Second Chance Love: A Regency Romance Set

by Wendy Lacapra

  For hers.

  ***

  Despite the heaviness in Amelia’s heart, she soaked in the ubiquitous sense of benevolent satisfaction feeding the buoyant atmosphere of her Benefit for the Society of the Infirm and the Aged. As predicted, the evening was an absolute crush—everyone had turned out to judge for themselves if the rumored courtship between Lord Markham and Lady Clarissa was indeed, real.

  Blending in like a wallflower, Amelia watched the young couple dance.

  If they were feigning a courtship to foil Lord Moultonbury’s attempt to besmirch the lady’s reputation, they were the finest actors in London. Together, they turned in one of the more intimate steps of the Allemande, gazing into one another’s eyes as if they were the only people present.

  Love—bittersweet tenderness suffused Amelia’s soul—one of the world’s great mysteries and the most powerful force she’d ever experienced.

  Her gaze moved to her nephew.

  Jeremy had been standing taller these past few days. Sartin Trading Company’s challenges served to enliven him with purpose. And his burgeoning confidence had not gone unnoticed by Lady Horatia Maxwell-Hughes—the blushing young woman he’d met at Gunter’s.

  She couldn’t ask for a better match for Jeremy.

  An alliance with a duke’s daughter certainly wouldn’t hurt Sartin Trading Company’s prospects. And Lady Horatia’s father, the Duke of Shepthorpe, was too practical to distain trade.

  She sighed. All around her couples were coupling.

  There’d even been a moment the other evening she’d felt the age-old urge. Bellamy’s gaze—bug-eyed large behind his lenses—had dipped to her lips, and she’d electrified, every nerve prepped.

  Foolish.

  Kissing her secretary would not only be unethical, but dangerous.

  And if they were to tryst?

  Unthinkable.

  Their unavoidable parting would then go from painful to debilitating.

  “There you are, dear.” Lady Constance greeted Amelia with a kiss to both cheeks. “I’ve been searching all over.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes…and for that handsome man you introduced me to the other evening. Is he here?”

  Amelia glanced askance. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Didn’t you give him an invitation?”

  Tickets were hers to disperse, yet she hadn’t thought to invite Bellamy. Why? “He prefers quiet evenings to a Society crush.”

  “Quiet evenings at home?” Constance shuddered. “Well, that won’t do at all. I shall endeavor to put him out of my mind.”

  “Somehow I can’t picture you, seated by a hearth full of glowing coals, stitching while your devoted paramour reads aloud.”

  But she could picture herself in such a scene.

  With Bellamy.

  She frowned.

  “Come,” Lady Constance urged. “Let’s join Lady Batsford and Mrs. Whitehold, shall we?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Constance led Amelia toward their friends; Amelia’s thoughts remained on Bellamy.

  Bellamy was her secretary.

  Her respected associate.

  She could not kiss him over his office desk, and she certainly couldn’t install him in her library to entertain her while she stitched.

  She hated mending, anyway.

  But she did love her work—the only distraction she retained. In fact, she loved her work enough to return to the office later tonight.

  Which was a perfectly sensible thing to do. And the reason had nothing at all to do with the chance she’d see Matthew Bellamy.

  She had papers to attend to. Papers.

  Besides, she would never dream of disturbing Bellamy once he retired to his bedchamber—she swallowed—just above her office.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Secret stairs to the alley behind Sartin Trading Company allowed Amelia to come and go without being observed. Once inside her office, she waved her lamp in the window and then turned as her coachman pulled away.

  The coachman had read nothing unusual in her request. She often kept odd hours. In the night, she was much less likely to suffer interruption…and much more likely to have Bellamy to herself.

  How long had this fascination been growing unawares?

  She set down the small lantern she carried and dropped into an overstuffed chair between the window and the fireplace—one she used when she had to think through a tedious problem.

  Like now.

  Her stays pinched, protesting her slouch. She reached down into her décolletage and loosened the ties she could find. Then, with a heart-felt sigh, leaned down to remove her heavy, silver-buckled slippers one by one.

  Bliss—she sank back into her chair—like silence following cacophony.

  Like quiet nights at home.

  Did Bellamy prefer them, or had she been reluctant to give him a coveted ticket because she hadn’t wanted to encourage his burgeoning search for a wife?

  If the latter, she owed him an apology. Bellamy, dearest, I’m terribly jealous.

  She could only imagine how he’d—

  The door creaked open. She met Bellamy’s startled gaze.

  “Mr. Bellamy! Do you often skulk about in the dark?”

  Lamplight made flickering shadows on his face. “Apologies. I heard a noise and came to investigate.”

  “Yes, well, as you can see, I am—”

  He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Sartin?”

  “Yes?” Unlike him to interrupt.

  “Your…I mean, if you wouldn’t mind…” His gaze moved to her sagging bodice.

  Her cheeks heated as she covered the swell of her breasts with her fichu.

  His eyes remained on bosom, transforming embarrassment into a hot rush of desire—honeyed, thick and liquid.

  “I wasn’t expecting…company.”

  “Of course not.” He paused. “Can I be of service in any way?” He shook his head. “I mean, would you like me fetch coals to light your fire?”

  Politely decline. She could light her fire using her lamp. “Warmth would be lovely.”

  He nodded once and then disappeared, leaving Amelia alone with the invisible demon responsible for an utterance opposite of what she’d intended.

  She listened to Bellamy ascend the stairs to his bedchamber.

  Mr. Sartin—when he was alive—had proposed the arrangement. Bellamy had been perfectly willing to reside in the attic rooms; Mr. Sartin had been more than happy for the increased efficiency—and security.

  And so Bellamy had been, simply, present.

  Always.

  I won’t leave. Not while you need me.

  She couldn’t imagine Sartin Trading Company without Bellamy, any more than she could stop the jagged, cutting nature of her untamable heartbeat.

  She may have mistaken his desire to kiss her the other day, but there wasn’t any way she’d imagined his slow swallow after he’d caught a glimpse of her breasts.

  Breasts now weighted with wanton heaviness.

  Madness.

  She redid the ties and readjusted her fichu.

  She’d be a fool to act on her desire, even if she was going to lose Bellamy soon, regardless.

  Bellamy reappeared with a bucket of glowing coals, presumably taken from his room. He went to one knee and spread the coals, quite literally sharing his fire. Then, he removed a circular stone from the bottom of the bucket and placed the stone on a grate above the coals.

  “The soapstone will take a few minutes to warm.”

  “What’s it for?”

  Orange light traced his profile. “Your feet, of course.”

  Her feet. The aching feet she hadn’t even noticed were cold.

  How had he known?

  Silly question.

  This was Bellamy. Bellamy always knew what she needed.

  “You might as well sit down,” she suggested.

  Instead of pulling over a wooden chair, he shifted position. Crooking one leg, he lounged against the mantle column,
arm draped across his knee.

  She and Bellamy had been together in this room more times than she could count. Only now did she understand why her husband’s relations had protested.

  She’d argued all ladies were, on occasion, alone with their grooms or footmen or butlers, therefore there could be nothing improper about a woman being alone with a man in her employ.

  Nothing at all—her gaze fell to the now-crinkled seam of his trousers—intimate.

  “Were you on your way out?”

  “In.”

  “Ah.” That explained why she had not heard him when she first arrived. “Coffee house?”

  “Assembly.”

  “Public assembly?”

  His gaze challenged. “Public.”

  So, he really was, in vulgar parlance, on the prowl. She arranged her skirts to fully cover her stockinged feet.

  “Did you enjoy the evening?” she asked lightly.

  He chuckled softly and turned to stoke the coals.

  Wait—when had he removed his jacket? And had his sleeves been rolled up when he first appeared?

  They couldn’t have been. She would have noticed the way his forearm flexed. Heavens—how his muscles flexed. Not just the forearms she could see, but the shoulders not-so hidden beneath his shirt.

  “Did you enjoy the benefit?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Not as much as she was enjoying this moment. “Jeremy spent the night making eyes at Lady Horatia, while Lady Horatia blushed obligingly in return.”

  “Off to a rollicking start, then. And the young lady you set out to help?”

  “As expected, she and Lord Markham were the talk of the evening.”

  “Lord Markham,” he repeated thoughtfully. He set down the poker. “Which means, I take it, the night was an unparalleled success.”

  “Every charity will soon be clambering for my services.”

  “Why, of course they will.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

  Hesitantly, she returned his smile.

  “Let me see...” He eased back into a sitting position. “Mr. Pritchett and Lady Horatia. Lord Markham and Lady Clarissa. You weren’t exaggerating when you said you meddled. One wonders who you will match next.”

  “Match?” She asked, genuinely surprised. “I am not a matchmaker.”

  “No, indeed?”

  Well—she swallowed—perhaps she had encouraged Jeremy where Lady Horatia was concerned. And, she’d certainly used her influence to urge along Markham’s courtship…

  “I nudged along fate,” she admitted. “Which makes me less of a matchmaker and more of a fairy godmother.”

  “Fairy godmother?”

  “Haven’t you read Charles Perrault’s fairy tales?”

  “I haven’t, I’m afraid.”

  “A sad loss, I assure you.”

  He rested his head against the post. “Fairy godmother....”

  “A benevolent figure who appears in a tale about a young lady who sleeps by the cinders…”

  He wiped ash from his arm. “How demeaning.”

  She slanted him a glance.

  “Go on,” he urged. “Tell me about this cinder-sleeper.”

  “She’s good and deserving but no one seems to notice—"

  “Indeed?”

  “Well, no one notices except—”

  “Her fairy godmother?”

  “Exactly.” She wished she could remove his slightly-smudged glasses. The haze concealed his thoughts.

  All she would have to do was reach out…

  “So,” he shifted, “how does the godmother remedy this sorry state of affairs? Does she make the cinder girl the lady of the house?”

  She shook her head. “The godmother transforms the cinder girl’s rags into pretty clothes and then sends her off to three-night ball where she meets a prince.”

  “There’s a prince.” His deep-chested hum resonated. “There’s always a prince.”

  “Not always.” Some fairytales ended sadly. Like life. She looked into the coals. “My sisters dreamed of being Cinderella.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I wanted to be the godmother,” she half-smiled, “tasked with changing the fortunes of the worthy.”

  “By giving them fine clothes and carriages with which to deceive unwitting princes?”

  She laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “They staged quite the ruse, this cinder girl and her godmother.”

  He lifted the block of sand stone from the grate, hands covered with towels. Next, he situated the stone by the edge of her skirts. Then—as if he did such things every day—he lifted her stockinged feet, and, one by one, placed her soles against the heated stone. Warmth radiated up her calves.

  Her cheeks pinked for entirely different reasons.

  “Bellamy,” she said softly, “do you require the services of a matchmaker?”

  “No.” His answer was definitive.

  “You’ve found someone, then?”

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment. “I’ve found,” he paused, “the perfect woman.”

  “Oh.” She did not bother to hide her disappointment.

  He rose. “Good night, Mrs. Sartin.”

  “Good night, Bellamy.”

  The door closed. She fisted her hands in her lap.

  ***

  Matthew pulled the door shut behind him. The definitive thump of wood-against-wood did nothing to lessen the relief and regret dueling within.

  Move.

  Yes. Right. Move. Away from the door. Away from her.

  The wild urge to confess his deepest secret had forced him from the room.

  Do you need a matchmaker?

  I’ve found the perfect woman.

  Her bleak, lost expression made him want to grab her by her shoulders and tell her in no uncertain terms she was that woman.

  Restraint had won the day.

  Thank God.

  He headed through his darkened office, following the well-worn path to his attic bedchamber.

  She was his employer, and he was nothing more to her than a sturdy cane—something on which to depend. Once, being essential to her had been enough. Now—with his departure ever looming—he craved notice.

  He craved possession.

  A sharp stab of want accompanied the memory of her loosened bodice—the tantalizing glimpse inspiring every subsequent gesture up to fondling her damned feet.

  Devil take it.

  His stopped walking and turned back, heart jostling against his ribs like a prisoner demanding attention.

  To return to her office was lunacy. He strode back to the door, breathing hard. He placed his fists against the door posts and bowed his head, straining his back muscles.

  He had no right to dream of becoming her lover.

  He was what he was.

  A loyal employee.

  A dependable, overlooked, cane.

  A man who knew for certain he had found the perfect woman, but the perfect woman could never be his.

  On the other hand…

  What if he was wrong?

  What if she wasn’t just the perfect woman for him? What if he was the perfect man for her?

  A vision sprouted to life—he and Mrs. Sartin.

  Amelia.

  As a couple, they’d be as invincible in life as they’d been in commerce.

  Such a dream, however, required more than a matchmaker, such a dream required a gifted fairy godmother…or, at the very least a bold decision.

  And, even if he could not have her forever, couldn’t he have her for one night?

  “Bellamy?” Her whisper drifted through the wall.

  “Here.”

  She opened the door visibly trembling. He’d sworn to be there whenever she needed him. She needed him now. By St. George, he would not fail.

  He gathered her close.

  With a long, uneven exhale, she sagged against his chest.

  He filled with shock, then heat, and then need so violent his kn
ees turned to gelatin. He wrapped one arm about her waist—an unmovable anchor. With his other hand, he brushed back her curls.

  “Invincible,” he whispered into the blue-pools of her eyes.

  If only she would allow.

  She removed his glasses and set them into the bookcase beside them. A fold appeared between her brows. He placed his lips over the wrinkle—a soothing gesture. As she relaxed, he moved his mouth across her temple. Her lashes feathered against his nose. He kissed her cheekbone, just below her eye, and then he touched his temple to hers.

  Her breath warmed the scant air between them.

  Women were a mystery he hadn’t taken the time to unravel. He’d never been interested in pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Now, he understood the real reason behind his reluctance.

  All he cared for was this woman. Amelia.

  Their mouths touched, light and sweet. They touched again. Elated thrill tugged an invisible string from his lips to his groin, and sweetness turned to spice.

  Then, urgent with famished hunger, he repeatedly claimed her mouth until he could barely recall a time their mouths had been distinct.

  Invincible.

  Just as he’d always known.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Could a kiss go on forever?

  Yes, Amelia prayed.

  Even a brief pause would open the door to rational thought and rational thought—any thought, really—would thwart the overwhelming wave of want that had lifted her out of her chair and then, somehow, landed her in Bellamy’s embrace.

  Desire bred stupor, and yet being clasped within Bellamy’s arms was inexplicably right.

  He had such solid arms.

  Such a solid chest.

  He was, simply, solid—something on which she could rely.

  He kissed how she’d imagined, exactly how he worked—careful, thorough, and fully aware. Each time his lips brushed hers, a hotter rush of desire left her gasping. Soon, she would boil.

  Still, she had to breathe eventually.

  She rolled her forehead against his cheek, panting. “I—I never guessed.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. A shadow of stubble tickled her skin.

  “Are you being truthful?”

  “No,” she repeated. And then, because nothing else would come to mind, she said, “You’re a man.”