Regency Desire. Margaret McPhee
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arms. He was strong and lean from all the fencing and horse riding and pugilism, his body so different from hers, so much bigger, so masculine.
‘It’s all your fault,’ she said.
‘Guilty as charged,’ he admitted, and his eyes smouldered all the darker. He kissed all the way up the column of her neck, kissed the line of her jaw, kissed her chin.
Already she could feel the desire stoke again within her. Her woman’s place between her legs ached for him.
She scraped her teeth against the naked skin of his shoulder, licked him there, sucked him there while one hand slipped lower to caress the long hard length of him.
She felt the involuntary contraction of his muscles, heard the sharp intake of his breath as she stroked him.
‘Alice.’
She smiled and bit his shoulder.
Razeby took her mouth with masterful possession, plunging his tongue into its depths as she wrapped her legs around him and welcomed him home.
They moved in a dance as old as time itself. A man and his woman, mating, bonding, sharing all that was possible to share on this journey that could have only one destination for them both. Striving together until she was gasping and crying out his name as he spilled his seed within her and she pulsed around him and shattered into a myriad of stardust and magic that transcended all else.
And afterwards, as ever, he held her safe in his strong arms, curving his body around hers as if he would protect her from all the world. She could feel the stir of his warm breath against her hair and the possessiveness of his hand around her breast, the warmth of his hard masculine body preventing the cooling of her own lover’s rosy glow. His lips brushed against the top of her head and her heart gave a little dance of utter happiness and joy. She snuggled in closer and basked in the aftermath of their lovemaking.
But when she opened her eyes to look into his she glimpsed again something of that same pensive undercurrent that she had seen in the drawing room. She stroked her fingers against the faint blue stubble of his cheek. ‘What’s wrong, Razeby?’ He was not his usual self. He had not been entirely himself for the last weeks. ‘You’ve something on your mind.’ Please God, don’t let it be what she had been writing upon the desk. If he asked about that, she was not sure what she was going to tell him.
He looked into her eyes, studied them, and just for a moment she thought he was going to tell her. Then it was gone, replaced by that smile of his that made her melt inside.
‘Nothing that cannot wait a little longer.’ He caught her fingers from his cheek and pressed them to his lips.
But she was not so easily reassured. A little whisper of unease stroked down her spine. ‘Razeby,’ she began, but he rolled her on to her back and followed to cover her, staring down into her face all the while.
‘Please not yet,’ he said, and it sounded almost like a prayer; then he silenced any further protestations with a kiss. The kiss led to another, and another, until the passion that consumed them made all else fade away.
Razeby stood by the window of his study in his town house in Leicester Square, observing all of normality go on in the street outside. A carriage rolled by, the Earl of Misbourne’s crest painted upon its door. A coal cart rattled slowly out of the nearby mews, its load lessened following its delivery. Two gentlemen upon horseback had pulled over by the gardens to greet each other. Servants hurried along the pavements on errands for their masters. A nursemaid was taking a baby for a walk in a child’s pushchair. He turned away from the window at that last sight.
The brandy decanter was sitting on his desk. The heavyweight crystal engraved with the Razeby coat of arms and motto—The Name of Razeby Shall Prevail—was a taunting irony. Regardless of the earliness of the hour he lifted the decanter, filled one of the matching engraved glasses, and took a sip.
The heat of the brandy hit the back of his throat, the smooth warmth tracing all the way down to his stomach. He took a deep breath and set the glass down upon the letter that lay open upon his desk. A bead of the rich tawny liquid trickled down from the glass’s rim, slipping slowly, inexorably, down the stem to the base, where it finally crept upon the paper beneath to blur the inky words his cousin Atholl had written there—Atholl, who had defied all advice to buy a commission in the cavalry and taken himself off to fight against Napoleon. Yet another reminder. Everywhere Razeby looked there were reminders.
There was not a sound within the house. Only the slow steady tick of the tall clock in the corner, marking how quickly time was slipping away. He had left it so late, almost too late. He could leave it no longer.
He thought of Alice, his Alice, with her beautiful dark blue eyes and her passion and her warmth of heart and spirit, of how much she had been looking forward to the fireworks tonight. He thought of Alice and all that had been between them these past months, and felt an ache in his chest. His eyes strayed to the long, slim brown-velvet box that lay beside his pen holder. Just a momentary pause, as he steeled himself to the task. Then he slipped the box into the pocket of his tailcoat.
Razeby downed the remaining brandy in one go, but it did not settle the sourness or dread in his stomach.
The night sky was a canopy of clear midnight-blue velvet sewn with a smattering of diamonds that twinkled and glittered. The moon was a thin crescent hanging high in their midst. Although the winter had passed, the spring night air was cold, turning Alice and Razeby’s breaths to smoke as they climbed from the little boat and walked hand in hand across the grass to Vauxhall Gardens.
Alice wrapped the cloak around her more tightly and felt Razeby’s arm pull her closer.
‘You are cold.’
‘Only a little.’ She smiled up at him. And he stared down into at her face with a curiously tender expression, as if he were branding her image upon his memory never to be forgotten. ‘Why so serious? Hmm?’ she asked, still smiling, and cupped his beard-scraped cheek.
He moved his lips to kiss the palm of her hand. ‘It has been an unpleasant day.’
‘Then we’d better make sure we enjoy tonight.’
‘Every last precious minute.’ The words were so softly murmured she had to strain to catch them. Then he seemed to shake off his megrims, and, taking her hand in his, led her to watch a host of entertainers: jugglers and knife throwers, dancers and musicians. A hurdy-gurdy man with a little monkey upon his shoulder, its tiny furry body all dressed up smartly in a fine coat and matching hat, was drawing quite the crowd. They could smell the food from the banqueting tables beyond, but the night seemed too chill for the wafer-thin cold ham and champagne that was being served to the guests.
‘I’m glad we ate at home,’ she said.
‘Me, too.’ Razeby pulled a bottle of champagne from his pocket. ‘No glasses. I am afraid we will have to slum it. Even if it is the best bottle from your cellar.’
‘Your cellar,’ she said and laughed, as he timed the popping of the cork to merge with the explosion of the fireworks in the sky.
The froth exploded over the top of the bottle, cascading down the bottle’s neck as Razeby offered it to her.
Alice took a swig from the bottle and spluttered at the furious fizz of bubbles.
Razeby’s swig gave not the slightest hint of choking.
Then she leaned back against his chest as his arms wrapped around her waist, and together they looked up and watched the magnificent explosion of coloured lights and flashes fill the sky. All around them the crowd was ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ with amazement and appreciation at the spectacle. She could smell the sulphurous stench of the fireworks and catch the drift of the scent of smoke from the braziers not so very far away.
Razeby