The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (49 page)

He did not release her arms right away, and a powerful frisson of awareness raced up her skin. “I took the liberty of visiting your lovely cottage … to assess your financial needs personally.”

“I’ll just leave you two to … uh …” Minerva bustled away towards the breakfast room, leaving Angelique to face Heyworth alone. She withdrew her arms from his grasp, and accidentally dropped one of her gloves. They both bent to retrieve it, and inadvertently bumped heads.

One of his big hands darted out to take hold of her once again, catching her to help her keep her balance. This time, he did not release her when she started to move away. He pulled her close and bent his head, his lips barely an inch away from hers. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”

Angelique clenched her teeth, wishing his voice had lost its power to turn her knees to pudding. He smelled like shaving soap and leather, and his dark-green eyes were undeniably striking. Her breasts touched his chest, causing her breath to catch in her throat. What a husband he would have made …

If he hadn’t been keeping a lover while professing his love for
her.

This time, Angelique did pull away. “I sent you a letter requesting quarterly funds, Duke. There was no need for you to travel so far on my behalf.”

“Ah, but there was great need.”

“I do not see why. You are not my guardian.”

“But I would make a very poor trustee indeed if I did not come and see the conditions of the estate in person.”

“As I said, it was not necessary. I did send you a letter which — very accurately — spelled out my needs.”

If she could have taken back her last two words, she would have, for Heyworth — from the way his gaze focused upon her mouth — was quite obviously reading more into them than she’d intended. He swallowed heavily, drawing attention to his masculine throat and the chiselled line of his jaw. It was entirely unfair of him to possess such a manly chin with a hint of a cleft.

“M-my
requirements
are not extravagant,” Angelique said in an attempt to turn his attention to the matter at hand. “The house is in good repair, so my father’s annuity will suffice.”

“How could you possibly know the condition of the house? You have not been home in, what? Two years?”

Twenty-three months, Angelique thought as her face heated. She had not planned on having to confront him at any time this decade, especially not at such close quarters. And alone.

“My father wrote.” But she did not wish to think of those letters or the sharp pang of grief that had settled just below her breastbone. She was angry with him, angry with Heyworth.

“I expect he asked you to return to London.”

“No. As a matter of fact, he did not.” She’d explained her position quite clearly, so Derington knew better.

“I understand he visited you in Florence.”

“Yes. Once.”

“But you did not reconcile.”

She was not about to dwell upon that awkward visit. Derington had been anything but a model father, and his desire that she wed into the wealthy, prestigious Colton family was pointless. Angelique wanted naught to do with a suitor who kept a mistress while he paid court to her.

“If you don’t mind, it has been a long journey. I am tired and famished and would like to retire as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” He gave a slight bow and allowed her to pass.

Clearly, it had not dawned on Angelique that he would be spending the night under her roof. Heyworth had no intention of giving her an opportunity to toss him out — which she had every right to do. There was an inn only three or four miles from Primrose Cottage. He probably could have acquired a room there, in spite of the crowds that had come to Maidstone for the horse race.

But that would defeat his purpose.

His nerves tingled with awareness of the woman who could still make him burn, just at the sight of her. Even in her unrelenting black muslin gown, she was magnificent, her doe’s eyes flashing fire at him as she spoke, her loose blonde curls shimmering in the candlelight. She’d given no overt indication of losing her composure, but Heyworth had noted the racing pulse in her delicate neck.

How he’d craved a taste of those plump lips.

He turned abruptly and went in search of his valet. The man was never far away, and Heyworth quickly located him. “I’m going out for a long ride while Miss Drummond and her aunt get settled in. Make yourself scarce as well, Grayson. I do not want the lady to realize we’re billeted here just yet.”

It was underhanded, he knew. But so had been the reason she’d fled two years ago, too. The unscrupulous Lord Rathby had spent a full year trying to injure Heyworth in retaliation for an incident at the races, and the bastard had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. Rathby had to have known that Angelique would be horrified by his deceitful “revelations” and cry off their wedding.

It had been the most humiliating day of his life, learning
from the newspapers
, for God’s sake, that his fiancée had fled to Italy rather than stay and marry him. Heyworth’s anger had known no bounds. He’d searched for Rathby only to discover that the blackguard had gone to ground after doing his damage.

After his initial fury passed, Heyworth had quickly realized that Rathby was not the priority. He had to go after Angelique — he had no doubt he could convince her of his innocence. And Rathby’s despicable treachery.

He made arrangements to follow Angelique to Italy, but on the morning he was to depart, his mother had fallen ill. There’d been no question of leaving London then, and the dowager duchess had lingered near death for a month before succumbing to a series of strokes that finally caused her demise.

And when the mourning period was over, it seemed that one thing after another prevented Heyworth from going after Angelique. He finally put his foot down and decided that everything else, no matter how crucial, could wait.

He’d gone to speak to Angelique’s father only a week before his death, informing the man of his intention to track down his daughter and bring her home to England. And then marry her. He hadn’t anticipated that she’d have to come home for Derington’s funeral.

Angelique had fallen asleep within moments of going to bed. And yet now she lay awake, her encounter with Heyworth plaguing her dreams. She thought about all she’d lost two years before. If Heyworth had not been so deceitful, Angelique would have married him happily, for she’d desired him as she’d wanted no other.

And it seemed that had not changed in the least.

The fact that she could not control her attraction for Heyworth, in spite of all that had happened, was beyond annoying. Fortunately, he was gone now, so she would be able to put him out of her thoughts as she’d finally managed to do in Italy. Until the next time she needed money, that is. Every farthing she required to live on would have to come from the Duke and, judging by their earlier interchange, she would no doubt have to go through the same rubbish she’d had to endure earlier.

She was twenty-four years old and, as Aunt Minerva was so fond of reminding her, well on her way to being quite solidly on the shelf. And now she was beholden to a man whose very presence made her heart quake in her chest.

It would have been so easy to lean into the comfort of his body. But Angelique again recalled the conversation she’d had with Lord Rathby only two days before she was to marry Heyworth. She was grateful that at least Rathby had been honest with her, unlike her fiancé and her own father. Neither of them must have thought she’d mind having a husband who kept a mistress in Chelsea.

Well, she did mind, and she was not about to go through the same misery her mother had. Luckily, she’d learned of Heyworth’s duplicity before she’d made any vows to him.

In need of a glass of milk to soothe her nerves, Angelique got out of bed and pulled a light wrapper over her chemise. Her nerves might be in a tizzy, but the house was quiet, and comfortably warm. Angelique crept down the stairs and headed in the direction of the kitchen, only to stop cold when she smelled smoke coming from the portico.

A fire would be disastrous. Angelique ran quickly towards the smell, afraid that Thornberry might have left one of his cheroots burning.

“You!” She stopped short when she saw Heyworth stretched out on one of the padded chaises.

He moved like an agile predator, coming to his feet without the slightest effort, and moving — stalking — towards her. He’d discarded his coat and collar, and had rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. In the pale lamplight, Angelique could easily appreciate the dusting of dark hair on his forearms, and his powerful hands. He tossed away the cheroot and her mouth went dry with feminine awareness.

Angelique felt next to naked. Her chemise was nearly transparent, and her dressing gown hardly better. As he came towards her, she felt her bare toes curl on the cool floor.

“I knew your hair would be even more lovely when you let it down.” He touched her shoulder, but only to pick up a lock of her hair, which he rubbed between two of his fingers.

“I thought you’d left … gone to the inn.”

He shook his head slightly. “I’m not going to let you go so easily this time.”

Every nerve ending in Angelique’s body was fully alert and clamouring for his touch. And then she remembered why she’d gotten off so easily two years before.

“I was very sorry to learn of your mother’s death, Heyworth. It couldn’t have been long after … after we … after I …”

“Thank you,” he said, stepping even closer. “I was in no position to come after you in Italy then. But, rest assured, had circumstances been different, I would have.”

His eyelashes were long and black, the perfect frame for his persuasive eyes. Angelique swallowed when he slid his hand along her jaw and cupped the side of her face. She tried to back away.

But her feet would not move. His touch felt like balm on a raw wound, far too compelling to disregard. He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, brushing lightly against her mouth as he’d done during the earliest days of their courtship.

Angelique had tried to forget the shuddering pleasure of those light kisses, but her dreams had often reminded her of his sensual power. Far too often.

She wanted him now, wanted his arms around her, his brawny chest against her breasts, his loins against her own. She shuddered, and he suddenly deepened their kiss.

A small cry came from the back of her throat when he drew her close, changing the angle of his head for deeper penetration. His tongue touched hers, and Angelique’s knees went weak, though she felt protected by the heat of his body, and his powerful embrace. His arousal was thick and heavy against her pelvis and, when he moved, a sensation of pure pleasure skittered up her spine.

Her wrapper slid off her shoulders, and Angelique yearned for more.
No, less.
Much less clothing between them. She wanted to feel Heyworth’s bare skin against hers, their legs twining together. She’d dreamed of it often enough.

He lowered one strap of her chemise, and Angelique cried out with amazement when he cupped her bare breast.

“Aye, ’tis soft and full as I always imagined it. You are so perfect, my sweet.”

Angelique let out a low sigh when he bent down and touched the swollen peak with his tongue. He held her securely, but she felt as though she were floating in a sea of sensation, of need. She wanted it all — it seemed as though she’d always wanted to lie with him, to finally share her physical passions with the man she loved.

“Rathby lied, Angel,” he whispered, his voice harsh. He feathered kisses up to her neck. “He’s a scoundrel who doesn’t deserve half the credence you’ve given him.”

Angelique pulled away suddenly, as though a pitcher of frigid seawater had been dumped upon her head.
What was she doing?
Allowing her heart to be broken yet again? By the same man who’d nearly destroyed her two years before?

Disgusted by the whimper she heard coming from her own throat, she covered her breast with her chemise and whirled away, then made haste to the staircase. It took only seconds to scamper upstairs, where she quickly entered her bedchamber, closing the door tightly behind her. If she’d had a key, she would have locked it.

Whether it was to prevent Heyworth from entering, or to keep herself from making the same foolish mistakes with him again, she was not sure.

Heyworth was up early, but he didn’t enter the breakfast room until Angelique and her aunt had gone in and begun their meal. He wanted to give Angelique no possible avenue for avoidance. Of him.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said, drinking in the sight of her.

“Your Grace,” said the elder Miss Drummond, “I had no idea you were still here. Why, I …”

“There is a horse race tomorrow down at Maidstone. Which means, of course, there are no rooms to be had within twenty miles.” He took a seat across from Angelique, who would not look at him. Still, he took satisfaction in the blush that rose on her cheeks, for she was obviously recalling the intensely sensuous interlude they’d shared the night before.

“I hadn’t heard,” said Minerva. She turned to Angelique. “Did you know of it?”

“No, Aunt.”

“Well, it has naught to do with us,” the older woman remarked.

Heyworth did not take his eyes from Angelique as he stirred his tea and half listened to her aunt discourse on the subject of escaping to the country only to find the crowds of London encroaching on their little corner of Berkshire. He’d never spent a morning with Angelique before, their courtship always taking the conventional course: afternoon rides in the park, balls and soirées in the evenings.

In the time before their aborted wedding day, Heyworth had imagined vividly the mornings they would soon spend together in bed — making love before the servants brought their breakfast, feeding each other tender morsels between heated kisses, then making love again before they arose to face the day.