by Diane Gaston
He watched her dance, her grace and her flowing skirts making it seem as if she floated on the air rather than be attached to this earth.
He was also aware that other men noticed her, too. Perhaps Charlotte’s plan for Anna would reach fruition. How could any man resist her?
That thought depressed him even more than watching Yates speak with her.
Lady Charlotte rarely left her side, except to dance, and after each set, quickly returned to her. Would the young woman want to know she and Anna were sisters?
After one set in which Yates danced with Anna, Charlotte dragged them all to where Brent stood with his cousin and the Rolfes.
‘I do hope you are enjoying yourselves,’ Charlotte said.
While the others were speaking—except for Anna, who looked distracted—Charlotte whispered to Brent. ‘I do think she is a success, do you not, sir?’
‘You are doing an excellent job of ensuring it, Lady Charlotte,’ he responded.
In fact, as the night had gone on, Anna seemed to be gaining more approving glances from the men in the room.
The next set began. ‘Let us all dance!’ Charlotte insisted.
Brent glanced at Anna, who looked away. He asked Miss Rolfe to dance. Yates secured Lady Charlotte and Peter politely asked Anna.
The dance required groups of three couples to perform the figures. They began by facing each other in a line, ladies on one side, men on the other. They crossed and turned as the dance dictated, its music slow and sinuous. As Brent crossed the line and met Anna in the middle, their gazes caught. When they joined hands and danced in a circle, he clasped her hand. He could not say how any of the others moved or what expressions their faces held. It was, to him, as if he danced only with Anna.
God help him. He was to marry a woman who could occupy only fleeting thoughts in his brain, while Anna consumed all of him.
Finally the dance was over and he could try to break the spell that always seemed to weave itself around him when she was near.
He was only partially successful. He still could only make a pretence at conversation with others, when, all the while, he watched her.
She became more and more upset, he noticed. Something had happened, something that made her look like the caged animals at the Tower, as if she could do nothing but pace the cage and long for escape.
She broke away from Charlotte with some whispered excuse and made her way out of the ballroom. Brent followed her, determined to discover what had suddenly gone so wrong.
Other ladies walked in the direction of the retiring room, but Anna turned the opposite way, towards what Brent supposed would be the servants’ staircase. He hurried after her, found the door and opened it.
She stood on the landing and whirled around when he entered the staircase.
He closed the door behind him. ‘What is it, Anna? What is wrong?’
She hugged herself and rocked on her heels as if trying to soothe herself. ‘May we leave now?’ she asked. ‘I really wish to leave now.’
He stepped towards her and seized her shoulders, trying to make her look at him. ‘What is it? What happened?’
She kept her gaze averted.
He was puzzled. ‘You have been dancing. You have received plenty of attention—’
‘Attention,’ she repeated sarcastically.
‘Lady Charlotte meant for you to be such a success that you would have gentlemen proposing to you on the spot.’
‘Proposing?’ Her eyes looked wild. ‘Not precisely.’
‘Tell me, Anna.’
She met his eye. ‘So you were in on Charlotte’s scheme? Were you also in support of the idea that I needed to be married off?’
He frowned. ‘You take this all wrong,’ he snapped. ‘Do you not see that marriage would be the best thing for you? You would have a home of your own, children of your own, something that is yours, not your employer’s.’
Her eyes shot daggers at him. ‘My whole life I have been manoeuvred and manipulated with others deciding what I should do. Now you, too, are deciding for me.’ She leaned forwards. ‘Do you wish to hear about the proposals I have had this night, Lord Brentmore? Because I have had many.’
‘You have received proposals? Of marriage?’ He felt sick inside. He would lose her after all.
‘Oh, the proposals I’ve received are not of marriage.’ She lifted her chin. ‘It seems that Lord Vestry and Mr Norton have it on good authority that you and I are lovers and that when you marry Miss Rolfe, I will need a new protector.’
‘No.’ He felt as if punched in the stomach.
Gossip. Scandal. It followed him in spite of his efforts to avoid it. And now it wounded Anna.
She swung around and gripped the banister. ‘I am sick to death of this! It becomes worse and worse. I find out I am not who I think I am, but I quite easily could become what they accuse me of. Even if I do nothing more to earn that reputation, I will somehow stand between you and your wife, because you and I—’ She did not finish that thought. ‘I will be honest,’ she continued, her voice more composed. ‘What is between us will not disappear.’ She glanced away. ‘What is between your cousin and Miss Rolfe will not disappear either, no matter how many miles he puts between them.’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’
She clapped her hands against her head. ‘Never mind! I’ll not stay, do you understand? I’m leaving! I’ll walk back to Cavendish Square if I must.’
She whirled around and ran down the stairs, her skirts flying, her shoes beating a frantic tattoo.
He ran after her, but by the time he reached the floor below, her footsteps were silenced and she was gone.
He rushed to the first door he saw, but was disoriented momentarily when he walked through. He emerged into the hall.
‘Did she run through here?’ he demanded of the footmen attending the hall.
‘Who?’ one asked.
He didn’t pause to explain. He ran out of the town house and looked in both directions, but he could not see her. The streets were not safe for a woman alone.
He seized hold of one of the outside footmen. ‘What direction did she go?’
The man pointed.
Brent shouted to him, ‘Find my coachman and have him find us or go home.’
He ran off.
* * *
Anna ran as fast as her legs and ball slippers could carry her. She wished she could run all the way to the sea, like Lord Brentmore had done as a child, anything to escape the disorder that had become her life.
She was like her mother, in love with the lord and more than willing to bed him. There was no use denying it to herself. The rumours those young gentlemen had contrived were based on something, a glimmer of the truth the men had gleaned from the way she and Brentmore looked at each other, perhaps. The sparks of attraction between them were so strong she would not be surprised if they were visible.
She could no longer talk herself into believing that she and Lord Brentmore could learn to resist each other. It was only a matter of time before they would fall in bed together.
She must be like his cousin and put distance between them. She must leave, no matter that she would be leaving the children—the poor children! She must go and trust that he would help the children to recover from her loss.
She reached Grosvenor Square and leaned against the wrought-iron fence, to catch her breath.
She heard footsteps ringing against the cobbles of the street behind her and knew it was him. She turned and he emerged from the darkness. She watched him stop and scan the area, and knew the instant he saw her. He rushed directly for her.
When he reached her, he gripped her arms. ‘Are you mad? You put yourself in danger, running off alone.’
‘I am alone,’ she countered. ‘Why pretend otherwise?’
‘Enough of that nonsense.’ He shook her. ‘You have me.’
The sound of carriage broke into the silence of the street. ‘That will be our coachman.’ He dragged her
into the street and waved to the man, who stopped the horses.
Lord Brentmore picked her up and carried her to the carriage. He lifted her inside and climbed in after her. ‘Home,’ he called to the coachman.
He sat next to her, but she slid quickly over to the far side of the carriage.
‘Do not say more,’ she cried. ‘I know it was foolish to run, but I had to get away. I still have to get away.’
He seized her wrist. ‘No more running. We face this now.’
‘I have faced it, my lord,’ she said. ‘Nothing will change as long as we are together.’
He touched her face. ‘No more of this. Call me Brent or Egan. Call me who I am, not my title.’
She turned her head away.
He moved closer to her and drew her into his arms, settling her against him, as he had done in the inn’s tavern. ‘I am sorry for the talk about you and me. I wish I could stop it. Nothing stops gossip but time. Protesting it only makes it worse.’
‘The gossip is correct,’ she said. ‘We have not made love, but we both know I am too much like my mother—willing to take what I can and ignore the consequences.’
‘Was your mother beautiful?’ he asked.
She was too tired to ponder why he was asking. ‘Very beautiful.’
He went on. ‘Was she passionate?’
‘I suppose so.’ She shrugged.
He planted a kiss on her temple. ‘Then you must be like your mother.’
She tilted her head. His lips were close, very close.
She slowly raised her lips to his, touching them lightly, tasting them with the tip of her tongue. She felt his body tense.
‘Anna,’ he rasped.
And took possession of her with his mouth.
She dug her fingers in his hair and indulged in the kiss while her body erupted in flames.
His hand cupped her breast and she longed to remove her gown, all her clothing and to finally feel his skin against hers. She yearned to finally learn the pleasures of joining with him.
This time there was no stopping. She wanted him, urgently wanted him. Before she left him, she wanted to know the glory of making love with him.
The carriage stopped. They were home.
Chapter Eighteen
Brent lifted her from the carriage and held her hand tightly in his as they hurried to the door.
A sleepy footman gave them entry. If he was surprised that Brent did not have his hat and Anna did not have her wrap, he did not say.
Brent and Anna walked past him, up the stairs. When they reached the second floor, Brent lifted her into his arms and carried her into his room, glad he’d told his valet not to wait up for him. The light from the fireplace cast the room in a soft glow, enough to see by. He carried her to the bed and set her down, kissing her again, a kiss of promise.
He pulled off her shoes and, kicking off his own, shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat.
She presented her back to him and he quickly undid the line of buttons there. She immediately lifted the dress over her head and waited for him to untie the laces of her corset. Then she spun around and watched as he rid himself of his shirt, breeches and stockings.
He had not considered that this was most likely her first view of a real naked man, but she was game. Her gaze flicked over him with approval and pleasure as she removed her stockings. He climbed on the bed next to her.
‘I’ll be gentle with you,’ he assured her as he slid his hand over the soft thin fabric of her chemise.
She pulled the flowers out of her hair and used her fingers to comb out the tangles. ‘I do not know if that is what I wish or not.’
She rubbed her fingers over the muscles on his back and he thought his senses would soar to the heavens. He edged her chemise up and she raised her arms so he could pull it off.
He gazed at her, becoming even more aroused to finally drink in the sight of her full breasts, dark-rose nipples, narrow waist and the dark hair at the apex of her legs. His eyes wandered back up the length of her.
He touched the necklace she wore.
‘Should I take it off?’ she asked.
‘No need.’ Odd that she should have selected that piece. His wife had looked at it and thrown it on the floor, uttering, ‘Cheap trinket.’
Her brow creased. ‘What is wrong? Do I disappoint?’
He knew now that the pendant, so perfectly matching her eyes, had always been meant for her. ‘You could never disappoint,’ he told her. He peered into her eyes. ‘Are you certain of this, Anna?’
‘Very certain,’ she murmured. ‘Show me. Show me, Egan, how loving you feels.’
His name on her lips, a name no one else spoke, made his heart swell. He loved her, he realised. There would be no going back if he consummated that love.
He’d find some way to make it all right, to face the scandal, to show the children how to surmount it.
He wanted to rush to that moment of no return. It was the place he wanted to be, a place they both belonged, the inevitable result of that first glimpse of her. He wanted all of her, wanted to feel himself inside her, wanted to feel her pleasure vibrate around him.
He whispered to her, ‘Do not be alarmed. I am going to touch you. To prepare you.’
He slid his hand between her legs and gently stroked the part of her that was the key to her pleasure.
She gasped and arched her back, moving against his hand as she would soon move against his body.
‘Never dreamed of this,’ she managed.
‘Neither did I,’ he rasped. He’d never dreamed making love could feel like this. So important. So momentous. So right.
He withdrew his hand and rose over her. She smiled at him, a sensuous smile that stoked his masculine pride.
His body wanted to plunge into her and take his pleasure in a wild frenzy, but his heart wanted to make this first time as easy and pleasant for her as possible.
He forced himself to enter her slowly, a little at a time, giving her body a chance to adapt to him. She moved against him so that he slipped in easily.
He thought of the dance they’d briefly shared earlier, of the music and the rhythm, of moving closer and away. He moved now as if to the music, a dance that belonged to the two of them alone.
The music’s tempo increased and he moved faster. She kept perfect pace, building his need little by little, extending the glory of her warmth enveloping him. A slow sensuous pleasure unlike he’d ever had before.
Anna was the first woman he’d cared enough to draw out the experience. No rushing to give the woman pleasure and take his own.
Anna made a compelling sound and he crossed the boundary between thought and sensation. His body took over and quickened the pace, building the need higher and higher.
She cried out and writhed beneath him, her climax coming in waves that pushed him over the edge. His seed exploded within her in an ecstasy of release. Together they reached the peak of sensation, the ultimate of pleasure.
And just as quickly the languor wended though him. Brent’s bones seemed to melt like candle wax. He collapsed atop her and slid to the side, lying on his back, trying to make his arms and legs work again.
‘No wonder,’ she murmured.
‘No wonder what?’ he asked.
She turned her head and looked into his eyes. ‘No wonder my mother wanted this.’
He caressed her cheek. ‘Anna, believe me. This is more than what your mother ever had.’
To prove his point, as soon as his body recovered, he made love to her again.
And a third time, before he fell into a deep, contented sleep.
* * *
Anna rose from Brent’s bed when the first peek of dawn appeared in the windows. She slipped on her chemise and gathered the rest of her clothing. With it bundled in her arms she gazed back at him.
He looked like Cal in his repose, so boyish and untroubled.
Making love with him had altered her. She felt now that a part of him would live in her for ever.
For this brief time—these three brief times—they’d truly become one.
She resisted the urge to kiss him now. He might wake and that would make everything more difficult.
She rushed out of the room and ran up to her bedchamber. She dressed quickly and sat at the window to write two letters: one to Brent and one to the children.
There was no going back after this night that they had shared. No longer could she pretend she could see him briefly and act as the mere governess of his children. Brent—Egan—she was certain would understand. He, after all, faced the same situation. How could he build a marriage if he wished to bed the governess and she, him?
It was the children she grieved for the most. They would not understand. Perhaps they would never understand, even when they grew older. They would merely feel abandoned once more.
She knew, though, that the unhappiness her presence would cause would also spill over to them. Leaving was the best thing she could do.
And was the hardest.
Truth was hard, but not as difficult as living a lie. Truth opened the heavens and brought clarity. She knew now that she would some day tell Charlotte the truth about their connection. She wished she could ensure that Dory, too, would know who she was some day.
But she would never have that chance.
She’d packed a portmanteau in anticipation of travelling back to Brentmore Hall, a place she would never see again. It made leaving easier, before anyone saw her.
She tiptoed down the stairs and slipped out the front door. She was headed to the one person last night whose proposal she could accept.
She headed to Mr Yates.
* * *
Brent woke to the door opening. The room was bright with sunlight and the bed was empty next to him.
His valet stuck his head in. ‘Do you wish to rise yet, m’lord?’
He felt the bed linens next to him, remembering she had slept there. Clever of her to rise early. Had she gone to her own room before anyone could take notice?
‘I’ll get up,’ he mumbled. ‘What time is it?’
‘A little after ten, sir,’ the man said.
Brent groaned. He had probably missed breakfast with the children.