The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (80 page)

She dug her fingers into his hips, urging him to a quicker pace. “Please do not halt,” she pleaded.

His hands slipped beneath her hips, angling upwards, as he pushed ever deeper within. Amelia arched her back as her muscles clenched with a breathless anticipation. Then, her keening cry echoed through the room as she shattered in shocking delight.

“Justin,” she whispered, holding him tight as he shouted her name and poured into her welcoming body.

Struggling to catch his breath, Justin rolled to the side, pulling his wife into his arms and pressing his lips to the top of her tousled hair.

His wife.

A surge of male satisfaction settled in his heart as he recalled the manner with which she had responded to his touch, and her startled cry as she had reached fulfilment.

Now she was well and truly his wife.

As she was meant to be.

Not that he was foolish enough to believe their troubles were at an end. After all, he had never questioned Amelia’s desire for him. She had been far too innocent to hide her ready awareness when he was near. And while making love to her had been an earth-shattering experience, it did not mean that she was prepared to accept him into her life.

As if to prove his point, Amelia abruptly stirred in his arms, pressing her hands against his chest as she attempted to wriggle from his grasp.

“Dear God …” she muttered.

His arms tightened around her, a scowl marring his brow as he met her panicked gaze. Bloody hell, did she regret having given her innocence to him?

No. What they had just shared was … extraordinary. Magical. He would not allow her to dismiss their lovemaking.

Or him.

“Where do you think you are going?” he demanded.

“I have guests awaiting me.”

“They can keep themselves entertained. We have not finished our conversation.”

She turned her head away, her tone petulant. “I thought you came to London to get me with child, not to converse.”

“Amelia, you know why I am here.” He cupped her face in his hand and gently forced her to meet his searching gaze. “I want us to live as man and wife. Together for now and all eternity.”

“Eternity?” She licked her lips, her expression heartbreakingly fragile. “So very long?”

“Do you want me to beg, my love?” he asked softly.

Her beautiful eyes softened in a desolate yearning that pierced Justin with an unbearable pain. Then, with another burst of panic, she battled her way out of his arms and off the bed.

“Please, can we discuss this tomorrow?” she asked in a ragged voice, her hands trembling as she tugged on the linen shift he had so recently removed from her exquisite body. “I must return downstairs and …”

“No, Amelia.” Indifferent to his lack of clothing, Justin surged off the mattress and grasped her shoulders in a tight grip. “I allowed you to flee from me once before. I cannot bear to watch you walk away again.”

“Justin …”

“I know that I hurt you and perhaps I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he said, interrupting her protest, his heart clenching at the beauty of her fiery curls tumbled about her pale face and her eyes shimmering like the finest emeralds. Christ, he had missed her. “But if you will give me the opportunity, I swear I will prove to you that I am worthy of your heart.”

She suddenly stilled, regarding him with an undisguised wariness. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“You have my dowry and we are both aware you have only to kiss me to have a place in my bed.” Her tone was flat, the very lack of emotion revealing just how important his answer was to her. “Why must you have my heart as well?”

His lips twisted. “I should think that obvious.”

“Humour me.”

Justin steeled his courage. This was the moment.

It had taken him months to accept the truth. Oh, he had known from the moment that he had been introduced to Amelia that she was special. She did not brazenly toss herself at his feet nor had she bored him with mindless chatter and shrill giggles. In fact, he had been enchanted by her clever comprehension of the bills being debated before the House of Lords and the inherent dangers of Spain’s political instability.

And, of course, he had not been fooled for a moment by her hideous gowns and frizzed hair. His discerning eye had easily recognized the lush beauty that set his body on fire.

Still, it was not until he was alone at Rosemount that he accepted that his feelings for Amelia ran far deeper than he had ever realized.

After all, he had what he wanted. With Amelia’s vast dowry his estates were swiftly being restored and even Rosemount had been rescued from ruin, although he had done no more than ensure the foundation was sound and a new roof and windows were installed. He was being toasted as a saviour by his tenants and, while he expected to feel guilt and perhaps even a measure of remorse, he was not prepared for the raw, aching need to have his wife at his side.

His estates were suddenly a burden that had cost him the only thing that truly mattered in his life.

Amelia.

“It is only fair that I have your heart when you have stolen mine,” he whispered.

The emerald eyes flared with an unexpected fury at his soft words. “No.”

Justin frowned. This was not precisely what he had expected when he had dreamed of telling his wife that he loved her. “Amelia?”

“If you wish to discuss our future together I am willing to listen without false promises,” she muttered, her voice thick with suppressed tears. “As you said, it is only to be expected you would wish an heir.”

“I do not give a damn about an heir,” he growled.

“But you said …”

“I knew that you would have me thrown out if I told you I was here because I loved you and I could not bear to spend another day without you,” he admitted without apology. He had many things to regret, but not his determination to earn his wife’s heart. “I had to have some excuse to be in London.”

She trembled, regarding him with wounded eyes. “You love me.”

“I believe that is what I just said,” he attempted to tease.

“No.” She shook her head. “It is impossible.”

“Surely I am allowed to know my own feelings?”

“If you loved me …”

“Sssh.” He bent his head to press a soft, aching kiss to her lips before pulling back with an expression of apology. “I am painfully aware I should have told you the truth of my financial troubles the moment we were introduced, Amelia, and if I could return in time I would do whatever necessary to avoid hurting you.”

“Allow me to finish, Justin,” she commanded.

His lips twitched with rueful amusement. The awkward wallflower was well and truly gone. And in her place was a woman who was in her full glory. His heart swelled with pride.

“If you loved me you would never have left me alone for the past year.”

His brows lifted at her rather unfair accusation. “There are those who would argue that you were the one to leave me, my sweet.”

She turned her head to reveal the tense line of her profile. “Because I was hurt. And …”

“And?”

“Scared.”

Justin flinched, feeling as if she had just shoved a dagger in his gut. In truth, he wished she had. That would certainly have been less painful.

“Scared of me?”

“Of having my heart broken again.”

“Never.” He buried his face in her satin curls, breathing deep of her sweet scent. “I swear, Amelia.”

A silence filled the room, and Justin battled back his agonizing need to plead for her to accept him as her husband. On this occasion she would not be pressured or coerced or seduced into her decision. Instead he simply held her, savouring just how perfect she felt pressed against him.

“Why did you stay away?” she at last demanded.

“As I said, I hoped that time would heal your wounds, but primarily because I feared that I had truly destroyed any feelings you might have possessed for me,” he admitted with stark honesty. “How could I force myself into your company if you hated me?”

She pulled back to meet his burning gaze. “So why did you come here tonight?”

He hesitated, knowing that he had to speak the truth, yet wise enough to realize Amelia was bound to be angered by his confession.

“In part because you remained a virgin.”

Her eyes widened with a horrified shock. “How did you …” She bit off her words as a blush rose to her cheeks. “Of course. My servants were spying upon me.”

Justin grimaced. “Do not blame them.”

“Oh, I don’t,” she said, her tone revealing precisely whom she did hold to blame. “Why were you so interested in my virginity, or need I bother asking?”

He gently framed her face in his hands, his thumb brushing the edge of her full lips. Against his will, his body began to stir with an urgent passion that was by no means sated. Hell, he doubted there would ever come a day when he was not consumed with desire for his wife.

He brushed his lips over her furrowed brow. “I knew that if you no longer cared for me you would have found someone else to love.”

She trembled, her eyes darkening with an unconscious invitation. “You said that was part of the reason,” she reminded him, her voice thickening.

His lips skimmed down the length of her nose, then nuzzled the edge of her mouth. “Yes.”

She trembled, her body instinctively arching to press against him. “And the other part?”

He lifted his head to regard her with a sombre sincerity. “Quite simply, I could not stay away,” he breathed. “My life, my home, my heart … they are all empty without you. I love you.”

Tilting back her head, she studied him with a piercing intensity. As if hoping to see into his very soul.

And perhaps she was, he ruefully acknowledged. He had destroyed her trust once before. She would not easily offer it again.

Justin clenched his teeth, suddenly realizing what a man on trial must feel like just moments before his sentence is pronounced. Was he to be offered mercy or sent to the gallows?

Amelia’s lips parted, but before she could speak there was a tap on the door.

“Lady Spaulding?” a maid’s timid voice whispered through the door. “Your guests are concerned. Is everything all right?”

Justin frowned, but before he could order the servant to leave them in peace, Amelia had placed her hand over his mouth, her emerald eyes glowing with a happiness that nearly sent him to his knees in relief.

“Thank you, Mary, you may inform my guests that for the first time in my life, everything is absolutely perfect.”

Aunt Mary grabbed for the letter that dropped from Millie’s hand. “Dead? Who’s dead? When did he die?”

Aunt Mary held the page closer to her eyes, as if that would help her read the solicitor’s letter. It would not. Miss Marisol Cole was born of an age when women’s brains were considered too small to shelter facts or figures. What she lacked in education, however, Aunt Mary made up for in eccentricity. She turned to peer at her pets, three small sleeping canines of undetermined parentage and one ill-tempered tabby guarding the window seat: Finn, Quinn, Min and Grimalkin.

“The animals are not upset, so it cannot be anyone important.”

“It’s Papa,” Millie said through a throat that was suddenly dry and scratchy.

“You see? No one important. The dogs always know. The cat must know too, but she never tells.”

Millie took the letter back. “My father. Your brother.”

“Who wrote both of us off after The Incident, the cold-hearted churl. What was that, five whole years ago? And we have not heard one word since. I am certain he did not mention either of us in his will, so no, he is not worth a single tear.”

Millie dabbed at the one that trickled down her cheek. “He was my father. I always hoped, that is—”

“Jedediah Cole never forgot or forgave an insult in his life. He crossed both of us out of the family Bible, didn’t he?”

With a big puddle of ink, Millie thought. She’d been told this by the solicitor who’d arranged their departure from the Baron’s estate. All because of the scandal.

When a schoolboy was said to ‘blot his copybook’, it meant his penmanship was messy, his essay or test or practice page irredeemably ruined. Ah, but when society considered that a young miss had ‘blotted her copybook’, her whole life was irredeemably ruined. No matter the truth, gossip labelled her loose, immoral, tainted beyond repair, unfit for polite company or prospective suitors. Especially if the man involved was not standing by with a special licence that could magically erase many a black mark. There’d been no such rescue for the motherless Miss Mildred Cole, who’d been young and in love.

Helped by that selfsame
involved
man — no gentleman, he — the scandal spread like a fistful of mud thrown against a whitewashed wall. It cost her father his good name and, worse for Jed Cole, his money. It cost Millie’s brother Ned his membership at his London clubs, and her younger sister a come-out season. Neither of them forgave her either. Her letters went unanswered; the small gifts she sent went unacknowledged.

Millie and Aunt Mary (who played a part in The Incident, as well) were banished to a tiny cottage in a village outside Bristol, with a piteously small, begrudgingly given, allowance and no communication with their family or former friends. Of course they’d made new acquaintances, a place for themselves in the small community. A community where the bachelors were all farmers and tradesmen, uninterested in a dowerless bride or a penniless spinster, no matter their pedigrees.

“Five years,” Aunt Mary mused, lifting the nearest dog on to her lap. “We have done enough mourning for our own lives. Why should we mourn for his?”