Leah Ball - The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

She felt the thumping of his heart beneath his shirt and waistcoat, or perhaps it was her own heartbeat. She could no longer distinguish his heart from hers. They were as one, synchronized, merged, united.

He parted her lips with a gentle nudging from his own, and all at once the kiss became lush and full and potently carnal as his tongue began an urgent twirling dance with her own. Good God, what was he doing to her? It was like nothing she had ever experienced or could even have imagined. It was earth-shaking, soul-shattering — a kiss filled with hunger and tenderness, with promise and desire. She melted into it, allowing him to draw her tongue deeper into his mouth, and everything within her dissolved into molten liquid.

They kissed and kissed for what might have been hours or mere moments. When he finally lifted his head, he murmured her name. “Lydia, ah, sweet Lydia.” He skated his lips along her jaw to the hollow beneath her ear. Unprepared for the intense sensation his lips wrought on that particular spot — she’d had no idea it was so wonderfully sensitive — she caught her breath on a gasp and shivered with almost unbearable pleasure. She arched her neck in shameless invitation as his mouth moved lower. His lips parted and the velvety tip of his tongue against her flushed neck sent ripples of pure bliss shimmering along every inch of her skin. The jumble of new sensations was so dazzling that all rational thought vanished. A moan rose from the back of her throat. She gasped his name, over and over, while kneading his back and shoulders with restless desire.

The sound of his name seemed to renew his passion, for he brought his lips back to hers and plundered her mouth again, almost savagely. She responded with equal hunger, and they kissed until her head swam in a sort of dark, sensual haze.

When they finally broke the kiss, she leaned her forehead against his, her breath ragged and her heart in turmoil. “Geoffrey? Is this real? Or are we still play-acting?”

“Does it seem like play-acting to you?”

“No. Oh, I don’t know! You have my mind all in a whirl. I don’t know what to think.”

He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Sweet Lydia, I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?”

“Hartwell was not detained, and he did not ask me to replace him tonight in your little scheme.”

“He didn’t?”

“No, I asked him. In fact, I all but begged him to allow me to take his place. When he told me of your plans, I knew I wanted to be the one to play the lovesick fool.”

“But why?”

“So I would have a good excuse to do this.” And he kissed her again. “And this.” He trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat. “And this.” His tongue dipped into the cleavage of her bosom while one finger slipped inside the lace at her neckline until it found her nipple, just barely covered by her stays. She uttered a moan of shocked pleasure as he teased it.

“Oh God, Lydia.” His voice was raw and breathless. “We must stop.”

She buried her face in the crook of his neck. “This is real, then? You are kissing me because you want to and not because of Lord Tennison?”

“I have wanted to kiss you for ages, Lydia. And the devil take Tennison. Surely you do not really want him, do you? Would you give me a chance instead?”

She threw her head back and laughed for joy. “Silly man. Of course I do not want that odious Lord Tennison. I have a confession, too, you know. What I told Daniel and Philip was true. I was indeed pining away for someone who never noticed me, and they really did help me contrive a plan to make that someone jealous. But it was not Lord Tennison, it was you.”

“Me? I had assumed it was Garthwaite or Lonsdale or any of a number of eligible gentlemen — but when you named Tennison, I began to have my doubts. I knew you were up to something, and I dared to hope it might involve me.”

“Wretched man! You knew all along I had lied about Lord Tennison?”

“Of course I did. You would never be attracted to such a jaded libertine. But you did give me pause in the supper room, when you flirted with him. You see, your scheme worked after all. I was seething with jealousy! Though I didn’t need that ploy to make me notice you. I’ve been noticing you since you gave up plaits and put your hair up.”

“Truly? I had no idea. I thought you entirely indifferent to me. You never hinted otherwise.”

“Because I was convinced you disliked me. With all Daniel’s other friends, you were fun and lively. With me, you always seemed a bit cool. But still, I found you irresistible.”

“Oh no, you resisted me quite easily! If I seemed aloof, it was because I was afraid to reveal how I truly felt.”

“And how is that?”

“I have loved you forever, I think.”

“And I love you, Lydia. With all my heart.”

“Deeply and completely?” she teased, throwing his words back at him, hoping he had meant them.

He laughed, took her face in his hands, and stroked his thumbs along the line of her jaw. “Deeply and completely. What fools we have been, eh? Each of us secretly pining after the other. We must name our first child after Hartwell for hatching the scheme that finally brought us together.”

She smiled at the implication of his words, and was tilting her mouth up for another kiss when a shriek from the shrubbery interrupted them.

“Lydia! What on earth are you about?”

Dear God, it was her mother. She looked anxiously at Geoffrey, who kissed her hand and rose from the bench.

“Not to worry, Mrs Bettridge. Miss Lydia and I have come to an understanding. I trust you will forgive us for behaving improperly, but we were too excited and happy to resist a kiss or two.”

“Well.” Her mother frowned, but she did not fool Lydia. She was surely thrilled beyond measure. “I suppose one must forgive high spirits at such a time. You will, naturally, call upon Mr Bettridge tomorrow.”

“You may tell him to expect me.”

“Good. In the meantime, Lydia, come with me. You must not been seen coming out of the garden with Mr Danforth, regardless of his intentions. People will talk, you know. Come along now.”

Her mother linked arms with her and walked towards the house. Lydia cast one last, longing look at Geoffrey before following her mother out of the garden and up the terrace steps.

“Well, my dear.” Her mother gave her arm a fond squeeze. “What an interesting evening you have had. Aren’t you glad Philip Hartwell didn’t show up for that first set?”

“I have never been so glad of anything in all my life.”

And she would thank him for it — for staying inside on a rainy day, for explaining the male psyche, for concocting a most excellent plan and for giving up his role in it. But mostly, for helping her to achieve her heart’s desire. At long last.

North Yorkshire — December 1826

The crash of shattering wood and the terrified screams of horses sliced through the frosty night like a knife.

Sebastian Sinclair, Earl of Kinvarra, swore, brought his restive mount under control, then spurred the nervous animal around the turn in the snowy road. With cold clarity, the full moon shone on the white landscape, and starkly revealed the disaster before him.

A flashy black curricle lay on its side in a ditch, the hood up against the weather. One horse had broken free and wandered along the roadway, its harness dragging. The other plunged in the traces, struggling to escape.

Swiftly Kinvarra dismounted — knowing his mare would await his signal — and dashed to free the distressed horse. As he slid down the icy ditch, a hatless man scrambled out of the smashed curricle.

“Are you hurt?” Kinvarra asked, casting a quick eye over him.

“No, I thank you, sir.” The effete blond fellow turned to the carriage. “Come, darling. Let me assist you.”

A graceful black-gloved hand extended from inside and a cloaked woman emerged with more aplomb than Kinvarra would have thought possible in the circumstances. Indications were that neither traveller was injured, so he concentrated on the trapped horse. When he spoke soothingly to the animal, the terrified beast quieted to panting stillness, exhausted from its thrashing. While Kinvarra checked the horse, murmuring calm assurances throughout, the stranger helped the lady up to the roadside.

With a shrill whinny, the horse shook itself and jumped up to trot along the road towards its partner. Neither beast seemed to suffer worse than fright, a miracle considering that the curricle was beyond repair.

“Madam, are you injured?” Kinvarra asked as he climbed up the ditch. He stuck his riding crop under his arm and brushed his gloved hands together to knock the clinging snow from them. It was a hellishly cold night.

The woman kept her head down. From shock? From shyness? For the sake of propriety? Perhaps he’d stumbled on some elopement or clandestine meeting.

“Madam?” he asked again, more sharply.

“Sweeting?” The yellow-haired fop bent to peer into the shadows cast by the hood. “Are you sure you’re unharmed? Speak, my dove. Your silence strikes a chill to my soul.”

While Kinvarra digested the man’s outlandish phrasing, the woman stiffened and drew away. “For heaven’s sake, Harold, you’re not giving a recitation at a musicale.” With an unmistakably impatient gesture, she flung back the hood and glared straight at Kinvarra.

Even though he’d identified her the moment she spoke, he found himself staring dumbstruck into her face — a piquant, vivid, pointed face under an untidy tumble of luxuriant gold hair.

He wheeled on the pale fellow. “What the devil are you doing with my wife?”

Alicia Sinclair, Countess of Kinvarra, was bruised and angry and uncomfortable and horribly embarrassed. And not long past the choking terror she had felt when the carriage toppled.

Even so, her heart launched into the wayward dance it always performed at the merest sight of Sebastian.

She’d been married for eleven long years. She disliked her husband more than any other man in the world. But nothing prevented her gaze from clinging helplessly to every line of that narrow, intense face with its high cheekbones, long, arrogant nose and sharply angled jaw.

Damn him to Hades, he was still the most magnificent creature she’d ever beheld.

Such a pity his soul was as black as his glittering eyes.

“After all this time, I’m flattered you still recognize me, My Lord,” she said silkily.

“Lord Kinvarra, this is a surprise,” Harold stammered. “You must wonder what I’m doing here with the lady …”

Oh, Harold, act the man, even if the hero is beyond your reach. Kinvarra doesn’t care enough about me to kill you, however threatening he seems now.

Although even the most indifferent husband took it ill when his wife chose a lover. Kinvarra wouldn’t mistake what Alicia was doing out here. She stifled a rogue pang of guilt. Curse Kinvarra, she had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.

“I’ve recalled your existence every quarter these past ten years, my love,” her husband said equally smoothly, ignoring Harold’s appalled interjection. The faint trace of Scottish brogue in his deep voice indicated his temper. His breath formed white clouds on the frigid air. “I’m perforce reminded when I pay your allowance, only to receive sinfully little return.”

“That warms the cockles of my heart,” she sniped, not backing down.

She refused to cower like a wet hen before his banked anger. He sounded reasonable, calm, controlled, but she had no trouble reading fury in the tension across his broad shoulders or in the way his powerful hands opened and closed at his sides.

“Creatures of ice have no use for a heart. Does this paltry fellow know he risks frostbite in your company?”

She steeled herself against the taunting remark. Kinvarra couldn’t hurt her now. He hadn’t been able to hurt her since she’d left him. Any twinge she experienced was just because she was vulnerable after the accident. That was all. It wasn’t because this man could still needle her emotions.

“My Lord, I protest,” Harold said, shocked, and fortunately sounding less like a frightened sheep than before. “The lady is your wife. Surely she merits your chivalry.”

Harold had never seen her with her husband, and some reluctant and completely misplaced loyalty to Kinvarra meant she’d never explained why she and the earl lived apart. The fiction was that the earl and his countess were polite strangers who, by design, rarely met.