Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

What she saw in his eyes nearly made her heart stop, sent a lick of something like fear down her spine.

“Charles, listen to me. We are not, definitely not, revisiting the past.”

He didn’t smile, didn’t flash his pirate’s grin and return some teasing answer. Instead, he read her eyes, yet she sensed he assessed himself as well before replying, his voice deep and low, “It’s not the past I want to visit.”

In the ballroom the music ended with a flourish; somewhat to her surprise, he halted and released her, his palm sliding caressingly over her silk-clad hip, a last, illicit, heat-laden caress. Taking her hand, he set it on his sleeve. “Come. We’ve one more stranger to meet.”

Back inside, he led her to a group of younger gentlemen who’d been partnering the few young ladies present. Most of marriagable age were in London, but for various reasons a few remained.

The Trescowthicks’ youngest son Mark, an effete, foppish young man not long down from Oxford, was holding court surrounded by his local contemporaries and one other—a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man Penny had never seen before.

All the local youth accorded Charles a near-godlike status; they instantly came to attention. With his usual bonhomie, he nodded to each, acknowledging them by name, leaving most with their tongues tied.

Mark Trescowthick, stuttering, hurried to introduce his friend. “Phillipe, the Chevalier Gerond.”

The Chevalier bowed. Penny bobbed a curtsy. The Chevalier was, she judged, a few years older than Mark, somewhere in his midtwenties. He was as tall as Charles, but blade-thin, appearing rather elongated.

Charles nodded urbanely. “Chevalier—are you visiting our country, or…?”

“I have lived here most of my life—my family arrived among the earliest emigrés, fleeing the Terror.” His tone defensive, the Chevalier’s gaze traveled Charles’s face, taking in his un-English features.

Charles smiled faintly. “My mother, too, was an emigrée.”

“Ah.” The Chevalier nodded, and looked back to the other members of the group, but they were all waiting on Charles’s direction.

“What brings you to our neck of the woods, Chevalier? I would have thought London more…rewarding.”

The Chevalier flushed faintly, but met Charles’s eyes. “I have decisions to make—whether this peace will hold, and if so, whether I should return to France. There is nothing left of my family’s estate, but”—he shrugged—“the land is still there.” He looked over the room. “It is, if not quiet here, then peaceful. Mark was kind enough to invite me to stay for a few weeks—it seemed the perfect spot to consider and let my thoughts come clear.”

“I say!” Mark put in. “Charles was in France for years with the Guards. Perhaps he knows of your house and village?”

“I doubt it,” the Chevalier said. “It is near to St. Cloud—far, far from the battlefields.”

Charles confirmed he knew nothing of that area. He put a few questions to the local young men, asking after the shooting and fishing, enough to account for his approaching them, also enough to learn that the Chevalier had been at Branscombe Hall for the past five days. Having gained answers to their immediate questions, he steered her away.

The party was starting to break up, the first guests departing. They fell in with the general exodus. Chatting with others, they strolled side by side into the front hall; Penny noted that Nicholas was one of the first to make his bow to Lady Trescowthick and go quickly down the front steps and out into the night.

The Chevalier was in the ballroom behind them; she wondered if he and Nicholas had met…would meet, perhaps tonight. They could check in the stables when they reached Wallingham; Nicholas should be home well ahead of them.

After thanking Lady Trescowthick for an enjoyable evening—and despite their absorption it had been that—Charles handed her into the carriage and followed, shutting the door on the rest of the world.

She sat back in the shadows, waited only until the carriage was rolling to murmur, “What odds finding a French emigré, one who might shortly be returning to France, who just happens to have arrived in the neighborhood at much the same time as Nicholas, who we suspect is passing secrets to the French and might have some complicity in Gimby’s murder?”

“Indeed, but it never helps to leap to conclusions. Nicholas made every effort to socialize tonight, despite his preoccupation with something that’s causing him considerable concern, yet he didn’t single out any of our five visitors—I don’t think he spoke to the Chevalier at all.”

“If they already know each other, they wouldn’t go out of their way to make that known, would they?”

“Possibly not.” Charles wanted, very definitely, to get her mind off his investigation; he would much rather she focus on him, on them. Reaching out, he cupped her nape, and drew her to him.

Smoothly drew her lips to his, saw her eyes flare briefly before her lids fell. He held her to the kiss until she softened against him, then let the pleasure well and spill through them both.

She resisted for an instant, then surrendered and sank against him, and he almost groaned. Why with her was it so very different? She was the only woman who had ever had the power to make him ache like this, with a weakness, a longing, a need so potent it made him feel helpless.

Helpless to resist.

He parted her lips and sank into her mouth, into the hot lushness. Released her nape, reached farther, turned her, and lifted her onto his lap.

She pressed her hands to his shoulders, fought to keep her spine rigid. When he lifted his head, her eyes flew wide. “What about the coachman?”

“He’s on the box—he can’t see.” Closing his hands about her waist, he nipped her lower lip. “If you don’t shriek, he won’t hear.”

“Shriek? Why—”

He slid his hands up.

“ Charles —”

He covered her lips. Let his thumbs cruise the fine silk of her bodice, locating and slowly circling her pebbled nipples. He let his palms cup the soft weight of her breasts, felt them swell and firm. Gloried in the tremor that shook her, that tangled her breath until she breathed through him.

After a long, thorough, painfully arousing exchange, he released her lips and drew in a huge breath. He knew exactly how far it was between Branscombe and Wallingham—not far enough.

Eyes closed, Penny shuddered between his hands, feeling his fingers hard and steely holding her so easily, confident, so certain of her. She’d told herself it would be just a kiss, something she could simply take and enjoy. She’d forgotten that with him there was more, always more.

His head was bowed beside hers; he brushed his lips to her temple. “God, how much I’ve missed you.”

There was a longing in his tone she couldn’t mistake, that resonated through her.

I’ve missed you, too. She held the words back. Yet she had missed him, so deeply she was amazed. She hadn’t realized…only now, now he was back, kissing her again, did she feel the yawning emptiness inside, recognize it, realize it had been with her for a very long time.

Thirteen years, more or less.

The carriage dipped as it passed through the gates of Wallingham. Charles sighed, lifted her and set her on the seat beside him once more.

When the carriage halted and the footman opened the door, she was wrapped in her cloak. Charles descended and handed her out.

She expected him to part from her, to go on to the stables and drive himself home. Instead, he led her up the steps. Catching her puzzled glance, he murmured, “I want to see if Nicholas is home.”

According to Norris, he was, but had already retired to his chamber.