The Complete Regency Surrender Collection

Her legs spread wide. One rested on the floor, the other bent at the knee, foot resting on the upholstery. He knelt between them, pushing her skirt up and out of the way. He leaned over her, his mouth suckling an exposed breast, his hand on her calf. Smooth curves, a seemingly endless expanse of silk-encased flesh. He was an explorer on his way to an undiscovered country.

‘No.’ Suddenly she shuddered under him, pushed away, and rolled off on to the floor, scrambling to be free of him.

* * *

It was the most wonderful mistake she had ever made.

When she had seen him, staring at her from the front of the shop, she had known their innocent flirtation was at an end. All that was left was the reckoning that had been predicted by everyone around her.

Had he ever felt anything for her, other than lust? It did not seem so, tonight. In return, she would feel nothing.

She refused to feel fear, if that was what he wanted from her. And hatred was too much like passion. She felt nothing. And she spoke from the emptiness, with her offer.

It amused him. He responded. She negotiated. He accepted.

Then he approached.

If what he was doing with her was a punishment, then perhaps she was one of those poor souls who thrived on abuse. His touch had been like a feather stroke, awakening her appetite.

But cravings could be resisted. She would yield her body, but not her mind. And not her heart.

Then his lips touched hers.

A taste was not enough. She was starving for him, desperate for the kiss. To feel nothing was impossible, with his lips on hers. Anger, then. Hatred. But the rage fed the flames and she raked his tongue with her teeth.

His finger played at the top of her gown.

She pushed her breast into his hand and was rewarded for her boldness. Her dress was open, his hands on her breasts, and then his lips. He was possessing her, making her body his own.

And she wanted him to do it. She was on her back, spreading her legs to make it easier as he gripped her ankle and raised her skirt. Her nipples grew between his teeth. Her legs were wet. And everything inside her ached and trembled, begging for him to hurry, to finish, to take her.

Justine had explained the process of joining with a man, like some kind of unpleasant warning. There would be blood and pain. But God help her, why did she want to be hurt?

Justine had been wrong. It would be different with Fanworth than it had been for Justine. She had been forced into a liaison, with Mr Montague in this very shop.

‘No!’ She pushed him away, scrambling for safety. She had changed the look of the room, but she could not change the past. And at the thought of her poor, helpless sister, she wanted to be sick.

‘No?’ She could not look at him. But the frustration and anger were plain in his voice. ‘You agreed.’

‘Not here,’ she said, breathing deeply until her stomach settled. Then she gave a hasty swipe at the tears on her cheeks. When she looked up at him, her gaze was every bit as unwavering as it had been when she’d bargained away her honour. ‘It cannot be here. I cannot explain it to you. I will abide by our agreement. Anywhere but here.’

He pulled himself to a sitting position and stared at her. At the feel of his eyes on her body, she tugged the bodice of her gown up to cover breasts still wet from his kisses.

‘Not here, then,’ he said, without emotion.

The brief passion that had flashed between them was a pale imitation of the easy communion she thought they’d shared. It had been an illusion. He was as distant now as when he spoke to her sister. ‘Tomorrow. In my rooms. And then, no running. No more excuses, or I will send for Mr Smith.’

She responded with a single nod.

He nodded back, as though he could no longer trust his voice. He stood, turning away from her and running a shaky hand through his chestnut hair. Then he was gone, the front door of the shop slamming behind him.

Chapter Five

‘You are sure there will be no difficulty?’ It was the third time Mr Pratchet had asked about the necklace that day.

For the third time, Margot answered with a quelling glance and a single word. ‘None.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if you allowed me...’

‘No. I have spoken to Lord Fanworth. The matter is settled.’ She ignored the leap her insides gave when she thought of the marquess. Pratchet had been right all along. It had all been nothing more than an elaborate seduction.

She would give Fanworth what he had wanted from the first. But she had done her best to minimise the damage through smart negotiation. If such a man was capable of keeping his word, then the matter would be settled in no time. She would not have to go to Justine about the necklace, or admit what had almost happened in the private salon.

But, for now, she had to endure Pratchet’s curiosity. And if that was not bad enough, she was watched by the marquess as well. He’d passed by the shop in the early afternoon and glanced though the window at her, pausing just long enough to tip his hat and give her an ironic smile.

She had not been able to breathe until she was sure he was gone from view.

Thank God, he had agreed to leave when she’d begged him to on the previous evening. Once he had touched her, things had all happened too fast to understand. But the longer she had to think, the angrier she became. She was angry that he could pretend to blame her for the theft of the necklace. Angry that he had the nerve to be angry with her. And most angry of all that he had been so false to her for so long, acting as though he loved her and pretending that they shared some secret bond.

The least he could have done was stated his desires honestly, from the first. To make her believe that he cared for anything but her body had been unfair. If he had come to her some evening, after any one of those conversations, and suggested something they might do that would make that bond even deeper? She might have been seduced by smiles and soft words, opened her arms and gone freely. Instead, he had used blackmail. And though it disgusted her to admit it, the price was surprisingly low.

If last night had been an indication, the act of physical intimacy would not be as unpleasant as her sister had described. When he had come into the shop to claim her, Fanworth had been frightening, infuriating and intimidating. But at no point had he been repellent.

And while some might say he was threatening her with a fate worse than death, those people had never contemplated an earned place in a hangman’s noose. Nor had they considered the other alternative: months or years wasting away in prison.

She could avoid punishment, if she went to her sister for help. But that would likely end with Justine insisting that she close the shop to prevent further such problems. If that happened, she would lose all she had sought to build. She would be encouraged to move in with Justine and Will, to live off their charity until such time as she made a proper marriage.

If she valued her independence, a few nights in the bed of a rich and handsome nobleman was hardly suffering. And if that man touched her as if she was made of porcelain and kissed like a fallen angel...

Apparently, when it came to the physical act of love, the pleasure varied with the participants. Though Justine sometimes blanched at the unpleasant memories of the jewellery shop, she was all smiles when she spoke of her husband.

She had shamelessly enjoyed the beginning of their first encounter. Perhaps, if she could manage to think of Stephen Standish while making love to Fanworth, it would be even better. But she had no intention of waiting meekly for him to take her. If she had her way, he would never be allowed over the threshold again. It had taken nearly a year to exorcise the demons from these rooms. Whether the result of her bargain with the marquess was good or bad, memories of it would not be allowed to taint the place where she meant to spend the rest of her life.

Tonight, she would go to him. She would be the aggressor, not the victim. It would set the tone for their blessedly brief relationship and allow her to escape with her dignity, even if she could not keep her virtue. She would like or dislike the act, as fancy took her. But she would perform it the four promised times. Then she would return here, never to think of it again.

She waited until the last customer had gone, shooed the clerks and shop girls out and gave Mr Pratchet another stern look to discourage his lingering. Then she took only a moment to straighten her hair before putting on a bonnet and shawl and exiting from the back of the shop into the street.

She did not want to be seen or questioned about this solitary journey. There was still enough light left in the sky to be easily seen and a woman walking alone on the Circus gave entirely the wrong impression.

Or perhaps it was the right one. She was most definitely up to no good. Her stomach twisted at the idea of going brazenly to the front door of the marquess’s residence and demanding admittance. The fashionable street on which he lived was all too public and still full of holiday visitors on their way to various nightly balls and entertainments.

She stopped a street short of the building she knew to contain his residence, searching for the mews or alley that would lead her to the kitchens and the servants’ entrance. Then she tipped the bonnet forward to shield her face, trying to disappear behind the scrap of veil that decorated its brim.

She counted down the row of doors until she came to the correct one and knocked quietly on the panel.

A scullery maid opened for her, wiping her wet hands against her apron.

For a moment, Margot’s voice faltered. Then she whispered, ‘Lord Fanworth?’

‘If you have business with him, then go ’round the front,’ the girl said, her suspicious glance sweeping Margot from head to toe.

‘It’s a private matter,’ Margot said, even more quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the other servants working in the room. ‘If you could show me how to get to his bedchamber...’

The girl let out a hiss of disapproval and held up a finger, indicating that she stay where she was. Then she turned from the door and went across the room to a woman sitting at one of the long wooden tables in the kitchen. Judging by the severe cut of her gown, and her equally severe expression, it was the housekeeper. There was a whispered conversation between the two and many sharp and disapproving glances cast in her direction.

Before a reason could be found to put her off, Margot stepped into the kitchen and shut the door behind her. Then she walked forward into the room to speak to the housekeeper directly. The woman did not rise as she approached, but watched her in silence.

‘I have come to see Lord Fanworth,’ she said, meeting the woman’s gaze without flinching. ‘He expects me.’

‘Then it is surprising he is not here to greet you,’ the woman responded, with a sour smile.

‘If I could wait for him...’

‘In his bedchamber,’ the woman finished. By the look in her eyes, it was clear that she knew exactly why Margot had come. And she did not approve.

Margot could not blame her. She was not proud of her own actions, either. But pride and approval were not necessary. All that mattered was that she fulfil her part of the bargain so her life might return to normal.

She squared her shoulders and stared the woman down. ‘Yes. I wish to wait for him in his bedchamber. No doubt he told you he would have a guest this evening. Unless you do not know what goes on in the house you manage.’

The woman opened her mouth as if to retort, then snapped it shut again. Without a word, she led the way to the servants’ stairs and they climbed to the first floor in silence. The housekeeper opened the door and pointed down the hall. ‘The third door is his suite of rooms. If the valet is there, it is up to you to explain yourself. I will not help you further.’ Then she disappeared.

Margot swallowed the response that help was not necessary. If she did not want to appear helpless, then why was she shaking in her shoes? She took a moment to steady her knees and her nerves. Then she walked briskly down to the indicated door, opened it, entered and shut it behind her.

She stood in a pleasant but unremarkable sitting room. It certainly did not seem like the stronghold of an evil seducer. It looked more suitable to the man she thought she’d known.

It was also blissfully empty, as was the dressing room that connected to it and the bedroom that connected to that. As with the sitting room, there was nothing about the place Fanworth slept that made her think of a seraglio. It was rather a relief. If lying with him turned out to be unpleasant, she would rather it be devoid of erotic nonsense that would make her feel more awkward than she did already.

There was no sign of him as yet. But it would be better to be prepared for his arrival. With a sigh, she pulled off her shawl and bonnet and slipped out of her shoes, wiggling her toes in the thick rug before undoing her gown and pulling it over her head. She draped it over a chair beside the bed and removed petticoat, stays, shift and stockings, folding her clothing and piling it neatly on the seat.

She stood for a moment, naked at his bedside. She felt both free and rather ridiculous, standing about in her skin and making no move to dress. As an afterthought, she picked up the man’s dressing gown spread at the end of the bed and slipped into it, knotting the sash loosely at her waist. She was more than covered now, lost in yards of silk. The sleeves fell to cover her hands and the hem trailed inches past her feet, pooling on floor around her.

It smelled of him. Because she could stop herself, she inhaled deeply and felt her knees go watery again. She wrapped her arms around her body to steady herself, but this only served to press the fabric of the gown against her bare skin and remind her of his arms the previous night. She sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly dizzy. If he did not come soon, she would lose her nerve, dress and leave.

But it was already too late to escape. There was a commotion somewhere in the house. Slamming, shouting, and stomping about on the lower floor. Was he always like this when at home? It certainly seemed in keeping with the sort of man who would go to such lengths to trick a humble shopkeeper out of her innocence.

She heard him shouting to a servant, as he approached his rooms. ‘I d-d-d-do not need your help. You cannot g-g-get me anything I need, unless you can haul a certain woman to j-j-justice by her p-p-pretty guh-g-gold hair. I will call for Smith tomorrow and p-p-p-p...’ The stutter ended in a clear exclamation of ‘Bloody hell!’ and a deep breath. ‘God’s teeth. I will bring the law down upon her. I...’

He stood in the doorway between the dressing room and the bedroom, tearing at his own cravat as a worried valet danced at his side, trying to catch the abused linen.

‘You are here,’ he said, frozen to the spot. The shouting was gone, replaced by quiet and confusion.

‘As I promised, last night,’ she said.

‘I went to the shop,’ he said.

That explained his anger. He thought she had gone back on their bargain. He was staring at her now, puzzlement clear in his eyes. But he did not speak, probably because asking how she had found his residence would result in another bout of stuttering.

She spared him. ‘I knew your direction from before. When I realised who you were, I enquired after it.’ She had made it a point to learn everything she could about the Marquess of Fanworth. Such curiosity was unladylike and all too embarrassing.

‘Oh.’ He was staring at her, obviously mollified, but still struggling with her sudden appearance in his rooms.

To remind him of the reason for it, she glanced in the direction of the valet and down at the dressing gown she wore.

He glanced at the valet as well and uttered a single word, ‘Out.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The servant evaporated with nothing more than a soft click of the sitting-room door.

Fanworth continued to stare at her, then said, ‘Have you taken supper?’

‘I am not hungry,’ she said, sure that so much as a bite would make her ill. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she stood, untied the sash and dropped the gown to the floor.

He continued to stare. At first, there was no change in his expression at all. Then, very deliberately, he looked into her eyes and gave a final tug on his cravat, letting it flutter to the floor. There was another pause, lasting several seconds, before he began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat.

Was it her imagination, or did his fingers tremble, just a little? Perhaps a more experienced woman would have helped him with his garments. It would have at least hurried the process of disrobing. He seemed to be taking unnecessary time with it.

The part of her that wanted this over as soon as possible warred with the part of her that wanted to grab her own clothes, turn and run before things progressed any further.

But if she was honest, there was a small portion of her soul loyal to neither of those sides. This one was fascinated by the deliberate pace he took and the patch of skin that had appeared at his neck, as he’d removed the neckcloth. As her eyes followed his hands down the line of undone buttons, she got occasional glimpses of bare chest through the gap in his shirt front.

He slipped coat and waistcoat off in one motion and hung them over the back of the chair that held her dress. Then he stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it carelessly in the direction of the wardrobe.

She swallowed, performing an unwilling inventory. He looked rather like one of the Townley marbles at the British Museum. But those had been frozen in place. Back, shoulders, arms, chest and stomach were all more beautiful when seen in motion. He turned away from her for a moment as he bent to remove his boots and hose, and she could not help but imagine him rising up with a discus in his hand, like a Greek athlete brought to life.

But there was more to be seen. In a few moments, he would be as naked as she was. Now he turned to face her and she found herself holding her breath, as the breeches fell.

At the proper boarding school her sister had forced her to attend, there had been a teacher who had actually been to Italy, and to France, before the war. It had been that woman’s job to educate them in art and to train them to make even poorer copies of the sad sketches she had done of the art she had seen in the museums on her tour. That woman’s well-thumbed sketchbook had contained a rather large collection of male nudes.

Had that poor woman been trying to minimise the male organ, to prevent shock to her students? Or was the marquess in some way deformed? He made Michelangelo’s David look quite puny.

With barely a glance, the very real Adonis in front of her walked to his bed, threw back the covers and reclined. Then he patted the mattress at his side.

They were playing a game. She was quite sure of it. Her plan had been to startle him with her presence and her nakedness. His had been to come for her, to win her with kisses and touches, tricking her into last night’s eager response.

In the end, that might have been easier. Now, he was daring her to prove her bravery and make the next move. Since she had set the tone for the evening, he meant to test her nerve.

Very well, then. Standing by the bed, gaping at him was accomplishing nothing. Though her feet seemed to be rooted to the floor, she would be here all night if she could not bring herself to move. She took three very deliberate steps towards the mattress, then knelt upon it. And then, with one deep breath, she swung a leg over the glorious male torso in front of her and straddled him.

From Justine’s rather blunt explanation of biology, a good portion of it was an autonomic process. Once begun, it did not require thinking. And soon after that, it would be over. But how to get to that state? Clearly, one part did not leap to meet the other like a spawning trout. Fanworth lay beneath her, his arms folded behind his head and a sly smile upon his lips, enjoying her discomfort.

She closed her eyes and reached out and held the organ in front of her, which seemed even larger with proximity. For a moment, she lost her nerve again. Smooth. Or was it ridged? Soft. No, hard. Could a thing be both? What she was feeling was full of interesting contradictions. It was growing slippery. She tilted it towards her own body, tipping her hips trying to discover some way that two could become one.

‘Stop.’

She froze, looking up at him. Fanworth was staring at her with a most odd expression. ‘Am I hurting you?’

‘No,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘You are more likely to hurt yourself. Let me.’ He reached forward, detached her grip and pulled her down to lay on top of him. Then he stroked her hair and kissed her. First, lightly, on the side of the head. His tongue traced her an ear, nuzzling her jaw line.

Her breathing was shallow, shaky. ‘I do not need this. Just finish.’

‘No,’ he said softly and found her lips.

It was like it had been in the shop, when she had felt her reserve slip, and her will leave her. Only this time, it was better.

No, worse.

No. Better. Their mouths were sealed together, sharing life and breath. And while he might find speech difficult, his tongue was more than clever enough for kissing. He licked. He thrust. He teased. She would give him anything he asked, just for another kiss like this.

Her breasts were touching his chest. It felt good. Now, his hands were touching them, and it felt amazing. It was even better than it had been last night, when the gown had been in the way. Now she was free of her clothing, he could do whatever he liked to her. First he stroked, with just a fingertip. But then he pinched. The rougher he was with her, the more she wanted his touch. After a few moments of play, she slid up his body.

Slid.

She was growing wet, as he had. Her body was melting, longing to be one with him. She slid up his body and rested on her elbows, thrusting her bosom towards his mouth until he realised what she wanted and took the nipples, one after the other, between his lips, circling them with his tongue.

It was glorious.

And positioned thus, a most intimate part of her body was resting on top of his. He had been right. It had been too soon, before. Now, it was as if her body wanted to open like a mouth and swallow him whole. Yes. His hand had found the spot. Fingers inside her. Stretching. Good. But not enough. More. She wanted more. She needed more. And then, his hands were on her bottom, and...

It hurt. Why did it have to hurt? And why, even though it hurt, did she still want more? His hand was back between them again, touching somewhere close to where they joined. He was moving in her, groaning. Had he called her name? The sound was distant, as if he’d shouted into a storm. A few gentle, soothing strokes of his thumb had struck the core of her body like lightning. She shook, trembling not with cold but with heat. And he did as well, inside her, in a wet shuddering release.

It was over. And to her surprise, she wanted to remain in his arms, still joined to him, holding the moment for ever, hoping that the future might never come.