Wanton Widows: Three Short Regency Romps (4 page)

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Authors: Isabella Hargreaves

BOOK: Wanton Widows: Three Short Regency Romps

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He accompanied her home and kissed her
chastely on the forehead before walking off down the street.
Would he ever try
to take any liberties with her?
She was torn between wanting that to happen
and knowing it would mean his disqualification as a suitor.

At the opera the next evening he sat attentive
throughout the long strident performance. Such a contrast to Baron Farthington,
who had fallen asleep before the end of the first act and had snored so loudly
that the theatre manager had arrived to ask them to leave! Sir Hercules even
conducted a knowledgeable conversion about the opera and its composer, and
related his past visits to the opera houses of Italy.

At the door to her house he again kissed her
hand and bid her goodnight.

Helena said, “I ride in Hyde Park each
morning. Would you care to join me tomorrow morning … this morning? Seven
o’clock?

“I would be delighted.” He smiled and touched
his tall hat in salute before striding down the street.

He arrived promptly on a tall black mount that
looked well-groomed. It must have been borrowed from a friend, because it
certainly wasn’t a hired hack. He rode well and made no complaint about her
cantering ahead of him when they first arrived. An hour later, their faces
flushed from the exertion and their horses exercised, they rode home in time
for Lady Helena’s breakfast.

“Join me for a meal and the newspapers?” she said.

He readily agreed and they shared a lively
debate on the effects of regulated corn prices. An hour later, Helena closed
The
Times
and announced, “Tonight we go to Vauxhall Gardens.”

“Do we?” A corner of his mouth twitched
upwards.

“Would you please escort me? I have a desire
to see the fireworks again. It is a very long time since I’ve visited there.”

“If you so desire, my lady. Have any of your
other suitors taken you to Vauxhall Gardens?”

“Just one.”

“His name?” Some emotion … could it be
jealousy? … flickered across his face.

Jealousy would be re-assuring. She couldn’t
help but smile and answer cheekily. “Confidentiality must be maintained, Sir
Hercules.”

They shared an enjoyable meal in one of the
private boxes then strolled the gardens. Sir Hercules did not take her down the
narrow paths that led to secluded spots where gentlemen were want to take
liberties with their companions. Instead he kept them on the main paths and,
when the fireworks were expected, ensured she had the best position for their
viewing.

In fact, he was the epitome of a gentleman and
she was beginning to become frustrated with him on that hand, although grateful
that he did repeat the bad behaviour of Major Nash, who had passed all the
previous tests and she had thought would sail through the last, only to have
him steer her into a dimly-lit grove and attempt to seduce her.

Her footman, whom she had brought for her
protection, had been very much needed. Major Nash had turned rather nasty when
he was sent on his way. It was a salient lesson that her tests for suitors
could be fallible, but reassuring that the final test had fulfilled its
purpose.

At the conclusion of the evening, in the early
hours of the morning, Sir Hercules helped Helena from the carriage and escorted
her to the front door. She turned to him and said, “You have passed my twelve
tasks.”

He smiled. “So you will accept my marriage
proposal?”

“No-one has passed before.”

A crinkle of amusement appeared around his
eyes. “That is obvious, because you aren’t married. When is the wedding?”

“I have one more test of our compatibility.”

“Name it! A journey to Brighton? An ascension
in a hot air balloon? A day at the races?”

“None of those. It will be a much more private
event.”

“Dinner for two tête-à-tête? His voice was low
and seductive.

“More intimate than that,” she answered.

He looked stunned. “There is little more … you
want what?”

“I think we should spend a night together in
anticipation of our nuptials.”

He hesitated. “And this is another test?”

“Yes.”

“And if I fail to pleasure you, you won’t
marry me?”

“No. Are you scared?”

“No!” He stepped past her and plied the door
knocker.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed.”

“Now? Isn’t this sudden?”

“No time like the present!” His face was
serious and his manner brisk.

The door opened and her butler bowed them into
the house.

“Two glasses of port please, Sims,” said Sir
Hercules.

Sims raised his eyebrow in question. “Madam?”

“Please serve them in the library. Thank you,
Sims.”

She led the way. For long minutes, they stood
with the width of the room between them, waiting for Sims to arrive and depart.
As soon as the door closed after him, Hercules placed his glass on the
mantelpiece and strode to Helena. Holding her gaze with his own, he took her
glass and set it on the desk behind her with a click as the crystal met the
timber.

He framed her face with his hands and kissed
her. He tasted of aged port and desire. A stab of yearning flicked through her
belly. Her mouth opened under his and invited him in. Their kiss instantly metamorphosed
into raw lust. Hercules hauled her into his arms and she reached up to span his
shoulders.

Her fingers stroked the nape of his neck where
his soft brown hair lay in waves. His own hands drifted down her spine to
caress her buttocks through her silk dress. Another jolt of craving flooded her
body, coming to rest as a throb between her thighs. The mantelpiece clock
daintily chimed the hour of one. Sir Hercules slid the dress from her shoulder
exposing her breast, then trailed kisses down her neck to the top of it then
suckled the puckered nipple with his warm mouth. Mmmm. She wanted more.

Helena tugged at his cravat knot then stripped
it from his neck, abandoning it on the floor. She pushed at his tight coat and
he stopped to assist her, shrugging it to the carpet. He undid the back of her
dress while kissing her, then slid the gown from her arms. Her light camisole
remained. She wore no stays tonight.

“We’re not going to make it to your chamber,
are we?” he murmured against her lips.

“No!”

“The chesterfield or the floor, my lady? Your
choice.” His voice was thick with desire.

“The sofa – now!” She drew the camisole over
her head and threw it to the ground.

He lifted her into his arms and strode to the
window enclosure, where the leather lounge stood framed by brocade curtains
drawn back from the window, allowing the moonlight to pattern the sofa. He lay
her on the shawl-drafted seat and paused to strip off the remainder of his
clothes.

Hurry!

The moonlight played over his powerful body,
highlighting the ridges and plains of his muscles. She stroked her hand from
his shoulder, across his well-formed chest, down the rippled muscles of his
abdomen to his cock. It stood erect and ready for action. She fondled it
gently.

He sat on the sofa in the curve of her hips and
kissed her, while his hand cupped her Mound of Venus and his finger gently
probed her core. She moaned in appreciation.

She was ready – more than ready – for him. She
tugged him on top of her. He slid into her with a firm stroke and she looped
her legs around his to anchor him where she wanted him. He teased her with his
cock – thrusting strongly then slowing and almost withdrawing, causing her to
urge him back to her with legs and arms. In the half-light she could see his
playful smile. Her arms looped around his shoulders, she raised herself until
her breasts brushed his chest. She nibbled kisses down his neck then bit his
muscled shoulder. With a deep groan, his look became intense. His thrusts grew
rhythmic then more forceful and her breathing ratcheted higher. Starlight burst
in her head and she gasped her completion. Hercules captured her joy with an
open-mouthed kiss. Within moments he was groaning with satisfaction. He leant
his forehead on hers as they recovered their breath.

“So, my lady, shall I have the banns called in
St George’s, Hanover Square?” he huffed.

“No!” The word came out in a pant.

He recoiled from her.

She pulled him back into her arms, “You are …”
She gasped to regain her breath. “…to get a special licence and marry me by the
end of the week!”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Ah, success at
last. So we are compatible?”

“It will be a marriage made in heaven!”

“Definitely a love-match. My wealth and your
beauty.”

“On what shall you spend my money?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t need it.”
A grin spread across his face. “I’m as rich as Croesus.”

Her understanding caught up with his words. “Then
why?”

He smiled fondly. “I’ve admired you since I
met you, but alas, you married Viscount Tremoyne. I was travelling on the
Continent when you became a widow. When I returned I heard of your bombardment with
marriage proposals by every fortune-hunter in London, so what choice did I have
but to present myself to you as a candidate?”

Stunned, she gave a shaky laugh, then smiled
with secret glee. “Love me again, my champion. This time on the Aubusson rug.”

If you’ve enjoyed these
short stories, tell a friend or leave a review.

More books by Isabella Hargreaves:

The Persuasion of Miss Jane Brody

All Quiet on the Western Plains

Out soon:

Journey’s End on the Western Plains

(sequel to All Quiet on the Western Plains)

About the Author

Isabella Hargreaves has been reading
historical stories since she was growing up in

Brisbane, Australia. That wasn’t enough, so
she studied history and now spends

every work day researching and writing about
people, places and events from the past.