Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

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The seven members of the Bastion Club have served loyally in the perilous service of the Crown. Now they've banded together to support one another through their most dangerous mission of all: getting married. When Charles St. Austell returns home to claim his title as earl, and to settle quickly on a suitable wife as well, he discovers that experience has made him impatient of the young ladies who vie for his attention—with the exception of Lady Penelope Selborne. Years ago, Charles and Penelope's youthful ardor was consummated in an unforgettable afternoon. Charles is still haunted by their interlude, but Penny refuses to have anything more to do with him. If controlling her heart was difficult before, resisting a stronger, battle-hardened Charles is well nigh impossible, yet Penelope has vowed she won't make the same mistake twice, nor will she marry without love. But when a traitorous intrigue draws them together, then ultimately threatens them both—will Penny discover she has a true protector in Charles, her first and only love, who now vows to make her his own? Apple-style-span From Publishers Weekly
Regency romance juggernaut Laurens shows signs of fatigue in the third book of her Bastion Club septet (after 
 and 
). Lord Charles St. Austell, earl of Lostwithiel, is one of the seven noble members of the Bastion Club ("a last bastion against the matchmakers of the ton") who served as spies during the Napoleonic wars and who still do a bit of investigating for the Crown when they're not braving eager ladies on the marriage mart. At his country estate, Charles encounters old friend (and old flame) Lady Penelope Selborne, who's up to her neck in intrigue. Penny's late brother may have been involved in schemes to smuggle secrets to France during the war—schemes that seem to be continuing with new sources even after his death. The novel features all the steamy sensuality for which Laurens is known, but the sex scenes lack the spark typical of her best work; Penny and Charles spend far too much time staring longingly at each other, dutifully denying their own urges. The unwieldy spy plot, meanwhile, progresses with agonizing slowness as the two interrogate every suspicious newcomer in town. Dedicated fans will probably stick with Laurens through the remaining four Bastion Club titles, but she's going to have to pick up the pace if she's to keep others intrigued. 

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Entering the house through the garden hall, she halted, wondering where to hide to gain the greatest time alone. She might wish to have the rest of the evening to assemble the facts and cudgel her brains, but of that she held little hope. Charles had never been renowned for patience.

Persistence, yes; patience, no.

“The orchard.” Grabbing up her habit’s train, she whirled, reopened the door, and peered out. Charles hadn’t left the stables; he was probably brushing down her mount. Slipping outside, she ran for the shrubbery, then used the cover of the high hedges to make her way to the orchard, currently a mass of pink and white blossom effectively screening her from the house.

An old swing hung from the gnarled branch of an ancient apple tree. She sank onto the seat with a sigh and turned her mind to her troubles. To all she’d learned over the last months, to all she now suspected.

And to all that in turn suggested.

Charles found her half an hour later. The house was huge, but it hadn’t taken him long to check in her room and discover neither she nor her riding habit was there. So he’d returned to the gardens; there were only so many places she could hide.

She was facing away from the house, apparently looking out over his fields. She was slowly swinging, absentmindedly pushing away from the ground with one booted toe; she was thinking, and didn’t yet know he was there.

He considered going near enough to push the swing higher, but he didn’t think he could get so close without her knowing. Not that she’d hear or see him, but she’d sense him the instant he got nearer than two yards.

That had been the case for as long as he could remember. He could effectively silence enemy pickets, but sneaking up on Penny had never worked. He’d only succeeded the previous night because, unsure of her identity, he’d kept his distance until the last.

Now, however, there were things she had to tell him. He needed to make clear that, no matter what she thought, she had no choice; telling him, and soon, was her only option. After meeting Arbry, he wasn’t prepared to allow her to keep her secrets to herself for even one more day; he needed her to tell him so he could effectively step between her and all he’d been sent to investigate, including, it now seemed, her “cousin” Arbry.

If he could separate her from the investigation, he would, but he couldn’t see any way of managing that yet.

One step at a time. He needed to learn all she knew about this business. Had she been any other woman, he’d already have started plucking nerves of various sorts, but with Penny such tactics weren’t an option, at least not for him. His plucking her nerves was too painful for them both. Just lifting her to her saddle that afternoon had been bad enough, and he hadn’t even been trying. He’d distracted her by asking after Arbry, and she’d recovered quickly, but…not that way. All he could do was be water dripping on stone.

He strolled toward her, deliberately making noise. “Tell me—why did you choose to come to the Abbey?”

Penny glanced at him. Slowly swinging, she watched as he leaned against a nearby tree trunk; hands in his breeches’ pockets, he fixed his dark gaze on her.

They’d been lovers once. Just once.

Once had been enough for her to realize that continuing to be lovers would not be wise, not for her. He’d been twenty, she sixteen; for him, the encounter had been purely physical, for her…something so much more. Yet their physical connection continued; even now, after thirteen years and her best efforts to subdue her susceptibility, it still sprang to quivering life the instant he got close. Close enough for her to sense, to be able to touch—to want. Even now, looking at him leaning with casual grace against the tree, the breeze stirring his black hair, his eyes dark and brooding fixed on her, her heart simply stopped. Ached.

Her susceptibility irritated, annoyed, sometimes even disgusted her, yet she’d been forced to accept that regardless of him having no reciprocal feelings for her, she would always love him; she didn’t seem able to stop. That, however, was something he didn’t know, and she had no intention of letting him guess.

Forcing her eyes from him, she looked ahead and continued to swing. “Nicholas is no fool. If I was following him out of the Wallingham Hall stables, he’d notice.”

“How often have you followed him?”

She swung a little more, considering how much, if anything, to reveal. “I first realized he was visiting places no nonlocal gentleman such as he should know of in February. I don’t think he’d started before then—none of the grooms were aware of it if he had—but in February he spent all five days he was down here riding out. I’d done the same then as I did this time, coming here to the Abbey when he arrived, so I didn’t realize he was also riding out by night until it was too late.”

His silence made it clear there was a lot in that he didn’t like. Eyes on the corn rising green in his fields, she said nothing more, just waited.

“Where did he go? Smugglers’ haunts, I assume, but which?”

She hid a resigned smile; he hadn’t missed the point of her seeing Mother Gibbs. “All the major gathering places in Polruan, Bodinnick, Lostwithiel, and Fowey.”

“No farther afield?”

“Not as far as I know, but I missed his nighttime excursions.”

“Did you ask Mother Gibbs what he’d been doing in those places?”

“Yes.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, his voice carrying a wealth of compulsion—no, intimidation. “And?”

She set her jaw. “I can’t tell you—not yet.”

A moment passed, then he said, “You have to tell me. I need to know—this isn’t a game.”

She looked at him, met his eyes. “Believe me, I know it’s not a game.”

She paused, holding his gaze, then went on, “I need to think things through, to work out how much I actually know and what it might mean before I tell you. As you’ve already realized, what I know concerns someone else, someone whose name I can’t lightly give to the authorities. And regardless of all else, you, in this, are ‘the authorities.’ ”

His gaze sharpened. For a long moment, he studied her, then quietly said, “I may represent the authorities in this, but I’m still…much the same man I was before, one you know very well.”

She inclined her head. “My point exactly. Much the same, perhaps, but you’re not the same man you were thirteen years ago.”

That was the matter in a teacup. Until she knew how and in what ways he’d changed, he remained, not a stranger but something even more confusing, an amalgam of the familiar and the unknown. Until she understood the here-and-now him better, she wouldn’t feel comfortable trusting him with what she knew.

What she thought she knew.

Recalling her intention in coming to the orchard, she rubbed a finger across her forehead, then looked at him. “I haven’t yet had a chance to work out what the snippets I’ve learned amount to—I need time to think.” She stopped the swing and stood.

He straightened away from the tree.

“No.” She frowned at him. “I do not need your help to think.”

That made him smile, which helped her thought processes even less.

She narrowed her eyes. “If you want me to tell you all, soon, then you’ll allow me a little peace so I can get my thoughts in order. I’m going to my room—I’ll tell you when I’m prepared to divulge what I’ve learned.”

Head rising, she stepped out, intending to sweep past him. The trailing skirt of her habit trapped her ankle.

“Oh!” She tripped, fell.

He swooped, caught her to him, drew her upright. Steadied her within his arms.

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