Chapter Two
Something was dreadfullywrong. The seat beneath Regina was stiff, her limbs cramped, and the steady rise and fall of breath near her ear belonged to someone else. Regina forced her eyes open, only to find herself not in her bed, but in her father’s coach…with a stranger beside her.
It took no small effort, but she blinked through the heaviness clinging stubbornly to her lashes. For a moment, her mind muddled through confusion. This was not her soft bed at home, nor even the delicate fainting couch in her chamber.
Memory struck with sharp clarity. The coach. She had staggered into her family’s coach outside Montague House, intending only to rest until the dizziness passed. Darkness had claimed her swiftly, and now… How much time had gone by?
She blinked toward the curtained window, still closed. Slowly, she drew the heavy fabric back, letting in a spill of silver moonlight and faint lantern glow. Montague House stood grand and illuminated, shadows of dancers still moving in the tall windows. Yet something was different. The line of carriages that had crowded the drive earlier was thinner now, several already gone.
Her brows knitted. Could she have slept longer than an hour? If so, why had her mother not come to check on her? Her body felt oddly refreshed, though her temples still pulsed with a dull ache. She stretched her arms with a sigh…
And touched something solid.
Her heart lurched. Slowly, fearfully, she turned her head. The dim light revealed the unmistakable outline of a man seated beside her. Broad shoulders, short hair, his head tilted against the back of the seat in the careless repose of slumber.
Regina’s breath caught. Horror prickled across her skin, cold and sharp. A man. In her coach. Alone with her…sleeping next to her as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Her mind raced through every possible consequence. Scandal. Ruin. If anyone discovered them—if a single footman whispered what he had seen—her reputation would be destroyed beyond recall. No man of honor would marry a woman who had been found in such a compromising position, however innocent the circumstances.
She ought to flee at once. Slip out while he slept, vanish into the ballroom, pretend none of this had happened. Yet if someone saw her exiting, and then saw him climb out later, the damage would be no less.
Her stomach twisted painfully with indecision. Did the driver know? And if he did, why had he not roused her parents immediately? Unless he thought the man belonged here. Unless someone had placed him beside her deliberately.
Before she could summon the courage to act, the man stirred. A low groan escaped his lips, rough and unguarded, as he shifted. His arm slid with careless ease around her waist. Regina stiffened, her spine taut, but his strength was undeniable. The motion drew her flush against his body, her shoulder pressed firmly to his chest. His head tipped forward until his cheek brushed her temple, then lower, until his breath fanned warm against the vulnerable hollow of her neck.
Regina’s eyes flew wide, tears of sheer panic prickling the corners. She could scarcely draw air, though her lungs screamed for it. The scent of him enveloped her—wine and leathermingled with something faintly spiced and wholly masculine. His warmth seeped through her gown, unsettling her in ways no quadrille or whispered compliment ever had.
Terror coiled inside her, sharp and suffocating. Yet beneath it crept another sensation, insidious and impossible to ignore. Awareness.
Her heart hammered erratically, her pulse fluttering against his lips where they rested scandalously close to her throat. Surely, he must feel it, even in slumber. He must certainly know how she trembled.
She dared not move, lest she wake him. But the longer she sat in that stillness, the more her own body betrayed her with uneven breaths and betraying shivers. When at last she tried to peel his arm from her waist, he only drew her closer, a low, contented sound rumbling in his chest like a man well satisfied.
Regina closed her eyes, silently groaning. How was she to escape without waking him? And if he did wake, what then? Would he laugh, boast of her downfall, claim rights he had no honor to claim? Would her father turn his back on her in shame?
Her throat burned as she swallowed down the sting of tears. She was clever, always clever, forever finding some way through the little dilemmas of life. But this was no small predicament. This was her ruination waiting to unfold.
Desperation filled her. If he awakened, what would she say? Should she offer him money to keep silent? Beg him for mercy? Plead her innocence and pray he was a gentleman?
Every imagined outcome ended in disaster. Every path led only to disgrace. And yet, though fear gnawed at her bones, she could not deny the traitorous truth whispering through her senses. Never in her life had a man unsettled her so completely.
Softly, Regina cleared her throat, ready to speak, to beg if the moment called for it, but all words fled her when the man did the oddest, most shocking thing. His lips brushed featherlightacross the curve of her neck. Once, twice, again. The caress ignited her skin, a cascade of tingles rushing through her until she felt heat rising to her cheeks. Her breath quickened in frantic response, chest heaving as though she had just spun through three reels without pause.
Her stomach churned with rebellion, and she fought the urge to be sick. Yet she forced herself to stay still, clinging instead to memory. Had she been dreaming? Slowly, painfully, fragments returned.
The dizziness. The pounding in her skull as she collapsed onto the seat. And then, yes, across from her, a man drinking straight from a bottle of wine, shadows playing across a face she had thought—oh, heavens—handsome even then.
She recalled him lowering the bottle, eyes glinting faintly in the gloom. “Miss? Um…are you lost?”
Confusion had muddled her tongue, but she had managed, “Certainly not. Are you?”
That grin. Boyish, roguish, entirely too confident. “Not at all. I know precisely where I am…sitting in my own coach while finishing this bottle of wine.” He had tipped the neck toward her. “Care to join me?”
Her gasp of outrage had burned her throat. “Sir, you are mistaken. This is my family’s coach, and I demand you leave at once.” Speaking had been agony. Her dizziness had surged until the world swam.
His chuckle had been a deep baritone that resonated in her very bones. “My dear, lovely lady, you are the one mistaken. This is indeedmycoach. You climbed in of your own accord. But if you insist on leaving, I will not stop you. I would, however, far prefer your company.”
And before she realized his intent, he had crossed the carriage and taken the seat beside her, sweeping his arm around her shoulders in a claim no stranger should ever dare.
