away hers. And then his fingers covered her and she pressed forwards and raised her face to the ceiling, eyes closed because she didn’t think she could look at him and keep back the tears at the same time. She knew him so well. He would never do anything to hurt her.

  “Like this?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Slowly, she lowered her head and, when she opened her eyes, he was looking at her with that same reverence that made her throat close up. “To feel.” She covered his hands with hers. “To be alive the way I am right now. Like this.”

  Alec swept her up in his arms and carried her the ten steps to the bed. He spread himself over her, one hand above her shoulder, letting the weight of his hips press against her pelvis. His hair fell over his forehead and his lashes were black against his cheeks. He was looking at her body, her breasts, her stomach. He stroked his hand down her body, from her shoulders to her back and toes. “Jesus, Philippa. You’re so lovely.”

  “The lights,” she said.

  He looked up. “What of them?”

  “Don’t you mean to turn them down?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t.” He curled a hand around her upper thigh, pulling up so that her knee bent and his palm spread flat around the back of her leg. His other arm bore his weight and when she set her fingertips to his upper arm, she traced the shape of the muscles. “I want to see you. I want to put my mouth places that will make you scream my name, and I want to watch when you come apart in my arms.”