Leah Ball - The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

“Do not hide from me, Roan. Never from me,” she said, her hand covering his at his neck. Her fingers slid between his, and then she did the most extraordinary thing — she kissed his neck and the thick scar there.

“Addy,” he said her name on a groan.

She didn’t stop. She kissed his scarred cheek, his jaw, his throat, his shoulder, made a pathway of kisses all the way to the burn on his hand, and then she kissed each of his fingers. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever known, and will ever know, Roan. Don’t hide from the world. Don’t hide from me. You are not changed. If anything, you are a better man for the things you have suffered through, for now you have a greater understanding of what real trials are.”

Her words eliminated the last of his will power.

“Addy, we shouldn’t be alone.”

Her lips curved. “Why is that, Roan?”

“You know why,” he replied, his voice husky.

She lifted her face to his, their breath mingling.

He should put her at arm’s length. He knew that. Everything within him told him to do so and, yet, he could not bring himself to deny her, not when she had bewitched him body and soul.

He reached for her with his injured hand, his thumb brushing over her soft lips. She didn’t pull away, did not flinch in the least. Instead, she smiled; her eyes warm and full of desire. A desire he understood all too well.

She turned her head the slightest bit, pressed her soft lips into his scarred palm … and he was lost.

He pulled her into his arms, held her close, felt the tears burn the backs of his eyes as he inhaled deeply of her scent, felt her arms come around him, holding him tight, embracing him. Comforting him.

“Adelaide!” The call came from downstairs.

“It’s Jack,” she whispered, a mixture of frustration and irritation in her voice.

“You had better see what he wants before he comes looking for you.”

“You are right,” she said, kissing him softly. “Thank you again for the gown. You didn’t have to.”

He smiled. “Yes, I did.”

Addy entered her brother’s study and was stunned to see Stephan standing there. Dressed in a tailored dove-grey suit, he looked the epitome of the English lord. His golden hair was swept off his forehead, the ends curling at his collar.

How very different he was from Roan in every way. His shoulders were not wide like Roan’s, nor were his features quite so fine.

“Lord Seeton, what a surprise.”

“Adelaide, you look absolutely stunning,” Stephan said, taking her hand in his and kissing it.

If Jack recognized the dress from the shop window, he wasn’t letting on. He folded his hands behind him. “Stephan would like a word with you … alone.”

Her stomach dropped to her toes. Oh dear, this was not good. “Oh?” she said, forcing a smile she did not feel.

“I shall give you two a moment alone together. I’ll be right outside.”

Her eyes widened, but Jack did not see her distress. Instead, he slipped out the door.

Stephan squared his shoulders and released a breath, treating her to a whiff of brandy. Good gracious, it was barely four in the afternoon and he smelled like he’d been drinking all day.

“Dearest, Adelaide, we have only known each other for a short time, but I feel as though it has been forever, and I feel we are well suited. Indeed, we are so very similar.”

Similar. In what way? They didn’t seem to like any of the same things.

“I asked your brother for his permission to marry you and he has agreed.”

She pressed her lips together, and couldn’t form a reply to save her life. The awkward silence continued as she struggled for something to say.

“Well, do you have an answer?”

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she replied, “I just did not expect a proposal so soon.”

His eyes widened. “Are you refusing me?”

“No, I just … am surprised, that is all.”

“Take the evening to decide then, my dear,” Seeton said, the smile returning in force. “I am sure you will have a clear head come morning.”

A clear head? She could not be thinking more clearly.

The door opened abruptly and Roan stood there. He looked just as he had when she’d left him five minutes before — save that his shirt had been tucked into his breeches. But his hair was even more unruly, as though he had been running his fingers through it time and again.

“Lord Drayton?” Seeton said, his brows furrowing as he glanced from Roan to Jack, who appeared at Roan’s shoulder.

“I am afraid Addy can’t marry you,” Roan said matter-of-factly.

Seeton frowned and puffed out his chest. “Why is that?”

“Because I love her, and I want her to marry me.”

Addy’s heart soared to the heavens.

“Do not be ridiculous,” Stephan said, lifting his chin a good two inches.

Jack glanced at Stephan, his eyes narrowing. “Why is Lord Drayton asking for my sister’s hand ridiculous?”

“He is … scarred. What woman would want—”

“I would,” Addy said, rushing into Roan’s arms. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

She saw the surprise in Roan’s eyes, the intense relief. A relief she felt herself.

Stephan’s face turned bright red. “I cannot believe what I am hearing. Good God, Adelaide, you would have this … this monster for a husband over me?”

“Indeed, I would,” she replied.

“The two of you deserve each other.” Stephan whisked his hat off the desk and rushed out of the room.

“I’ll give you two a moment alone,” Jack said, clapping Roan on the back. “I can think of no one else I would rather lose her to than you.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Roan said, smiling as he turned to Addy. “My beautiful Little Miss Independent.”

Addy grinned, and cupped Roan’s face. “I love you, Roan. I always have, and I always will.”

London — June 1814

Contrary to many of the fine homes currently being built in Mayfair, the townhouse near St James’ was a plain three-storeyed structure made of red bricks, with a columned portico that was hidden from the road by a walled garden.

At a glance, it could be easily dismissed as an old-fashioned, increasingly shabby structure, but upon closer inspection there was an undoubted charm in the weathered stones and an air of solid respectability.

And once inside … well, those fortunate enough to receive an invitation to Countess Spaulding’s home were astonished by the recent renovations that had transformed the dark, cramped rooms into airy spaces with marble columns, ivory walls and coved ceilings that were vibrantly painted with Roman gods.

On this night, the crimson drawing room was filled with elegant guests who were busily arguing the merits and faults of the Treaty of Paris. There were those who thought that the House of Bourbon should be returned to rule France, while others feared another revolution that would tear apart the Continent.

Amelia, the Countess Spaulding, allowed a faint smile to curve her lips as the arguments became heated and a young Prussian waved his hands in violent protest. As a hostess, she invited only those guests who were capable of stirring her intellectual interest: artists, philosophers, inventors and a smattering of politicians.

She had no patience for most of society and their frivolous gatherings, which were no more than an opportunity for the vain idiots to preen and primp for one another — no doubt because those idiots had made her life a misery during her years as an unwelcome wallflower. Even now she shuddered at the memory of being tolerated solely because her father was related to the Duke of Devonshire and her mother’s father had made a fortune in the West Indies.

She thrust aside the tormenting memories as she hovered near the door of the drawing room and sipped her champagne. No one could mistake her for a wallflower tonight.

Now a married woman, Amelia was no longer a victim of her mother’s unfortunate lack of style. Her dark-red hair was smoothed into an elegant knot at her nape, rather than teased into frizzy curls around her face, emphasizing her bright green eyes and the tender curve of her mouth rather than her rounded cheeks and too short neck. She had also shed the white, frilly muslin gowns that had made her appear overly pale and as round as a dumpling.

Instead she was attired in a silk gown of rich green that was cut to celebrate her lush curves, and perfectly matched the magnificent emeralds that dangled from her ears.

More importantly, having endured the humiliation of being caught in Lady Granville’s conservatory half-naked, in the arms of the Earl of Spaulding, not to mention their hasty marriage by special licence despite her discovery that he was nothing more than a brazen fortune-hunter, she had developed a hard-earned maturity. She was a sword forged in fire, she wryly acknowledged, and nothing was allowed to penetrate her aloof composure.

She was now a confident woman in command of her life, not the timid child she had left behind a year ago.

Draining the last of the expensive champagne, Amelia watched as a slender gentleman in a purple satin coat and white knee breeches minced across the Persian carpet to stand at her side.

Mr Sylvester Petersen could claim ten years more than Amelia’s four and twenty, with handsome features and blond curls that had taken hours to tousle to his satisfaction. It was not his male charms, or his decidedly dreary poems, however, that allowed him a place among Amelia’s select circle of friends. No, it was his biting wit and his ability to imitate the fashionable elite that made him an amusing companion.