The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe

by Sabrina Darby

  He laughed. “Well, I would hope it does not have to be one or the other.”

  She laughed as well, with him, and the tension inside him lightened.

  “No. It doesn’t. Although I can’t imagine I’ll be on the stage anymore.”

  She had asked once what would have happened if they’d met in London. He would have seen her act then, most likely. Had a chance to see her in her element. He’d been wrong before when he’d said they would never have been lovers. He would have loved her at once.

  “Will that upset you?”

  She pursed her lips, thinking. “Not really, I suppose. Live in an attic and work at bit parts for years until someone takes a chance on me again or be with the man I love?”

  The man she loved. He wanted to hear that again.

  “I wonder what is the soonest we can be married.”

  “I haven’t said yes yet,” she protested with a laugh.

  “Don’t you realize you’ve been saying yes for the last five minutes?” he refuted, taking her hands in his own. “I’ve heard yes.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” she said. But she stepped forward into his embrace.

  “Yes,” he agreed. Just as he’d agree to anything she said. Finally, he could hold her.

  He closed the circle of his arms around her, burying his face against the silken skin of her cheek, her neck. What he had done before she had been there?

  How had he ever breathed?

  CLOSING LETTERS

  June 1816

  Dear Cousin,

  I must tell you I am very upset. I shall never in my life ask for your advice again. It is exceedingly poor. My Georgie has married that woman and they are living in absolute squalor in the ruins of Auldale Castle. If it were not for your outrageous suggestion, I would not now be in this insufferable predicament. I feel very ill used and I shall not be visiting this fall.

  Mary Martin

  June 1817

  Dear Cousin,

  The child is a boy and shall be named George after his father and grandfather, whom he takes after. He definitely has the Martin nose.

  As the nursery is not yet finished at the Castle, everyone is at the manor and what a delight it is to have John and my little Georgie living with me. The only benefit to having that woman as my daughter-in-law is that she listens to me, whereas John is still quite obstinate. At least they are happy with each other and John smiles and converses when we have company. I frequently remind them that if it were not for me knowing that Angelina would suit him, they would never have met.

  Please do visit us as soon as you are able. Georgie is the finest of babies. Everyone who sees him is quite in awe.

  Yours,

  Mary

  Want more?

  Read on for a seductive excerpt of

  ON THESE SILKEN SHEETS

  by Sabrina Darby

  CHAPTER ONE

  Some things never change, Carolina thought as she pressed up against the wall of the library, obscured by shadows and long, voluminous draperies. She might be eighteen, in London, and at her first ball ever, but she was still stuck in the ignoble position of watching Henry Bosworth make love to another woman merely ten feet from where she hid.

  He was older, of course. The mouth that now kissed the unknown woman’s neck was that of a man and no longer a youth. And just as she had six years ago, watching his well-formed hands clutching a round bottom through layers of clothing, she imagined those hands on her.

  A pause in the lady’s moans drew Carolina’s gaze upward. With a silent gasp, she flattened herself further against the unyielding wall.

  Bosworth stared straight at her, a small smile curving his lips. Though the light in the room was dim, she knew his eyes would be green, that murky green that reminded her of marshes and ancient deities.

  He murmured something to the woman in his arms and the lady laughed, her bejeweled fingers tsking at him, even as she broke away. He followed her to the door, kissing her yet again, and then closed it behind her.

  Carolina heard the faint but clear click of the lock.

  Dear Lord, why had she decided to find a moment of privacy? That thought fled as she wondered if he would recognize her. She must look vastly different, all those awkward angles having given way to a fuller, more proportionate body.

  She didn’t, couldn’t, move as Bosworth approached. She merely watched in appreciation, with baited breath, as this taller, more muscular version of him prowled across the room, peeling his gloves off as he came. His black hair glinted in the dim light. His breeches fit him as if molded to his frame, and she could see the distinct outline of his male part.

  Would that part, too, have grown with age? she wondered, unconsciously licking her lips.

  Now he was inches from her. She could smell him. She remembered that scent, of sandalwood and other spices—the sort of spices that permeated one’s skin and lingered in one’s mind long after the source was gone.

  He extended one arm, resting his hand against the wall, close to her head. His other hand touched her cheek, one long finger running along her jaw.

  She knew she should be frightened. She knew she should protest and run away, and indeed, she was terrified. Because his hand felt too good on her skin.

  She stared at his sleeve, at the display of sartorial skill so close to her face.

  “You like to watch,” Bosworth stated, his voice low, gravelly, as if he had spent the last six years smoking cigars. And maybe he had. She knew nothing of him but that he’d been a friend of her father’s back then—a guest stopping at their country house for the night.

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t. But she dragged her eyes to his. She shivered as he trailed his finger down her neck, across the bare skin of her chest and finally dipped down into the ruffles of her dress, skimming the hollow between her breasts.

  Abruptly his hand left her.

  “I’d wager you’re dripping wet,” he murmured.

  As if his words were magic, she felt the hot rush between her legs, the familiar aching heaviness.

  In her single bed at night, it had always been him she had seen and imagined while her hands explored her body and brought her to ecstasy. In fact, the night six years ago that she had watched him between the downstairs maid’s plump white thighs, arcing into her again and again, was the first night Carolina had thought about her own body that way—the first night her fingers had experimented.

  His hand grasped her dress, lifting layers of cloth to bunch up between them. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him to stop, but his bare hand was already above her stockings, on the naked flesh of her thigh, and moving upward.

  He cupped her in his palm, his thumb brushing over the slight protrusion where all the sensations seemed to clump. Then he slid one long finger through the slick folds and entered her.

  She moaned, her head turning toward his outstretched arm, even as her knees buckled.

  His hand felt so much better than hers ever had.

  “Molten velvet,” Bosworth rasped, his hot, open mouth meeting the tender flesh of her ear, nibbling, his tongue creating pinpoints of acute pleasure.

  He started to withdraw the hand between her legs and suddenly Carolina found her voice.

  “Wait, I’m almost there,” she begged, feeling the tight spiral of pleasure nearing its peak.

  He laughed against her.

  “I like a woman who knows what she wants,” he said, keeping his hand between her legs. His fingers stroked, working their magic until she finally exploded against him, shivering and bucking on his hand.

  Henry shifted, reaching down to hold her up beneath her derriere. He hiked one of her silken legs around his waist and finally freed himself from the constraints of his breeches. The woman in his hands was still shivering with her own climax and his cock pulsed in empathy. He wanted nothing more
in the world than to bury himself in her hot, wet depths.

  His cock knew its way, unerringly finding the exquisitely yielding entrance. He thrust upward into her, reveling in the tightness.

  God, she was small—a hot, wet glove stretching to fit him. The friction felt incredible. He groaned against her neck and grasped her buttocks with both hands. He pulled her down, even as he made a powerful thrust upward.

  She cried out, stiffening against him in a way that had little to do with pleasure. For a moment, caught between the delicious feel of being buried to the hilt in her tight sheath and the shock of his discovery, he stilled.

  “Please,” she whispered, her breath ragged. He didn’t know whether she begged him to stop or to continue.

  He would never have guessed, never have imagined, that the stranger in his arms, who so passionately and willingly accepted his caresses in a library that belonged to neither of them, was a virgin.

  Had been a virgin.

  But that didn’t matter anymore. What was done was done, and his body yearned for its own completion.

  “It won’t hurt the next time,” he whispered, even as he retreated and then thrust again, following the instincts of his body. Letting go.

  She smelled like honeysuckle, like lush, verdant summer, and he lost himself in the feel of her clenched around him. Tight as he thrust in. Tight and clinging as he pulled back and then sunk in once more. His mouth open in a guttural cry against her neck, he released himself inside her, his mind completely empty of anything but the overwhelming pleasure of the moment.

  The storm passed. With a final shudder, Henry eased out of her body. He slowly released her leg and then took a half step back. She slumped against the wall, a look of shock on her face, and he laughed.

  She might well be shocked. She’d just given a girl’s most precious commodity to a stranger up against a wall.

  “Who are you?” he wondered aloud. “No, wait,” he said, when she parted her lips, “I don’t want to know.”

  No, he thought, taking another step back. He would keep this as he had intended, a momentary affair. He had no wish for a wife, especially one he had only vetted sexually.

  He looked down to button up the falls of his breeches, and even in the dim light, the reddish tint of her blood caught his eye. He extracted his handkerchief from its pocket and tidied himself up.

  She hadn’t moved. Still stood there, frozen.

  He sighed and lifted her skirts once more. Her hand fluttered down to protest and he laughed again at that futile gesture.

  There wasn’t much blood on her thighs but what was there, he wiped away gently, unable to resist a few soft caresses, enjoying her shivering response.

  “I recommend a trip to the retiring room to further clean yourself up,” Henry suggested, dropping her skirts and coming to his feet.

  The woman nodded but she still didn’t move.

  “I’ll leave first,” Henry said into the silence. “Wait a few and then you can follow.”

  The door closed behind him and Carolina finally shifted, her hand stealing down to the juncture of her thighs, pressing through the layers of cloth to the still pulsing mound. Inside, she was sore.

  Henry Bosworth had just . . . had just had relations with her. And dear Lord, he didn’t even know who she was!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Henry stepped into the noise of the ballroom in a bit of a drunken stupor. Not that he’d had a drink, but he was fully sated and enjoying the post-coital languor. When he’d entered the library with Lady Islington, the assignation had been a bit of friendly flirtation—a momentary passion. He’d wanted a woman and that woman was willing.

  But the lady he’d had instead—just thinking of the feel of her thighs in his hands stiffened his cock.

  He almost turned around, thinking to stop her before she left the library, to have another go at her. But that was foolish. If he was caught with that erstwhile virgin he’d have to marry her. He’d done enough damage for one night.

  What lovely damage.

  The ballroom was cramped, crowded with people, many of whom he knew well. Since he’d inherited the title, most of them wanted to know him better.

  The goddamned title.

  As if reading the direction of his thoughts he heard a voice out of his past.

  “Bosworth!” Nobody called him Bosworth anymore. Society much preferred Stanton, Viscount Stanton. It had taken Henry four years to get used to thinking of himself—not his older brother, James—as Stanton. James had been the viscount for most of Henry’s life.

  And now Henry was.

  He swung around to meet the man who greeted him, recognizing him instantly. He hadn’t seen Lord Hargreaves in four years. Not since Henry had retreated to his country seat to put his brother’s affairs in order. Though Hargreaves was a good decade older, much of Henry’s misspent youth had been in his company. In fact, his misspent youth was in a great part due to Hargreaves’s influence.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages, boy!” Alistair Hargreaves appeared pleased to see him. The old satyr still looked strong and virile, despite his dissipation. His blond hair had started to turn gray, but only just. “But you’re not Bosworth anymore. Congratulations on your inheritance.”

  Henry knew why Alistair congratulated him, because it meant Henry had money. When Henry had followed Alistair around London in the past, he had ridden the man’s coattails. His own brother, James, had refused to finance his town life. Henry, himself, felt ambivalent about his brother’s death.

  “It’s fortuitous to see you. I’m stuck attending these events for the season.”

  Henry arched an eyebrow up in inquiry but his eyes drifted toward the hallway door. He wanted another glimpse of the woman he’d fucked. He wanted to see what she looked like under the brighter lights of the illuminated ballroom.

  “Did you ever meet my daughter, Carolina?”

  Carolina. The name conjured up a vague image of a young girl, small for her age. He’d thought she was much younger than the twelve her father insisted on. And then, a memory he’d forced out of his mind from sheer embarrassment came crashing back.

  Twenty-two and always randy, he’d been stopping with Alistair at the man’s country house on the way to a house party. He’d plowed a receptive maid in the library, on a large leather-topped desk. Just as he released himself into her, arching back, he’d opened his eyes and looked up.

  From the shadows of the carved wooden landing, the large, curious blue eyes of Alistair’s twelve-year-old daughter looked down at him. She’d watched the whole episode.

  Just like what had happened this evening. Eerily similar. A shiver of apprehension ran down Henry’s back.

  He nodded slowly.

  “Well, she’s eighteen now, so I had to bring her to London for her season. This is her first ball.”

  Henry heard the words, but he’d caught sight of a pale face under the archway. In the soft glow of the candlelight, she was even lovelier. He could also see just how young she was. Clearly not the experienced woman he’d first imagined.

  Across the room, her eyes met his and widened. She grew even paler, and Henry felt the blood leave his own face.

  Alistair followed his gaze.

  “I see you recognize her.” The baron’s words chilled Henry’s heart, confirming his worst suspicion. “She’s grown up quite well. But she looks ill.” An angry note entered Alistair’s voice. “I do hope she isn’t one of these frail girls. That won’t do for marrying her off.”

  “She looks lovely, Hargreaves,” Henry murmured, watching Carolina hesitantly approach them.

  Something in Henry’s voice must have alerted Alistair, because the baron glanced at him sharply.

  “Stay away from her, Stanton,” Alistair warned. “She’s my daughter and an innocent.”

  “But of course,” Henry agreed, laugh
ing. And he thought once more of the feel of her wrapped around him, pulsing and wet.

  Carolina reached them, a fluttering butterfly, her eyes darting from him to her father and then back to him. She’d managed to freshen her appearance and he imagined that only he would see the slight creases he’d created in her skirt when he’d bunched the fabric tightly in his hand.

  “My dear, this is Lord Stanton.” Henry watched surprise flicker in her blue eyes. “You’ve met before. Of course, he was merely Bosworth then.”

  “It is a delight to renew our acquaintance, Miss Hargreaves,” Henry said, smiling and bowing over her hand.

  “A pleasure,” Carolina managed. “Father, I’m feeling a bit—”

  “I would love nothing more than the pleasure of this dance,” Henry cut her off, ignoring Alistair’s frown and Carolina’s slight shake of her head.

  He didn’t wait for an answer from either of them, just took her arm in his own and navigated her toward the dance floor.

  “You do like to watch,” he whispered, escorting her through the crowd.

  He felt, more than saw, her flush.

  “I didn’t.” Her protestation faltered as she took her place in the dance.

  He saved his conversation for when the steps brought them close together.

  “For the last twenty minutes, I’ve done nothing but think about you, about how it felt to thrust into you and feel you clench me tight.”

  They broke away again, and he had the benefit of seeing the effect his words had on her.

  “I want you again.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carolina was grateful that her governess had forced her to repeat the dance steps incessantly. If the moves had not been ingrained in her body, she was certain she would have stumbled and ruined the dance.

  Bosworth’s words resonated through her body.

  “I want you again.”