The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance Page 3

“It must be working, don’t you think? Did you see the way he looked at me?”

  “Humph. How could I not? Ah, but you should see the way Eugenia Wadsworth is looking at you. Do you feel her daggers in your back?”

  Lydia laughed. “Is she jealous, do you think? Of me?” It boosted her confidence to think that the beautiful, fashionable widow would see her as competition.

  “Apparently,” he muttered, “jealousy is the name of the game tonight.”

  Better and better, she thought. It was all going according to plan. The revised plan, anyway.

  “Well, I really do not care about Mrs Wadsworth,” she said, and fluttered her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “It is Lord Tennison who concerns me. We are to make him jealous, in case you have forgotten.”

  Geoffrey tore his gaze from the other couple and returned his attention to Lydia with a smile so beguiling it poured over her like warm honey. Thank heaven she was seated.

  “I have not forgotten. Let us resume our performance. Can I tempt you with something to eat?”

  She noticed, for the first time, the plate in front of her. Besides the sliced ham, lobster patty and pickled mango, there was a small pile of the tiniest strawberries. “Oh, strawberries!” She popped one in her mouth and it was like the richest of sweetmeats. She closed her eyes and savoured it. She was very much afraid she’d actually moaned with pleasure. When she opened her eyes, Geoffrey was studying her intently with an expression she could not immediately identify. Could it be . . . hunger? The air in her lungs suddenly felt thin, starving her of breath. She held another strawberry in her fingers, but could not seem to lift it to her mouth.

  “I remembered about the strawberries,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.

  “Hmm?”

  “That picnic at your aunt’s home in Richmond. You almost became sick from eating too many wild strawberries. You fell back on the blanket and said there was no better way to die.”

  Her heart gave a little skitter in her chest. “You . . . You remembered that?”

  “Of course. You looked so charmingly . . . sated.”

  He took her hand and lifted the berry to her mouth. When she took it, her lips touched his bare fingers, for he had removed his gloves for supper, and the brief taste of his skin overwhelmed even the strawberry. He watched intently as she ate it and then licked her lips to capture every hint of flavour left behind. She watched him watch her and, all at once, with their gazes locked, she sensed a new connection between them, something deeper and full of understanding, through eyes and lips and fingers, and the sweet scent of ripe strawberries enveloping them. It felt so right. And very real – at least for her.

  Please, please let this not be entirely an act for him.

  He leaned back and the moment ended. He grinned, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, while she reeled as though the earth had moved.

  “You might try the lobster cakes,” he said. “They are devilish good.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Even for more strawberries?” He waved his fork over the remaining pile.

  She shook her head. She might never eat again. But she could happily sit there and watch him dine. Or watch him do anything. Dear God, she was lost to him.

  And yet he merely play-acted.

  While he ate and she pushed her food around the plate, they spoke of ordinary things, of friends and family, books and plays, and a dozen other mundane topics. All the while, though, Geoffrey kept up the pretence of infatuation, touching her, smiling boldly, staring at her with those splendid blue eyes. Anyone watching would assume they were in love. He was a fine actor. She teased him about treading the boards if he somehow lost his inheritance.

  “Some roles are easier than others,” he said. “I confess I am enjoying this one.”

  Most of the guests were still dining when Lord Tennison and Mrs Wadsworth left the room. She watched the rakish nobleman with feigned interest. “What are we to do now?” she asked. “We cannot dance a third set together without causing gossip, not to mention giving my mother palpitations. How shall we proceed with our plan? Or perhaps Lord Tennison is leaving the ball? Oh dear.” She infused her voice with disappointment.

  Geoffrey turned slightly to watch the departing couple. “No, they are not leaving. They are going out the terrace doors.”

  “Oh. Do you think we should follow them?”

  “A capital suggestion, my girl. Let’s go ogle each other in the moonlight. Nothing could appear more romantic.”

  She felt many pairs of eyes on them as they left the supper room. No doubt tongues would be wagging as soon as they were out of sight. “Are you certain this is wise?” she whispered. “I fear people may get the wrong idea.”

  “That is the point, is it not? To make one particular person get the wrong idea?” He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “Do not vex yourself, Lydia. Taking a bit of air after supper with your brother’s best friend is no scandalous thing. Trust me, no one will care.”

  She hoped he was right. She would hate for a general expectation to arise, forcing him into a situation he did not want, even if she wanted it desperately.

  When they reached the terrace, Lydia saw Lord Tennison in a far corner, standing very close to Mrs Wadsworth. It looked as though they might have just ended a kiss, and Lydia turned away, embarrassed. Geoffrey led her to the opposite corner. He stood with his back to the balustrade and pulled her gently to his side so that she faced the garden. It was a beautiful, clear, temperate evening. The stars were out in force and the moon almost full, the air redolent of lilac and horse chestnut. It was the perfect setting for romance, with the perfect man at her side. If only . . .

  He took her hand and discreetly held it behind him so that no one looking out from the ballroom could see. Neither could Lord Tennison, if he bothered to look, so she wondered why Geoffrey did it. She wanted to believe it was for himself and not for the sake of their ruse, but she tried not to get her hopes up. Though both were gloved now, she nevertheless felt the warmth of his fingers, especially when he began sketching lazy circles on her palm.

  “I think we need to up the game a bit,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Tennison is the man you want, you must be prepared to play at his level. He is a man of the world, as you know, with a great deal of experience.”

  “With women.”

  “Yes. A great many women.”

  “And you think I am no match for all those other women? That he may find my youth and inexperience tiresome?”

  He reached up and stroked her cheek. “You are more than worthy of any man’s attention, my girl. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think he is worthy of your attention. I may not like him, but it is not my place to judge your heart’s desire. If he is the one you want, then I am here to help you win him. But, because he is so worldly, I suspect a few dances and moonstruck gazes are not enough to incite his jealousy. Tennison is a bold choice, Lydia, and you must be bold to win him.”

  A frisson of anticipation skittered down her spine. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Come with me,” he said. Keeping hold of her hand, he guided her to the steps leading down from the terrace.

  “Where are we going?”

  He merely smiled and led her into the garden, where gravel pathways were lit by paper lanterns hanging from trees. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How can we make Lord Tennison jealous if he can’t even see us?”

  He’d stopped at a stone bench tucked among the shrubbery. “It’s what he will see when we return,” he said, and pulled her to sit down beside him. Very close beside him.

  “What will he see?”

  “A woman who has been thoroughly kissed.”

  And there, bathed in the lush scent of a nearby lilac tree and the silvery light of the brilliant moon, he kissed her. Tenderly, at first. His hand spread against the back of her head, angling his mouth over hers, while his other hand settled low on her
back.

  She did not care if he did this merely to provoke another man, she was in his arms and he was kissing her – it was what she had always wanted, her every dream and fantasy. And, by God, she was going to take advantage of the moment. She kissed him back for all she was worth, twining her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his.

  She felt the thumping of his heart beneath his shirt and waistcoat, or perhaps it was her own heartbeat. She could no longer distinguish his heart from hers. They were as one, synchronized, merged, united.

  He parted her lips with a gentle nudging from his own, and all at once the kiss became lush and full and potently carnal as his tongue began an urgent twirling dance with her own. Good God, what was he doing to her? It was like nothing she had ever experienced or could even have imagined. It was earth-shaking, soul-shattering – a kiss filled with hunger and tenderness, with promise and desire. She melted into it, allowing him to draw her tongue deeper into his mouth, and everything within her dissolved into molten liquid.

  They kissed and kissed for what might have been hours or mere moments. When he finally lifted his head, he murmured her name. “Lydia, ah, sweet Lydia.” He skated his lips along her jaw to the hollow beneath her ear. Unprepared for the intense sensation his lips wrought on that particular spot – she’d had no idea it was so wonderfully sensitive – she caught her breath on a gasp and shivered with almost unbearable pleasure. She arched her neck in shameless invitation as his mouth moved lower. His lips parted and the velvety tip of his tongue against her flushed neck sent ripples of pure bliss shimmering along every inch of her skin. The jumble of new sensations was so dazzling that all rational thought vanished. A moan rose from the back of her throat. She gasped his name, over and over, while kneading his back and shoulders with restless desire.

  The sound of his name seemed to renew his passion, for he brought his lips back to hers and plundered her mouth again, almost savagely. She responded with equal hunger, and they kissed until her head swam in a sort of dark, sensual haze.

  When they finally broke the kiss, she leaned her forehead against his, her breath ragged and her heart in turmoil. “Geoffrey? Is this real? Or are we still play-acting?”

  “Does it seem like play-acting to you?”

  “No. Oh, I don’t know! You have my mind all in a whirl. I don’t know what to think.”

  He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Sweet Lydia, I have a confession to make.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hartwell was not detained, and he did not ask me to replace him tonight in your little scheme.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No, I asked him. In fact, I all but begged him to allow me to take his place. When he told me of your plans, I knew I wanted to be the one to play the lovesick fool.”

  “But why?”

  “So I would have a good excuse to do this.” And he kissed her again. “And this.” He trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat. “And this.” His tongue dipped into the cleavage of her bosom while one finger slipped inside the lace at her neckline until it found her nipple, just barely covered by her stays. She uttered a moan of shocked pleasure as he teased it.

  “Oh God, Lydia.” His voice was raw and breathless. “We must stop.”

  She buried her face in the crook of his neck. “This is real, then? You are kissing me because you want to and not because of Lord Tennison?”

  “I have wanted to kiss you for ages, Lydia. And the devil take Tennison. Surely you do not really want him, do you? Would you give me a chance instead?”

  She threw her head back and laughed for joy. “Silly man. Of course I do not want that odious Lord Tennison. I have a confession, too, you know. What I told Daniel and Philip was true. I was indeed pining away for someone who never noticed me, and they really did help me contrive a plan to make that someone jealous. But it was not Lord Tennison, it was you.”

  “Me? I had assumed it was Garthwaite or Lonsdale or any of a number of eligible gentlemen – but when you named Tennison, I began to have my doubts. I knew you were up to something, and I dared to hope it might involve me.”

  “Wretched man! You knew all along I had lied about Lord Tennison?”

  “Of course I did. You would never be attracted to such a jaded libertine. But you did give me pause in the supper room, when you flirted with him. You see, your scheme worked after all. I was seething with jealousy! Though I didn’t need that ploy to make me notice you. I’ve been noticing you since you gave up plaits and put your hair up.”

  “Truly? I had no idea. I thought you entirely indifferent to me. You never hinted otherwise.”

  “Because I was convinced you disliked me. With all Daniel’s other friends, you were fun and lively. With me, you always seemed a bit cool. But still, I found you irresistible.”

  “Oh no, you resisted me quite easily! If I seemed aloof, it was because I was afraid to reveal how I truly felt.”

  “And how is that?”

  “I have loved you forever, I think.”

  “And I love you, Lydia. With all my heart.”

  “Deeply and completely?” she teased, throwing his words back at him, hoping he had meant them.

  He laughed, took her face in his hands, and stroked his thumbs along the line of her jaw. “Deeply and completely. What fools we have been, eh? Each of us secretly pining after the other. We must name our first child after Hartwell for hatching the scheme that finally brought us together.”

  She smiled at the implication of his words, and was tilting her mouth up for another kiss when a shriek from the shrubbery interrupted them.

  “Lydia! What on earth are you about?”

  Dear God, it was her mother. She looked anxiously at Geoffrey, who kissed her hand and rose from the bench.

  “Not to worry, Mrs Bettridge. Miss Lydia and I have come to an understanding. I trust you will forgive us for behaving improperly, but we were too excited and happy to resist a kiss or two.”

  “Well.” Her mother frowned, but she did not fool Lydia. She was surely thrilled beyond measure. “I suppose one must forgive high spirits at such a time. You will, naturally, call upon Mr Bettridge tomorrow.”

  “You may tell him to expect me.”

  “Good. In the meantime, Lydia, come with me. You must not been seen coming out of the garden with Mr Danforth, regardless of his intentions. People will talk, you know. Come along now.”

  Her mother linked arms with her and walked towards the house. Lydia cast one last, longing look at Geoffrey before following her mother out of the garden and up the terrace steps.

  “Well, my dear.” Her mother gave her arm a fond squeeze. “What an interesting evening you have had. Aren’t you glad Philip Hartwell didn’t show up for that first set?”

  “I have never been so glad of anything in all my life.”

  And she would thank him for it – for staying inside on a rainy day, for explaining the male psyche, for concocting a most excellent plan and for giving up his role in it. But mostly, for helping her to achieve her heart’s desire. At long last.

  Upon a Midnight Clear

  Anna Campbell

  North Yorkshire – December 1826

  The crash of shattering wood and the terrified screams of horses sliced through the frosty night like a knife.

  Sebastian Sinclair, Earl of Kinvarra, swore, brought his restive mount under control, then spurred the nervous animal around the turn in the snowy road. With cold clarity, the full moon shone on the white landscape, and starkly revealed the disaster before him.

  A flashy black curricle lay on its side in a ditch, the hood up against the weather. One horse had broken free and wandered along the roadway, its harness dragging. The other plunged in the traces, struggling to escape.

  Swiftly Kinvarra dismounted – knowing his mare would await his signal – and dashed to free the distressed horse. As he slid down the icy ditch, a hatless man scrambled out of the smashed curricle.

  “Are you hurt?�
� Kinvarra asked, casting a quick eye over him.

  “No, I thank you, sir.” The effete blond fellow turned to the carriage. “Come, darling. Let me assist you.”

  A graceful black-gloved hand extended from inside and a cloaked woman emerged with more aplomb than Kinvarra would have thought possible in the circumstances. Indications were that neither traveller was injured, so he concentrated on the trapped horse. When he spoke soothingly to the animal, the terrified beast quieted to panting stillness, exhausted from its thrashing. While Kinvarra checked the horse, murmuring calm assurances throughout, the stranger helped the lady up to the roadside.

  With a shrill whinny, the horse shook itself and jumped up to trot along the road towards its partner. Neither beast seemed to suffer worse than fright, a miracle considering that the curricle was beyond repair.

  “Madam, are you injured?” Kinvarra asked as he climbed up the ditch. He stuck his riding crop under his arm and brushed his gloved hands together to knock the clinging snow from them. It was a hellishly cold night.

  The woman kept her head down. From shock? From shyness? For the sake of propriety? Perhaps he’d stumbled on some elopement or clandestine meeting.

  “Madam?” he asked again, more sharply.

  “Sweeting?” The yellow-haired fop bent to peer into the shadows cast by the hood. “Are you sure you’re unharmed? Speak, my dove. Your silence strikes a chill to my soul.”

  While Kinvarra digested the man’s outlandish phrasing, the woman stiffened and drew away. “For heaven’s sake, Harold, you’re not giving a recitation at a musicale.” With an unmistakably impatient gesture, she flung back the hood and glared straight at Kinvarra.

  Even though he’d identified her the moment she spoke, he found himself staring dumbstruck into her face – a piquant, vivid, pointed face under an untidy tumble of luxuriant gold hair.

  He wheeled on the pale fellow. “What the devil are you doing with my wife?”

  Alicia Sinclair, Countess of Kinvarra, was bruised and angry and uncomfortable and horribly embarrassed. And not long past the choking terror she had felt when the carriage toppled.