Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology

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

  He laughed. “Really only one, which is amazing when I think on it. My thigh got torn up during the Battle of Algeciras.” Blast it—he’d gone and mentioned that bloody time.

  “Wasn’t it fought in 1801? You would have been a child then.”

  “Fourteen, to be exact. Hardly a babe.” He used a hard, dismissive tone, but it failed to stop her questions.

  “And now you’ll tell me what happened and how you were wounded.” She looked at him with such a sweet air that despite the fear even a mention of Algeciras resurrected, his flesh heated and he had to open his coat. How he yearned to lay it on the ground and her upon it. Yet, if he told her the truth it would gray her rosy complexion forever.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he rattled off the standard military fare: “The French had three ships of the line and a frigate in Algeciras Bay. Protecting them were fourteen Spanish gunboats and batteries of Spanish cannon positioned around the shores. If those French ships had joined the rest of the fleet at Cadiz, England’s dominance of the Mediterranean would have been at risk. We had a superior force of six ships of the line.”

  She held up a hand. “What does that mean, ‘ships of the line’?”

  “They’re massive fighting machines with the maneuverability of a boulder in a barnyard. The ship I was on, the HMS Caesar, carried eighty cannons and nearly three hundred men.”

  Just remembering that morning quickened his blood—the anticipation, the boyish notions of glory to come. “We poured into Algeciras Bay, one lumbering behemoth after the other, and then the wind died. It was nine in the morning, with thousands of people lining the shore to watch the battle, and we were almost still.” Shaking his head, he continued. “When we finally came broadside to the Desaix, the exchange began. There was so much gunfire you couldn’t see the water through the smoke.”

  The scent came back to him then; acrid, stinging, He blinked his eyes, trying to focus on the path in front of him, but the black hull of the Desaix, fire streaking from her side, loomed into view. The roar, the screams, the heart pounding excitement for a lad who didn’t know any better. “The HMS Hannibal sent a messenger. She was grounded on a shoal and taking heavy fire from shore. Small boats were launched from every British ship to tow her.” He heard the hitch in his throat, and hoped Claire wouldn’t notice. “I was fourteen with a year at sea under my belt, and they filled a pinnace with marines and set me in the bow as captain. Every small vessel led by someone with common sense went to the protected side of the Hannibal; but someone had to throw a line on the shore side. What better cannon fodder than a boy who wanted to make his papa proud?” Every detail of his stupidity returned, not a jot faded. The crew pleading with him to wait for the smoke to thicken, for the Hannibal to get pulled so her hull would be a little further from the on-shore firing squad, and the stubborn idiocy that made him give the order to row around the foundered ship’s bow. “We got hit. The pinnace shattered.”

  The terror of that explosion came back with such unexpected force, his knees locked. He stopped and pretended his cloak was caught in his boot. The taste of seawater filled his mouth. He’d swallowed buckets of it that day, swimming as cannon fire hurled waves into his face. And then he remembered the bump at his back, how he’d grabbed what he thought was a board from the pinnace, only to find a severed leg clutched in his hand. A tremor shook him. A soup of blood and body parts rose from the Bournemouth shrubs and bobbed around him, along with the fear and insanity of his desperate swim for shore. Unable to move forward, he gasped for breath, as if drowning all over again.

  A soft hand touched his shoulder. “Rest a moment,” she said. “They shouldn’t have saddled someone that young with so much responsibility.”

  Unable to face her, he resumed walking. “I was the son of a rear admiral, and they trusted me. I was the one who should have known better.”

  “Every boy wants to be a hero, and even experienced generals have led men into danger with horrible consequences,” she added.

  He heard her; he just couldn’t acknowledge the logic. Others had spoken those same words, but they always rang hollow. The best course was to distract her. “The current took me ashore, and that’s when I met Hernando.” And then he realized his error—he hadn’t meant to connect Hernando to Algeciras.

  “Arabella’s brother?”

  Flavian bit his lip. “Yes. He pulled me out. Until then, I didn’t know my thigh had been wounded. He and his family nursed me back to health.”

  “But Arabella is Spanish. Weren’t they allies of the French?”

  “They hid me. Arabella doesn’t exaggerate when she says Hernando was an exceptional man.

  “And here we are,” he announced as they reached the top of the bluff. Below, the British sea lapped against the shore, foam fringing the sand like an edge of fine lace. Ever valiant, the sun forced its way through storm clouds in celestial streaks that touched the tips of the waves.

  “What a lovely spot,” she said.

  His heart kicked. Walls, warm hearths, and pools of candlelight—that’s what drew people together. By bringing Claire to this windswept cliff, by describing Algeciras, he thought he would escape intimacy. But the rain on her face, the transcendental beauty of the landscape, heaven help him, instead of escaping her, her effect on him deepened. Unable to resist, he moved closer, allowing his arm to rest against her cloak, feeling her warmth beneath the damp wool. Oh God, to hold her body tenderly against his own, to experience the tickle of her breath on his ear as she whispered a prayer for more, more . . .

  She looked up, shining and earnest, her lips ripe for kissing, and her hood dropped to her shoulders. Blond wisps of hair, curled from the damp, waved about her face. Overcome, he gripped her delicate features in hands that seemed massive and violent by comparison, and then bent to kiss her. Suddenly her hood flew up, momentarily blinding him. It gave him just enough time to reflect on what he was about to do, and he let his hands drop from her face.

  She stumbled a little, unbalanced by his hasty withdrawal. When she recovered herself, she wouldn’t look at him. “You’ve served Hernando’s memory well by taking Arabella,” she said quietly.

  He suppressed a bitter laugh. If she only knew the pain inherent in those words. “Perhaps,” was all he said, and studied the sea.

  * * *

  “Lawks, you naughty things, sneaking out on me when I was taking a wee nap,” Mrs. Gower said, pushing past the butler to greet them at the door. She shook a finger in front of Flavian’s nose, a pleased twinkle in her eye. “And you should be ashamed of yourself, my lord, taking advantage of an old woman’s fatigue to abscond with her charge.”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Gower,” Claire interjected, “Lord Monroe behaved like a perfect gentleman.” Did I just sound disappointed? Claire wondered in alarm. In a chipper tone, she added, “We had a most invigorating walk to the cliffs.”

  Marlow removed her damp cloak and helped Flavian from his.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Claire said, trying to appear utterly carefree, “I’m going to change out of these sodden clothes.”

  Seconds after Collingwood, the lady’s maid, finished helping her get outfitted in a dry dress, she heard knocking. “I’ve come for a little chit-chat,” Mrs. Gower cooed, peeking in the door.

  Shrugging casually, Claire said, “I’ve nothing to report.” She hoped Mrs. Gower didn’t detect the dismal timbre in her voice, and would go away until Claire could collect her thoughts.

  The older woman entered anyway, and flopped onto a chaise, dismissing Collingwood.

  “All we did was walk,” Claire said, sitting at her dressing table daubing Milk of Roses on her palms.

  “Aye, but he likes you. I can tell.”

  “When he touches me, he pulls away, and immediately grows melancholy.”

  Mrs. Gower giggled. “But he does touch all the same, and that’s a good sign.”

  Claire sighed and rubbed her hands briskly. “Am I deceiving myself? Is our visit jus
t a way to delay facing London?” And is it possible to cure lunacy?

  Crossing her arms, Mrs. Gower raised her eyebrows. “Well, the lad is only a viscount’s son. Being so far beneath you, I was surprised you’d taken to him in the first place.”

  Claire frowned. “Two-and-a-half years ago, I was the daughter of a mere scientist until Uncle Sebastian fell from his horse and died.”

  The chaperone’s right eyebrow rose higher. “So, it’s his physical being, I suppose, that makes you think we should leave for the city?”

  Claire didn’t have to contemplate Mrs. Gower’s question long. Unlike the flabby, smooth-skinned men who’d come snooping around after Uncle Sebastian died, Flavian’s flesh had character. Toughened by years in the navy, lined with concern for his family, scarred by war . . . No, his body was something she found quite . . . stimulating. Twisting her lower lip, Claire said, “I don’t suppose there’s anything physically that I dislike about him.”

  “Well then, it must be his finances. He has the income of this estate, but for the life of me, I’ll never figure these empty shelves and mantles. They’re a poor excuse for decoration.”

  Claire sighed. “Yes, there’s that. I wonder if there’s some sort of financial difficulty. Lancelot, he said, was a gambler.”

  “Aye. Your dowry may not be enough, and though a woman’s influence over the furnishings is sorely needed, you’ve no cause to mix yourself up in such a muddle.”

  Mrs. Gower didn’t fool Claire. She knew the old woman was making her defend Flavian, yet the more she thought about him, the less important her complaints appeared. “It’s not such a terrible house. New drapes and a few pieces of chinaware would brighten it.”

  “It’s a bother then, the way he retreats into himself?”

  Claire took in Mrs. Gower’s reflection in the mirror. Swinging around on the stool, she decided to take her into her confidence, and pray the woman wouldn’t say or do something silly with the information. “That’s the problem, and I think it stems from his ward. Arabella is mad, and perhaps her lunacy weighs so heavily on his mind, it might stop him from considering his future.”

  Mrs. Gower smiled, rubbed her hands together, and pulled her chair closer. “I’ve seen nothing odd in the gel’s behavior, but I ain’t here to quibble. My job is to see you married, so here’s my advice.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Next time it looks like he wants to kiss you, kiss him before he changes his mind.”

  Sitting bolt upright, Claire stared at her chaperone. “But he would think me forward.”

  “Nay. I’ve seen the look in his eyes. He’d not think at all, and that’s precisely the effect you want.”

  “Mrs. Gower, you shock me.”

  Instead of being abashed, the woman cackled. “Yet, I’ve placed many deserving young women with highly suitable husbands.”

  “By doing . . . that?”

  Mrs. Gower looked put out. “You’ve spent a lot of time healing the sick, yet you don’t know much about human nature. I’m not suggesting you compromise yourself… entirely. But a good, ripe male will know a great many things that can be done besides… that.”

  “Mrs. Gower!”

  “Oh stuff, how do you think I got your cousin to marry me? And I was the simple daughter of a maritime insurer, whereas you are the more-than-appropriate daughter of an earl.”

  Claire sat back on the chaise. Of course, she would never do it. Her inner rabbit was already in its burrow. Still, if she brazenly kissed Flavian, whatever would he think… or do?

  * * *

  A wheel of the curricle had broken and since no one else had the strength to lift the carriage to prop it up for repairs, the estate steward, Beverage-Haugh, summoned Flavian. This was the kind of work Flavian reveled in. As he hoisted the axel, the weight of the vehicle fought his powerful muscles. Other gentlemen exercised by carrying logs to and fro, or trotting up and down a field, but he preferred real work—lifting rocks to mend a wall, slashing hay in the field, or lugging water to the livestock.

  The wheelwright shoved a block under the carriage, and Flavian rested the vehicle on top of it.

  Under the shelter of the carpenter’s shed, rain droned against the roof, a steady din that sent his thoughts back to the bluff overlooking the sea. There had been a moment when Claire’s cloak flew open in the wind, pressing her yellow flower-patterned dress between her thighs. The exposed ‘V’ caused an ache in his groin. He’d gripped the opening of his coat for fear the wind would reveal his excitement. Good God, but he was mad for her. Sick in love.

  Beverage-Haugh said something.

  Flavian blinked. “Just repeat the last part for me.”

  “It’s like this, my lord . . . cattle . . . butter . . .”

  If he did kiss Claire, of course he’d have to marry her, and he’d never forgive himself for saddling her with Arabella, plunging her into poverty, and that other... But if he could kiss her, she’d have soft lips. They looked soft—rosy and moist, but not wet. Not sloppy. And her breasts—how perfect they were, round and smooth as polished marble. Really, marriage was impossible, but when would he ever meet another woman like her? A stab of unhappiness lanced through him. Women such as she came once in a lifetime—he’d learned that lesson, but she wouldn’t be able to bear what he had to offer. No, he couldn’t ask it of her. He shook his head and sighed.

  “Then you disagree, my lord?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Beverage-Haugh tapped his fingers impatiently on the carriage. “A few Guernseys will do nothing but improve the cattle herd. They’re a solid investment.”

  “Oh yes. No, no… We’ll have to wait. There are no funds.”

  The steward kicked a clod of dirt in disgust.

  Just to kiss her once . . .

  Beverage-Haugh coughed. “Could you lower the curricle now, my lord?”

  Would even one kiss be dishonorable?

  * * *

  The hillock wasn’t that steep, but Flavian held out a hand to Claire as they picked their way up the rocky incline. Hiding a smile, she tried to ignore the touch of his slightly chilled fingers on her palm, which were sending a sensation like a hot drink racing through her body … straight to her nether regions. Relegating her thoughts to the task at hand, she paused to sniff the wind. “I smell it, I just don’t see it.”

  “Valerian is fern-like, you said?”

  “With little fronds more than leaves,” she confirmed.

  “Well, there’s a plant tucked next to those rocks that might be it.”

  Claire looked where he pointed. “Why, Lord Monroe, you’re a born herbalist.”

  He grinned that lopsided smile. With regret, she took her hand from his and passed him a spade. He scrambled sideways, sending pebbles skittering down the hill, until he was above the little patch of valerian root.

  “Halve the plant so it will keep growing,” she told him.

  He cut into the soil, prying the shallow roots from their rocky anchor. She admired the way he plunged his hands into the dirt. Soil between the fingers was a marvelous sensation, especially moist, warm soil. The temperature rose in the place between her legs. She adjusted her thoughts and posture, standing straight as a soldier on parade. But her gaze drifted back to him, a tingle stirring as he came near.

  As gently as if it were a baby bird, Flavian nestled the valerian in the wicker basket she held out. “Whew,” he said, “it smells like cat water.”

  She burst out with an unladylike laugh. “There is a distinctive tang, and yet it actually calms people.”

  “So it will help Arabella, you think?”

  “It might, and it certainly can’t be worse than what they prescribe in asylums.”

  “Excellent. Now what else do we need?” he asked, dusting his hands.

  “Lavender is good, as is St. John’s wort. We’ll find those herbs in the meadows.”

  He started down the hill. “Then we’re on the hunt.”

  They partly slid, partly ran d
own the slope until they hit thick grass in the field below. Unable to stop her momentum, she leaped into the verdant green, when her boot got caught and she tumbled into a heap. Laughing, she cried, “Oh dear.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve tripped on someone’s burrow,” she said.

  He arched a brow. “Or fallen into a fit of glee.”

  Claire clapped a hand over her mouth, but she could not stop giggling. He squatted beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, laughing harder, “the way I dove into the grass nose first.”

  He pursed his lips in mock anger. “If you’d hurt yourself, I should never forgive you.”

  “Well, I’m just fine. And isn’t the smell of this fresh grass a wonder?” She pressed a few stalks to her nose.

  Lowering himself cautiously, he sat beside her, his long legs before him, one ankle folded over the other. After putting the basket of valerian aside, he picked a fistful of grass and sniffed deeply.

  He was so close, and they were practically lying down… Could she do it? Self-conscious, she squinted into the sunlight. It was nice here in this little green nest. If not now, when everything was perfect, then when? Nervous, she eased a blade of grass from its sheath and stuck the sweet end into her mouth. “Where did your name come from? Your first name, Lord Monroe.”

  “Flavian?” He leaned back, propping himself up on one elbow. “Flavian is the name Mother gave her favorite cat when she was growing up. She thought Flavian was the most romantic name in the English language.” He chuckled.

  “Flavian,” Claire said stiffly, her heart hammering.

  A cloud slipped from the path of the sun, and he closed his eyes against the light’s glare. Softly, he whispered, “Say it again.”

  “Flavian,” she repeated, letting a touch of music into the word.

  “Once more.”

  “Flavian.” She turned on her side to face him. For a moment, he trembled, and his face hardened in torment, but before he could withdraw, Claire leaned forward and put her lips to his. “Flavian,” she breathed into his mouth.