Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  With that, Lady Wallingham proceeded to charge every person at the table—Lord and Lady Berne, Lucien and Victoria, even Annabelle and Jane Huxley—with specific instructions and tasks. Of everyone present, only one dared to object, and it was the most unlikely of the lot.

  “My lady,” Jane began, her rounded cheeks coloring a blotchy red. “I—I should warn you …”

  “Eh? Speak up, girl. I cannot abide mealy-mouthed mumbling. And at my age, I should not have to.”

  Jane cleared her throat. “What I mean to say is I will do whatever I can to help, b-but you’ve asked that I spread the story amongst my friends, and …” Her voice trailed off as she glanced around the table, clearly embarrassed.

  “I see you have the gist of it. What is the problem?”

  Annabelle, seated next to her sister, placed her hand briefly over Jane’s and said, “It might be best if I handle this part of the plan, my lady. I am friends with not only Lord Aldridge’s twin daughters, but also Miss Matilda Bentley.”

  Lady Wallingham’s eyebrows rose at the mention of three of the season’s busiest young gossips. She eyed Jane’s bowed head piercingly for a few seconds, then said, “Fine. I don’t care who does the gossiping, I simply want it done. Jane!” Her voice was a loud crack in the room, startling the girl’s head up, eyes wide behind her spectacles.

  “Lady Atherbourne will need allies surrounding her. If your only useful purpose is to be present and visible at her side, then that is what you will do.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the young woman said hoarsely.

  “And if I should see a book in your hand at one of these functions, Lady Jane Huxley, you will have nowhere to hide from me. Understood?”

  Jane nodded, clearly regretting she had drawn such attention.

  Although Victoria considered Lady Berne a good friend, and she was fond of Lord Berne, she had never spent much time with their daughters. Her impression of Annabelle was that she was bubbly, popular, and good-humored. While Victoria liked the girl—her personality being similar to Lady Berne’s—they tended to gravitate toward different circles, and so remained little more than acquaintances. Jane was quite the opposite of her sister: painfully shy, quiet, and unassuming. On that basis alone, Victoria had not formed much of a connection with her, either. It was hard to become friends with someone who did not speak.

  However, Victoria’s estimation of the young woman’s character rose several notches this evening—standing up to the dragon was brave for anyone to attempt, but especially for meek little Jane Huxley.

  “Lady Atherbourne,” the dragon said, drawing Victoria’s attention, “I do believe we have a plan. If everyone executes their roles properly, before season’s end, the scandal shall disappear like a foul odor exiting an open window.”

  Victoria smiled at Lady Wallingham and thanked her sincerely for her generosity.

  “No need to thank me, girl,” she said, turning a rather pointed gaze to meet Lucien’s. “Gifts will suffice. Send them to the Park Lane house.”

  Lucien half-grinned and chuckled. He acknowledged the request—although, command was perhaps a more apt description—with a dip of his head.

  Later, as they entered the carriage to return home, Lucien’s big, warm body settled next to Victoria, leaving her no space and no time to draw a proper breath. His arm slid behind her shoulders and pulled her against his hard frame. “Now, where were we?” he whispered, his wicked tongue taking a turn around the shell of her ear, causing shivers to run across her skin and settle in her breasts.

  “Lucien,” Victoria protested weakly.

  “Mmm?” He nuzzled her neck, his lips playing havoc with her good sense.

  “Surely you do not expect …”

  “Oh, but I do,” he rasped, his hands finding their way inside her bodice.

  You must not give in, Victoria. You must resist him. He has done nothing but betray you, use you. She knew it was the voice of reason, a voice she should heed. But it had been so long since she had felt this way. Hours, at least.

  His thumb stroked her nipple, his fingers squeezing gently. Victoria moaned and met his mouth with her own. The man was a sorcerer, beguiling her senses with repeated strokes of his tongue and little nips at her lower lip. Minutes later, he had his trousers unfastened and she straddled his hips, poised above him, dripping wet and ready to take him inside.

  “This does not mean what you think it means, Lucien.” Breathing so heavily she could barely get the words out, she nevertheless knew she must be clear about who was in control.

  He groaned, then panted, “Of course not.”

  She hovered over him, her thumb tracing his beautiful mouth. “I want you now. But it is just this once.”

  “Whatever you prefer, angel.” His fingers curled and squeezed her backside. “All I ask is that you proceed with haste.”

  Slowly, she lowered her hips and felt his thick, hard cock slide into her. They gasped simultaneously, the friction and heat and fit of him inside her feeling like a fire burning in a hearth: welcome, relieving, and right. The thought was vaguely alarming. No. This could not be so perfect. She could not bear to be offered heaven and have it torn away, made impossible by his hatred for her family, by his willingness to use her. Not again.

  Hiding her face in the crook of his shoulder, she paused, savoring the stretch of her body around his. She breathed once, twice, then schooled her features before straightening away from him, laying her hands flat against his chest. “Do not assume this will happen again,” she said, her voice hoarse but resolute. “Or that you are forgiven.”

  Lucien’s hands rose to her waist and tightened. His chest heaved with each labored breath; the muscles on either side of his jaw flexed. Flashing eyes met hers in the darkness of the carriage. All hints of his earlier teasing fled.

  “You are my wife. Nothing will change that,” he growled. His fingers bit into her hips as he gave a sudden, deep thrust, forcing a gasp of pleasure from her throat. Stroking deep and hard into her core, he demanded, “Say it.”

  Surprised by his sudden anger, her body still ecstatically welcomed each relentless thrust. The roughness of his movements only heightened her pleasure.

  “Damn it, Victoria,” he gritted. “Say it!”

  Her mind fogged by exquisite sexual excitement, it took a few moments to decide what he so desperately needed to hear, longer to grant it. But, in the end, the words were pulled from her, a truth that scared her senseless.

  “I am your wife,” she panted.

  “Yes,” he hissed.

  “And nothing will change that.”

  Her words sent them both tumbling over the precipice into a release that seized every muscle in her body, spinning her out to the edge of the ether and back again.

  Afterward, her head lolling on his shoulder, she pressed against his neck, breathing in starch and spice and sex, delectable and achingly familiar. Steeled arms held her as though fearful she might escape. To where, she could not imagine. They were in his carriage, headed to his townhouse. For all that she might pretend to hold the higher ground in their battle, the truth was she was very much at his mercy. The thought did not sit well with her.

  “Victoria,” he began softly.

  She shook her head, slowly withdrawing from him, untangling herself from his embrace, letting him slide out of her as she rose up and pushed away to sit on the opposite bench. Why does it feel as if I am leaving a part of myself behind?

  “Look at me,” he demanded.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, the sticky wetness between her thighs a reminder of her weakness. “This was a mistake,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

  “No.” His voice had gone raw. “The mistake was letting you keep us apart for the past week. We are married. There is no reason we should not enjoy each other—”

  “Oh? Have you decided to change your mind about Harrison, then?”

  Even in the dark, she could see his glower.

  “I thought as much.�
�

  A long, assessing pause came from his side of the carriage. “How long do you suppose it will be until that sweet little body of yours once again demands what is rightfully yours? Another seven days, perhaps?”

  That very question had burned inside her from the moment she had allowed her hand to drift instinctively toward his. It was terrifying to contemplate how desperately she wanted him. Enough to sacrifice her pride, to risk the disaster that would surely follow. “We had an agreement. What just happened doesn’t change anything.”

  “I never agreed not to touch you, wife. In fact, it is well within my rights to do so.”

  The breath she had just managed to catch flew from her at his statement. “You … you would force your attentions …”

  “Bloody hell, Victoria.” He sounded genuinely vexed. “Of course not.”

  Well, that is a relief. I think.

  She could scarcely see more than an outline of his large form, but it was enough to note how he slowly lounged back into the seat, one ankle propped on his knee—an arrogant pose if ever there was one. “I will not have to. As evidenced by tonight’s … adventures.”

  His presumptuousness irritated her. “Did you enjoy yourself, my lord husband?”

  He sat upright, suddenly quite alert. “Oh, yes, angel. Being inside you is pure splendor.”

  She leaned forward, allowing the upper swells of her bosom to catch the dim light coming through the window. “Then might I suggest you hold the memory close, for it shall be the only splendorous thing keeping you company in the long, lonely weeks ahead.”

  ~~*

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Ah, the gentleman’s club. A fine and venerable institution. Quite useful for removing irritants from a lady’s presence for several glorious hours each day.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Lord Wallingham, after he reluctantly shared information found in White’s betting book.

  “I bloody well despise the clubs,” Tannenbrook muttered as he and Lucien sat in the coffee room at White’s.

  Lucien raised a brow and took a sip of rich brew as he set his copy of The Times on the table. “Best not let any other members hear you say such a thing. Considered blasphemy, you know.”

  James grunted and wrapped his too-large hand around a too-small cup.

  “Besides,” Lucien continued, “your efforts here and at Brooks’s are a smashing success.”

  His friend glared at him from beneath heavy brows. “The old woman has me gossiping like a schoolroom chit. It’s a bloody disaster.”

  “Alvanley stopped by the table before you arrived.”

  Tannenbrook’s brow smoothed. “And what did the prince of dandies have to say?”

  Lucien took another sip and sent him an amused look over the rim. “He expressed disappointment.”

  James wore his usual deadpan expression, waiting patiently for elaboration.

  Setting his cup on the table, Lucien obliged. “He implied behaving like a swain devoted to one’s fair Juliet is certain to end in premature death, the only question being whether it will be by poison, stabbing, or plummeting from a balcony.”

  James snorted.

  “It seems, Lord Tannenbrook, you have a gift.”

  His friend’s face tightened in a grimace of disgust as he sat back in his chair and folded his massive arms.

  Lucien grinned. “In any event, the current arbiter of all things fashionable among gentlemen of the beau monde believes I am a calf-eyed fool distastefully enamored of his wife. Impressive after a mere five days.”

  Clearly uncomfortable being praised for his adept manipulation of the rumor mill, James shrugged off the compliment and changed the subject. “Stickley left London.”

  “When?” Lucien demanded.

  “Yesterday. Wallingham bought his absence with a yearling, or so I heard.”

  Lucien sat back, satisfaction surging through him. The pompous worm had carried his outrage at Victoria to disgraceful lows, mewling to all who would listen about her betrayal. He deserved a sound thrashing, but disappearing to the country would have to do.

  Loud guffaws came from the hall, probably some young lord deep in his cups too early in the day. Moments later, Lucien’s conclusions were confirmed when Colin Lacey stumbled into the room. He was followed by Lord Chatham, tall, lean, dark-haired, and almost certainly drunk, though he hid the fact remarkably well. A third man, bleary-eyed and decidedly less jocular, shook his head and headed for the stairs.

  Must have lost a fair bit at the tables, Lucien thought, noting the trio had come from the direction of the card room.

  Spying Lucien and Tannenbrook sitting near the window, the two men approached. Lacey’s bow was sloppy, his greeting slurred. Lord Chatham’s bow, by contrast, was the picture of elegance, executed to perfection.

  “I sssay, Atherbourne,” Lacey said, “where’ve you been hiding Tori? Haven’t seen her sh-since the wedding.”

  Annoyed at the question, Lucien answered, “Such a thing might be of consequence if you could recall one way or the other, Lacey. As it is, I am surprised you remember even having a sister.”

  Before the younger man could answer, Chatham clapped his companion on the shoulder and advised drolly, “Not to worry. I’m sure your sister is in good hands with Lord Atherbourne. Most exceptional hands, if Mrs. Knightley is to be believed.”

  Colin Lacey, too drunk to understand Chatham’s quip, much less respond to it, listed to his right and caught himself on the back of an empty chair.

  Lucien met Chatham’s flat turquoise gaze with a sharp one of his own. So Benedict Chatham, the current Viscount Chatham and future Marquess of Rutherford, was servicing the widow Knightley. Exhausting work, that.

  Lucien arched a brow. “Long night, eh, Chatham?” he asked softly.

  The man’s cynical smirk faded to dead nothingness.

  Warning apparently received—good. The subject of Mrs. Knightley was not one Lucien wished to have bandied about, and if rumors of her relationship with Chatham were true, then the dissolute lord almost certainly would share the sentiment. He did have to wonder how his own amorous past had come to be a topic of conversation between the two, and why Chatham was choosing to bring it up now.

  He had been two years behind Lucien at Eton, and they had been fast friends early on—games of cricket, chasing petticoats, pranks on the older boys. Chatham was astoundingly clever, had a devilish sense of humor, and, even at fourteen, had taught the older boys a thing or two about wooing the fairer sex. Women utterly craved him, even thin and pale with the ravages of drink, as he was now.

  Their friendship had waned as Chatham had begun his descent into disgrace and debauchery, but Lucien had always wished the man well. Given his jab about Lucien’s prior bed sport with the depraved and tireless Mrs. Knightley, however, perhaps the feeling was not mutual.

  Frowning, he glanced from Chatham to Lacey and back again, a connection clicking in the back of his mind. Chatham had always had a talent for influence. Other males—older, younger, it mattered little—loved to follow and emulate him. It seemed Colin Lacey was no exception.

  Lucien turned to Victoria’s poor excuse for a brother. “Lacey, I suggest you return home before you do the furniture here serious damage.”

  “You sh-sound juss like Harrison.”

  A dark, curling rage seeped into his bones, working its way outward from a frighteningly familiar place. Lucien did not like being compared to Blackmore. Not for any reason. They were nothing alike, and even the implication fired the hatred he kept banked, yet never dormant. Finally noticing the dangerous glint in Lucien’s eye, Lacey wisely backed up a step. Chatham interjected coldly, “Perhaps we will take our leave, then. My lords.”

  As they left the room, Lacey protested drunkenly that he thought they were to have coffee, to which Chatham replied he’d suddenly developed a taste for something stronger.

  “Never liked the shape of the spoons here, anyway.”

  Startled by James�
�s quietly amused statement, Lucien glanced at his friend, who casually gestured to Lucien’s hand. It lay fisted on the table, having bent a silver spoon in half. Immediately, he felt sick inside, opening his hand wide and letting the bit of metal thunk onto the linen-covered wood. Damn it. He hadn’t had one of his episodes in weeks. Not since his wedding.

  “He was drunk. And a bloody imbecile besides. You shouldn’t pay him any mind.”

  Lucien nodded. James always made sense. After an episode, it helped a great deal to hear sound reason and calm patience. He breathed slowly, allowing the residual anger to flow out of him. It was a trick he had learned after deciding to leave Thornbridge and pursue justice. Picture the dark, endless well of poison running like a river out of his veins, out of his body, just like the air expelled from his lungs. Sometimes, like today, it worked.

  When he met James’s eyes, he was even able to smile. “It is fortunate I do not plan to spend much time in his company.”

  A short while later, Lucien and Tannenbrook entered the billiard room and began a quick game. James, who had been silent since they left the coffee room, asked quietly, “How is your wife, Luc?”

  His muscles tightened and something squeezed hard in his chest. He glanced at James over his shoulder, wondering how he should answer. She is beautiful. She is mine. She is much more than I thought she would be. Better than I deserve.

  He leaned forward to take his shot. “She is well.”

  James nodded. “She hasn’t tried to see Blackmore?”

  He watched as James calmly potted Lucien’s cue ball and left him double-baulked. Bloody hell. Tannenbrook had a killer instinct when it came to billiards.

  “Victoria understands my wishes.”

  Surprise lifted James’s brows. “And she has agreed?”

  Clearing his throat, Lucien replied, “For the time being.” He glanced over at his friend. “Your skepticism is unwarranted. I’ve taken precautions. Once the scandal settles, we will leave for Thornbridge, and the matter should be easily managed.”

  “You still plan to keep her from him, then. For the rest of her life.”