The Miss Mirren Mission (Regency Reformers Book 1)

by Jenny Holiday

He must have interpreted her lack of response as disapproval, when in fact it was shock. “I still have responsibilities I can’t turn my back on,” he explained.

  It was her turn to kiss his nose and say, “I would expect no less.” She smiled. “I am rather fond of that lake at Clareford Manor. But I think time spent in London will be welcome, too. I’ll give Billy and Sally my house.”

  “I’ve thought about that. I’ve a dower house on the estate—and nary a dowager in sight.”

  Could he mean…? She didn’t dare ask.

  “It’s not large,” he continued, “but it’s picturesque. Perhaps you saw it on one of your visits. It’s set in a small dale, surrounded by gardens. I think it should do rather nicely for them. It’s only a quarter mile from the great house, so you can visit every day. And your grandmother can stay with us or with Mrs. Smith, as you all like.”

  A tear escaped the corner of her eye, and he nudged his nose to her temple to intercept it.

  “Billy will want to work,” she said. “He wants to earn an honest living. It’s all he’s been talking of.”

  “There’s no shortage of work on the estate—he can choose what suits him. I am in need of a valet.” He grinned. “Or so I am told.”

  Thinking about Billy and Sally made her thoughts turn to…“Sarah,” she said the name aloud.

  “Yes,” said Eric, turning serious. “She’s got the worst of this all, hasn’t she?”

  “It breaks my heart. Deceived by a man she loved. Her family in disgrace.”

  Eric stroked her collarbone. “Your home will always be open to her, I would imagine.”

  Again, she hardly dared hope.

  “And my home is your home,” he finished. “Just don’t expect me to listen to her monologues. Perhaps she can keep your grandmother company. After all, Mrs. Talbot wants only an audience, and your grandmother should be very good at that.”

  She covered her face with her hands. It was all too much. “You have everything worked out, haven’t you?”

  “Perhaps not everything.”

  The uncertainly in his voice prompted her to sit up. “What’s wrong?” Panic started to pool in her belly.

  “It’s just that I always intended to be the last of my family line.”

  Mind churning, she examined her soul. She’d reconciled herself to a life without a family of her own, but now that it was within her grasp, would she be able to give it up? “You don’t want children?”

  “I want children. I want our children.” He voice broke and he closed his eyes. “I just don’t want them to…”

  She realized suddenly what was happening. “You don’t want them to be burdened with the afflictions that haunted your mother and brother.”

  Looking miserable, he nodded.

  She knew then, that she wanted this man more than anything, children or no. “No one can know what the future holds. And if the risk feels too big, there are ways to prevent conception.” She smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find some books on the subject.”

  His eyes searched her face. “You would give up the possibility of children?”

  “Yes. If I have to.”

  “If we had a child, and he—or she—was stricken—” His voice broke and it took a moment for him to recover himself enough to continue. “I’m just not sure I could bear it again.”

  “It’s a possibility, I concede. But if it happened, there would be a critical difference.”

  “What?”

  “Love. A child of ours, healthy or ill, would be surrounded by love. It might not be enough but—”

  “It might be,” he finished, his voice gruff as he offered a lopsided smile.

  The impossible mixture of happiness and wistfulness swirling through her chest suddenly felt like it might crush her. She sat up, wanting to shake it off, to turn off her mind. She scooted herself forward until she could slip back into the pool, and then she turned and crooked a finger at him.

  Dear Lord above, she was going to be the end of him. Blackstone watched his wife-to-be beckon him and then turn and disappear under the water, only to resurface half a minute later on the other side of the pool. In a very dark corner. Maybe that special license was in order after all.

  He followed. How could he not? She, willing to face an uncertain future with him, had given him everything.

  When he reached her, she was leaning against the far edge of the pool, and her hair, which had sprung back into coils while they’d been out of the water, was once again slicked down her body. She had only to tilt her mouth up slightly and he was there, crushing those rosebud lips under his own. Opening for him, she sighed. He groaned and pressed onward, unable to stop the frantic searching of his lips and tongue. Using his good hand, he anchored her head and pulled her against him. She lifted herself up onto her toes, causing her hips to brush up against his. He growled and lifted her, pressing her against him.

  “Oh my heavens,” he whispered.

  “I think that’s my line,” she panted, talking against his lips even as she kissed him.

  “We have to stop,” he said. “We have to stop now, or I won’t be able to.”

  She reached down and stroked him.

  “This isn’t the place for this.” He had developed a fantasy of their wedding night. It would take all his willpower to keep from tumbling her every time he saw her between now and then, but it would be worth it when they finally gave themselves to each other as man and wife.

  She responded by wrapping her legs around his hips, the water making her buoyant. He was forced to wrap both arms around her to keep them upright.

  “This is exactly the place for this,” she declared, her voice echoing across the water. As she spoke, she positioned her entrance over him, and he was lost.

  So much for prenuptial chastity. “I’m sorry,” he managed to groan as he plunged inside her.

  He was dimly aware of her saying, “I’m not,” before his awareness shrank so that it encompassed only the waves of sensation that racked him, beginning in his cock and ripping though his belly and chest, so intense he thought they might crush his heart.

  She rode him, crying out as he thrust. When he lowered his head for a moment, unable to keep it upright, he grazed her nipple with his cheek. Her answering gasp directed him back in a more concerted manner. He captured the pink peak and flicked it with his tongue, teasing, mindless, consumed with her. She was on her way up the mountain. Forcing himself to keep the pace steady, he laved her nipple as he continued to bury himself in her sweet tightness over and over. When he sensed she was close, he whispered, “Hold on tight,” lowered his good arm, and used a single finger to seek out and stroke her bud, praying he would outlast her.

  “You should pull out,” she whispered, even as her eyes glazed over.

  “No,” he said. She made him brave.

  “Are you sure, because—” She couldn’t finish the sentence—he made sure of it. He braced her against the edge of the pool. Three more hard, bucking strokes and he hurtled over the edge along with her.

  They stood there for a long time, the night punctuated with the sound of their heavy breathing. He buried his face in her neck, and it wasn’t until she shivered that he managed to think logically about what came next. He was cold, too, he realized. Bending his knees, he knelt on the bottom, leaving only his head above water. He tugged her into his embrace, holding her so that she was similarly submersed in the water, which was warmer than the night air.

  “It is rather cold, isn’t it, my lord?”

  “What did I tell you about that?” He jestingly shook a finger in her face.

  She was all coy innocence as she backed away, eyeing him the whole time. “You told me I would be very, very sorry if I didn’t stop my lording you.”

  “And you shall be,” he said with mock sternness. He didn’t do anything for a moment, reveling in the sight of her as she bit her lip to keep from laughing. Then, lighting-quick, he used his forearms and hand to scoop the water, drenching her wi
th a mighty splash.

  “Eee!” she shrieked, ineffectually sending back small splashes he easily evaded.

  They splashed and played for a few minutes, until he let her push him down and pin him against the wall of the pool. Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed her body against his. “I emerge the victor,” she announced.

  “To the victor go the spoils?” he suggested, glancing down at his stiffening member.

  Her lips curled into a wicked smile. “Yes. But first may we go for a swim?” She didn’t wait for a response, merely turned and dove.

  “Yes,” he whispered, his heart nearly exploding at the sight of her. “Let’s go for a swim.”

  And he followed his love into the water.

  Acknowledgments

  This was my first book! It was originally published by Entangled Publishing. I owe everyone there a debt of gratitude for getting my career started. Huge thanks in particular to Gwen Hayes for excellent guidance, infectious enthusiasm, and for being the president of the Team Blackstone fan club.

  My thanks to Erika Olbricht, Sandra Owens, Marit Grunstra, and Lanna Crucefix for reading early drafts and offering commentary.

  Susan Gee Heino and Grace Burrowes offered advice and encouragement.

  Chris Szego helped me enormously with this whole series.

  Courtney Miller-Callihan was and is awesome.

  Kathryn Kane suggested St. Dunstan’s as a suitably-sketchy-but-not-too-sketchy location for Emily to loiter.

  Connect With Me

  Sign up for my newsletter at jennyholiday.com/newsletter. I send newsletters when I have a new release or a sale, and I sometimes include giveaways and access to freebies only for subscribers. Or you can find me on Twitter at @jennyholi or Instagram at @holymolyjennyholi. (I’m technically on Facebook, but I’m rarely actually there.) Visit my website at jennyholiday.com.

  Reviews really help authors, not only because they help us find new readers but because more reviews means more favorable treatment by retailers’ algorithms. If you’re moved to leave an honest review of this book or any of my others on the retailer’s site where you bought it, I’d be most grateful.

  About the Author

  Jenny Holiday is a USA Today bestselling and RITA-nominated author of contemporary and historical romance. The New York Times once had this to say about one of her characters: “His feminist bona fides can seem piled on for a hypermasculine hero.” She took it as a compliment.

  www.jennyholiday.com

  jenny@jennyholiday.com

  Twitter: @jennyholi

  Instagram: @holymolyjennyholi

  Newsletter: jennyholiday.com/newsletter

  Other Books by Jenny Holiday

  Regency Reformers

  The Miss Mirren Mission

  The Likelihood of Lucy

  Viscountess of Vice

  The Famous Series

  Famous

  Infamous (a male/male romance)

  Bridesmaids Behaving Badly

  Once Upon a Bride (a free novella)

  One and Only

  It Takes Two

  Merrily Ever After

  Three Little Words

  The 49th Floor

  Saving the CEO

  Sleeping With Her Enemy

  The Engagement Game

  His Heart’s Revenge (a male/male romance)

  New Wave Newsroom

  The Fixer

  The Gossip

  The Pacifist

  Standalone Novels

  Undue Influence: A Persuasion Retelling (a male/male romance)

  An excerpt from The Likelihood of Lucy

  The Regency Reformers series continues with Trevor Bailey’s story.

  It was happening again.

  “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, my lord,” Lucy said, though she knew perfectly well he had not. She had endeavored to be less obvious with her pedagogical methods this time, but somehow he had found her out. Taking a step back, she tried not to panic, praying her voice would not shake. “Perhaps you meant to summon one of your guests. I’d be happy to fetch—”

  “No,” snapped the viscount, who, in Lucy’s six months in residence at Galsmith House, had exhibited very little interest in his daughters, and hence, even less interest in Lucy, their governess. Until, apparently, he somehow discovered she was instructing his children according to the ideas put forth by the great—and controversial—writer Mary Wollstonecraft. “I meant to summon you. I know exactly who you are. Or, more to the point, I know exactly what you are.”

  He took a step toward her, pupils dilated. Lucy’s breath quickened, and she glanced around, assessing possible escape routes. The study was tucked into a corner of the house, so there was only the one door, which led to a sitting room from whence she could easily make her way into the ballroom. Even from here, she could hear fragments of laughter and snippets of music. The night was advanced—her charges had long since gone to bed—but the unexpected arrival of a storm had kept the guests making merry into the wee hours.

  The door was so close! A mere twenty feet away. The problem was the very large, and, judging from the smell emanating from him as he advanced, very inebriated aristocrat standing between her and it.

  “And if I had known what you are, I never would have permitted my wife to retain you,” he sneered. “To think, you’ve spent months poisoning my daughters with that lewd woman’s lies! I can only thank heavens the youngest isn’t reading yet, or you’d most likely be swapping her primers out for A Vindication of the Rights of Women and God knows what other blasphemy.”

  With every sentence, he forced Lucy a step closer to the bookshelves that lined the wall behind her, so she didn’t bother informing him that four-year-old Edna was, in fact, already reading—Lucy was a very good governess despite her distaste for the profession. She was fond of her charges and was diligent about doing right by them, even though she would be delighted if she never had to supervise another pianoforte practice session again. “I would be pleased, my lord, to have a rational discussion as to the inspiration behind my pedagogical methodology. You should know, for example, that until Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s husband published that account of her life that has become so infamous and, in the process, unjustly besmirched her reputation, she—”

  “One shouldn’t even call her a woman, should one?” he interrupted, taking another step toward her.

  Her back made contact with the books, and her stomach dropped as he placed a palm flat against the shelf next to her, effectively creating one half of a cage. “‘Unsexed.’ Isn’t that what Polwhele called her in his poem? A lightskirt at the very least, no? If a respected clergyman like Polwhele has found her character so lacking, who can reasonably defend her?”

  “I can! If you took the time to read her actual works instead of merely the baseless ranting of her critics, you would see that—”

  The other arm shot out. She was trapped. “I console myself that if you’re anything like your heroine, at least I’ll be able to enjoy you before I turn you out without a reference.”

  Annoyance flared, though she knew fear was probably a more sensible response at this particular moment. “You’re not even listening to me! Are we having a conversation, or are you having a monologue?” She ducked, squatted, moved to one side, and popped up outside the enclosure of his arms.

  After blinking for a few moments as if unable to comprehend that she’d escaped, he lunged at her. “You whore!”

  Now it was time for fear—terror, even—as the unease that had been slowly churning in her gut exploded into panic. Lucy knew all too well what happened to governesses unable to escape the advances of their employers. Perhaps she was destined to follow in her mother’s footsteps after all.

  No.

  So she ran. Or tried to—she only made it a few steps before he tore off her cap, causing her to cry out at the pain that whipped through her neck as her head and body moved in opposite directions. Though she’d dressed when she received the summons he’d rel
ayed via the upstairs maid, she’d only had time to hastily shove her unbraided hair into a cap. The locks fell freely now, and he tangled his fingers in them and pulled, hard enough to make her yelp again as he slammed her back against him.

  “I am going to make you sorry,” he hissed. “I will ruin you. In every possible way.” Reaching his hands around, he yanked the front of her bodice, the resulting tear louder in her ears than the thunder raging outside.

  “No.” She spoke the word aloud this time, in unison with the voice in her head. The voice was familiar, yet it seemed not to be her own. Whatever it was, it was right. A kind of surety settled over her, bringing quiet to jangled nerves and making room for a fortifying breath where a moment ago there had been only ineffectual gasping.

  Distantly, she registered the sound of him issuing vile threats, and she wondered if this was how it had happened to her mother. Making an effort to separate her mind from what was happening to her person, she allowed herself to be spun to face him, even as rough hands shoved their way inside her chemise, pawing at her breasts.

  No longer frantic, her mind turned inward, methodically looking for an escape. Then, suddenly, the question came to her all at once, crystalizing in her being, the question that had yet to let her down.

  What would Mary Wollstonecraft do?

  The answer came too, right on the heels of the question.

  She smiled, retracted her leg, and kneed the viscount in the groin with all her might.

  There was something exceedingly satisfying about weathering a storm inside one’s own home. Remarkable, really, how wind rattling the windows and torrents of water lashing the just-finished roof could feel so rewarding.

  Trevor had suffered through plenty of storms in his thirty years. Sipping brandy as he stared at the fire in the small library he’d built as part of his personal apartment atop the soon-to-open hotel he was building, he thought back to some of them.