Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “Last night … no, it would have been the night before last,” she said as she corrected herself. “He was especially … happy … when he arrived last evening. He was carrying a rather full purse and was already quite foxed. When I went on break about seven-thirty, he followed me to the back stairs. He was babbling about having used explosives to blow up a house near Kirdford. I was so frightened for you.”

  Garrett continued to stare down at her. “Oh, my God,” he breathed, wondering if he knew the man who had set the explosives in the tree at Wisborough Oaks. “Do you remember him saying anything else?” he asked, his manner urgent.

  Jane shook her head but turned away in order to better remember more of Angus McFarland’s boasts. “Yes. The man who hired him was Nicholas Bingham. He had hired him to get rid of a cousin.”

  “Did he say who the cousin was?” Garrett wondered, the urgency still in his voice.

  Looking up to meet his gaze, Jane shrugged. “He didn’t give a name …”

  “Will you tell your story to a Runner?” Garrett asked then, concern evident in his voice.

  “I already did,” she replied quietly. “To the Runner who was here last night. His name was Marcus Leonarde. And you promised …” But she saw the fear in his eyes. “What is it, Gar­rett? Please tell me.”

  Garrett swallowed hard, his mind reeling at the news. He would have to get a missive sent to Joshua right away. If McFar­land was to see to it a certain cousin of Bingham’s died in the blast that damaged Wisborough Oaks, then he had failed.

  But he didn’t know that.

  And neither did Nicholas Bingham.

  “Joshua’s betrothed showed up a couple of days ago,” he said quickly, tossing the quilts off his body as he got out of bed and reached for his clothing. “Lady Charlotte. She planned to marry him as soon as she reached her majority, which, I think, is this Saturday.”

  Jane watched him dress, her naked body spread out front down on the counterpane, her breasts mounded under her and one leg bent with a foot in the air. “You think she is a cousin of Bingham’s?” she wondered, her brows furrowing.

  “I know she is,” he answered curtly, remembering his con­versation with the Earl of Torrington the night before.

  Jane stared at him for a moment, a look of horror crossing her face as she realized the implication of his statement. “Did McFarland set the explosives at Wisborough Oaks?” she asked then, her foot falling to the bed with a thud. Her initial fear for Garrett upon hearing McFarland’s confession had been justified.

  Garrett nodded. “Right outside Lady Charlotte’s window! The window broke during the blast, but if there was a fireball, it was put out by the rain.” He thought of his discussion with Joshua the day before. They had assumed the blast was meant to kill Joshua, that the duke was the target of what should have been a house fire. Their suppositions were completely wrong!

  “You could have been killed!” Jane nearly shrieked, rising from the bed and displaying changing expressions of anger and concern and fright in addition to her entirely nude body.

  “Not with rotten gunpowder,” he answered matter-of­factly. He regarded her slender body. Her tousled hair gave her the air of a wanton. He thought her upturned breasts were begging to be kissed. Desire made him want to undress and simply spend the entire day in bed with Jane. But there was much to be done, including visits to a bank, an archbishop, Bow Street and to hospital.

  He pulled Jane into a quick embrace, kissing her swol­len lips until he had to pull away to breathe. “Will you be safe here? I have errands I must complete and a special license to procure if we have any hope of marrying in a few days,” he said in haste.

  “Of course,” Jane replied with a hesitant smile, still a bit concerned about what had happened at Wisborough Oaks. “I will spend my day packing.”

  Garrett grinned. “I’ll see about getting you some help. And I will be back to take you to dinner at seven,” he said with a nod. With one more kiss, Garrett took his leave of Jane.

  Chapter 18

  Mr. McElliott’s Note Arrives

  Joshua stood watching the lone horseman from the win­dow, wondering what news the man was bringing. He had woken suddenly at the sound of the distant hoofbeats, his first impulse to jump out of the unfamiliar bed. But upon fur­ther reflection, he discovered he first had to extricate himself from Charlotte. One of her arms was wrapped about his chest in a most possessive manner, and one of her legs was firmly planted between his, her thigh supporting an erection that was still evident despite the cool air on his naked body.

  He knew the butler would answer the door and receive the courier in due time; at some point, though, the missive the man delivered would need to make its way to Joshua, and he was not in his usual place to receive it. He turned to get his robe and was surprised to find Charlotte standing next to him, her eyes watching the horseman as he dismounted and quickly hobbled his mount.

  “Who is it?” she asked in a whisper, her hair tousled and her nightgown wrinkled in a way that suggested a night of far more carnal activities than the chaste touching she had engaged in with her fingertips.

  Joshua placed a hand at the small of her back and pulled her closer. “A courier, I suspect,” he said quietly. “Garrett prob­ably sent him,” he added, dropping his hand and hurrying to the bed to get his robe. “I should see what’s what,” he mur­mured as he cinched the robe about his middle, annoyed his erection was still evident in the folds of the fabric. “Will you be able to sleep on your front for a bit while I’m gone?”

  A sense of satisfaction washed over Charlotte; his com­ment implied he would return. But she found herself wide awake. What kind of information could a courier be bringing in the middle of the night?

  It could not be good news.

  “May I join you?” she asked, her arms crossed in front of her body, presumedly against the slight chill in the air.

  Joshua regarded her with a cocked head, noting the sil­houette of hardened nipples in the satin covering her breasts. “Only if you put on a bit more than that,” he countered as he nodded toward her gown. Charlotte blushed and turned to get her dressing gown from the bed. “And maybe a blanket over that,” he added as he remembered how revealing her dressing gown could be.

  Giving a slight ‘humph’, Charlotte pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around herself as she followed him out the door and down the steps. She stayed back on the steps while Joshua continued into the vestibule. As Joshua expected, Gates had already answered the door and was allowing the courier entrance. “Please see to it this man is fed and given a room for the night,” Joshua stated when a surprised Gates acknowledged his presence. “And have a groom see to his horse.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” the butler replied as he closed the front door.

  The courier bowed and pulled a parchment from his mes­senger bag. “Much obliged, Your Grace,” he said as he handed over the missive. “I am to wait for a reply and make haste back to London at first light.”

  Damn him! Joshua thought as he took the parchment. Garrett knew he still had trouble writing, his left hand being his favored hand for penning messages. He opened the wax seal and unfolded the paper, holding it to the dim lamplight from a sconce on the vestibule wall.

  Dear Duke of Chichester,

  I found Grandby at White’s. A most enlightening discussion ensued. Ellsworth is in a coma from an accident at his home last week. Lady C’s cousin Nicholas Bingham inherits when he dies. There is concern as to your competence and more concern about your ability to father a child. Suggest you prove your detractors wrong at your earliest convenience on both issues. Grandby is not aware of another groom for Lady C., but says there could be one. Who doesn’t want £10,000? Recommend you marry the chit posthaste. I will look for the dowry tomorrow. As to who started the fire, he does not know of anyone wishing you and yours dead.

  Yours in service, Garrett McElliott.

  P.S. Grandby is Lady C’s godfather.

&nb
sp; Joshua read the missive through once and was reading it again when Charlotte appeared at his right. “Is it bad news?” she wondered, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her eyes flicked toward the parchment, but Joshua knew she wouldn’t read it unless she was asked to do so.

  “Depends,” he answered, refolding the letter. “Come into the library with me?” he half-asked as he made his way down the hall, the bottom edges of his robe opening with his move­ment. Charlotte nodded and followed, clutching the blanket around her until she was in the library and the door was shut behind her. “Were you aware your father is in hospital?” he asked as he turned to regard her, displaying a frown of concern.

  Charlotte sighed, pulling the blanket more tightly around her body. “Yes,” she replied with a sad expression. Then her eyes widened. “Did he die?”

  Shaking his head slowly, Joshua’s frown deepened. “You said nothing of it. And you’re not at his bedside,” he accused, wondering what sort of accident had put her father in a coma.

  “My mother stays at his bedside for the both of us, although I suspect she would be relieved to be free of him.” At Joshua’s continued frown, she explained, “Father has become … impos­sible … impatient … easy to anger these past six months. He drinks too much after dinner. We were … frightened of what he might do.” To us, she nearly added. To me.

  Joshua considered her words and thought about the time­line of her whipping. “Did he … was he injured the night he took the whip to your back?” he whispered, wondering if she had done something to cause the accident that put him in a coma.

  Charlotte nodded as she let go of the blanket. It slid from around her shoulders to fall in a puddle at her feet. “We were in the library. He was about to raise the whip to hit me a sec­ond time when … I didn’t see it happen as I was turned away, but he stumbled, hit his head on the edge of his desk.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “There was so much blood coming from the side of his head. I was sure he died the moment he fell,” she murmured, her eyes brightening with unshed tears.

  Placing an arm around the small of her back, he pulled her against his side. “And your mother?” he spoke gently. “Where was she when this happened?”

  Charlotte swallowed. “She was in the library with us. She was quite beside herself. A bit horrified, I think. I doubt she’s ever seen someone whipped before. I don’t believe she thought him capable of disciplining me like that. And then he fell, and there was so much blood …”

  Joshua took a deep breath. “And the servants? Did any of them see what happened?”

  Shaking her head slowly, Charlotte said, “There were no servants about when we arrived home. We had been at a musi­cale and had to let ourselves in as my father had sent them all away for the evening,” she explained, her head turning away as she realized her father would have had to do some planning in advance—he would have had to give the servants a reason­able explanation as to why he was giving them the night off as well as retrieve the whip from the stables, all before he had drunk too much that night. “My mother screamed so loudly that a man in the street out front ran to get a watchman. And our neighbor, a doctor, was summoned. But Father wouldn’t wake up.”

  Moving his hand to the side of her head, he pulled her against the front of his robe-clad body and held her for some time, felt her whispers of breath against the dusting of hair on his chest where his robe was open, felt her tremble as she tried to stave off the tears he knew she would shed.

  “What you said, about why he whipped you. Was that true?” Joshua asked, his hand moving to cup her jaw so he could lift her face to look at him.

  A tear escaped from a corner of her eye. “Yes,” she said, nodding.

  Joshua closed his eyes, as if in doing so, he could stem the growing rage he felt at what had been done to Charlotte, all because she refused to denounce her betrothal to the Duke of Chichester—to him—and consider another for a husband.

  Could her commitment, her sense of obligation to the duchy be so strong she would truly oppose her own father’s wishes? Or was there something else that drove her to pro­claim her devotion to the dukedom? To the duke? To me? “Why, Charlotte? Why didn’t you just do as he asked?” he whispered, stroking her golden hair as he held her. He felt her head shake against where it rested, felt her open hand slide up the side of his body over the fabric of his robe, heard her sob quietly into his chest. He didn’t hear her answer, although he was aware she had said something. He moved his hands to either side of her face and tilted it up. “Come again?” he whis­pered, “I couldn’t make out what you said,” he murmured.

  Charlotte sniffled and finally met his eyes. “I could not. I could not because … I belong to you.”

  Stunned at her confession, Joshua stared at her. “You belong to me?” he repeated, his voice barely audible. He had to tamp down his sense of elation at her words. Does she love me? If so, it was more than he could hope for. All those years he felt such jealousy because his brother was to have her as his wife. And now he could have her simply because she was betrothed to the duke. Have her because she was obliged to be his wife. Have her because he wanted her.

  But to love her and not have the love returned—Joshua had decided long ago he wouldn’t be satisfied with a loveless marriage. He wouldn’t agree to marry simply out of a sense of duty to the dukedom, even if it meant the Wainwright line died with him. He wanted a marriage much like his parents, a partnership where responsibilities were shared by day and a bed was shared by night.

  Every night.

  And, although he wanted Charlotte Bingham as his wife, he wanted her to love him.

  “You belong to me?” he repeated again, his voice cracking just a bit. At Charlotte’s tentative nod, her eyes rather wide, as if she were afraid she had said something wrong, he pulled her hard against him and covered her mouth with his, tasting the salt from her tears as he slid his lips over hers. When he felt her left hand reach up to his good shoulder, he slipped his tongue between her teeth, deepening the kiss. At her barely heard moan, his response was to possess her mouth, indeed, her very being in the way he held her, the way his hands slid along her satin-clad arms, over her shoulders, lightly down the sides of her back over the satin of her nightgown and finally to rest on the mounds of her bottom. He felt her entire body shiver at his touch, took great joy in her quiet purring. The feel of his hardening shaft against her satin-covered belly had him coming up for air, his breath catching as her lips took over to suckle his, as her fingers reached into his hair and forced him to bend lower to meet her demanding kiss.

  And they might have continued kissing for several more minutes except that the paper he held in one hand made a loud crackling noise as it wrinkled against Charlotte’s bottom.

  Joshua blinked as he pulled away from her, absently kissing her forehead as he did so. She may think she belongs to me, but she hasn’t professed any love for me, he thought suddenly. She is not a possession, nor will I take her as a mistress. “I apolo­gize,” he murmured, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I … I must reply to this letter so the courier can be on his way,” he whispered, still holding one hand against her bottom while he waved the letter in the air with his other.

  Her bee-stung lips forming an ‘o’, Charlotte nodded, her head still in the kiss. “Of course. May I offer my hand?” she wondered as she came to her senses, making sure she could stand of her own accord. “I know it pains you to write.”

  Now, how can she know that? he wondered. Considering her offer, Joshua led her to the double desk. How could he word his response so she wouldn’t know the letter was about her? He pulled out the chair for her, admiring her satin-clad body as she took the proffered seat.

  “Do you have other … night rails … like the one you are wearing?” he asked suddenly, immediately chastising himself. What was he thinking in asking her that?

  Charlotte angled her head to one side as she found the inkwell and pen near the top of the desk. “I believe I have at least one
other,” she replied demurely.

  Joshua pulled a sheet of parchment from a stack near the edge of the desk, the Duke of Chichester’s seal embossed at the top. “Do you suppose it would be possible to have bed linens made from the same fabric?” he queried, his good eyebrow nearly into this hairline.

  Closing her eyes for a second, Charlotte considered what he was asking. The fabric of his bed linens must be too harsh for his still-sensitive skin, she figured. The material could be pur­chased from any number of drapers, probably from one of the Hunts in Bishopsgate, but who could make bed linens from the shiny satin? A modiste, possibly. “I will see to it,” Charlotte stated as she sat up straight. “Do you have a color in mind?” she wondered. Although she had been in his bedchamber the one night, she wouldn’t know from the dim candlelight in what colors the room was decorated.

  “I will leave that up to you,” he answered, his tone suggest­ing it would be a test. What color would I choose? he wondered. Certainly one that was complimentary of her peaches and cream complexion, he thought as he imagined Charlotte on his bed. A color that would make it possible for him to relax and fall asleep more quickly than he was doing these days. He sud­denly realized the two conditions might be mutually exclusive. For the idea of Charlotte Bingham lying naked on satin sheets of any color didn’t bode well for a good night’s sleep.

  At least, not right away.

  But certainly after—after he had kissed her until she begged for him to take her and after he had pleasured her until she was thoroughly sated and after he plundered her body for every ounce of pleasure he could coax out of her until his own body was spent and she was pressed against the entire length of him …

  Perhaps the two weren’t so mutually exclusive.

  Charlotte regarded him while she waited for him to begin reciting his letter, wondering what he could be thinking. Had she been wrong to allow him the kiss? The sensations his lips had incited in her still lingered; her breasts had tingled, their tips hardening and yearning for … something. And there was an ache deep in her core that still hadn’t faded.