Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Lady Berne’s eyebrows rose to an alarming height. “Really? He is here?” Her head swiveled toward the entrance, and Victoria’s gaze automatically followed theirs. It seemed whoever “he” was, his presence set off ripples of wide-eyed stares and murmurs hidden behind gloved hands. Two of the dancers stopped to take in the new arrival, resulting in a moment of chaos on the dance floor.

  Since the arched entrance was a few steps higher than the ballroom, anyone entering could be seen easily from everywhere in the room. Everywhere, that was, except where Victoria was standing. A stooped-shouldered gentleman, who was thin as a post and nearly as tall, blocked her view. Curious about who could possibly cause such a sensation, worried that perhaps Harrison had decided to attend after all, she moved to her right just a bit. And saw him.

  Time slowed. Voices faded into shadow. Her breath stalled. He was … beautiful. Black hair that was truly ink dark, with no hint of brown. Low brows over piercing eyes—she couldn’t tell what color from this distance. A straight, refined nose, square chiseled jaw, and perfectly proportioned chin with just the barest hint of a cleft. Oh, but his mouth. It was surely the most sensuous creation ever devised. A full lower lip, the upper thinner and finely drawn, and the whole wearing a faint sardonic smile that tilted one corner upward ever so slightly. Her fingers itched to draw him. She had never felt such a compulsion. He looked like an angel, only darker, more brooding.

  Someone nudged her arm. It was Stickley, returning to her side with a cup of lemonade. “Who is that gentleman, Victoria?” he asked, handing her the glass.

  She shook her head and murmured that she did not know.

  The countess turned to her with a surprised expression, but upon noticing Lord Stickley, began chatting about the unusually cold weather London was seeing. The crowd shifted and again obscured her view. She wanted to stand on her toes, crane her neck, catch another glimpse. Instead, she willed herself to remain where she was beside Stickley. It would not do to ogle a stranger.

  A pair of elderly gentlemen joined their circle, and Lady Berne was pulled away by Annabelle and the Aldridge twins. Nearly ten minutes passed in which the men debated the merits of abundant rainfall, the trials of falling crop production in the north, and the need for more wool in London this year. And that was before Stickley started in on Lord Gattingford’s hunting hounds.

  Gracious, she hadn’t imagined her boredom could get worse. In desperation, she allowed her thoughts to wander, and like a bee tempted by a showy bloom, her mind veered back to the mysterious gentleman. His face. His tall, broad form. Who was he? She had never seen him before. But, then, he was rather extraordinarily handsome. If he was unattached, she could imagine him wishing to avoid the voracious flock of husband huntresses and matchmaking mamas that would descend upon him at every opportunity. It was why Harrison resisted escorting her to events such as this. The day she had agreed to marry Stickley, her brother had stopped doing so altogether.

  Her eyes surreptitiously sought the place where the man had been, but he was gone. Of course, she chided herself, he would not stand there posing for her, waiting for her to fetch her sketchbook. Obviously, he would be circulating now among the guests. She was surprised by her fascination. She adored painting and drawing, but the consuming need to see him, to explore his features and form in detail, went beyond all good sense.

  A middle-aged woman jostled Victoria’s arm, reminding her of the glass in her hand. She sighed and sipped her lemonade, cringing at the tart, watery flavor. Lady Gattingford’s ballroom was a masterpiece of pale marble, her musicians as fine as any to be heard this season, but her lemonade left much to be desired. Amid the heat of such a crush, a tolerable beverage would not have gone amiss. Why did I agree to attend this evening?

  Beside her, Stickley laughed, his white teeth gleaming in the candlelight. Oh, yes. I am to become the new Marchioness of Stickley. Such appearances are required, of course.

  At the thought, she shifted subtly from one foot to the other, unaccountably restless. She’d had ample practice maintaining a serene mask for these types of ton fêtes, so she was confident no one knew of her rising urgency to escape. But she felt it. Oh, yes. Beneath her skin, flushed and itching. Inside her stomach, tightening with the need to get away.

  Air. Her eyes scanned the room longingly, landing on the glass-paned doors at the rear of the ballroom. She desperately, desperately needed air.

  Now deep in conversation with an elderly baron who boasted about the astounding number of pheasants waiting to be plucked at his hunting lodge, Stickley scarcely seemed to notice when Victoria quietly excused herself.

  “Of course, my dear,” he said, patting her hand absently and turning immediately back to the baron and his “obscenely plump” game birds. Sidling through the crowd as quickly as decorum would allow, she soon reached the doors and slipped outside into darkness.

  It was shockingly frigid after the heat of the ballroom, and she had forgotten a wrap. But here at least she could feel something other than suffocating tedium, even if it was shivers caused by unseasonably cold weather. She sighed and hugged her arms to her chest, ambling toward the balustrade, seeing her breath plume out before her in the faint light cast through the glass.

  She wondered, staring up at the half-moon glowing softly in a dark sky, if perhaps this was as exciting as her life would ever be. Engaged. Enjoying a season in London. Looking forward to a wedding and then to marriage and then to children and then to seasons for those children and then to grandchildren and then to old age. Her stomach cramped at the future that stretched out before her.

  Not the family part. That was something she had desired ever since a vicious storm had swallowed her parents’ ship, leaving Harrison and Colin and Victoria with only each other. But, in truth, her heart ached at the thought of endless days and nights with a husband who would never mean more to her than a comfortable home, a title, and the knowledge that she had done what was expected of her.

  No fantasizing about some dark phantom who appeared suddenly amidst a ball. No wondering what it might be like, just once, to be kissed by such a man. Someone who made her breathless. Someone who made her want … more.

  She shook her head emphatically. Such was not for her. She was the Flower of Blackmore, after all. Her future had been written well before she’d come to London. Before she’d been born, really. Whatever she might have dreamed for her life was quite—oh, what was the word? Irrelevant. Yes, that was it.

  A puff of air whooshed past the lump in her throat in a humorless laugh at the absurdity of her despair. She was being a ninny, that was all.

  So Lord Stickley—Timothy, blast it—was not the dark and dashing hero of art and poetry. So he had never declared his love for her in a fit of passion, nor even spoken of her with the same fervent affection as he did his horse. The fact that he bored her to the point of unconsciousness actually boded well, she assured herself. He was sensible—a good man and a solid choice for marriage. That was all that mattered, surely.

  “You’ll catch your death out here, you know,” a deep, resonant voice said quietly next to her ear. She gave an unladylike yelp and leapt to one side, spinning to face the dark form that appeared beside her. A man. Tall. Big. His face was shadowed, but he looked familiar. The arrogant tilt of the head, the square cut of the jaw. He stepped toward her into a shaft of light from the ballroom.

  “You!” she squeaked. It was him. Her dark angel. What? Wait. Not hers. The dark angel. She did not even know his name, so how could he be her anything? Oh, but her heart recognized him. The foolish thing pounded out a frantic welcome against her breastbone.

  He swept a deep, exaggerated bow. “Yes, it is I. At your service, my lady.”

  ~~*

  Chapter Two

  “Virtue is its own reward. But then, the same could be said for sin.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Countess of Berne upon said lady’s refusal of a fourth lump of sugar.

  He was mocking her. She knew i
t, and yet could say nothing because she was quite ridiculously hypnotized. That faint grin had grown into a full-scale smile. Parliament should declare his smile patently illegal, she thought. It is lethal to all womankind.

  “I—I saw you earlier, when you entered the ballroom,” she said finally, kicking herself for the inane utterance.

  “Yes, I was a bit late arriving. Caused quite a stir, I understand. But then, the only thing the ton enjoys more than its rules is the fever created by those who break them.”

  His rich baritone alone was enough to weaken an aged spinster’s knees. Add the subtle lift of one dark brow and the half smile gracing his sinful lips, and it was no wonder a visible shiver ran along the surface of her skin.

  Without a word, he stepped closer and reached for her shoulders, chafing his gloved palms along the skin of her upper arms between the edges of her cap sleeves and the tops of her gloves. It was a shocking breach of etiquette to touch her without so much as an introduction, much less her permission.

  She stood motionless for several long seconds, unable to speak. That must have been why she failed to step back and rebuke him immediately for his cheek. It could not be the fizzing excitement in her belly at having him so close, feeling the warmth of his hands on her skin, his thumbs stroking gently and causing little thrills to shoot from her arms to her spine and, most concerning, her breasts. No, surely not.

  “You should have a wrap if you intend to spend much more time out here, my lady. To call this springtime would be generous, indeed.”

  She blinked up at him, feeling weak and slow—enthralled. Even standing this close, she could not make out the color of his eyes, only noting they were dark and glimmered in the moonlight. He was so tall, the top of her head would barely reach his collarbone.

  With Lord Stickley, her forehead came even with his nose. At one time, she had thought him the ideal height, not requiring the craning of her neck to look up at him. As an added benefit, they moved quite nicely together on the dance floor, his strides more closely matching her shorter ones. However, now she was less certain about how perfectly suited she and her fiancé were on a physical level. Something about this man’s height and larger, more muscular physique made her feel oddly safe.

  Comparing Stickley to a stranger was not wise, she chided herself. She was engaged and now must make the best of things, rather than finding fault with her betrothed at every step. Yet, she could not help noticing he stood in this man’s shadow in numerous ways.

  The errant thought seemed to break the spell the stranger had cast over her. She abruptly pulled away, breathing embarrassingly fast, heart racing. “Sir, you overstep yourself. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Call me Lucien.”

  She reeled back a step further, her hip bumping the balustrade. Stiffening her spine and raising her chin, she retorted, “Your familiarity is insulting. We have not been properly introduced. I could not possibly call you by your first name.”

  “You must call me something if we are to continue our conversation.”

  “Perhaps I should call you presumptuous. It seems fitting.”

  His slow, wicked smile seemed to speak a foreign language, one she did not understand but which caused a flush of heat to wash through her. “I have not begun to presume, my darling.”

  For a moment, she was flummoxed, her open jaw working in a fashion not unlike a fish lying onshore. She had never been spoken to in such a manner. As the daughter and then the sister of a duke, no one would dare exhibit such disrespect for her station and the simple courtesies due her. No one except this bounder, apparently.

  At last, she found her voice, stumbling and ineffectual though it might be. “I—I am not your darling!”

  “My goddess, then?”

  “Furthermore, your suggestive tone implies a much more significant acquaintance—”

  Lucien tilted his head and spoke as though she’d said nothing at all. “I have it. My angel.”

  “—than I would ever allow. I will have you know I am engaged to be married—”

  “Although it still fails to do you justice. You are quite beautiful, you know.”

  “—and your behavior is entirely inappropriate …” Her breath stuttered to a full stop as she absorbed what he had said. His tone had been so offhanded, it took a moment to sink in. “You … you think I am beautiful?”

  “Hmm. Yes, quite. Has no one ever told you?”

  She shook her head and then immediately corrected herself. “Well, several of my suitors did say they found my hair attractive. And one gentleman said my eyes were like pools. Of what, I am uncertain. But I assume it was meant to be flattering.”

  His mouth quirked in amusement. “And your betrothed? What does he say?”

  Is he standing closer than before? Victoria wondered absently. Yes, he was. His massive body nearly surrounded her now, only inches away. He gave off such heat, she no longer felt the bite of cold, damp air. Her voice grew breathless and high. “Lord Stickley? Oh, well, he is not much given to poetry or flattery.”

  “Has he not said that your skin glows with the purity of fresh cream?” He stroked one finger delicately along her cheek, his dark gaze holding hers rapt. “Or that your hair rivals the last glorious rays of the sun just before dusk?” His fingers sifted through the loose curls behind her ear. “Has he not even mentioned your lips, how they are as full and luscious as a ripe peach? Come, now. He must have done so at least a dozen times.”

  She made an inarticulate sound that was vaguely embarrassing, but she was utterly helpless to prevent it. If she could have managed to draw air into her lungs, she would have groaned. Oh, he was simply divine. Divine and devilish.

  Lucien’s lips hovered so near her own, she felt his breath with each word. “Surely he has kissed you, my angel. Has he not?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, staring at his mouth.

  His head tilted. “And did it feel like this?”

  This was heaven. He fitted his mouth masterfully to hers, his lips warm and firm, gliding sensually without a moment of hesitation. It was not the soft, gentle kiss of a man concerned with offending her. Nor was it the dry, obligatory peck of her fiancé. As strong arms wrapped around her waist and pressed her breasts to his hard form, she marveled at his confidence. Then all thoughts of assessing the kiss flew away like a dandelion tuft on the wind as his hot, slick tongue slipped along the seam of her lips.

  Lucien pulled away for the barest moment. “Open for me, angel,” he whispered, tugging at her lower lip with his finger. When she obliged, he swooped back in, this time thrusting his tongue inside her mouth and stroking along her own. She felt seared and shaken, the boldness of it shocking, unfamiliar in its intimacy.

  She moaned into his mouth and clutched at his lapels. He drew her tighter against his body, his hands gripping her hips and sliding along her bottom as a flooded river of heat coursed through her. Her breasts felt heavy where they pressed flat against his chest, she ached low in her belly, and the muscles in the intimate place between her thighs clenched as though in great need of … something.

  Distantly, she noticed a hard and rather large object pressed against her midsection. But a moment later, she was distracted by one of his hands moving up over her ribcage and cupping her right breast. The most pleasurable tingles—yes, tingles—erupted from the center as he skimmed lightly over her breast with his palm, then returned to stroke insistently with his thumb.

  Truly, she was awash in tingles of every sort, in every place she could imagine and some she tried not to think much about. She could feel herself panting, the sensations overwhelming whatever faint notion of propriety might have flitted through her head. Indeed, her mind was sluggish and spinning, every sense singing to the tune only he could play.

  Abruptly, both his hand and mouth were removed from her person. But it was no reprieve.

  “I must feel your skin. Now,” he gritted. He took the tip of one of his gloves between his teeth and pulled his hand free, s
pitting the glove onto the ground and immediately running the backs of his fingers along her collarbone. Then, as she stood hanging helplessly in his embrace, not knowing what to expect, his hand turned so his fingertips traced their way along the upper slopes of her breasts. They caught on her low-cut bodice, slipped beneath the silken layers, and tugged slowly downward. Her right breast popped free, the nipple hard and flushed.

  She glanced at his face, seeing the muscles tighten in his jaw and no hint of his earlier sardonic smile. Was he displeased? She couldn’t decide why he suddenly looked so tense. Then his head dropped forward, his hand cupped her breast from beneath, and his mouth covered her nipple, suckling it like a babe.

  What in heaven’s name was he doing? This was … this was sweet madness. She heard herself squawk, but could not bring herself to care with his fiery mouth drawing so pleasurably upon her nipple. He licked and stroked, even glided his teeth gently along the tip, causing her legs to weaken in an alarming way. She feared she might collapse, were it not for the iron-like arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

  He shifted her so that his thigh wedged high between her own as he worked and laved at her nipple. At first, this seemed to soothe the infernal ache she felt deep inside. Then, like a fiendish devil, it caused an even deeper emptiness and tension. Occasionally, his thigh would brush against a hidden spot and a sharp burst of pleasure would erupt, causing her to cry out and grind herself against him. This repeated over and over, almost rhythmically, and each time, the coil inside her wound tighter.

  His mouth pulled away for a moment while he tugged her other breast free and latched onto her left nipple, giving it the same treatment as the right.

  She moaned and threw her head back, clutching desperately at his hair as the torturous ache between her legs rose to an unbearable height. His thigh pressed harder at that sensitive center. Without warning, the tension gave way in an explosive spiral. “Oh, my stars. Lucien!” she shouted as her body spasmed in a crescendo of echoing pleasure.