The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “Marriage is about compromise, little brother.” Kenneth leaned back in his chair, his expression a hint of sardonic amusement. “Tell her you’ll ride a camel and sail with her to tropical islands if she wishes, but she must also agree to stay here for part of the year and share the kind of life you enjoy.”

  It sounded logical, but when it came to women, Stephen had discovered, the term all too often didn’t apply. Quietly, he said, “I really have nothing to offer her, Ken. No fortune and no title. As you pointed out, she could marry any time she wishes and she certainly would not have to settle for a junior solicitor who most definitely works for his modest living.”

  “Actually, what I pointed out was she could have married, but hasn’t. It seems significant to me. Perhaps she is just waiting for you to ask.”

  Was she? Stephen wasn’t sure, devil take it.

  Perhaps she was wanton.

  Sabrina had never thought of herself that way, but maybe it was true. In any case, all she had done since her return to London was dwell on the outrageous – and marvellous – way Stephen had touched her that fateful night after their mission to retrieve her father’s notes. She blushed when she recalled the less than ladylike eagerness with which she’d responded. She’d lain against his lean body, neither one of them wearing a stitch of clothing, and he’d ravished her mouth with long, passionate kisses, while his hands—

  “You are certainly distracted.”

  The prim sound of her aunt’s voice interrupted the delicious recollection. Startled out of her reverie, Sabrina glanced guiltily over to where Beatrice sat on a brocade settee in the drawing room, busy with her embroidery. “I was . . . well, thinking of something.”

  Oh, that was articulate.

  “I would guess so,” Aunt Beatrice replied. “You had quite the oddest look on your face. I take it this subject is a pleasant one?”

  Before Sabrina could mumble another nonsensical answer, a voice spoke from the doorway, “Madam, My Lady, you have a visitor.”

  The butler delivered the engraved card to Beatrice, who sat closer to the doorway. She peered at it – she needed spectacles but refused to admit it – and then nodded. “Please show His Lordship in, Seton, and see that a bottle of claret is brought up from the cellar, if you please.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Lord Bloomfield. Sabrina didn’t have to be told; she knew it. She’d been expecting some sort of communication from her father’s colleague once he discovered the notes were missing and nothing else had been taken. While he couldn’t come right out and accuse her of stealing what he claimed not to have in the first place, she didn’t think for a minute he’d not try to at least wheedle them back from her. He was due to present a paper to the Royal Society in a few months and he undoubtedly needed those notes. He wasn’t a scholar in his own right, and he never had been. Her father, on the other hand, had been a devoted scientist, and his scrupulous, detailed observations were like beautiful prose poems.

  Had Lord Bloomfield asked for permission to use her father’s research material instead of acting as if the papers were his own work, Sabrina probably would have loaned them to him. But the moment she’d read the published work that had brought Bloomfield such acclaim, she’d known it was her father’s composition.

  “Be polite.” Beatrice said it in a brisk tone. “I know neither of us care for His Lordship, but he was a friend of your father.”

  “Some friend,” Sabrina muttered, but she obligingly plastered a false smile on her face when Bloomfield strolled into the room.

  Instantly, a quiver of alarm went through her. The Viscount was a large man, going to fat in his middle age, with a shock of thick brown hair just beginning to show grey at the temples. He was dressed for the evening in tailored formal wear, their drawing room evidently not his final destination. His immaculate cravat was tied in an intricate, fashionable knot, and above it his florid face wore what could only be described as a triumphant smirk.

  “Good evening, ladies.” He bent over Beatrice’s hand, and then turned to Sabrina who reluctantly allowed him hers, though she longed to snatch it back immediately and give it a good wash.

  “So nice of you to stop by, My Lord.” Beatrice smiled graciously. “Please do sit down and have a glass of wine, won’t you?”

  “Perhaps one glass,” he answered, choosing a chair and lowering his not inconsiderable bulk into it. “I have a full evening of social engagements but I could not keep from stopping by to offer my congratulations to Lady Sabrina.”

  What did he have up his sleeve? Sabrina eyed him warily and said nothing. It was Beatrice who asked, “Congratulations?”

  “On her recent marriage, of course.” Bloomfield watched her reaction with a gloating expression. “I must have missed the announcement in The Times but I understand she and her husband recently stayed at an inn near my country estate in Sussex.”

  Damnation.

  The unladylike word seemed the appropriate reaction to the current situation. Lord Bloomfield might not be much of an archaeologist, but apparently he was a fair detective.

  “You must be mistaken,” Beatrice said with a small scowl. “Sabrina hasn’t married.”

  “Ah.” There was a wealth of innuendo in that small word. He dug in the pocket of his jacket, produced a slip of paper and theatrically squinted at it. “How odd. The innkeeper at the Lamb and Rooster swears a young woman answering Lady Sabrina’s description stayed there a week ago with a tall, dark-haired young man, who several times in the proprietor’s presence called her by the name Sabrina. The man claimed they were husband and wife, and I assumed it to be true, because, after all, they shared a room.”

  By now Aunt Beatrice had caught the not-so-subtle tension between them for she said in a frosty voice, “I am sure this innkeeper misheard.”

  “Perhaps, but he had an uncanny memory for he could describe the young woman perfectly. Golden curls, he said, and the most unusual midnight-blue eyes. She wore a dark-blue riding habit and rode a sorrel mare, and—”

  “I was in Cambridgeshire last week, My Lord,” Sabrina said as calmly as possible. “Visiting a friend.”

  “I see. And here I was delighted to think my old friend’s daughter had finally decided to quit the mannish pursuits of her travels and settle into married life as a woman should.” He put the piece of paper back into his pocket and shrugged, but there was nothing casual in the menacing look in his eyes. “If it wasn’t you, then I’m glad. Because if you aren’t wed, of course, and it was you, I’m afraid that would spell social ruin.”

  The arrival of Seton with a tray and a bottle of wine prevented any response to that overt threat. His Lordship took the opportunity to rise, decline refreshments after all, and take his leave.

  The moment they were alone again, Beatrice demanded, “What was that all about?”

  Though normally she drank sparingly, Sabrina reached over, filled a glass with claret, and took a bracing sip. She could lie, but then again, she wasn’t good at telling falsehoods and she adored her aunt. “As I have maintained all along, he had Papa’s research notes. I merely reclaimed my own property.”

  Beatrice digested this, her plump face registering a succession of emotions from indignation, to dismay, to resignation. “Let me guess who helped you do this. Tall? Dark-haired? That was Stephen, of course, for no matter how foolhardy it might be, that normally level-headed young man would fall in with your scheme. You could persuade him to have tea with the Devil if you wished to do so.”

  “Bloomfield had the notes,” she pointed out defensively. “It isn’t as if we stole anything. That odious man lied to us.”

  “That odious man,” Beatrice said in clipped tones, “is going to smear your good name. Oh, Sabrina, what have you done, child? Did you and Stephen really spend the night together at the inn?”

  A betraying blush heated her face. Despite her best effort to look bland, she could feel the crimson journey up her throat and into her cheeks. “The roads are dang
erous at night and we could hardly waltz into His Lordship’s home during the day, now could we?”

  Her aunt looked at her and shook her head. “You have escaped disaster in your wild travels more than once, my dear, but I am afraid it has finally struck.”

  Four

  It was late. Stephen shook himself out of a half-doze and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. Past midnight wasn’t an unfashionable hour precisely, but it was a strange time for someone to be knocking on his door. He snapped shut the book that had put him to sleep and rose to see who on earth was calling this time of night.

  To say he was surprised to see Sabrina standing there was an understatement. She’d never once visited him in his modest lodgings before, for the obvious reason that unmarried young ladies didn’t visit gentlemen. He always went to the fashionable townhouse in Mayfair where she resided with her aunt. Nonplussed, he just stood there staring at her.

  At least she’d had the sense to wear a concealing cloak. When he didn’t speak, she pushed the hood back. “The least you can do after I climbed out my window, bribed one of the footmen to hire a hack for me, and crept up your stairs like a character in a lurid novel, is invite me in.”

  That explained why she was without a chaperone, but not why she’d gone to such lengths. He had a feeling he didn’t want her discussing it in the hallway, so there wasn’t much choice but to step back and watch her brush past him in a swirl of velvet and a drift of light sweet perfume.

  Stephen finally found his voice. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I had to see you.”

  She unfastened her cloak and he automatically stepped forwards to take it from her. She wore a simple day gown in a light material and her hair was caught back only with a satin ribbon. She looked young, fresh, and so damned beautiful that when she gazed at him with those entrancing dark-blue eyes he found himself irrationally unconcerned about why she’d come after all.

  She was there.

  Still, however he might feel about her presence, it was a very reckless thing for her to do. London at night was not the safest place for an unaccompanied female. “You little fool, couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow? If you sent a note to my office, I would have paid a call at once if it was urgent, you know that.”

  “I know, but Aunt Beatrice would be there also. I wanted to talk to you alone. Besides, there is no possible way I could go to sleep.” Her smile was strained. “We have a bit of a crisis, I’m afraid.”

  “I see. In that case, shall we go into my study where there is still a fire and I can hear this with some brandy at hand?”

  “I drank two glasses of claret earlier,” Sabrina said with a moue of distaste, “and you know I loathe the stuff. You might need the brandy.”

  “In that case,” he muttered darkly, “by all means let us go into my study.”

  He led her down the hall and stirred the fire while she settled into one of the shabby chairs he kept meaning to replace but hadn’t gotten around to doing so yet because, truthfully, it was comfortable and he was the only one who used it. Sabrina looked more feminine and alluring than ever against the backdrop of his masculine furnishings and dark panelled walls. She settled her skirts around her in a dainty way as she glanced around at the cluttered bookcases and the papers piled on his desk. When she caught sight of the watercolour above the fireplace she’d painted years ago of the very river where they’d played as children, her eyes widened. It probably wasn’t a work of art in the eyes of most people – even she admitted her artistic bent did not lie with the brush – but he liked it and had kept it.

  “Now then,” he said to distract her attention from the painting and forestall her asking why he’d hung it in his study, “what is this ‘crisis’?”

  “Lord Bloomfield called on me this evening.”

  He wasn’t too surprised. The man was a charlatan in the way he presented himself to the scientific world, but he wasn’t a fool. All along they’d both known he would easily guess who had broken into his house because of what was missing. “Don’t tell me he had the nerve to accuse you of rifling his desk?” Stephen propped one arm on the mantel and raised his brows in enquiry.

  “No.” Sabrina glanced away. Her cheeks looked suspiciously pink. “He knows we spent the night together at the inn. He came by to ostensibly congratulate me on my marriage.”

  Stephen digested this, the ramifications immediately evident, his feelings in flux. Having to marry him because she was forced by looming scandal was different than wanting to be his wife. “He’s more resourceful than I gave him credit for,” he said finally, trying to gauge Sabrina’s expression. “I assumed he would know it was you, but hardly thought he’d bestir himself to play detective over how the deed was accomplished.”

  She lifted her slender shoulders, her eyes shadowed by long lashes and not quite meeting his. “He had a piece of paper with him that I assume is the innkeeper’s description of us. He pulled it out of his pocket like it was a holy relic. I’d guess the man signed it, for Lord Bloomfield acted as if it was irrefutable proof.”

  And while Sabrina had led an unconventional life up until now, what with all her travels, her reputation had been pristine.

  This was entirely his fault. The seduction at the inn, while not planned when she’d asked him to help her, was an opportunity seized.

  “So he is going to make this public knowledge, I take it.” His voice was remarkably calm.

  “That was the threat. He mentioned that if I stayed overnight at an inn with a man who wasn’t my husband, well, that would be unfortunate for my reputation.”

  Was this the opening he hoped would one day present itself? Stephen still wasn’t sure. Sabrina wasn’t obviously hinting she expected an offer. Instead, she looked at him as if she wanted him to miraculously come up with a solution for this problem.

  He had one, he just wasn’t sure she would like it.

  On the other hand, for him, it would be a dream come true.

  “He wants the notes back, obviously.”

  “No,” she instantly responded. “That is out of the question.”

  “Then perhaps it would be advisable for us to marry as soon as possible.” He did his best to look and sound neutral.

  Sabrina’s soft mouth parted. She visibly swallowed and her hands clenched in the material of her muslin skirts. “Stephen, I did not come here to coerce you into marrying me, I—”

  He interrupted smoothly, “It’s a legitimate offer. I’ll visit your aunt tomorrow . . . no, today.” A pointed glance at the clock emphasized the late hour. “After all, I did dishonour you, Sabrina, unless you’ve forgotten what we did that night.”

  I did dishonour you . . .

  Is that how he referred to those hours of tender pleasure? Sabrina wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh hysterically or pick up one of his books and throw it at him – preferably a heavy tome. He was propped casually against the mantel, his expression neutral, the midnight silk of his hair distractingly rumpled around his clean-cut features, his white shirt casually unbuttoned at the neck.

  He’d just proposed marriage in the most unsentimental way possible.

  “No,” she said succinctly.

  Something flickered in his eyes. “No,” he repeated. “I guess I am not surprised the idea doesn’t appeal to you, but let’s keep in mind it is possible you carry my child.”

  What she’d meant was no, she hadn’t forgotten all those wicked and wonderful things they’d done together, but she didn’t wish to force him to commit to a marriage he didn’t want just because of her reckless inclinations.

  “I’ve thought of that,” she admitted. What was curious about it was her reaction to the idea of being pregnant with Stephen’s child. It filled her with an unexpected joy that took her off guard. “We should know within the next week or two. If I’m not with child, then the point is moot.”

  “Is it?” he asked, looking at her with an enigmatic expression.

  “Yes . . . I mean, or no
. . . it isn’t that,” she muttered, not sure what question she was answering or even what she was saying.

  Her and Stephen . . . married? If she was honest with herself, she’d thought about that quite a lot. Before this most recent escapade, she’d always considered him her very best friend, the boy who’d been her childhood playmate. But now that perception had certainly changed. He was very much a man and, moreover, a very attractive man.

  He ran his hand through his hair. “A little clarification would be appreciated. If you don’t wish to marry me, I understand. I have little to recommend such a match. No fortune, no title, and we both know you could do better.”

  Is that what he thought? Men were such obtuse creatures. Sabrina stared at him and took a deep breath before replying. “Can I point out how little titles and money impress me? I need neither. Don’t be a complete idiot, Stephen. It’s just this is my fault, for I’m the one who wanted to break into Bloomfield Hall. You needn’t shoulder the problem to protect me.”

  A faint smile quirked his mouth. “As I recall, staying at the inn and what happened next was my idea. We always did manage to get into trouble together.”

  Sabrina shoved herself to her feet and paced across the room. “I came here to warn you there might be a scandal unless we do something to keep Lord Bloomfield from spreading rumours, not to reminisce over our past misbehaviour. Do you have any ideas?”

  “I believe I put one forth but it wasn’t met with enthusiasm.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You could trade His Lordship the notes for his silence.”

  “Never.” That was out of the question. Her father’s life’s work was not going to be claimed by a fraud.

  “I thought that’s what you’d say. Then marry me.”

  Sabrina looked at him in exasperation, but something in his expression suddenly held her arrested, locked in the moment. It reminded her of how he’d gazed at her before he kissed her that first time, how reverently his hands had drifted across her skin, the sensation of him over her, inside her, how deliciously pleasurable that night had been.