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

by Cheryl Bolen

  However much as it tickled him to know Miss George was the celebrated and much read author, K.L. Brahms, as a customer of his bank, she surely wouldn’t remain so. A pity. Miss George’s writing really was wonderful and he enjoyed getting his hands on each new story before anyone else. Aside from him, and her editor, she demanded the matter was to be kept secret. He’d not even shared the real identity of K.L. Brahms with his business partner and he hoped whoever replaced him would share the same scruples of discretion. Society would be scandalized to know the darling of literary circles was not in fact a man but a very young spinster.

  David picked up the tea tray, deposited it in the kitchen, and then strolled out of the house to look up at the sky. The day hadn’t turned out particularly pleasant. Grey clouds clustered above him so he couldn’t venture too far from home without risking becoming uncomfortably wet. The only bright spot on his horizon was tonight’s dinner.

  A small whimper reached his ears and he looked about the garden for the source. Huddled by the wall of his garden, between wilted radishes and sad cabbage heads, sat a small ball of filthy brown fluff. Bedraggled, trembling, small beady black eyes stared at him and a black nose sniffed the air. A puppy? He glanced about but the poor thing was entirely alone.

  He crept closer. Animals never really warmed to him, but its forlorn whimpers touched him. He leaned down to scratch its damp head. The little beast wagged its tail hesitantly. As he stroked the tips of its ears the speed of its wagging increased. Encouraged, he carefully eased his hand beneath the puppy and lifted it away from the vegetables so he could get a better look. Four very muddy paws scrambled in the air for purchase just as the sky opened up and hard rain fell.

  Startled by the rain and sudden wriggling, David drew it against his chest and hurried toward the shelter of the house before they were both drenched through to the skin. He stepped into the warm, and thankfully, empty kitchen, uncertain of what he should do with the beast. Its whimpers and struggles pulled at his heart. Cleaning and drying it off seemed a necessary first step. He dropped the pup onto the battered work table and peered at him. Or was he a she?

  The little beast shivered, dropping spots of mud onto the clean surface, and made to return to him. David pushed it back to the middle, but kept a restraining hand on it this time. Poor creature. What a sorry state to be in, all mud and misery; all alone in the world, just as he was.

  He dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped ineffectually at the muck and water around its dark eyes. However, the handkerchief proved no match for the mud caked to its paws. He’d barely made a dent before he realized a thorough dunking and scrub would be called for to make the beast in any way presentable.

  “You, sir or madam whichever you may be, are not fit for decent company,” he said out loud as he struggled out of his coat and ruined waistcoat.

  The puppy’s ears flattened at his tone and David rubbed them until the beast perked up again. He rolled up his sleeves in between petting the pup, leaving smears of mud on the white cotton shirt. Resigned to the ruin of his attire because of one small creature, he peered about the kitchen, searching for what he would need to save the rest of his wardrobe. He wrapped the animal in a rag he spied hanging from a chair and tucked the pup tight against him while he organized a bucket of warm soapy water.

  He chatted to the pup as he worked and by the time he had readied the bath the animal had fallen fast asleep against his chest. He felt cruel to wake it, but it couldn’t remain as it was. Not if it wanted to enjoy more of his attention. He carefully unwrapped the rag from the animal and slowly lowered it into the bucket.

  The pup did not enjoy the bath at all; especially the repeated scrubbing and dunking required for cleaning. However, the drying seemed to improve its mood as did the combing to a degree. The odd snarl had the pup nipping at his fingers and he grew more careful as he brushed through the short coat. In the process of cleaning, he discovered he held a pure white pup, a terrier of some description, and a female. “So, you are a lady, eh?” The pup burrowed under his hand in search of more attention. “How much trouble will you be for me, princess?”

  By the end of the chore, David was tempted to keep her. How much trouble could a pup be? The only thing that worried him was the hours the pup could spend alone at his London apartment and the fuss that might be raised if he were to take her with him to the office. How could he possibly entertain the idea of keeping an animal that would demand all his spare time and then some? He couldn’t very well rush out into the park every hour to let it tend its business. Regretfully, he concluded that he’d have to find someone to care for it, someone living here in Brighton would be best.

  He found Princess—for that’s what he decided to name her—something she seemed to enjoy eating and when she would take no more nourishment, he carried her upstairs to his bedchamber while he dressed for dinner with the Watsons. He dragged an old, sturdy traveling trunk out from under the bed and placed bed linens inside. Given the sides were quite high, the pup should be safely contained while he changed. The pup walked around in circles sniffing her new bed, curled into a ball with a whimper, and then promptly fell asleep.

  Hopefully, she would sleep all night or at least until he returned from dinner.

  David turned back to his wardrobe and changed as quietly as he could. When he was satisfied he was dressed well enough to call upon the Watsons, he picked up the pup, trunk and all, and quietly took her back to the kitchen being careful not to jostle her about too much.

  Once he was sure Princess remained asleep he eased out of the room and let himself out the front door and locked it behind him. David took a large steadying breath. It was just a friendly dinner with the most beguiling Abigail Watson, followed by a possibly hostile interview with her brother. He patted the letter in his pocket while his heart grew heavy. The time had come. He would deliver the demand for payment at the very end of the evening. With luck, Abigail would not become distressed should her brother turn surly.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Acting as hostess for Peter’s friends had never bothered Abigail very much before, but tonight her nerves were a jangled mess. She wanted everything to be perfect when David arrived. The flowers on the table were low enough to prove no barrier to conversation; the menu was simple and should prove a success.

  “Abigail, if you move that accursed vase one more time I’ll toss it out the window,” Peter grumbled from the doorway. “What’s gotten into you?”

  David was coming and she was anxious to see him. Her visit to his house had stirred up all sorts of mischief, especially her thoughts about the future. She liked David a great deal more than she’d first realized. She’d had a brief idea that climbing into bed with him and snuggling up against his broad bare chest would not be a very terrible thing to do before she was married. The idea was rather intriguing. That sort of thought rarely occurred to her around other men. But the memory of his bare chest, the fine hairs disappearing beneath the tumbled sheet had set her heart to racing repeatedly since that moment.

  He was much more muscular and imposing without clothes than she’d imagined a man could be. In fact, she’d had to keep her hands clenched on her lap to control her curiosity.

  Imogen cleared her throat, alerting Abigail that she’d been staring off into space and hadn’t answered her brother. “I want the evening to be perfect, that’s all.”

  He stared at her hard. “Why is tonight different than any other? You don’t usually go to this much trouble. It’s just Hawke, not the king, coming to dine.”

  “And I have never hosted a dinner for him before,” Abigail snapped. “You’ve likely forgotten, but I have behaved exactly this way before entertaining any of our friends for the first time.”

  Imogen slipped into the room, her gaze darting between them anxiously. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Watson, don’t bother her. Ladies like to have everything just so. Men, however, will leave everything to chance and pot luck and let the sensible run the gauntle
t of their misadventures.”

  Peter’s eyes widened as he stared at Imogen. “I know that saying. Do you read K.L. Brahms?”

  Imogen shrugged. “Of course, doesn’t everyone with sense?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Well, I suppose most of my acquaintances would, but I would have thought the material somewhat broad and, perhaps a trifle vulgar, for a woman your age.”

  “Vulgar?” Imogen laughed and turned away, covering her mouth. “They are subjects one hears spoken of everyday. How can the truth be vulgar?”

  “Yes, but surely your brother doesn’t approve of you reading that man’s work,” Peter continued.

  Imogen turned and the look she leveled at Peter should have sent him scurrying. Abigail sighed. Peter should know better than to lecture Imogen. She would do exactly as she pleased regardless of his opinion. Abigail quickly stepped between them. “Perhaps what my brother thinks on the subject of K.L. Brahms could be kept for discussion until after we dine.”

  A throat cleared at the door and Simpson showed David in.

  He smiled warily. “Am I interrupting?”

  Abigail’s breath caught. A blush heated her cheeks as she stared across the room’s expanse. David’s London finery filled the space so completely he made her brother’s attire seem terribly shabby and outdated.

  “David. I mean Mr. Hawke. We didn’t hear your knock.” She rushed forward to welcome him with a slightly unsteady curtsey. He was so handsome. His smile as he bowed made her heart tumble over quite alarmingly. It was all she could do to remain still.

  “So it would seem.” He turned to Imogen. “For the record, Miss George, my favorite K.L. Brahms title is The Mischievous Miss. Very witty. I recommend it to all my clients in need of a book to cheer them.”

  Imogen’s smile widened. “It’s very difficult for me to admit to a favorite. I love them all,” she boasted.

  It was terrible to be the only one in the room with no idea what they were talking about. Peter would not allow her to read the author’s books without his permission. The K.L. Brahms section of his bookcase he’d deemed inappropriate for a woman her age. But if Imogen read them, then she would, too. She would take David’s advice and start with the book he recommended. It would give her something to talk about with him when they next met.

  The gentlemen made small talk and Abigail drew closer to Imogen. “Thank you for providing a distraction. I didn’t know you read K.L. Brahms. You never mentioned reading the author before.”

  Imogen’s smile was sincere. “I’ve read all sixteen editions.”

  “Sixteen?” Peter interrupted. “There are only fifteen published and it’s been a good long while since the last. I was starting to think he’d given up writing.”

  “My mistake. It must be fifteen,” Imogen assured him, but something in her manner did not seem truthful to Abigail’s way of thinking. But with Peter now hovering and wanting to talk of this Brahms fellow again, she’d have to wait until they were alone to ask.

  As Peter and Imogen discussed the books at length, Abigail eased away. They were really quite passionate about the stories in question and it was hard to understand the topic when she hadn’t a clue as to the subject matter.

  David left them to the discussion and drew closer to her. “I understand you’ve been calling on Mrs. Metcalf recently. That was very kind of you.”

  “Yes.” Abigail met his gaze. “She was quite lost without her husband for a good number of weeks. His passing was peaceful. He was there for dinner and gone before breakfast, she said.”

  “Metcalf was entirely without fuss. It was one of the things I admired about him. I called on her today. She had her daughters and grandchildren visiting.”

  Abigail smiled. “Her family wishes her to move to Hove soon but she will not go. She says Brighton is the only place to be.”

  As she held David’s gaze, a warmth invaded her chest. She was very fond of him. She might even have fallen in love. The realization made her want to throw her arms about him and never let him go again. But he was only here for a few days more. After that, she’d have to wait a year to see him again. That was simply too long. But how could she arrange any better? She bit her lip, thinking it over. Peter’s situation cast a pall over all her plans. Would they even be living here when summer came round again? Would David feel inclined to visit her elsewhere once his business with Peter was done?

  “Do you agree with her?” David’s low pitched question caused her insides to jump.

  “I do love Brighton.”

  But she didn’t know if she could wait an entire year just for another chance to see David. Who knows, maybe when he was away in London he had a lady hoping to see him. She did not like the idea of losing him to another. And she certainly didn’t want him kissing someone else.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked quietly.

  “London is simply too far away from Brighton.”

  A look of agreement crossed his face. “I was thinking precisely the same thing, but it is not possible to move the great city based on only a wish.”

  “Then perhaps it is time to move the people.” A movement at the doorway caught her eye, a sign that dinner was ready to be served. She winked at David, a very bold move to be certain given her brother stood several feet away and hurried to catch Imogen’s arm.

  As they gathered in the dining room, she hoped tonight’s dinner would prove to David she was worthy of his notice. She wished with all her heart that he’d be so impressed by her skills as a hostess he would want her for his wife.

  *

  “You are to be congratulated, Watson. Your sister has become an exemplary hostess,” David said, meaning every word. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal more in a very long time. Abigail had been warm and gracious, including him in the conversation when Imogen and Watson had returned to their contention over the wide appeal of K. L. Brahms’ work. He could easily see Imogen found Watson’s views amusing that some of the novels touched on the vulgar. As the author, she alone knew the source of her topics and why she’d chosen to write of them.

  Despite his opinion that the works were inappropriate for very young ladies, Peter Watson appeared to be an avid fan. Watson could recall the precise order of publication and he could even quote certain passages that appealed to him.

  “She enjoys entertaining.” Watson pulled a bottle from a sideboard cupboard and filled two glasses. He passed one to David. “Not that we have done much of late.”

  David sipped, noting the flavor was not as agreeable as he was used to enjoying in the great city. However, Peter had given him the opening he needed to start their business discussion. He just needed to follow through. He set the glass down, but the words clogged in his throat. He swallowed, for the first time ever, utterly speechless when it came to discussing his client’s finances. He had to do this. He coughed several times but nothing came to him as a way to start. In desperation, he returned to discussing Abigail. “I understand your sister had a successful visit to London,” he said at last.

  “Not so successful that she made a match, though she had a fair few interested. A pity. She really enjoyed her time in London. She was disappointed to return home when our month was up,” Peter confided. He drained his glass and refilled it again.

  It surprised him that Abigail had regretted leaving London when she’d been so dismissive of the gentlemen she’d met there. “I’m sure she was much admired,” David agreed, resting back in the chair. “I was surprised some lucky fellow hadn’t snapped her up.”

  “They’d have to catch her first.” Peter shook his head. “My sister has very strong notions about marriage.”

  If she had dressed as she had tonight, wearing the sheerest of gowns with tiny capped sleeves, then the gentleman would have been clamoring all over themselves to reach her. She could have had any man she wanted. Keep his eyes from her low bodice had taken a toll on David’s nerves during the meal. He’d imagined any number of ways to peel her out of the dress. “And what of you? We h
aven’t really talked since my return. Have you set your heart on making a match yourself?”

  Peter stared at him steadily. “That’s unlikely.”

  “The right woman could do wonders for your circumstances,” he said quietly. There, he’d done it. He’d introduced a subject that could lead to discussing Peter’s finances and securing a bride with a fortune at the same time. Abigail should be pleased with him.

  Peter sat forward in his chair suddenly. “I don’t see a wife on your arm.”

  “My circumstances are different.” He shrugged. “I’ve no need for a wife.”

  “You have the money to support one,” Peter countered bitterly. “You’re as rich as Croesus. You could have a wife and a mistress and not feel the pinch to your pocketbook.”

  “But I have little time for either.”

  “And I have ample time, but barely any money to support anyone but my sister.” Peter loosened his cravat, face turning a deep shade of red at his confession. For a man normally full of jovial good spirits, the situation had severely curbed his lighter side.

  David sighed. “I had hoped never to have this conversation with a friend. I wish our fathers had never started this. But you must understand what my partner demands I do while I am here. The debt cannot stand as it is. You must find a way out of this. A good marriage could considerably improve your life.” Slowly, David removed the sealed letter from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  Peter stared at it. “How long?”

  “A month. I will return on the day to take possession of the house,” David said quietly. He wouldn’t let his partner come to Brighton. Knight would not be kind or patient as the Watsons took their leave.

  Peter’s shoulders sagged, his gaze dipping to the floor in defeat.

  For the first time ever, David felt evil. He was robbing a friend of his home. He’d become the antithesis of all he had hoped to be in his career. He wanted people to live a comfortable life. He simply couldn’t do what he wanted for a man in Peter Watson’s position.