by Anne Gracie
Jane was more interested in what was happening inside his drawers. Something was . . . different. She longed to pull them down and look, but she was too shy. Yet. She wished she’d drunk a little more champagne.
And then her corset fell away. He tossed it aside, and in one swift movement he lifted off her petticoat and chemise. She was naked. She ought to be embarrassed, ought to have moved to cover herself modestly from his hot, masculine gaze, but somehow she couldn’t move.
He devoured her with his eyes. And then he dropped his drawers and she forgot all about her own nakedness in the fascination of his.
He was magnificent. She stared at that part of him standing proud and unashamed and longed to touch it, but she wasn’t sure whether he would mind or not.
He brushed the back of his fingers lightly over her breasts and her breath hitched in a series of escalating gasps as his knuckles moved back and forth and she ached where he touched her, and her insides clenched with wanting.
Pushing her back on the bed, he lay down beside her, skin to skin, kissing, his hands roaming over her, her skin so tender and sensitive, each touch seemed to shiver through her.
She squirmed to get closer to him, exploring his big, beautiful, masculine body, her hands feverishly stroking, squeezing, learning him. And all the while they were kissing, kissing, and she could barely think, only touch, only taste, only feel.
His mouth moved to her breasts and she gasped and shuddered beneath his tender onslaught, barely remembering how he’d reacted when she’d licked him there. But she did remember, and pushed his head away so she could taste him there, to nibble and suck on his small male nipples, and it was his turn to groan and shudder.
“Not me, not yet,” he muttered, and lifting her face, he kissed her deeply, possessively, and then kissed his way down her throat and back to her breasts. His mouth closed over a hot nipple and sucked; she arched against him, pulsating with need, with pleasure, with . . . something.
His fingers slipped between her legs, stroking and teasing and she heard the sound of wetness and made a little sound of embarrassment.
“No,” he reassured her, his voice a dark rumble of love, “this is perfect, you’re perfect, love.” He moved his fingers and deep ripples shuddered through her. “You’re beautiful. All beautiful.”
And he stroked, and his clever, insistent fingers drew such response from her that all awareness, any self-consciousness, simply evaporated under the demand, the rising tide of . . . the insistent drive to . . . to . . .
“Please, please . . .” she pleaded, not knowing for what. Her legs thrashed; shudders ran through her body.
And he claimed her with his mouth, and his fingers moved and she thought she could not bear any more and then . . . she shattered, in a million sunbursts.
And before she could recover, he moved over her, and he was there, between her legs, thick and hard and hot. “Easy, love, easy,” he murmured, and he stroked her and again she felt the pressure inside her building.
Now she wanted to feel that thickness, that hard, blunt masculinity, inside her, and she thrust up against him, and as he entered her in one long, smooth movement, she felt a sharp sting, but then he was moving, and it felt right. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, gripping tight, and suddenly they were moving together in a rhythm some deep primeval part of her recognized.
The shudders deepened and the pressure rose, and she hung on tight and felt him moving deep within her, and it built and built even more than before until she was swept away in a maelstrom of sensation. The world splintered into a thousand glittering shards, and he gave a harsh groan and shattered within her. And for a moment she knew nothing more.
When she opened her eyes, the worried expression in his eyes faded, and he smiled and kissed her gently. “The French call it la petite mort, the little death. Are you all right?”
She went to stretch and found herself still wrapped around him. He’d turned so he was on his back and she was lying on top of him. It was a position that she decided she liked very much. “Perfect,” she murmured, and planted sleepy kisses on his chest. “Just perfect. Bliss . . .” And she lay her head over his heart and slept.
Zach pulled the bedclothes over them, careful not to wake his precious burden.
He lay there, trying to come to terms with how his life had changed. He’d come to London with nothing, no name, no future, no family, and now . . .
This loving, sweet-faced girl had given him . . . everything. He was the luckiest man in the world.
He went to shift out from under her.
“No,” she murmured sleepily. Her legs and arms tightened around him. “I don’t want you to move . . . ever.”
In the morning he awoke to find her standing by the window, wrapped in nothing but a shawl, looking out at the gray drizzle of a London spring. He slid out of bed and, naked, padded silently toward her. He wrapped his arms around her and planted a slow, heated kiss on the nape of her neck.
She shivered deliciously and turned in his arms, smiling at him with sleepy, loving eyes. She kissed him. “Good morning, my darling.” She stretched. “I feel wonnnderful. So that’s what you meant by ‘all the pleasures prove’?”
“No.” He gave her a slow smile. “That was just the beginning. It gets better.” And he drew her back to the big, wide, rumpled bed.
Epilogue
“Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
The May Day fete at Wainfleet was a huge success. People had come from miles around—villagers, tenants and all kinds of people not connected with Wainfleet. All of Jane’s family was there, including her newfound grandmother, a group of Zach’s friends from school, even some members of the literary society.
To Winnie’s delight, she’d been crowned Queen of the May and had led the dancing. There was maypole dancing, and folk dancing, and competitions of all sorts, from baking competitions to shooting and tug-o’-war, and wrestling. Zach had provided a feast with a whole ox and several sheep roasted on a spit, barrels of ale and cider, platters of roasted vegetables and mounds of bread, followed by cakes and sweet pies of every sort.
A bonfire was built that lasted through the night, and as evening fell, a gypsy band had appeared and there was music and dancing and fortunes told and trinkets bought and sold. Zach had introduced his wife to his gypsy friends; they would always be welcome at Wainfleet, he told them.
The following night, there was just Zach and Jane and their immediate family seated around the big oaken table in the dining hall at Wainfleet, and Lady Beatrice was educating the newer members of the family in the history of the Chance sisters—according to her.
“The Chantry gels, you see, being orphaned, were taken in by my dear half sister Grizelda—”
“Imaginary half sister,” Max murmured sotto voce to Zach. “All this is quite imaginary.”
Zach grinned. He liked the old lady, and it was good to know he wasn’t the only focus of her mischievous tongue.
“Grizelda, of course, was married to a marchese, Alfonzo di Chancelotto—”
“Angelo,” Max corrected her dryly.
“Of course, dear boy, I always get those Italian names confused.”
“Venetian.”
“Precisely.” She gave him a beady glare and continued, “So when Abby and Jane’s widowed mother passed away in the sanitorium in Italy—”
“Not Venice?” Max asked innocently.
“No, dear, in the mountains of Switzerland—the Italian-speaking part,” she added before Max could interject again. “So dear Grizelda and her husband decided to take in the girls and raise them as their own dear daughters.”
“Along with dear Damaris, I presume,” Freddy said.
“And Daisy,” Damaris added, giggling.
“I never went to Italy,” Daisy said firmly. She didn’t approve of these flights of the old lady’s fancy. “And I never been to Venice either.”
“But we’ll take you there one day, Daisy darling,” Abby told her. “You should see it, so beautiful with the houses rising out of the water.”
“I been in houses like that,” Daisy said, unimpressed. “It’s called rising damp.”
Abby laughed. “No, they’re beautiful, and not at all damp, you’ll see.”
“And there are pigs,” Freddy added. “The famous experimental Chinese swimming pigs of Venice—oof!” as Damaris elbowed him in the stomach. He gave her an injured look. “What? My father loves those pigs.”
“Nonsense,” his loving wife told him. “He’s never even seen them, and he won’t because they don’t exist.”
“Ah, but he dreams of them,” Freddy said soulfully, and they all laughed.
The newly proclaimed Earl of Wainfleet slipped his arm around the waist of his countess, and said, “Well, delightful as this gathering is, my wife and I need to . . .”
“Inspect the grounds,” Jane said.
“At night?” Lady Beatrice said.
Zach smiled. “There’s a full moon out there and it needs attending to.”
“Ahh.” The old lady nodded.
At the mention of a full moon, Abby and Max, Freddy and Damaris and Cecily and Michael all decided they needed to inspect the grounds too, different parts of the grounds, attending to the moon.
Lady Beatrice and Lady Dalrymple looked at those who remained, Daisy and Flynn. “Well,” Lady Beatrice said, “are you two going or staying?”
“Staying,” Daisy said. “The country gives me the creeps at night. Anyone for cards?”
Patrick Flynn gave her a dry look and rose to his feet. “I might as well walk the dog, then. Come on Caesar or RosePetal or whatever your name is, we can bay at the moon together.”
* * *
Jane and Zach strolled slowly through the gardens, stopping to kiss every few steps. The scent of roses, freesias, lilac and a hundred spring blossoms filled the air. Overhead a full, fat golden moon hung in the sky, blessing all beneath it. They were home, both of them.
“Happy?” Zach murmured.
Jane gave a blissful sigh. “More than I ever believed possible.”
“Me too.” He tightened his hold on the woman nestled against his heart, the woman who’d made dreams he’d never dared to dream come true. Bathed in moonlight, they kissed.
Read on for a special excerpt from the first Chance Sisters Romance
The Autumn Bride
Available now from Berkley Sensation!
“Give a girl an education and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without further expense to anybody.”
—JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK
London, August 1816
She was running late. Abigail Chantry quickened her pace. Her half day off, and though it was damp and squally and cold outside, she’d taken herself off as usual to continue her explorations of London.
Truth to tell, if her employers had lived in the bleakest, most remote part of the Yorkshire moors, Abby would still have removed herself from their vicinity on her fortnightly half day off. Mrs. Mason believed a governess should be useful as well as educational, and saw no reason why, on Miss Chantry’s half day, she should not do a little mending for her employer or, better still, take the children with her on her outings.
What need did a governess, especially one who was orphaned, after all, have for free time?
Miss Chantry did not agree. So, rain, hail or snow, she absented herself from the Mason house the moment after the clock in the hall chimed noon, returning a few minutes before six to resume her duties.
Having spent most of her life in the country, Abby was loving her forays into this enormous city, discovering all kinds of wonderful places. Last week she’d found a bookshop where the owner let her read to her heart’s content without pressuring her to buy—only the secondhand books, of course, not the new ones whose pages had not yet been cut. She’d returned there today, and had become so lost in a story—The Monk, deliciously bloodcurdling—that now she was running late.
If she returned even one minute after six, Mr. Mason would dock her wages by a full day. It had happened before, and no amount of argument would budge him.
She turned the corner into the Masons’ street and glanced up at the nearby clock tower. Oh, Lord, three minutes to go. Abby picked up speed.
“Abby Chantry?” A young woman, a maidservant by her garments, limped toward her with an uneven gait. She’d been waiting opposite the Masons’ house.
Abby eyed her warily. “Yes?” Apart from her employers, Abby knew no one in London. And nobody here called her Abby.
“I got a message from your sister.” She spoke with a rough London accent.
Her mouth was swollen and a large bruise darkened her cheek.
“My sister?” It wasn’t possible. Jane was hundreds of miles away. She’d just left the Pillbury Home for the Daughters of Distressed Gentlewomen, near Cheltenham, to take up a position as companion to a vicar’s mother in Hereford.
“She told me where to find you. I’m Daisy.” The girl took Abby’s arm and tugged. “You gotta come with me. Jane’s in trouble—bad trouble—and you gotta come now.”
Abby hesitated. The girl’s bruised and battered face didn’t inspire confidence. The newspapers were full of the terrible crimes that took place in London: murders, white slavery, pickpockets and burglars. She’d even read about people hit over the head in a dark alley, stripped and left for dead, just for their clothing.
But Abby wore a dull gray homemade dress that practically shouted “governess.” She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to steal it. And she was thin, plain and clever, rather than pretty, which ruled out white slavers. She had no money or valuables and only knew the Mason family, so could hardly inspire murder.
And this girl knew her name, and Jane’s. And Abby’s address. Abby glanced at the clock. A minute to six. But what did the loss of a day’s wages matter when her little sister was in London and in trouble? Jane was not yet eighteen.
“All right, I’ll come.” She gave in to Daisy’s tugging and they hurried down the street. “Where is my sister?”
“In a bad place,” Daisy said cryptically, stumping rapidly along with an ungainly gait. Crippled, or the result of the beating she’d received? Abby wondered. Whichever, it didn’t seem to slow her down.
“What kind of bad place?”
Daisy didn’t respond. She led Abby through a maze of streets, cutting down back alleys and leading her into an area Abby had never felt tempted to explore.
“What kind of bad place?” Abby repeated.
Daisy glanced at her sideways. “A broffel, miss!”
“A broff—” Abby broke off, horrified. “You mean a brothel?”
“That’s what I said, miss, a broffel.”
Abby stopped dead. “Then it can’t be my sister; Jane would never enter a brothel.” But even as she said it, she knew the truth. Her baby sister was in a brothel.
“Yeah, well, she didn’t have no choice in the matter. She come ’ere straight from some orphanage in the country. Drugged, she was. She give me your address and arst me to get a message to you. And we ain’t got much time, so hurry.”
Numb with shock, and sick at the thought, Abby allowed herself to be led down side streets and alleyways. Jane was supposed to be in a vicarage in Hereford. How could she possibly have ended up in a London brothel? Drugged, she was. How?
They turned into a narrow street lined with shabby houses, and slowed.
�
�That’s it.” Daisy gestured to a tall house, a good deal smarter than the others, with a freshly painted black door and windows curtained in crimson fabric. The ground-story windows were unbarred, but the higher ones were all barred. To keep people in, rather than out. She didn’t have no choice.
As she stared up, she saw a movement at one of the highest windows. A glimpse of golden hair, two palms pressed against the glass framing a young woman the image of Abby’s mother.
Abby hadn’t seen her sister for six years, but there was no doubt in her heart. Jane!
Someone pulled Jane back out of sight and closed the curtains.
Her sister was a prisoner in that house. Abby hurried across the street and started up the front stairs. Daisy grabbed her by the skirt and pulled her backward.
“No, miss!” Her voice held so much urgency it stopped Abby dead. “If you go in there arstin’ questions now, it’ll only make things worse. You might never see your sister again!”
“Then I’ll fetch a constable or a magistrate to sort out this matter.”
“Do that and for certain sure you’ll never see your sister again. He—Mort—him who owns this place and all the girls in it now”—she jerked her chin toward the upstairs—“he pays blokes to warn him. Before any constable can get here your sister will be long gone.”
Abby felt sick. “But what can I do? I must get her out of there.”
“I told you, miss—we got a plan.” The sound of carriage wheels rattling down the street made Daisy look around. She paled. “Oh, my Gawd, that’s Mort comin’! Go quick! If he catches me talkin’ to anyone outside he’ll give me another frashing! I’ll meet you in the alley behind the house. Sixth house along. Big spiked gate. Go!” She gave Abby a shove and fled down the side steps to the basement area.
Abby, still in shock—Jane, in a brothel!—hurried away down the street, forcing herself not to look back, even when she heard the carriage draw to a halt outside the house with the black door.