Regency Society Collection Part 2. Ann Lethbridge

wasn’t sorry. A softness entered her eyes and a haziness that suggested tears. Alex looked at her in disbelief, at a complete loss to know why his refusal to eat her rabbit should have brought her close to weeping.

      ‘You’re not going to tell me you’re offended, are you?’

      ‘No,’ she whispered truthfully, humbled. ‘I’m so sorry I killed the rabbit. I’ll never shoot another as long as I live. I swear I won’t.’

      Alex stared at her. Those were not the words he had expected from her, but they were the ones he most wanted to hear. Somehow her regret for her foolish deed made him feel better. He grinned. ‘Does that apply to fish, too?’

      Angelina saw the humour lurking in his silver eyes and laughed. ‘Oh, no. I’m good at fishing.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it. So am I. Now, eat your trout.’

      Mrs Morrisey was busy supervising the housemaids as preparations for the weekend house party got under way. Angelina was not looking forward to it, finding the prospect of meeting strangers daunting. Aunt Patience was feeling much better and hopefully the doctor would permit her to leave her room by the weekend.

      When Angelina left Alex to sit with their aunt after dinner each night, he had taken to accompanying her, where, under the ever-watchful eye of Aunt Patience, he would engage the young woman in cards or chess—and Uncle Henry had been right about her skill. At first he had doubted her talent, but he soon realised he had grossly underestimated her ability and that she was no novice.

      They played in front of the fire, so engrossed in their game that they failed to notice Patience’s expression of pure delight as she looked on from a roll-backed sofa, pretending to read a book. With a well-satisfied smile, she watched Alex as he relaxed in his high-backed chair with a decanter of brandy on the small carved table beside him. His eyes were fastened on the young woman across from him, and she strongly suspected his interest was not in the game.

      While Angelina thought out her next move, the only sound in the room was the occasional crackle of the fire and the steady tick of the ormolu clock on the marble mantelpiece. Alex was fascinated by the way Angelina always vacated her chair and either perched on an embroidered footstool or knelt on the carpet, as she did now, as soon as they began to play. Her casual posture was not at all what he was used to among the proper ladies of his acquaintance, but he found it enchanting nevertheless. Sitting back on her heels and resting her elbows on the low chess table and cupping her face in her hands, her dark lashes curving against her cheek, she presented to him a captivating picture of bewitching innocence as she frowned in deep concentration over the board.

      Every so often she would reach out and take a piece of pink Turkish delight, liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar, from a salver beside her and pop it into her mouth. Sipping at a glass of brandy, feeling the heat course down the back of his throat, Alex would watch from beneath half-lowered lids as she sucked the sugar from each sticky finger, her lips ripe, perfect, and so adorably kissable. It was almost impossible to believe that he could find such an ordinary act sublimely erotic, an act inflaming him beyond logic. As she was taking her time contemplating her next move, he looked down on the top of her head where the shining chestnut-coloured hair was drawn into an even parting, tempted to reach out and run his finger down the perfect line.

      ‘Are you woolgathering or have you forgotten it’s your move?’ he said with a hint of gentle mockery.

      Angelina shot him an indignant look. ‘I am not woolgathering—whatever that means—and I know it’s my move without you having to remind me. I just want to make quite certain that the move I make is the right one.’

      ‘Who taught you to play?’

      ‘My father. I used to beat him more often than not.’

      ‘I am not your father, and you have not won yet, young lady. I have your knight.’

      ‘And I have one of your bishops,’ she countered.

      ‘That makes no difference. It’s the skill that matters. Now—are you going to move or not?’ He flicked her lazy a grin. ‘Of course, if you want to accept defeat, I’ll accept your surrender.’

      ‘I think not. The game is not over yet. And do you always talk as much as this when you play chess—or are you trying to put me off my game?’

      ‘If you move your bishop, you will relieve my knight,’ he suggested softly.

      Angelina looked up, a deep furrow etched between her brows. ‘Certainly not. If I were to do that, you would take great delight in capturing my queen,’ she replied, giving his queen a scathing look where she lurked threateningly on the edge of the board ready to pounce.

      Crossing one long leg over the other, Alex relaxed, content to wait until she was ready to make her move, fully prepared to wait all night if need be. He stared at her tight shoulders, at the taut, slim fingers moving her chess piece, each one exquisitely carved and depicting a character out of one or another of Shakespeare’s plays. He watched her lift a finger to her lower lip and begin to nibble her nail in a characteristic gesture that made his blood run warm.

      ‘That’s a bad habit,’ he chided softly.

      She raised her eyes in surprise, the familiar, distant look of concentration in their dark depths. Her lips were slightly parted.

      ‘What is?’

      He smiled, looking down at her. ‘Nail nibbling.’

      ‘Oh—it helps me concentrate.’ She flushed softly and quickly lowered her hand to her lap when his gaze lingered hot and hungry on her lips.

      ‘Then try not to concentrate too hard, otherwise you will not have any nails left—and I will lose to you yet again.’

      He sighed, beginning to enjoy himself as she took her time over her next strategic moves. It required every ounce of his self-control to concentrate on his own game. His pulse began to quicken as he dwelt on the graceful sweep of her neck and the mobile curve to her lips—so ripe, so soft, so kissable. Instantly his body began to hum a willing, familiar song and he wanted to toss the board and all those irritating little pieces aside and join her on the carpet right there in front of the fire and crush her against him.

      ‘Check!’ Angelina suddenly cried, cornering his black king with her white queen.

      Alex grinned. ‘Mate,’ he responded, knocking his king over in final, willing defeat.

      ‘That’s two games to me to your one,’ she told him.

      The triumphant joy on her face was so startling, so captivating, that Alex was tempted to let her win every time. It would be well worth it to see her look like that. ‘I admit defeat and consider myself well and truly trounced.’

      ‘Will you not play another game to try to get even?’

      Alex threw up his hands in mock despair. ‘Alas, no. Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough for one evening? We’ll play again—perhaps tomorrow—and for your impudence I’m afraid I shall be forced to deal with you as you deserve,’ he chuckled. He rose and went to his aunt, bending down and kissing her cheek. ‘I will bid both you ladies goodnight and retire to my rooms to lick my wounds in private. As you know, Verity and Nathan will be arriving tomorrow—a day ahead of the other guests. I have business in St Albans in the morning so my secretary Hawkins and I will be away first thing. I should be back early afternoon.’

      ‘Alex, wait,’ said Angelina, scrambling to her feet and halting him as he was about to go out, remembering she had a request to make of him. With his hand on the door knob he turned and looked at her, waiting for her to speak.

      ‘May I ride? You have so many fine horses in your stable. I’ve asked Trimble if I may ride one, but he told me to ask you first.’

      ‘Of course. As long as you remain within the vicinity of the house you may. If you wish to ride further afield, a groom or myself must accompany you.’

      ‘Why?’