Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

feel the heat of his body, the pulse of his heart. He felt hard and male and formidable for all his present helplessness. She wanted to wash the mask of blood away and see his face, but forced herself to concentrate on the important things.

      ‘I think the bleeding has eased. For goodness’ sake, Adrian—why are you in such a temper about this?’ she tossed back over her shoulder. ‘I have no idea what caused the chaos outside and I am certainly not responsible for it.’

      ‘It is not the sort of thing that happens outside a respectable household,’ he retorted. ‘And why am I out of temper, you ask? Because I have just spent an hour with your trustees, and a more awkward set of old women I have never met. They tried to tell me that as your husband I would have control over only one-third of your fortune. How can they think that lying to me is going to help them stay in their position? With their fingers in the honeypot, I have no doubt.’

      ‘Because it is true,’ Lily said, fighting to keep her voice calm. She gave the bandage a final pat and stood up, keeping her hand lightly on Jack’s shoulder. It seemed to give her strength. ‘Until I am thirty, or I marry, all my money is controlled by my trustees. Then I, or my husband, comes into control of one-third. The remainder is in perpetual trust for my children until each reaches the age of twenty-one.’

      ‘Impossible.’ Adrian was white with anger. ‘That cannot be legal.’

      ‘I can assure you it is, my father took the very best advice. I do not find it onerous; I sit with the trustees to make decisions.’

      ‘You? Your father must have been insane. No woman understands money.’

      ‘I do. And you will not insult my father, if you please.’ She could feel her fingers tightening into the shoulder of the man lying at her side and forced them to open. ‘I am a very rich woman. One-third of that fortune is enough for anyone.’

      ‘It is not enough for me—I do not marry some tradesman’s daughter for one-third of anything.’

      ‘Then that is easily remedied.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could think. Under the flat of her palm she felt Jack stir and bent anxiously to look at him. A hand closed hard on her shoulder and pulled her away.

      ‘…your lover…’ The words buzzed and faded in Jack’s ears, making no sense.

      God, it hurts. He tried to lift a hand to his head, but his arm wouldn’t move. He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. Either that, or he was struck blind.

      ‘ … dare you!’ A woman’s voice, incredulous, yet shaking with fury. ‘I have no lover …’

      ‘Trollop.’ He heard her gasp at the flat insult. ‘You get the taste for it in my arms, then you pick up with some lusty tradesman … pretending you’re so shy …’ The colours swirling behind his blinded eyes intensified; he was losing consciousness. He fought against it—she needed him.

      ‘I hardly think that after your groping, any woman would be in haste to repeat the experience! Unless possibly in the hope that it would not prove quite so repellent with someone else.’ Jack felt his lips quirk involuntarily at the frank vehemence of her opinion, then stiffened as he heard her give a gasp of pain. The bastard was manhandling her.

      Somehow he got his feet on to the floor, then struggled to stand, lurching like a drunk, rubbing at his crusted eyes in an effort to see. Blood, that must be it. He managed to get them half-open, the room swaying madly about him, furniture and figures blurred.

      ‘Get your hands off her.’ His voice cracked; he had no idea if he was whispering or shouting. The pain in his head was like an axe blade, cleaving his skull. He was going to lose consciousness in a moment, the blackness at the edge of his vision was closing in.

      ‘Adrian, stop it!’ Her voice was familiar, lovely, even tightened with fear and anger. Lily, that was it … The male figure came towards him, pushing the girl away roughly. Bastard. He raised his fists against flashes of burning agony in his shoulders. Another fist was coming towards him. He tried to focus, dodge; something hit him on the point of the jaw and the darkness claimed him again.

      So, this was death. It must be. There was no pain, yet he could not move, his eyes would not open. He was laid out straight on something soft and yielding, his arms by his side. Vaguely he recalled a blow to his head. Last time he had been hit on the head the awakening had been all too vividly physical: darkness, wrenching pain, the taste of coal dust in his mouth and nose, the crushing weight of a pit prop across his shoulders. No, this time he must be dead.

      Heaven or hell? That was the important question. Jack dragged his lids apart. A background of deep lapis blue boded well; no leaping flames, at any rate. Between him and the light there was a figure, blurred and wavering. It leaned closer. A woman. ‘Angel,’ he murmured.

      As if trying to hear, the angel leaned closer still. An oval face, lush lips, great green eyes, a cloud of burnished amber-red hair. Simple desire lanced through his body and he blinked. Was he supposed to feel that if he was dead? His loins tightened. ‘Angel?’

      She leaned even closer. Now he could feel her breath on his face. No, not an angel, not with that face nor with the emotions he could sense behind it. A temptress? He was prepared to be tempted …

      His arm could move after all, clumsily. He encircled her shoulder, pulling her down. His lips found hers. Oh, they were sweet. She tasted of fruit and smelt, deliciously, of roses. His mouth moved, sampling the softness, the warmth, the innocence of her hesitant response. Not a temptress then. He was kissing an angel—he’d be damned. Worth it, though … His eyes closed and he slipped back into darkness.

      Lily felt the consciousness leave him again as the heavy arm pinning her to his chest slid away. Yet she did not move, other than to push herself up a little so she could study his face.

      Jack Lovell. She knew no more about him than his name, that he owned a mine, that he was chivalrous, courageous—and kissed like the devil. Which ought to be impossible, considering the wound on his head and the amount of blood he had lost.

      Her hand spread, feeling the muscle strapping his chest under the thin linen of his shirt. When he had gone down under Adrian’s cowardly blow he was still struggling, fighting to raise himself on one arm. She remembered a print of the Dying Gaul, unyielding even in defeat, and shivered; she had never been close to a man so strong, so male in such an obvious way.

      When she had turned from furiously flinging open the door and ordering Adrian out, Jack’s fingers were still locked in the pile of the carpet as though he was trying to drag himself up. It had taken four footmen to get him upstairs and into the best spare chamber; even unconscious and battered, he dominated the ornate room like a wild animal let loose in a formal salon.

      A knock on the door sent her scrambling back to stand demurely by the bed. ‘Doctor Ord, I am so relieved to see you. Did you have much trouble making your way through the crowd outside?’

      The fashionable practitioner put his case down with precision on the bedside table and bowed. ‘Miss France. No, no trouble once I had convinced the constable that I was indeed expected and not another victim of this deplorable hoax. Your footman explained a little on the way back. Outrageous, ma’am. It must be investigated. Now then, what do we have here?’

      ‘A gentleman who was knocked out by a thrown cobblestone while attempting to help me.’

      ‘Hmm.’ The doctor bent over the unconscious figure, running his fingers through the thick hair. ‘How did he fall? Did he hit his head on the ground?’

      ‘I do not think so. He fell heavily on the steps, though; I suspect he may have bruised his back badly.’ Dr Ord tipped Jack’s head and bent to study the bruise on his chin. ‘There was a fight,’ Lily improvised.

      ‘I see. Well, off you go, Miss France, this is no place for an unmarried lady. If you can send me in a footman—no, make it two—that would be helpful.’

      Lily retreated to her sitting