Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 3)

by Vanessa Riley

  His kisses deepened. They became more demanding, but he hadn't taken her shoulder or lifted her fully into his arms. He wanted her to choose.

  "One delicious word, that's what I want. What is your desire?"

  On tiptoes, she leaned up to keep his retreating lips. The feel of his heated breath falling upon her cheek brought more words than yes. It returned I miss you. I need you. l love you. Words she'd locked away in the pit of her soul.

  Cold air met her shivering form. Her skin pimpled as he moved away. His passion for her ended with him retying his robe. "Stubborn, like the Pharaoh. Aye, Amora?"

  She blinked a dozen times only to witness her husband heading to the stairs. "Barrington?"

  He stopped and half-turned, straightening his lapel. "I think I'll wait for the woman who confronted me in my study tonight. The one who knows, without a doubt, what she wants."

  "She may not exist. It's hard not to have doubts when it comes to us."

  "Never doubt that I want you. Don't guess at my heart. I'd rather spend another frustrated night at Mayfair, than having you regret loving me, hating the miracle and consequences of being in my arms." He leaned against the wall and released a deep moan. "Five o'clock tomorrow. We'll go talk to Sarah Growlins. As a matter of fact, be out of the house. Go to Cheapside with Mrs. Tomàs for upholstery or your orphanage with the housekeeper. At five, we'll meet here. If Mr. Growlins hasn't answered, we'll go to a play and not one of Miss Miller's."

  She almost chuckled. Barr had finally seen her duplicity. "The vicar's taking us on a family outing to a park."

  His lips thinned again. "Fine, play family with him. Just be away from Miller. Give the Norton's the appearance of normalcy, whatever that is."

  As his footsteps thudded farther away, she slipped into her room, shut the door and let her pulse slow to a crawl. Alone. All alone, she flopped into her bed, wrinkling the empty sheets. With her skin humming, smelling of Barrington, it wouldn't be nightmares awaiting her tonight.

  That scared her heart more than anything.

  Chapter Three: Secret Pregnancy, Maybe

  Barrington pounded into his office at the Lincoln's Inn and slammed into his chair. He couldn't concentrate in the Old Bailey. He knocked over briefs and narrowly won an easy trial. How could his mind work properly? The last twenty-four hours changed everything. His dead best friend was alive and possibly a murderer or worse the Dark Walk Abductor.

  And Amora was pregnant. She carried Barrington's child in her womb and still wanted to separate.

  He scratched his forehead as he counted the months since the last time they made love. Goodness. Three, almost four months ago before all the madness. She's with child! His child!

  His heart flipped with pure joy then dropped down to the recesses of his gut. She only wanted to stay past their separation deadline because of Miller, nothing else.

  If she was pregnant, why wasn't she aware? Something living on the inside, gaining life, growing… Wouldn't a woman notice? Maybe he was leaping to the conclusions he wanted to be true. What were the facts?

  He tapped his quill, took a cut of foolscap and started to pen his brief.

  The nausea. Just like before, Amora spent most of the days dizzy, vomiting. Check.

  The sensitivity to smells. Just like before, strong smells like coffee or flowers made her feel wretched. Check.

  The changes to her body. The feel of her in his arms last night, hadn't there been more to cup, more than her normal curves? But she hadn't gained as much weight as she had last time.

  Well, of course she hadn't. He wasn't feeding her sweet ice from Gunter's to settle her stomach.

  He held his paper up. If he were Justice Burns, he'd put on his dark cap to pronounce judgment. Amora Norton was guilty of carrying his child. She should be sentenced to a lifetime of loving him. Pity, the woman wanted an appeal.

  Even with kisses that would test the resolve of a monk, she hadn't refused to separate. Yet, how strong would her resistance last given the fire arching betwixt them?

  And if she gave in, what would make things different this time? The strain on her wasn't any less. If denying needing Barrington gave her strength, how could he wish her to surrender?

  He groaned aloud. Taking the jewel case from his pocket, he smoothed the velvet nape within his palm. He thought of giving her his modified present at breakfast, one he'd worked on through the night, sort of a reward for saving him, but she and the Pharaoh had been caught up in discussions of their big outing with the vicar.

  The convenient vicar. What did they truly know of him?

  If Beakes wasn't so busy trying to prove Barrington guilty, he'd have him investigating Wilson.

  Yet, Amora smiled and even laughed this morning. She hadn't been this at ease in Mayfair since there return from Clanville.

  He even got in a quick kiss when she came to his office before he left for court. How could he disrupt the Pharaoh's apple cart by giving Amora his present, another bauble as she'd put it, that might remind her of all his mistakes.

  With a shove, he stuffed the jewel into his coat pocket. This token wouldn't keep her smiles.

  Avoiding the temptation of banging his head against the waxed writing surface, he slouched deeper into his chair.

  Amora was so strong last night. Her quick thinking saved him, keeping him out of Newgate. She didn't crumble seeing Miller. The woman wanted to be at his side to find Sarah. How long would she remain confident and sound in her reasoning?

  Harboring these secrets may have kept her womb shuttered, making it so difficult to be with child. Last year, the strain of the memories caused her to miscarry. What about this time?

  His head smacked against the desk, taking most of his vigor. God, what do I do now to save Amora?

  Oh, was there a way to undo this promise of taking Amora to Sarah Growlins tonight? With Amora in a delicate condition, she had to be more vulnerable. Sarah's father hadn't written back his permission for a visit. Perhaps Mr. Growlins's delay was an unexpected blessing.

  From the records, Miss Growlins was not only an abduction victim. From all accounts taken from that lone stretch of trees, the Dark Walk in Vaux Hall, Growlins was a victim of the great fiend. If this woman is his Amora's Sarah, then only one question remained. Was Miller the fiend?

  If her Sarah was in a bad state, that would hurt Amora. This hunt would take a toll. The strain had to be twice, no three times the strain as bad as keeping these horrible secrets. Their child would have no chance.

  Having not heard from God, well, not hearing the answers he wanted, Barrington had let his worship grow cold. Perhaps this was the kick he needed to make it burn more brightly. He yanked his Bible from the bottom of the pile of case law books on his desk. Running his fingers through the leaves, he happened upon King David fasting and praying for his first child with Bathsheba.

  King David wept and cried aloud for mercy. But, none of the coercions forced the Lord's hand. Their child still died.

  Barrington's heart shuddered. "Lord, I'm a humble beggar with no promises to make. Nothing to persuade You, Lord. But I will still ask. I will still beg. Give us the chance to see our child breathe."

  Barrington let his shoulder's droop. All the tired, sleepy air releasing from his lungs, vibrated his lips. He'd sat up with his new house guest all night, giving James much needed rest. Poor Miller was a shell. His body quaked throughout the night.

  Barrington had seen the quivers before in a pick-pocket from the Rookery and a high-borne thief in Grosvenor. Miller might be like them, addicted to opium, Dover pills as they were known.

  Though quiet and dazed when Barrington first took him, Miller's fits grew worse with each passing hour. How had he continued to get the drugs unless the doctors at Bedlam fed them to him?

  Too many questions.

  Barrington sat up and pushed at his brow, hoping to drive out the headache settling into his skull.

  The knock upon his door made him flinch.

  "Sir, th
ere is a woman here." One of the inn's clerks, with the wits to know not to barge inside, rapped the door again. "Sir, she insists Mrs. Norton sent her to you."

  Did Amora find her Sarah? Was the woman out searching for her friend on her own or with the ever helpful vicar? He wiped his mouth of jealousy and arose. "Just a moment."

  He leaned over and clenched the chiseled curves of the desk. Amora was determined to put herself in danger. Why must she temp fate? Leaping out of a carriage the night she'd miscarried, standing on a cliff in the midst of a storm. Why did she court these dangers?

  Did she think about the consequences to the baby?

  Or worse. What if she didn't want his babe?

  A cold sweat damped his lip. He tugged on his waistcoat and moved forward, refusing to surrender to despair. Their love, however imbalanced, would make it somehow and so would this child. He stuffed a prayer for her deep inside his gut and opened the door.

  The clerk stepped backward and exposed Cynthia Miller.

  Barrington winced again as the liar entered. "Oh, it's you, Miss Miller."

  The clerk craned his neck, glaring at them until the door closed.

  Chrysanthemum fragrance filled his office as Cynthia untied her cape and let it slip to a chair. "Is that what it takes to see the busy barrister, offering Amora's name?"

  Dressed in clinging brown, maybe red, she pranced about his drab office.

  Displaying her womanly curves and a wide smile, she spun close to his bookcase poking at the spines. "Mr. Norton, I'm desperate. My brother is missing. You must help me find him."

  He leaned against the door framing and pulled his sore arms across his chest. "This missing brother is the one you allowed the world to believe is dead, five years dead."

  She blinked at him, her lips pouting. "You know him to be alive. You've seen him, haven't you?"

  "I admit to nothing. I just want to know why you would hide someone you believe to be your brother away from friends and family?"

  She moved near. Gloveless, her forward hands gripped the lapel of his tailcoat. Her naked fingers appeared so light against his coal colored coat. "Do you know where he is?"

  "Perhaps I'll tell you in five years." Swatting free, he held the door open. "Good day, Miss Miller."

  She shoved it closed and laid against it. "I should've told you. I just didn't know how."

  He moved back to his desk, his blood churning with her deceit. His world of seeing almost no color collapsed upon her, painting her black with guilty. "You've bent my ear over music, your premieres. Goodness knows how many errands I've done because you had no brother to help. Yet, you couldn't tell me something so fundamental."

  With a shrug, she opened her mouth, then closed it quickly. At least a minute passed before her lyrical voice sounded. "I… I thought I could manage things."

  "Does that include drugging said man and keeping him locked away in a private area of Bedlam?"

  "Drugging?" Her cheeks darkened. "I'd never harm him."

  "Well, maybe the person helping you fund the care of this mystery man has fed him opium or the like to keep him in a stupor. Why?"

  She sank to the floor in a puddle, heaving. "I'd never hurt Gerald, never. You must believe me."

  Tears drizzled down Cynthia's face. "Don't hate me. I can't stand you hating me."

  Barrington sighed and dropped his arms to his sides. He didn't like lies. Maybe he'd frightened Cynthia with his reaction, just as he had Amora. Tugging a handkerchief from his tailcoat, he slogged over and handed the linen to her. "Gerald is safe. Ask no more questions. With all you've had to deal with, I can understand your reticence, I suppose."

  "Don't pity me." She seized his arm and pulled against his chest. "I'm not the pitying sort." She weaved her arms beneath his waistcoat and kissed his cheek. "I'm the sort to adore."

  He pried at the iron grip of her fingers. "What are you doing?"

  With a wave of her hand, she undid his cravat. "Finally showing you the woman I am."

  She took his lips before he could pull away. The offering was tart, buttered with more lies.

  He stepped away from her and wiped at his mouth. "You belong to Bedlam if you think I'd break my vows."

  "Wouldn't you rather be with someone who loves you as you are - tall, dark, and handsome? No changes required."

  His brow rose. "What?"

  "You've changed your schedule because of Amora. You see people you think she'd approve of. You've avoided me since your return from Clanville. She's remaking you, but why ruin perfection?"

  Wasn't modifying his ways what he needed to do to secure his wife's affections? Yet, it hadn't quite worked. She hadn't chosen him, just the mystery. He lowered his gaze to the notched boards of the floor. Maybe hope was there.

  Cynthia traipsed close and put her hands on his ruined neckcloth. "Hadn't you complained to me how you'd wished to attend my events, but Amora didn't feel well? She uses everything to keep you under her thumb. You don't want to be enslaved to her like old Mr. Tomàs was to her mother."

  He backed away, moving near his bookcase. Maybe he'd shared his marital difficulties once too often with Cynthia. Couldn't one woman shed light upon what another thought?

  And no, he wasn't going to be ruled by a pharaoh.

  Cynthia traipsed into his shadow again. Her warm palm rubbed his tired shoulders, massaged the tension in his back. "When is she considerate of your needs? From the knots in your neck, it's been a long time."

  "Cynthia, Miss Miller? You need to leave. It's not proper for you to be here saying such things."

  "I haven't been proper for a long time." She blew a wet kiss in his ear. "And Amora gave her permission."

  He pivoted. "For what?"

  Cynthia leaned into him on tiptoes. "To be your mistress."

  Searching Cynthia's pretty countenance, he saw nothing but hardness and a triumphant shrewdness. Where was the kind woman he believed was his friend?

  He seized her elbows and gave her a light shake. "Is this the face Amora witnesses, a woman bound to harlot herself with a married man?"

  Cynthia recoiled and moved well out of his reach. Her breath came in huffs. "Haven't I waited long enough? You do want me, Barrington. I know you do. And she doesn't. Not anymore."

  His fist hit the bookcase before he could stop it. He couldn't surrender to Cynthia's lies. Amora just needed more time. "Get out of my office."

  "I just saw her getting on a boat ride to Vaux Hall. She looked quite happy. She wasn't thinking of you."

  "Vaux Hall?" He felt his temper slipping from his control. "She went there alone?"

  "Not alone. She looked content with Vicar Wilson's arm about her."

  Amora. Had she chosen Wilson? Did any of her kisses last night mean anything? No. Hope was dead.

  Cynthia stepped closer. She rubbed his forearm. "If you'd chosen me before you left for the Peninsula, you'd have a wife who worships you and a daughter, maybe more children."

  His heart twisted until it broke, this time for good. He had no wife that adored him. They'd lost their first child and had no guarantees the second would survive. All he had was a name that needed to be kept respectable and a minister that needed to be bludgeoned.

  He thumbed his brow. "Stay here if you must. I'm going to retrieve my wife."

  Barrington reached behind the door and grabbed his top hat.

  "Please, Barrington. Wait." Her high pitched pleas made his pace quicken.

  "Good day, Miss Miller."

  He swung open the door and watched Hessing pop up as if he'd been watching through the keyhole.

  "Uh, Norton," his mentor said, "I need you to join me for supper at my club tonight."

  Socializing when he needed to retrieve his wife from Wilson? He shook his head. "I'm very busy. This isn't a good time. Miss Miller, you must leave, now."

  She scooped her cape. "When you come to your senses," she tossed the dark fabric about her shoulders, "you know where to find me."

  She held her he
ad up and swept out of his office.

  Hessing smothered a chuckle. He seemed to enjoy watching Cynthia slink to the stairs. "Breaking with a mistress can be tough, Norton."

  "She's not..." He held his tongue. No use explaining. Any nugget fed the gossiping beast and Hessing would use it to his advantage in court. "Was there something you needed, sir?"

  "There are always other flowers, Norton. Don't be so glum. We need to speak of your career."

  "Another time, sir. I've—"

  "Mr. Beakes is joining me too, with much to discuss. I would hate for you to be caught up in something to appease or quiet a mistress, Norton. You've done very well, but it can all be gone with a blink. As much as I would like to help, I'll have no influence on the matter."

  The glare in Hessing's eyes spoke volumes. The safety of being Hessing's project, the favored mulatto, would end if the man felt Barrington was duplicitous.

  Warning heeded, he nodded his head. "I have a few errands, sir. But, I'll be there."

  He jammed on his hat and left his mentor. His heart pounded, matching his footfalls upon the steps. He didn't dare look back and show Hessing hesitation. The fellow didn't need to witness the angst building. For he might wrongly assume the apprehension to be over the ill-fated dinner invitation. In reality, Barrington had finally accepted the loss of Amora's love. Perhaps that was why God had been silent.

  Lunging into his carriage, he let his aches reign for his arms, his pride, his dreams, everything stung. He'd go retrieve Amora, not as a husband desperate to persuade his wife for another chance. But, as man fighting for his child. If it meant saving the life of his babe, he'd turn in Miller and let Amora go.

  Chapter Four: An Outing to Vaux Hall

  The vicar's outing or diversion as Amora thought of it, began with a short boat ride across the breezy Thames to arrive at the crowded Vaux Hall Gardens.

  The noise hit her first, loud and joyful. Then the fresh, sweet scent of river water mixed with cooked meats. So much for a morning without nausea.

  Samuel bounced his son in his arms as he waved to a smiling Rebecca and a very cheery Mama. The two headed toward a throng of people where music, jaunty tunes with wild beats, seemed to emanate.