“Sir, I beg your pardon! Please contain yourself,” she had snapped, pushing feebly against his chest. Heaven help her, he was solid muscle beneath the fine cut of his coat, and she was weak as a newborn lamb. Worse, his own movements were unsteady, as though wine had clouded his wits.
“You beg my pardon?” He had laughed, cupping her cheek in a hand both strong and startlingly gentle. “My lovely, you need not beg for anything. Tonight, I am your puppet. Your wish, my command.” His mouth had hovered so close to hers that she had felt the warmth of his breath. “As long as you do not wish to leave me.”
And then—oh, heavens—his lips had touched hers. Tender. Exploring. Far too intoxicating. She had intended to resist, to push him away, but her resolve had crumbled into dust. Perhaps it had been the lingering illness, perhaps his whispered endearments, or perhaps the sheer novelty of being so thoroughly kissed. Whatever the cause, she had found herself yielding, answering him with lips that trembled at first, then burned.
His fingers had stroked along her jaw, trailing down the vulnerable line of her neck. Each caress set fire to her senses. She had never known such scandalous pleasure, never dreamed her body could betray her so utterly. Instead of recoiling, she had leaned in. Instead of resisting, she had answered his sultry kisses as if they had been promised lovers rather than strangers cloaked in shadow.
Regina’s eyes snapped open. The memory left her trembling as though it had just happened. She pressed her palms to her fever-warm cheeks as shame flooded her.
At least he had been gentle. No more than kisses. Tender, passionate kisses that had stolen her breath and muddled her senses. She prayed that was all. But why, then, had they both fallen asleep?
Insanity coated her mind, making her give a shaky, incredulous chuckle. How could she—sensible Regina, always scolding Jane for falling too swiftly under a man’s charm—have fallen into the very same trap? Worse, not with a respectable suitor, but a nameless stranger she could not even identify in the dark.
Wayne Worthington had charmed Jane with practiced flattery. And Regina, God help her, had fallen prey to the same spell, in a single stolen hour.
“Are you awake?” the man beside her mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
Fear flooded her veins, stealing her breath. “Yes,” she whispered.
Unaware, or uncaring, he pressed light kisses along the tender line of her throat. Each brush of his lips reignited the reckless sensations she had suffered earlier, drawing sighs from her against her will. Why could she not resist him? Her body, traitorous as it was, seemed content to melt into the comfort of his embrace, as though she belonged there.
“Is…it morning yet?” he asked, his tone low, drowsy.
Her lips almost quirked in incredulous laughter. Clearly, he had not opened his eyes, or he would not have needed to ask. “No,” she answered softly.
“Splendid,” he murmured, his words warm against her skin. “Then I have more time to kiss you.”
His lips trailed upward, caressing her jaw, seeking her mouth. Tingles raced through her like sparks, scattering her reason. She held her breath, waiting…longing, even, for his mouth to capture hers again. But just as swiftly, his breath slowed, his weight shifted, and his head dropped back to the crook of her neck. Sleep reclaimed him.
Disappointment, sharp, shameful, and confusing, washed over her. She scoffed inwardly at her own reaction. Heavenpreserve her! To long for the kisses of a man she did not even know was madness. It was wrong, scandalously, ruinously wrong. She needed to leave. Immediately.
With careful hands, she eased his arm from her waist and guided his slumbering body against the coach wall. His head lolled to one side, and for the first time, the pale wash of moonlight revealed his features.
Her breath caught. Raven-black hair. A strong, angular jaw, softened by the slackness of sleep. A mouth that she now knew far too well.
Recognition struck like a thunderbolt.Wayne Worthington.
Bile rose to her throat. Her chest tightened with horror, with guilt so sharp it made her tremble. She had kissed…no, she hadbeenkissed by the very man she had sworn to save Jane from. Her dearest friend. The girl she had grown up beside. And now Regina had betrayed her in the most unthinkable way.
Tears stung her eyes, blinding her as she fumbled for the coach door. With painstaking care, she slipped it open and peered into the night. The courtyard appeared deserted. No footmen lingered nearby; no guests loitered in the cool air. With her heart hammering against her ribs, she gathered her skirts and darted out, closing the door softly behind her.
The night air chilled her heated cheeks, but no amount of cold could ease the shame burning within her. She lifted the hem of her gown to her ankles and fled across the gravel, her slippers crunching softly, her tears blurring her path.
Inside the manor, she paused, clutching the doorframe for support. The grand ballroom that had been so full earlier was nearly deserted now. Only a few stragglers remained, speaking in subdued tones. The music had ceased, the laughter had faded, and the chandeliers had been dimmed.
Her eyes darted to the longcase clock in the hall. The golden hands pointed to the hour. Three o’clock.
Regina pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning softly. She had not slept for an hour, but nearly half the night. Why had no one come to find her? Why had her parents not searched when she failed to return?
Her throat tightened as the truth dawned. The scandal she had fought so desperately to prevent, the ruin she had feared for Jane, was now her own. No explanation, no pleading, would undo what had happened.
Her fate was sealed.
Chapter Three
The morning lightpried its way through a split in the curtains, forcing Wayne Worthington from uneasy sleep. He groaned, stretching his stiff arms above his head, every muscle aching as though he had been in a brawl. With a yawn that felt more like a curse, he dragged himself upright and staggered into the small adjoining bathing chamber.
The cold water left in the washbasin by a chambermaid was a blessing. He splashed his face again and again, hoping the icy shock would scour away the pounding in his skull. Slowly, his lungs eased, the air moving freer, but the dull ache in his head still clung stubbornly. What he truly needed was the Worthington family concoction for wine sickness—a bitter draught that had carried him through more than one night of reckless celebration.
