Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  Anne beamed. “The Latin you may lay at my sister Penelope’s door.” She rose; she felt so happy, so relieved—and her and Reggie’s continued presence would only delay a family reunion far happier than anyone had supposed. “I really don’t think I need anything more aside from that letter.” She held out her hand as Portsmouth rose. “Perhaps you could post it to the Foundling House?”

  “Aye. I’ll do that.” Portsmouth shook her hand, then Reggie’s. “My very deep thanks to you both.”

  They took their leave of the other family members; Thomas walked them out to where Reggie’s curricle stood waiting, shrouded in shadows in the drive.

  “It’ll be late before you reach town—are you sure you won’t stay?”

  Imogen had pressed the invitation, but both Anne and Reggie had firmly declined.

  “The light’s good enough,” Reggie said as he handed Anne up. He turned to Thomas. “And I imagine tonight will be a moment best shared within the family.”

  Thomas smiled and didn’t deny it. He raised a hand in salute and stepped back as Reggie shook the reins.

  He steered the curricle down the drive, and out onto the road.

  Anne was silent for the first few miles; he assumed she was reliving the unexpected resolution. A soft smile played about her lips; satisfied, he gave his attention to the narrow lane leading back to the Brighton Road.

  They’d reached it and were bowling along in good style when he felt Anne’s gaze, glanced at her swiftly, and realized from the steady seriousness of her gaze that she’d moved on and was thinking of other things.

  More personal things.

  He was forced to look to his horses. She shifted beside him and looked forward, too. He sensed more than saw her steel herself.

  “What we spoke of before …I realize…” She stopped and hauled in a breath. “It seems likely you’ll soon be Northcote, and then everyone will remember you’re in line for the earldom—you could have your pick of the marriageable young ladies, even those from the highest families, or the incomparables, or the heiresses…”

  He glanced at her; her face was set, determined.

  She stared ahead; she didn’t look at him. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather—shouldn’t rather— marry one of them?”

  He didn’t need to think. “Don’t be daft!” Irritation—masculine aggravation—rang in his tone; he made no attempt to mute it. “If you must know, the very thought has kept me firmly facing the other way for years. Sweet young things, huh! They giggle! Anyway—can you imagine it? A female like that would make my life a misery. I wouldn’t know what to do with her. I don’t want to marry anyone like that.”

  For one instant, the only sound about them was the sharp clop of the horses’ hooves.

  “I want to marry you.” He stated it clearly.

  He glanced at her just as she glanced at him, her eyes wide.

  “You do?”

  “Yes!” He would have glared, but his leader chose that moment to jib; he looked back to the horses—

  With a horrendous crack!, a bolt of lightning cleaved the now darkening sky.

  “Oh!” Anne grabbed the side of the curricle as the horses bolted.

  Reggie held them, steadied them. Luckily they were on the main road; the macadam was smooth, and at that hour there were few other vehicles about.

  The instant he had the pair trotting again, he glanced around—and swore. “We’re never going to make it home.”

  Anne glanced at him; he nodded to the right, to where rain was sweeping across the fields beneath heavy, iron-gray clouds.

  Thunder, low and menacing, rumbled up and over them. It wasn’t that late, yet a blackness deeper than night was closing in.

  Reggie swore again. Purley with its old inn was behind them, too far to go back; Croydon with its posting houses was too far ahead. He racked his brains…

  Here he was, alone with the lady who would be his wife, and a storm was threatening. The initiative lay waiting to be seized…

  “Croham Hurst!” Jaw firming, he looked ahead, to the right, searching for the line of hedges marking the lane. “There’s a nice inn, small but comfortable—we can put up there.”

  Anne nodded. The wind had picked up; the scent of rain lay heavy on the air.

  Large drops were falling when they pulled into the inn yard. An ostler came running, head ducked against the weather. Reggie jumped down, grabbed Anne, and lifted her down as the ostler hurried the curricle away. Hands locked, they raced for the tiny porch, reaching it just as the heavens opened and the rain came bucketing down.

  They both turned and looked back at the sheer sheet of driving rain, then looked at each other— and laughed.

  Still smiling, they entered the inn; the innkeeper, a small rotund man with a cheery country face, came bustling up to greet them.

  “Well, now! You’re lucky you’re out of that. Turned proper nasty, it has.”

  “Indeed.” Reggie couldn’t stop smiling as they shrugged out of their coats. “My wife and I were visiting friends at Caterham—seems we left it too late to start back. Do you have a large chamber we might use for the night?”

  “Oh, indeed, sir! Ma’am.”

  The man bobbed a bow at Anne; he didn’t register the odd look on her face as she struggled to decide how to react.

  “Our main chamber’s at your disposal. All ready it is—I’ll just get Bessie to light the fire, so all will be comfy when you go up.” With an expansive gesture, the man threw open a door revealing a snug parlor. “We don’t get much custom on nights like this and we’re off the main way, so we’ll have your dinner ready in a trice. You won’t be disturbed in here.”

  Anne smiled a trifle weakly and entered. The instant she heard the door shut, she swung around and faced Reggie. “Wife?”

  His expression as inconsequential as ever, he shrugged. “Jumping the gun a trifle, but it seemed wiser all around.”

  She didn’t know what to answer to that. Before she could form any sensible argument, he asked her about the hurdles the Caverlocks might face in reasserting guardianship over Benjy.

  Somehow that discussion, and other topics that flowed from it, lasted through the interval until their dinner was served, and through the dinner itself—a nice assortment of hearty country fare—until the moment when, the dishes having been cleared and tea served, a gust of wind howled about the inn and ferociously rattled the shutters.

  “Oooh!” Anne shivered. “That sounds positively gothic.” She paused, then added, “I can still hear the rain pounding and lashing.”

  In the armchair opposite, Reggie grimaced. He rose. “I just hope it stops before morning, or we might be mired here for a day or more.” Taking her hand, he drew her to her feet. “Actually, I was thinking, once we get back to London we should take a trip north to Calverton Chase.”

  She glanced at him as he ushered her out of the door. “Why?”

  “Well,” Reggie replied, guiding her to the stairs, “aside from having a little chat with your brother, there’s the undeniable fact that announcing our engagement just as the ton returns to town en masse is bound to set us in the eye of the storm. Far better, to my mind, to escape before we’re stuck.” Gaining the upper corridor, he took her hand, interlaced his fingers with hers. “Don’t you think?”

  She glanced up at him, at the faint lift to his brows, looked past the superficial lightness of his face, into the seriousness of his eyes. He was asking far more than the obvious; they both knew it. “Is that a proposal?”

  He frowned. “Actually, I saw it as a trifle further advanced than a proposal—we covered proposing before.” He met her gaze; his brows rose a fraction. “A plan of action, perhaps?”

  She had to smile. “Very well.” She squeezed his fingers lightly. “We’ll head to the Chase just as soon as we get Benjy’s affairs in order.”

  “Good.” Reggie turned her toward the door to the large chamber over the front of the inn. “We can time the notice to the Gazette accordingl
y.”

  He set the door wide, and she entered. Without a second thought. Without any of the missish hesitation or nervousness she’d expected would assail her. It was as if they were already married in fact, as if the ceremony were merely incidental, a superficial recognition of a union that had already in truth begun.

  The room was as cozy as the innkeeper had promised. Dimity curtains covered the windows; matching hangings were gathered at the corners of a large four-poster bed. The covers were turned down; the pillows plumped high. The fire leaping in the grate threw warmth into the room; the flames sent flickering fingers of light dancing over the scene.

  Anne stopped in the center of the room. She heard the door shut. An instant later, she sensed Reggie behind her, then his hands slid around her waist and he drew her back against him.

  In the hearth before them, flames licked the dark logs and sent sparks rising up the chimney.

  The fire warmed the front of her; he warmed her back. He bent his head, she tilted hers as he touched his lips to her throat.

  Raising her hand, she stroked his hair, soft, warm.

  “Before, in Lady Hendrick’s parlor, why did you stop?”

  The caress of his lips halted, but he didn’t lift his head; she felt his breath on her skin when he answered, “Because I didn’t know if you’d made a decision—or if you’d been swept away by the moment.” His voice was low, deep. “It’s not as if we’d had any courtship—you hadn’t had time to consider, either the act or its consequences.”

  His lips returned to her skin, their touch sweet, drugging; he didn’t say more, spell out what he meant, but she knew, understood. Marriage wasn’t a state he had any interest in trapping her in, no matter how much he wanted her. It had to be her decision, taken in full command of her wits.

  A decision they were both aware was in the past.

  She turned in his arms, lifted her own, and draped them about his neck. His lids rose, heavy over rather sultry eyes. How much he wanted her was there in the blue, there for her to see.

  She felt a slow smile lift her lips, light her face. “We’ve known each other for such a long time.”

  “We’ve been would-be lovers for only three days.”

  “Time doesn’t matter, not once one understands—sees.” She held his gaze. “Once one recognizes the truth.”

  His arms slid around her, closed; he drew her to him. “I love you.”

  His gaze didn’t waver; she smiled, assured. “And I love you. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  He searched her eyes, then bent his head and touched his lips to hers.

  She kissed him back, offered her mouth, shuddered with anticipation when he took. His hands spread over her back, pressing her breasts to his chest, then slid lower, molding her to him, searching, learning, possessing.

  The tangle of their tongues trapped her attention—the slow, hypnotic quality of the kiss; the steady build of heat between them captured her awareness, ultimately to the exclusion of all else. She didn’t realize his fingers had been busy until he raised his hands and eased her gown from her shoulders. In a giddy daze, she drew her hands from the sleeves, let him peel the bodice down and away, let him loosen her skirts and let them fall.

  Only when her petticoats followed and she stepped free of the frothing folds did she feel the touch of air cool on her legs, and realize—and shiver. He paused, hesitated, but she’d made her decision. Drawing in a breath, she boldly stepped back into his arms and lifted her lips to his.

  He took them willingly; she felt the breath he’d held ease from him. Then he wrapped his arms about her, lifted her off her feet, and carried her to the bed. He tumbled her down and she giggled, the sound not as nervous as she’d expected. He shot her a look from under heavy lids and reached for her stockings, drawing first one, then the other, off.

  Lying across the coverlet clad only in her fine chemise, she studied his face, conscious of a sense of freedom, of rightness, welling within her. Despite her nervousness in company, she’d never lacked for courage—never turned aside from a challenge.

  This challenge was one she could wholeheartedly devote her life to.

  When Reggie turned and sat to pull off his boots, she squirmed around and crawled toward the pillows, intending to burrow beneath the covers.

  His hand closed around her ankle and anchored her. “No.”

  She turned back to him, brows rising, letting her head fall against the lowest pillow. The expression on his face was not one she’d previously seen—hard, uncompromising—intent.

  “Stay there.”

  With a fell look, he released her and started to unbutton his shirt.

  She tilted her head. “Are you going to be a dictatorial husband?”

  He snorted. “In this sphere, yes.” He didn’t look back at her, but stood, stripped off his shirt, then his hands fell to his waistband. A second later, his breeches hit the floor, and he turned to the bed.

  Before her eyes had finished growing wide, he was on the bed beside her. Then his lips were on hers—stopping her host of sudden questions at the source. Her hands touched his chest, then gripped, spread, slid, caressed. Passion flared, cindering any reservations she might have had, any last-minute hesitations. Within seconds she was convinced that nothing on earth was more important than being closer, getting closer, skin to skin.

  His hands slid beneath the fine fabric of her chemise, touched, caressed, stroked.

  Until she was on fire, until she pressed him back, seized the material, and drew the chemise off over her head.

  He immediately pulled her to him, immediately lowered his head and drank the gasp of delight that the first touch of body to body wrenched from her.

  Her hands, her whole body seemed to have a mind of its own, clutching, caressing, wanting. When he parted her thighs and stroked between them she gasped, clung, her nails sinking into his upper arms as his fingers parted her and probed, then slid in.

  After that, she was conscious of nothing but rising heat, and a welling, driving urgency. Her skin was hot, flushed, alive, her breathing tortured.

  He was the same, the same desire lit his eyes, the same passion drove him.

  Then they came together and she cried out, arching as their bodies fused, melded, as the sharp pain ebbed and was swamped in heightened delight, swept away on the steady, unrelenting tide of need, of a glorious and dizzying passion.

  It held them both, swirled about them as they danced, as they found the rhythm came naturally, the pace, each touch, each lingering of lips, each gasp something both new and familiar, sensually startling, emotionally revealing, yet comfortable and assured.

  With open and unwavering confidence, they clung and journeyed on, senses awhirl, bodies attuned, until they reached the pinnacle where desire and physical sensation ended.

  In ecstasy.

  Gasping for breath, Reggie held himself over her and drank in the sight of her face, the blissful joy that suffused her expression, the delight that curved her lips.

  Then her lashes fluttered, lifted; she looked up and met his eyes.

  A long moment passed, the reality of what governed them, what had brought them here, to this, hung, as ephemeral as a shimmering veil, as real as a rock, between them, then he bent his head as she lifted her lips.

  Love found and shared; that was, indeed, all that mattered.

  The Matchmaker’s Bargain

  A Novella

  Elizabeth Boyle

  To Lydia,

  for sitting at my feet for so many years and happily snoring while I tapped away.

  You were the best cat a writer could ever wish for.

  Prologue

  England

  1818

  Leaning across the table, Esme Maguire squinted at her guest. Her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, but her instincts were rarely wrong. And right now they were telling her that the gel who’d stumbled up to her cottage during this wretched storm wasn’t being entirely truthful.

  “L
ost, you say?” Esme mused. “And here we thought…well, never mind that. It’s not like Nelson to be wrong, but still I’m glad you ended up on my doorstep, for it isn’t a fit night to be out.” From the lady’s side, an indignant yowl rose, and she scratched the cat with an indulgent caress.

  Yes, Nelson, you have the right of it, Esme thought.

  The drenched young lady on the other side of the table stared down at the cup of tea in her hands. “Yes, after the mail coach became mired in the mud, the driver assured me there was an inn not far up the road, but I fear I wandered down the wrong lane. Thank you so much for taking me in.” She shivered and took another sip of her tea.

  Over near the fireplace hung her steaming gown—an expensively wrought piece of blue silk, and of far better quality than any of Esme’s usual clients wore.

  So, the old lady reasoned, she was no milkmaid or country girl, but most likely a lady. And from the state of her perfect hands, white and uncallused, one who had never toiled.

  The mystery of her guest tugged at Esme’s innate curiosity. “Lucky you are to have found your way here, Miss—”

  The girl glanced up, her eyes wide. “Oh, uh, I’m…I’m…Miss Smythe.”

  “Miss Smythe it is then,” Esme agreed. For now. “And I’m Mrs. Maguire. But you must call me Esme, for everyone does.” She sighed. “Oh, but isn’t it nice to have a bit of company on such a miserable night.” As if to emphasize her words, a clap of thunder boomed overhead, shaking the timbers around them. “I don’t get as many visitors as I like, and I do so love to have someone to talk to.”

  “Yes, company is lovely,” the lady mused, as she glanced about the shadowy room.

  “More tea?” Esme asked, even as she filled the lady’s cup once again with the spicy brew. After she refilled her own, she settled back into her seat. “Now where is it that you’re bound?”

  Miss Smythe took a nervous sip from her cup. “Brighton.”