The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Bones came into the room, his graceful gait in marked contrast to that of Titus, who bounded up behind.

  Both dogs were elegantly turned out in ruffs about their necks, the purplish hue of their fashionable attire perfectly matching Claire’s gown.

  “Oh,” Sarah sighed, dropping to her knees to accept a lick from each dog—Titus’s decidedly sloppier than Bones’s more delicate touch. “I shall dissolve into a puddle of tears now.”

  “Oh, no, you will not,” Claire commanded, catching Sarah’s hand and pulling her upright. “Your mother may have reached some sort of epiphany in regard to you, but I highly doubt we can hope the same as concerns me.”

  She straightened Sarah’s gown and eyed it critically. “She’ll never forgive me if you walk down the aisle in a wrinkled dress. Turn,” she instructed, brushing here and there as Sarah obeyed.

  “Ladies,” Gregory’s voice called from the hallway.

  “Is it time?” Sarah’s heart pounded.

  “It is,” Claire confirmed. “Now, gather your dogs and let’s be off.”

  “Any news of Marlowe?”

  Carmichael clasped his hands behind his back and looked solemnly out over the small gathering. “Really, Marcus, on your wedding day?”

  “I feel responsible. If only I’d realized sooner—”

  The Corinthian leader sighed. “We managed to retrieve all eight emeralds, which means Napoleon has been stopped for now. I could not have asked any more from you. As for Marlowe, I can only assume that he had his reasons. As should you.

  “Now, are those dogs I see?” Carmichael asked, his tone indifferent as he hastily changed the subject. “In purple neck ruffs?”

  Marcus made to argue, then found he could not help but smile as Bones and Titus proceeded down the flower-strewn ground between the aisles of chairs, their noses held high as they caught the scent of Cook’s pheasant, which had been strategically placed just behind an arrangement of flowers near him. “Yes, amethyst, I believe that particular hue is called.”

  “Of course.”

  The dogs sped up as they sensed the nearness of their prize, Nigel retrieving the morsels and urging Titus and Bones into line next to him.

  Marcus smiled at the boy, warmed by the kindness and acceptance in Nigel’s responding grin. It had not been easy, the mending of their friendship.

  But for all the talking they’d done, Marcus couldn’t deny that what was truly drawing them closer was simply time spent in each other’s company.

  It did not seem to matter what they did, though fishing had quickly become a particular favorite. No, whether enduring Lady Tisdale’s rant concerning the length of sleeves that season or trying—and, most of the time, failing—to entice Percival into the barn for the night, the activity hardly signified. They were comfortable in each other’s company and grew closer by the day.

  Claire walked slowly down the aisle, a jubilant smile lighting her pretty face. She took her place opposite Carmichael.

  It was the talking and, more important, the listening that was bringing Nigel around, Marcus thought, his gaze moving from Claire and back to Nigel.

  In Nigel, Marcus saw a bit of himself. Marcus could help the boy in a way that no one else could, because of Sarah.

  And all of a sudden, as if he’d conjured her with his thoughts, she appeared.

  She was a vision in silk, her auburn hair piled atop her head, the creamy expanse of her delicate neck and shoulders rising above the scooped neckline of her gown.

  She’d made him see that he was so much more than what others allowed him to be.

  “I read your letter,” Carmichael whispered, pulling Marcus from his thoughts.

  “The one I asked you to read tomorrow, after I’d left for my wedding trip?”

  Carmichael cleared his throat. “Weston, you really should know by now that I’m an exceedingly efficient individual.”

  Marcus turned his head to meet Carmichael’s gaze, his smile wry. “And?”

  “You really mean to leave the Corinthians?” Carmichael asked, an uncharacteristic sadness in his tone.

  “I do,” Marcus replied confidently.

  “I see,” Carmichael began, turning his gaze back to the bride. “And what will you do?”

  Marcus looked down the aisle at Sarah as she walked toward him with her father, a sense of euphoria filling his chest. “The possibilities are endless.”

  “I’d have to agree,” Carmichael replied, and then fell silent.

  Sir Arthur stopped in front of Marcus. He bent to press a tender kiss on Sarah’s cheek and placed her hand in Marcus’s.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God …”

  “You’re beautiful,” Marcus whispered, his eyes remaining fixed on the vicar as the man read from the Book of Common Prayer.

  “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer on the dreadful day of judgment …”

  “Thank you. I have to say, I’ve always loved a man in a kilt.” Sarah glanced sideways through half-lowered lashes, a small wicked smile curving her lips.

  Marcus’s gaze snapped to her face.

  “If no impediment be alleged, then shall the Curate say unto the Man …”

  “Tell me, what does one wear under such a garment?” she murmured.

  “Wilt thou have this Woman to be thy wedded Wife …”

  “Nothing.”

  “I will,” Sarah blurted, the small crowd gathered for the most joyous of occasions politely covering their mirth.

  “I will,” Marcus answered, turning to Sarah and mouthing “I love you. With all of my heart.”

  “Wilt thou have this Man to be thy wedded Husband …”

  Sarah laughed and it caught on the mild breeze, the beautiful sound of it drifting over the wedding party and beyond, to the cove and the wide sea. “I will.

  “I love you, Marcus, with all that I am, and all that I will ever be,” she said loud enough for all to hear.

  Marcus pulled the ring from his pocket and recited the words that would bind him to his beloved forever:

  “With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow: in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  “Are we married?” Sarah whispered excitedly.

  “Not quite yet, child,” the vicar responded, clearing his throat.

  “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

  “Now?”

  The vicar winked at Sarah. “Very nearly.”

  “For as Marcus and Sarah have consented together in holy Wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth to each other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands, I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

  “You may kiss your groom,” he said to Sarah. “Finally.”

  Sarah turned to Marcus and threw her arms around his neck. “Do you recall what I asked of you on the cliffs?”

  “That I kiss you,” Marcus answered, his arms coming around to encircle her waist. “And never, ever stop?”

  “Precisely,” she replied, then leaned in, ready for her husband to make her the happiest wife in the world.

  Marcus kissed her with the promise of forever on his lips and she responded in kind.

  The low tones of a fiddle began, drawing Marcus and Sarah’s attention toward their family and friends.

  I’ll no more to the sea, my first love, for sure.

  She’s ruined for me by the one I love more,

  A woman of substance, so fine and so fair,

  Of uncommon beauty and long auburn hair.

  Have mercy, Miss Sarah, and take me to wed,

  I’ll give you my heart and a warm gentle bed,

  You’ll nay lack for nothin’, we’ll live a good life,

  Have mercy, Miss S
arah, and become my wife.

  Thomas stood in the very back row, accompanied by his young son, who played the fiddle, and his wife, who gently tapped a tambourine with the palm of her hand.

  Marcus took Sarah’s arm in his and escorted her down the aisle to the fine music, those in attendance standing.

  Oh, the sea she is mighty and the sea she is strong,

  But Miss Sarah’s the one to whom I belong.

  And I’ll not go a-sailin’ upon the great waves,

  With Miss Sarah I’ll stay for the rest of my days.

  Thomas gestured for everyone to join in, Marcus and Sarah singing with particular gusto.

  Miss Sarah had mercy and took him to wed.

  He gave her his heart and a warm gentle bed.

  They nay lacked for nothin’ and lived a good life.

  Miss Sarah took mercy and became his wife.

  Acknowledgments

  Randall, whose generous offer to pose for the cover of this book I continue to appreciate to this day. You’ll always be my favorite pinup.

  The Girls. I am proud and humbled to be your mama. And occasionally irritated, but let’s focus on the positives.

  Lois Faye Dyer. You read this book until your eyes crossed from the effort. And then read it again. Your enthusiasm means everything to me.

  Michael Dyer. You owe me a handmade Christmas present. Like, now.

  Julie Pottinger. In all honesty, you wrote a few of the best lines in this book—fueled by your caramel macchiato without vanilla, of course.

  Jennifer Schober. You know your schmidt, but always give me the room and support to learn it for myself.

  Junessa Viloria. Working with you is a dream come true. Exclamation points to eternity!

  Franzeca Drouin. I’m not sure which I appreciate more: your amazing research skills, or your baking abilities. Thank you for your friendship. And scones. Really, lovely scones.

  Read on for an exciting sneak peek at

  The Sinner Who Seduced Me

  Stefanie Sloane’s next Regency Rogues novel

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Available wherever books are sold

  Late Summer 1811

  PARIS, FRANCE

  “Crimson?” the male voice drawled in disbelief. “Vraiment?”

  Lady Clarissa Collins steadied her hand as she brushed the bright hue onto the canvas. She stepped back and narrowed her violet eyes critically over the voluptuous female model draped across the blue damask divan. The elegant sofa was placed several yards away from her easel and angled toward the outer studio wall. The late morning sun poured through the elegant windows that made up the southern wall of the space, bathing the nearly naked woman in warm golden light.

  Clarissa considered the canvas once again and used the tip of her little finger to barely smudge the fresh paint before nodding with satisfied decisiveness. “Now, Bernard, observe. Would you like to ask me again?”

  Bernard St. Michelle, preeminent portrait painter of Paris and indeed all of Europe, frowned, lowered his thick black eyebrows into a forbidding vee, and turned toward the model. “You may go.”

  The woman lazily reached for her dressing gown and rose, nodding to both before disappearing down the hall toward a dressing room.

  Bernard meticulously unrolled a white linen sleeve down one lean forearm and then the other. “Clarissa, how long have I been a painter?” he asked, his Gallic accent more pronounced.

  Clarissa dipped her brush into a jug of turpentine and vigorously swished the bristles back and forth. She knew the answer to Bernard’s question, of course. In fact, she knew the entire conversation that was about to take place, since they’d had it too many times to count.

  “Longer than I,” she answered, tapping the brush hard against the earthenware pitcher before dunking it a second time, resuming the swishing motions with more force.

  Bernard adjusted his cuffs just so. “And while you were learning to dance and capture the attention of unsuspecting young men in London, what was I doing?”

  Clarissa pulled the brush from the jar and rubbed the bristles with a paint-stained rag. Her grip was too tight, the pressure too fierce, and the slim wooden brush handle broke in two. “Destroying your tools?” she ventured, tossing the snapped end of the brush handle to the floor.

  Bernard sighed deeply, ignoring the broken wood as he walked to where Clarissa stood. “I was working in London too, chérie, honing my craft during the Peace of Amiens. Even when the war broke out, I painted night and day—”

  “Until returning to Paris—in the hull of a blockade runner, no less,” Clarissa interrupted. “I know, Bernard. And I will remember if I live to be two hundred and two.”

  “Then you know that when I question your work, you listen? I believe that I’ve earned such respect. Don’t you?”

  He was right, of course. Since returning to Paris, Bernard’s popularity with the ton had grown, his limited availability only making him more desirable. Sheer genius combined with the adoration of the elite was difficult to deny.

  Clarissa eyed the other brushes in the pitcher, the urge to break wood calling to her like a siren. “But I was right, Bernard. The touch of crimson to define the subject’s lip line is exactly what was needed.”

  “That is hardly the point, my dear—and you know it.” Bernard pushed the table with the pitcher of brushes and the clutter of stained rags, paints, and palette knives beyond Clarissa’s reach. “How can you expect to grow as an artist if you do not allow the world—and others with more experience—to inform your work?”

  His midnight black hair had escaped its queue and feathered about his temples like so many brushstrokes, piled one atop another.

  No matter how hard she tried, Clarissa could never stay angry at Bernard—especially when he was right. And since the day she’d met him, he’d been right about everything, unlike the long list of French painting masters who, despite her talent, had refused to take her as an apprentice because she was female.

  Five years earlier, when their world in England had come crashing down, Clarissa had agreed to flee with her mother to Paris. The prospect of studying with François Gérard or Jacques-Louis David had held all her hope for the future. When both artists scoffed at her request simply because she was a woman, Clarissa dismissed them as the idiots they clearly were and moved on, working her way down a list of suitable teachers in Paris.

  Despite her impressive portfolio of work, everyone she approached refused, until she was left with one: Bernard St. Michelle, the highly respected and, arguably, most talented painter on the European continent. She’d not placed St. Michelle higher on her list, having overheard that even male artists of her caliber could not secure a position with him.

  But when she’d found herself with nothing to lose, she’d had her finest painting delivered to him—signed, “C. Collins”—and St. Michelle had granted her a personal interview. Clarissa had procured suitable men’s clothing and made her way to his studio, intent on letting her art speak for itself rather than her sex doing all of the talking.

  He’d agreed to take her on and with a handshake, the deal was sealed. Clarissa had taken particular pleasure in ripping the beaver hat from her head and revealing her topknot of glossy black curls.

  Bernard had only sighed deeply and instructed her to arrive by eight in the morning—no earlier, no later—then told her to go.

  Though he was her senior by only a handful of years, Bernard had become a mentor and friend, father and confidant. As trustworthy as he was endlessly talented. And he’d taught her more about her art and her life in the last five years than she’d learned in the previous nineteen.

  The memory of just how much she owed this man had Clarissa sighing, her annoyance evaporating. She placed the flat of her palms on Bernard’s cheeks, cupping his face, and gently squeezed. “At least I did not throw the brush this time, oui?”

  He raised a thick black eyebrow in agreement. “Nor did you shout. Improvement, indeed, my dea
r. The fire in your heart is beginning to meld with the sense in your head. One day you will be the finest portrait painter the world has ever seen. Such self-possession will be of great value when working with the aristocracy.”

  “That, and my beaver hat,” Clarissa replied teasingly, playfully pinching Bernard’s face before turning to attend to the remaining brushes.

  The sound of the front door slamming below followed by the heavy tread of feet on the stairs caught Clarissa’s attention.

  “Jean-Marc?” she asked, referring to Bernard’s paramour.

  “No.” Bernard shook his head, waving her toward the dressing screen in the corner. “She weighs no more than a feather,” he whispered. “Go.”

  Clarissa complied, leaving the brushes to the turpentine and tiptoeing quickly toward the colorful screen. She’d made use of the hiding place many times before when delivery boys or Bernard’s friends had dropped in unexpectedly. A strategically placed peephole located in the upper corner of a painted butterfly’s wing allowed her to see all that was happening without revealing her presence.

  She’d barely whisked out of sight when three men entered the spacious studio.

  “Bonjour, Messieurs,” Bernard greeted them in his native French.

  “Bernard St. Michelle?” the tallest of the three men asked. He was perhaps Bernard’s age, with small, glistening, black ratlike eyes and a balding head.

  Bernard nodded. “Yes. And who might you be?”

  The ratlike man stepped closer to view Clarissa’s canvas, eyeing the painting with a lascivious gleam before turning back to Bernard. “I’m a man with a business proposition that I feel certain you will not refuse.”

  “If you’re in need of my services, I’m afraid you will leave here disappointed. I am committed to the Comte de Claudel until next year,” Bernard replied, his tone remaining even.

  The Rat licked his thin lips. “Are you certain?” he inquired, gripping the carved silver top of his walking cane. With a quick twist, he pulled out a slim épée, the lethal fencing sword sliding silently from its hiding place. “Because, as I mentioned before, I’m quite certain you’ll find this proposal impossible to refuse.” He raised the blade and brought it down with force on the canvas. The painting ripped in two, a jagged cut appearing down the center of Chloe’s reclining body. “And I am never wrong,” he said, the words remarkable for their total lack of emotion.