by Lauren Royal
In no time, she was gone. She'd spotted Lady Crowhurst across the room and said she just had to talk to her, and Colin let her go. He chuckled to himself when he saw her lips mouth the word "Barbara."
Not five minutes later, Colin would swear there was a new buzz in the room as gossiping ladies rushed to be the ones to spread the delicious rumor. And in the end, it was Priscilla herself who couldn't resist approaching Barbara.
She waited politely until Barbara was free. "My Lady Castlemaine," she said, pulling her aside, "I hear congratulations are in order."
Colin sidled closer and concealed himself behind a post.
Barbara played her part to perfection. "Is that so?"
"I've heard in the strictest of confidence that you will be presenting His Majesty with another child soon."
Barbara's face fell.
"Is something wrong, my lady?" At the sight of Priscilla's panic, Colin had to choke back laughter. "Am I mistaken?"
Slow tears leaked from Barbara's blue eyes—what an actress she was!
Desperate, Priscilla grasped her by the shoulders. "Oh, my lady, are you all right? Don't you want the babe?"
"I lost it last week," Barbara wailed, the tears pouring in earnest now. "A tiny babe, perfectly formed…oh, my heart breaks to think of it…" She clutched her chest and let out a great sob, then ran from the ballroom and up the wide staircase, weeping all the way.
Priscilla followed her into the hall and watched her flight. She was still gazing up the sweeping stairs when Colin came up behind her.
"Is something wrong, Priscilla?"
She turned to him immediately, a frown of dismay creasing her beautiful forehead. "Oh, Colin, I've made the most dreadful error. I thought to congratulate my Lady Castlemaine, only to discover she's miscarried. Now she's horribly upset, and everyone thinks she's with child. What am I to do?"
"Whyever would everyone think Barbara is carrying?" he asked with a glint in his eye.
"I told them!" Priscilla wailed. "And they told one another."
"Priscilla! You promised!" he exclaimed in pretended disbelief.
"You mean to say you really meant it?" Priscilla protested. "Why would you tell me if it were a secret?"
"You mean to say I shouldn't trust you? I shouldn't tell you anything unless I want everyone to know?"
"Yes! I mean, no! Oh, Colin, I shouldn't be such a terrible gossip, should I?"
Colin grinned—he simply couldn't help himself. The scene was playing out even better than he had hoped.
"Why are you smiling?" Priscilla demanded. "I've ruined everything! She never really liked me—she only invited us to her parties because of my father, and now she'll hate me. We won't be welcome anywhere."
"Now, Priscilla, you know that's not true. Barbara would never leave me off a guest list. We were in exile together—I'm one of her dearest friends. Besides, Charles is all but a big brother to me. He'd never allow her to snub us."
He was right, and Priscilla knew it. Colin's relationship with the king was her father's primary reason for agreeing to the match. Lord Hobbs had been a fence-sitter during the war, and consequently, though he hadn't lost his lands, he held no favor with Charles, either.
"I suppose you're right," Priscilla sniffed.
Just then, Barbara came back down the stairs, dry eyed and grinning from ear to ear, and Colin took one look at her and broke out laughing. Priscilla stared at Colin, then at Barbara, and back to Colin before bursting out, "What is going on here?"
Colin could do no better than sputter. "I—we—I—"
Barbara rescued him—sort of. "What Colin means to say, dear, is that we set you up."
"Set me up?" Priscilla's pretty brows furrowed in confusion. "You mean you suffered no miscarriage?"
"I was never with child in the first place." Barbara chuckled. "Colin thought to demonstrate how gossip spreads."
Priscilla glared at her, openmouthed.
"It was a joke," Barbara finished weakly.
"A practical joke," Colin put in.
"A practical joke?" Priscilla repeated in disbelief. "On me?" She snapped him on the arm with her folded fan. "How dare you play a practical joke on me."
Colin rubbed his arm out of reflex, though it didn't really hurt. Priscilla had put as little enthusiasm into the blow as she gave to everything else. "I play practical jokes on everyone," he reminded her.
"You don't play them on me, Colin Chase. They're stupid and childish, and I won't stand for it."
"Don't you think it's funny?" The last of Colin's laughter died. "Don't you find it amusing that I know you well enough to devise a trap you would fall into perfectly?"
"No. I don't find it in the least amusing." Priscilla turned on Barbara. "How about you? I find it difficult to imagine why you would play along with his trickery—now everyone thinks you're with child."
"It doesn't signify." Barbara waved a hand airily. "I probably will be with child by the time anyone could discover otherwise. I always am, it seems," she lamented.
Colin laughed. "You're a good sport, Barbara."
"There are those who would disagree," Barbara pointed out archly.
Colin nodded, a knowing smile on his lips. More than one man had met his downfall at the hands of Barbara Palmer. Luckily, he and she had been friends too long, and he knew her too well to make the sort of blunder that would turn her against him.
The wind blew out of Priscilla's sails when she realized neither Colin nor Barbara were the least bit sorry they'd used her as the butt of their joke.
"Please call for the carriage," she requested calmly.
"What?" Colin said. "The evening is still young."
"We will forget this ever happened. I trust it won't again. I wish to return home now."
"Lost your taste for gossip, Lady Priscilla?" Barbara asked sweetly.
The barb went right over Priscilla's head. "I merely find myself fatigued. Colin?" She took his arm and led him away.
Colin looked back at Barbara, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. She laughed and waved him on before gliding back into the ballroom.
For the life of her, Barbara couldn't imagine what Colin saw in Priscilla, though she supposed it didn't matter. Priscilla was wealthy, and that was enough. One wasn't required to like one's spouse, and God knew Barbara despised hers. Marriage alliances were arranged for the benefit of both parties, and one could always take a lover.
Or two or three.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"I have a headache." Priscilla lifted her elegant chin and calmly shut her door in Colin's face.
Now what?
Distracted by his prank, he'd neglected to approach anyone at the ball to arrange lodging. At a loss, he wandered back to his carriage. He wasn't about to drop in on a friend unannounced. And no one would be in at this hour, regardless; it was much too early for any self-respecting man-about-town to make his way home.
As Benchley opened the carriage door, Colin sighed. He could visit Whitehall Palace, where the court stayed up until the wee hours gambling and playing billiards, but he wasn't in the mood.
"Bloody hell," he said aloud, and gave Benchley instructions to return to the town house. No one even knew Amy was there, he rationalized, shoving aside the concerns he'd voiced earlier in the day.
As he settled back, his thoughts turned to the amethyst-eyed witch who'd wormed her way into his bed and heart. Now, there was someone who appreciated his efforts at humor. A vision popped into his head, of Amy laughing the loudest when the joke was on her. Her color high, her rosy lips parted…
He shook his head to clear the image. He'd known from the start that Amy's request for a few days in London had been little more than a ploy to stay with him longer.
But, hell, he hadn't been ready to part with her, either.
He never should have agreed—he'd known it was a mistake the moment "I'd be happy to take you to London" came out of his mouth. Now they'd be alone together in the town house. Alone, but surround
ed by all of Charles's gossipy, meddlesome court.
Damn, but this had been a bad idea.
Well, done was done. And luckily, Amy would be asleep at this hour. He'd sneak in, get a good night's rest, and be out again before she awakened.
Where he'd go, in the early hours when everyone he knew was sleeping off overindulgences of the prior evening, he wasn't sure. But he trusted he could find some way to amuse himself. Perhaps he'd breakfast with Priscilla—she'd certainly turned in early enough to be ready for company come morning.
He entered the house quietly and ducked into the study to pour himself a brandy before stealing upstairs. No need to wake the servants—he was perfectly capable of putting himself to bed. Even a hushed conversation might wake Amy, which was the last thing he wanted.
Sneaking past her door, he nearly choked on a mouthful of brandy when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a heartbroken woman crying herself to sleep.
Damn, she was still awake.
He paused, his fingers drumming on one thigh while he listened. Then he reached for the door latch—and jerked back, almost as though it had burned his fingers.
He knew all too well what form any attempts at comfort would ultimately take. Better to let her get this out of her system once and for all, he decided firmly. There was no sense prolonging the agony, or giving her any ideas that things between them might be different.
Gritting his teeth, he passed her chamber and entered his. Unfortunately, he could still hear Amy through the adjoining wall, and easing the door shut failed to block the sound. He cursed at himself for allowing Ida to put her in the room adjacent to his, but he'd thought he wouldn't be here tonight, so it hadn't occurred to him to interfere.
It was pointless to attempt sleeping until she nodded off. Her muffled sobs went straight to his heart, and he'd never fall asleep while listening to such a poignant reminder of his guilt. He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the bed, started a fire as quietly as possible, then sat in the nearby chair and slowly sipped his brandy.
He had done this to her. Weak, despicable man that he was, he'd let his emotions rule his head—taken this poor, innocent girl, callously, with no honorable intentions whatsoever. And then abandoned her.
But it had felt so right…she had felt so good…
Though the brandy flowed in a warm path down Colin's throat, it failed to melt the knot in his chest. Draining the glass, he set it on the small table by his chair and stared into the fire, twisting his ring.
Wondering how long she'd been crying her eyes out, he tried to envision her: hair a tangled mess, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, face puffy and swollen, creased from where she'd pressed it into the sheets to muffle those heartrending sobs.
It was not a pretty mental picture.
Perhaps he could go to her, soothe her, apologize. She wasn't likely to be attractive to him at the moment, looking so pathetic, nor would she be in an amorous mood. He stood up, shrugged out of his surcoat and removed his waistcoat, the better to put his arms around her—then stopped short.
Who was he fooling?
He needed a distraction. He silently finished undressing, slipped into a robe, and padded softly out of his bedchamber, intending to head for the library.
But as he passed by her door, she started moaning. Soft and resonant, the sound snapped his battered heart in two. He was into her chamber before he could form a coherent thought.
She was a long lump under the heavy quilt, her head buried beneath the covers.
He knelt by the bed. "Amy?"
"Colin?" The moaning ceased at once, and she peeked out, then sat up. In the firelight, she looked beautiful—and not at all like he'd expected. Her face was pink and tear streaked, yes, but not even close to the puffy mess he'd imagined when he heard her through the wall.
"What—what are you doing here?" She looked over the edge of the bed, taking in Colin's state of undress.
He stood up, belting his robe tighter.
Her gaze slid down to his bare feet, then slowly back up to his face. She sniffled, dashing the tears from her cheeks with an impatient motion. "How long have you been back?"
"Long enough."
"You've been…?"
"In the next room."
"Oh, God. You heard me, then."
She threw herself back to the mattress, pulling the covers over her rapidly reddening face. "Go away, please."
Her body shifted toward him as his weight dropped onto the edge of the bed.
"Go away!"
He didn't.
Amy lay rigid, apparently willing him to leave—or herself to magically vanish—until he folded the blanket away from her face. "I'm sorry," she squeaked out, her eyes filling again.
"You're sorry?" he asked, incredulous.
He couldn't credit it. He had abandoned her, and she was sorry.
"I've been…wallowing in my misery, I guess you could call it. I…haven't been alone before tonight. Since the fire, I mean. Not all alone, where I was sure no one could hear me. Since my father died." She sniffed and let out a long breath. "I thought I was alone…"
Colin released a sigh of relief and amusement at himself. Here he'd been, certain he was all-important in her life, wracked with guilt for hurting her, and she hadn't been thinking of him at all.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of." He gently wiped fresh tears away. "And here I thought you were heartbroken because I left you alone this eve," he teased. "The tears were probably just what you needed. I'm sorry I interrupted."
"I was just feeling sorry for myself," Amy said to her lap.
He believed her. Almost. But there was something in her voice…
And she wouldn't look at him.
He lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. "Is that all?"
She nodded. "Though I did wish you were here with me," she admitted softly.
Her eyes were wide and trusting, darkened in that compelling way that drew him to her, inexorably. Without thinking, he leaned over to kiss her, his mouth moving gently on hers in a silent apology.
It felt so…natural.
When he pulled away, her voice dropped to a whisper. "Why did you come back?"
"I couldn't stay away," he confessed hoarsely, knowing it was true the moment the words passed his lips. "I never made any other plans. I couldn't bear to think of you in my house and me somewhere else entirely. But that doesn't mean—"
"Shh." Amy placed her hand upon his lips. "Don't say it. I know you're promised, Colin Chase, and I've a destiny of my own. Just let me have you for one more night."
She was mirroring his thoughts. It was impossible for him to stay away from her when she was so close by. Absolutely impossible.
He'd never been able to resist her pull, never.
"Four," he corrected. "The shops are closed tomorrow, but you'll order a few gowns on Monday, have them delivered Tuesday, and the next morning we'll leave. We'll have four nights. And no one will ever know."
"But won't Lady Priscilla—"
"Shh," he admonished, borrowing her gesture and placing his fingers on her lips. "I'll take care of it. Don't you worry."
Four nights.
In truth, he had no idea how he would keep their liaison secret from Priscilla or anyone else, but he would find a way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"Four nights," Amy agreed solemnly. Four nights. Four nights more than she had any right to hope for or deserve.
As though to seal their secret pact, Colin lifted her hand and kissed the back, then, his emerald eyes locked on hers, turned it over and kissed the palm, his lips warm and tender.
His eyes glittered suggestively, and his tongue came out and teased at the sensitive skin. Amy closed her eyes as shimmering tendrils of feeling swept up her arm and danced all through her body.
Colin slipped under the quilt and stretched out beside her. He gathered her into his arms and held her close while his head slowly descended to meet hers.
Amy felt like she floated
on a puffy, comforting cloud, lulled by the gentle pressure of his mouth. Her hand slipped beneath his robe and explored across his broad back and down his arm. There was that scar; her fingers traced the mark as though they could heal it, along with all his other childhood hurts.
Enjoying the warm, smooth expanse of skin, she brushed her palm down his side to his hip, then stilled when she realized he wore nothing underneath. Boldly—of its own volition, it seemed—her hand edged around to find him, hard and ready.
Tensing at her intimate touch, he breathed heavily into her mouth. She tasted warmed, rich brandy as his tongue fenced skillfully with hers. His kiss became fiery and possessive, and her breathing quickened to match his.
Somehow her chemise magically disappeared, and for long, sweet minutes he played her body, making her senses careen with the consummate deftness of a master. Every intimate stroke of his fingers, every burning trail of his lips sent currents of desire pulsing through her, imprinting the memory of him so deep in her heart that she knew she'd always carry a part of him with her, though they be parted by a continent and the impossible gulf of lives that had never been meant to cross.
Her breath came in little shuddering gasps, and her hands reached for his hips, wordlessly begging him to come inside her and make her complete.
But he didn't comply with her desperate plea. Instead, he rolled over, bringing her with him, and she lay on top of him, trembling with anticipation as he ran warm, soothing palms over her back and bottom.
When his hands reached down to rearrange her knees, causing her to straddle him in the most strangely intimate manner, Amy's eyes flew open. "Colin?" she whispered, not even knowing what to ask.
"Hush, love," he murmured. "There are many, many ways, and all are exquisite." And he lifted her hips, guiding himself into her.
As she settled around him, a delicious shudder flowed through her body, and a part of her marveled at her ability to accommodate his hard, deep penetration.