Helen Dickson - Regency - Innocents & Intrigues - Marrying Miss Monkton / Beauty in Breeches

Walking away from Maria’s room the smile remained on Charles’s lips. The kiss had proved what he suspected, that she had not the least idea of the mechanics of sexual intimacy between men and women. The suffocating prudery of her life at Chateau Feroc under the stern, autocratic eye of the Countess had kept her in complete ignorance of such matters. He had seen it reflected in the shocked and appalled expression on her face when he told her he was going to kiss her, and he had sensed it in her body’s lack of response when he had.

But he was encouraged by the fact that her lips had answered his kiss. They had been soft and sweet and pliable beneath his own, and he would have liked to stay and educate her further, but seducing Maria Monkton was not in his immediate plans. For the time being, somehow he would have to cool the lust gnawing at his very being and try to forget how soft and sweet she had felt in his arms, to ignore the fact that she had set her hooks into him, and to control the strong attraction that seemed to bind his heart and mind to Maria.

Maria stared at the closed door in a waking dream. How was it possible that after just two days Charles Osbourne could stir feelings she had never felt before? She was fearful of what might happen if he came to her again and seeked to finish what he had started. She had escaped this moment—not entirely unscathed, but nevertheless with her virtue still intact. That state, however, was most tenuous and would not withstand another persuasive, unrelenting assault.

His kiss, his forceful persuasiveness, had been her downfall. He had known full well what he was doing to her, and the memory of what she had experienced in his arms made her plight all the more unbearable and she feared she was destined to remember his embrace for the rest of her life.

And Henry? She had given no thought to him while allowing her mind to dwell on romantic thoughts about another man. Her emotions were torn asunder, and she could find no peace in the depths of her thoughts. What her heart yearned for went against everything she deemed honourable, and yet she had no control over it.

Maria awoke to the sound of someone knocking on the door. Still drowsy with slumber, it took her a moment to remember where she was. When the knocking came again, startled, immediately she was out of bed, her heart slamming into her ribs, her knees turning to jelly. Pushing back her hair, she padded across the room.

‘Who is it?’

‘Charles.’

Maria stared at the door, reluctant to open it, reluctant to look Charles in the eyes after what had happened last night.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, hearing the tiredness in her voice.

‘You—you startled me. I didn’t expect you …’

‘Really,’ he mocked from the other side of the door. ‘Whom did you expect? It’s late, Maria. If you remember, I told you I wanted to make an early start.’

‘I’ll get dressed. I’ll be down in a moment.’

Charles was already doing full justice to his breakfast when she arrived downstairs. He raised his brows when she slipped into the chair across from him, his expression oddly impassive.

‘You slept well?’ he enquired coolly.

‘Eventually,’ Maria answered quietly, focusing her attention on the food the innkeeper’s wife placed in front of her and pouring coffee into a mug. She took a sip of the steaming beverage gratefully. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was more tired than I thought.’

Charles wished he could have let her rest a little longer. But there was no help for it. They must press on if they were to reach Calais that day.

‘You can sleep in the coach. I promise not to wake you,’ he teased gently.

Maria trembled at the gentle confidence she heard in his smiling voice.

As she climbed into the coach for the final stage of their journey, she found herself alone once more with this man who was beginning to have such a powerful effect on her. She had become a bewildered young woman with an added problem and an upbringing that convinced her that what she had let happen and enjoyed with Charles was unforgivable.

‘Maria,’ Charles said, dragging her from her thoughts. ‘Is something wrong?’

Her eyes flew open and his unfathomable light blue eyes locked on to hers. ‘Wrong? I …’

‘Perhaps you’d like to talk about it?’ he asked calmly. She shook her head. ‘You’re afraid. Is it me you fear, Maria? Or something else?’

The way he spoke her name in his rich deep voice had the same stirring effect on her as the touch of his lips. ‘It—it’s about last night when—when you …’

‘When I kissed you.’

‘Yes, that’s it.’

‘And?’

‘I’m afraid of the things you made me feel,’ she admitted desperately. ‘I don’t understand them. I—realise that to you this is merely a—a dalliance …’

‘Is that so?’ he teased, a lazy, seductive grin sweeping across his handsome face. ‘And you know that, do you, Maria?’

She swallowed nervously. ‘Do you mean it isn’t?’ Visions of being kissed whenever he felt like it rose to alarming prominence in her mind. Hoping that by speaking in a calm, reasonable voice, rather than heatedly protesting his intentions, she said, ‘It’s not that I’m afraid, it’s just that you shouldn’t have done it. It was quite wrong of you, and I would appreciate it if you refrained from—from doing anything like that in the future.’

With a mixture of amusement and admiration, Charles noted her request. With any other woman, such a request would only add to his determination to taste her response to him again—and Maria was no exception. Of that there was no doubt. Maria hadn’t any notion how much control he had to maintain over himself to keep his hands off her, and if the situation arose again his actions would be exactly the same—and Henry Winston be damned.

‘The kiss was harmless, wasn’t it?’

‘I think so.’

‘Neither of us was hurt, were we?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then, there is no reason why we should mention it again, is there?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Good.’

The coach made rapid progress despite the dreadful condition of the roads—the combination of this and the badly sprung coach was punishing for both occupants. As dusk began to descend they were approaching the coast. Already Maria could smell the sea and she knew they could not be far from Calais.

They entered the medieval walled town, the wheels of the coach rattling over the cobblestones of the narrow, twisting streets. Reaching the Place d’Armes, the main square of the town, with its thirteenth-century watch-tower, they veered off down a side street and Pierre halted the coach outside a small tavern that catered for the fishermen of the town. The doorway was low and a red light shone through greasy curtains.

Climbing out, Charles took Maria firmly by the arm and drew her inside. She found herself in a dimly lit, low-ceilinged room where the atmosphere was like a dense fog, reeking in equal parts of liquor and tobacco smoke. There were sailors and fishermen drinking and talking, some breaking out into ribald shouts as the serving girls passed among them, their hands groping and clasping softly rounded parts.

‘Do we have to stay here?’ Maria whispered, terrified in case someone should reach out and molest her in the same way.

‘Stay close beside me and you’ll come to no harm.’

When his eyes lighted on the newcomers, a man rose from his seat at the far end of the room, hoisting a basket on to his back. Maria gasped when she saw him pushing his way towards them through the fog like some weird and menacing Neptune, for he was the most fearsome man she had ever seen. He was a giant of a man with enormous shoulders and fists like hammers. A battered red-and-green cocked hat sat jauntily sideways on his pigtailed head and a bushy black beard sprouted from his chin. He had a broad face, a wide, fleshy nose that might have been flattened by a blow at some time, and bloodshot eyes.