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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Her lungs seized. She looked up, met his eyes.

Felt, as she had years ago, as she always did when in his arms, fragile, vulnerable…intensely feminine.

Felt again, after so many years, the unmistakable flare of attraction, of heat, of flagrant desire.

Her gaze dropped to his lips; her own throbbed, then ached. Whatever else the years had changed, this—their private madness—remained.

Her heart raced, pounded. She hadn’t anticipated that he would still want her. Lifting her eyes to his, she confirmed he did. She’d seen desire burn in his eyes before; she knew how it affected him.

He wasn’t trying to hide what he felt. She watched the shades shift in those glorious dark eyes, watched him fight the urge to kiss her. Breath bated, helpless to assist, she waited, tense and tensing, eyes locked with his, for one crazed instant not sure what she wanted…

He won the battle. Sanity returned, and she breathed shallowly again as his hold on her gradually, very gradually, eased.

Setting her on her feet, he stepped back. His eyes, dark and still burning, locked with hers. “Don’t leave it too long.”

A breeze ruffled the trees, sent a shower of petals swirling down around them. She searched his eyes. His tone had been harsh. She wished she had the courage to ask what he was referring to—divulging her secrets, or…

Deciding that in this case discretion was indeed the better part of valor, she gathered her skirts and walked back to the house.

CHAPTER 3

SWEEPING INTO THE ABBEY’S DRAWING ROOM AT SEVEN o’clock, just ahead of Filchett, she fixed Charles, watching her from before the massive fireplace, with a narrow-eyed glare, then stepped aside to allow Filchett to announce that dinner was served.

Unperturbed, Charles nodded to Filchett and came to take her hand.

Steeling herself, she surrendered it, but didn’t bother to curtsy. As he laid her fingers on his sleeve and turned her to the door, she stated with what she felt was commendable restraint, “I would have been quite happy with a tray in my room.”

“I, however, would not.”

She bit her tongue, elevated her nose. She knew better than to waste breath arguing with him.

Half an hour after she’d regained her room, a maid had tapped on her door and inquired whether she would like a bath. She’d agreed; a long, relaxing soak was just what she’d needed. The steam had risen, wreathing about her; her thoughts had circled, constantly returning to the crucial question. Could she trust Charles, the Charles who now was?

She still wasn’t sure, but now understood she couldn’t—wasn’t going to be allowed to—put him off for much longer. Witness this dinner he’d jockeyed her into.

When the maid, Dorrie, had returned to inquire which gown she wanted laid out, she’d replied she intended to have dinner in her chamber. Dorrie’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, no, miss! The master’s told Mrs. Slattery you’ll dine with him.”

An exchange of notes had followed, culminating in one from Charles informing her she would indeed be dining with him—where was up to her.

She’d opted for the safety of the dining parlor, the smaller salon the family used when not entertaining. He sat her at one end of the table, then walked to the carved chair at its head. The table was shorter than usual—every last leaf had been removed—yet there was still eight feet of gleaming mahogany separating them. Nothing to overly exercise her.

Reaching for the wineglass Filchett had just filled, she smiled her thanks as the butler stepped back, and reminded herself that dinner alone with Charles didn’t mean they’d actually be alone.

A gust of wind splattered rain across the window. It had been pouring for the last twenty minutes. At least Nicholas wouldn’t be scouting about tonight; she wasn’t missing anything.

As soon as the first course was served, Charles signaled Filchett, who, along with the footmen, withdrew.

Charles turned his gaze on her. “I checked in Debrett’s . Amberley, Nicholas’s father, was with the Foreign Office.”

She nodded and continued eating her soup. She waited as long as she dared before replying, “He retired years ago—’09, or thereabouts.”

What else had he pieced together? There was only one major fact she knew that he still didn’t. Would he guess…or might he connect Nicholas directly with the smugglers and not realize there was—had been—an intervening link?

Setting down her spoon, she reached for her napkin, glanced at him as she patted her lips. He was finishing his soup, his expression uninformative, but then he glanced down the table and caught her eye.

He’d seen the alternatives.

She looked away as Filchett and his minions returned.

Leaning back in his chair, Charles waited until the main course had been served and Filchett had once more retreated. “Did Nicholas visit Wallingham often over the years before Granville’s death?”

She kept her gaze on her plate. “He’s visited off and on since he was a child—Amberly and Papa were close friends.”

“Indeed?”

The word sounded mild; she wasn’t deceived.

“But Nicholas hasn’t been a regular visitor here over the last decade?”

She wished she could lie, but he’d check and find her out. “No.”

To her surprise, he left it at that and gave his attention to the roast lamb.

From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, and let her nerves stretch. She was waiting, keyed up to meet his next tack, his next inquisitorial direction. In lieu of intimidating her in any other fashion, he’d opted for demonstrating that he wouldn’t retreat, but instead, question by question, would press harder until she capitulated and told him all she knew.

The time he was willing to give her to think had become severely limited the instant he’d realized Arbry was involved; it had shortened even further when he’d learned Amberly had been with the Foreign Office, the very office the putative traitor was supposed to have graced.

He held his peace until Mrs. Slattery’s lemon curd pudding was set before them and Filchett departed. Lemon curd pudding was his favorite; delicious, it was gone in too few bites. Lifting his wineglass, he sat back and sipped, and looked down the table at Penny.

“You’re protecting someone, but it isn’t Arbry.”

She looked up; he trapped her gaze.

“So who else? Your family is all female, as is mine these days. None of them are involved.”

She swallowed her last mouthful of pudding. “Of course not.”

“So who else could be involved in running secrets out of the Fowey estuary—who that you would feel compelled to protect?” That was what was fueling her refusal to tell him; that was the point he needed to attack.

When she set down her spoon and looked back at him, unmoved, he arched a brow. “The staff at Wallingham, perhaps?”

Her gaze turned contemptuous. “Don’t be silly.”

“Mother Gibbs herself?”

“No.”

“Her sons, then—are the Gibbses still running the Fowey Gallants?”

She frowned in mock confusion. “I’m not sure how to answer—yes, or no. But yes, they’re still in charge of the Gallants. I daresay they always will be—Gibbses have been Gallants for over four hundred years.”

“Do they still meet at the Cock and Bull?”

“Yes.”

So she’d been there—followed someone there—recently. “Do you have any idea if they’ve been involved in running secrets?”

“I don’t know.”

“So which other gangs are still operating?”

He took her on a seemingly peripatetic ramble around the district; often it wasn’t her answer that enlightened, but the fact she gave any answer at all that told him who she’d recently had contact with, or thought to ask about.

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