Ravishing Regencies- The Complete Series

by Emily Murdoch

  Florence wanted to protest, to tell him she would need far more time to organise a wedding than that, and he would want his family to be able to attend, and anyway, he had not actually asked her yet: but all those thoughts melted away as his arms dropped her onto the bed.

  “You saved me,” George said, his voice unsteady. “When I was lost, you found me.”

  Florence whetted her lips as she stared up at him, warmth flowing through her body like a sun and parts of her pulsing like the last time they had made love. “I thought I was the one who was lost.”

  In a swift movement, he was above her, but not overwhelming or heavy. Resting on his arms, he caressed her hair, tangling his fingers in it – and then loosening them so his fingers can dance closer, and closer to her collarbone, and then lower, until she was closing her eyes and arching her back once more in the hope he would eventually reach his goal.

  When he grazed past her nipple through her gown, she could not help but cry out quietly.

  “We were both lost then,” came his husky voice, and he lowered himself gently so she could feel the strength of him, the hardness of his body as it longed for her just as she longed for him. “But neither of us are lost anymore.”

  “I never want to be again,” Florence gasped, her eyelashes fluttering as that same hand moved down her body, and flickered up her skirt to move beneath. “I never want to be without you again.”

  His crushing kiss stopped her mouth, and she responded eagerly, her hands clutching at him, drawing him closer, bringing him down to her. It was impossible not to moan as his hand reached her hips, lifting her, grasping her, and then caressing her once more, the medley of brusque and soft building in a rhythm that made her legs curl around him, keeping him close.

  Florence had no idea how he managed it, but in a swift motion her gown was untied, and he wrenched it from her body like a man possessed.

  “I have to have you,” he moaned in her ear as his fingers stroked past her breast.

  She quivered at his touch and tried to reply, but she had no words, there were no words for this sort of pleasure. Frantic fingers moved to his shirt, but instead of trying each button she wrenched it off, sighing with unadulterated pleasure at the sight of him, at the feel of him as he kissed her once more.

  Wave upon wave of sensuality was washing over her now, and Florence could not keep track, his hands and fingers moved so rapidly and so gently and then so strong on her body she thought she could not bear any more – and of course, she must.

  She was naked, and so was he, and they were entangled in the bedding and she barely knew where she ended and Lord George Northmere began, and what did it matter because they were of one soul anyway.

  “I love you,” she gasped, “please – please, George, this pressure, I cannot stand it – ”

  George shuddered as he dropped his mouth to her breast and she cried out, and she did not care who heard her because this was torture, sweet torture, and it had to end and it could never end –

  He entered her slowly and every inch of him sparked more jolts of desire across her body, and her hands found his buttocks and he cried out her name at the touch.

  “Oh, Florence,” he breathed, “Florence – Florence I am going to give you such ecstasy – ”

  But he could not finish his sentence because she had already captured his mouth with her own, and he was moving now, moving to their own heartbeats which were one and the same now.

  Stars were exploding in Florence’s vision as she felt the heady pleasure building and building, and the crest of the wave was coming now and she grabbed hold of his shoulders as if she were to be swept out to sea, just as when they had first met.

  They climaxed together, thrashing softly in the linen sheets as the glow settled on them, sweating from their exploits and dazed in their joy.

  “I could do that,” Florence breathed into his neck as they twisted, and lay beside each other, “every day of our lives.”

  George chuckled deeply. “Careful, or I will hold you to that.”

  She smiled gently, ripples of carnal pleasure still washing over her body. “Please do.”

  12

  “Are you completely sure about this?”

  George grinned as his brother handed over his silk cravat. “Luke, you worry too much.”

  Luke scowled, and strode over to the drinks cabinet to pour himself another whisky. “What was it, a week ago you first met this girl?”

  There was nothing that he could say to dull George’s spirits. “What, you are worried she is out to get my money?” He grinned. “You know I barely have any, and so does she. Please, Luke. Be happy for me.”

  The two brothers were in the library – George’s favourite room in his home – and when the clock over the mantlepiece chimed quarter to the hour, they both glanced over to it.

  “Just fifteen minutes to go,” said Luke darkly. “Fifteen minutes before you begin your journey to tie yourself to this woman, losing all freedom and – ”

  “I lose far more without her than with her,” George interjected. He was staring into the mirror on the way, attempting to get his cravat straight and completely failing to succeed. “Would you give me a hand with this?”

  Luke rolled his eyes, threw his whisky bad-temperedly down onto the table, and returned to the other side of the room. “I just never thought I would be attending your wedding,” he said, pulling one side of the cravat so it came completely undone, and starting again. “Seven days. Seven days ago you met Miss Capria, ‘tis madness!”

  George could not help but smile. He had been true to his word: just five days had passed since they had found each other again, and the church was booked, the flowers arranged, the ring procured, and at eleven o’clock that morning, they would be man and wife.

  His brother nodded curtly at the newly arranged cravat, and shook his head with a wry smile. “I suppose nothing but someone incredible would have tempted you to the altar in the first place.”

  George shook his head. “I could not walk away from her, even if I wanted to. Florence is – she is everything I would want in a woman, and more. Witty, beautiful, caring, insightful – ”

  “And Italian,” Luke interrupted, throwing himself into an armchair. “You may end up living in Rome, or Venice.”

  The bridegroom laughed. “I suppose I might! There does not seem to be anything I would not do for her, Luke. Losing her would mean losing everything, and if she asked me for anything – but then, she never would.”

  Luke scoffed. “George, she is too good to be true: mark my words, you will discover something wrong with her!”

  George shrugged, and pulled on his top hat. “Perhaps. But then, I am no perfect gentleman either. I think we will be happy.”

  His brother sighed, rose from the armchair, and picked up his own top hat. “I have never seen you like this, George. I cannot think of anyone more deserving to find their perfect match, and I hope you are right.”

  “You wait until you meet her,” George’s eyes shone. “Then you will see.”

  It was a chilly day that they stepped into as the front door slammed behind them, and George regretted for a moment not throwing a greatcoat over his wedding outfit: but then, what was the point? The church was only two streets away, and before long he would be warmed by the sight of Miss Florence Capria.

  “You know, as your best man,” Luke said as they strode along the pavement, carefully dodging a young pickpocket who squealed as his fingers were caught moving towards the gentleman’s pocketbook, “‘tis my duty – and as it aligns with my own curiosity, I will definitely ask it – to enquire whether you did ever find Miss Teresa Metcalfe?”

  George grinned at him as they turned the corner. “Worried she will no longer give you a cut of your recommendations?”

  His brother’s eyebrows rose. “You have a very low opinion of me, dear brother.”

  “When it is merited, I am afraid I form very firm opinions,” shot back George. “No, I did not meet Mi
ss Teresa Metcalfe – and I must say, I have no wish to.”

  “I wonder what happened to her,” Luke said musingly. “Perhaps she met another man, and received a better offer.”

  “Perhaps she fell into the Thames, or was stolen by pirates,” George said with a laugh. “Come on.”

  The church stood before them, and George started walking up the steps – only to discover that he was doing so alone.

  He turned around. “Luke?”

  His brother was standing at the bottom step, staring up at him. “We are really going in?”

  George stared at him, puzzled. “Well, of course we are. ‘Tis a little difficult to wed one’s intended from the steps of a church!”

  Luke’s jaw fell open. “All this time, I think I genuinely thought there was a chance this was all a jest!”

  Their shared laughter rang out in the street as a carriage pulled up outside the church.

  “God’s teeth, we are about to get overtaken by the bride!” Luke said hastily as he ran up the steps. “Quickly, quickly!”

  The two brothers burst into the church to receive a very disapproving look from their father; but George completely ignored it due to the sight of two men, seated either side of her, but awkward and embarrassed looks on their faces.

  “T-Tom?” George said, coming to an abrupt halt halfway up the aisle. Luke raced past him as he said, “Harry?”

  The two gentlemen nodded, but George had no time to further converse with his estranged brothers. The door behind him had opened, and the bride was about to enter the church.

  “Hurry, George!” Luke hissed from the altar, and George almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to join his best man.

  The door opened, and a solitary figure entered the church.

  Florence could feel her heart fluttering in her chest, but it slowed to a calm pace at the sight of Lord George Northmere, standing at the altar beside a man who must be his brother, Luke.

  The church was almost empty, but then she had not expected it to be full. She had no family, no friends in this country; George had wanted a small wedding, and she was happy to oblige.

  Anything, anything for this man who made her whole being sing out with joy.

  The organ began, and completely alone, she started her slow procession up the aisle.

  Her fingers tightened around the bouquet of flowers she had made that morning: rosemary and roses, the flowers of true love. Her eyes flickered to the right to see an elegant older woman with two men either side of her – two men who looked awfully familiar, as though she had seen them before through a dark glass, or a rainstorm.

  The music changed, and she looked up to lock eyes with George himself. He had turned, he had twisted around to see her, and there was such pride on his face, such happiness it almost brought a tear to her eye.

  To think she could bring a man such happiness.

  The aisle had seemed long when she had entered the church, but Florence arrived at the altar in what felt like no time at all. George reached out his hand, and she took it. Her hand tingled where he touched it.

  “You are the most radiant creature on Earth,” he whispered with a smile.

  Florence smiled back. “And you are not too shabby either, Lord George.”

  He rolled his eyes as the vicar began the wedding service.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .”

  “I could hardly believe it when I came in,” George said in an undertone while the vicar droned on, “but my brothers are here.”

  Florence’s eyes widened. “All of them?”

  George nodded.

  She could not help but grin at his words. She had hoped, she had hoped beyond hope but without knowing the exact details of their estrangement . . .

  “I wrote to them,” she whispered, glancing over to him. “And very expensive it was too, getting the letters there within a day. I asked them to come; I told them they had already lost so much time, and that they should lose no more. What better moment to reconcile than a wedding?”

  The vicar interrupted with, “Do you, Lord George Albert Gerald Northmere, take this woman . . .”

  The vows were over before they were begun, and the vicar began the ending speech before he could declare them man and wife.

  George’s eyes were still wide at her words. “You – you wrote to them?” His grip on her hand tightened. “We are not even married and I already do not deserve you,” he said, his smile deepening as he turned to look at his brothers. “Miss Capria, is there nothing you cannot do?”

  Florence nodded with a smile. “Just one thing. I am about to lose my name forever and take a new one – and that is something I cannot stop, and have no wish to!”

  “. . . man and wife!”

  “Ah, but when you lose it to a Lord, you know that it is true love,” whispered George as he pulled his new wife into a tight embrace and a loving kiss.

  Wondering what happened to Teresa? Discover her Ravishing Regencies story in Drenched with a Duke – read on for the first chapter… or click here to read the full story now!

  Please do leave a review if you have enjoyed this book – I love reading your thoughts, comments, and even critiques!

  You can also receive my news, special offers, and updates by signing up to my mailing list at www.subscribepage.com/emilymurdoch

  To my brother: he will probably never read this, but he is a constant inspiration to me.

  And of course, Joshua.

  Acknowledgments

  This was the series that I never thought I could publish, so first thanks must go to my amazing Kickstarter supporters! Thank you for your faith in me, and I hope you love this book as much as I do!

  Thank you to my wonderful editor, Julia Underwood, who has given me unparalleled advice – any mistakes left are completely my own!

  Thank you to my glorious cover designer, Samantha Holt, a true artist whose patience with me is much appreciated.

  Thank you to my ingenious formatter, Falcon Storm, whose willingness to format whenever I drop an unexpected email is fantastic!

  And to my family. Thank you.

  1

  Alexander was not angry. He was fuming.

  “And what right does she have,” he spat out while striding down the street, his companion struggling to keep up. “Little slip of muslin, I know her brother and he is only just a decent sort of man.”

  “Slow down,” panted Luke. “I am the Marquis of Dewsbury, not a horse – Caershire!”

  Alexander found his arm had been grabbed, and swung round to stare at his friend. “What?”

  He could not help himself. Rage burned through his lungs, and he wanted to shout and complain until it was all blown out of his body. His dark hair had dropped over his eyes, and his broad shoulders were heaving, heart pounding, feet desperate to keep moving.

  “You will do yourself an injury.” Luke took in deep breaths, and leaned against the wall they were standing beside. “I swear, Caershire, you will take a step in front of a carriage or pick a fight, I know you of old!”

  Alexander grinned. “Perhaps too long, I would say. God’s teeth, but you are right.”

  The tension in his shoulders was starting to dissipate, and the cool of the night air was drying the sweat on his brow.

  Luke pulled his cravat, which had become dislodged from its correct position in the rush to leave Almacks, back to its rightful place. “London is no place to wander in anger, Caershire, you should know that by now.”

  The Duke of Caershire shrugged, but his heart was still beating fast and the injustice of the last hour still rang in his mind. “Miss Josephine Layland had no right to speak to me that way.”

  Luke’s laugh echoed in the deserted street. “Caershire, any woman has the right to reject a man’s hand for a dance – where would we be if we could force the beautiful ones to remain on our arms all evening?”

  But his friend’s laughter did nothing to sooth Alexander’s spirits. It had been humiliating:
there was no better word for it. There he had been, dressed in all his finery, waiting for her for nigh on two hours, refusing to ask a single other young lady to dance – at great personal cost, for there had been some favours promised to irate mothers which would now have to be explained away – and when Miss Layland had entered the room –

  “Already engaged to dance!” He spat, his thoughts finding room in his tongue as he started to walk once more. “A completely full card, that is what she said, and yet I had engaged her for the La Boulangere dance what – three days, ago?”

  Luke, striding beside his friend, brought out a pocket watch and examined in. “I think you will find it is four days ago, now.”

  Alexander’s eyebrows rose. “Goodness, past midnight already? Oh, Dewsbury, I do not mean to be such bad company. When I get disgruntled – ”

  “You stay disgruntled,” finished Luke, a lazy grin on his face as they passed a gentleman walking in the opposite direction. “Do you not think you should start to mend that habit, now you approach thirty?”

  “When you perfect all your character flaws, then you come to me,” shot back Alexander, but it was not said in anger. That had drained out of him now, the heat of the moment dissipated as quickly as the anger had risen. All that was left now was bitterness. “Thank you for walking with me, I had no wish to stew in a carriage. Did you hear what she said to me?”

  They turned a corner, taking the road that would lead them back to Luke’s lodgings.

  “No, what did she – ”

  “She said that she could never deign to accept the hand, for a dance or in matrimony, of a man with such a sullied reputation,” said Alexander. He tried to laugh, but it sounded empty even to his own ears. “I mean, can you believe it?”

  His companion did not speak, but focused determinedly on the road ahead of them.