Brighton Road

by Susan Carroll

  He tore off with it, expecting Gwenda to chase him. As her dog rapidly disappeared into the fog, Gwenda began to fear that perhaps throwing the stick had not been such a good idea. She was in no mood to play hide-and-seek.

  "Bert!" she called. But the fog muffled her voice and she heard no answering bark. The thick salt spray of the sea seemed to hang in the air, chilling her. Gwenda wrapped her arms about herself, wishing she had remembered to wear a shawl. She walked on a little farther until she heard a noise. It was as though pebbles on the beach had been dislodged.

  "Bertie?" She squinted, peering along the hazy shoreline. She thought she could just discern the outline of someone approaching. Too big to be a dog. Gwenda tensed, her lips parting in apprehension. It had to be a man.

  Out of the mists he came, the sea breeze ruffling his midnight-dark hair, a black cape flowing off his broad shoulders.

  Gwenda froze in her tracks, wondering if she was dreaming. She pinched her arm until she knew a great bruise had to be forming and yet the stalwart figure approached until he stood within an arm's reach of her.

  Ravenel. Gwenda could not even manage his name. The only thing that prevented her from sinking to her knees was her noticing that he looked as gruffly shy and embarrassed as she.

  "My dearest—" He broke off, ruefully raking his hand back through his hair. "Damn it! I spent all afternoon trying to memorize that passage, and I still cannot remember how it goes."

  "Passage?" Gwenda asked weakly, her mind struggling to grasp the fact that he truly was here and wearing a cape, a black cape with three tiers and a scarlet lining.

  "The passage from your book. You see, Jack wasn't able to give me enough details about how the dream was supposed to proceed."

  Gwenda wrenched her eyes from her wondering inspection of Ravenel's new cape. She did not even need to ask what dream. Jack might well be her favorite brother, but she was going to kill him.

  Gwenda backed away from Ravenel, her throat constricting with misery. "Oh, no. You needn't try to be kind just …because Jack told you .. . and now you feel s-sorry for me. That entire ridiculous scene at Donaldson's—"

  "Forget what happened at Donaldson's," Ravenel said, taking a step closer. "You need to tell me what Roderigo usually says when he comes out of the mist"

  "He—he never says anything. He just—" Gwenda's voice faded and she was unable to continue.

  "He does something. Something like this?" Gwenda's heart pounded as Ravenel slipped his arms about her waist.

  "Yes," she whispered. Her gaze came slowly up to meet his, the intensity in his dark eyes taking her breath away. He gathered her closer, molding her against the hard plane of his chest.

  As Ravenel's mouth moved to claim her lips, a familiar bark sounded out of the fog. Gwenda groaned softly as she heard her dog come bounding along the beach. As Ravenel drew back, hesitating, Bertie bounded forward, the driftwood in his mouth. For the first time in his life, Spotted Bert had decided to come back with the stick.

  Why now, Bertie? Gwenda could have groaned.

  At the sight of Ravenel, the dog dropped the wood and gave a joyful bark. Ravenel cursed under his breath as Bertie launched himself at them, leaving a trail of wet sand along Ravenel's cape.

  Ravenel released Gwenda as he struggled to restrain the exuberant dog. "Not now, Bertie. Sit, you accursed hound!" he said through gritted teeth.

  "Throw the stick and he'll chase it," Gwenda advised.

  Ravenel snatched up the driftwood and flung it away with all his strength. Bertie gave another excited bark and pelted after it, spraying pebbles as he disappeared back into the haze.

  But the romantic moment was entirely spoiled. Gwenda shivered, rubbing her arms.

  "Damnation, Gwenda," Ravenel scolded. "What are you doing out here without a shawl? Do you want to catch your death?"

  He swept the magnificent cape off his own broad shoulders and began to wrap it around her.

  Gwenda tried to resist. She forced a tremulous smile, saying, "No, Ravenel. You really must not go about thinking it is your duty to look after every woman who falls in love with you."

  "My duty be damned!" He swept her up in the cape and caught her hard against him, his lips crashing down upon hers in a fiery kiss that left her mind reeling, her knees feeling weak.

  He drew back long enough to breath in a fierce whisper, "1 love you, you little fool. Will you be my wife?"

  It was the most wonderful proposal that Gwenda had ever heard. But she tried to retain enough good sense to protest. "You couldn't possibly mean that."

  He silenced her with another kiss, his lips sending such a rush of heat through her veins that she had no more need of the cloak.

  It was several long, blissful moments before he would permit her to speak again.

  "Oh, Ravenel," she said, burying her face in the lee of his shoulder. "Are you certain? After all the terrible things I've done to you. The first day you ever met me, you lost your most prized horses—"

  "That was the most fortunate day of my life." He pressed a number of kisses against her curls, the top of her brow. "I wish Dalton much joy of the wretched beasts."

  Gwenda clearly saw there was no reasoning with a man whose mind was as far gone as that. She ceased to try, merely turning her face up so that Ravenel's lips could continue his feverish explorations. She waited breathlessly as he prepared to kiss her again, but he suddenly became solemn.

  His mouth quirked into a sad half-smile. "I cannot entirely deceive you, Gwenda. I fear I will always be something of a sobersides, tempted to make speeches and lecture you."

  "Just as I will always be a little shatter-brained." She sighed. "And there is my family—"

  "No. Your family is completely charming. I was a pompous ass to ever say otherwise."

  "You won't find Thorne charming," Gwenda warned him, resting her forehead beneath Ravenel's chin. "Or the rest of Papa's cousins who have just gotten out of debtor's prison or the uncle who likes to keep his sheep in—"

  But Ravenel laughed and embraced her again, bringing an end to this daunting list. Locked in each other's arms, they gave over trying to convince each other why they should not be married. He cupped her chin between his fingers and fiercely demanded her answer.

  "So, will you marry me, or do you intend to condemn Jarvis and me to a lifetime of utter propriety?"

  "Oh, no, I would never do that. I mean, yes, Ravenel, I will marry you."

  The completely unrestrained smile of joy that he gave her caused Gwenda's heart to ache with loving him.

  "My darling," he said, crushing her tightly against him, then added after a brief pause, "Under the circumstances, could you not begin to call me Desmond?"

  "I could never call you that under any circumstances," Gwenda said firmly. Then she sighed. "Roderigo."

  "Oh, no!" Ravenel shuddered. "Absolutely not."

  "My love," Gwenda amended.

  Since Lord Ravenel had no objection whatsoever to this manner of address, the pact was sealed with a kiss.

  The moon rose slowly in the night sky, its gentle white light parting the mists to shine softly upon three figures silhouetted by the sea…the lady Gwenda strolling by the side of her dark-haired lover. And, of course, her dog.

  About the author:

  Author Susan Carroll began her career in 1986, writing historical romance and regencies, two of which were honored by Romance Writers of America with the RITA award. She has written twenty six novels to date. Her St. Leger series received much acclaim. The Bride Finder was honored with a RITA for Best Paranormal Romance in 1999. Ms. Carroll launched a new series with the publication of The Dark Queenl set during the turbulent days of the French Renaissance. Ms. Carroll was born in Latrobe, Pa. She spent much of her childhood in South Jersey where she graduated from Oakcrest High School in Mays Landing. She attended college at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, where she earned a B.A. in English with a minor in history. She currently resides in Illinois.

  Dis
cover other titles by Susan Carroll

  Masquerade

  Rendezvous

  Escapade

  The Painted Veil

  Winterbourne

  Coming soon, The Sugar Rose---another award winning Regency by Susan Carroll. Continue reading for a sample chapter.

  Chapter One

  "Aurelia Sinclair loves Lord Justin Spencer."

  Aurelia's green eyes widened in mortification when she realized she had absentmindedly scrawled those words onto the flyleaf in her latest volume of Byron's poetry. Bad enough to indulge in such romantic nonsense when she was only fifteen, but at the sensible age of three and twenty, she ought to know better.

  Justin, she reminded herself sternly, had not ridden to Sinclair Manor this morning to propose marriage as a result of any passionate devotion. No, he came only to do what had been long expected of him by both the Sinclair and Spencer families. If Aurelia looked for any warmer emotion from him other than friendship, then she was a fool.

  "Giddings will be showing Lord Spencer upstairs at any moment now." The reedy voice of her elderly companion, Mrs. Elfreda Perkins, startled Aurelia from her unhappy thoughts. "Are you ready, my dear?"

  Thrusting the book deep inside her workbasket, Aurelia straightened, raising one hand to the back of her head. Not so much as a strand of silken auburn hair escaped the crown of tightly woven braids. She tugged at the high-standing frills of her lace collar and shook out the folds of her saffron morning dress, wishing she had worn her comfortable, plain gray serge gown. The gossamer yards of clinging yellow furbelows did little to enhance her figure. But then, Aurelia thought with a grimace as she placed her hands upon her plump waistline, the fabric had yet to be woven that could accomplish that feat.

  "I suppose I am as ready as I ever shall be." Her heart did a nervous flutter.

  "Good. Then I shall whisk myself out of here." Effie said, tittering. She raised her brows in a look that was meant to be arch, but gave her more the appearance of a surprised owl. "I should be infinitely de trop when Lord Spencer drops to one knee and asks a certain question."

  Effie stood on tiptoe to give Aurelia a swift kiss before skipping out of the sunlit music room. Aurelia winced. She thought it bad enough that Justin's mama had dropped "just a hint" to Aurelia herself to expect his lordship's proposal directly after breakfast, but it seemed that everyone from Effie down to the lowliest cook-maid was also privy to the secret that his lordship was finally coming to the point.

  The sound of footsteps on the marble landing outside the door alerted Aurelia to the nearness of Justin's approach. Quickly she sat down upon the high-backed red velvet sofa, dragging her embroidery frame from her workbasket in an attempt to appear as if nothing occupied her mind except for the altar cloth she stitched to donate to the church.

  If you had an ounce of pride, Amelia Sinclair, she thought, you would refuse him. A man that comes to you at his mother's bidding!

  But all such notions fled when the door swung open and she saw Justin's tall frame silhouetted in the entry. He grinned at her; his brown hair bleached light by the sun made a pleasing contrast to his bronzed skin.

  "Good morning, Amelia."

  Before she could reply, Giddings pressed forward into the room, an affronted expression crossing his stately features. He announced in his frostiest accents, "Lord Spencer, miss."

  Her pulses racing, Aurelia half rose, extending her hand.

  "And," Giddings continued in tones of strong disapproval, "Mr. Everard Ramsey."

  Aurelia sank back, as dismayed as Giddings by the sight of the immaculately tailored, dark-haired gentleman who followed Justin into the room. How often had Justin regaled her with tales of Everard Ramsey, whose meticulousness in matters of dress was only matched by his recklessness at the gaming tables. But why was Justin's friend so perverse as to call upon her this morning of all mornings, when Justin meant to propose?

  Justin, however, did not appear in the least discomposed by Ramsey's untimely arrival. As he turned to greet his friend with every evidence of pleasure upon his handsome countenance, Aurelia struggled to suppress her own sense of bitter disappointment.

  "I tried to keep the fellow out," Giddings said in an overly loud whisper. "But when he came tooling into the yard, he saw Lord Spencer's horse and knew that you were receiving."

  "Thank you, Giddings," Aurelia said quickly, fearful that Ramsey would overhear. "Would you please see to refreshment for my guests?"

  "Certainly, miss." The old man made a dignified exit, muttering how a nice glass of arsenic would do for some persons who had not the wit to realize their timing was most inopportune.

  Aurelia directed a weak smile at the two men. "I fear Giddings grows more eccentric with age "

  Completely disconcerted by this unexpected turn of events, she shook hands with Justin before turning to murmur a greeting to Mr. Ramsey. She had taken a marked dislike to the man, although she had met him only the night before at supper. The London dandy had inspected her across the table through his quizzing glass, studying her until Aurelia had been provoked into saying sweetly, "Pray, Mr. Ramsey, are you feeling quite the thing? My own dear papa was always wont to stare in just such a glazed fashion when he was about to suffer an attack of the gout."

  The man hadn't even had the grace to blush, but her remark had had the effect of making him turn his gaze elsewhere, although she had the uncomfortable feeling that he followed every word of her conversation with Justin, her dinner partner. After such an encounter, she would have thought that calling upon her would be the last notion to occur to Mr. Ramsey.

  Ramsey executed a brief bow, his hooded blue eyes containing a hint of mockery. His perfectly formed jawline, his high cheekbones, his dark, arched brows gave the man an expression of carefully schooled arrogance. "I see my visit has taken you quite by surprise, Miss Sinclair." He produced a folded fan from the pocket of his silk waistcoat. "You left this at my aunt's last evening, and she insisted I see it returned to you."

  "What! The orderly, efficient Miss Sinclair forgetting her belongings." Justin chuckled. "That is most unlike the Reely I know."

  Aurelia smiled at his teasing, but she felt her cheeks turn pink. Would she ever be able to persuade Justin to stop calling her by that dreadful childhood nickname?

  "Thank you, Mr. Ramsey," she said, her hand clamping around the ivory handle. "But you need not have put yourself to such trouble, returning the fan immediately. Especially when I am sure you must have so many more important matters to attend to this morning."

  "Here in the wilds of Norfolk, Miss Sinclair?" One of Ramsey's dark eyebrows shot upward. "No, I assure you I have no pressing business whatsover. In fact, my entire day is at your disposal."

  He strode further into the room, stripping off his yellow kid gloves, giving every impression of intending to make a very long stay. His blue eyes glinted with what Aurelia would have called pure mischief if it had been anyone else but the sophisticated Mr. Ramsey.

  Justin pressed a small parcel into her hands. "A trifling gift," he said, "but it is something I know you like above all things."

  When Aurelia undid the string and the tissue wrapping fell away, she discovered a box of chocolates. Sweetmeats were ever a weakness with her, but her stomach was so knotted with apprehension and frustration, she had difficulty regarding Justin's gift with any sort of enthusiasm. Did Justin truly believe that was what she valued most in the world, sweetmeats? It was obvious the insufferable Mr. Ramsey thought so from the way his cynical eyes shifted from the box to her waistline. In sheer defiance, she popped one of the sweet confections into her mouth before proffering the treat to the gentlemen, both of whom declined.

  Ramsey held up his hand, feigning a shudder. "No, thank you, Miss Sinclair. So early in the day! Incidentally, I do hope you do not find our calling thus soon after breakfast inconvenient?"

  Hardly that, Aurelia felt like snapping. She had only been waiting five years for Justin to declare himself, ever since
her father's death had left her orphaned. It seemed that, thanks to Mr. Ramsey, she must perforce wait a little longer.

  "Inconvenient? Not at all, Mr. Ramsey," she forced herself to reply. She focused her attention upon Justin; affording him her most gracious smile. "It is prodigiously good to see you at any time, Justin. Pray, be seated."

  "I told you, did I not, Ev," Justin said, "that Reely would not be like one of your London belles, still languishing in bed at this hour of the day."

  "One of my London belles?" Everard said so softly, Aurelia nearly did not catch the remark.

  Justin glared at him, before favoring Aurelia with another of his heart-stopping smiles. He seated himself astride the reading chair, leaning his arms with careless grace upon the back of the book rest.

  Was it truly so absurd, Amelia thought wistfully, to hope that Justin did not view the prospect of marrying her with complete repugnance, that once wed, his childhood friendship with her might develop into emotions a trifle wanner? Was there any chance at all?

  But her contemplation of Justin was seriously disturbed by Mr. Ramsey, who had chosen not to seat himself. What must the man do but pace about, examining the appointments of the room through his quizzing glass. As he regarded the faded Tree-of-Life wallpaper, the worn carpet, Aurelia almost wished she had elected to receive the gentlemen in one of the coldly elegant drawing rooms decorated by her mother. But of all the parlors in the rambling manor house, this was the one she had always considered peculiarly her own, where she felt the most secure. The massive fireplace mantel was not a showpiece designed by Adams, Gibbons, or anyone of note, but was constructed of good, plain oak, as were much of the room's furnishings. Best of all, the room had no mirrors to reflect back to her the imperfections of her less than willowy form.