The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (93 page)

“Alec.” His name was a sob of frustration.

He held her tight, not moving. “What?” he whispered. “What do you want?”

“Finish me.”

“Finish you. I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You do,” she said. She turned her head to him as far as she could.

“Like this?” He slid out of her almost all the way and pushed back in slowly.

“Harder.”

“This?” A little harder, this time.

“More.” She pushed her hips back.

“Like this, then?” Again. When he was inside her this time she came and, Jesus, he’d never felt anything like it. She called his name and what he heard was Philippa’s voice. Philippa. The woman who knew him best. Who was kind and generous and thoughtful and who had always been able to make him laugh, to whom he had confessed some of his most intimate thoughts and concerns. What if she didn’t feel the same?

Something inside him broke. He felt the strings of his heart vibrating with the power of what he felt for her. He wasn’t the same man as when this had started.

He put her on her back again. He was trying to just fuck her but he couldn’t. He was rough, but she met that without reservation. She gave him back even more until he was the one rushing to orgasm.

Moments before his crisis, with his body quivering on the edge of release, he gritted his teeth and, his heart pounding at his chest as if it would break through his ribs, it occurred to him that Philippa was not a courtesan whom he could expect to have taken precautions or who had the resources to act if there were consequences.

He stopped moving in her. When he was certain the danger had passed, he grabbed her face between his hands. Philippa pressed the back of her head into the mattress. “Alec.” She wrapped her arms around him and groaned. “This is unfair of you. What are you doing to me?”

“Look at me,” he said.

Her eyes flickered open and slowly focused on him.

He swept his thumbs along her temples. “Philippa.” He kissed her forehead, and he couldn’t help himself, he pressed further into her. Then he dropped a kiss on both her cheeks.

“What is it?” she asked. She reached to brush his hair off his forehead. “What’s made you look like your heart is breaking?”

“Only you would know that.”

“What is it, my darling Alec?”

Panic constricted his chest when he saw her eyes widen. He had himself in better control now. “You’ll think I’m mad, but I’m not. And you know me. You know I’m not the kind of man who would put a lover at risk. I will not put you at risk of a child out of wedlock.” He kissed the edge of her mouth. “Never.”

Her eyes went wide. “Hush, my darling. It’s all right. You can withdraw, isn’t that so?”

He started moving in her again. “I could, Philippa.” Very quickly, he was near the edge again, and she sucked in a hard, fast breath when he was as far inside her as he could get. “I will if that’s what you want.” Her eyes never left his face, which gave him hope. “You know I wouldn’t ask that of you if I didn’t mean every word. We’re here, Philippa. Like this.” He stared into her face. “You wouldn’t be if you didn’t love me.”

He pushed up on his hands again, still inside her. Her fingers curled around his arms, and she matched him, moved with him, wrapped her legs around him. But he did not see any answer in her face, and he did not intend to take silence for consent.

“You can’t marry Bancroft when we feel like this together. Not when I’ve made you scream my name, and I’m about to scream yours.”

She put her arms around his shoulders and held him tight. Her eyes glittered with tears. But she was looking at him. “Alec.”

“Say yes, Philippa.” He thrust a little faster now and, when he spoke again, his words were breathless. “I’m very close. Answer me now, before we have to stop this.” He felt his orgasm coming on, but he kept his eyes on her face. His heart twisted in his chest. He bent his head to kiss away a tear that escaped when she blinked.

She brought him closer yet. “Come, Alec.”

“Is that yes?” He stared into her eyes, wet with tears, and didn’t know the cause.

“It’s madness. The moonlight made us mad.”

He stilled. “Answer me, Philippa.” His gaze locked with hers. “Don’t make me live without you. Don’t make me spend the rest of my life bereft of you.”

She closed her eyes and opened them slowly, and then she smiled. “Yes.”

“Jesus.” He surged forwards.

Neither of them said anything more. Philippa made a tiny sound in the back of her throat as he gave in to all the physical sensations coming at him. He gave in to the emotions, too. He knew, dimly, that he was unlikely to get a child on her this time, but he still thought of how he would feel when he held his first child in his arms, by the woman he loved beyond all others.

Her sweat-slick body moved with his, her arms tightened around him and she kissed his cheek, his mouth. She let her head fall back while he drank in her face, her parted lips, until he had no choice but to give in to a climax that shook him hard and rolled him through a wave he wasn’t sure he was going to survive.

He did, of course. As did Philippa.

They were married by special licence a week later by the vicar in a small ceremony in the rose garden of Frieth House. If anyone in attendance wondered why the bride and groom vanished through a blue door at the rear of the house at the end of the ceremony, no one said a word.

Sitting in his library, which had once housed hundreds of books and now sported only empty shelves, Nicholas Wynter, the Earl of Harteley, squinted at the words inscribed on the invitation that had been delivered by a dark-haired lad barely out of short pants. He had hammered at the door until Harteley had been given no choice except to answer in order to stop the sound from echoing through the hollow hallways. He had few possessions left to absorb the impact of noise. Even his own footsteps had begun to grate on his nerves and slice into the dull ache in his head that constantly accompanied him as he sought to finish off what remained of his father’s fine spirits.

The cheeky little bugger, dressed in purple livery that looked as though it had been newly stitched, had curled up his lip in disgust, obviously mistaking Harteley for a maggot rather than a recently anointed lord. Harteley’s black hair had grown unfashionably long and he’d not shaved in three days. With no servants to tend to his needs, he saw little point in maintaining appearances while in residence. He’d discarded his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat.

“Give this to yer master immediately,” the lad had ordered, extending the invitation.

Harteley had merely laughed and begun closing the door. The boy had blocked his actions by placing his foot, protected by a well-made boot, in the doorway. It irked that this urchin appeared more aristocratic than Harteley, that he possessed confidence and didn’t cower from his task.

“It’s me mistress’ business. It’s important.” He’d shoved the invitation and a crown into Harteley’s hand. “Fer yer trouble.”

That had stopped Harteley’s laughter with such force that he’d nearly choked, stopped it because his fingers had closed around the coin as a drowning man might latch on to a rope tossed his way. He’d watched the lad scamper to a waiting coach and leap up to take his position at its rear, thought he’d seen a curtain at the window billow slightly before the driver had urged on the matching greys.

Now Harteley slowly savoured his whisky and wondered who the deuce was Miss Arianna Vernon. Such an unusual name. Not one he’d easily forget. But forget it he had — if he’d ever known it. He tapped the gilded invitation against his tan-clad thigh. It wasn’t uncommon for women to seek his company, but never was it handled so formally.

A woman who began a dalliance with an invitation would no doubt be cold in bed. Probably the reason she sought him out. He had a reputation for melting the most solid of ice. He actually enjoyed it, took pride in his prowess. He had little enough to offer the world.

But of late, he’d grown bored. Women were too easy. Everything had become too easy — except survival and maintaining the last shreds of his dignity. It had been almost a year since he’d inherited the title and the crumbling estate that came with it. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could retain the London residence. The debt collectors were knocking on his door with as much determination as had the lad with the invitation.

Through the blur of too much liquor, he again read the words. When the true state of his affairs became known — and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep them hidden — women would no doubt scorn and avoid him. He might as well take advantage while he still had the opportunity.

The coach arrived promptly at half past ten. Harteley had bathed, shaved and donned his most flattering clothes: blue tailcoat, white shirt, white cravat, white silk waistcoat, black trousers. Oddly he felt more himself than he had in days.

The lad had once again accompanied the coach. He didn’t seem surprised to discover that Harteley was the master of the house, although he did smirk.

“Have you a name?” Harteley asked, as he followed the boy to the coach where a taller and older footman opened the door.

“Jimmy,” the lad responded, just before his dark eyes widened as Harteley flipped him the crown.

“For your trouble.”

The lad tipped his hat. “Thanks, milord.” And he scrambled on to the back of the coach.

Harteley settled on the plush bench. He recognized good craftsmanship when he saw it. Miss Vernon was exceedingly well off. The horses lurched forwards, and he had to admit it was perhaps the smoothest riding coach in which he’d ever had the pleasure to travel. He was becoming more intrigued with the mysterious Arianna Vernon. Tonight promised to be anything but dull.

He was surprised to discover that her residence was located beyond London, hidden away behind wrought iron and towering elms. The driver and horses must have known the path well, for they barely slowed as they turned off the main road. Yet no torches lit the narrow dirt trail they travelled. Even with a full moon, little was visible before the mansion came into view.

It was as grand, if not grander, than the one Harteley had inherited. Even from a distance, it was evident that it required no repairs. Here, torches flickered to reveal the magnificent estate. In the moonlight, the lawn appeared immaculately groomed.

As soon as the coach rolled to a stop, a footman was opening the door. Harteley disembarked, his curiosity piqued. This could not be the residence of an unmarried lady, even if she did refer to herself as “Miss”. She was either married and in want of an affair, or her father was off tending to business and she was taking advantage. Then another thought occurred to him: perhaps she was an aging spinster, in want of a bit of fun while she was still able to enjoy it. He wasn’t bothered by the possibility. In the dark, the particulars of a woman were left to a man’s imagination. And he’d always possessed a grand imagination.

“If you’ll come along with me, milord,” the footman said.

He followed the footman up the steps and into the impressive manor. He had an eye for the finer things, and this home was filled with them: marble floors, candles flickering in crystal chandeliers, well-made furniture, statues, flower-filled vases, paintings created by the masters.

A butler stepped forwards and bowed slightly. “Milord, the mistress awaits you in the morning room.”

The morning room. Not the bedchamber. Was it possible that she truly was interested in only sharing dinner? He suspected not. She no doubt wanted to be charmed out of her clothing. While he’d begun the adventure with a bit of scepticism, he found he was suddenly very interested in this woman of mystery.

As the butler led the way down the wide hallways, Harteley took in his surroundings. Everything was perfection, nothing was overlooked. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that the elaborate surroundings were all for show, as though someone were striving to be impressive, to deflect interest away from something else. Considering what he’d inherited, he could certainly understand that desire. He’d held on to artwork as long as possible simply because it allowed him to feel civilized. As he’d been forced to sell each piece, so he’d felt as though he were whittling away at the core of who he was. He’d always known his place resided in the upper echelons. Falling from it was a painful and belittling process.

He had moments where he despised his father for his gambling habits, for his preference for selfish pleasures. But then Harteley was not so very different. It was the very reason he’d accepted the invitation. For a night of expected pleasure.

Another footman — good Lord, how many servants did she possess? — opened a door and the butler ushered Harteley inside. One wall and a portion of the ceiling were all glass. Moonlight whispered inside to shimmer along the figure standing near the far windowed corner. Her back was to him, but he was struck by the paleness of her hair, which rivalled the moon. It was caught up in a simple style that revealed the long, slender slope of her neck. He decided he would kiss her nape first and then trail his mouth along her delicate shoulders.

“Miss Vernon,” the butler said, reminding Harteley he was not yet alone with her, “Lord Harteley has arrived.”

She turned from her observation of the gardens, and he nearly stepped back from the unexpected beauty of her. And her youth. She was far too young for a man as jaded as he. Yet he could not deny the appeal of her innocence or the desire to regain his youth that swept through him. She reminded him of an earlier time when his life was filled with choices — and he’d chosen poorly. Why of a sudden these bothersome reminiscences when he’d astutely avoided them for years? Something about her was familiar. The high cheekbones, the delicate chin. He knew her, but from where?