Regency Secrets, page 26
‘And sons. You promised and you are a soothsayer, after all.’ She snuggled against him, careful of his leg as she tucked her head into the curve of his shoulder as she had on the Hesperus. ‘Do you know; I think I am going to be a very demanding wife.’
‘I hope so.’
‘And spendthrift, too. You are wealthy, correct?’
He leaned back a little, warmed by the laughter in her gold-flecked eyes.
‘I am. What are you plotting? Building a pyramid on the front lawn at Greybourne?’
‘No, a hammam. All marble and with a dipping pool, but with something to lie on right in the very middle so I can lay you down and wash you all over...’ Her voice trailed off into a husky rumble, her hand slipping under his coat and down his chest.
He felt as though he’d been shoved into a steam room right now—the heat was spiralling through him like steam, half melting him, half turning him as hard as the emerald pressed between his chest and her glorious breasts. Mrs Phillips’s parlour was not the place...
‘And then...?’ he prompted.
‘And then I will take you on an adventure you will never forget, Mr Grey.’
Epilogue
Greybourne Hall—1824
‘Well?’ Cleo demanded as she removed Rafe’s blindfold. He stood for a moment squinting at the sight. The spring sun outside was powerful, cutting through the milky glass windows and transforming the marble and granite surfaces to cream and gold. The light caressed the cushions that lined two chaises longue and then sped on, dancing off the flat surface of the raised stone bath.
His mouth quirked—he reckoned the bath could comfortably accommodate four people, or one large scarred mercenary and his pregnant wife. Only last night he’d had a delightful time bathing Cleo in the brass tub in their dressing room, taking his time soaping her beautiful breasts and the taut skin of her stomach.
The thought of being able to join Cleo in the warm waters of this hedonistic corner of paradise and then move their exploration to the generously large chaise longue was...
‘Well? Do you like it?’ Cleo prompted, impatient at his silence.
‘Good God, Cleo. Like is a very weak word to describe what I’m feeling at the moment. Full to bursting is closer. Dangerously aroused is even more accurate.’ He slipped his hands into Cleo’s hair, threading through its warm silk. She often wore it down around the Hall, the chestnut waves covering her shoulders. Sometimes he missed her short hair, but playing with the warm tresses more than compensated for his occasional nostalgia. Like now, as he imagined it covering her bare breasts as she slipped into the water. ‘Is the water warm yet? Actually, I don’t care. Lock the door...’
‘Bah!’
They drew apart and Rafe turned to face the wide grey eyes of his niece and the equally wide grey eyes of his sister-in-law and the very amused green-grey eyes of his brother.
‘Bah!’ little Charlotte announced again, waving a glistening fist towards the water. Edge shifted his daughter from one arm to the other, his other hand closing around Sam’s as they entered the hammam.
‘No, Charlie, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait your turn going for a swim. Your uncle and aunt look as though they need a cooling dip first.’
Sam laughed, her eyes taking everything in.
‘This is amazing, Cleo! Oh, Edge, look at the hieroglyphs!’
‘I’ll be damned,’ Edge said, a new light entering his eyes as he strode over to the wall with his daughter.
Rafe sighed with resignation, shelving his fantasies, and followed his brother towards the far wall. As he inspected the carving on the wall the memory returned of an evening two years before in a half-fallen temple in Kharga. There were the Pharaoh and the Queen, arms extended, each standing on a royal cartouches, and surrounded with lotus flowers, palms, and a row of...jackals?
Rafe smiled and laced his fingers through Cleo’s, drawing her against his side, his throat tight.
‘I can’t remember. Are those the symbols from the temple in Kharga?’ he asked Cleo, pointing to the cartouches, but Edge shook his head as he inspected them.
‘Not unless you believe in colossal coincidences. Have you been studying Champollion’s Precis, Cleo?’
She laughed, brushing her cheek against Rafe’s shoulder.
‘Dash is in Paris and sends me all the latest news on the decipherment of the hieroglyphs. But I put this together myself. What do you think?’
‘Do you mean these squiggles actually mean something?’ Rafe demanded. ‘All I can see is snakes, lions and falcons. It looks like a menagerie. Actually that looks more like a slug than a snail.’
‘A slug for a great big lug,’ Edge said. ‘That’s you, Rafe. The empty eye, the slug and the lion. R-F-L.’
‘Huh. And this?’ Rafe asked Cleo.
‘The one with the lion and falcon is my name, Cleopatra. And this...’ she murmured, pulling him to a row of the hieroglyphs between the cartouches showing a crouched figure and a long-tailed snake. ‘This part reads iu-meri-y-chu. Together it says Rafael and Cleopatra love for ever. At least I hope it does. It would be very embarrassing to discover it says Rafael and Cleopatra like snakes.’
‘Rafael and Cleopatra love for ever,’ Rafe repeated, tracing the symbols. ‘Carved in stone.’
‘Greybourne stone. I had this quarried from the same stone they are using to build the new school in the village, which is a rather worthier project than the hammam,’ she added guiltily.
Rafe turned and brushed his fingertips down her cheek, resting for a moment on her dimple.
‘I find this project eminently worthy. At least I think I will if only I am allowed to assess it properly...without an audience.’
Sam laughed and slipped Charlotte from Edge’s arms, pulling her husband away from his inspection of the carvings.
‘Come along, Edge. Charlie is also in need of a bath, though I doubt she will enjoy it quite as much as her uncle.’
‘Finally,’ said Rafe as he locked the door behind them and turned to look at his wife. She wore a low-cut, loose-fitting morning dress gathered below her beautiful breasts, showing the growing bulge of their child. Her head was slightly to one side as she watched him, her smile warm and loving.
‘Come here, Rafe.’
‘You’re looking rather dangerous at the moment, Cleo-Pat. What have you in store for me now?’
‘Another great adventure, Mr Grey.’
A Match for the Rebellious Earl
Lara Temple
Chapter One
‘Useless fops…’ thump ‘…the lot of them!’ thump ‘What is the point…’ thump ‘…of having a stable of stallions…’ thump ‘…if not one of them has sired an heir?’
Thump, thump, whack!
Genny straightened the small table that had fallen victim to Lady Westford’s enthusiastic cane-wielding. Her tantrums were always accompanied by a militant tattoo, but today she seemed intent on wearing a hole in the carpet. It didn’t help that Carmine, Her Ladyship’s off-key canary, accompanied the thumping with contrapuntal warbling and frenetic leaps about his large gilded cage.
Mary and Serena sat stiffly in their chairs, dark and light heads bowed, hands folded in their laps. With their lovely profiles aligned they looked like women posing for a tableau of penance.
Genny plucked a stalk of hay from her skirt and began stripping it into slivers, imagining it was Lady Westford’s cane she was shredding.
Or, better yet, Lady Westford.
‘And now the family is headed by a wastrel and a rogue who did not even see fit to attend his grandfather’s funeral, and never cared one snap of his fingers for the Carringtons.’
‘To be fair, Lady Westford, other than Emily and Mary, I haven’t seen that the Carringtons have ever cared one snap of the fingers for him either. Quite the opposite, in fact,’ Genny intervened—and immediately regretted her impulsive comment. Her object was to soothe the dragon, not throw oil on its fiery breath.
Lady Westford’s cane slashed the air towards her. ‘We gave that doxy’s boy everything and he repaid us by shaming us even further! This is what we are brought to… Oh, go away, all of you!’ she exploded, her voice cracking. ‘You are no use to me. You’ve had your chance and failed. You two…’ her cane slashed the air again, now towards Mary and Serena ‘…you were gifted the finest of the Carrington men and you brought them both to nothing. Now all you do is feed off the Carrington teat like the empty vessels you are. Soon I shall follow Alfred to the grave and leave the Carrington tree bare of fruit. I’m surrounded by nothing but fops and rogues and barren women and hangers-on and… Oh, go away!’
They did as they were told and Genny sighed as she closed the door behind her.
‘Well, that will teach me that silence is golden,’ she said far more lightly than she felt as she surveyed her sister.
Serena Carrington was ashen, her hand pressed tellingly to her abdomen, as if the pain of her third stillbirth was as sharp inside her as it had been two years ago.
‘Come out to the garden, Serena,’ Genny suggested, but her sister gave her a slight smile and shook her head.
‘I think I shall rest a little, Genny.’
Mary and Genny stood in silence until the door to her room closed.
‘Well, this cannot continue,’ Genny said, taking Mary by the arm and guiding her downstairs to the library. ‘Serena will never recover from losing Charlie and her babes if that harridan keeps flaying her every single day.’
‘Lady Westford is suffering too, you know, Genny,’ Mary reproached gently. ‘Losing three sons, her favourite grandson and a husband is enough to turn anyone sour.’
‘I know she is suffering, Mary, but that is no excuse to torment Serena. I know Lady Westford never thought my sister good enough for the heir to the title, but she has the biggest and truest heart in the world. When Grandfather died she fought for me to come live with her, despite their objections. I cannot stand by and watch her ground to dust by that Medusa. I will not. She deserves better.’
‘Of course she does.’ Mary clasped Genny’s hand between hers and their comforting warmth sparked a long-gone memory of her mother, holding her hand as they walked down to the village.
‘I’m tired, Mary.’ The words burst out of her before she could stop them. ‘I’m tired of watching the person I care for most in the world suffer. I’m tired of living on the fringes of Lady Westford’s charity. Soon there will be nothing left of Serena and nothing left of me, and I want… I need to breathe…’
She choked the words to a stop. The urge to lean against the older woman and cry was so strong Genny pulled her hands away and went to look at the rainbow of spring colours out in the garden.
‘I know we must do something—but what?’ Mary asked. ‘We cannot change Lady Westford.’
‘I don’t intend to change her. My grandfather always said that if you cannot choose your enemy, try and choose your battlefield. Lady Westford is most bearable when surrounded by her cronies and whist partners in London. We could convince her to hold a…a ball for Emily in Town, perhaps to celebrate her upcoming marriage.’
Genny watched the idea take root in Mary’s mind, her handsome face softening. Envy flicked at Genny’s heart—partly for herself, but mostly on Serena’s behalf. She’d seen how her sister watched the bond of love between Mary and her daughter when she thought no one was looking.
Finally, Mary smiled. ‘You’re tired, I’m frightened, and Serena is…lost. What a trio we are, Genny. You are quite right: it is high time we return to the living. But how shall we convince Lady Westford? She might consider it a betrayal of Alfred’s memory.’
‘The way to convince Lady Westford is to offer her something she wants. Leave that to me.’
‘The only thing she seems to want is for her grandsons to produce an heir. And that, unfortunately, is highly unlikely. They are all well past thirty, and none of them has shown the slightest inclination towards matrimony.’
‘Yet,’ said Genny, and headed towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Mary asked behind her.
‘To make a deal with the she-devil. And then I shall have a word with one of her useless fops.’
‘Useless, perhaps, but I take offence at being called a fop,’ Julian said as he shifted some papers off the sofa.
Genny raised her veil and sat down in the cleared space, glancing around the room. She’d never been to Julian’s rooms on Half Moon Street. They were not quite what she’d expected. The place looked as if a whirlwind had just passed through and left it littered with papers, books and instruments.
‘I suppose there is some method to this madness?’ she asked and Julian leaned against the table, a rueful smile on his handsome face.
‘There is always method to my madness, Genny. I hope there is some to yours? It would be much safer to stick to our arrangement and summon me to Dorset.’
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’
‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’
‘Probably not. I told your grandmother I might accept your proposal after all.’
Julian’s abrupt movement almost knocked over a precariously placed miniature orrery. The planets set to dancing giddily and he steadied it, glaring at her.
‘That was three years ago! And, as you may recall, you turned me down, Genny.’
‘I never actually turned you down. I merely pointed out that marrying me to gain your aunt’s legacy was a poor bargain for both of us. And since it turned out she meant to leave it to Marcus all along, it is lucky we didn’t wed.’
‘Well, you cannot just resurrect a proposal when it’s convenient. Why don’t you stop beating about the bush and tell me what it is you really want, Genny mine?’
She smiled. ‘I need your help to appease your grandmother.’
‘How?’ he asked, still suspicious.
‘She is lonely and bored and hasn’t had a decent game of whist in months…’
‘I am not playing whist with my grandmother, Genevieve Maitland. I would rather walk naked down Piccadilly.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s not a pleasing image, Julian.’
‘I protest. Some would call it a very pleasing image indeed.’
‘I’m sure they would,’ she said placatingly. ‘In any case, I don’t expect you to play whist—you are a terrible player. What I mean is that I plan to bring her to London, where she can meet all her old cronies.’
‘That sounds sensible. Where is the catch?’
‘There is no catch.’
‘Of course there is. There’s always a catch with you, Genny.’
‘Well, it is not precisely a catch… The Carrington women have been in mourning and away from London and society for two years. They will need a supporting arm to ease them back into society. If you could convince Marcus to come to London for a show of familial solidarity…’
Julian grinned. ‘And there it is. So this whole proposal nonsense was merely to make the alternative seem more palatable.’
‘Julian Carrington, how ungallant of you!’
‘Genevieve Maitland, how devious of you!’ he replied, in a falsetto that had little in common with her husky voice.
She laughed. ‘Well, will you help? You might even find someone new to finance your projects.’
‘I doubt it, but I promise to attend a couple of entertainments of your choice.’
‘Not a couple. Nine.’
‘No, you madwoman. I said a couple.’
‘A couple is hardly anything at all. Eight, however, is a nice round number.’
‘Eight isn’t round.’
‘It is—it goes round and round like a snake.’
She traced a slow figure eight on the table, leaning forward to provide a nice display of her low bodice. Julian had always told her she’d been blessed with one of the loveliest bosoms of his acquaintance, and at the moment she was not above using any weapons at her disposal.
Predictably his gaze flickered between her suggestively sweeping finger and her bodice. ‘For heaven’s sake, Genny, you are shameless. Three, and not one more.’
‘Seven.’
‘Four.’
‘Six.’
‘Five.’
‘Seven.’
‘Six… Damnation. That’s not fair—you reversed direction.’
‘Oh, very well, only six,’ she said demurely.
He planted his hands on the table. ‘You are lucky I am fond of you, you cunning pixie.’
‘I am not only lucky, but grateful. Will you try and convince Marcus to come as well?’
‘I’ll try. Why not command me to go down to the docks, prostrate myself before our new Lord and Master and beg him to attend as well, while you’re at it?’
‘Lord Westford is in London?’ she asked in surprise. Mary had told her he planned to attend Emily’s wedding in Hampshire, but she’d said nothing about him arriving in London.
‘Docked only yesterday.’
‘Oh, no—that isn’t good.’
Julian’s brows rose. ‘I agree, but I didn’t think you shared my distaste for my very inconvenient cousin and the new head of the misbegotten Carringtons. You and Charlie used to leap to his defence every time any of us dared speak ill of your precious Captain Christopher Carrington.’
She raised her chin, a little embarrassed. She had been very careful to patrol her true thoughts on the Carrington clan when she’d gone to live with Serena and Charlie, well aware of the tenuous nature of her position. But she’d been so shocked by the way they’d vilified Captain Carrington that she’d been goaded more than once into defending the man her grandfather had considered his most trusted officer during the year he’d served with him.
‘I defended him because I thought it terribly unfair and disrespectful the way you and Marcus and your grandparents spoke of him, when in truth it appears you hardly knew him, since he’d spent so little time at the Hall.’ She saw Julian gather himself to argue old grievances and hurried on. ‘But, in the interests of fairness, I admit his behaviour since he sold his commission has hardly been exemplary—and as Lord Westford he is abysmal. Do you know that neither the lawyers nor the steward have heard from him since your grandfather died, apart from a perfunctory letter from some solicitor in London to direct all correspondence to him?’
