Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1

“Please allow me to assist,” the earl said, “and selfishly steal a few minutes longer with the most graceful dancer of the evening.” Having received a weak smile from Lady Winters, he motioned in the servants who stood at the doorway, heavily loaded trays in hand. “Mrs. Martin will serve.” Taking Lady Winter’s other arm, he helped the squire lead her from the room.

My lord of Beaulieu was certainly good at ordering people about, Laura thought resentfully as she took her place behind the tea tray. But the small civilities of serving tea and the friendliness of Lady Elspeth, who insisted on installing herself at Laura’s elbow, gradually soothed her irritation. By the time the squire and the earl returned to the parlor, Laura was able to prepare their cups with a fair measure of her usual calm.

Don’t meet his eye. Don’t listen for his voice. Pour the tea, smile politely, leave. Now that, at long last, she was finally about to depart, she felt an irrational sadness that the evening was truly going to end. Cinderella, returning to sackcloth and ashes.

“Another round of cards?” Reverend Blackthorne suggested. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure of partnering Mrs. Martin.”

“Not for me, I’m afraid,” Lady Elspeth said, smothering a yawn. “My daughter has me up betimes. My warmest regards to all, but I shall have to retire.”

“I expect we should leave, as well,” Sir Ramsdale said. “A capital party, though, squire! Be sure to convey our warmest thanks to Lady Winters.”

Amid murmurs of agreement among the other guests, the squire motioned the butler to summon the carriages.

“I’m past needing to check on our patient. Please excuse me,” Laura said with a curtsey to the company.

“I should like to look on him, as well,” the earl said. “Squire, my lords and ladies, a delightful evening. If I might escort you, Mrs. Martin?”

Beau climbed the stairs beside Mrs. Martin in a silence that was both edgy with awareness and paradoxically, companionable. After Peters answered their soft knock, Mrs. Martin walked to the side of his sleeping brother’s bed. “Has he been resting comfortably?” she asked the valet.

“Aye, ma’am. He argufied some, but I got ‘em to drink all his broth.”

“Good.” She reached out to touch Kit’s forehead, ran her fingers down to his temple, then moved them to the pulse at the base of his jaw and let them rest there. Beau felt a sharp, involuntary pang of envy.

“Fever is not much elevated, and his pulse is quiet,” she observed. “Has he been coughing?”

“A bit. But not what’s you might call excessive.”

She nodded, then carefully laid her head against his brother’s chest. Beau sucked in a breath, thinking it might be worth getting shot to be in Kit’s place. Especially with a tad fewer witnesses and a lot fewer garments.

“Just a bit of a whistle in his lungs, and his breathing is easier,” she said. “I expect he should do fine tonight, although perhaps it would be best if I—”

“There’s no need, Mrs. Martin,” Beau interrupted hastily. “Dr. MacDonovan would not have turned Kit over to Peters if he had any doubts about his well-being.”

“You get some rest, ma’am,” Peters said. “Young master will be fine.”

Kit murmured and stirred. Beau took that opportunity to place a hand under Mrs. Martin’s elbow. “Come, we don’t wish to disturb his slumber.”

She hesitated a moment before nodding. “Very well. Good night, Peters.”

“Good night, ma’am, your lordship.”

His hand still at her elbow, Beau urged her toward the door. He paused at the threshold to glance back—and caught Kit watching them. His brother flashed him a wink before snapping his eyes shut. Suppressing a chuckle, Beau led Mrs. Martin from the room.

At last he would have her to himself. Anticipation surged through his veins.

“You missed your walk with Lady Catherine this afternoon,” he said, willing his voice to calm. “Or so she informed me during our ride, with no little indignation. You mustn’t neglect your exercise, though, and so unless you are fatigued, I suggest you take that walk now. The evening is clear with no trace of wind, the garden near bright as day under a full moon, and with a wool wrap you should be perfectly warm.”

“What an appealing thought! I believe I will.” She smiled. “I’ve always wondered if roses smell as sweetly at night.”

“Shall we find out?”

Her smile dissolved, her eyes widening. “W-we?”

“I can hardly allow you to walk about the grounds after dark without an escort. And since ‘tis I who urged you to it, ‘tis only fitting that I do the honors.”

“Oh, but my lord, you said you had work … I could not—”

“My papers will wait. Lady Winters’s white garden was designed to be seen in moonlight, she told me. I should like very much to inspect it with you.” His touch feather-light, he put a finger to her chin, tilting it up so her eyes were forced to meet his. Come with me, his gaze implored. “Please, Mrs. Martin.”

He held his breath, frantic with impatience as he awaited her response. She had no guile; he could read on her face the distress, uncertainty—and longing his invitation evoked. All his energy concentrated in wordless imperative, he willed her to yield to the desire that warred with caution in her eyes.

Each moment she did not flee brought her closer to consent. Acquiescence trembled on her lips, and he sought to help it find voice. “Does a white rose truly smell as sweet at midnight? I, too, should like to know.” His eyes never leaving hers, he offered his arm. “Let us see.”

Say yes, say yes, say yes. The refrain beat so loudly in his head he might have spoken it aloud. If she demurred now he wasn’t at all sure he could make himself leave her.

The briefest flicker of a smile creased her lips. “It would be much wiser if we did not. But …” She uttered a small sigh, as if having won—or lost—some great struggle. “Let me fetch my shawl.”

Relief, excitement and gladness shot through him like an exploding Congreve rocket. Knowing he was grinning like an infatuated schoolboy but unable to help himself, he said, “My cloak is in the library. ‘Twill be warmer.”

Before she could change her mind and bolt, he clasped her arm and led her downstairs, across the deserted entryway where the case clock ticked loudly in the stillness, and into the library. Snatching up the cloak he’d left there after his late ride, he fastened it beneath her chin with care, the deliberate avoidance of contact with the soft skin so tantalizingly near his fingers a delicious game of heightening awareness.

“Come,” he whispered. Taking the gloved hand she offered, he led them out the French doors onto the terrace. As they descended to the garden, Mrs. Martin gave a gasp.

“It is a fairyland!”

Illumined by moonlight, each urn, bench and planting stood in its usual place, yet the silvered light and the odd, amorphous shadows it cast gave everything a strange, otherworldly aspect.

His senses seemed uncommonly acute, as well. He heard the plaintive call of an owl, the scurrying of some small animal in the bushes, the crunch of the gravel under their feet, the silken rustle of her skirts. Her subtle scent carried on the chill night air, teasing his nose with the warmth and fragrance of her. Moonlight painted her dark hair, silhouetted her small straight nose and delicate lips with a crystalline line. Each time she took a step the opaque darkness of his cloak parted to reveal a sparkling flash of gown, as magically luminescent as phosphorus in the wake of a ship.

In awed silence they walked down the center allée, then turned toward the west wing into the white garden.

Ghostly roses glowed against a shadowed trellis on the stone wall opposite them. The silver leaves of artemesia and curry drifted onto the pathway, a splash of Stardust at their feet, while tiny white brushheads of asters stood out like dots of exclamation against a dark mass of greenery.

“It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Martin whispered.

He lifted her hands to his lips, exulting when she did not pull them away. “You are beautiful,” he said as he kissed them, his voice husky. “Not a lady in the room tonight could compare.”

She laughed, her voice unsteady. “With your sister and Lady Ardith present? Mendacious flattery, my lord.”

“Absolute truth.”

She made a scornful noise. “I am to Lady Ardith as a candle flame to a Yule log’s blaze.”

“You are to her as fine gold to dross. And so I would have told you earlier, but your having endured enough of her spiteful tongue at dinner, I did not wish to single you out and attract more sweetly acid commentary.”

She tilted her head and gazed up at him with that inquisitive look he found so endearing. “It would not have been fitting in any event.”

“Is propriety so important, Sparrow?”

“You must not call me that.” The quiver of a chuckle belied the stem tone of her reproof. “Nor am I sure I like being called a plain brown sparrow, even were it proper.”

“But you are a sparrow—quiet, observant, intelligent. Endlessly fascinating and entirely overlooked. Although tonight you were transformed into a swan, glittering and graceful.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “And now I’ll revert to observing the proprieties. I shall call you ‘Sparrow’ only when we are alone.”

He heard her choke of stifled laughter and grinned. She’d caught his little joke, clever Sparrow that she was.

“As if our being alone together were not much more improper,” she replied. “I should not have allowed you to accompany me.”

It was too soon to ask, but the urgent need to know overrode caution. “But you wanted my company?”

For a long, anxiety-ridden moment she remained silent. “Yes,” she said finally, her voice a low whisper. “Having admitted that, now I shall observe the proprieties, and leave you.”

“Wait!” He caught her shoulder as she turned. “I’ve a question I’ve not yet asked you.”

She lifted one hand, and for an instant he thought she meant to place it over his, strengthening his hold on her. Instead, she let it flutter back to her side. “One question, then.”

“Will you dance with me?”

Her eyes registered surprise. “Dance?”

“Here, now.” He gestured to the sky above them. “Accompanied by a symphony of stars, to the music of the wind’s rustle.”

“You want to dance with me here?” She repeated, her tone still incredulous.

“I didn’t dare ask you in the drawing room, fearing my proper Sparrow would probably refuse. But there are no prying eyes now to criticize or condemn. So, my lady beautiful, dance with me.” Beau held out a hand.

For a moment she simply stared at him. “This is madness,” she murmured at last. And slipped her fingers in his.

He eased her into waltz position, shocks jolting through him as they touched at shoulder, waist, hip. How well she fit against him, he thought; how absolutely right and natural it seemed to have her in his arms. Tucking the silk of her hair under his chin, he moved her into rhythm.

Under the spangle of stars they dipped and twirled while Beau hummed a tune in her ear. The racing of his heart owed little to the exertion of the dance, everything to the feel of Laura Martin’s hands clutching his shoulders as he swung her in ever-faster spirals, the press of her torso against his through the maddening thickness of his cloak, the warmth of her rapid breaths floating up to caress his face. Not until she gasped an inarticulate appeal did he slow, then halt, though he could not bring himself to let her go.

He didn’t want her to leave the dance or his side, he realized suddenly. No, he wanted her solemn eyes and incisive mind and wood sprite’s charm beside him for the rest of this night. Perhaps for always.

Still clasping her waist, he raised his other hand to trace her trembling lips. “I’ve been waiting all night to have you in my arms,” he murmured.

But he lied. He wanted much more than that. He hungered to arouse the vision he’d glimpsed in her cottage garden, the siren with tumbled hair and passion-languid eyes and soft mouth tilted temptingly to his own.

Beyond strategy and caution, he bent his head toward her lips. To his joy, with a murmur she clutched his shoulder and strained up to meet his kiss.

He retained enough sanity not to plunder her mouth with the urgent need that pulsed in him, luring her instead with quick, glancing touches meant to tantalize, entrance. Not until she twined fingers in his hair, tugged his head closer did he deepen the kiss, licking and sucking at the fullness of her lips until on a moan they parted.

A tremor shook her, shook him when their tongues met, before she darted hers away. An unexpected tenderness welled up—amazingly, his Sparrow did not even know how to kiss. Holding in ruthless check the desire to swiftly conquer and possess, he made himself slow, his tongue once more teasing within the softness of her mouth, letting her accustom herself to the feel of him. After a moment, she rewarded his patience as, tentative, uncertain, her tongue sought his.

He returned that guarded tap, the oblique contact like the sparing blades of cautious fencers. And when she met him again, lingering this time, he boldly stroked her tongue’s full length in a hot velvet slide that struck sparks to every atom of his body.

A strangled moan escaped her throat and he felt the bite of her fingers at his shoulder, her other hand delving into his coat, nails scratching at the buttons of his shirtfront as if seeking entry.

In some dim corner of his mind he knew control was eroding, that he was rapidly approaching the point where not even the October chill of the moonlit garden could rein in his desire. But before sense was lost in a mindless search for a bench, a terrace, even a softly yielding patch of grass, she abruptly wrenched her mouth from his.

In automatic response he tried to pull her back. She fended him off with one hand, her eyes focused on something behind him.

And then he heard it. A woman’s high-pitched, provocative laughter, emanating from the chamber just beyond the garden.

He turned. Through the mullioned window, he saw Lady Ardith standing with her bodice undone, candlelight and moonlight illuminating the bareness of her breasts. Mac leaned toward her, sliding up her skirts as he bent to capture one shadowed nipple in his teeth, while Lady Ardith fumbled with the straining buttons of his trouser flap.

The consternation he felt was reflected in Laura Martin’s horrified stare. Before he could utter a word, she shoved him away and fled down the path toward the library.

Chapter Eleven

Heart drumming against her ribs, gasping from her headlong flight across the garden and up the stairs, Laura closed the door to her room and sagged against it.

Moonsick madness. That’s all it had been, enchantment spun from her silly dreams and a touch of moonlight.

Sensible Laura Martin would never behave so again.

But even as she tried to excuse the episode, shame flooded her chest, thick and stifling.

She could not blame the magic of the garden, her foolish fancies or even Lord Beaulieu’s overpowering presence.

‘Twas her own folly alone that had brought her to this near catastrophe. Her weakness in accepting an escort she should have refused at the outset, her fault in underestimating the strength of her own greedy desire that had almost led her to commit the same wantonness she’d witnessed through the west wing windows.

How could she be disgusted by Lady Ardith’s lechery when she’d felt the same imperative pulsing in her blood?

Lord Beaulieu had enticed her, certainly, but ‘twas she who’d eagerly responded. Heat burned her face as she remembered the shivering shock of his lips against hers, the rasp of his tongue releasing a scalding flood of sensation that seemed to melt her bones, turning her fluid in his arms, starving for something she could not name but frantically sought. Craving the touch of his hands, his mouth, closer, deeper, as man desperate with thirst craves water.

And she craved it still. What she’d felt for her young suitor in her mother’s garden years ago was but a feeble precursor to the raging desire she’d discovered within herself tonight, like the tepid sunlight of an early spring morning that precedes a blazing July noon.

What she might have done, have allowed Lord Beaulieu to do, had that graphic vision of lust not shocked her into recognizing her own, she could only imagine.

And what must Lord Beaulieu think of her now? A woman who’d mouthed propriety, then shown herself as ready for a mindless tumble as the most amoral society matron. Regardless of the tangle of her own wildly contradictory feelings toward his lordship, in light of her behavior tonight his opinion of her must be humiliatingly clear.

A lonely woman, ready for the price of a few compliments to become his convenient during the short time he remained in the country.

Tears burned her eyes as she stumbled to the bed and struggled to strip off the beautiful, never-to-be-worn-again gown.

Cinderella, home at last among the shattered fragments of her dream.

Frustrated and furious, Beau paced the moonlit paths. Damn Mac and the randy Lady Ardith for choosing that particular chamber for their blatant display. He wanted to pursue his Sparrow, comfort her, recapture the magic shattered by that unintentional glimpse of mindless coupling, but some inner sense warned him she was too upset now for him to attempt it.

Tenderness softened the edge of anger. For all her mature calm, she was such an innocent, ‘twas little wonder she’d been shocked. He’d been dismayed, as well, and he had far more experience than she.

Though brutal honesty compelled him to admit, had that unfortunate episode not occurred, he’d have been driven as urgently as Mac to unbind the spangled cloth veiling the lady he wanted so badly, to gently tutor her through every nuance of pleasuring and being pleasured. Even now, the desire to do so still thrummed in his veins.

But only when she was ready, only as far, as fast as she would willingly follow. Unlike the meaningless tryst they’d stumbled into viewing, their eventual joining would contain a joy and tenderness that fired lust into something purer and more lasting. A single night would not be nearly sufficient to satisfy his craving. No, he wanted all of her—heart, mind, as well as body—for the indefinite future.

She knew that—didn’t she? A niggle of doubt troubled him. Surely she didn’t think he’d lured her to the garden only to use her body with the sort of casual carnality they’d inadvertently observed?

The doubt occurred only to be dismissed. They had shared the burden and worry of Kit’s illness, chatted of books and herbs and philosophy, touched each other’s thoughts and emotions in countless small, significant ways before ever their bodies touched. She couldn’t possibly think he viewed her as an object of temporary dalliance.

No, she’d been startled, repulsed, a reaction he treasured for the modesty and discretion it displayed. Nonetheless, just to be sure, he’d proceed carefully tomorrow, treat her with a special gentleness that, combined with a night’s sleep and the prosaic perspective of daylight, would erase from her mind the event that had caused so abrupt and dissatisfying an ending to their walk.

She would leave today, Laura decided as she looked out through the raindrops slipping down her window-pane. Clouds enveloped the garden in a mist-shrouded drizzle, changing the silver walkways, urns and plantings of last night into soggy brick and sodden earth utterly devoid of magic.

As her life must be. She walked to the wardrobe and pulled out the plain brown bombazine. The gown seemed heavier than she remembered, its muddy hue uglier compared to the frosted emerald of the dinner dress. A little brown sparrow, Lord Beaulieu had called her, unnoticed and insignificant.

So she was. So she must be. And if desire could so blind her to that fact, if her protective instincts had eroded so badly that she could stray as far from that role as she had last night, then she must depart at once.

For the truth was, scold herself ever so severely in the fastness of her chamber, she knew if the earl were to walk in the room this minute, her hands would still itch to resume tracing the contours of his body, her mouth yearn to meld with his and see what new delights he could teach her. It shamed and horrified her to discover within herself such a deep vein of carnality, but in the stark light of morning, she was too honest to deny its presence or power.

Intensified by admiration and affection, such a force would be nearly impossible to resist. And if fully satisfied in a connection both physical and emotional, it would create a bond that would shatter her soul to sever.

She’d likely given him her heart already, a gift he’d never sought and surely wouldn’t appreciate. At least if she prudently fled now, she might avoid completing the disaster by bonding with him in body, as well.

A leaden despair settled in her gut. Even if they both wished it, there could never be anything legal or permanent between them, nothing beyond a fleeting, temporary liaison. Besides, she had only her girlish fancies to suggest that the earl even desired her for more than assuaging the same need for which Lady Ardith had met Dr. MacDonovan.

She had more self-respect than to stoop to that.

Kit Bradsleigh no longer required her round-the-clock presence. Her garden needed tending, her dog craved companionship, and she ought to seek the solitude necessary to reconstruct the boundaries that protected her.

That isolated her.

She reached out to stroke the silky lightness of the dinner gown, still draped on a chair where she’d abandoned it last night. She closed her eyes, allowing herself for a moment to relive the feel of Lord Beaulieu’s arms around her, the taste and touch of his tongue. A ragged sigh born of pain and loss slipped from her throat.

Then with quick, efficient moves she donned the brown gown, hung the spangled emerald dress back in the wardrobe, and left the room.

* * *

After handing Peters the chessboard, Laura turned back to Kit Bradsleigh. “I’ll be coming by daily to check on you and follow any orders Dr. MacDonovan leaves for your care.” Written ones, she hoped. After last night, she’d rather not meet the doctor again in person.

Kit eased himself painfully back against the pillows. “Both of you … deserting me at once.”

“Dr. MacDonovan has sicker patients to tend. And I’m close by. Soon you’ll be able to get downstairs to dine and receive callers, so I daresay you’ll not be so bored.” She smiled. “Most of them probably won’t beat you at chess.”

He grinned back. “Like a challenge. Besides, I’m not … quite myself yet. I demand a rematch.”

“Soon,” she promised.

As she rose to depart, though, he caught her hand. “Can’t begin to thank you—”

“Nonsense!” she interrupted. “I thought we’d settled this long since.”

He shook his head. “With you so stubborn and me so incapable, we just … stopped discussing it. But you must know … our family considers your service an unredeemable debt. Beau especially.” He paused, stifling a cough. “No, let me finish. We’re a small family … just Beau, Ellie and me. Parents killed in a carriage accident …! was too young to remember. But Beau was there … in the carriage. He seems to think it his duty now … to protect us from all harm. And after this, you, too. Should you ever need us, need anything, you have only to ask.” He paused, unsuccessfully trying to keep the gasp from turning to a cough.

Laura took his hand. “There is no obligation.”

Gripping his shoulder to damp down the cough’s vibration, Kit once more shook his head. “Lifelong vow,” he said when he could breathe again. “Word of a Bradsleigh.” He squeezed the hand she held.