The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  But, as always, the spell broke. He lifted his head and Emma crashed back to earth. She was kissing him while his family sat a few rooms away, thinking she was laying a trap for him with her mother’s help. She had only ever spoken politely and properly with the Captain, and had no idea what his real intentions towards her were. And she hadn’t kissed a man since Sir Arthur died four years ago. For all she knew, those years had made her awkward and susceptible, too easily swayed by the most magnificent kiss she’d ever experienced.

  She backed up a step, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He said nothing, just looked at her with a slightly dazed expression. “Please make my excuses.”

  “Don’t go,” he said, as she pulled open the door. Emma just shook her head and fled.

  Phin let her go. He wasn’t sure he could walk. His body had reacted with joyous alacrity when she opened her lips under his, and now he was so aroused, it hurt. He also wasn’t sure what to do. Perhaps his thoughts would clear when he could think of something other than the feel of her in his arms. That moment seemed a long time off.

  He’d thought things were going rather well at dinner. Lady Bowen – Emma – appeared to enjoy herself, joining in the conversation and laughing when Sarah teased him about something. Phin had to work at keeping his eyes away from her. She was beauty itself in a dark-green gown that shimmered in the light, her dark hair piled in loose curls that made his fingers itch to unpin them. And when she excused herself from the table, Sarah had immediately turned to him.

  “Oh, Phin, she likes you,” his sister hissed in delight. “Are you planning to propose?”

  “Sarah,” murmured Gregory.

  Sarah waved him off. “Are you, Phin? She seems very sweet and not at all proud.”

  Phin had thought exactly the same thing, and been opening his mouth to say “yes” when his mother raised her hand in protest, and condemned Mrs Hayton. “You don’t want to get taken in,” she added gently.

  But Phin had seen a shadow at the door. “Bite your tongue, Mama,” he had growled, and then run after Emma.

  He hadn’t planned to kiss her. He had planned to be proper and polite all night. But the moment intervened, and left him more certain than ever that he wanted Emma as his wife.

  “Sir?” Godfrey tapped at the door. Phin started out of his thoughts. “Do you need anything?”

  Just her, he thought bleakly. “No.”

  “Shall I bring the port to the table?”

  Phin adjusted his trousers and sighed. “Yes.” Bring the damn port so he could bundle his guests out the door, and he could puzzle out what to do next about the luscious Emma Bowen.

  Seven

  Emma rushed out of the Captain’s house and ran up her own front steps. She banged on her door until Jane answered, and then rushed up the stairs to her room. She ignored her maid running up the stairs behind her, squawking in concern. Emma threw open her bedroom door and slammed it behind her, turning the key in the lock with shaking hands.

  “Madam! Lady Bowen!” Jane thumped on the door, her voice sharp with fear. “Are ye ill? Should I send for a doctor?”

  “No!” She pressed her hands to her face; the blush was still hot on her skin. “I’m fine, Jane. Never mind. You can go on to bed.”

  Jane knocked again. “You’ll need help with your gown.”

  “Not now I don’t! Leave me be,” Emma said sharply. There was a surprised hush, then Jane left, her footsteps almost drowning out the sound of her muttered indignation.

  Emma paused and slowly raised her hand. She laid her palm against the wall, her heavenly blue wall. The plaster was cool and solid beneath her hand. His house would be the opposite of hers, the plans mirror images. If he had taken the best bedroom for his own, as she had done, it would lie directly on the other side of this wall. She took a deep, shaky breath, thinking of him undressing just feet away, separated only by a foot of plaster and brick.

  And he wanted her.

  She thought of his voice, smooth and strong, sliding over her like a caress. She thought of his hand, so large and strong, taking hers. She thought of his lips, brushing sensuously over hers.

  He wanted her.

  She touched the neckline of her gown; her fingers drifted along the puckered fabric. Gently she touched the swell of her breast and shivered. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her breast. Sir Arthur had thought it unseemly, even in the marriage bed. She didn’t think the Captain would hesitate to touch every inch of her, in bed. The heat in his gaze, when his hand had accidentally brushed her breast, was impossible to forget – and then he had deliberately done it again, watching her as he did so. Emma knew her body had betrayed her, even if her face had not, and that he was aware of her reaction. He wouldn’t have kissed her if he hadn’t been sure. She stroked her breast again, imagining it was his hand that touched her, and a sharp tingle raced through her.

  She wanted him.

  The blue walls around her might have been the reflection of his eyes, surrounding her, watching her. Alone in her room, she admitted to herself that she had been half in love with the Captain for some time now – the Captain, with his easy laugh and deep voice and the way he could describe a hurricane and make it sound as exciting and as sensual as it was dangerous and frightening. She had known anxiety and fear, but never with any exhilaration, and never with such high stakes as the Captain had experienced, with his very life caught between the storm’s tempest and his own skill as a mariner. Emma didn’t want to experience a hurricane on a ship in the middle of an ocean, but maybe, just once, she should risk a tempest of some sort. She had been quiet and sensible her whole life, trying so hard not to be like her brash, calculating mother. She had married a quiet, sensible man, and they had lived a quiet, sensible life together. There had been no excitement, only a calm contentment, with Sir Arthur. Emma didn’t once think it would be that way with Captain Quentin – with Phineas.

  She went to her window, overlooking the garden where they had talked so frequently, and sat for a long time, thinking. When the clock chimed midnight, she pushed open the casement. It squeaked as it swung open, and she braced her hands on the frame, then leaned out to take a deep breath. She could smell the roses from her garden, and the jasmine from his. It was a sweet, wild scent, hinting of exotic lands and adventures. The jasmine had been there when he bought the house, but Emma thought it suited him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling something a bit wild and sweet stir within her.

  Then she gave a huff of laughter. After the way she had run out on him, Captain Quentin probably thought her mad, or else repulsed by his declaration. “Blast,” Emma said, shaking her head. “What a fool I am.”

  “Lady Bowen?”

  Emma started violently, banging her elbow on the window frame as she leaped backwards. Her heart nearly stopped. “Captain!” she exclaimed. “I . . . Forgive my language . . . I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t realize you were there . . .” Her voice petered out, which perhaps should have happened sooner. Silently, Emma grimaced and bounced her fist off her forehead. Now he would think her mad and a slattern.

  “I have heard far worse language, and I beg your forgiveness,” came his sombre reply. “I should have spoken as soon as I heard your window open.” He paused. “I confess, I was hoping to talk to you.”

  Something about the way his voice dropped as he made that confession sent a shudder through her. He had been hoping to talk to her. Perhaps this way was best, when she couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see her. Emma wet her lips. “I am sorry for the way I left this evening.”

  “I am sorry you were driven to it,” he answered instantly. “Please accept my deepest, humblest apology for what happened—”

  “No,” she said softly. “I liked it.” There was a long moment of silence. The night breeze stirred the jasmine, and Emma filled her lungs with sweet wildness. “I was . . . startled.”

  “I know,” he murmured. “I should not have . . .
”

  “Should I have been startled?” she asked when he stopped. “I have looked forward to our every conversation, and wished you were in your garden even more often. I have dreamed of the things you describe to me, and I can hear your voice in those dreams. I have kept those things to myself, not wishing to ruin our friendship, never dreaming you meant more. Have I been blind?”

  “No. You have been everything a lady should be.”

  “But now I wish to discover what a woman should be,” she whispered.

  For a moment all was silent. “I am going into my garden,” he said. “And unlocking the gate in the wall.”

  Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She had forgotten about that gate; it was small and narrow, and she had planted roses in front of it last year, never thinking she would use it. The thorns would probably rip her dress to shreds . . . but changing would mean waiting for Jane to come help her. Besides . . . She smoothed her trembling hands over her skirt. It was only a dress, sensible and modest. Without stopping to think about anything else, she crossed the room, unlocked her door and hurried down the stairs.

  Eight

  Straining his ears, Phin heard the faint sound of her door opening. Good God, she was going to meet him. Without pausing even to put his coat back on, he rushed out of his room and bounded down the stairs. Godfrey met him in the hall, looking alert.

  “Something wrong, Captain?”

  “No, nothing,” said Phin as he pushed past him. “I’m going to get some air.”

  “At midnight, sir?” said Godfrey in surprise.

  “Yes. You can go to bed.” Phin paused, thinking. “In fact, go now. Take a glass of port. Take the bottle. And whatever you do, don’t set foot in the garden.” Leaving his astonished man, he strode through the house to the rear door, unlatched it and stepped out into the night.

  He knew Emma spent hours in her garden, weeding and pruning and even talking to her plants. Phin would sit quietly and listen, picturing her at work, her arms stretched overhead . . . or on her knees . . . or bending over to pick the flowers . . . Phin had peered over the wall a few times, and seen the bower she cultivated. His garden was nothing compared to hers. There had been a linden tree and some climbing vine growing there when he moved in and, since Phin had no talent with plants, that was all that grew there now. As he pulled aside the overgrown vines to get to the tiny connecting door, he realized the vine was flowering, with masses of small white flowers that gave off a faint sweet scent. When he dragged the door open, a shower of flowers rained down on him. He was still brushing them from his shoulders and hair when she appeared in the doorway.

  For a moment she just stood there, watching him. Phin could only stare back. She still wore her evening dress, the dark-green fabric black in the night. Moonlight gilded her shoulders and hair with a silvery light. “Emma,” he whispered.

  She stepped forwards, into the shadows, through the door. “Good evening.”

  Great God. She was here, in the moonlit garden, with him, just as he had fantasized about. Now what should he do? Probably not seize her and carry her inside to his bed, which was where his fantasies usually led. “Thank you,” he said lamely. “For coming out.”

  Her smile began in her eyes, then her lips curved and a faint dimple appeared in her cheek. “Is that all you wished to tell me?”

  “To tell you?” he repeated. “No, there is a great deal more I want to tell you . . . But first . . .” He stepped closer. Her head fell back as she looked up at him, and a lock of her hair slipped free and fell across her shoulder. Phin reached out and wound it around his finger. Her eyes half closed and her lips parted on a soundless sigh of want. He shuddered, sliding his hand around the back of her neck, digging his fingers into her glorious curls, and lowering his head to hers.

  The kiss began gently. His lips brushed hers, and Emma shivered. He must have thought she was cold, for his arms went around her, enveloping her in the warm, male scent of him. Through the thin linen of his shirtsleeves she could feel his muscles flex and bunch as he pulled her closer, and Emma moaned softly. She slid her hands up the front of his waistcoat, anchoring herself to him as his mouth slanted over hers, more demanding, coaxing, seductive. This was a tempest she could lose herself in, most willingly . . .

  “Captain,” she whispered as his kisses drifted over her temple.

  “Call me Phin.” His breath stirred her hair, and she shivered again.

  “Phin.” He smiled when she said his name, a masculine, hungry smile. His hands slid down her back, curving her spine until her body pressed against his. Emma tried not to gasp aloud as her breasts flattened against him. Against her belly she could feel his erection, growing harder by the minute, and this time she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  “Phin,” she said again, trying to keep hold of her fraying thoughts. “I should tell you . . . What your mother said . . .”

  “I don’t want to talk about my mother or your mother.” He was kissing the side of her neck now. Emma tilted her head, shamelessly begging for more.

  “But my mother is ambitious, even grasping. She . . . oh my . . . She coerced you into having a dinner party . . .”

  “Emma,” he said, his voice low and ragged, “if she’d suggested I host a circus in my parlour for you, I would have done it. If she said I could call on you only if my connections were good enough, I would have lined up every relation and friend I have, just to ensure I could see you.”

  “But you can see me any time,” she protested.

  “That’s not what I want, with a wall between us.” He kissed her brow, smoothing her hair back. “I want to see you like this.”

  “Phin.” She slid her hands around his neck, making him look at her. “You didn’t need to appease my mother to see me.”

  He paused. “No?”

  Emma blushed. “I didn’t spend so much time in my garden before you arrived.”

  He blinked, smiled and then threw back his head and laughed. “And I’ve been plotting a careful campaign to seduce you.”

  “You have been, all this time,” she said. “With just the sound of your voice.”

  “Really.” Interest sparked in his face. “Just my voice?”

  “Yes,” Emma admitted. “And your tales of adventure and danger in foreign lands. I would imagine I was there with you.”

  Phin laughed. “Well! That is good to know. For I have a tale of adventure to tell you, my darling Emma, and, while there will be no danger or foreign lands, I plan to seduce you most thoroughly, and with more than my voice.”

  She smiled up at him as he gathered her into his arms once more. “I’ve been waiting months for that adventure.”

  “It will be like none other,” he promised. He kissed her again, bearing her back into the jasmine, and a shower of tiny blossoms covered them both.

  The Catch of the Season

  Shirley Kennedy

  In the drawing room of her family’s spacious London townhouse, Miss Julia Winslow waited while her mother, Lady Harleigh, read the note Julia had just received from Lord Melton. When Lady Harleigh finished, her face lit. She gasped with delight. “I cannot believe this! Do you think he’s going to propose?”

  “It is possible,” Julia replied cautiously.

  Squeals of excitement issued from Julia’s aunt and cousins who had all gathered for tea. “Lord Melton is the catch of the season,” declared Aunt Elizabeth, who appeared to be in the same state of elation as her sister.

  “An earl!” cried giddy cousin Lydia. “You will be a countess! It’s almost too good to be true. Read it to us.”

  Julia took the note from her mother and read aloud, “‘Dear Miss Winslow, if it’s convenient, I would like to call upon you this afternoon at 4 p.m. on a matter of some importance. Melton.’” She regarded the assembled ladies. “So what do you think?”

  “What else except a marriage proposal could be a matter of ‘some importance’?” Julia’s mother dropped int
o a rosewood armchair and began to fan herself with her inlaid ivory fan. “Oh, this is all too much. Lord Melton himself. I may need my smelling salts.”

  “Calm yourself, Mama,” answered Julia. “Perhaps he simply wants to ask me to the theatre or to see the Elgin Marbles or some such thing.”

  “No,” Lady Harleigh firmly replied, “he’s going to propose, I feel it in my bones. What fantastic luck! Lord Melton is not only perfect in every way, he’s going to be our new neighbour. Did you know that, Julia?”

  “So he told me,” Julia said. Her mother was referring to Lord Melton’s recent purchase of Hatfield Manor, the vast country estate next to her family’s own Bretton Court, not far from London.

  “Imagine,” Lady Harleigh continued., “we shall be connected to one of the most prestigious families in all England! True aristocrats, the lot of them.”

  “Except for his ne’er-do-well younger brother,” contributed Aunt Elizabeth. “He’s quite the rake, from what I understand, what with his drinking and gambling. But that was a while ago. Now, apparently, they keep him under wraps.”

  Lady Harleigh ignored her sister’s comment and grew starry-eyed. “I can see it all now – the conjoining of two great estates. Hatfield Manor and Bretton Court will become as one, eventually to be inherited, of course, by Julia and Lord Melton’s eldest son, and then—”

  “Mama, please! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Despite her mother’s overly vivid imagination, Julia rejoiced to see her smiling again. Only a year ago, Julia’s beloved brother, Douglas, had been killed at the Battle of Waterloo, plunging her mother into a period of near-inconsolable grief for the loss of her only son. Lady Harleigh had seemed to age overnight, her once pretty face grown thin and gaunt. But now what a difference! The prospect of a brilliant marriage for her youngest daughter had put roses in her cheeks again and revived her bubbling enthusiasm.

  From the gilt-wood settee where she’d been sitting quietly, Julia’s tiny, sharp-eyed grandmother spoke up. “What’s all the fuss about? Who is this Lord Melton?”