Hero, Come Back (3 page)

And if the look in Lady Hexham’s eyes—let alone Melissa’s—was anything to judge by, he was going to be in deep trouble.

Hounded. Hunted.

With a charming smile, he left her ladyship; immediately he turned his back, he replaced the smile with an aggravated frown. Never mind his potential pursuers, where the hell was Anne?

“I would be very much obliged if you could spare me a few minutes of your time, my lord.” Anne smiled evenly at Lord Thomas Caverlock. “In private.”

Thomas, a handsome devil of a rake who showed no sign of succumbing to any of the highly respectable lures constantly thrown his way, looked down at her, an unreadable expression in his changeable blue-gray eyes. “What a very…tantalizing request, my dear.”

He studied her face for an instant longer, then glanced around. The card room was full, the tables host to a goodly throng, both male and female, most engrossed with the play. “Come.” He offered his arm. “Let’s stroll through the ballroom and see if we can find a quiet corner.”

Anne inclined her head and set her fingers on his sleeve. Despite her brave words, she was relieved he’d fixed on a corner of the ballroom, and not on some more deserted spot.

As they walked through the crowd, Thomas quizzed her—on her penchant for avoiding the ton, on her thoughts on society, on her family. Not once did he touch on her reason for seeking him out. Anne parried his queries easily enough, but wondered…

Abruptly Thomas changed tack and steered her through an archway into the corridor beyond. Her suspicions leapt to life, but before she could collect herself enough to protest, he threw open another door, and she found herself deftly swept into a small parlor.

She had to scuttle quickly forward or Thomas would have been on her heels—far too close. The door clicked shut in the instant she realized the parlor was quite deserted. It had been years since she’d graced tonnish entertainments— years since she’d worried about such things as compromising situations.

With a jolt of unwelcome surprise, she realized she was in one.

Lips parting in complaint, she swung to face Thomas—

Only to find him much closer than she’d expected.

His arm locked about her waist; smoothly he drew her to him.

It wasn’t the gentle laughter in his eyes, but the intent she sensed behind it—an intent she’d never before been the focus of but recognized instinctively—that frightened her; she braced her hands on his chest and pushed back. “My lord—Thomas! Release me at once!”

He chuckled and drew her closer.

She tried to struggle, but his arms were fully around her. “No! You don’t understand!”

“Oh, but I do, sweet Anne—most assuredly I do. You’ve hidden yourself away for years, but now you’ve decided to enjoy the fruits of life, and I’m flattered, believe me, quite flattered, that you’ve chosen me—”

“I
haven’t
!” Anne kept her voice down with an effort, assisted by the fact that Thomas had at least stopped drawing her closer. “Good heavens! As if I would…I mean—” She broke off, painfully aware his misunderstanding was at least partly her fault. “I wanted to
talk
to you. To tell you something!”

The laughter in Thomas’s eyes faded, to be replaced by wariness. “What?”

He didn’t release her; he was still too close— she could barely breathe. It wasn’t fear she felt— she wasn’t a ninny; she knew Thomas wouldn’t force her—but the feeling of being restrained wasn’t pleasant; if she thought about it too much, she might swoon. “Let me go, and I’ll tell you.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed.

From the door came a sigh. “Let her go, Thomas.”

His arms still around her, Thomas turned, allowing Anne to peer past his shoulder.

Reggie stood inside the room, leaning back, nonchalantly graceful, his shoulders against the closed door.

Neither of them had heard him come in.

Reggie’s gaze, exceedingly level, was fixed on Thomas. Thomas met it. For one instant, Anne could have sworn some intrinsically masculine communication took place, then Thomas’s arms slowly fell from her, and he took a step back, putting an acceptable distance between them.

He frowned, first at Reggie, then, more definitely, at her. “What’s going on?”

She straightened, clasping her hands before her, drawing in a deep breath. “I—”

“If you have the slightest sense of self-preservation, you will keep your lips shut.”

The force behind the words made her start; she stared, utterly astounded, at Reggie. He’d spoken in his usual even tone, yet the authority beneath it—even more the fury in his eyes—shocked her into silence.

He noted it; apparently satisfied, he looked at Thomas.

“Have you spoken to Hugh recently?”

“Hugh?” Increasingly confused, Thomas shook his head. “He called last afternoon but missed me. He left a message but I haven’t found the time—”

“Find the time,” Reggie said. “There’s something you need to know, and you’d best hear it from him.”

Thomas frowned. “Imogen’s here—”

“No. Imogen may not be in Hugh’s confidence—not in this.” Reggie pulled out his watch, glanced at it. “Daresay Hugh’ll be at White’s by now.” He looked at Thomas. “Don’t you think?”

Thomas nodded. “Most likely.”

“Well, then.” Tucking his watch back in his pocket, Reggie stepped away from the door, opening and holding it wide.

Thomas considered him. “You won’t tell me?”

Reggie met his gaze, shook his head. “Family matter. Less said about it by anyone else, the better.”

Thomas studied his eyes, then raised his brows. “Very well.” He stepped toward the door. “I’ll hie myself to White’s, then.” Swinging around, he swept Anne a bow. “Good evening, Miss Ashford.” He straightened; his gaze lingered— unholy appreciation lit his eyes. “Until next time, sweet Anne.”

With a devilish smile, he nodded to Reggie and walked from the room.

Reggie very carefully shut the door, grasping the moment to strengthen his hold on his temper. He hadn’t even known he possessed one—not of this type, not of this magnitude; subduing it, wrestling it back under control, wasn’t a simple matter.

Turning from the door, he looked at Anne, standing, hands still clapsed before her, staring at him. He couldn’t truly see anything else in the room. He started toward her. “I believe I told you not to attempt to explain this matter to Thomas?”

He kept his voice level, even, soft; it still brought her chin up.

“It was necessary—”

“No. It wasn’t.” He was hanging on to his temper by a thread—an increasingly frayed one. “As you just learned, Hugh has been trying to contact Thomas—it’s unlikely to be about any other subject. Neither Thomas nor Hugh will think there’s any urgency about this matter—Benjamin is presently quite
safe
.”

He stepped nearer; his temper infused his last word with enough emphasis to make it quiver.

Her eyes flew wide; she took a step back—as if finally understanding that she wasn’t as lucky as Benjamin. “I…” Her eyes searched his, then she blinked, drew herself up—and met his gaze defiantly. “I have absolutely no idea why you consider yourself my keeper in this—”

“Just be thankful I do.” He stepped forward on the word, and she backed again.

Into a sidetable; without looking, Anne stepped around it. “That’s ridiculous. No one would hold you responsible—”

“
I
would. I do!”

He stepped forward again; an air of aggression—not the typical male sort she’d been accustomed to seeing from her earliest years in her brothers, but something finer, more honed— infinitely more dangerous—seemed to shimmer about him. She couldn’t stop herself taking another step back.

“But nothing happened! Everything’s perfectly all right—”

“No. It isn’t.”

Stepping back again, she locked her eyes on his. “Thomas now knows—and Hugh hasn’t forgotten, so—”

“All is well on the Benjy front. Quite.”

On the last, ferociously clipped word, Reggie stepped forward again—and her back hit the wall. She didn’t dare blink. He had to be able to see her reaction, yet he took still another step. Deliberately crowding her, leaving her not an inch to breathe.

She’d expected panic to overwhelm her, but it wasn’t fear that raced down her veins. She’d never felt excitement, expectation—exhilaration— to match this.

His eyes, furious, cloudy, roiling with anger, held her gaze mercilessly. “All, however,” he enunciated softly, “is not right—nowhere near right—on the
Reggie
front.”

Raising his hands, he slapped them, palms flat, on the panels on either side of her head—and leaned nearer yet. He was very close. The temptation to drop her gaze to his lips—to lick her own—grew.

She fought to hold his gaze. Managed to find breath enough to ask, “Why are you so angry?”

His eyes searched hers; she saw something shift behind the turmoil, then his features hardened. “Be damned if I know.”

The words reached her ears as he bent his head, and his lips found hers.

Not gently. Yet neither was he driven by anger—even in that first instant, she understood that. It was another passion that drove him; she shivered at the first contact, at the realization, one too delicious to resist.

He seemed to know, to sense her recognition; his lips firmed, demanded—she surrendered on a sigh, parting her lips, welcoming him in.

Glorying when he surged in, slow, deep, exploring. Branding, inciting.

She’d been kissed before, but never like this— never had any man wanted her like this. With a clear, unbridled passion, one so lacking in guile, in any attempt at concealment, that it was almost innocent.

Infinitely more powerful.

Her hands rose of their own volition and rested on his chest. She felt the heavy thud of his heart against her palm. She kissed him back, felt his breath catch—felt his chest swell as he drew breath, then took her mouth again.

She gave it gladly, pushed her hands up and twined them about his neck, and lifted away from the wall. He shifted, easing upright; his arms slid around her, then closed, steadily, gradually, until he had molded her to him, until she’d pressed as tightly to him as she could.

The heat was intoxicating, pouring through her, from his lips, his mouth, from his body enfolding hers. She wanted to get nearer still, wanted—very definitely—more.

He drew back for a moment, releasing her lips, albeit with obvious reluctance. She lifted her lids, suddenly heavy, and met his gaze. They were both breathing rapidly, both heated—both consumed by what, looking into his eyes, she recognized as mutual desire. One part of her mind mentally blinked in amazement; most of it sang with hunger. As for her body, it was quivering with a need she had never felt before, but saw absolutely no reason to deny.

Something of that decision must have shown in her face. His features were set, unreadable, but his eyes saw; desire flashed, welled. He lowered his head once more; her lips throbbed. His lips were barely an inch from hers—a mere breath—when he hesitated. She grasped the moment, made the decision. Tightening her arms, lifting her head, she sealed their fates.

Reggie drew her deeper into his arms as their lips fused, as she gave herself without reserve, as she tempted him to plunder, her mouth, and her.

Her message was very clear. He didn’t even need to think to know he was the first man she’d ever wanted like this, the first man she’d invited even this far. The knowledge sang through his bones, stoked a desire that had already grown far beyond his previous experience.

He wanted her now, with an urgency that was driven by so much more than mere lust, so much more than physical desire. The feel of her, soft, supple, and slender in his arms, pliant under his hands, set his pulse racing. He was giddy, deliciously so, his body aching with a need made all the more potent by knowing it would not have to go unslaked.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her, swept her up in his arms, and carried her to the sofa. He’d locked the door after Thomas, more from instinct than design. Thank God for instinct—he didn’t think he could leave her now to go even that far. The taste of her was like a drug, one he craved more with every breath, every kiss.

He sat on the sofa, tumbled her down, leaned over her. She murmured encouragingly, arching closer, as urgent as he. He pressed her back, laid a hand on her breast—instantly, she stilled. Not in fear but in concentration; he could sense it through their kiss, feel her attention tracking every movement of his fingers as he learned her shape, stroked her softness until it firmed.

She very quickly wanted more; when he laid her breasts bare, she sighed with pleasure, then gasped when he set his hand, skin to skin, to one soft mound. The peak was already tight; he rubbed it to aching hardness while with her mouth she pleaded eloquently—for what, he was perfectly well aware she didn’t know.

It was that knowledge that made him draw back, that drew a line over which his honor would not allow him to step.

His blood thundered in his ears when he eased free of the kiss, drew his lips from hers, raised his head. His hand was still at her breast, his touch possessive, his thumb circling the pebbled nipple.

A moment passed before she drew in a shuddering breath, opened her eyes, and stared into his.

There was no hesitation in her gaze, nothing but a roiling storm of passions and emotions, a mirror to his own. She drew in a deep breath; the movement pressed her breast more firmly to his palm. She glanced down, then back at his face. Raised her brows, tilted her head slightly in question.

His features were locked; he knew precisely what she was asking, what, indeed, she was suggesting—her eyes made no pretense, considered no excuse.

Drawing breath was difficult. “Not yet.”

Holding her gaze, he bent his head and touched his lips to her breast, kissed the aching peak infinitely delicately.

He felt the shudder that racked her, felt his body harden—knew she felt it, too.

Their gazes locked, held, then her lids fell on a soft sigh.

On the subject of desire, they understood each other perfectly.

B
e damned if I know.

He’d lied, of course. He did know. Had known, even then.

It seemed he was indeed damned.

Oddly, he didn’t feel the least bothered. The only impulse riding him now was one of impatience.

Over breakfast, he relived the previous evening’s interlude. He’d been tempted to take her then and there—to make her his beyond all question—regardless of any notions of propriety. She’d been willing, he even more so. And he’d been perfectly willing to marry her thereafter.

What had held him back, drawn him back from the brink, was the knowledge she was so much an innocent, so naive in that sphere, that passion might have swept her away before she’d realized the true nature of what it was that so surprisingly lay between them.

Where it had come from, when it had grown, he had no idea. It simply was; somehow life had shaped them like lock and key.

A memory, a long-ago conversation, resurfaced in his mind. He, Luc Ashford, and Martin Fulbridge had been lolling late one night in some library, alone and well supplied with good brandy. Somehow, the subject of when the other two had recognized their state—the state that had impelled them to marriage—had arisen. Martin had said the realization had dawned slowly, over some weeks, until it had been impossible to ignore, but then Martin had not previously known Amanda. Luc, however, had known Amelia for much the same length of time Reggie had known Anne, and in the same vein of familial friendship; Luc had confessed he’d suddenly—in a flash of understanding—simply known.

Just as Reggie, now, simply knew. It was not a matter of a question and an answer, of an answer that was logically the best fit, but of a reality that needed no further justification. It simply was.

Sitting back, he sipped his coffee and glanced consideringly about the room. The small house in Curzon Street was a perfectly acceptable address to which to bring a new wife. His affairs were in order—there was no impediment to moving quickly in the direction his impatience was pushing him.

He wondered how Luc, Anne’s guardian, would react to his request; lips lifting, he had to admit he was looking forward to finding out.

But first…

He’d thought, last night, that Anne had understood. That, despite being as surprised as he, she’d recognized what had flared between them for what it was. Yet on the subject of the relationships that might exist between male and female within the ton, he knew she was inexperienced and naive. Even recognizing what was between them, she still might not see what was in his mind.

Might not be prepared to agree.

He knew far too much of women, tonnish ladies especially, to take her acceptance for granted. Best to tread warily, at least until he’d confirmed her views, her understanding.

Confirmed she returned his regard.

Impatience sank its spurs deep. She was twenty-six, no giddy young girl; he was thirty-two—they were both too old to have any interest in games. Too old not to seize the unexpected opportunity. Too old to dither and waste time.

Jaw firming, he set down his cup, rose, settled his coat, straightened his sleeves, and headed for the door.

He’d hoped to find her at home, but on answering his knock, Leighton, the young butler at Calverton House, his own surprise showing, informed him Miss Anne had left with Lady Calverton on her round of morning calls.

“Did her ladyship intend to call at Elderby House?” Reggie asked, as if intending to do so himself and wondering if their paths would cross there.

“Lady Elderby wasn’t on her ladyship’s list, sir. Would you care to leave a message?”

Reggie favored him with a mild smile. “No, no.” His smile hardened as he turned away. “No doubt I’ll catch up with them in the park.”

He did; as he’d foreseen, Anne was more interested in spotting Imogen Caverlock than in the sprigs of the ton whose eyes she’d caught.

Presuming on their familial acquaintance, he marched boldly up to the Calverton landau the instant it halted on the verge. After exchanging greetings with her mother, who was intrigued but too shrewd to let it show by word or deed, he turned to Anne.

And realized in the instant their eyes touched that she’d tensed, waiting—not quite panicking— wondering what he would say, what he was thinking—how he saw their last meeting, and all it had encompassed.

Impossible to tell her there, with half the ton looking on.

He smiled, genuinely, with warmth and sincerity a degree beyond all he’d ever felt before. “I wondered if you’d care to stroll…?”

Her features softened, lips lifting in a fleeting but still nervous smile. “Thank you. That would be pleasant.”

He handed her down; with a nod to Lady Calverton and a promise to return Anne in half an hour, he set her hand on his sleeve and turned her toward the lawn.

He felt her quiver—just for an instant—then her head rose. “Actually”—her voice quavered; she cast him a swift glance, then looked along the row of carriages lining the drive—“I was hoping to see if Imogen was here.”

That fleeting glimpse of wide brown eyes was enough to warn him—while she recognized that what had passed between them the previous evening required something be said, it was not a subject she felt at all confident of broaching in their present surrounds.

He debated for only an instant before reining in his impatience. “I assumed as much.”

His disapproval rang in his tone; Anne was simply glad he was agreeable to being distracted.

“You absolutely cannot speak to Imogen on this matter.”

She glanced at him, her nervousness rapidly retreating. “I wasn’t going to say anything about Benjy! I just thought that if she was here, I could simply pass the time—we have been introduced—and just”—she gestured—“
see
if she knew.”

Most men would have frowned and asked how; Reggie frowned, but the acceptance in his eyes, the reluctant twist to his lips, said he understood.

She pressed her advantage. “If she knows, she’ll be concerned and distracted—it’ll show.”

“Very well.” Inwardly grim, Reggie glanced along the row of carriages. “Let’s see if we can find her.”

They strolled along the verge, stopping here and there as ladies called greetings. He would have infinitely preferred putting a greater distance between himself and the fond mamas, but if Imogen were there and they wished to approach under the guise of mere socializing, they had to set the stage.

Despite her shyness, Anne determindedly did her part; only he could tell how much she steeled herself, how her fingers tightened on his arm when they approached groups of people she only distantly knew. He watched, supported her, ready to step in and deflect any comment likely to fluster her—and grudgingly approved, felt reluctant appreciation of her courage and commitment to Benjy’s cause.

Unfortunately, news of his great-uncle’s health had started to circulate through the ton; some ladies pressed him for news, others made arch comments on his pending title.

Anne looked at him, confusion in her eyes; she hadn’t heard the rumors. He grasped a moment as they strolled between carriages to explain.

“Oh.” She blinked. “I see.”

The sudden withdrawal he sensed in her had him inwardly swearing.

“No. You don’t.” He heard the words, clipped and precise, and met her startled glance. Felt his features harden. “But I can’t explain here.”

He looked along the carriages. Inwardly scowled. “I don’t think Imogen’s here.”

“She usually is—that suggests some more important matter has claimed her attention.”

Rising confidence infused Anne’s voice; he bit back the observation that there was no reason Hugh would necessarily tell his wife about Benjy. Arguing over the confidences shared between husband and wife did not seem wise, given their present state.

He wanted to speak about that, about them, about the future, but no opportunity arose. The park was not the place for such a discussion, especially as his socially attuned antennae reported that, alerted by the news, the matrons and grandes dames were watching them strolling together, the ease between them, the lack of social constraint, very apparent. Their relative age set them apart, excused them, but also focused more eyes upon them.

He steered her back toward the Calverton carriage, determined to engineer a suitably private meeting. There was no reason for equivocation, not between them. “I assume you intend monitoring the Caverlocks’ reactions, at least as far as they allow them to show.”

She nodded, determination lighting her face. “They’ll be attending Lady Hammond’s soirée this evening.”

He might as well be hanged for a wolf as for a lamb. “If your mother’s agreeable, I’ll escort you there.”

She halted; gaze direct, she met his eyes. He didn’t try to conceal any of what he felt, neither the aggravation at the wasted day, nor his intention.

Her eyes searched his, then she smiled, tightened her fingers briefly on his sleeve, and turned toward the carriage. “I’m sure Mama will be delighted to accept your escort.”

That much of his plan went well—when applied to, Minerva was indeed willing to have him escort them that evening. Her dark eyes met his, but she merely smiled and refrained from comment, much to his relief.

Subsequently, however, nothing went quite as he wished.

Lady Hammond’s soirée proved too crowded to indulge in anything beyond the social norm; Hammond House was sadly lacking in amenities—at least the sort of amenities that might have helped. He was reduced to doing the pretty for the entire evening. The only mitigating circumstance was that Anne remained by his side throughout, and nothing—no word, no glance, no touch—in any way suggested she regretted the previous evening’s interlude in Lady Hendrick’s parlor.

Quite the opposite, which only lent yet another layer of tension to the evening.

Added to that, none of the Caverlocks appeared, which fact exercised Anne greatly.

Nerves he hadn’t known he possessed rubbed raw, he set out early the following morning, too early for the social round, determined to catch Anne at home and speak privately with her—put what lay between them into words, and take the next step—only to discover she’d already left for the Foundling House.

He followed her there—as long as the room had a door he didn’t care where it was—only to be totally distracted; he spent the entire day learning things about her—and himself—that, while decidedly relevant, only built the pressure within him, and her, until the need to speak filled their eyes, colored their words, infused every touch.

And still they had no opportunity, no chance to be alone and broach that one, urgent topic.

Now, later that evening, standing by the side of the Grismeades’ ballroom, he watched Anne whirl down a country dance. Even from this distance, he knew she was slightly flustered, although she knew her partner, Gordon Canterbury, quite well. She didn’t like being physically close to other men, yet conversely, with Reggie, she took his arm with relief, stepping as close as propriety allowed. And when they waltzed, she came into his arms with an alacrity she didn’t try to hide; her senses might leap, but they did so with pleasure, with anticipation and delight.

The noise about him faded; a vision swam before his eyes—the first sight he’d had of Anne that morning at the Foundling House. She’d been seated on a stool reading a story to a score of children gathered about. Her attention had been complete, as had been theirs.

And his.

Then she’d looked up, seen him—and smiled.

And promptly conscripted him into helping with the older boys.

Later, he’d looked across the yard and seen her with two toddlers in her arms, one balanced on each hip. By then, her pins had come loose, or been pulled loose by chubby hands; she’d been flushed and radiant.

The sudden surge of remembered feeling jerked him back to the present, but left him slightly giddy. He dragged in a breath, then uttered a prayer of thanks as the music ended.

Enough was enough.

Concealing grim resolution behind his usual affable mask, he crossed the floor to rescue Anne. She looked about, searching for him, then saw him and smiled. When he joined her, she slid her hand onto his arm.

Gordon Canterbury blinked, but was too polite to comment.

The end of the ball was nigh; once again, the Caverlocks had been noticeable by their absence. Reggie steered Anne toward the chaise where Minerva sat.

“I’m not sure what to make of it,” Anne murmured. “Harriet Grismeade said Imogen had intended to come but sent word yesterday that she was indisposed.” She glanced briefly at Reggie. “She hasn’t been about for the past two days.”

Reggie didn’t truly care about Imogen. “Perhaps she caught a chill.”

Anne caught the edge to his tone; startled, she glanced at him.

He captured her gaze. “Tomorrow morning.” Once assured he had her complete attention, he stated, “I’ll call to speak with you at noon.”

“Noon?”

“Yes. Be there.”

She searched his eyes, then, a touch of nervousness returning, nodded. “Very well. I’ll be in.”

“Good morning.”

Anne’s soft voice reached him; he turned as she shut the parlor door.

A morning gown of pale green emphasized her delicacy, turning her hair a deeper chestnut in contrast. The wide skirts shushed as she came toward him, searching his face, her expression guarded; he kept his features impassive, searching her eyes in return.

He saw a frown grow, inwardly frowned in response.

She halted with a yard between them, drew herself up, clasped her hands before her. “If you’ve come to lecture me on watching the Caver-locks…”

Her uncertainty reached him; irritation surged anew. He felt his lips thin. Caverlocks, be damned! “You don’t need—” He saw her draw back, steel herself; he broke off, hauled in a quick breath, held it for a fraught second, then let it out with the words, “That wasn’t what I wanted to speak with you about.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Her defensiveness abruptly eased, replaced with a finer tension. After a moment, she prompted, as always gentle, “What, then?”

He felt his jaw set, fought to overcome the instinct not to reveal himself in anything so definite as words—even now not to make himself vulnerable to the hurt she could deal him if he’d misjudged her.