Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  He slid one hand along the length of her body as he kissed her. When it slid over her mound and through the dark curls between her thighs, her lips pulled away from his in a gasp. “George!” she whispered, his name coming out in a long, low groan.

  Smiling to himself as he felt his own body respond, George pressed his hand against her, his middle finger sliding along the wetness between the warm folds. Her womanhood was there, already swollen and red and ready for his magic touch. He stroked it, circled it with his thumb and flicked over it with the edge of a finger before gently sliding the same finger inside her. Seeking the sensitive flesh inside with the pad of his fin­ger, he watched as Elizabeth’s body bowed beneath him, her eyelids so heavy they nearly covered the aquamarine of her eyes. She arched back, gasping and moaning, begging him to take her. While sliding a second finger into her, George low­ered his lips to one breast, covering one nipple to suckle and nip the engorged nub. He felt her body shiver, shake, shudder before he slowly removed his fingers and used their moistness to tease her engorged womanhood to the very edge of climax. Lifting his body on his other arm, he positioned himself over her and between her legs as they parted and lifted to wrap around his thighs. When he was sure she was cresting a wave of pleasure, he allowed his sword to seek out the warmth and wetness of her sheath.

  She surrounded him, pulled him in before he stilled his movement. She was so tight around him! He could hear her gasp as he filled her, as he stopped when he felt the barrier of her maidenhead. His mouth lowered onto her other breast, teasing and nipping at her nipple until Elizabeth’s cry of his name filled the night. Then he pulled out of her a bit and plunged his turgid manhood into her as far as he dared, biting his lip as he felt and heard her sudden inhalation of breath at what must have been the pain. He stilled himself again, moved his hands to cradle her face. Kissing her lips and the corner of her mouth, he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

  Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut as she felt him penetrate her completely, the sense of fullness nearly as overwhelming as the wave after wave of pleasure had been just a moment ago. If there was pain, she was unaware of it, her very being having left her body to hover above, to watch as George kissed her, as he held himself so still inside her, as he buried his head into the space between her neck and shoulder, as his tongue barely touched the tender skin beneath her ear and his lips took pur­chase on her earlobe.

  When she felt his words in her ears, she opened her eyes and inhaled as if she had been holding her breath for too long, her mind suddenly at one with her body again. “George,” she whispered, drawing out his name and leaving her lips curved up in a seductive smile.

  What had he said?

  She was sure he had said something. She had felt his breath, his lips against the whorl of her ear. “Say it again,” she breathed, her hands sliding up the sides of his torso, under his arms, up to his shoulders and around his neck.

  “I love you,” he whispered as he lifted his head, his torso held suspended over hers by his bent arms. Before she could respond, his lips captured hers in a thorough kiss. And then he began to move. Instinctively, Elizabeth clenched down on his retreating manhood, not wanting it to leave her body, not wanting the sense of fullness to disappear.

  At George’s rather loud growl, she let go and was rewarded with his hardened manhood filling her again. And she moved to meet him, lifting her hips so that he was buried even deeper in her. A chuckle burbled up from his throat as he steadied himself. “You minx,” he said as he caught sight of her mischie­vous grin. Then he was pulling out and thrusting into her, over and over in a rhythm she matched with her hips meeting his. And then she became aware of the throbbing deep inside. Of the sensations his thrusting sword created at her very core. Of the sounds of his panting as his rhythm quickened. And when the waves started rolling, she arched her back and cried out his name.

  George intended to still himself, to watch as Elizabeth was taken by the waves of pleasure, to be sure she had come to completion. But seeing her ecstasy, feeling her sudden tight­ening on him, the way her body seemed to capture him and hold on and pull him in deeper inside … it was too much. The spasm of the climax caught and shattered him. A growl and a whisper of “Elizabeth” were his only sounds before he col­lapsed onto the lush body beneath him.

  Clinging to his back with her fingertips, Elizabeth held on as if her very life depended on it, for she was sure if she let go, her body would simply break apart and fly away on the slight­est breath, on George’s breath as it washed over her neck and shoulder and her breasts. With the last vestiges of the pleasure waves coursing through her, she took a deep breath and sighed it away. Turning her face to where his rested on the pillow next to hers, she kissed George on the forehead. “You are the master of the understatement, George,” she whispered, a slow smile forming.

  His body quite boneless as it lay sprawled over hers, George stirred enough to gaze at his wife through heavy lid­ded eyes. “Hmm?” he managed, wondering what she meant.

  “You said there would be ‘more’,” she replied in a teasing voice. She felt his body tremble with a suppressed chuckle.

  “My lady, you have barely experienced the ‘more’,” he whispered before falling into a satisfied slumber atop his wife, a smile still on his lips as he imagined Elizabeth’s facial expression.

  Sliding her suddenly boneless legs down the sides of George’s thighs while making sure he was still firmly inside her, Elizabeth’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’.

  Always promise her more.

  Chapter 45

  A Married Lady Calls on a Marquess

  “There is a Mrs. John Theisen calling, my lord,” Alfred stated from just inside the threshold of his master’s study.

  David Carlington looked up from the ledger spread open on his desk blotter, an ink-filled quill poised over it. A look of concentration etched his face as he tried to recall if he had ever met a woman by that name. “Who?” he wondered finally, deciding he was unfamiliar with the moniker.

  His hands behind his back, the butler seemed a bit unsure of what to say. “My lord, the last time she called, she was Miss Josephine Wentworth,” he said in a very dignified manner.

  The man was certainly less sure of himself then he had been a few weeks ago, the marquess thought in amusement. David straightened, replacing his quill in the pot to prevent a drop of ink from spoiling his otherwise pristine page, an accounting of the costs associated with his daughter’s wed­ding. Despite his fears that the fête would cost a fortune, he was quite surprised to discover his wife’s indulgence hadn’t been one at all. The wedding and breakfast feast had cost far less than her last ball, in fact. And his new son-in-law’s insis­tence that Elizabeth’s dowry be directed to her charity instead of to George was a nice surprise, as well. When he had per­sonally delivered the donation to her charity at her office, the look on his daughter’s face had been so precious, so genuinely thankful and happy, he thought he might have to make it a regular practice to deliver his donations in person.

  David shook himself from his reverie and wondered what news Josephine could be bringing. Perhaps she only meant to thank him for allowing his daughter to marry George. It had been her idea, after all.

  He remembered their last meeting—was that in August? Sighing, he braced his hands against the edge of the desk. The woman had not been mincing words when she said she intended to marry someday. “Send her in,” he said to Alfred as he stood up from his desk and made his way to stand in front of it.

  Josephine entered slowly, her very new and fashionable bright red carriage gown and pelisse at odds with the widow’s weeds she had worn for their last meeting. Her hat, featuring a small brim in the back that widened around the front, was adorned with several red fabric roses and a few feathers.

  The sight of the feathers brought back memories of his recent afternoon with his wife. He felt a sudden flush heat his face as he moved forward, and surprise when Josephine performed a perfect curtsy. Reachin
g for her gloved hand, he lifted it and brushed his lips across the knuckles. “My lady,” he intoned, using the words he would use for any lady of the ton. “How very good to see you again,” he offered with a low nod.

  Stunned at the formal greeting the marquess afforded her, Josephine had to bite back a chiding retort. “And you, my lord,” she said instead. “You are looking … rather flushed and very … happy?” she guessed, her perusal of him not the least bit subtle.

  David smiled, his head cocking to one side. “Indeed,” he answered simply. He waved to the chair next to where he stood. “Join me in a brandy?” he offered, realizing immedi­ately this wouldn’t be like their other meetings.

  Josephine couldn’t suppress her amusement. “It’s barely half past ten, Carlington,” she replied with a shake of her head. “And I cannot stay. But thank you for the offer. I merely wished to convey my congratulations on you getting your daughter settled so quickly.”

  The marquess regarded her with a cocked eyebrow. “I think you had far more to do with that then I did,” he coun­tered, a sigh escaping him as he leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. “Mrs. John Theisen, is it?” he remembered from the butler’s statement. “That was quick.”

  His guest had to suppress a snort. “I hardly think thirteen years is quick,” she replied with a shake of her head. “But I believe the phrase is, ‘better late than never’.” After a pause, she added, “I wanted to let you know that I won’t be paying you these visits any longer. I am a married woman now. It seems my husband is truly a captain of industry and quite well regarded in Oxford. Jack is also looking forward to spending a good deal of time here in London. I would rather there not be a hint of scandal due to my … interest … in politics, or because I made my living as … as a mistress.” She didn’t add, To your new son-in-law, although she knew very well the marquess knew by whom she was formerly employed.

  She also didn’t add a plea that he pretend not to know her in the event they should cross paths in the future.

  The marquess reluctantly nodded his agreement to her terms. “A shame, Josephine. I find our chats are always a source of such good information.” He paused a moment, not wanting their exchange to become more awkward than it already was. “Would it be acceptable for Adeline to invite you and your husband to our next ball? I expect she’ll be hosting one during the next Season. She usually does.”

  Her eyes widening at the implication of his query, Jose­phine stared at David for several seconds. “That would be … quite an honor, I should think,” she answered, her steely reserve breaking down just a bit. She swallowed hard, over­come by his overture.

  “I’ll see to it,” he replied with a nod. “And will you give my regards to Mr. Theisen? I am somewhat familiar with his success in the textile business. I think congratulations are in order.”

  Josephine’s eyes darted to one side as she considered his comment. “I will, of course, my lord,” she replied stiffly.

  My lord? Christ, the woman never addressed him by his title! And if she was severing her ties to him, was she also going to cease her suggestions to Adeline on how to please him in their bedchamber? The woman had been responsible for rekindling the flames of passion he had felt for Adeline, the daughter of an Italian count, when he had first been introduced to her while on his Grand Tour. If it hadn’t been for Josephine’s help, perhaps even encouragement, Adeline might never have made the overtures necessary for him to realize she loved him. And without Josephine’s occasional encouragements over the years, he might not have realized Adeline’s feelings about him having a mistress. He knew now he could never take a mistress and keep Adeline as his wife. And he found he didn’t want a mistress. Certainly not now that Adeline had made her posi­tion quite clear on the matter.

  So, it wasn’t exactly panic he experienced at the thought of Josephine no longer being in their lives, but he certainly recognized the disappointment he felt.

  “My lady,” he countered, his demeanor suddenly rather serious. “I find that I cannot accept your … resignation … from your duty to your country. Or to my wife,” he added, hoping he didn’t sound as selfish as he felt just then.

  Josephine’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “My lord?” was all she could manage in response. He continues to address me as ‘my lady’!

  David shook his head. “If you think that just because you’re married to a … what did you call him? Oh, a ‘captain of industry’, that you can be relieved of your duty to keep me informed as to your analysis of the political landscape, then you are sorely mistaken, my lady. In fact, I’ll need to have your husband call on me so that I may make my position on the subject quite clear. I want there to be no misunderstanding on his part.”

  Stunned at his statement, Josephine stared at the marquess for several seconds. “Are you … threatening me, my lord?” she stammered, her heart pounding so hard she could barely hear her words. She had always displayed more self-confidence in David Carlington’s presence than she ever felt, but at the moment, her confidence was crumbling before him.

  “No!” he replied in a manner that suggested he was annoyed. “I’m merely telling you that I expect you to continue to keep me apprised as you have for so long. And I intend to be the one to tell your husband of your value to me. My lady,” he added with an arched eyebrow.

  There was a hint of a twinkle in one eye, just enough that Josephine realized he meant no threat at all, but merely wished to acknowledge her importance to him. “When should my husband call on you, my lord?” she wondered, her heart rate nearly back to normal.

  “At his convenience, of course,” Morganfield stated with a nod. “I should like to share a cheroot and a brandy with him, should he be inclined to accept my hospitality,” he explained, his arms crossing his chest again. “Is that acceptable to my lady?”

  Josephine allowed a smile and a roll of her eyes. Should her husband be inclined to agree with Morganfield’s request for her continued services, she would be able to continue her daily research into politics and current events. She couldn’t imagine why Jack wouldn’t agree, but she was quite sure he would be very surprised when David Carlington informed him of what she had been doing for the past eight years. And now her meetings with the marquess wouldn’t have to be so clandestine. “Very, my lord,” Josephine replied with a nod. “Do let Lady Morganfield know I paid a visit won’t you?” she said quite sweetly as she curtsied.

  The Marquess of Morganfield bowed quite low. “Of course. Oh. Did you wish to leave her a … message, perhaps?” he asked suddenly, a hint of humor to his query.

  Mrs. John Theisen regarded him as a slow smile spread over face. “Yes, actually. Could you let her know I said, ‘ice and mint’, my lord? She’ll understand,” Josephine said as she gave him a wink. She turned and left the study, her carriage gown skirts swishing with her exit through the door.

  David Carlington stared at her retreating back, her last words echoing over and over in his mind. “Oh, my,” he whis­pered, his head suddenly spinning before he fainted dead away.

  The Grace of a Duke

  Linda Rae Sande

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  The Grace of a Duke

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2013

  V1.4

  Cover photograph © RomanceNovelCovers.com Cover art by KGee Designs. All rights reserved - used with permission.

  http://www.lindaraesande.com

  This ebook may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief qu
otations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN: 978-0-9893973-0-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907824

  To Kate, Karen, Kristi, Karie, Kaydee, Sue, Sarah and Wendy, who make girlfriends’ reunions the best time of the year

  Chapter 1

  His Grace and Mr. McElliott Discuss the Parlor

  March 1816

  Garrett McElliott paused before entering Joshua Wain­wright’s study, sure his friend and employer would be in a sour mood. The news of late had not been good, and with the new duke still recovering and the estate house undergoing renova­tions, there was just too much to do.

  “The foreman asked again about the parlor,” he finally spoke, not bothering to bow or otherwise greet the duke. He carried a sheath of papers and set them on his side of the large library table they shared as a desk.

  Joshua Wainwright glanced up from an open ledger, his quill poised to write and his mind obviously still in the moment. “Parlor?” he repeated, not quite sure what his best friend meant by the comment. He frowned as a drop of ink fell to the ledger and then watched as it spread over where he intended to write a number. Damnation!

  “He said he gave you an entire book of paint samples for you to consider for the parlor. Did you choose one?” Gar­rett asked, his brows suggesting they’d had this conversation before, perhaps several times.

  Rolling his eyes, Joshua shook his head. “I haven’t had a chance …”

  “Admit it, old man,” Garrett interrupted, calling his friend ‘old man’ despite the fact that Joshua was merely five-and­twenty. Joshua was old, though. How could he not be when he had lost his entire family to a fire and had the title and responsi­bilities of a dukedom thrust on him whilst he was still recover­ing from his own injuries from the fire? The dark circles under his brown eyes were a testament to sleepless nights, the pain from his burn scars the most likely culprit. The dark brown hair growing in on the left side of his head nearly matched the length of the hair on the right, but the scarred areas near his ear and down the left side of his face would never appear normal. And when Joshua walked, he seemed to lean a bit to the left, the scarred skin along his torso so tight he found it dif­ficult to straighten his body. “You’re at a loss,” Garrett accused. “You have no idea what color to choose. We need to hire some­one. A … decorator, perhaps.”