The Mammoth Book Of Regency Romance Part 61

At a glance, it could be easily dismissed as an old-fas.h.i.+oned, 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 s.p.a.ces with marble columns, ivory walls and coved ceilings that were vibrantly painted with Roman G.o.ds.

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 Devons.h.i.+re 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 fas.h.i.+onable elite that made him an amusing companion.

"A charming evening as always, Lady Spaulding," her companion drawled, a glint of sly humour in his blue eyes. "How ever did you manage to lure Czar Alexander to your elegant gathering?"

Amelia shrugged. "I was introduced to Alexander Pavlovich when I attended his sister, the d.u.c.h.ess of Oldenburg, at the Pulteney Hotel. He was kind enough to suggest that I include him during my next salon."

Sylvester waved a delicate lace fan, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

"The Prince Regent will be furious, of course," he drawled. "It is said the Russians have flatly refused to attend several of the shockingly expensive entertainments he has planned to celebrate his grand victory over the Frenchies."

"Considering that our rotund Prince's only contribution to the war was marching his regiment up and down the streets of Brighton, it is hardly surprising that the Czar is unimpressed."

Sylvester leaned forwards, a hint of a leer on his face as his gaze lowered to her full bosom.

"And, of course, Alexander Pavlovich does not desire to bed the Prince."

Amelia stiffened in distaste. Over the past month she had noticed an unwelcome familiarity from Sylvester. Indeed, there had been several gentlemen who had made unwanted advances, perhaps a.s.suming her husband's continued absence from London meant she was in need of male companions.h.i.+p. She would have to put a swift end to such nonsense.

"Behave yourself, Sylvester."

"My dear, I could hardly miss Alexander Pavlovich's languis.h.i.+ng glances and awkward attempts to lure you from the crowd," Sylvester drawled. "He desires to make you his mistress."

"I have no interest in the Czar."

"Do not be so hasty, my dear. Czar Alexander is handsome enough, and taking him as your lover would only heighten your position among London society." The lace fan fluttered. "You would be infamous."

"Sylvester," Amelia said softly.

"Yes?"

"If you ever again suggest that I barter my body to acquire the approval of society you may consider yourself an unwelcome guest in my home."

"Forgive me, my lady." The blue gaze slowly returned to her face. "You are quite correct to reprimand me. It is all too common among ladies of the ton to take lovers. Your mysterious refusal to discuss your current paramour only makes you more intriguing."

Sensing the man was in need of a more crus.h.i.+ng set-down, Amelia was abruptly distracted by the sound of raised voices echoing from the foyer below.

"What the devil?"

"It sounds as if an uninvited intruder is attempting to force his way past your rather terrifying butler. How very ill-bred," Sylvester twittered, his brows lifting as Amelia turned to leave the drawing room. "My dear, where are you going?"

"To put an end to this foolishness."

"But, he might be dangerous. G.o.d knows the streets are no longer safe for decent folk."

"Do not be absurd." Amelia waved a hand towards the milling guests who had yet to notice the disturbance. "See to the guests. I do not wish them to be bothered."

"But of course, my dear."

Slipping into the hallway, Amelia hurried down the corridor to the marble staircase, startled to see her uniformed butler standing on the formal landing, his arms lifted as if he were holding back an intruder.

Not that she could see anything beyond his hulking form. She had specifically chosen several large male servants to ensure her safety. Her butler in particular had once been a famed boxer who was capable of felling the most determined opponent.

"Is there a problem, Boris?"

"This here gentleman claims to be your husband," the man growled, then he abruptly bent double, as if he had taken a brutal blow to the stomach.

Amelia stumbled, her back slamming into the wall of the corridor as the tall, raven-haired gentleman shoved aside her cursing butler and prowled forwards.

Her heart beat painfully against her chest as she studied the man who she had once been convinced she loved with all her soul.

He was not conventionally handsome. His features were strong rather than refined, and his skin bronzed from the hours he spent on his estate. He had a broad, intelligent forehead and a n.o.ble nose. His mouth was carved with a sensuous fullness and his eyes a stunning gold that could s.h.i.+mmer with humour or smoulder with pa.s.sion. And, as always, his raven hair was in need of a cut, making her fingers ache to run through the satin length.

A s.h.i.+ver raced through her body, stealing away her arrogant belief that she was immune to the man who had crushed her youthful dreams.

"Good evening, Amelia."

Her mouth went dry as her gaze lowered to his large, muscular body attired in a fawn jacket and buff breeches, his cravat tied in a simple knot. The Earl of Spaulding had no need of lace and fripperies to attract female attention. He possessed an innate male arrogance that was annoyingly captivating.

"Justin," she breathed.

His lips curled in a humourless smile, his hooded gaze sliding down her stiff form with an unnerving intensity.

"I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that my wife is capable of recognizing me, even if my staff does not," he drawled.

There was a movement behind him and Amelia hastily lifted her hand to halt her butler from attacking. "That will be all, Boris," she commanded.

The servant scowled, obviously smarting from being bested by a n.o.b. "Are you certain?"

Justin paused to glance over his shoulder. "Lady Spaulding gave you an order."

"I will handle this," she snapped, bristling at his interference. She had become accustomed to being the lady of the manor, and she had no intention of handing over her authority to anyone. Especially not her treacherous husband. "Please return to your duties, Boris."

Boris shot the wryly amused n.o.bleman a venomous glare before offering her a deep bow. "Yes, my lady."

Waiting until the servant had made his way back to the foyer, Amelia returned her attention to her unwanted companion, her stomach clenching with a bittersweet awareness as he moved to stand close enough for her to feel the heat from his large body and catch the tempting scent of sandalwood.

Her hands clenched at her side. d.a.m.n him. She hated him, so how could he still stir her most primitive desires?

"What are you doing here?" she rasped.

"The last I knew this was the Spaulding townhouse, a home that has belonged to my family for the past century, is it not?"

Her chin tilted at his mocking tone. "If you would have possessed the courtesy to inform me of your intention to travel to London I would have taken rooms in a hotel and ensured that you would have your privacy."

Without warning Justin s.h.i.+fted to place his hands flat on the wall on either side of her shoulders, effectively trapping her. "You mean that you would have cowardly fled as you did on our wedding day?" he demanded, his head slowly lowering. "That is precisely why I did not inform you of my impending arrival."

She flinched, the memory of that day seared into her mind.

The brief, impersonal marriage ceremony before the Bishop. The long, silent carriage ride to the small inn where they were meant to spend their wedding night before travelling on to Rosemount, Justin's estate in Hamps.h.i.+re. And then her impulsive flight back to London when she noticed the mail coach waiting in the stable yard.

She could still feel the sick dread in the pit of her stomach as she had arrived at this townhouse and the hours she had paced through the shabby, dark rooms, expecting Justin to arrive at any moment.

But he hadn't arrived.

Not that evening. Or the following evening. Or the one after that.

Eventually she had accepted that her husband was content to have her in London while he settled at his beloved Rosemount. And why not? He had only taken her as his wife to salvage his heavily mortgaged estates. He was no doubt deeply relieved not to be burdened with his awkward, inconvenient wife.

But no more relieved than she had been, she sternly a.s.sured herself. Why would she desire him to chase after her, pretending that she was anything more than a means to replenish his family coffers?

Burying her pain and disillusionment deep inside her, Amelia had concentrated on building a new life for herself. First, she had overseen the renovations to the townhouse, ignoring any guilt at the vast changes she was making without regards to whether or not Justin would approve. The f.e.c.kless Spauldings had allowed the place to fall into ruin. It was her money that had restored it to a habitable home. Why should she not choose what pleased her?

Next, she had set about renovating herself. Without the oppressive yoke of her mother's overbearing presence, Amelia had slowly emerged from her coc.o.o.n. She bought a new wardrobe and hired a French maid who was an artist with her hair. She slowly and carefully began opening her home to a select collection of friends, deliberately ignoring those in society who had treated her with such disdain over the years.

She had been ironically aware that her hasty marriage to an earl, combined with her presence in London while her newly wed husband remained in Hamps.h.i.+re, had made her the source of avid interest among the ton. And the very fact that she refused to accept the piles of invitations that arrived with the post each morning only increased the fevered desire by London hostesses to secure her as a guest.

Absurd dolts.

Briefly lost in her thoughts, Amelia was jolted back to the present as she felt the brush of Justin's warm lips over her mouth.

Shocking pleasure exploded through her body, reminding her of those dazzling days before she had discovered the truth of this man. Amelia had never comprehended pa.s.sion until she had first felt the brush of Justin's slender fingers and the heat of his hard body as he had swept her across the dance floor. From that moment he had only to be near for her body to s.h.i.+ver with aching need.

She had blamed that s.h.i.+vering awareness for why she had been so easily deceived. If she hadn't been so blinded by his sweet seduction, she might have been wise enough to realize his seeming affection was no more than a cruel ploy.

Ridiculously, she had a.s.sumed discovering the truth of her husband's treachery would destroy her vulnerability to his raw masculinity. Now she realized she had been a naive fool.

She hastily turned her head to the side, shuddering as his lips skimmed over her cheek and down the curve of her throat.

"Halt that," she husked, infuriated by the pleasure searing through her.

"Halt what?" He pulled back to study her flushed features. "Greeting you as any husband would after being parted from his wife for the past year?"

"We may possess a marriage licence, but that does not make me your wife," she snapped.

"No, I have yet to claim you as my true bride, but that is about to change." The golden eyes smouldered with a wicked amus.e.m.e.nt. "Tonight."

Her heart came to a precise halt. "Justin-"

"Do you know what today is?" he asked, overriding her protest.

"No."

"Yes you do, my love." His hand s.h.i.+fted to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "It is the anniversary of our wedding."

She had known, of course. The thought had plagued her the entire day. Not that she was about to admit as much to her aggravating husband.

Thankfully the sound of approaching footsteps had Justin stepping away from her, his handsome face tightening with anger as Sylvester appeared on the landing.

"Is everything well, my dear?" Sylvester asked, his avid gaze taking careful note of Amelia's obvious discomfort.

"Leave us," Justin barked.

"Really, sir. There is no need to behave as a savage-"

Sylvester's words were cut short as Justin moved with astonis.h.i.+ng speed to grasp the smaller man's elaborate cravat. "I said, leave us."

Sylvester paled at the threat, intelligent enough to realize that Justin could crush him without effort. "Yes. Of course." He held up his hands and backed away. "So sorry to have intruded."

Once again alone with her husband, Amelia slammed her hands on to her hips and glared at him with a rising fury. "Have you taken leave of your senses?" she hissed. "You cannot force your way into my home and embarra.s.s me before my friends."

A feral smile curved his lips as he abruptly turned and, without warning, swept her off her feet. "Never underestimate what I can or cannot do, my love," he growled, heading for the stairs.

"No." She slammed her fist against his chest. "Put me down at once. d.a.m.n you, Justin."

Climbing the marble steps to the upper floor, Justin glanced down at her with a lift of his dark brows. "Such language from the lips of a lady."

Amelia trembled, telling herself it was pure outrage that made her pulse race and her breath so oddly elusive. "But I am not a lady, at least not as far as you are concerned, am I?" she gritted.

"I presume that has some deep, philosophical meaning?"

"So far as you are concerned I am no more than a means to an end. You were in desperate need of wealth and I was a convenient means of acquiring a ready fortune."

"Convenient?" His humourless laugh echoed through the silence as he made his way unerringly down the hall to the master bedchamber. "Not even you can be that naive, Amelia. You have haunted and tortured me for the past year."

"Liar." She blinked back her ridiculous tears. She had sworn a year ago that this man would never hurt her again. "You have ignored me since you were given the rights to my dowry. I do not doubt you forgot you even possessed a wife."

A dangerous emotion darkened the golden eyes. "I was not the one to turn my back on our marriage."