Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  A bit of panic gripped Henry. The news wasn’t unexpected, but … did Hannah expect to attend Charlotte’s wedding instead of her own?

  “At exactly the same time we’re getting married!” Hannah added, her delight so infectious, Henry was forced to smile, although his was due more to relief than news of Charlotte’s wedding. “That is, if you were able to schedule a vicar?” she half-questioned, her brows furrowing so a tiny line developed between her eyebrows.

  Henry lifted a finger to the spot and pressed lightly. “The bishop will be here at ten-thirty,” he assured her as he contin­ued to hold her lightly.

  Her eyes still bright, Hannah gave him an embarrassed grin. “Truly, I did not doubt you,” she claimed, wondering how it could be she felt comfortable standing so close to a man, closer than she would if they were waltzing.

  Giving her half a shrug, he cocked an eyebrow. “And how did my lady fair in her plans?” he wondered, the amusement back in his voice.

  Hannah took a deep breath. “I do not know how Lady Bostwick can accomplish so much in such a short amount of time, but there will be flowers and a gown and a cake and a breakfast feast …” She allowed the sentence to trail off, her face suddenly turning more serious. “I don’t know that we’ll have any guests at the wedding.”

  Henry shook his head. “Not to worry. I have spoken with some friends who are not making the trip to Sussex for the duke’s wedding. I expect they will make an appearance.” At her raised eyebrow, he gave a shrug. “A few invitations were deliv­ered by courier to some members of the ton. It is a ducal wed­ding, after all,” he explained, hoping she wasn’t disappointed that their hastily planned affair would take second to that of her friend’s wedding. He was surprised when she seemed relieved by the news.

  “I feared there would be no one at Lady Charlotte’s wed­ding,” she said by way of explanation. Both of her hands still rested on his shoulders from when she kissed him. She low­ered one so it rested on his chest, the feel of his heartbeat sud­denly beneath her fingers.

  Sometime tomorrow, she imagined her hand would be at the same spot, but there would be no topcoat, no waistcoat, no linen shirt separating her fingers from his bare skin. A shiver of anticipation shot through her. What had Elizabeth done in telling her all about the joys of the marriage bed? Her friend had described intercourse in so many varied versions, she found she could not imagine half of them and otherwise blushed at the ones she could. But instead of dreading her wed­ding night, Hannah found herself looking forward to the time she could share her bed with Gisborn. With luck, he would get her with child shortly after the wedding, and she would have a baby to love and care for while Gisborn and his mistress con­tinued their lives.

  Hannah had to rein in her thoughts of the future. First, they would spend the night at Devonville House and then leave for Oxfordshire the following day. If the weather held, they would make the entire trip in one day. “Lord and Lady Bostwick have agreed to stay in London for one more day so that Elizabeth can stand with me. Have you someone who will stand with you?” she asked, not sure how many members of the ton he knew. He hadn’t yet taken his seat in Parliament; instead, he had stayed in Oxfordshire, seeing to his estate and the farms surrounding it.

  “My man, Murphy, will stand with me,” he said with a nod, marveling at how calm she seemed, as if she arranged her own wedding every day. A bit of nervousness crept into his being. A quick glance around the parlor made it apparent a special event was planned somewhere in Devonville House. Vases of flowers were already scenting the air around them. Footmen were hauling items in from a dray parked in the front drive. An impeccably dressed woman with an Italian accent was giv­ing instructions to a team of maids as to where dozens of large bows were to be hung. Henry was quite sure he had seen her at a ton event, but knew he had never been introduced. This wedding was going to happen. Tomorrow morning. It was too late to back out, too late to apologize and beg forgiveness, too late … But a calmness settled over him as he regarded his bride standing before him. She seemed happy to have him, satisfied with the arrangement they would have. The third time’s the charm, he thought as he considered that any debutante in the Marriage Mart would probably do at this point.

  Well, perhaps not any. But Lady Hannah Slater certainly would.

  Chapter 7

  Wedding Night Jitters

  Hannah stood before him in a pristine white night rail, its neckline edged in delicate lace while a ribbon bow held the top edges of the bodice together. From the way her lower lip trem­bled slightly, Henry realized she was nervous, frightened even.

  Probably even more than he was at the moment.

  What was wrong with him? He had bedded Sarah for over ten years! He knew how to do this—how to caress and stroke and kiss until Sarah’s quiet cries told him she was ready for his manhood.

  But the woman that stood before him wasn’t Sarah.

  She was Lady Hannah Slater. She was a fairy princess. She was a virgin. My countess. And she looked scared to death.

  “Perhaps, for this … first night, I should …” Henry shook his head, astounded that he could feel so uncertain about how to proceed with his new wife. This was their wedding night. He should simply carry her to the bed, pull the gown from her body and mount her, take her virtue just as he had imagined doing down in the parlor. He was her husband, after all. But there was that trembling lip, the fright in her eyes.

  Hannah reached out and clasped her hand around his wrist, her long fingers warm as they pulled him forward. “You should come all the way into the room, my lord,” she said in a voice that sounded far steadier than she felt at the moment. Her entire insides were in a jumble. Anticipation, fear, the need to feel as if she had made the right decision, and the awareness of the very male gentleman who stood before her made for a heady mix of emotions. Reaching around him, she gave the door a gentle push and waited until the latch clicked into place before returning her attention to his face.

  “Henry,” he stated suddenly. When Hannah only arched an eyebrow at the sound of his name, he added, “When we are … alone like this, you shall call me ‘Henry’,” he explained, hop­ing his words didn’t sound as impatient to her ears as they did to his own. Her fingers had loosened their grip on his wrist but were still touching him lightly.

  Henry glanced around the room, trying desperately to keep his nervousness from showing. Decorated in feminine peach and green, there was no doubt the room belonged to a young lady. She is my wife, he kept thinking, the scent of honeysuckle wafting up to fill his nostrils and make his brain even more addled, if that were even possible. “My lady, I …” His gaze fell on her bed, the coverlet and blankets folded down to expose the wide expanse of white linens. Good grief! Her bed was larger than his own! He could take her right then and there, truly make her his wife. God knew his cock wanted to; his manhood had hardened the moment she opened the door and gave him a tentative smile. And then, when her hand touched his arm to pull him into the room, the heat he felt inflamed him even more.

  “We are alone,” she said simply, wanting to assure him her lady’s maid, Lily, wasn’t still somewhere in the suite.

  I could kiss her at least, Henry thought suddenly, wonder­ing if he would be able to leave before they made it anywhere near the bed. This was the bedchamber she had slept in since she was in the nursery, he considered. He dared not deflower her here. He really should wait. Take her back to Oxfordshire, to Gisborn Hall and one of the bedchambers there. The one that was adjacent to his, with the connecting dressing room and a bath. Yes, that’s where he would do it.

  “Henry?” Hannah whispered, her eyes round. Her body seemed to be shaking.

  She’s frightened, of course, he thought suddenly. Her mother had probably died before telling her what to expect on her wedding night. Christ, he didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to expect on his wedding night! It had been so long since that first time with Sarah, when he had been too anxious and too impatient and too aroused to un
derstand how to make love to a woman. Sarah had cried afterwards, huge tears accompanied by sobs that wracked her body. She told him to leave her alone. And he had. For two days, in fact, until she found him working in the fields near the river and slammed her fist into his face. He had dropped like a rock, the pain under his eye so acute he thought he would be sick. But Sarah was suddenly there, begging for forgiveness and gently kissing his blackening cheek.

  Had he fallen in love with her then?

  He must have, for he had promised he wouldn’t pursue any of the other girls in the village (not that there were many of them). He bedded her again the next evening, and again after the village dance and … When her condition was notice­able a few months later, his uncle boxed his ears and shipped Sarah off to his aunt’s house near Oxford. Henry visited her frequently, using each trip as another opportunity to ask for her hand in marriage.

  But she was a stubborn girl, refusing him every time, even when the babe was about to be born. At that point, his aunt had even tried to convince Sarah to marry him, telling the poor girl Henry would eventually be the tenth Earl of Gisborn and Sarah, who was no better than a lowborn commoner, could be his countess.

  Sarah never relented.

  A few weeks after his son was born, the three of them made their way back to the village nearest Gisborn Hall. Despite his uncle’s directive that he denounce the child as his own, Henry set up a household for Sarah and made sure everyone knew the babe was his son. The earl could denounce him, he had decided. Used to laboring in the fields, he could make his own way in the world.

  And then something amazing had happened.

  When Nathan was but six weeks old, the Earl of Gisborn paid them a visit at the unfashionable hour of eight o’clock in the evening. Upon seeing his grand-nephew, Randolph Forster announced he was again making Henry his heir. His large hand had settled on Henry’s shoulder and given it a shake. “You did right by your son. Even if she,” he had pointed at Sarah and lowered his voice so only Henry could hear, “Is too proud or stupid to realize it.”

  Had the entire situation been a test? Henry always won­dered at the earl’s pronouncement that evening. And he hadn’t counted on the earl actually bequeathing the entire Gisborn estate nor the earldom to him (although Henry found out later he would have been granted the earldom no matter what—he was the late earl’s closest living male relative).

  So, now he stood before his very lovely, very nervous bride and allowed the smell of honeysuckle to addle his brain some more. I should kiss her. Say a few sweet nothings. Say good night and take my leave. Lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her ever so lightly. When she raised her hands to his shoulders and then wrapped them around his neck, he deepened the kiss.

  Her body was warm and soft beneath his hands, the entire front of her body pressed against his in open invitation. One of his hands drew up the side of her body, its thumb caressing the side of her breast before he gently drew it over the taut nipple, the fabric of her night rail thin enough so that he could almost believe he was touching her heated skin directly. He took sat­isfaction in feeling Hannah’s reaction against his mouth as her lips were forced to break from his in order for her to inhale sharply.

  Perhaps one more kiss and then he would leave her. The hand that caressed her nipple opened over her breast, gently lifting the mound that was, indeed, a bit larger than his palm. He captured Hannah lips to stifle her cry and then slowly slid the hand down to her hip. Gathering the fabric of her night rail beneath his palm, pulling up the gown as he did so, soon Henry had the flat of his hand smoothing over the side of her thigh, the globe of her bottom and to the front where he barely touched her belly. Hannah’s body spasmed in response, a moan rising from her throat as his kiss continued to con­sume her cries. When he slid his palm through the crisp curls and into the space between her thighs, he gripped her bottom with his other hand and held her hard against his body, know­ing in a moment her legs would turn to gelatin and she would require his support to remain upright.

  “Henry,” she managed to whisper against his lips.

  Pulling his mouth away from hers, he kissed her hair and the column of her neck as his fingers searched for her woman­hood. He was about to force her legs apart with a knee, but she slid one foot sideways, and suddenly, his fingers were sliding along her wet, swollen folds of flesh. The scent of feminine musk reached his nostrils as his fingers found their prey. He felt Hannah’s grip on him tighten, felt her tremulous breaths, as if she dared not breathe until whatever was about to happen … and then she arced her body. With her hip solid against his erection and her head thrown back in ecstasy, Henry waited until he heard her quiet keening before stilling his fingers.

  He was suddenly aware of his own body, of his own arousal, of her hip pressed against him. The sight of her head thrown back set off something in him he found he could not stop. His climax, so sudden and so unexpected, gripped his entire body. Pulling Hannah hard against the front of his body, he planted his mouth on her shoulder to stifle the growl, struggled hard to keep his legs beneath him, and wondered at how his body seemed to be trembling so hard. Stunned that the sight of his wife in ecstasy could have such an effect on him, Henry finally inhaled and gentled his hold on her.

  Shaking like a leaf, Hannah struggled to regain her sense of self, tried to pull herself back into a single body, sure she was lost in some oblivion where her physical being didn’t exist.

  Slowly, she became aware of Henry’s quiet whispers in her ear, of his hands stroking her back, stroking her shoulders, of her body being lifted and moved into a cloud of white and covered in warmth, of Henry’s lips on hers, of his lips on her neck. And then, as if it was all just a dream, she found herself dreaming.

  Still breathing heavily, Henry gave Hannah one last kiss before taking his leave of her. It was a very long walk to his room at the other end of the house.

  Chapter 8

  The Newlyweds on a Long Ride

  Henry glanced at Hannah. She sat on the other side in the coach, facing the direction of their travel while he sat opposite. Her gaze was directed at something beyond the window. They had barely looked at one another the entire morning, each of them stealing glances at one another and then quickly avert­ing their eyes should one be caught staring by the other. Their conversation had been stilted, so uncomfortable at one point that Henry thought Hannah might cry. So he had dropped the subject of her possible need for warmer gowns and a mantle in favor of silence.

  Well, it would have been silent in the coach had Harold MacDuff not been sprawled on the floor between them. The dog’s snoring was sometimes so loud Henry was sure he once saw Hannah grin before covering her mouth with a gloved hand. She was beautiful when she grinned like that, as if she harbored some secret to which only she was privy.

  Actually, she was beautiful with any expression on her face, Henry decided.

  Every time he thought to stretch out his long limbs, his boots ended up nudging the hairy beast so that it would lift its head suddenly and snuffle and snort in surprise. Earlier that morning, Henry had thought to simply leash the dog to the back of the coach, but realized very quickly the dog wouldn’t have been able to keep up with the coach-and-four as it made its way out the Great West Road for the seventy-five mile trek to Gisborn Hall. And then he wondered if the dog could sit up on the box with the driver, but one glance at the size of the box, and another at the size of Harold, and Henry real­ized there would be no room for the driver. Perhaps Harold could be relegated to the older carriage that would follow with the rest of Lady Hannah’s trunks and her maid the following day, but with the volume of stuff still being packed and loaded onto that conveyance, Henry wondered if there would even be room for Lily.

  He had spied the maid when she was hurrying about with an armful of gowns, sure he had seen her somewhere before. But his attention had been diverted and the chance to ask about her passed.

  In one of her few comments that morning, Hannah sug­gested the dog ride
inside the coach for the sole purpose of keeping her slippered feet warm. “A hot brick won’t be nec­essary, my lord,” she had assured him when he was about to order a servant to have one brought out from the kitchens. “Harold serves the purpose quite effectively.”

  Henry found he had to agree. Good God, the dog was huge, covering nearly the entire floor of the coach. Having realized his own feet would be far warmer if he sat with Han­nah and placed his feet next to hers under the back of the dog, he was about to ask if he could do so when he realized Hannah was turning in his direction. Not wanting to be caught staring, he quickly turned his head to look out the window.

  Hannah stole a glance in the direction of the earl, sure his gaze had been directed at her, and then, suddenly, it wasn’t. He was looking out the window to his right, she realized as she dared a longer look. His profile was quite striking, she thought, with its strong nose, square jaw and wide chin. His neatly trimmed almost-black hair included one forelock that seemed determined to curl above one eyebrow, and despite his having shaved that morning, there was already a hint of dark shadow along his jawline. A quick glance might have the viewer thinking him a rogue or even a highwayman.

  My husband, she thought for at least the tenth time that morning. So handsome, so tall, so … uncomfortable. Despite the roomy interior of the new coach in which they rode, Henry Forster seemed somehow scrunched into the squabs, his limbs too long for the leather seat and his torso too tall for the seat’s back. And then Hannah noticed how his knees had to bend so that his feet could take purchase on the floor next to Harold’s sprawled mass. “Oh, goodness, my lord. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting on this side?”

  The words were out of her mouth before she realized she had said them, and she wondered if she had made a mistake in suggesting he share the seat with her. Would he think her fast in suggesting such an arrangement? She had to suppress a giggle. I am his wife, not some chit fresh out of the schoolroom, she chided herself. She struggled to think of what to add when she saw his startled expression, as if he was surprised she had the ability to speak. “Then you could put your feet under Har­old. Keep them warm,” she added, resisting the urge to roll her eyes when the reasoning sounded lame to her own ears. Harold raised his head at the sound of his name but allowed it to plop back down onto his front paws when he realized he wasn’t being addressed directly.