Regency Society Collection Part 2. Ann Lethbridge

a panic, he withdrew, spilling his essence on her belly as he followed her into the surf. He collapsed on his side, grabbing his shirt to clean her skin. The scent of sweet-smelling straw and lovemaking in his nostrils, a harmony of breathing and slowing hearts, a paradise on earth. Blissful, sated, sweat cooling on exposed flesh, he gazed up into the ancient beams. If he stayed in England with her at his side, perhaps his inner demons could be vanquished.

      With a smile, she nestled deeper in the crook of his arm, her straw-coloured hair trailing over her breasts like a silken veil. He ran a fingertip across her arm where it lay across her stomach, her hand resting on his hip. A beautiful, extraordinary woman.

      His eyes drifted closed. When he came to and looked at her next she had turned on her back. His first thought was to kiss her awake and make love to her again. But tears were sliding from under her long, golden lashes and running down her face.

      He reached out and captured a tear on his thumb and brought it to his lips. He tasted salt. What made her cry in her sleep? His stomach roiled as he forced his mind to recognise what his heart would not. She wasn’t happy.

      It was like a knife twisting in his chest, this sense of impending loss.

      Yet perhaps it was as well. What if this thing inside him caused her harm? He’d never forgive himself.

      Would he harm a woman he only wanted to protect? The legends spoke of blind rage. He was almost sure he’d experienced it first-hand three times now, the sensation of control and memory slipping away. His gut churned.

      Her eyes opened and she looked at him with a slight frown, as if she was trying to recall where she was, then her eyes cleared and she smiled.

      ‘Why are you crying?’ His voice sounded tight and hard.

      ‘I didn’t know I was.’ Her laugh shook. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘A bad dream? I don’t recall.’

      A wave of guilt washed over him. He should have given her the money she needed and made her leave, instead of killing any dreams she must have of her noble patron.

      He only wanted to give her happiness. In his selfishness, he had tried to win her heart, to make her want to stay, but if she cried for Castlefield after a day as perfect as this one, she’d never been his. Sadness rose up inside him, painful and dark.

      He had spent years learning to control his deeper emotions, building a wall to keep out anything that might disturb his calm as a matter of survival. She had pierced that wall and he must make it whole again. He would tell her he was tired of her, send her away.

      But not yet. Not today.

      ‘Come, Dan will return soon. Let me help you dress.’

      On the drive back to the village, Ellie rested her head on his shoulder, her body rocking against him with the horses’ steady rhythm. Unconsciously he pulled her closer and she snuggled into him, nuzzling his neck. His heart felt tattered, torn to shreds, and he welcomed the pain.

      They pulled up outside her front door. ‘Goodnight, Ellie,’ he whispered into her hair. He tipped her chin and brushed her lips with his thumb, aching for more.

      ‘Goodnight, Garrick. Thank you for a wonderful day,’ she murmured.

      Tomorrow, he’d gather the strength of will to set her free. After all, she’d never been his to keep and a man with a stain on his soul didn’t deserve happiness.

       Chapter Six

      Eleanor closed the door the moment the gig drove away. She busied herself preparing supper, trying not to think about the path she’d chosen and what it meant for her future.

      He’d given her a beautiful day in idyllic surroundings and it hadn’t been too hard to imagine herself spending the rest of her life with him. He was thoughtful, charming and fun. Most of all, when he made love to her, she forgot his reputation as a rake, forgot the duty she owed to her family, forgot she was ruined. It wouldn’t matter how good he was to her, he could never marry her now.

      Nor could anyone else.

      And until their bargain was over, she must not let him steal her heart.

      That foolish organ gave a funny little skip, a happy little hop in her chest. Too late, apparently.

      She jabbed the fork into a slice of bread. What a fool. Each time she thought about bidding him goodbye, she cried. If she didn’t take care she’d turn into a permanent watering pot. She’d always despised lachrymose females who complained about their lot in life. She’d made her bed and she’d lie on it, cheerfully, and think about the future when it arrived.

      If she had a future. Drat it, there she went again.

      She stared at the toast and jam she’d put on the plate, but there was no room in her stomach for food. Tea. She needed a nice cup of tea. In bed. And a book. She put the kettle on and changed into her nightdress and robe.

      Her front door creaked open. Her spirits soared. Garrick had returned. She ran to greet him.

      It wasn’t Garrick outlined in the doorway, but a stranger. Large and threatening, with a wind-reddened face and heavy black brows above a red-veined, bulbous nose, he barged over the threshold. Oh, God. She must have forgotten to throw the bolt.

      She backed away, her mouth dry and her heart beating loudly. While not tall, he was heavyset and could overpower her in an instant. Her stomach lurched as small black eyes ran down her body, eyebrows lifting. The worst thing about him was his grin, loose wet lips drawing back over broken yellow teeth beneath a greasy black moustache.

      ‘Get out.’ Her voice shook. She clasped her hands together, seeking strength. ‘You have no right to be in here.’

      ‘Now, now, my lady, don’t get excited, I’ve come with a message from his lordship.’

      ‘The Marquess of Beauworth?’

      ‘The very same.’

      Something jarred about his words. She gasped. He had called her my lady. Garrick knew? Her rapidly beating heart clogged her throat. She swallowed. ‘Get out.’

      He made no move.

      She glanced around for a weapon. If only she had not left her sword at the barn.

      The man closed the door with his heel, following step by step as she backed away. She daren’t take her gaze from his face in case he attacked.

      A weapon. She needed something heavy. She sidled into the bedroom, working her way to the brass candlestick on the night table. Breathing steadily, clutching fast to her courage, she backed around the bed. The table nudged her back. Her fingers fumbled behind her and found cool metal.

      She held up her other hand in a warning. ‘No closer.’

      He reached into his pocket. He must have a pistol or a knife. She had to act.

      She grasped the candlestick firmly, hefting it in her hand where he could see it. ‘Stay back or I will put a dint in your face so large your mother will never recognise you.’

      His hand emerged with a small brown bottle. He laughed, an evil, sneering sound. ‘Them’s fighting words, my lady.’ The sound of the front door opening sent a chill down her spine.

      ‘Where the hell are you?’ a male voice called.

      More of them. Bile rose in her throat.

      ‘In here, Sarg.’

      She might be able to deal with one, but two? Dear God, what did they want? Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. ‘There is money in the chest under the bed,’ she croaked.

      ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ bulbous nose said. ‘Later.’

      The chill down her back turned to ice. She launched the candlestick at his head.

      He