Louise Allen - Regency Surrender - Passion And Rebellion

It was lust, that was all he felt for Miss Dalby. All she was good for was bedding. And he knew, from experience, that once he’d bedded her even the lust would pass. He would finally know, in his heart, as well as in his head, that she was...nothing.

* * *

‘Are you quite sure you know what you are doing?’ Fenella was practically wringing her hands as Amethyst tied the ribbons of her new bonnet in a jaunty bow under her chin. She’d been unhappy from the moment Amethyst had admitted she’d met Harcourt in the Louvre and commissioned him to paint her portrait.

‘It isn’t really...proper...to be alone with a man, you know. And I am supposed to—’

‘Do not worry, Fenella,’ said Amethyst briskly, giving her reflection one last assessing glance in the mirror. ‘I know exactly what I am doing. And since nobody in Stanton Basset will ever know what we choose to do while we are in Paris, unless we tell them, there is no fear of them criticising you for allowing me to behave with impropriety.’

‘I cannot help worrying. You are so innocent. If you are alone with a man...even if he says he is only going to paint your portrait...the intimacy of the situation might well lead to—’ Fenella broke off, and bit down on her lower lip. ‘I am not casting aspersions on your character, please believe me. It is just that you do not understand how very tempting some men can be. And I know that you do find Monsieur Harcourt tempting. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but he has hardly been out of your mind for years and years. And now that he is showing an interest in you, I am afraid it might be turning your head.’

Until she’d said those fatal words, Amethyst had been prepared to ignore Fenella’s little homily. She was only doing her job after all, which was to protect her reputation. But to hear the very words her own father had used against her, when she’d needed understanding...

‘I have no intention of letting any man turn my head,’ she snapped. ‘I am not some silly girl who is still holding out for marriage. Let alone love.’ It was passion she wanted to experience. Just passion. And Harcourt was the perfect man to experience it with. ‘There is nothing he can do, or attempt to do, for which I am not completely ready.’

She had no dreams for him to smash, this time. Not that marriage was her dream any longer. She’d come to value her independence. She’d first earned it, then fought for it. And she had no intentions of surrendering it to the likes of Nathan Harcourt, of all men.

Anyway, he’d made it clear, both ten years ago and in the last couple of days, that all he wanted was an affair. Which was exactly what she wanted, too.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Fenella. ‘I can see there is nothing I can say to make you reconsider.’

‘Not a thing,’ she replied cheerfully. She’d done all her arguing with herself, during the long, sleepless nights she’d spent recalling how wonderful it had felt to be in his arms. Or just having him stand close to her. Her whole body ached to get that close to him again. In vain had she tried to build up a case for abstinence, warning herself of all the potential pitfalls of getting involved with Harcourt again. There was only part of her that was still sensible, cautious Amy. That Amy stood no chance against rebellious Amy and lonely Amy’s clamouring for fulfilment.

She was set on her course. And was fully prepared to face the consequences, whatever they might be.

Of course it was easy to say that with a cushion of vast wealth behind her. She couldn’t help but compare her own situation with that of the many girls who gave themselves to men who didn’t deserve them and paid a terrible price. If the precautions she was taking proved ineffective and she ended up pregnant because of this affair, she would still have a comfortable lifestyle. Even if she was no longer welcomed in the homes of the narrow-minded, morally superior, leading ladies of Stanton Basset, she could simply retire from society and become a recluse. It would not affect her ability to run her businesses. She already did so from behind a screen of companies, with which Jobbings communicated on her behalf. Only...it would be a shame if Fenella felt obliged to withdraw from her employ. Having to work for a woman who had actually committed the crime of which she’d so often been accused might prove too much for her delicate sensibilities.

‘I will be discreet, Fenella,’ she promised as she went to the door. ‘I wouldn’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable.’

* * *

As her carriage drew up outside the hôtel where Harcourt lived, she raised her eyes to the top floor where he had his rooms and reminded herself she could still turn round and go home, before things went too far.

Only, why should she? She wanted to have this experience. She’d chosen it. He hadn’t seduced her into it, which had annoyed her at one point, but now she was glad of it, or she might have felt as though she’d let him weaken her. Broken down her resolve. Instead, coming here like this, flouting all the rules, taking a risk for once in her life, made her feel brave and adventurous. And more of an equal partner in this venture than she’d ever been in any other relationship in her life.

Fate had given her the opportunity, finally, to lie naked in his arms. To have him the way a wife should have a husband. And she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t take it.

With her mouth set in a grim line she entered the house and began to climb the stairs.

But both her trepidation and her excitement at the prospect of finally achieving something of her only girlhood dream had worn off completely by the time she’d climbed all the way to the top floor. All she felt was cross. Oh, yes, and don’t forget breathless.

Why on earth hadn’t she ordered him to attend her in her own rooms? He could have brought his easel and paints, and...and...

And then she pictured Sophie innocently dancing into the room to see how things were progressing. And finding them locked in a clinch, semi-clothed, on a sofa...

The door flew open just as she imagined Sophie shrieking in shock to see Harcourt doing something unspeakably wicked to her and blushed right down to the soles of her boots.

‘I thought you would never get here,’ he breathed, fiery-eyed.

‘It’s your own fault...for living up five...flights of stairs,’ she panted. ‘Are you going to ask me in, or shall I just expire on your doorstep?’

‘My, but you are prickly tonight,’ he said with a smile.

Well, that was what came of arguing with herself all the way here—and ever since Harcourt had made his wicked proposition.

He swept her an ironic bow. ‘Pray, do come in.’

‘You may as well know that I’m nearly always prickly,’ she said, moving past him and into his rooms. It was all pretty much as she might have expected a bachelor apartment to look like. The furniture was functional rather than pretty and there was a general air of disorder that was strangely welcoming. There were books piled up on the mantelshelf, interspersed with bottles and glasses. Gloves and a hat tossed carelessly on a side table by the door. Bills bursting from the drawers of a small writing desk and cards of invitation stuck at crazy angles in the frame of the spotted mirror propped up on it. And, permeating through the familiar dusty smell that rented rooms always seemed to have, the distinctive aroma of linseed oil.

‘You never used to be,’ he said as she drew off her gloves and tossed them on the table next to his. They landed in a kind of tangle, which looked peculiarly intimate, almost as though they represented two invisible people, holding hands.

‘When we knew each other in London, I always thought you were...sweet,’ he said with a wry twist to his mouth, as though he was mocking himself, or the memory of her.