Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

      ‘I—’

      ‘Lily dear, I think it is about time we took our leave, do you not?’ It was Lady Billington, her eyes speculative as they moved from one face to another.

      ‘Yes, of course. Mr Lovell, would you accompany us?’ Her chaperon did not know where Jack was living, nor, Lily realised, who he was, other than that he was injured during the riot outside the house.

      ‘Of course.’

      Lily could see in the light that flickered into the carriage interior that Lady Billington was dozing—or ‘resting her eyes’, as Mrs Herrick always called it. What was Jack thinking about? She could not read his face in the gloom, but he was staring out of the window. Was he regretting that strangely intense dance? Or had it been only she who had felt the tension and the magic?

      Lady Billington came to herself with a start as the carriage pulled up at the steps of the Chandler Street house.

      Jack jumped down to assist Lily, then declined as Lady Billington graciously offered to take him to his door. ‘Thank you, ma’am, but I would rather see Miss France safely inside.’

      They said goodnight to the chaperon and stood looking after the carriage as it rounded the corner. ‘Is anyone awake?’ Jack eyed the front of the house with some misgiving. There was a faint glimmer through the fanlight, but no other signs of life.

      ‘I have a key.’ Lily produced it, her awkwardness disappearing at the expression on Jack’s face as he looked from the weighty metal object to her little evening reticule. ‘I left it in the carriage,’ she explained with a smile, handing it to him. ‘I always tell the staff to go to bed when I am not sure what time I will get in. I do not see why they should have to sit up and waste their time, simply to open the door to me.’

      ‘Your maid too?’ She nodded. ‘An original attitude in London society, I should imagine.’ He opened the door and stood aside for Lily to enter. ‘What about the bolts?’

      ‘I can manage those. Do come in.’ For a moment she thought he would refuse. ‘You can go through the garden door, there is no point in walking right round to the mews.’

      The house seemed eerily quiet. It was strange that she had never noticed it before. They stood together in the hall while Lily lit a branch of candles from the single lantern that had been left burning there. The door to the small salon stood open as it always did when she had been out. A light supper was laid out on the table.

      ‘I am just going to have a glass of lemonade, perhaps a biscuit. Will you join me?’ Jack hesitated and Lily found she was holding her breath. What was he thinking? She wished she had the courage to reach out and touch him, as though by doing so she could read his mind. ‘The decanters are out and the brandy is very fine, I am assured by my wine merchant.’ Would he make some comment about the price of it and shatter the moment?

      ‘Thank you, that would be pleasant. Unless you are tired?’

      Lily led the way into the room, touching fire to candles until there was an intimate, warm light that glowed against the old panelling that she had not yet had replaced. Looking round at it, she suddenly realised what Jack meant about the comfort of old things. ‘Shall I leave this panelling? I was going to have it ripped out, but, seeing it in this light, it is so lovely.’

      ‘It would be a shame. It is very fine.’

      Lily nodded. ‘I will leave it. No, thank you—’ Jack was lifting the jug of lemonade to pour for her ‘—I will try the brandy.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ He unstopped the decanter, sniffed and gave an appreciative whistle. ‘I will pour you a little. I suggest you inhale only, this is powerful—and wonderful.’

      Lily took the proffered glass, kicked off her kid slippers and went to curl up in one of the big wing chairs. ‘Oh! The aroma is delightful.’ She took a cautious sip, coughed and pulled a face. ‘Is it supposed to taste like this?’

      Jack laughed as she took another sip. ‘An acquired taste, I suppose.’ They sat in silence for several minutes. More out of nerves than anything Lily took another mouthful of brandy. It burned all the way down to her stomach. Strange, hot, uncomfortable, yet wonderful. It was like the feelings that ran through her body when she looked at Jack, when he touched her.

      He took the chair opposite, crossed his legs and gently swung his foot to and fro while he watched the play of light on the deep amber liquid in his glass. ‘It matches your hair.’

      ‘No, surely not.’ Lily held up her own glass, frowning. ‘I have red hair.’

      ‘You do not. Your hair is gold and brown, conker and brandy, mahogany and copper. To say your hair is only red is to say fire is only red.’

      Lily pulled at the curl which lay on her shoulder and tried to squint at it in the candlelight. It was hopeless. Impatient, she pulled out the jewelled comb that held her topknot of curls in place and tugged. A mass of hair fell down with a heavy, silken slither, showering pearl-topped pins as it did so. She shook her head until it massed around her shoulders and got up.

      ‘Does it really match?’ She perched on the arm of Jack’s chair, took a handful of hair and brought it close to his brandy glass. ‘Look and see.’

      ‘I am looking.’ His voice was husky and it seemed to her that his hand shook slightly as he raised it to catch the fall of her hair. ‘Oh, God, Lily, your hair—’

      He must have put down his glass, for he was lifting the weight of her hair in both hands, burying his face in it, and somehow she was no longer sitting on the arm of the chair but in his lap, his arms around her.

      And then they were sliding, out of the chair, down on to the carpet, at once hard and soft underneath her, the pile prickling where it met her bare shoulders, yielding just a little where his weight pinned her down.

      ‘Lily.’ It was a question, a statement. It was a demand she did not understand.

      ‘Yes,’ she answered firmly. ‘Oh, yes, Jack.’

      She thought she knew his mouth now, the feel of his lips on hers, the demands he would make, the sweetness he would give her. It seemed she knew nothing at all. Perhaps it was the candlelight, perhaps the flame of brandy, perhaps it was the love she felt for him.

      She could hear a soft mewing sound, then realised it was coming from her own throat as his mouth angled and moved on hers. One hand held her head, moving her so he could plunder her mouth at will, yet she felt no desire to struggle or resist him.

      The other caressed downwards, over the swell of her breast as she arched under it, his palm cupping her for one aching moment. Her body was alive, filled with new sensations, new heat, new aching and wanting. She moved restlessly against him as his roving hand moulded her waist, her hip. Downwards.

      And all the time the drugging caress never left her mouth. His tongue filled her, tormented her, teased with bold plunging, then tantalising withdrawal. She found she could match him in bravery, in demanding, her teeth nipping at the fullness of his lower lip.

      Then the air was cool on her legs and she realised his hand was sliding up over her silk-sheathed calf, up past her garter, up to the warm softness of her bare thigh. He moved higher, confident in his mastery of her as if knowing she could no more resist him than take to the air. It should have been embarrassing, she should have been shy. All Lily knew was that she needed him to touch her—somewhere. There.

      ‘Jack!’ She knew she cried out, felt his kiss swallow the sound as his knowing, skilful fingers tangled in the hot, moist curls, sank into her, found a place that made her sob with need for him to touch it, sob with an exquisite anguish when he did.

      ‘Sweetheart.’ His face was buried in her neck as he strained her against him, giving her the anchor she needed to hold on to as the blackness behind her lids turned to flame and sparks and her body shattered and spiralled down into peace.

      Chapter Nine