A Regency Invitation Read online

  ‘Much better,’ she lied, hoping he wouldn’t come close enough to see her reddened eyes.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ he said and strolled over to the parapet. ‘A lovely night, is it not?’

  ‘Y…yes.’

  ‘We all came here for holidays as children. Anthony and I would sneak up here to sleep. Our fond mamas were not impressed when they found out.’

  She could just imagine. ‘And your fathers?’

  He chuckled. ‘Having sinned in the same way themselves, they knew all about it. Little did we know they took it in turns to keep an eye on us at first until they were confident we wouldn’t fall off the roof.’

  Despite her misery, Georgie found herself laughing a little. ‘Just you and Anthony? Not Lord Mardon and his brother?’

  Mr Sinclair snorted. ‘No. John’s a good bit older than we are, you know. And William! Well, he’s only a couple of years older than Anthony, but he never took much notice of us younger ones. More interested in currying favour with Anthony’s elder brother, The Heir.’

  He stiffened, staring down into the park. ‘Speak of the devil! What in Hades is he about?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Georgie.

  ‘William.’ He pointed. ‘Look.’

  Obediently Georgie looked. She saw a darker shadow moving in the park towards the woods.

  ‘How can you be so sure that it’s Mr Lyndhurst-Flint?’ she asked. She could see it was a man, but how Mr Sinclair could tell…‘Oh!’ The man below had bent down and was rubbing at his boots. ‘Yes. It must be him. He’s very…er…particular about his clothing, isn’t he?’

  ‘Damned man-milliner,’ muttered Mr Sinclair. ‘And I’ll thank you not to tell Anthony I said that in front of you!’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘Anthony?’

  She flushed. ‘Mr Lyndhurst-Flint.’

  ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘And if you’ll take my advice, Cousin—you shouldn’t trust him any further than you can sp…throw him!’ He frowned at her. ‘Don’t stay out too long, Cousin. It does become chilly up here, even on the warmest night. Goodnight.’ He sketched a salute and was gone.

  Anthony slipped into their bedchamber very quietly. It had not needed Aunt Harriet’s assurance to convince him that Georgie had felt unwell. Even though they had been separated by the length of the dining table, her pallor had been obvious.

  Aunt Harriet’s advice had been, ‘Leave her be. Sleep will be the best thing for her.’ She had fixed Anthony with a beady eye and he nearly choked on the effort not to inform her that he hadn’t been keeping Georgie from her sleep. At least, not in the way that she meant. He didn’t doubt that it was his presence in the bed disturbing her.

  Moonlight poured into the room, removing the need for a candle or lamp. He trod softly over to the bed to see if she were asleep. She wasn’t there.

  Panic churning in his gut, Anthony strode back out of the bedchamber and crashed into Marcus. Staggering back a pace, he swore.

  Marcus blinked. ‘Anthony, are you all right?’

  ‘Georgie’s gone!’

  A positively delighted grin spread over Marcus’s face. ‘Oh. She’s in the cupola. I just left her there.’

  ‘In…in the cupola? What the devil is she doing there?’ He stared suspiciously at Marcus. ‘More to the point, what the devil were you doing there?’

  Marcus raised his brows. ‘Not meeting your wife!’

  ‘Dammit, Marcus! I never thought you were!’

  ‘If you must have it,’ continued Marcus in pained tones, ‘I intended to meet Miss Devereaux up there, but your wife was there already. I didn’t ask, but I would assume that she needed some fresh air since she had a headache earlier.’

  ‘Oh.’ He should probably pretend he hadn’t heard that bit about Miss Devereaux.

  ‘I think she’d been crying her eyes out,’ added Marcus helpfully.

  ‘Crying…oh, God!’ Pain lashed him.

  ‘Anything I can do, Anthony?’

  He shook his head. All he wanted was to get to Georgie. ‘No.’ Then common sense cut in. ‘No, wait. Yes, there is. Come into my room for a moment. Marcus.’

  Without a word, Marcus followed him.

  Anthony shut the door behind them and went to light a candle. He turned to find Marcus leaning against the door frame. ‘I’ve been a damn fool,’ he said bluntly. ‘Over your mess and with her. But there’s a link. William.’

  ‘What?’ Marcus’s shoulders surged off the door frame.

  Briefly Anthony told Marcus his suspicions. ‘Don’t you see?’ he finished. ‘Each time he has tried to safeguard his own position by destroying my trust in someone. And it’s worked. Because he was dealing with a damn fool.’ He said nothing about John’s revelations, or the pearls.

  Marcus swore. ‘Damn him! I knew he had to be behind this business with Frobisher, but you! Hell, Anthony—he’s stolen four years of your life. Every time I lay eyes on him I want to break his neck! How the devil can you stand the sight of him?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Anthony grimly. ‘But if I kick him out, what odds would you give that he won’t shop you to the nearest magistrate? And what of John? This will hit him hard.’

  Marcus said a few things under his breath. ‘Something else you should know,’ he went on, ‘William has developed a yen for the beauties of nature.’

  Anthony blinked.

  ‘He was going into the woods just now. Your wife and I both saw him. At least, I thought it was him. Anyway—it’s his second trip today. Cassie mentioned that he’d taken a stroll this afternoon.’

  ‘Third trip. He was there early this morning,’ said Anthony, his brain whirling. ‘And Timms says William was in Lynd today. Not his usual style at all.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘Mmm. Fishy. If we’re lucky it’s only an assignation with some wench, but there is the possibility that Grant is still in the area.’

  ‘I know. I’ve put the word out quietly. You’d better be prepared to leave. Ufton is checking the mail, but if Grant, or someone else, posts a letter for him—we could have that magistrate down on us very quickly.’ He swore as he saw the stubborn set to his cousin’s jaw.

  ‘I’ll break William’s neck first,’ vowed Marcus. ‘No, thank you. I’ll stay and see this out.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘One other thing, Anthony—’

  Flushing, Anthony said, ‘I know. I’m sorry. I was a fool to mistrust you. There’s no excuse—’

  ‘Oh, shut up, you idiot,’ growled Marcus. ‘I wanted to apologise for poking my nose into your drawers and finding that miniature. I had no business—’

  ‘Oh, go to the devil,’ said Anthony. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my wife.’

  She was still there. A small shadow, leaning on the balustrade staring over the dark woods.

  ‘Georgie?’ He kept his voice low, but relief made it harsh. He had somehow feared that she would be gone.

  She turned. ‘How you must hate me.’ The tired whisper seared him.

  ‘Hate you?’ Swift strides took him to her, but she flinched and he forced his hands back to his sides, despite the aching need to hold her.

  ‘I didn’t understand, didn’t know until your cousin told me—’

  ‘Marcus?’ What the devil had Marcus said to upset her?

  ‘Not Mr Sinclair. Lady Quinlan.’

  He knew now what was coming. Georgie’s headache was explained. ‘Damn Cassie,’ he growled. ‘If Quinlan hadn’t taken her off my hands, I’d warm her backside. What rubbish did she tell you?’

  ‘That people believe you murdered me. And Justin. That you made sure he died at Waterloo! That you were nearly cashiered for it!’

  He froze at the horror in her voice. Oh, God. After the way he’d raged at her, after he’d informed Finch-Scott that his seconds would call—what did Georgie believe? ‘And you? What do you think?’

  ‘That I ruined your life! Oh, Anthony! If I’d known! How could they think such a thing? Didn�
�t they know you?’

  No. Of course she would never believe such a thing of him. Her faith humbled him.

  He shook his head. ‘No. They didn’t. But the people who mattered knew. My neighbours. My family. And I wasn’t nearly cashiered. Wellington sent a message to my colonel, demanding that the pressure to do so be resisted, and received a very dusty answer that the Guards could look after their own, thanks very much.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  He came to her then, unable to bear any longer the pain in her voice. Ignoring her protest, he took her in his arms. ‘No. Let me hold you.’ His voice cracked. ‘God, you don’t know how much I’ve wanted to do this in the past four years. How much I’ve hated myself for what I said that night. My damnable temper! You were so young. It was my fault, not yours.’

  He felt the sobs racking her slender body and pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair, absorbing the scent, the feel of her, drawing it deep. ‘I told myself that if you ever returned to me, I’d do better…’ He shuddered. ‘And when you did come back, I hurt you again. Georgie, I’ve been such a fool. I was wrong to lose my temper that night, wrong to accuse you. Can you not forgive me?’ He drew her closer, feeling the wrenching of grief as it poured from her. ‘Will you let me be your husband again?’

  She struggled free and gazed up at him, the despair in her face a physical blow. ‘With all my heart,’ she whispered. ‘But I can be no wife to you, Anthony. I cannot give you what you want.’

  ‘What I want?’

  ‘A…a child.’ Her voice broke and she turned away. ‘I mean, an heir.’

  Silence hung between them. He waited. Not understanding, but knowing somehow that he hung on a knife edge. That the wrong word now might lose her forever.

  ‘You asked what I would have done if I had been carrying your child. Well, I was.’ Her voice sounded remote, a distant echo of something that had happened to someone else. Something she could no longer bear to feel. ‘I knew, whatever had happened between us, even if you no longer wanted me, I had to tell you about the child. So I wrote.’

  She had written? ‘But—’

  ‘No.’ The bleak voice cut him off. ‘It was never posted. I had a miscarriage after I reached Aunt Mary, my godmother. The doctor who attended me said that losing the baby so early, it was likely that I would be unable to have children.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ whispered Anthony. Grief and horror welled up inside him as he realised the pain, the fear and the bitter loneliness she had been through, believing that he had abandoned her. That all he wanted of her was an heir. No wonder she had not come back.

  With hands that shook, he drew her back into his arms and rocked her, burying his face again in the fragrance of her hair. ‘My poor darling,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all right. I’m here now.’

  A wave of peace flooded Georgie. At last. He knew. Whatever he decided later, he was holding her now, giving the comfort her bruised heart had needed. She clung tightly, never wanting to let go. And knowing that she must. But when she tried to pull away, he held on, his arms tightening, his hands trembling over her hair, her face. His tenderness surrounded her, warmth where there had been only the deadly chill of despair.

  ‘Anthony, what if I can’t give you a child?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Georgie. It’s you I want. Just you. You’re mine. I’ll never let you go again.’ His voice was hoarse, shaking.

  ‘But—’

  He silenced her with his mouth, with a kiss that said everything his breaking voice could not express. His longing, his need.

  Urgency hammered in his blood. Fighting for control, he lifted his head and stared down at her dazed eyes, soft with passion. He wanted her more than his next breath. The night breathed around them, dark, seductive. If he took the cushions off the seats…No. He dragged in a deep breath, forcing himself to restraint. It didn’t take genius to know why Marcus had been meeting Miss Devereaux up here and the last thing he needed was any interruptions.

  ‘Anthony?’ The uncertainty in her voice tore at him. He had to tell her, show her, how much he needed her, loved her. But—

  ‘Not here,’ he whispered. And lifted her into his arms.

  Georgie clung to him as he carried her downstairs, her thoughts chaotic. He couldn’t want her, but—Kicking the bedchamber door shut behind him, he strode across the room and laid her gently on his bed. No. Their bed. Their marriage bed.

  The windows had been left open and the soft night air stole in, wreathed in moonlight. He turned to her, his need blazing from him. ‘Where is your wedding ring?’

  Drawing a shaky breath, she said, ‘In…my workbag. By your desk.’

  A wry smile flashed. ‘No wonder you didn’t want me to look in there the other day.’ He went to the bag and knelt down. A moment later he straightened and turned. The ring dangled on its chain from his fingers.

  ‘I…I wore it under my clothes,’ she said. Tears spilt over. ‘It was all I had of you.’

  His fingers shaking, he released the clasp and came to her, laying the ring on the bedside table as he joined her on the bed. ‘Mine,’ he whispered as his mouth came down on hers, cherishing and ravishing. A miracle of possession and giving. Gentle, caressing hands brushed her clothes away, leaving her defenceless, her skin quivering for his touch. And then he was naked too, pulling her against his hard, lean body, his mouth devouring her, burning kisses over her breasts while his hands stroked and explored.

  She gave him back kiss for kiss, caress for caress, caring nothing if he realised how much she loved him, if only he would hold her like this and make love to her. His mouth was a fire at her breasts, drawing her deep into the heat and wetness, suckling so that she arched and pressed him closer as pleasure laced her.

  ‘Please…oh, please…’ Her own voice, a ragged gasp, as she lifted against him, her body pleading. Yet still he held back, stroking, caressing, one powerful thigh clamped over hers, holding them together.

  The silken shift of her body burnt him. Consumed him with the need to take her. To become part of her. Forever.

  ‘God, Georgie,’ he whispered. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?’

  ‘I want you,’ she breathed.

  His blood hammered. He’d hurt her the other night. This time he would be sure she was ready. More than ready. And he needed to show her that he loved her. That she was his. And that he was hers.

  Gently he cupped the mound of curls, clenching his jaw for control as he felt her thighs part. Slowly he pressed further, feeling her trembling response as he found the honeyed slickness that bloomed for his tender caress.

  Soft cries scorched his restraint until he shook with the need to take all she offered, give all she pleaded for. With a groan, he pushed her thighs wider and settled in the soft cradle. Her arms clung, drawing him down. His jaw clenched, he resisted the sweet temptation to take her there and then.

  He reached for the wedding ring. ‘Open your eyes, sweetheart.’

  Slowly the dark lashes lifted. Her eyes were dazed, dilated, bright with tears. He bent and brushed his lips over hers. ‘Give me your hand, your left hand.’

  A small, trembling hand was placed in his.

  Braced over her, he slid the ring on to her finger and whispered, ‘With this ring, I thee wed.’ Holding her gaze, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the ring on her finger. Then, pressing against her soft, moist core, he said, ‘With my body, I thee worship.’

  He took her mouth, fiercely, hotly, and pressed slowly inside, still restrained, feeling her close sweetly around him.

  She gasped, her body tightening, raking him with fire.

  He stilled immediately, fear streaking through him. ‘Are you all right?’ he whispered against her lips.

  She could barely breathe. All she could do was lift against him, twisting, pleading for his possession.

  ‘Georgie?’

  ‘Please…don’t stop!’

  The breaking cry destroyed what was lef
t of his control. With a groan he sank fully into her body and began to move, loving her tenderly, thoroughly until the world shattered around them and there was nothing left except the certainty of their love.

  Later, much later in the darkness, Anthony lay with her in his arms, her breath sighing over his chest, and wondered if he’d get any more sleep in the next four years. He rather thought this sort of sleeplessness would sit a great deal better with him.

  Her cheek shifted against him and he suppressed a groan as his body tightened.

  ‘Anthony?’

  ‘Sweetheart?’ He traced the hollow of her spine with a teasing finger.

  ‘I’ve been…thinking.’

  Her sensuous wriggle had his blood hammering again. As did the curious fingertip circling his nipple.

  ‘Thinking? Is that what you call it?’ He let his hand curve and tighten over her bottom.

  ‘Anthony!’

  He chuckled. ‘What were you thinking about, love?’

  ‘That note. And the pearls. Why would anyone take the note? The pearls, yes, but—’

  Fear stirred. ‘Leave it, Georgie.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No.’ Black fear blossomed in a cold, spreading rush, strangling him. He had to get rid of William before Georgie worked it out. If William had ordered the attack on Frobisher, if he had plotted to have Marcus hanged, then what might he not have done had Georgie not left Brussels so precipitately? Why had he returned to their lodgings? Anthony’s stomach chilled.

  He’d had four years of hell not knowing. Had he narrowly missed a lifetime of grief actually knowing? Somehow they had to prove Marcus’s innocence and get rid of William. If he thought Georgie knew enough to hang him…

  ‘Anthony?’

  Terror at the thought of what might have happened if she hadn’t fled consumed him. With a groan, he rolled, silencing her with his kiss, feeling her wild response, her body softening in surrender as he settled her beneath him.

  Georgie’s body flamed as she felt his weight, tasted the need in his urgent kiss. Eagerly she obeyed the unspoken demand of his body, opening herself to his possessive touch. Delight took her as he caressed intimately, fire shimmering up from his teasing fingers.