A Lord's Flaming Return: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Henrietta Harding

  She gazed at him imploringly. “Please, will you not tell me?”

  “I cannot,” he said in a strangled voice. “I simply cannot.” He paused. “I must not take up any more of your time.”

  She stood up, taking a deep breath, with her face creased in confusion. “So be it.”

  He was standing in front of her. All he needed to do was bow and take his leave. But suddenly, he found he could not do it. Not yet, at any rate.

  His breath caught in his throat. How beautiful she was. He had almost forgotten just how lovely. Slowly, without thinking, he raised a hand, trailing it down the side of her face. Her skin was just as soft as he remembered.

  She gasped, closing her eyes, almost swaying towards him.

  He came to his senses with a jolt, stepping back hastily.

  “Good day, Emmeline,” he said.

  He walked quickly out of the house, his heart thumping furiously. Mounting the horse, he sped out of the gates and away as if the very hounds of hell were upon his tail. He did not look back.

  Chapter 11

  Emmeline watched Benedict riding away from the drawing room window. He was tearing down the road out of Lambeth House as if on some urgent mission. Within moments he had turned a corner and was out of sight, dust from the horse’s hooves rising around him like a fine morning mist.

  She still could not believe he had even been here. Nor what he had just told her.

  She dropped the curtain abruptly, walking back to the centre of the room, where she sank onto a chair. She stared into the fireplace seeing nothing at all.

  It was the second time he claimed he had written her a letter before he left the district all those years ago. She wasn’t inclined to believe him the first time he had said it. But now, she was not so sure. He had been so ardent, so heartfelt; she had seen the sincerity in his face. A letter that had been misplaced, which explained why he had to leave her so suddenly.

  Tears welled in her eyes. He claimed he had been in India all that time and unable to write to her. But he would not explain why. She had seen the torment in his face when he mentioned it. Was it the truth? What extreme circumstances would not allow him to pen even one letter in all that time?

  She exhaled slowly. It seemed unlikely in the extreme. No, he must be lying to her, trying to cover up his appalling behaviour towards her. His conscience had been sparked by seeing her again – that was all. It was just an excuse so that he could walk away from her without feeling quite so bad about it all.

  She bit her lip in an agony of doubt. He seemed sincere – but she was not the trusting, innocent girl she had once been. She knew to be on her guard with him now.

  It didn’t help that all her old feelings for him had risen to the surface again. She closed her eyes, remembering the way he had softly stroked her face. The sensations it had evoked within her. The way it had brought back all those other times when he had touched her …

  She shivered as the memories flooded back. And suddenly, she was no longer in the drawing room at Lambeth House. Suddenly, she was the girl she had been all those years ago. The girl who unexpectedly met a handsome stranger at a ball …

  ***

  The spring of 1815 had been extremely wet. She recalled the flash flooding that had made some roads impassable in the district. She almost hadn’t made it to the Harringtons’ ball that evening; the carriage had to turn around and take the long way when a river burst its banks. She had stared out at the grey sky with rain pelting the carriage and contemplated telling the driver just to take her home.

  Perhaps it would have been better if she had made that decision.

  Eventually, she had made it, running into the house to escape the rain. There were fewer people in attendance than usual because of the weather, but she had promised Anne Harrington that she would come and was loath to break her word. She had always been very fond of Anne, and besides, she was bored. Olivia and her mother were in London for the season, and her father always busy. She felt like she was drifting around Lambeth House like a lost ghost.

  She had greeted Anne and her mother before quickly asking if she could use her friend’s chambers to freshen up. She had been caught in the rain and felt like a bedraggled rat. Her friend had led her there, where she had powdered her face and fixed her hair, before descending the staircase to join the festivities.

  She still vividly recalled walking down that staircase. A tall gentleman was at the bottom, talking with a lady. He turned slowly to watch her descent. A gentleman with skin as dark as a gypsy’s and eyes so brown they were almost black. His ink-black hair was longish, slicked back, and he had long sideburns. He was so dark that she could still see a shadow of hair beneath his jawline where he had recently shaved.

  Her heart jumped, lurching into a somersault. She was so overcome that she misstepped, almost tumbling down the stairs.

  She grasped the banister just as he swiftly ran up the stairs to aid her, taking her arm in a firm grip.

  “Are you quite alright, madam?” he asked, in a deep honeyed voice.

  She blushed fiercely. “How silly of me,” she replied breathlessly. “How hard is it to walk down a staircase?”

  He laughed. “Anyone can misstep from time to time,” he said, his mouth twisting into a smile. She noticed that his eyes crinkled slightly when he did. “Do not be too hard on yourself.”

  She laughed nervously, her eyes darting from side to side. It was most alarming being so close to this gentleman. She felt like she was turning from hot to cold, almost as if she were suffering a fever. She had never felt like this when she was next to a man before and wasn’t sure if she liked it. Nor whether it was decent.

  “Well, thank you for assisting me, sir,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I am quite able to walk now.” She turned away, moving down the staircase.

  “Wait,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “I do not even know your name.”

  “Miss Emmeline Vaughan,” she said, her heart thumping hard in her chest.

  He bowed slightly. “It is indeed a pleasure, Miss Vaughan.” He paused, gazing at her closely with those bewitching dark eyes. “I am Lord Benedict Montagu. I am staying with my uncle in the district for a short while.”

  She nodded quickly. “A pleasure, My Lord.” She gazed down the staircase, feeling as if her heart was about to explode in her chest. “If you will excuse me, my friend is waiting for me.”

  He nodded but looked disappointed. “Of course.”

  She ran down the staircase with a burning face, feeling his eyes upon her the whole time.

  ***

  That evening was a warm liquid memory, moving like water in her mind. Every time she looked up, he was there watching her. Eventually, he approached her once more, asking her to dance. And when she was about to depart, he asked if he might see her again.

  She had demurred, saying she was not receiving visitors at the moment. Her mother and sister were away, and her father always busy; there would be no one to chaperone a visit properly. She hoped that he understood.

  He had accepted her refusal graciously. When she had left the ball, she had been overcome with disappointment but knew she had done the right thing.

  But that had not been the end of it. It seemed that every social event she went to, he was there, seeking her out.

  They talked within groups, and sometimes they would wander through gardens talking alone. He told her about his uncle and the great respect he had for him; he was like the father he had lost. He talked fondly of his cousin Ralph, away on family business in India, and how he was always saving him from one scrape or another.

  In turn, she had told him about her family, her parents, and her sister Olivia, who she considered the most divine creature on earth. The conversation never seemed to lag. She felt like she could speak to him about anything and everything that was in her innermost heart.

  He had dared to kiss her for the first time beneath a burnished moon. Her very first kiss. She could still feel the shock of hi
s lips upon her own and the velvety smoothness of his skin. Confused, she had turned and fled, not understanding the wild feelings he evoked within her. Knowing that it was indecent.

  That night she had lain in bed dreaming of him when she heard a stone hitting her chamber window. Puzzled, she had got up, staring down. He was there, gazing up at her window beseechingly, like Romeo seeking Juliet on her balcony.

  She had known she should not do it. But at that moment, she had felt powerless beneath his adoration. She was simply overwhelmed with love and need. She had let him climb up and enter her room.

  He fell onto his knees before her, gazing at her imploringly. In a soft, fierce voice, he told her that he could not make her his wife just yet, as his circumstances did not allow it. But would she wait for him? For he loved her more than life itself.

  She had nodded mutely. And then, they had fallen onto the bed in an agony of need.

  They kissed, twining into each other. He stopped before it went any further, both breathless with desire. The pattern had been set. Every evening, for the next four weeks, he would come to her window, and she would let him in. Gently he explored her body but never compelled her to submit to him. Emmeline was quite certain she would still be a maiden on their wedding day.

  It took only one night to change that. One night of sweet madness, when their desire for each other overcame their common sense.

  She still shivered when she recalled it. The way he had turned her adoringly in his arms, shedding her clothes, until she was naked in his arms. His eyes were burning when he finally took her, and she cried out with wonder at the mad joy of it. The wild sensations that relentlessly built as he moved within her until they exploded like stars around her …

  Afterwards, he had been tender, stroking her. Feverishly telling her how much he loved her and how he could not wait until she was his wife. When he had eventually left her, climbing out her window, she had watched him depart in a dream-like haze, unable to fully believe what they had shared.

  The next day she departed for her aunt’s birthday in Chichester. When she returned, she waited every night for the stone upon her window, signalling his arrival. She would wait at her window, gazing down into the gardens, feeling like Rapunzel in the tower anticipating her prince. Eventually, she would drift to bed when it became obvious he wasn’t coming.

  And he never came again.

  The night they made love was the very last time that she saw him. And her heart had been broken ever since.

  ***

  Emmeline hastily wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. How bittersweet those memories were. The very best – and the very worst – moments of her life.

  And now he was back, imploring her to believe that he had never wanted to leave her. That everything he had told her had been the truth. That he had sincerely loved her. That his farewell letter had been misplaced and his circumstances since so untenable that he could not write a single line to explain anything to her.

  She knew he was a liar.

  Slowly, she stood up, drying the last of her tears. It was all too convenient – the missing letter and his claim of being unable to write to her later. The truth was probably far more mundane. He had not cared for her enough to write; not then and not since. He had got what he wanted from her. It was as simple as that.

  And she was a fool to even entertain the idea that it wasn’t.

  Emmeline slowly walked out of the room. He had salved his guilty conscience with his unlikely story. But she was no longer a fool. She had learnt the hard way.

  Chapter 12

  Emmeline could feel her sister’s eyes upon her as they walked into the Regent theatre. She turned, smiling reassuringly. Olivia was rather like a mother hen towards her these days, overseeing her chick. And while it was lovely that her sister was so protective, sometimes it felt as if she simply could not breathe.

  She gazed around the theatre’s foyer, which was crammed with ladies and gentlemen in their finest evening attire. Built in 1734, it was one of Farnstoke’s premier buildings, where most artistic events in the district occurred. There had been many ballets, plays, and operas performed within its walls over the years.

  This evening they were attending an opera performed by a touring company. Her father had been proud as punch when he had brandished the tickets, saying that the whole family was attending. Emmeline had not had the heart to say no. Besides, she had once enjoyed the opera enormously. Why shouldn’t she attend?

  Her parents had already disappeared, milling within the crowd. Emmeline knew it would be fifteen minutes at least until they were required to take their seats. The ladies and gentlemen were taking advantage of the opportunity to mingle and chat. The din was so deafening she could barely hear herself think.

  Suddenly she felt Olivia’s fingers digging into her right arm. “Oh, Lordy. Do not look now, Emmeline, but Lord Montagu is here.” Her voice was breathless. “And so is his cousin.”

  Emmeline stiffened, feeling almost irritated. It had been two weeks since she had attended an engagement. Two weeks since he had abruptly called upon her with his ludicrous story about the misplaced letter and India. Why, oh why, was she forced to endure his presence yet again?

  She couldn’t help herself. Her eyes slid over to where he stood. He was talking within a huddled group, which included his cousin, his uncle, and Lady Henrietta Wynn. The lady was dressed in resplendent fashion, wearing a stunning silk and lace blue gown that obviously cost a small fortune. She wore a matching plumed feather in her hair, dyed the same colour, attached to a band sparkling with diamantes. Her green eyes were flirtatious as she gazed upon Benedict, waving her fan.

  Emmeline’s heart lurched. Benedict didn’t look displeased at all by the lady’s obvious attention towards him. In fact, their heads were close together as they chatted.

  She turned away abruptly. He could chat with any lady he liked. It was none of her business at all.

  “Let us take our seats, Olivia,” she said slowly. “I have no inclination to mingle at the moment.”

  “As you wish, dearest,” said her sister, taking her arm.

  They moved through the crowd towards the doors that led them into the theatre. Emmeline didn’t turn her head around once, but she was sure he had spotted her. It was as if his gaze was boring a hole into her back.

  ***

  During the performance, she was conscious of him sitting three rows down from her, sandwiched between his cousin and Lady Henrietta. So, they were obviously close enough acquaintances that they had decided to purchase seats together. She tried not to let that fact bother her.

  During intermission, when the crowd mingled again in the foyer, she managed to avoid him entirely once more. She knew he was very well aware of her presence, but he did not seek her out at all, a fact which filled her with relief. It seemed that his visit to her had been just what she had thought it was: he had merely wished to appease his conscience by spinning a tall tale and had no desire to renew their acquaintance either.

  Good, she thought fiercely. That is just the way that I want it too.

  Still. She was unable to stop watching him as he moved around the room. Lady Henrietta was beside him the whole time. And there were many moments when they simply stopped circulating and chatted closely with each other, oblivious to all around them. Lady Henrietta’s face was animated as she gazed up at him, her green eyes glittering. It was as if they were the only two people in the room.

  Emmeline turned her face away. Why was she tormenting herself like this? He was single. So was Lady Henrietta. They could flirt with each other as much as they liked.