Captivated by His Kiss: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Seven Regency Romances

by Cheryl Bolen

  Damn, Allen wouldn’t let that falsehood go unaccounted for.

  “Ah, that.” Chance offered a weak chuckle. “Not one of my cleverer moments, I’ll confess.”

  He traced the scar on his cheek, recalling Ivy’s gentle touch. She hadn’t seemed the least repulsed by the jagged mark.

  “I said the one thing I thought would make the boor leave off pursuing her.” He didn’t elaborate how he’d bitten his tongue to keep from saying, “Promised to me.”

  If only he’d dared to. What would have happened?

  Mrs. Washburn’s freckled face, immediately followed by his sire’s disproving countenance, flashed to mind. Hell, with that ridiculous millstone about his neck, Chance must proceed with the greatest of caution.

  He rubbed his arm then his hand. He might indulge in a bit of laudanum tonight—to take the edge off the pain. More on point, the drug would numb his mind and the tormenting thoughts of Ivy, which guaranteed another sleepless night.

  Allen drew in a gusty breath and ran his hand through his dark hair. “I’m heartily sick of the captain, I can tell you. I don’t trust the sod one whit. He’ll not let this fabricated affiancing story die a quiet death. Of that I’m positive.”

  “Why is he here tonight if you and Ivy find him so offensive?” Chance’s arm throbbed. He needed to say his farewells soon. “Did your mother invite him?”

  Allen snorted. “Absolutely not. Mother cannot abide Kirkpatrick, either. The bugger hangs on the coat sleeves of others. I’m sure he wrangled an invitation to accompany one of his business cronies.”

  Allen exited the bower ahead of Chance.

  “I’ll speak to Mother. I’m thinking she needs to further refine her guest list.”

  “Indeed.” Chance followed him outside, grateful for the fresh air filling his lungs. He’d guess no part of Kirkpatrick had seen the inside of a tub in a good while. Imagining Ivy with the man set Chance’s teeth on edge once again.

  “So, this is where you got off to.” Grinning, Allen gestured toward the alcove. “Thought you were in the library, but when I checked, you’d disappeared. I wondered where you’d sequestered yourself.”

  He threw an arm across Chance’s shoulders. “No need to hide, Faulkenhurst.”

  Chance winced as pain speared his arm and hand. “I wasn’t hiding. I wanted to reacquaint myself with the grounds, and you have to admit, the air within the house is intolerable.”

  Not nearly as intolerable as the arbor.

  Truth to tell, he had been avoiding the throng inside the manor.

  He’d arrived this evening, terrified he’d encounter Ivy and equally desperate to do so. He hadn’t expected her to dash into the bower while he lurked there. Rather awkward to be caught skulking in the garden alcove. He’d opened his mouth to tell her he stood behind her when the sea crab appeared.

  Her fear of the man tangible, Ivy had needed safeguarding. So, Chance remained silent and, in some measure, grateful he had a legitimate reason not to return to the ball.

  Pasting a fake smile on his face and pretending nonchalance about his crippling injuries took a greater toll than he’d imagined they would. He’d endured more pitying glances and ignored more horrified gasps and looks of revulsion than anyone ought to in a single night.

  Wonder what long-toothed Mrs. Washburn and her father will think of my condition?

  Didn’t matter what they thought. Chance had no intention of honoring his father’s ludicrous proposal. Although the blame for the bumblebroth lay at Father’s feet, the delicate situation needed discrete handling.

  Excusing himself from the ball early on, Chance had drifted to the library. Reading had proved futile. Laying the book aside, he’d wandered to the French windows and stared blankly at the night. The lure of the arbor called him. He’d been unable to resist a visit to another time, when he’d dreamed Ivy might be his. She’d dwelled in his thoughts, and though he’d been no

  monk, he’d never desired another as much as her.

  When a man gave his heart to a woman, other females might temporarily satiate his physical desire, but his soul continued to yearn for its mate, seeking the wholeness no other could offer.

  Yesterday, when Allen insisted he join him at his table at White’s, Chance had posed several subtle questions regarding the family’s health, business ventures, and finally, he’d dared to inquire about Ivy.

  Allen had smiled knowingly, as if he’d expected the conversation to shift to a discussion about his sister. Peculiar that. Chance had never confided in his long-time friend, never hinted he held Ivy in any special regard. He couldn’t contain his broad smile or the joy that had swept him upon learning she remained unmarried.

  “There’s no shortage of damsels inside eager for dance partners.” His arm about Chance’s shoulders, Allen set their course toward the bustling mansion. “Unless you forgot how to perform Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot in the wilds of India.”

  Chance didn’t want to dance with those ladies. A sable-haired, hazel-eyed sprite with a beauty mark beside her left nostril was the only woman he ever wanted to hold in his arms. And if he’d heard correctly in the arbor, she didn’t dance anymore.

  “I’ll tell you, I could use a stiff swallow of French brandy after that nonsense with Kirkpatrick.” Allen withdrew his arm and quickened his pace.

  Their shoes clicked on the limestone pavers as they neared the house.

  “I’d not say no to a nip of cognac,” Chance admitted.

  “Let’s find you a dance partner, and I’ll make sure the Jack Nasty Face took his leave." Allen tossed Chance a familiar teasing grin. “Then we’ll both indulge in a finger’s worth or two.”

  The drink sounded wonderful.

  The dance Chance would pass on. Dancing required the touching of hands.

  Allen’s grin widened. “I do believe that scar on your cheek improves your devilish good looks. Makes you seem mysterious and debonair. Second son or not, the ladies will be vying for your attention.”

  Chance stopped and yanked off his modified glove. He raised his disfigured hand. “Even with this? I think you over-estimate my attraction, my friend.”

  “Does it pain you still?” Brow creased, Allen stared at the two nubs where Chance’s middle and forefinger used to be.

  A long, jagged scar disappeared into the wristband of his coat sleeve.

  “Some. It’s been less than six months.” He tugged the glove on, not without some difficulty. Thank God Allen didn’t offer to help. Chance crooked his lips upward.

  “You should see the scar on my forearm. Nearly lost the thing. I imagine I look a bit like that creature in that new novel. What’s it called?”

  He sent a contemplative glance skyward.

  “Ah, I remember.” Chance lowered his voice to an eerie growl. “Frankenstein.”

  Allen’s expression grew serious. “Don’t be absurd. Mangled arm and minus two fingers, you’re more of a man than ninety percent of the coves here tonight.”

  “Only ninety?” Chance quipped to hide the emotion Allen’s kind words aroused.

  Lost in thought, Chance ascended the terrace steps. The veranda swarmed with guests, no doubt seeking fresh air.

  Allen stopped on the top riser and gave him a broad grin. “I’ve missed you, Falcon. We all have.”

  “There you are, Allen, Faulkenhurst.” Lord Wimpleton, his usually jovial countenance severe, strode in their direction. Upon reaching them, he gave a cursory glance around.

  No one paid them any mind.

  His brow furrowed, the viscount dropped his voice. “Please explain to me if either of you have the slightest idea why, in the last ten minutes, I’ve had several guests offer me congratulations on my daughter’s betrothal.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Edging the library’s terrace door open a crack, Ivonne peered inside.

  No one.

  A single lamp burned low atop the mantle. A leather volume lay open on the dark puce and ebony settee. Odd. Who would have bee
n in here tonight? One didn’t attend a ball with the intention of seeking a spot to read.

  Someone chose to avoid the gathering. Why?

  She slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The latch sank home with a soft click. She still clutched Edwina’s wadded handkerchief. Ivonne smiled wryly and tucked the cloth inside her bodice. Rushing to the other entrance, her emerald satin slippers scuffed atop the Axminster carpet.

  Her gaze fell on her reflection in the oval mirror positioned above a mahogany drum table, and she faltered to a sudden stop. Gads, her appearance bordered on indecent. Without much stretch of the imagination, guests might ponder if she’d indulged in a dalliance in the garden.

  Ivonne raised a hand to the hair trailing down her spine and over her left shoulder and plucked two small leaves from the tendrils. Glancing down, she sighed. A torn piece of black netting dangled above her hemline. Bending, she inspected the tear.

  Not awful. A few artful stitches ought to repair the rip.

  Should she seek her chamber on the third floor or the lady’s retiring room just down the hall? The retiring room seemed the more logical choice to set herself aright. Except ... what if other ladies occupied the chamber? How would she explain her unkempt appearance? The gossip coffers already overflowed on her behalf tonight.

  She shrugged. So be it.

  She would tell any ladies in the room that she took a spill into the shrubberies. Given her penchant for tripping and stumbling, no one ought to question the taradiddle.

  Ivonne cracked open the door and took a furtive peek up and down the hall.

  All clear.

  She hurried the few yards to the retiring room. Taking a deep breath, she pasted a smile on her face and pressed the lever down. The door swung open.

  Empty, thank goodness. Not even a maid.

  Where was Barrett? It wasn’t like the servant to leave her post.

  Grateful for the reprieve Ivonne stepped inside and closed her eyes for a long moment. She took a steadying breath—the first relaxed one she’d enjoyed since tearing from the terrace.

  Chancey Faulkenhurst.

  Falcon.

  His handsome face forced its way to the forefront of her mind. After all this time, he’d returned. Her imprudent heart beat faster. Why did he have to return now, when she’d finally put him behind her? When she was crippled and considered past her prime? When he could never be hers?

  Ivonne opened her eyes and shook her head. A rose petal floated to the floor. His homecoming changed nothing.

  Locating a table with mirrors, assorted fripperies, hair pins, and such, she took a seat. After yanking off her gloves, she set them aside and went about haphazardly repinning her mass of hair.

  Falcon had spent many hours in the garden nook with her—until he’d left for India. She had pleaded with her parents for two weeks straight before they finally relented and gave her permission to correspond with him, as long as they read every letter first.

  A flush of chagrin heated her face. What they must have thought. She’d been such a fawning, green girl.

  She’d not heard from Falcon once during his absence. Not a single page, though she’d written to him every week the first year. At sixteen, she’d believed her heart would never recover when she finally accepted he wasn’t going to answer her letters. She’d brooded about in a fit of the blue devils for months.

  If he’d cared an iota for her, he would have written. Not a single line in six years sent an indisputable message. He wasn’t interested. She was no featherbrain. She’d misinterpreted his kindness and thoughtfulness for something more.

  Something which would never be.

  Ivonne had come to realize her childish dream of marrying him had been just that: a silly, unattainable fantasy. Somehow, the knowledge alleviated her girlish infatuation, although over the years, she hadn’t become enamored of anyone else. Nor had she encouraged other suitors’ attentions either—not that there’d been a horde of them to begin with.

  Nonetheless, a part of her heart would always belong to Falcon. She had resolutely tucked that piece away and refused to extract the fragment from its snug resting place. The remainder of her heart she kept guarded, not willing to suffer such torment again. Once in a lifetime was quite enough, thank you.

  As much as she once adored him, years’ worth of callous indifference had created a chasm between them. She would never trust her emotions again, especially not love.

  She supposed that’s why she’d been accused of being unapproachable and standoffish.

  On one occasion, she overheard a group of gentlemen suggest that the swan ice sculpture their hosts commissioned for the Yuletide gala possessed more personality and warmth than she. One dandy had mockingly called her Icy Ivonne. The others sniggered in obvious agreement.

  Truth to tell, she compared every man to Falcon, and all came up wanting.

  She paused and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  The woman peering back at her wasn’t disagreeable nor was she particularly noteworthy. Clear hazel eyes, more oval than round and almost green in the candlelight, were her best feature besides her alabaster skin. A rather square chin, pert mouth with too full lips, and straight dark hair of a nondescript shade of brown completed her inventory.

  No, a diamond of the first water she wasn’t. Falcon possessed the beauty she lacked. Men weren’t supposed to be beautiful, but to describe him otherwise, didn’t do him justice.

  No other male possessed eyes quite the same gray-blue as he, like the sea after a mighty winter tempest. A hint of humor and kindness always glimmered in their thick-lashed depths. High cheekbones and a straight aristocratic nose, combined with those sculpted lips and his dark blond hair streaked with gold ... she released a long, shuddering breath.

  He was as close to Adonis in the flesh as she’d ever seen. She’d been paraded before young dandies and bucks aplenty, and although handsome, some profoundly so, all paled in comparison to Falcon.

  Ivonne frowned.

  He bore a fresh scar on his cheek. In the arbor’s muted light, the mark barely showed. His hair had gleamed gold, more than she remembered, though his eyes seemed darker.

  Cooler. Distant.

  Icy Ivonne she might be, but Falcon’s smile possessed the ability to transform her into a mass of melted flummery. Only, now, she neared her third and twentieth birthday and no longer wore her emotions on her sleeve like a flighty girl.

  He’d never learn how he affected her.

  Securing the last pin, she scrutinized her attempt to repair her coiffure. She patted the back of her head, unable to tell if all her hair was in place. True, the style wasn’t the elaborate coiled knot Dawson created earlier this evening, but at least her locks weren’t tumbling down her back in shocking disarray.

  Ivonne twisted to examine the chamber. Where were the sewing supplies?

  The door flew open and several women filed in.

  Lydia Farnsworth smiled kindly before disappearing behind a screen.

  The Dundercroft sisters, Francine and Lyselle, tripped to a stop, as did their constant companion, Penelope Rossington.

  Perfect.

  Three of London’s worst rumormongers with scarcely a speck of common sense amongst them.

  Barrett scooted past the ladies. She dipped a curtsy.

  “Oh, Miss Wimpleton, please excuse my absence. I had to fetch more towels.” She lifted the stack of snowy cloths she held. “The ladies have suffered dreadfully from the heat this evening.”

  Ivonne smiled. “It’s quite all right. I need to mend my gown. It sustained a minor tear when I was in the garden.”

  A petite, shapely blonde, Miss Rossington glided further into the room. Uncommonly attractive, she knew it well.

  Ivonne stifled a gasp. Had Miss Rossington dampened her gown?

  That’s what came of having no mother, an overindulgent father, and the morals of a barnyard cat.

  Ivonne’s modest endowments appeared childlike next to such curv
aceousness. Of course, if she puffed her chest out in the same manner, she’d appear more buxom too. Walking about aiming one’s bosoms skyward must cause a fierce backache and wreak havoc on one’s balance.

  Not worth the discomfort or danger.

  She prayed the attention Allen directed toward Miss Rossington was driven by politeness and not any intent on his part to court the wench. A slight shudder shook her. A worse sister-in-law she couldn’t imagine.

  “Whatever were you doing that you tore your gown, Miss Wimpleton?” Miss Rossington’s gaze focused on the mirror behind Ivonne. Her citrine eyes—the exact same shade as Ivonne’s ancient cat, Sir Pounce—rounded. A smirk curved Miss Rossington’s ruby-tinted lips.

  Captain Kirkpatrick. Blast him to Hades.

  The freckled Dundercroft misses tittered behind their pudgy hands.

  Ivonne stared at the trio, a chill causing the flesh on her arms to pucker.

  What Banbury Tales had the captain concocted when he’d come inside? Alarm and shame engulfed her. What would she say to her parents? How could she explain this bumblebroth away without partially blaming Falcon for claiming she was promised?

  “Is it true?” Miss Rossington advanced another few mincing steps. She cast her cohorts a secretive smile. “You’ve managed to get yourself affianced at long last?”

  Heaven help me.

  “I ...” Ivonne swallowed, dread drying her mouth. She loathed lying.

  “Who is he?” Envy twisted the corners of the elder Miss Dundercroft’s thin lips.

  “Yes, do tell.” Miss Lyselle fairly danced in anticipation. Her plump bosoms and curls bounced with her excitement. She clapped her hands together. “Do we know him? Is he here tonight?”

  “Is that why you’ve shrubbery in your mussed hair and your dress is torn?” Miss Rossington swept her hand across her perfectly styled flaxen hair. Her diamond and sapphire bracelet shimmered in the candlelight. She smiled, a malicious glint in her feline eyes.

  She tittered unkindly. “Your hair looks like an owl in an ivy bush ... a-la-blowze.”