Ravishing Regencies: The Complete Series: A Steamy Regency Romance Boxset

by Emily Murdoch

  “Lord George!”

  Blood was pulsing through his ears and most of his body hurt, but there was something about this determination to survive, this dedication to living that George loved; it was far more interesting than sitting at home all day, waiting for people to call.

  “Lord George!”

  Miss Capria was shouting but he couldn’t listen to her, he had two more men to fell; but there were not two men, there were five. But the thought of Miss Capria rocked his mind, and he caught a slight blow to the shoulder.

  “George!”

  George spun around to stare at Miss Capria, who was white but staring fixedly at him.

  “If we do not go now – there are nigh on twenty of them, and more approaching!”

  Absorbed as he had been with his own small corner of the fight, George had not noticed the crowd swell as sailors from each side – how the lines were drawn, he had no idea – had joined their comrades’ ranks.

  It was no longer a fight. This was a mob.

  Time for a decision.

  “Come on,” George shouted, taking Miss Capria’s hand which was warm and soft to the touch, wrenching her forward as he began to run.

  Heart pounding, boots thudding, the mob screaming: George tried to force the panic back down his throat as it rose. Where was he going to go? He had no idea where he was, no idea where he was going, and if he did not do something soon, both himself and – and here his stomach lurched – Miss Florence Capria would be in grave danger.

  “Where are we going?” Miss Capria’s voice rose above the shouting.

  Senses overwhelmed, George made out the thumping of her luggage and grabbed it from her, the thudding of their feet, the pounding of his heart, the bile in his throat, the pain in his chest, and his eyes, the weight of the banging luggage that bruised his legs, trying to pay attention to the buildings they were passing on their right; most were warehouses, as far as he could see, useless as a hiding place – but there, what was that? A door, a door open with a light, and what seemed to be a chair and a table?

  “Here!” George shouted, stumbling through an open door leading into a small, dingy room with one candlestick glowing in the window – but it was enough.

  Miss Capria ran behind him, breathless. “What are we doing here?”

  “We can hide here. That rival gang will keep them busy, the fight will soon wear itself out and then we can leave again, when it is safe,” George said hurriedly. He slammed the door shut but immediately there was a knocking on the outside.

  “Come on, let us in darlin’ – we are far more fun than that dandy you’ve got there!”

  George heard Miss Capria moan in terror, and he sprang into action. “We need to barricade ourselves in. What is here, what can we use?”

  He turned on the spot, trying to see into the corners of the dark and cobwebbed room, but Miss Capria was faster than he was, desperately searching for something in the room they could use.

  “Quick – the door!” She panted, attempting to drag a heavy chest across the room. George started forward and together, they were able to pull and push the wooden chest across the door they had so recently dashed through. Her luggage was dropped on its top.

  “Is there a key?”

  Miss Capria shook her head. “Not one that I can see, but there is a bolt!”

  George pushed it home, and it clunked in a reassuringly safe way. “There. That is the best we can hope for, I think.”

  They were both panting with the effort, and George’s top hat was completely missing, having presumably fallen off in the chase. His stomach hurt with every breath, a tearing sensation that made him wonder exactly what a broken rib felt like.

  Florence looked over at him, wrapping her arms around herself, shaking in no small part to the cold and to fear.

  “What is in that thing?” George panted.

  She stared at him. “Cosa?”

  “That,” he pointed, indicating her luggage.

  She blinked, as though he was asking the most ridiculous question in the world. “That is my luggage. It contains all my worldly possessions; why, signore, without it I would be totally lost! And what do we do now?”

  “Do?” George said with a wry smile. His breath was slowly returning, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins would stay with him for longer. There was a moment of silence: the knocking at the door had ended, and more footsteps were ringing through the street. “There is nothing we can do, save start a fire,” nodding at the cold grate, “and wait for the fight to finish.”

  A smashing noise rang out across the street, and someone whooped and laughed.

  “Are we in danger here?” Her voice was quiet, but it was not afraid any more. The fear that been forced out of her, it seemed, and George looked, impressed, at her determined gaze focused on the door.

  “Almost certainly,” he said quietly, take a few steps over to the grate and pulling wood and coal onto it from the coal scuttle beside it. “But we are definitely safer in here than we would have been out there. This old room looks like quarters for a sailor, if you ask me, so close as we are to the docks.”

  There was dirt everywhere in this room that they could see now they lit the two other candles in the room, save the mattress which its inhabitant obviously attempted to keep clean. George’s nose wrinkled. This was certainly not the night he had hoped for.

  Without turning around, he could tell she had taken a step forward, a step towards him: conscious of her presence so much that he could feel where she was standing.

  “And when the fighting stops,” she said quietly, “it will not take us long to get back to where we were, will it? I have been thorough in my search for a ship to take me to Italy, but I will have to start again if I cannot return to that exact spot.”

  George did not answer. Pulling his greatcoat off and throwing it onto a chair, he scrabbled in its pockets and found his tinderbox.

  “There,” he said, sparking a flame onto the kindling, and seeing with satisfaction it had caught. “We will soon have this place warm, and…well, as comfortable as we can be.”

  Florence took another step forward so she was beside him. Her presence was intoxicating, breathing heavily as they both were, and he found it difficult to concentrate as she repeated, “It will not take us long to get back, yes? You can find the place again, can you not?”

  Standing up and brushing the dirt off his knees, he smiled at her, trying to ignore the slightly torn skirt revealing a delicate ankle. “Let’s worry about keeping ourselves warm, and safe, shall we?”

  “Admit it,” Miss Capria said bitterly, disappointment etched across her face. “We are lost, aren’t we?”

  George bit his lip. It seemed rather churlish to admit he had been completely lost when he had stumbled across her – quite literally. There was nothing to be gained by revealing he had never stepped a foot into the London dockyard before this night, and less than that to reveal he not only had no idea where they were, but had no comprehension of how they were going to find their way back.

  “At this moment, all that matters is that we are safe,” he said with more certainty in his tones than he felt.

  A scoffing sound came from behind him, and he smiled despite himself, still slightly out of breath from all that running. No one was usually this rude to Lord George.

  “And you have to find your Teresa.”

  Her words jolted George’s mind back to the initial reason he walked out of his front door in the first place. Teresa: he was here to find her. The intoxicating Miss Florence Capria had completely driven that out of his mind – and who could blame him?

  Now he concentrated, he could see the twist of her fingers as she wrapped them around each other, nervously; the curve of her breast as she tried to catch her breath; the softness of the skin across her collarbone . . .

  George shifted uncomfortably. This was not the time to get riled up; they were still in danger of the mob that seemed to be growing in size with every passing moment, a
nd Miss Capria was still speaking.

  “That is absolutely the last thing I needed,” Miss Capria was saying, as he looked out of the cracked window to see if they were still being pursued. “All I wanted was to find a ship that could take me home – ”

  “Why?” Turning to face her, he saw the incredulous look on her face before she spoke.

  “Why? Does anyone ever ask you why you go and visit your family? Lo stupido.”

  The rush of power and the rush of pleasure that the fight had brought him now meant there was far more adrenaline pumping through his veins than he was used to, or George probably would have not replied in the way he did.

  “You may not like it, Miss Capria, but we are stuck here, yes a little lost, until that fight blows itself out. So you may as well get used to it, and start being a little more civil.”

  She stared at him, open mouthed. “Well,” she said in a huff, eyebrows raised. “I suppose I shall just make myself at home then!”

  The sarcasm was not lost on George. His eyes swept quickly around the room; a large mattress took up one corner, lain on the ground rather than on a bed. There was a table with a ewer and pitcher on, a small chest that probably held clothes, and a chair. There was little else.

  But that was not going to deter him from having his fun. He bowed low. “Please do, my lady, and please ring the bell for any assistance you should require.”

  “Ha!” Florence – Miss Capria, he must not think of her as Florence – laughed. “I cannot quite make you out, Lord George; one moment you are calm, and sensitive, and the other you are flying off the handle!”

  “Maybe I am just matching yourself, Miss Capria,” said George, barely knowing what he was saying, he was so riled up by this woman. “And the little civility you pay me will, I am sure, be returned in kind! I must say, I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this manner.”

  A smile curled around her mouth as she sank into the chair upon the greatcoat and gazed up at him. “Really? Well then I am afraid, signore, that you will just have to become accustomed.”

  4

  Florence looked up at him, nervously. Lord George Northmere was unlike any man she had ever met; in this small and cramped room, he had . . . a sort of presence. Something that made him appear taller than he already was. She could not ignore the way he made her feel, could not walk away from a man who made her stomach lurch every time their eyes met – even if she could.

  There was desire in his eyes, and it was not just for this Teresa who he spoke of. She saw it spark into life whenever she spoke, and she could not help but receive a little thrill at the power she had over him.

  “It could all be over in five minutes, or five hours,” he was saying, his gaze fixed on the cracked window they could barely see through, almost hidden by holey curtains. “Our only choice is to stay here.”

  “Here?” Florence gazed around the small, squalid room. Anything to avoid looking at the tall turn of his neck, the strength of his shoulders. “And to think, I had thought that by this time I would be on my ship.”

  Lord George strode away from the window, and then stopped short, almost in surprise, when he swiftly reached the other side of the room.

  Florence giggled, despite herself. “Unaccustomed to such small chambers, my lord?”

  The man scowled, and it just threw his features into an even better light. He started to pace in the cramped room. “I do not like being caged.”

  “Then that is a pity, for that is precisely what we are,” she replied, curling her feet under her legs like a cat, and gazing at him. “And you would have ended up in a place not dissimilar to this if you had discovered your Teresa, you know.”

  The pacing stopped. “I beg your pardon?”

  Raising her arms, Florence gestured around the room with a wrench of her heart. “Oh, signore; did you think a courtesan lives in a palace? That she would be covered in jewels and lead you without a word to a feather bed? That her own servants would bring you wine, and then bid you adieu?”

  Lord George did not need to reply. She could see the answer in the angry and bashful flush that coated his face, the way the pacing resumed.

  “What are you really doing here?”

  “I told you, Miss Capria, I came to find Teresa,” he snapped. “And why so much judgement? Admittedly, the rules of the ton and society in general forbid such . . . such activity, but – ”

  “Do you not have anyone of your own ilk to court?” Florence gazed at him, trying to ignore the very masculine strength of his legs as he twisted on the stop every few paces. “Are there not ladies throwing themselves at your feet?”

  His laughter rang out and echoed in the cramped room. “Miss Capria, you have met me on a dark night, at the London docks, with no real understanding of who I am or what I represent. You do not know my past, and you have no comprehension of my present choices. Do not presume to tell me how many ladies should be desperate for my attentions, for I assure you, you are quite mistaken.”

  Throwing himself on the bed – or more accurately, the mattress on the floor – languidly, he was silent.

  Florence stared at him, and for the first time since their rather unorthodox meeting, looked at him – really looked at him. At first, she saw the surface: the dark eyes, the chiselled jawline, the presence that seemed to grow with time.

  And then she looked deeper. There were creases of worry around his eyes, and a tension in his shoulders belying genuine anxiety. Though his clothes were elegant, they were ill-cared for. A rip near one sleeve of his greatcoat had not been mended, and the threads had frayed for a while.

  “Why a courtesan, though?” For a moment, Florence was unsure who exactly had spoken, and then she realised it was herself. Lord George’s gaze had flickered over to her, and she found a blush tinging her cheeks pink. “I mean,” she said hastily, “a courtesan. There is no turning back from such a decision. Once the connection has been made, you will never be . . . I mean, your future wife will . . .”

  She could not say the words, the heat that had risen to her cheeks now flaming her entire face.

  “Say it,” came the deep tones from her companion, and she thought there was a hint of sadness there.

  Florence swallowed. “Once you make love to a courtesan, you can never take that back: you will always have that connection with her. If . . . if you should ever marry, then that will be a part of yourself – a part of yourself that your wife will never share.”

  Lord George stared at her, and then smiled as though surprised she had spoken. “I know. Do you think I have not thought of that? But to remain as I am . . .”

  His eyes drifted away from her and onto the fire finally starting to throw out heat.

  “Remain as you are – remain whole?” Florence could not help but say it as the memories of a man’s laughter and a woman’s false giggles broke into her mind.

  He smiled bitterly. “Though our society may pretend it does not exist, Miss Capria, why should we deny that each of us has – call it desire, a want, a need.”

  Florence felt her cheeks glow pink, but she did not look away.

  “You surprise me,” he said with a twist of his head. “I would have thought you would find easy offence at those words.”

  She shrugged, and untied the top of her pelisse. The room was beginning to grow hot – or was it their topic of conversation? “I am from Italy, signore. We have a slightly more classical approach to lovemaking than the English do.”

  Lord George sighed, almost as though he was relieved. His shoulders dropped. “Then you understand.”

  “I certainly do not!” Florence said hastily. “Just because one . . . feels such desires, that does not mean one acts on it!”

  And yet she felt the hypocrisy rise through her as she stared at him. He was handsome, there was no doubt about it, and there was a kindness about him that would make him a strong and yet considerate … oh, what was she thinking!

  Lord George’s head dipped, and then he said quietly, “Mi
ss Capria, have you ever been lonely?”

  This was such a deviation from their conversation that Florence stared at him. “Lonely?”

  He nodded, a dark curl of hair falling over his face. “Not alone, not lonely for an afternoon, or a day. I mean truly lonely: to feel alone in a world of strangers. To walk down a street and see no one that cares for you, or you care for. To dwell in a large empty house with room after room of nothing, to enter every house in society and find no friendship there . . .”

  His voice trailed away, and Florence felt a tug of compassion on her heart. There was such loss in his words, almost – almost as if . . .

  “The only way to feel truly lonely,” she said in a whisper, “is if one once had someone there to make life bearable.”

  Lord George’s head snapped up. “What did you say? What do you know of her – where is she?”

  “Well, I suppose that answers that question.” Florence shivered slightly. “Who was she?”

  The light and joy dimmed in his eyes almost immediately, and his gaze swept over to the door of the room.

  “It does not matter,” he replied dully. “Suffice to say that seeking out a courtesan is simpler than disgracing a lady of the ton and being forced into marriage with a woman that I have no wish to know better.”

  A log shifted in the grate, and the fire crackled. A scream shot out of the dark; it was a woman’s. Florence shivered. There were many others out there who had not found shelter as they had.

  “And what business is it of yours?” Lord George asked suddenly. “What could you possibly know of such things, Miss Capria?”

  “A great deal more than you would think.” The words were out of her mouth before she could do a thing about recalling them, and she cursed herself silently for speaking them. If he was paying attention . . .

  “What do you mean?” His eyes were wide, and he was looking her up and down now in a new light. “You cannot possibly mean that – ”

  “No!” She snapped, pulling her pelisse around her a little more tightly. “No, my lord idiota, I am no such woman!”