The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Words failed her. “Why, I . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it.” His shrewd eyes regarded her curiously. “Just tell me why you’re going to marry Charles, will you? He’s not too bright, you know, and thoroughly self-absorbed. I doubt he could actually love you since he’s too much in love with himself.”

  For a long moment, she stared at him in astonishment, her mind not able to comprehend his outrageous words. When they finally sank in, she realized he was only trying to bait her and burst into laughter. “I take it you’re not overly fond of your brother.”

  “He’s my brother and I love him,” Robert replied. “I wouldn’t want to marry him, though.” He rolled his eyes upwards. “My God, what a bore.” He settled himself on the stone slab beside her, stretching his long legs in front of him. “When’s the wedding?”

  He’d had her completely baffled, but now her confidence returned. She turned to face him, tipped her head and examined him curiously. “Are you jealous of your brother? I do believe you are.”

  “Jealous?” He grew serious. “There was a time when actually I was. How could I not be? First sons get it all. Second sons?” His chuckle held a dry, cynical sound. “In my earlier days, I spent some time in London, leading a dissolute life feeling sorry for myself. After a rather unfortunate incident, I finally realized nobody owed me anything. It was up to me to make something of myself. That’s when I took hold of my life and I’ve not been sorry since. So let old Charles keep his vast estates, his hunting lodge in Scotland, his fine coach and six matched greys, I’m doing what I want to do and wouldn’t trade places for the world.”

  “Just what do you do?” she asked.

  He shrugged dismissively. “I’ve been talking too much. What do you do?”

  “What do I do? Only what every well-brought-up young lady does. I embroider. Study French. Play the pianoforte. And also I—”

  “Draw,” he said, eyeing the sketch pad she’d laid beside her. “May I see?”

  “If you like.” She handed him the sketch pad. “It’s not finished yet.”

  The sun had just set, leaving just enough light for him to examine her nearly finished sketch. He examined it carefully, holding it up to catch the last of the light. “This is good,” he said simply, “very good.”

  There was something about the way he spoke . . . It was as if he wasn’t mouthing the usual empty platitudes but instead had judged her work as an expert who knew what he was talking about. “Why, thank you,” she replied. Ordinarily she didn’t care to discuss her artwork. Too many times she’d heard it referred to as her “little hobby”, but now, for some inexplicable reason, she found herself wanting to confide in this veritable stranger. “I come here often to sketch, and often render an oil painting from the sketch. I find these ruins so beautiful I can’t stay away and could paint them forever.”

  “Yes, they’re beautiful, and haunting, too.” With heartfelt intensity Robert added, “Henry the Eighth was a despot of major proportions. Between him and his pal, Thomas Cromwell, they managed to destroy virtually every monastery in England. How monstrous. How incredibly greedy. How . . .” He caught himself and smiled. “But I shall save my outrage for another day. I would like to see your paintings.”

  “Why do I have the feeling either you’re an artist yourself, or at least you know what you’re talking about when it comes to painting?”

  “How very perceptive,” he said admiringly. “I would like to think I’m a good judge of art. I’m an architect.” With a wry smile, he continued, “That means I’m the family disgrace, of course. We all know a true gentleman does not work for a living. When my father learned I actually get paid for doing what I do, he was horrified. I truly believe he would have preferred I continue my dissolute ways in London where I could behave like a true aristocrat – gamble my money away and drink myself into oblivion.”

  She asked, “Do you like doing what you do?”

  “Recently I’ve had some success in London, designing in the neo-classical style, namely Palladian. Occasionally, when I get my fill of fluted Greek columns and fanciful curves, I turn to the old monastery ruins. My interest started just by chance when I was summoned by a gentleman whose estate included the site of a monastic ruin. He wanted it restored, so I happily obliged.” He paused and gazed around, taking in the ruins of Swindon Abbey. “It’s my fondest wish to restore these ruins, too.”

  “But that would be wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I often sit here and imagine what Swindon Abbey must have been like three hundred years ago before the King ordered it destroyed.”

  “It was like a small city here.” Robert nodded towards the jagged walls of the church. “The nave with its flying buttresses could be easily restored. Did you know there’s a beautifully tiled floor beneath all that rubbish? I could almost sell my soul to uncover it. Then there’s the kitchen, brew house, bakehouse and kiln house. A lot of agricultural buildings, too, and of course the fields they tilled and the small gardens the monks kept for their vegetables, as well as—” The sudden bleating of a goat interrupted. They both laughed at the small herd of goats nearby. “Things haven’t changed much in three hundred years. The local farmers still graze their animals here.”

  She had been so immersed in their conversation she hadn’t noticed the sun had long since disappeared. Suddenly she realized it was almost dark and declared, “Uh-oh! I must be getting home or they’ll start to worry.”

  “We can’t have that.” Robert rose to his feet and extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting my sister-in-law-to-be.”

  She took his hand. Her pulse quickened when she felt its roughness against her own smooth palm. So different from the soft, pudgy hands of those London dandies who would not be caught dead doing an honest day’s work. He helped her to her feet. They stood face to face, Julia growing increasingly aware that Robert Carstairs was a dangerously attractive man with a commanding presence which positively exuded masculinity. She gulped. Her mouth felt dry. She had a near overwhelming urge to flee before she made a fool of herself. “I was pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, making an effort to sound as prim and disinterested as possible. What was the matter with her? Why hadn’t she told him she had not yet said yes to his brother? Could it be she was afraid to?

  They remained facing each other, so close she could almost feel the heat from his body. “Remember, I would like to see your paintings,” he said.

  “Of course, Mr Carstairs. You must come to dinner—”

  His hearty laugh interrupted her. “I’m the ne’er-do-well younger son, remember? Not received in polite society. I don’t care to impose myself on your family. Bring your paintings here. I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

  The very thought of seeing him again caused her heart to flip-flop. But no! What utter folly when she was about to become betrothed to his brother. “I . . . think not.” She knew she would sound like a prude, but she had to say it. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  He laughed again, lightly clasped her shoulders, and bent towards her. “Proper or not, you will be here, same time tomorrow.”

  His nearness made her acutely aware of her breathing. She had to get away, if for no other reason than to gulp some air. “I most certainly will not, sir. Goodnight.” She spun on her heel and left him standing.

  “My brother’s a lucky man,” he called after her.

  She stopped, turned, and opened her mouth to tell Robert Carstairs he was mistaken, she had not said yes and therefore was not yet betrothed to his brother. But the words stuck in her throat. She was definitely going to marry Lord Melton, so why allow this much too aggressive man to think otherwise?

  Without speaking, she turned back and continued on, telling herself how foolish she would have been had she agreed to see Robert Carstairs again. Thank goodness she had sense enough to see that any further contact with him would lead to nothing but trouble.

  That evening, Julia’s two older sisters and their husbands came to dine. In the past m
onths, these dinners had been sombre affairs, the family still mourning the loss of the son and heir. But tonight the table rocked with jokes and laughter. Julia knew why. Her mother was happy again, indeed, downright giddy with joy that her youngest daughter would soon make the perfect marriage. All evening she was bursting with elaborate wedding plans, her infectious good spirits spreading to all of them, especially Julia’s father. Viscount Harleigh had also been devastated by the loss of his son, yet over the past months his main concern had been for his grieving wife. Now, as he sat at the head of the table, his kindly eyes brightened whenever he looked at her. He loved her dearly, as she did him. His delight in her newfound happiness was plain to see.

  Throughout the evening, Julia stayed unusually quiet. Ordinarily she would have been actively engaged in catching up on family gossip with her sisters. Not tonight. Try as she might, she could not get Melton’s younger brother off her mind. She kept thinking about those dark eyes that seemed so shrewdly assessing . . . the graceful way he dismounted from his horse . . . the feel of his hand when he pulled her to her feet . . . Wait! What on earth was the matter with her? More than once she commanded herself to stop thinking about him, but her advice never worked. Instead, she started to wonder why he couldn’t come to dinner as she’d asked him to. Before she knew it, during a lull in the conversation, she declared, “I met Lord Melton’s younger brother today.”

  From the foot of the table, her mother enquired, “Isn’t he the one who isn’t received?”

  “Indeed!” Betsy, Julia’s oldest sister, who always knew all the gossip, nodded emphatically. “The Not-So-Honourable Robert Carstairs is the disgrace of the family, or he was, anyway.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Lady Harleigh. “What shall we do after Julia and Lord Melton are married? Must we receive him?”

  “Most certainly not,” her husband replied from the head of the table. “I heard he was involved in a cheating scandal at one of the London clubs. Boodles, I believe.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Absolutely disgraceful. Unforgivable.”

  A cheater? “Are you sure, Papa?” Julia asked with rising dismay.

  “As it turned out, it was all a mistake,” declared Betsy, sure of her facts as always. “Mr Carstairs was proven innocent of all the charges against him. Nevertheless, his reputation was ruined anyway, and he was never seen at any of the gentlemen’s clubs or any social events again.” She closed her eyes and thought a moment. “Ah yes, now I remember. He receives an adequate income from his grandmother’s estate, but from what I heard, he went into some sort of trade and is now actually working for a living. Can you imagine?”

  Lady Harleigh looked relieved. “Then I won’t feel obligated to issue him any invitations.”

  Julia breathed an inward sigh of relief. Thank goodness Robert Carstairs had seen fit to decline her dinner invitation. His appearance would have caused a flurry of consternation if he hadn’t. Even so, her mother’s firm words caused a clutch of dismay at her heart. Why that should be, she didn’t know. She had much more important matters to attend to than Lord Melton’s unpopular younger brother.

  Contrary to her resolve of the night before, by the next day Julia found herself going about in what could best be called a daze. She could not stop thinking about Robert Carstairs to the point she could think of nothing else. During the morning she told herself she absolutely was not going to meet him at the ruins as he requested. By noon she was considering the possibility she might see him just one more time. What harm would it do? Then she would never see him again.

  By mid-afternoon, not only had her resolve completely crumbled, she was trying to decide which of her paintings she should take to Swindon Abbey. Frames were out of the question, but many of her paintings had never seen the light of day and were rolled up and put away. She chose five of what she considered her best and rolled them together, after which she bathed and called upon a rather perplexed Yvette to help with her gown and hair.

  “You are dressing for dinner rather early this evening,” commented Yvette, helping her into a simple gown of light-green calico.

  “I suppose I am.” Julia hated having to sound so vague, but with a houseful of sharp-eyed relatives, plus servants who always knew everything, carrying out any sort of deception was never easy.

  But she managed. During a quiet moment in the late afternoon, carrying her roll of paintings, she slipped from the house. What would one more meeting hurt? She would see Robert Carstairs one more time and that was positively all.

  When she reached the ruins, she discovered Robert sitting on the same stone slab where they’d sat before, his long legs stretched comfortably before him. He rose to greet her, not seeming at all surprised she had come. “Ah, you brought the paintings.” He took the roll of paintings from her hand. “Let’s have a look.”

  One by one, he laid them on the flat part of the slab and examined each carefully. “Beautiful,” he said of her special favourite which featured swirling clouds over the ancient stone monks’ quarters. “The depth makes me feel as if I’m there.” Another painting featured the still-intact south-west tower of the church, its dark stones etched against a brilliant sunset. After he scrutinized it carefully, he remarked, “Excellent! What harmonious colours! Your remarkable talent oozes from every brush stroke.”

  By the time he finished, she was positively glowing from his praise. “You’re very kind,” she said.

  “You’re a gifted artist. I’m surprised no one has recognized your work.”

  She smiled dryly. “I shall only be recognized for my ‘work’ when I manage to find a husband.”

  “Ah yes, we mustn’t forget old Charles.” He shrugged with disinterest. “But let’s not think of him right now.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  After he re-rolled the last of her paintings, they sat on the slab and continued to chat. She did her best to fully engage in whatever inconsequential topic they were discussing, but she found herself so aware of his presence she soon realized there were, in essence, two conversations going on. One had to do with the obvious – their spoken words; the other, so much more subtle, had to do with the intense waves of attraction that coursed back and forth between them. She could tell from the admiration gleaming in his eyes he found her desirable. In turn, his very nearness so made her senses spin it was all she could do to nod politely and respond in a normal voice.

  At last, in the midst of his description of some ancient abbey, he stopped abruptly. Drawing in a sharp breath, he clasped her upper arms and declared, “Enough of this farce. You know I’m deucedly attracted to you, don’t you? So much so I—” He bent forwards as if to kiss her.

  Finally. She pursed her lips, eagerly awaiting the crush of his mouth upon hers, but instead he abruptly dropped his hands and pulled away. Muttering a “Damn it,” he stood and walked a few steps from the slab. For a long moment he remained with his back to her, staring at the pink and gold streaked remnants of the sunset. Finally he turned to face her. “We can’t do this,” he said, his voice thick with intensity. A touch of irony in his words, he continued, “You must forgive me, Miss Winslow. I fear your charm and beauty are so compelling I was carried away and momentarily forgot you belong to Charles.”

  “I do not belong to Charles or anyone else,” she sharply declared, keenly disappointed he hadn’t kissed her.

  “Are you not betrothed to my brother?”

  “I haven’t said yes yet.”

  He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You haven’t?”

  “I told him I would like to think about it.”

  He thought a moment. “But surely you will.”

  “Whether I will or whether I won’t is none of your concern, Mr Carstairs. Suffice to say that at this moment I am most definitely not betrothed to Lord Melton or anyone else.” She pointed to where he had been sitting. “Now will you please come back and finish what you started?” She was astonished at herself. Never in all her twenty-two years had she spoken so boldly to a man, b
ut she so badly wanted him to kiss her that at that moment she didn’t care.

  Her answer seemed to satisfy him, for he swiftly returned to her side, seized her in his arms and crushed his lips to hers. She kissed him eagerly in return, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer still. She found the touch of his lips such a delicious sensation that when they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, she immediately wanted more. Their lips met again. They continued on in a series of slow, shivery kisses that put her in such a world of dreamy intimacy she forgot time, place and every admonition her mother ever gave her.

  Her heart lurched with excitement when he leaned her back on the slab and she felt his hand slide up her side. As it slid ever higher, a delicious current of wanting ran through her. His hand had just cupped her breast when—

  “Bleaaah!”

  Startled, they abruptly pulled apart and looked to see where the sound had come from.

  “It’s one of the goats,” said Robert. They both broke into laughter at the sight of the bearded animal only a few feet away, at that moment engaged in munching on a shrub.

  Sanity returned to her befuddled brain. She sat up and smoothed her hair. “What were we thinking of?” she asked, fully aware she would surely have continued had the goat not intruded.

  He inhaled deeply. “You’re right. What were we thinking of?”

  She saw that darkness had fallen. “I must be getting home. My family will be wondering where I am.”

  “Of course.”

  Thoughts of her family quickly returned her the rest of the way to stark, cold reality. What if the goat hadn’t come along? Would she and Robert have stopped? What if she had actually made all-the-way love with Robert Carstairs? Good grief, was she about to? The man had got her so hot with desire, so aching for his touch she doubted she could have mustered the strength to say no. In fact, she’d been so carried away she suspected the word no would not have even crossed her mind.

  “We had best not see each other again,” she said.