Chapter One
Reginald Moore gestured to the oak tree beyond his window. “This isn’t amusing, Clara.”
Reggie made room so Clara Blackstone, the widow of his former business partner, could stand between him and the farce occurring outside.
At the sight, she drew in a sharp breath. “No, of course not, Reggie, it’s downright dangerous.”
Beneath his bedchamber window, a young lady—one he’d previously thought to be above such foolishness—hung from a high branch wailing pitifully. Her legs kicked in the air ineffectually, her hair—fallen from its moorings—blinded her to the full extent of danger. Beneath her, her father stood shouting up at the branches and Reggie feared she might faint from the parental scolding.
Her miserable shrieks gathered strength and then a particularly high and desperate one made him shudder. “Why do you think she attempted the climb and came to be stranded?”
“I imagine she heard the rumor that you sleep with the window open and was attempting to further her acquaintance with you. It is entirely your fault that the local lasses are forced to ridiculous measures to catch a glimpse of you. If you could be the least bit pleasant, and do the pretty once in a while, things would go much better for you. Now you’re officially out of mourning the town speaks of nothing but what a grand matrimonial prize you are. One of them means to have you, but the size of the tree was clearly a small concern in Miss Allen’s mind.”
Reggie let his gaze stray to the widow standing beside him. Almost equal to his height, he had a fine view of Clara Blackstone’s features. She was exceptionally pretty: flawless pale skin, full rosy lips, but her soft doe brown eyes no longer sparkled with warmth as she spoke. Was that a hint of sadness in her tone?
What had caused today’s disappointment? “More’s the pity. Did it not occur to the chit that the span of the tree fell somewhat short of my window?”
Clara leaned closer to the glass and her black bombazine gown whispered across his leather-encased foot. Another distraction, added to the shock of her surprising invasion of his bedchamber. He’d never imagined she’d seek him out here for conversation, but he could certainly grow used to such intimate moments. “That truly is a matter the girl should have taken into account before the attempt, isn’t it?”
Reggie kept his distance from the glass and from his friend’s widow. Neither the spectacle below nor the spectacle before him was safe for closer inspection. Not yet at any rate. One day soon, however, he hoped to make a marked change in Clara’s situation. But he had to be patient and wait for the conclusion of one last matter. Then neither hell nor high water would prevent him having his way, and securing Clara as a permanent fixture in his life.
Clara’s shoulders sagged. “Ah, the gardener has brought round a ladder.”
“Good grief,” Reggie groaned, “is Andrews to fetch her down? Well, we’ll have two burials to attend to now.”
“No, not Andrews, the younger gardener—the tall strapping Welshman.”
Hearing Clara describe another man with such glowing approval in her tone unnerved Reggie. He frowned at her somber attire, thankful that her involvement with the situation below the window hid his annoyance. Reggie had waited patiently for Clara to put her husband’s death behind her and notice how much he worried for her welfare. These months of wretched celibacy couldn’t be for naught.
“Hmm, he’s climbing up after her.” Clara pressed her hand to the glass, fingers splayed close to the action. She gave no further commentary, but a sigh passed her lips.
As always, his glance fastened on her ring finger. A single band of gold still encased it. “I think I have kept you in the country too long if the servants are beginning to appeal to you.”
Clara chuckled, a rich throaty laugh that distracted him more the longer he knew her. Once, when deep in his cups, Acton Blackstone had boasted of Clara’s passionate and willingly experimental nature. Those vulgar words, spoken months before his death, had tormented Reggie for more days and nights than he cared to think about. He watched constantly for signs that she would recover her zest for life but so far, he saw little indication that she missed the pleasures of the flesh. If she was indeed the bold seducer her husband claimed, charming a gardener would require little more than a crook of her dainty finger.
Her lips turned up in a gentle smile. “I think his actions romantic, but no doubt you wouldn’t care a whit for that would you?”
He forced out a merry laugh. “You know me so well.”
Actually, she knew very little of him because he’d purposely kept her at a distance: playing the controlling tyrant to her weeping widow. Dragging her to the country for her health in the face of the scandal created by others had been entirely for his welfare because in London he had no excuse to linger in her drawing room. Deceiving her about his true motives had been surprisingly easy.
Yet, even still, she was in mourning for a man she was ridiculously lost without. Reggie had stood her friend, adviser and protector through it all: the deaths, the scandal, the inquest and finally mourning.
He had worn the willow for six months in memory of a wife who was, at best, a shocking flirt. At worst, a shameless temptress who had betrayed her husband and best friend by engaging in an affair with Acton Blackstone, his business partner, and leading them both to their deaths. Mourning such despicable partners seemed a sham to Reggie. Only Clara’s grief was real.
“That I do, but you needn’t fear any longer. Miss Hastings stands with both feet on the ground and a disapproving parent is waiting to take her home. I do wonder how she will ever be able to look at you again.”
Reggie swayed closer to Clara and drew in a deep breath. “With luck, she won’t.” The subtle scent of rosemary clung to her skin and he wondered if she’d been lurking about the kitchen gardens again, inhaling cook’s herbs and driving the old woman to distraction.
Clara turned and her distended belly brushed his hip. She blinked, as startled by the con
tact as he was and for very similar reasons. Reggie avoided touching her because she carried her husband’s babe. With a few months left till the happy arrival, Clara kept to the strictures of their society and tried to hide her state. Even from him. “Now, Reggie, there is no need to take that unforgiving tone. She is very young and has, with luck, learned her lesson. Do try to be nice to her.”
She shook a little as she finished her lecture and again her belly brushed him. On impulse, he laid his hands on either side of her swollen stomach. Her skin was hard, not soft as he expected. Warmth seeped through the thin gown and enveloped his fingers with sensations he should, by rights, fight.
Her breath caught. “Reggie?”
He moved his fingers over her skin a little. “Shh, love.”
Although whispered, his endearment sounded shockingly loud in the bedchamber. He slid his fingers slowly over the bump and when he stopped, something small and hard pushed against his palm.
His eyes flew to Clara’s and he was fairly certain he gaped like a village idiot. “The child moves?”
A tender smile tugged at her lips. “The child moves quite a bit, actually.”
Clara covered the back of his hand with hers and she pressed him tighter against her flesh. The child kicked harder that time. Stunned and completely enthralled by the movements inside her, Reggie relaxed, letting one hand slide around Clara back while keeping the other against her belly. Her stomach rippled beneath her gown and he smiled at the child’s antics.
Her light breath brushed against his jaw and when he glanced at Clara’s face, he found her eyes had closed, a small half smile playing across her very kissable lips. Instead of shocking her with his touch, he’d managed to make her happy. Beneath their joined hands, the frolicsome babe kicked again and then grew still.
After some minutes, Reggie wondered if the child would move again.
“Ah, my little scamp is resting. He has kicked a treat this morning.”
“He does this every day?”
Clara nodded, a dreamy sigh escaping again. “And often at the most inopportune times.”
As he moved his hand on her spine in small circles, Clara leaned closer. He shifted his weight, pressing close against her belly and kept up the steady pressure. When his hand slipped lower, Clara arched her back and a moan escaped her lips.
Beneath the bulk of her belly, hidden from her view by the child she carried, evidence of his attraction to Clara grew beyond his power to control. He wanted her with such a fierce ache that he couldn’t breathe.
Reggie dropped his head to her shoulder and, after a moment, he turned his lips against her skin. Clara, perhaps forgetting who held her, arched her neck so he might have unfettered access. Reggie took his time, pressing light kisses up the column of her throat, nuzzling her ear and then gently tugging the lobe with his teeth.
Clara clutched at his lapels, a contented hum purring from her lips. Reggie drew her body as hard against him as he could manage and pressed his lips to hers. Clara’s eyes widened. But then she kissed him back, she let him have his way with her lips, destroying all his imaginings of their first kiss.
She tasted like sweet sunshine and the darkest claret. A combination that went to his head in moments and reduced his resolve to scattered ash. He claimed her mouth again and swept his tongue between her parted lips.
Clara made an impatient noise and bumped awkwardly against him. He hadn’t considered the unborn child between them in any of his fantasies so he was unsure of how to draw her any closer. He swept one hand over her back and cupped her skull with the other.