Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology

by Gina Dana, Collette Cameron, Ella Quinn, Marie Higgins, Jenna Jaxon, Louisa Cornell, Elf Ahearn, Lauren Smith

  Or so she told herself.

  A disturbance outside the arbor reined in her musings. The Earl of Luxmoore, the Duke of Harcourt, and Allen crowded into the already overfull bower. A herring packed tin allowed more room for movement. She wrinkled her nose. And possibly smelled better too.

  She sneezed then sneezed again.

  “Bless you.” Edwina produced a lacy scrap of cloth. “Have you need of a handkerchief?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Ivonne accepted the linen and pressed it to her nose. The cloth offered some relief from Captain Kirkpatrick’s reeking person.

  The cozy nook meant for two or three, now teemed with eight bodies, six of whom were muscular males, and one of those rivaled a gorilla in size, smell, and mannerisms.

  Ivonne’s leg ached, and all of a sudden, she felt somewhat faint. The confined quarters, Falcon’s startling announcement, and the captain’s belligerent presence, along with her empty stomach, contributed to her light-headedness.

  She attempted, without success, to shift away from the mass of bodies.

  Captain Kirkpatrick’s intimidating form lurked before her.

  No reprieve there.

  Edmund stood mashed against her on the right. The arbor’s wall hindered movement to her immediate left. Both prevented her from easing away from Falcon’s solid form pressing into her from behind.

  The latter she didn’t mind too much, truth to tell. In fact, the most outlandish urge to lean into him and wiggle her bum plagued her.

  How would he react if I did?

  The stale air and lack of food must have addled her senses.

  Giving herself a mental shake, she peered at the new arrivals. She could scarcely make out who was who within the gloomy interior.

  His countenance grim, Allen faced Captain Kirkpatrick. “I’ve asked you before, as has my father, to direct your attentions elsewhere. My sister is not now, nor will she ever be, available to consider your suit.”

  The widower’s eyes widened before narrowing in suspicion. “Because she’s promised to another? Who?”

  “I’d say that’s a private family matter.” Luxmoore flicked something from his shoulder.

  A leaf?

  A spider?

  Were the nasty devils burrowing into her tresses? Ivonne swept her hand across the top of her head, and then through the tangled mass at her nape a couple of times. She’d be hard-pressed to say which she reviled more. ... The captain or the spiders?

  “If she’s not on the Marriage Mart, why haven’t I heard mention of the fact before?” Captain Kirkpatrick crossed his arms and glared round the nook. “Something here is too smoky by far, and I mean to find out what it is.”

  On second thought, spiders are adorable creatures compared to Kirkpatrick.

  “Why don’t you do that?” Lord Luxmoore stepped forward. “Elsewhere.”

  “Yes, a splendid idea.” The duke joined Luxmoore beside the widower. “I’m sure there are a multitude of eager gossips within the house willing to assist you with your intrusive meddling.”

  Each placed a hand on one of the sea captain’s arms.

  Snarling, he jerked from their holds. He loomed before Ivonne.

  Lifting her chin a notch, she forced herself to meet his angry eyes as he towered above her. Marriage to this man was unthinkable. He would terrorize her every day he remained ashore.

  “I mean to get to the bottom of this, Miss Wimpleton. I delayed sailing and wasted months courting you with the intention of making you a mother to my sons. I won’t be made a fool of.”

  “Did that by yourself, seems to me,” Edmund muttered.

  Beside him, Edwina clapped and giggled. “Brilliant, Eddy.”

  Captain Kirkpatrick rounded on Edmund. “Stubble it, young pup, before I thrash you soundly.”

  “Do come along, Kirkpatrick.” An exaggerated sigh echoed from near the exit, and His Grace beckoned. “I’ve had quite enough of your Drury Lane theatrics for one evening. ... Unless we need to notify Lord Wimpleton we require a dozen strapping footmen to haul you from the premises.”

  “You sure a dozen will suffice?” Falcon’s jeer resulted in another round of snickers.

  “Bloody arses.” Spinning on his heel, the captain stomped from the nook.

  The duke and earl swung their attention to her brother.

  Allen waved them away. “We’ll see you inside. Keep an eye on Kirkpatrick, will you?”

  With a nod and a half-bow to the ladies, Harcourt and Luxmoore trailed after the grumbling seaman.

  “We’ll also be going.” Edwina’s curious gaze swung between Ivonne and Falcon. “I’m sure you’ve much to discuss.”

  She didn’t move an inch but instead, head angled and finger on her chin, continued to study Ivonne and Falcon. Edwina was too astute by far. “Ivonne, do you—”

  “Um, yes,” Edmund seized his sister’s arm. “We’ll let Aunt Mary and Uncle Walter know where you are. Come along, Winnie.”

  After a cocky salute, he dragged Edwina from the enclosure.

  They broke into furious whispers the moment their feet hit the gravel path. What were those two conjuring now?

  Ivonne eyed the exit longingly.

  This evening had the makings of a Cheltenham Tragedy. She’d been accosted, made an inglorious spectacle of, rescued by the only man who’d ever sent her heart palpitating and nether regions tingling, and she would bet her pin money that within fifteen minutes, her name would buzz about the ballroom thicker than bees on honey.

  She wanted nothing more than to sneak in the house’s side entrance and flee to her room where she could hide under her bed until next December.

  Maybe her parents could be persuaded to depart for Addington Hall early. The social whirl ended in a few weeks in any event. Unless God performed a miracle, she stood no more chance of snaring herself a husband this go round than she had the previous Seasons. She had become an object of scorn and pity.

  She would simply refuse to attend another. After all, five stints in Town had quite proved the bon ton deemed her an undesirable. Only fortune hunters sought her out, and even they treated her with barely concealed disdain. Allen could contrive some drivel about her phantom intended crying off.

  He had eloped with an actress, entered a monastery, had been sat upon by a blind hippopotamus ...

  The reason didn’t much matter.

  Ivonne had long since accepted her fate. Some women were destined to live life alone. Her shoulders slumped. Weariness born more from emotional turmoil than physical fatigue encompassed her.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to repair my appearance.” She offered Falcon a brave smile. He would never know how much it cost her to pretend indifference when what she longed to do was throw her arms around his neck, kiss those gorgeous lips of his, and tell him she loved him.

  Stop it, goosecap.

  He’d made no effort to contact her in six years, and that stung something fierce. No, his indifference had left a deep wound and no small amount of distrust.

  “It was wonderful to see you again, Mr. Faulkenhurst.”

  Should she suggest he call?

  No. Likely Allen had already extended an invitation of some sort, which explained Falcon’s presence here tonight. Let her brother be the one to issue another. She would only appear desperate to see Falcon again.

  Because I am. But to what point?

  Waterworks threatened, and Ivonne blinked rapidly. She would not shed another tear for him.

  She would not.

  “Ivy ...?” He reached for her hand, concern shading his voice.

  A single tear trickled a scalding path from the outer corner of her eye. She spun away. Lifting her skirts, she tore from the alcove.

  Bride of Falcon: Chapter Five

  Ivy wept.

  Chance was certain, although his gut told him her tears couldn’t be attributed solely to the captain’s boorish behavior.

  Allen stared after his sister’s fleeing form before facing Chance, a que
stion in his hooded eyes. “I say, what was that about?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea why she pelted off in such haste.” Raising a brow, Chance met Allen’s shuttered scrutiny.

  He did, but the niggling thought was scarcely more than a heartbeat. Her response to him hadn’t been that of a sister. He needed time to reflect on the notion. He must tread carefully if he had any hope, no matter how remote or seemingly impossible, of making her his.

  Staring at the now empty pathway, Chance rubbed the side of his nose. “Perhaps Ivy feared someone would see her in disarray.”

  “No, not her abrupt departure. I meant telling Kirkpatrick my sister is promised to someone else.” Allen eyed him, expectancy written on his features.

  Damn, Allen wouldn’t let that falsehood go unaccounted for.

  “Ah, that.” Chance offered a weak chuckle. “Not one of my cleverer moments, I’ll confess.”

  He traced the scar on his cheek, recalling Ivy’s gentle touch. She hadn’t seemed the least repulsed by the jagged mark.

  “I said the one thing I thought would make the boor leave off pursuing her.” He didn’t elaborate how he’d bitten his tongue to keep from saying, “Promised to me.”

  If only he’d dared to. What would have happened?

  Mrs. Washburn’s freckled face, immediately followed by his sire’s disproving countenance, flashed to mind. Hell, with that ridiculous millstone about his neck, Chance must proceed with the greatest of caution.

  He rubbed his arm then his hand. He might indulge in a bit of laudanum tonight—to take the edge off the pain. More on point, the drug would numb his mind and the tormenting thoughts of Ivy, which guaranteed another sleepless night.

  Allen drew in a gusty breath and ran his hand through his dark hair. “I’m heartily sick of the captain, I can tell you. I don’t trust the sod one whit. He’ll not let this fabricated affiancing story die a quiet death. Of that I’m positive.”

  “Why is he here tonight if you and Ivy find him so offensive?” Chance’s arm throbbed. He needed to say his farewells soon. “Did your mother invite him?”

  Allen snorted. “Absolutely not. Mother cannot abide Kirkpatrick, either. The bugger hangs on the coat sleeves of others. I’m sure he wrangled an invitation to accompany one of his business cronies.”

  Allen exited the bower ahead of Chance.

  “I’ll speak to Mother. I’m thinking she needs to further refine her guest list.”

  “Indeed.” Chance followed him outside, grateful for the fresh air filling his lungs. He’d guess no part of Kirkpatrick had seen the inside of a tub in a good while. Imagining Ivy with the man set Chance’s teeth on edge once again.

  “So, this is where you got off to.” Grinning, Allen gestured toward the alcove. “Thought you were in the library, but when I checked, you’d disappeared. I wondered where you’d sequestered yourself.”

  He threw an arm across Chance’s shoulders. “No need to hide, Faulkenhurst.”

  Chance winced as pain speared his arm and hand. “I wasn’t hiding. I wanted to reacquaint myself with the grounds, and you have to admit, the air within the house is intolerable.”

  Not nearly as intolerable as the arbor.

  Truth to tell, he had been avoiding the throng inside the manor.

  He’d arrived this evening, terrified he’d encounter Ivy and equally desperate to do so. He hadn’t expected her to dash into the bower while he lurked there. Rather awkward to be caught skulking in the garden alcove. He’d opened his mouth to tell her he stood behind her when the sea crab appeared.

  Her fear of the man tangible, Ivy had needed safeguarding. So, Chance remained silent and, in some measure, grateful he had a legitimate reason not to return to the ball.

  Pasting a fake smile on his face and pretending nonchalance about his crippling injuries took a greater toll than he’d imagined they would. He’d endured more pitying glances and ignored more horrified gasps and looks of revulsion than anyone ought to in a single night.

  Wonder what long-toothed Mrs. Washburn and her father will think of my condition?

  Didn’t matter what they thought. Chance had no intention of honoring his father’s ludicrous proposal. Although the blame for the bumblebroth lay at Father’s feet, the delicate situation needed discrete handling.

  Excusing himself from the ball early on, Chance had drifted to the library. Reading had proved futile. Laying the book aside, he’d wandered to the French windows and stared blankly at the night. The lure of the arbor called him. He’d been unable to resist a visit to another time, when he’d dreamed Ivy might be his. She’d dwelled in his thoughts, and though he’d been no

  monk, he’d never desired another as much as her.

  When a man gave his heart to a woman, other females might temporarily satiate his physical desire, but his soul continued to yearn for its mate, seeking the wholeness no other could offer.

  Yesterday, when Allen insisted he join him at his table at White’s, Chance had posed several subtle questions regarding the family’s health, business ventures, and finally, he’d dared to inquire about Ivy.

  Allen had smiled knowingly, as if he’d expected the conversation to shift to a discussion about his sister. Peculiar that. Chance had never confided in his long-time friend, never hinted he held Ivy in any special regard. He couldn’t contain his broad smile or the joy that had swept him upon learning she remained unmarried.

  “There’s no shortage of damsels inside eager for dance partners.” His arm about Chance’s shoulders, Allen set their course toward the bustling mansion. “Unless you forgot how to perform Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot in the wilds of India.”

  Chance didn’t want to dance with those ladies. A sable-haired, hazel-eyed sprite with a beauty mark beside her left nostril was the only woman he ever wanted to hold in his arms. And if he’d heard correctly in the arbor, she didn’t dance anymore.

  “I’ll tell you, I could use a stiff swallow of French brandy after that nonsense with Kirkpatrick.” Allen withdrew his arm and quickened his pace.

  Their shoes clicked on the limestone pavers as they neared the house.

  “I’d not say no to a nip of cognac,” Chance admitted.

  “Let’s find you a dance partner, and I’ll make sure the Jack Nasty Face took his leave." Allen tossed Chance a familiar teasing grin. “Then we’ll both indulge in a finger’s worth or two.”

  The drink sounded wonderful.

  The dance Chance would pass on. Dancing required the touching of hands.

  Allen’s grin widened. “I do believe that scar on your cheek improves your devilish good looks. Makes you seem mysterious and debonair. Second son or not, the ladies will be vying for your attention.”

  Chance stopped and yanked off his modified glove. He raised his disfigured hand. “Even with this? I think you over-estimate my attraction, my friend.”

  “Does it pain you still?” Brow creased, Allen stared at the two nubs where Chance middle and forefinger used to be.

  A long, jagged scar disappeared into the wristband of his coat sleeve.

  “Some. It’s been less than six months.” He tugged the glove on, not without some difficulty. Thank God Allen didn’t offer to help. Chance crooked his lips upward.

  “You should see the scar on my forearm. Nearly lost the thing. I imagine I look a bit like that creature in that new novel. What’s it called?”

  He sent a contemplative glance skyward.

  “Ah, I remember.” Chance lowered his voice to an eerie growl. “Frankenstein.”

  Allen’s expression grew serious. “Don’t be absurd. Mangled arm and minus two fingers, you’re more of a man than ninety percent of the coves here tonight.”

  “Only ninety?” Chance quipped to hide the emotion Allen’s kind words aroused.

  Lost in thought, Chance ascended the terrace steps. The veranda swarmed with guests, no doubt seeking fresh air.

  Allen stopped on the top riser and gave him a broad grin. “I’ve missed you,
Falcon. We all have.”

  “There you are, Allen, Faulkenhurst.” Lord Wimpleton, his usually jovial countenance severe, strode in their direction. Upon reaching them, he gave a cursory glance around.

  No one paid them any mind.

  His brow furrowed, the viscount dropped his voice. “Please explain to me if either of you have the slightest idea why, in the last ten minutes, I’ve had several guests offer me congratulations on my daughter’s betrothal.”

  Bride of Falcon: Chapter Six

  Edging the library’s terrace door open a crack, Ivonne peered inside.

  No one.

  A single lamp burned low atop the mantle. A leather volume lay open on the dark puce and ebony settee. Odd. Who would have been in here tonight? One didn’t attend a ball with the intention of seeking a spot to read.

  Someone chose to avoid the gathering. Why?

  She slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The latch sank home with a soft click. She still clutched Edwina’s wadded handkerchief. Ivonne smiled wryly and tucked the cloth inside her bodice. Rushing to the other entrance, her emerald satin slippers scuffed atop the Axminster carpet.

  Her gaze fell on her reflection in the oval mirror positioned above a mahogany drum table, and she faltered to a sudden stop. Gads, her appearance bordered on indecent. Without much stretch of the imagination, guests might ponder if she’d indulged in a dalliance in the garden.

  Ivonne raised a hand to the hair trailing down her spine and over her left shoulder and plucked two small leaves from the tendrils. Glancing down, she sighed. A torn piece of black netting dangled above her hemline. Bending, she inspected the tear.

  Not awful. A few artful stitches ought to repair the rip.

  Should she seek her chamber on the third floor or the lady’s retiring room just down the hall? The retiring room seemed the more logical choice to set herself aright. Except ... what if other ladies occupied the chamber? How would she explain her unkempt appearance? The gossip coffers already overflowed on her behalf tonight.