Second Chance Love: A Regency Romance Set

by Wendy Lacapra

  He filled her. Claimed her. Made her his. She didn’t care about anything else in the world.

  When he thrust his deepest and held, fingers digging into her sides, she was so lost in her own implosion, she barely heard his guttural cry.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Was this how every man felt after shaking the proverbial sheets for the very first time?

  Impossible.

  Because the expansive adoration drifting ocean-like in his chest had to be specific to Amelia—the woman he loved. The woman who meant everything to him.

  He hadn’t any way to describe the let-go moment—the moment of release.

  Ecstasy, perhaps?

  Rapture?

  In any case, his trance-like state had yet to lift.

  Part of him lay on his back, aware of a beautiful woman—his beautiful woman—draped across his chest. She was heavy, but cherished weight could never be a burden. He stroked her back—the softest skin he’d every touched.

  Yet his awareness of Amelia only described the sensations experienced by his physical body.

  Another part of him floated disembodied in a realm both above, beneath, and within the tangible world. Not through the air, mind you, but through a magical dimension. A spiritual dimension.

  Corporeal Matthew snorted.

  Had he really turned mystic after one coupling with Amelia?

  Amelia stirred, changing positions as if lying beside a naked man was perfectly normal. Maybe—he inhaled sharply—going about disrobed was perfectly normal between wedded couples.

  Her breasts skimmed across his torso. What a feeling! What a damned delight! Why hadn’t he wooed her before? Why hadn’t he wed her before?

  She sat her fist atop his rips and rested her chin in the indent. Her blond curls spilled around her face. Lamplight illuminated fine lines running outward from the edges of her eyes. Laugh lines.

  He liked when she smiled.

  Adorable.

  She frowned. “What are you thinking?”

  The truth? Nothing. Also the truth? Everything.

  “I wish,” a near-drunken slur softened his vowels, “I was able to form a single, coherent thought.”

  His answer made her shoulders doughy and pliant once again.

  Everything was just so dream-like. “Are you floating, too?”

  “No.” She chuckled. “Not anymore. No, no, no. You don’t have to move. I’m content.” She splayed her hand over his heart and rested her cheek against his muscle. “Happy, even.”

  “Good.” All he could want, really. Amelia. Happy. Like a band new quill all shiny and smooth.

  “Night two,” she exhaled heavily, “half way through the magic.”

  Now that couldn’t be right. He wound a curl around his finger. This magic was endless. No end. At all. Didn’t she see? Didn’t she remember? He’d just been inside her body, for goodness sake.

  Inside.

  How strange a thought. His face relaxed. His lips turned up. How wonderful an adventure.

  She giggled. “What are you thinking, now?”

  Inquisitive little thing.

  His thoughts weren’t the kind of thoughts capable of being tied up in letters, pinned down and wrestled into vowels and consonants. They were amorphous ideas, multiplying like bubbles, enclosing air in iridescence.

  “If two can become one.” He brushed his knuckle up her back. “Two can become anything.”

  Her breath tickled his throat. “Is that so?”

  He closed his eyes and nodded. Behind his lids circles broke into circles broke into circles, froth enough to prove his point, if only she could see them, too. Two into one…and then one into infinity.

  And then he was thinking of planets. Of vast distances. Of mysteries and mortality.

  He tightened his hold on her shoulder and then rolled his head toward her ear. “I have a secret.”

  Only silence answered—a special sort of silence, though. Silence awash in effervescence…in hope. And, his thoughts found the perfect words. The only possible words.

  “I love you.” He sighed. “I want to marry you.”

  There. He’d said it. Feather barbs reknitted, vein once again smooth, everything properly ordered and ready to take flight. Only…

  “Amelia?”

  Silence again. This time not so bubbly.

  He lifted his laden lids.

  Well, something had gone wrong. Her lashes were damp and pink veins branched into whites around her iris.

  “Amelia—are you? Is everything?” He wasn’t sure what he should be asking.

  “Shh.” She kissed one of his eyes closed. “Sleep.” She kissed the other.

  He tried—and failed—to reopen his eyes.

  When an angel said sleep, you slept. An angel of light.

  Of love.

  He surrendered to sleep, remembering nothing more.

  ***

  By the time the morning sun spilled through the skylight, Amelia was already awake and had been for some time. Awake and thinking about the look in Matthews eyes at the moment of release.

  She not a vain woman, but Matthew’s gaze made her feel, not just beautiful, but ravishing. His gaze had promised her she was the answer, not just to a prayer he’d once uttered, but to every prayer—the sum total of a lifetime of his desires.

  She tucked away the memory for the lonely nights to come.

  She’d heard about men who turned tender and affectionate after their little death. Caught in the post copulation haze, they spouted eternal devotion until fully spent.

  Matthew’s words of love had seemed sincere, but how could he have been serious?

  He’d never been with a woman before.

  Imagine.

  She shook her head—a little flattered and a little stunned to have been Matthew’s first.

  Her first time had been her wedding night with George, and she, too had ended the night more than a little weepy. She’d wanted to cling to George, certain she’d never again feel such exquisite kinship, such flawless, physical trust.

  She’d been wrong.

  Her marriage had been a font of sensual pleasure—of loving union. And she hadn’t cried again.

  Not until tonight.

  She imagined—just for a moment—she could become Matthew’s wife, that they could spiral through the rest of her days as one, loving and learning together, taking the inevitable bumps in stride.

  She’d told Matthew he was a fine man. Truth was, he was the best. She never imagined she’d love again. Never. Yet, here she was, heart spilling out all over the rumpled sheets of this impossibly small bed, spinning impossible dreams through the foggy blur of tears.

  Mrs. Matthew Bellamy.

  How utterly perfect—for her.

  But for him?

  Matthew deserved so much more. The children she’d be unlikely to bear, for instance. The place in Society she could never help him to achieve.

  If she truly cared for him him, she’d leave, no matter how much she wished she could stay.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, and then down the sharp angle of his dear, sweet, cheek.

  “Matthew,” she whispered, “I have to go.”

  He groaned, eyes closed.

  “Matthew…”

  He raised one lid. He squeezed her shoulder. “No.”

  Sadness weighted her smile. “I have to leave.”

  He tensed. “Do you?”

  Her gaze slipped away. “I promised to meet Constance.”

  He relaxed. “But you’ll return.”

  She couldn’t return.

  Could she?

  Right now, she was a flat rock skipping across the surface of a pond. Soon—much too soon—she would sink. She’d fall into the thick, airless depths. Tangled in weeds. Unable to breathe…

  “What happens next?” he asked, fully awake now.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Between us.” His voice discharged shards. “What happens next?”

  “The ball i
s over.” She moved out of his circle of warmth. “We go back to our lives.”

  “I”—His voice cracked. He stopped and cleared his throat—"We have one more night.”

  She shook her head no. “The game has become too dangerous.”

  “Game?” He frowned. “You can’t mean you’re leaving for good.”

  She didn’t answer. How could she answer? Her cracking heart rendered her mute.

  “We had,” he growled, “an agreement.”

  Anger. She swallowed. Anger was better than hurt. Anger she could survive.

  She pulled her shift over her head. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  She’d intended to follow with something flippant—something that would conceal how very much she cared. But she couldn’t breathe.

  She wrapped her dress and tied her tie.

  “Stay with me.” A command, not a plea.

  She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Where the devil were her stockings? She pressed a hand to her forehead as she swiveled around. Where?

  “Please stay.”

  Heavens. How much was she supposed to bear? She spotted one stocking draped over the back of the headboard and snatched it to her chest. Then, she spotted the other at the foot of the bed.

  They turned toward one another at the same time, then they both dove for the stocking in unison.

  Matthew was bigger. He got there first. He hid her stocking behind his back.

  She held out her hand. “Give me my stocking.”

  “Not until you tell me why you are leaving. The truth.”

  She made a sound of frustration. “I want to stay but I can’t. It’s impossible. We’re impossible. This cannot last.”

  “Marry me and I’ll make it last.”

  “Matthew.” She sunk down onto the mattress, a hard gaze on her stupid, aging hands. “I’m old. You aren’t.”

  “You’re ten years my senior.”

  She sent him a narrow, side-eyed glance. “It’s insulting to state a lady’s age.”

  “You’re the one who brought up the topic. I certainly never would.” Confusion ruffled his brow. “Is thirty-seven so old?”

  “The Duchess of Devonshire died at forty-five.”

  “And so did Mr. Sartin.”

  She nodded. “And so did George.”

  The ghost of George Sartin drifted between them. But no matter how real the ache in her heart, the ‘ghost’ was nothing more than a figment born of her own guilt and fear.

  “There isn’t any rhyme nor reason.” He touched her hair. “And no guarantees.”

  She exhaled and looked into Bellamy’s eyes. She wished she could hand him the burden of decision, let him sweep aside her concerns and take charge.

  A wish unfair to them both.

  He hadn’t any different answers than she had. They were both beings suspended in an experience they could never not fully comprehend—just like every other person who’d ever lived. With no easy answers, no Society-approved path, neither of them could know, really know, how best to proceed.

  He placed her other stocking in her hands, pressed her palms together, and then held them between his own. A lock of soft brown hair cascaded over his forehead, making her long to brush it back into place.

  “Go if you must.” Hurt shone in his eyes. “But go knowing I love you. I know my mind. I thought you knew yours.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Amelia strolled along the along the Serpentine beside Lady Constance for their habitual Sunday afternoon outing. Constance regaled Amelia with every on dit she’d missed by not attending the musicale at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Shepthorpe the prior night.

  As usual, Constance required little commentary, which suited Amelia just fine.

  I love you.

  She still couldn’t believe he’d uttered the words. Twice.

  Of course, the first time he’d been well on his way to slumber’s oblivion due to exhaustion. Which was understandable. A man didn’t lose his virginity every day.

  And she’d been enthusiastic…right up to his final confession.

  How could she not?

  Matthew Bellamy was...

  He was…

  Matchless. Irreplaceable.

  Which was why she had to leave.

  She could not give him another night. She’d already given him her heart—not that she would let him know.

  If she were young, she’d make him her own. But she was not young.

  He’d want children. Children she was unlikely to bear.

  More importantly, anyone associated with Sartin Trading Company, from the suppliers to the customers to the investors, would naturally be appalled.

  Suspicious, too.

  She’d have scores of clerks demanding to check Matthew’s books.

  She couldn’t put George’s legacy at risk. And Jeremy—good lord—Jeremy would never understand.

  “Amelia!”

  She halted. “Yes?”

  “You weren’t listening. Again.” Constance frowned. “Should I be concerned?”

  “I’m not feeling myself today.”

  “Only today? You disappeared from Lady Darlington’s soiree, you declined an invitation to the duchess’s musicale, and you’ve been entirely too distracted.” She lifted a brow. “I’ve told you my mouse story three times in the last two weeks—adding impossible details each time—and you haven’t noticed.”

  She frowned. “I noticed.”

  “You could have fooled me.” She lowered her voice. “Is this about Markham? Because I heard there is trouble in paradise…you may have another chance with him yet.”

  “Trouble? Between Lord Markham and Lady Clarissa?” So much for her fairy godmother credentials. “I am sincerely sorry to hear that. They appeared to be besotted.”

  Constance smirked. “You cannot convince me you were cheering on your former lover’s betrothal.”

  “I was, in fact. Why would I begrudge a young person an excellent match?” She thought of Matthew. "Especially one I admire.”

  To her horror, tears clogged her throat. Constance simply blinked.

  Amelia retrieved a handkerchief and pressed it to her face. Reduced to a weeping mess—awash in the kind of frantic confusion she would have once attributed to her courses.

  This was no moon-inspired madness. This was just one very sad truth.

  She’d been in love once.

  And she’d fallen in love again.

  Love was rare. Precious.

  And she wasn’t resisting because she thought Matthew could find better. Nor did she truly care what proof of her past integrity investors might want her to provide, or whether or not Jeremy would be offended. She was resisting because she didn’t have the courage to face heartbreak and grief again.

  She sobbed.

  “Good heavens, Amelia. What’s gotten into you?” Constance whipped her arm beneath Amelia’s, called back to her servant for a parasol and, when the parasol arrived, hid them both under the broad canopy as she led the way back to the carriage.

  “I apologize.” Amelia hiccupped. “I didn’t mean to embarrass—”

  “Shush. I’m not embarrassed, but you can’t go bursting into tears in Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon. Why, you’re considered a tower of strength. It just wouldn’t do to have people second guess!”

  Tower of strength? Pfft.

  Constance bundled Amelia inside and then quickly drew the curtains.

  “Now, what is going on?”

  Amelia rubbed the handkerchief beneath her nose. “I cannot tell you.”

  “Me? I’m your closest friend.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you, Constance?”

  Constance’s jaw dropped.

  “I mean,” Amelia continued, “I appreciate you lowering yourself enough to be seen with a woman of trade, but we aren’t truly friends, are we?”

  Constance made a frightening noise in the back of her throat. “Whyever would you say such a thing?”

  “You distain t
rade. My living is trade.”

  Constance blinked. “True.”

  “Constance.”

  “I need a moment to think, thank you.” Constance straightened. “I hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms. I’m terribly high in the instep, aren’t I? Quite the Lady Catherine, through and through.” She closed one eye. “Must I change?”

  Amelia snorted. “Only if you wish to be a real friend.”

  “I’ll have to think about this one.” Constance drummed her fingers against the bench. “You know, I always thought of you as someone who didn’t care much for the opinions of others—including my own.”

  Amelia lifted her chin. “I don’t.”

  “So what has you all feathered up, then? And none of that lips are sealed nonsense.”

  Amelia rubbed her forehead. “As my nephew says—I am in a devil of a pickle.”

  “Sounds terrible.” Constance shuddered. “A man is involved, I’m sure. Perhaps not Markham, but—”

  “Do you remember the gentleman I introduced you to at Lady Darlington’s soiree?” She hadn’t the patience for one of Constance’s guessing games.

  “Your secretary, you mean?”

  Amelia’s shoulders sagged. “Him.”

  “Him? Well, obviously, you are in love with him.”

  Amelia’s gaze shot back to Constance. “How did you know?”

  “Friends. Remember?” She rolled her eyes. “If you hadn’t any attachment you would have teased me about him for weeks.”

  “Happy to be so obvious.”

  Constance shrugged. “I hadn’t considered the possibility you’d act on your feelings. Does he care for you in the way you care for him?”

  “Yes.” A searing pain clenched her stomach. “What should I do?”

  “What should you do?” Constance clapped in front of Amelia’s face. “Why you should marry him, of course.” She clapped again. “Wake up.”

  Amelia pushed away Constance’s hands. “You, of all people, know how impossible—”

  Constance tsked. “Why should I know such a thing?”

  “You said I should relish my freedom or some such nonsense.”

  “Did I? I must have been confusing you with me.”

  “I’m Matthew Bellamy’s employer.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “There is that.”