Regency Scoundrels And Scandals. Louise Allen

against his, her hips urging her tight into the hard, aroused masculinity she craved. She rocked, rubbing herself against him in blatant invitation until she was rewarded by the sound of his growl, low in his throat.

      Somehow he had pushed her against the bookshelves; hard leather spines pressed into her shoulders and buttocks as his knee worked between her thighs, opening her as flagrantly as if she was wearing not a stitch. And still, neither could break the kiss, the furious, all-devouring, heated exchange that threatened to topple her into utter abandon.

      What would have happened if there had not been the knock on the door Eva had no idea. Possibly they would have stripped each other naked and made angry, brazen, heated love on the library’s rich Turkey carpet.

      She wrenched herself away, her hands flying to her hair, her décolletage, her skirts. ‘Get out,’ she hissed. ‘Just get out!’ Without a second glance at Jack she ran across to the pair of globes which stood by the desk, turned her back on the door and called, ‘Come in!’

      ‘Ma’am, Mr Catterick wondered if you would care to join him for tea?’ It was the butler. Eva looked back over her shoulder. Jack was apparently engrossed in a vast folio of maps on a stand that effectively hid whatever state of dishevelment he was in.

      ‘Certainly. Please tell Mr Catterick I will join him in a few moments.’

      ‘Ma’am. And Mr Ryder?’

      ‘I am going out, I have arrangements to make,’ Jack said curtly. ‘I will be back for dinner.’ He looked directly at Eva. ‘Henry will remain here.’ It was a warning not to try to leave.

      ‘Certainly, sir.’ The butler bowed himself out. Eva stepped across to the over-mantel mirror and surveyed her flushed face and wide eyes. At least the day was becoming uncomfortably hot, that at least might be taken as some excuse.

      Grand Duchesses, she reminded herself desperately, do not plump down in the middle of the floor in the library and burst into tears of frustration, they get themselves under control and make small talk over the teacups. She gathered her skirts and swept out without so much as glance towards the atlases. She had foreseen this affaire ending in heartbreak—she had not expected it to fizzle out amidst bad temper and macaroons in a Brussels merchant’s house.

       Chapter Eighteen

      Eva could not recall shedding a tear since the day Louis bore Freddie off to school in England, leaving her frantically weeping in the schoolroom, his slate clutched in her hands. Weeping was undisciplined, an unseemly weakness she had learned to do without.

      Now, in her bed, the maids finally departed, a single candle on the nightstand, she leaned her head back on the pillows and let the tears trickle down her cheeks. From the street came the hubbub of laughter and shouts and cheering. The news had been coming in since about half past eight that the French were beaten. The early rumours became hard fact, as more and more messengers arrived. The Prussians were pressing hard from the east, the Foot Guards were advancing and then the French were in full retreat, the Old Guard alone standing firm to the last to allow the Emperor to escape the field.

      Dinner had become a celebration of toasts, of speculation, of vast relief. She tried to tell herself Maubourg would be safe now, whatever fate had befallen her brothers-in-law. Someone was going to have to explain to King Louis XVIII why his neutral neighbour had invaded with a small troop of men, but at least the monarch had more pressing things on his mind just now.

      And throughout the meal Jack had been distant, correct, formal. It was exactly how he should have been of course, and she thought her heart was breaking. Would he have been like this anyway, once they reached Brussels, or had her attack of nerves and indecision, her demands, alienated him?

      She scrubbed at her cheeks, angry at herself for being so weak. There was so much to be happy about. Jack had at least taken the choice away from her, she must do what she wanted so passionately to do. In a few days she would see Freddie, hold her son in her arms. She could get news of the Duchy, hopefully of Philippe’s recovery, Europe was saved from more years of war…and all she could think about was Jack’s face, the feel of his mouth, hot and angry on hers, the knowledge that something magical had gone for ever.

      The clocks began to strike, past one. The noise in the streets was dying down, or perhaps people were moving to the Grand Place to celebrate. Wearily Eva blew out the candle and closed her eyes. Tomorrow they would be travelling again; she had to get some sleep.

      She opened her eyes on to pitch darkness, to chill, musty air, to a sense that the walls were closing in around her. Then she knew where she was: in the tomb, in the vaults. The terror coursed through her; she threw up her hands, desperately pushing against the unyielding stone. It did not move one inch.

      Defeated, quivering with fear, she fell back, feeling the grave clothes shifting around her, her unbound hair slipping about her shoulders. Into the silence, broken only by her rasping breath, came the sound of the stone gritting above her. Louis. Louis had come for her. Somewhere, glinting in the black fog of panic, she glimpsed another thought and grasped it. Jack. Not Louis, Jack. He had said it would be him who would come, he had promised to rescue her. The stone lid slid further, she saw fingers gripping it as light flooded in.

      ‘Jack!’ He smiled down at her, reassurance, strength. ‘You came.’

      Without speaking, he reached in and lifted her against his chest and she buried her face in his shoulder so as not to see as he carried her back through the vaults, past the tombs, out to the stairs and the air and freedom. With a sigh Eva closed her eyes against the white linen of his shirt and let herself drift into peace.

      When she opened her eyes again there was a candle burning on the night stand, her cheek was pressed to damp white linen and she was held against a warm, male body. ‘Jack?’ Disorientated, Eva twisted so she could look up at him. ‘I was sleeping—dreaming. I had that nightmare, but you came into it, just as you promised. But that was a dream.’ What was he doing here? He was angry with her, yet here he was, cradling her in his arms.

      Jack looked down into the sleep-soft eyes and felt a wave of tenderness swamp every other confused emotion he had brought with him into her bedchamber. When he had curled up on the bed next to her he had kissed her cheek and tasted salt. He had made her cry.

      He loved her, nothing could change that; he feared nothing ever would. There was a puzzled furrow between her brows and he bent his head to kiss it away. ‘Don’t frown. I came to say sorry. You were asleep, so I stayed.’

      ‘But…’

      ‘Your reputation is quite safe. Everyone thinks we are being somewhat over-protective of you, given that the battle has been won, but Henry is asleep in an armchair on the landing and I, as you will have realised, am sitting in your dressing room with a shotgun.’

      That made Eva laugh, as he hoped it would. ‘That was not what I meant.’ She wriggled out of his arms and sat up, half-turned so she could watch him. ‘I should apologise, not you; I was foolish to waver now, when I had agreed to go to England, and I did not mean to try to make you go against your orders. To hector you.’ Jack grimaced. Was that what he had said to her?

      ‘You weren’t. I was angry and I overreacted.’ How to explain, when he hardly understood the violence of his reaction himself? This was probably all to do with falling in love, against all sense and reason. No wonder he did not understand himself any more. Eva was waiting; that damned furrow was back again, making him feel guilty for upsetting her. Hell, he never felt guilty!

      ‘The thought of you in danger makes me afraid,’ he admitted at last. ‘I am not used to being afraid, it makes me irritable.’

      She wrinkled her nose in what he could see was an effort not to laugh at him. ‘Irritable? Is that what you call it?’ Those frank brown eyes were looking so deep inside him he was afraid she could see his love for her written there. ‘Are you truly never afraid? Isn’t that rather