Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology

by Gina Dana, Collette Cameron, Ella Quinn, Marie Higgins, Jenna Jaxon, Louisa Cornell, Elf Ahearn, Lauren Smith

Halfway around the lake, he finally heard her answering call. His heart lurched when he caught sight of her. Dressed in pale green, she stood surrounded by a sea of yellow flowers. A straw bonnet tied with a pink ribbon shaded the perfect oval of her face. His eyes scrolled to her bodice. Between the twin mounds of her breasts, she’d tucked a tiny bouquet of wild flowers: purple, pink, yellow, and white. He swallowed.

  As he strode to her, she said, “This spot has enough St. John’s wort to supply—” He crushed the end of her sentence with a kiss. All the frustration, all the passion he’d whipped back since she’d come to Bingham Hall, broke free the instant his mouth met hers. He tipped her till her bonnet came off and dangled by the ribbon around her throat. His tongue parted her lips and demanded her participation while he explored the sweet wet grotto of her mouth.

  As he was on the verge of lowering her to the ground, she put both hands to his shoulders and pushed. “Flavian, wait.” Her cool fingers went to each side of his face, and her gaze burrowed into the furthest recesses of his mind. He felt the question in her body, the beseeching touch of her fingertips: ‘I am the lamb, you, the lion. What will you do with me?’ He understood the question, but couldn’t bring himself to answer. Valencia’s eyes, like black bottomless pools, flickered in his thoughts. So many years ago, he’d asked that same question of her. Being a lion, she’d consumed him. And then, when she’d so desperately needed his help, he’d been powerless . . . worse, he’d been reluctant. He stepped out of Claire’s grasp. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Fire leapt to her eyes. “Not thinking?” She ran several paces away. Pointing at him, she cried, “You make a mockery of my heart. One moment your lips burn against mine, the next, you ignore me.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  Doubled over with frustration, she yanked on the skirts of her dress. “I don’t want your apology. I want your love.”

  “You have it.” Before he could retract the words, they hovered in the air between them. All went still. Even the birds ceased their song. Claire clutched her heart. “Why would you say that?”

  “I love you.” He stepped toward her, though his chest ached and his throat went dry. “God help you, but I love you.” At her feet he dropped to his knees, hat in hand. “I love you.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “Then why can’t we marry?”

  “Harm will come of it.”

  “Tell me how.”

  He clutched her legs and drew her to him. “I love you,” he repeated over and over. Slowly, her knees bent, her hands smoothed his hair and caressed his ears. Her touch, so delicate and tender, filled him with a need worse than hunger, worse than thirst. He held her—held her as if he would never see her again. And by inches, she melted into him until she lay beneath him, her head pillowed in the fragrant yellow flowers. He kissed her lashes, her cheeks, the curve of her brow, and finally, her eyes, the soft portals to her soul.

  She murmured, “I love you, too . . . more than my life.”

  Fear for their future tore at him, but he could not stop his hand from finding her breast. With a low moan, she squirmed ever so slightly. The action sent a rampage of blood through his veins, all headed in one direction. Just once more before she disappeared, he had to touch her, had to taste her and feel her strong fingers clutch the muscles of his back. Dizzy, fumbling with the drawstring at the front of her gown, he whispered, “Help me.”

  Ravenous and blind with desire, the two of them yanked on ties, popped buttons and finally unveiled her pearl-white body in the last pewter light before darkness. Plump, round and pale as new milk, her breasts sent a jolt of excitement zinging through him. He straddled her, his mind in a tumult, his eyes feasting on her beauty.

  Sliding his hands down the whole delicious length of her, he rested his palm on her perfect mound. His fingers lingered in the stiff curls. With the gentlest pressure, he parted her thighs by slipping a thumb between them. A small gasp left her lips as his fingers explored her slick folds. Swollen and ready, she lay still, frozen in the constraints of propriety. But he would not tolerate correctness. He continued stroking until her stomach quivered and her knees bent, until she flung her arm across her brow and writhed in ecstasy.

  He did not take her. He was proud of himself for that because she would still be able to offer herself as a virgin to some London fop. As he ran his thumb along her brow, the image of her with another man tormented him. He rolled away and studied the sky. A few early stars pierced the budding night. “Would you like to see my favorite spot in the world?”

  She laughed. “Well, this just became mine.”

  That pleased him. He helped her to her feet. Hiding her breasts under her arms, she reached for her dress. “Let me admire the view just a little longer,” he said, taking her hands. She kept her eyes down, self-conscious. Her pallor seemed ghostly in the twilight, as if she might disperse with the wind.

  He gathered their clothes, and led her toward a cluster of bushes.

  As they stepped into the midst of the shrubs, darkness swallowed them. Flavian kept his fingers twined in hers, the warmth of her pulsing happiness through him.

  He stopped and moved aside so she could stand by him. They were on the shore of the lake, which was halved by a silver path from the waning moon. Putting the bundle of clothes on an exposed tree root, he walked into the water and dove.

  * * *

  Claire fretted as the glassy surface of the lake remained unbroken. Flavian’s strange despair worried her. She wished there were a simple remedy to cure him. Bergamot and thyme . . . rosemary and slippery elm? She stepped closer, watching the still water, and then he popped up, hair slick and dark, his shoulders glistening wet. He turned and smiled. The moon cast shadows, defining the hollows beneath his shoulder blades, the line of his ribs. He raised an arm, sinewy and white, gesturing to her. Her heart twisted. Would it be possible to stop the onslaught of love tugging her into the deep?

  “The water is wonderful,” he said. “Can you swim?”

  She swallowed and nodded. “My uncle taught all of us.” As she stepped in, black wavelets tapped her ankles. Even in the shallows the lake bottom was invisible, her pale feet the only thing she could distinguish beneath the surface. Yet, even as she contemplated retreating to the shore, she knew she would go to him. Nothing could drive away her need—not his reluctance, not Arabella, not even her own doubts.

  A second later, the cold water closed over her head. It made her feel alone and safe. She opened her eyes, put her arms out, and pushed against the liquid. It compelled her forward until suddenly his legs, wavery and pale, came into view. She swam to within inches of him then propelled herself to the surface. Together they dripped and smiled.

  Then the troubled look returned. “Don’t,” she begged, putting her palms on his chest.

  He tipped his head back, eyes on the sky.

  “Look at me,” she said.

  The line of his mouth tightened.

  “Look at me.”

  Finally, his gaze met hers. With great sadness, he moved a wet tendril of hair behind her ear. Then, as if standing on the edge of an emotional cliff, his mouth fell on hers—wet and powerful, his lips insisting on taking her over some fatal edge. She opened to sensation; allowed her body to revel in every touch, and passion raced like fire between them, igniting their slick, wet bodies once more. Their tongues dueled, delving into the depths of the other’s being. The lake water was forgotten, the moon served no purpose, and the clouds scuttling across the sky went unseen.

  He lifted her, wrapping her knees around his waist. When he left her mouth, it was to lave the water dripping between her breasts—his tongue and lips kissing, sucking, lapping at the droplets as if he’d spent eternity in the dessert.

  Their breath steamed hot on each other’s skin. She ran her tongue over the hard planes of his chest, taking his nipples into her mouth until they rose like rocks in a field.

  He grunted and caught a thick mass of her streaming hair. Pulling her he
ad back, he devoured her throat and breasts with a frenzy of kisses. Down her torso, he left a trail of heat until his head disappeared below the surface. And when he slipped an arm between her thighs, she shuddered as he lifted her until she floated on her back, drifting. He stroked her soft folds until the spasms of sensation drowned her senses, and she curled in the water, twisting with pleasure and release.

  When the spasms stilled, he nudged her head onto his shoulder. Still trembling with aftershocks of ecstasy, she curled into his warmth. With one arm slung across her chest, he slowly swam with her out to the middle of the lake.

  A fish jumped and another immediately after it.

  “Ah, amore,” he said.

  They laughed and treaded water. A frog croaked, thick and guttural.

  Parting from her, Flavian floated on his back and studied the stars. “What would you think of a young man . . . a boy . . . no, a young man who caused great harm to a girl, and then did nothing to alleviate her suffering?” Immense pain darkened his features, and he went absolutely still, waiting for her response.

  “I would tell him that true contrition brings about true redemption,” she said gently. “I would tell him that every being learns from his mistakes, and I would explain that we are meant to live through tragedy, but not let it destroy us.”

  His eyes still on the stars, he seemed to contemplate her words. Did he know that whatever he’d done, she would forgive him? But what had happened? As much as she longed to know, some instinct told her now was not the time to press for details. He’d come a step closer to telling her—she didn’t want to push and have him back away.

  In the silence, and not knowing what else to do, she flipped on her back and regarded the moon.

  When he moved, small wavelets lapped against her. “If you could never have a child, what would you do?” he asked.

  Her heart stopped. Don’t look at him. Don’t embarrass him. “Are you unable to…?

  “No! God, no, but the fact is, I mustn’t create…”

  “An heir?”

  “None. My line must die.” His voice broke. “So… how unhappy would you be?”

  She didn’t look at the stars, or the path of the moon across the water, and she didn’t look at Flavian either. Her gaze went inward, yet as deeply as she searched, she found no answer.

  His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Ten

  Flavian sat on a bench under the copper beech and replayed the night with Claire over and over: would she consent to be his fiancé, and soon, his bride? He leaned back and watched a blinking star through the branches. A thousand times he’d gauged his position on the sea by celestial light. If she would take him—childless—he would spend his last ounce of strength making her happy in every other way.

  “Vav?” came a plaintive voice, soft as sweet tobacco.

  “There’s my darling, Bella. Come join me on the bench.”

  The girl nestled beside him, squirming under his arm. “Where you go earlier?”

  “Ah, that’s not a question for a girl who doesn’t spy.”

  “You and Lady Claire went walking.”

  “Perhaps we did.”

  She leaned forward as if about to say something, and then sank back under his arm. “Am I pretty?”

  “Very pretty.”

  “And you like me?”

  “I love you.”

  She stroked his cheek and looked longingly into his eyes. “Then why you no marry me?”

  Flavian shot to his feet nearly knocking her off the bench. “I beg your pardon?”

  She crossed her arms and stuck out a lower lip. “But why?”

  He strode away, too shocked to think. “Well, . . . because you’re too young.”

  “Then you wait for me. I be seventeen soon.”

  “No!” Even in the dim light, her saw her shoulders sink in disappointment. Wanting to soften the blow, he sat and took her hand. “No, my darling. I don’t love you in that way. You’re a child to me. You’ll always be a child to me.”

  “But Lady Claire you think of this way.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “Not just pretty like me.” Arabella stood, and he could feel her bitterness.

  “You needn’t be jealous of Lady Claire. There are all kinds of love, and love is limitless. That I want to make her my wife doesn’t mean I won’t be dedicated to you, too.”

  She swung on him. “Your wife!”

  He hadn’t meant to tell her, or anyone until Claire gave her answer, but it was too late. “We discussed it a little this evening. She hasn’t said either way.”

  Arabella’s body went rigid. She let out a scream that was half shriek and half growl—a noise that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Before he could catch and calm her, she bolted for the house.

  * * *

  Claire sat at the breakfast table. She accepted her morning chocolate from Acker then stirred its invisible depths. Sleep had not come easily last night, if at all. Thoughts kept her awake, many of them carnal, especially of Flavian’s hands touching her in places that made her blush even now. And once awake, she had grappled with his question. Truly, would there be happiness at Bingham Hall without a family of her own? And Arabella; this house, with its empty shelves and mantles, everything devoid of ornamentation to accommodate the girl’s unnatural temper—would it have to remain this way? Or was the remedy truly working, and soon Arabella would make a life of her own, launched on a successful career as a singer?

  A hand caressed her shoulder, and she looked up to see Flavian beaming at her, his gaze so full of love that her heart lurched.

  “You didn’t sleep well?” She shook her head. “Poor thing,” he said, sitting to her right. “I’ve given you a lot to think about.”

  Morning light put his profile in silhouette, showing the strong Monroe chin in relief. How sad that he didn’t want to reproduce that chin in his own progeny. She imagined a cherubic little face with the long Monroe chin and blond Albright hair. What a darling their little one could be. She glanced at the footmen, standing like marble statues at either end of the breakfast buffet. Their eyes were blank, but every word would be repeated below stairs. “There are considerations you mentioned that I’d like to discuss,” she said quietly. “And explanations, which need to be shared.”

  He nodded. His eyes were serious, but the corners of his mouth tilted in that crooked, captivating grin. “After breakfast then.”

  Arabella entered, a radiant smile bisecting her features. “Good morning, wanderers of the night.” A flash of eyes, black and fierce, jolted Claire. Heat rose in her cheeks, which the footmen saw, no doubt.

  The girl flounced into a seat across the table. “You sleep well, si?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Claire mumbled.

  A cloud of unease settled on the room. The bunny longed for its burrow. Perhaps Arabella’s chilling mood would pass once she took the remedy, Claire hoped.

  Marlow appeared in the door. “Pardon, my lord, Mr. Beveridge-Haugh has urgent news.”

  Sighing, Flavian said, “Tell him to join us in here.” When the butler left, he leaned toward Claire. “Beveridge-Haugh is my estate steward, and he is the ill wind who blows no good.”

  A stocky, red-faced man clumped into the breakfast room. “My lord.” He dipped a quick bow.

  “Can we offer coffee?” Flavian asked.

  “No time. The whole north pasture is a lake. That Squire Radcliff’s done it. His dam broke and the backup flooded everything. The barley crop is under two feet of water right now, and the cattle are in danger of going under. This year’s profits could come to nothing.”

  Flavian stood so quickly he knocked over his chair. “That scoundrel will pay.”

  “Aye, that’s what I thought.”

  “Have Killen saddled immediately.” Flavian was about to charge from the room when he came to a dead halt. “Cl— Lady Claire. I’m so sorry, but would you permit me to speak with you this afternoon? This crop is absolutely vital.
”

  Before she could respond, the steward cut her off. “And the constable, my lord?”

  “Send someone to fetch him.”

  He was almost out the door when Arabella scurried to catch his arm. “Vav, I go with you.”

  Beveridge-Haugh shook his head. “His lordship needs to see the damage right away so he can testify in a court of law.”

  “Please Vav—is so dull here. I take Lady Claire. She keep me out of trouble because I take the medicine.” The girl took the decanter of remedy and poured a liberal dose.

  “Fine, but I’ve no time for nonsense,” he warned her.

  As he bolted out the door Flavian shouted, “Beveridge-Haugh, you’ll bring the ladies. We’ll meet at the north pasture.” He disappeared leaving the steward, mouth agape, to deal with the pair of them.

  “There’s no carriage can take the two of you,” the steward said, clearly hoping to discourage them. “Do you fancy yourself a rider then, Lady Claire?”

  “That’s all right. I’ll stay behind.”

  Something dangerous glinted in Arabella’s eyes. “Then I stay, too.”

  The steward nearly danced with relief.

  Unprotected in this house with Arabella and the servants still treating her as if she were against them? Claire’s unease grew to alarm. Better to stay with the steward and remain at Flavian’s side, at least until the girl’s malice calmed. “Are you going to drink your dose?” she asked.

  Arabella giggled. “Si, si! I do right now.” With her back to Claire at the buffet table, she appeared to down the glass, but the vessel wasn’t visible when Claire tried to check.

  Pretending nonchalance, Claire put down her napkin. “On second thought, a ride might be nice. I am curious to see what’s happened.”

  “Oh, then you come with me,” Arabella cried. The steward’s face fell. “Saddle my mare. We come to the barn.”

  * * *

  A fine fog enveloped them on the ride to the north pasture. Shrouded in dingy tulle, the sun unveiled a meager light allowing only occasional treetops to poke above a landscape blurred to mist.