One Night with a Regency Lord. Lucy Ashford

to any man.’

      ‘The right man can be a powerful defender.’

      ‘Not those I’ve known—they’ve been either dissolute or vain and shallow.’

      ‘There are men who are none of those things.’

      She raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘You, for instance?’

      Damn her, he thought, why was she forever putting him in the wrong? He’d behaved appallingly, he knew, and for no other reason than a desire to master her, to ruffle that beautiful surface. She was just too lovely.

      Aloud he admitted to his offence. ‘I behaved stupidly when we first met, more than stupidly.’ He shook his head at his folly. ‘I made a bad situation worse by getting extremely drunk.’

      She looked enquiringly at him, but it was evident he had no intention of disclosing the cause of his erratic behaviour. She wondered if it had anything to do with the grandfather for whom he’d just professed the utmost indifference.

      Trying another tack, she said quietly, ‘You may not have relatives in England, but what about friends?’

      ‘None of those, either,’ he muttered roughly. ‘I’m a wanderer, Amelie, and friends and family play no part in my life.’

      She sensed that beneath his grim detachment, there lurked a vulnerability he would not admit. Her eyes clouded with sympathy and without thinking she reached out towards him, gently stroking the tanned forearm that showed beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

      His hand closed over hers and held it tightly. He looked directly into her concerned face, hard blue eyes meeting soft brown, his gaze intent, wondering. For a long moment they sat thus. Then he reached out and slowly caressed her cheek. Her pulse began an erratic dance as his touch warmed her face. He let his hand slide from her cheek to tangle itself in the glossy curls which tumbled to her shoulders. Turning his body towards her, he cupped her face in both his hands and tilted it upwards. She watched as his mouth came closer and without thinking offered up her lips. His kiss was hard and warm and lingered long.

      How long they would have kissed she had no idea, if Mr Skinner had not suddenly appeared from the depths of the inn leading the doctor behind him. She jumped back, flushed. Gareth looked annoyed. If Mr Skinner had seen that embrace, they would be in trouble. How to explain now that they were brother and sister! Jumping up from her seat, she nodded briefly to Dr Fennimore and quickly ran up the stairs to her bedroom in the eaves. She poured water from the jug into the chipped white basin and bathed her heated cheeks. She must truly have run mad. What on earth was she doing kissing a man of whom she knew nothing or at least nothing creditable? She sat down on her bed and stayed there for a very long time, trying hard to still her racing heart and erase the feeling of Gareth’s hard, warm mouth on hers.

      The doctor’s visit was brief. He was evidently well satisfied with his patient and needed to come no more. She heard him call out his farewells followed by the sound of Will helping Gareth up the stairs from the garden to his room. Until she could leave the inn, she must make sure that they were rarely alone together. He could not be trusted; she’d allowed herself to show sympathy and his response had been immediate—an assault, an assault that she’d made no attempt to escape. She could not trust herself either. His gaze had sent her heart racing, a simple touch had left her breathless. And that kiss. No, she would not think of that kiss.

      As the sun slipped from the sky, Mr Skinner appeared at her door with a message. ‘Your brother would like to know if you will dine with him tonight. He’s feeling a good deal better and would like to celebrate his recovery.’ The landlord enunciated the phrases painstakingly, relieved that he’d remembered Gareth’s precise words.

      I’m sure he would, she thought crossly, and I can imagine the kind of celebration he intends.

      ‘Tell my brother that I regret I have the headache and I will not be dining tonight,’ she said, adding diffidently, ‘It would be very kind of you, Mr Skinner, if you could bring a bowl of soup to my room.’

      For the first time since she’d come to the George, she found it difficult to sleep that night, her mind endlessly roaming the day’s events, but finding no peace. She could not banish the attraction she felt for Gareth Wendover. Her heart was forever pulling her towards a man with whom it was madness to embroil herself. He was arrogant and capricious. He was reserved and unforthcoming and she strongly suspected that unfortunate secrets lay hidden in the depths of his past. Yet she, too, was equally guilty of dissembling. From the outset she’d told him a pack of lies and ever since had spent considerable effort in embroidering them.

      What was certain was that she must leave for Bath as soon as she could. She must not become any further entangled; she must not fall in love with him. If ever she were forced to marry, Lord Silverdale’s daughter would be expected to look a great deal higher than a mere Mr Wendover of unknown and possibly disreputable lineage. And she wasn’t going to be forced to marry. She would not emulate her mother’s sad fate; her security and peace of mind lay in an unmarried life and that meant eschewing dalliance, no matter how attractive the man.

      After breakfast she repaired to Gareth’s bedroom to tell him she was leaving. It was another beautiful May morning and the leaded windows were flung wide to welcome the sun. A warm breeze gently lifted the curtains. He was sitting by the window fully dressed and smiled mockingly as she came through the door.

      ‘I hope I find you recovered?’

      She looked blank for a moment.

      ‘The headache? I understand it was so painful that you could manage only a bowl of soup for dinner.’ His tone was ironic.

      ‘I’m well, thank you,’ she replied, not meeting his eyes. ‘And you?’

      ‘I’m well, too—my old self, in fact. Does that strike terror into your heart?’

      ‘Indeed no, why should it? I’m well able to take care of myself.’

      He shook his head in some irritation. ‘Let’s stop sparring, Amelie. Come and sit with me instead.’

      She moved towards the window and the empty chair. For the first time she met his eyes directly and her body warmed instantly beneath his gaze. But she ignored the answering pull and disregarded his welcoming hand; she was still on dangerous territory and must step carefully.

      ‘When do you intend to leave for Bristol?’ she asked. ‘I presume you’re still going there.’

      ‘Maybe,’ he uttered shortly. ‘I haven’t yet made up my mind.’

      ‘If you don’t continue to Bristol, where else will you go? Back to London?’

      ‘Possibly.’

      ‘So you’re as free as a bird?’

      ‘It would appear so.’

      Frustrated at his stonewalling, she went on the offensive. ‘Are you saying that nobody in the entire world will miss you, if you don’t soon put in an appearance?’

      ‘That about sums it up.’

      She didn’t understand him. Her questions were innocent enough and his bald refusal to answer demonstrated clearly that he didn’t trust her. She was good enough to kiss but not to confide in. Sensing her anger, he smiled that warm, entrancing smile.

      ‘Why don’t we just enjoy this morning? I imagine you’ve come to tell me you’re leaving soon.’

      ‘Now that your ankle’s better, I must be on my way.’ She was annoyed with herself that she sounded almost apologetic.

      ‘Of course you must, and I can’t detain you. You’ve kept your bargain, after all.’

      For a moment she looked uncomprehending; she’d completely forgotten their old quarrel. Then she gave a half smile. ‘Yes, I’ve kept it—but not quite as you planned.’

      ‘Better, in fact. You’ve seen me through some very trying days, so don’t