Louise Allen - Regency Surrender - Passion And Rebellion

* * *

She’d known it was wrong to keep the news of her pregnancy from him. Even when she’d feared it would mean the end of any chance of a reconciliation. But now, after he’d professed his love and his hope they could have a fresh start, it would be tantamount to saying she didn’t trust him.

And how could she say she loved him, if she didn’t trust him, completely?

She did trust him. He’d never lied to her, not even when the truth had hurt. So if he said he loved her and wanted a different sort of marriage from the one they’d agreed on at first, then he meant it.

‘I’m...’

The words stuck in her throat. It felt as though she was about to fling herself off a cliff into his arms, hoping he really would be there to catch her.

‘What is it, Mary? Whatever it is, I swear I won’t be angry with you.’

It had never been his anger she’d feared. And wasn’t now.

Taking a deep breath, she flung herself over the edge.

‘I’m increasing.’

His eyes widened. He glanced down at her stomach.

Then laughed with what looked like absolute joy. And hugged her. ‘You clever, clever girl,’ he said, sweeping her into his arms and over to one of the strategically placed armchairs, where he settled her on his lap.

Where he kissed her a bit more.

‘It doesn’t matter how we started, does it?’ she said, after a while. ‘We both made mistakes and both hid what we really felt, but we can do better from now on, can’t we?’

‘Well, I’m certainly determined to do better,’ he said. ‘From now on, I mean to show you how much you mean to me, every second of every day. I’m going to treat you like a queen.’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I want to be treated like a queen.’

‘Very well. What would you like, then? Bearing in mind you want me to take your opinions into account whenever I have to make a decision.’

* * *

She pulled away from him a bit, her lips pursing. For a moment, he wondered whether he’d ruined the moment by referring to her list of complaints. But then she darted him a distinctly saucy look.

‘All I want,’ she said, with a glint in her eye, ‘is for you to want me so much you can’t keep your hands off me. Day or night. I know I’m not pretty. But you made me feel as if I was, to you, when you were so on fire for me you chased me round sofas, scandalising everyone from the butler to the scullery maid.’

His heart seemed to turn over in his chest. And when it settled, it was pounding like a galloping horse. ‘Is that so?’ He pushed her off his lap. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.

‘Go on, what?’

‘I shall give you a head start.’ He leaned back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other. ‘I shall count to twenty. No,’ he said, ‘actually I can’t wait till I’ve counted to twenty. Make it ten.’

‘Ten?’ She edged away from him, a confused frown on her face.

‘One,’ he said, or rather growled, leaning forward and eyeing her hotly from head to toe.

‘Two...’

She shivered where she stood. An answering heat flared to life in her eyes.

‘Three...’

She glanced round the room. At the hearthrug at his feet. At the table. Back at him, a smile playing about her lips.

‘Four...’

She turned, and made her way slowly towards the door.

‘Five...’

She hesitated, her hand on the latch, and glanced back over her shoulder.

‘Six...’

He got to his feet.

‘Seven...’ He stalked away from the chair.

Her face lit up. With a little shriek of laughter, she fumbled open the door, hitched up her skirts and ran from the room.

‘Eight-nine-ten,’ he yelled and set out in hot pursuit.

* * * * *

Portrait of a Scandal

Annie Burrows

HE HAS TAKEN HER TO HEAVEN, HELL AND BACK AGAIN…

Her heart and hope long since shattered, Amethyst Dalby is content with her life as an independent woman. With wealth of her own, and no one to answer to, she is free to live as she pleases.

Until a trip to Paris throws her into contact with the one man who still has a hold over her—the bitter but still devastatingly sensual Nathan Harcourt! Living as an artist, this highborn gentleman has been brought low by scandal—and he is determined to show Amethyst that life is much more fun if you walk on the dark side….

“A beautiful, poignant, sensual story.” —RT Book Reviews on A Countess by Christmas

To the ladies (and gentleman) of flat B1. You know who you are!

Chapter One

‘Madame, je vous assure, there is no need to inspect the kitchens.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ retorted Amethyst firmly as she pushed past Monsieur Le Brun—or Monsieur Le Prune, as she’d come to think of him, so wrinkled did his mouth become whenever she did not tamely fall in with his suggestions.

‘Is not the apartment to your satisfaction?’

‘The rooms I have so far seen are most satisfactory,’ she conceded. But at the sound of crashing crockery from behind the scuffed door that led to the kitchens, she cocked her head.

‘That,’ said Monsieur Le Brun, drawing himself to his full height and assuming his most quelling manner, ‘is a problem the most insignificant. And besides which, it is my duty to deal with the matters domestic.’

‘Not in any household I run,’ Amethyst muttered to herself as she pushed open the door.

Crouched by the sink was a scullery maid, weeping over a pile of broken crockery. And by a door which led to a dingy courtyard she saw two red-faced men, engaged in a discussion which involved not only a stream of unintelligible words, but also a great deal of arm waving.

‘The one with the apron is our chef,’ said Monsieur Le Brun’s voice into her ear, making her jump. She’d been so intent on trying to work out what was going on in the kitchen, she hadn’t heard him sneak up behind her.

‘He has the reputation of an artist,’ he continued. ‘You told me to employ only the best and he is that. The other is a troublemaker, who inhabits the fifth floor, but who should be thrown out, as you English say, on his ear. If you will permit...’ he began in a voice heavily laced with sarcasm, ‘I shall resolve the issue. Since,’ he continued suavely, as she turned to raise her eyebrows at him, ‘you have employed me to deal with the problems. And to speak the French language on your behalf.’

Amethyst took another look at the two men, whose rapid flow of angry words and flailing arms she would have wanted to avoid in any language.

‘Very well, monsieur,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I shall go to my room and see to the unpacking.’

‘I shall come and report to you there when I have resolved this matter,’ he said. Then bowed the particular bow he’d perfected which managed to incorporate something of a sneer.

‘Though he might as well have poked out his tongue and said “so there”,’ fumed Amethyst when she reached the room allocated to her travelling companion, Fenella Mountsorrel. ‘I think I would prefer him if he did.’

‘I don’t suppose he wishes to lose his job,’ replied Mrs Mountsorrel. ‘Perhaps,’ she added tentatively, as she watched Amethyst yank her bonnet ribbons undone, ‘you ought not to provoke him quite so deliberately.’

‘If I didn’t,’ she retorted, flinging her bonnet on to a handily placed dressing table, ‘he would be even more unbearable. He would order us about, as though we were his servants, not the other way round. He is one of those men who think women incapable of knowing anything and assumes we all want some big strong man to lean on and tell us what to do.’

‘Some of us,’ said her companion wistfully, ‘don’t mind having a big strong man around. Oh, not to tell us what to do. But to lean on, when...when things are difficult.’