Wayne inclined his head but made no farewell. He stumbled from the parlor, fighting the bile in his throat. By the time he reached his room, he was tearing at his coat, his waistcoat, his cravat, until he collapsed onto the bed in shirt sleeves, gasping for air.
But rest would not come. The memory returned again and again—the soft weight of a woman against him, the brush of lips that haunted him still. And the lingering question that refused to be silenced:
Had it truly been Lady Regina Taylor in his arms?
The woman he had kissed so irresponsibly flashed through his mind in fragments. Long, wavy hair spilled across his hands, soft as silk. Was it not the color of melted chocolate, burnished in the dim light? Her skin had been satin smooth beneath his lips, and he remembered the helplessness that drove him to press kiss after kiss along her throat, drinking in her fragrance as though it might vanish if he stopped.
Her lips… Lord above, her lips had been eager but not practiced. She had trembled beneath his touch, uncertain but willing, responding with a shy heat that thrilled him.
She was no hardened flirt or courtesan. She had been learning. Learninghim! And he had reveled in the discovery.
Wayne gave a low chuckle that quickly soured into a groan. Whoever she was, he would find her again once his duty was done. A woman like that, who was passionate, unguarded, and alive, would bring fire to a man’s life.Hislife.
But then Jane’s words from earlier rang in his head. Her careless laugh, her dismissal of gossip.One of my friends thought she saw Reggie climbing into a coach with a man…
Wayne froze. Panic constricted his chest. Miss Regina Taylor had dark, long, wavy hair…just like the woman in his dreams.
He remembered her well enough. He would have been blind not to. The first time they met, he had taken in the proud lift of her chin, the elegant curve of her slender frame, the long, dark curls that brushed her shoulders in perfect ringlets. She was a beauty in her own right, but it had been her eyes that arrested him: a rare, curious silver-blue that seemed to see too much,cutting through pretense. Eyes that had glared at him more than once, for Miss Taylor had never disguised her dislike.
His stomach lurched violently. With a strangled oath, he bolted off the bed, barely making it to the chamber pot before retching up what little remained in him. The sour taste burned his throat as he collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving, sweat dampening his brow. He sagged against the wall, breath shallow.
Dear God.Had it truly been Miss Taylor in his coach last night? If so, then the carriage must have been parked before Montague House itself.
Had no one seen them? Had Penrose? Surely if the earl had witnessed such a compromising tableau, he would have made certain Jane knew of it by now. And yet the possibility that Regina’s reputation, and by extension his own cover, hung by so fragile a thread turned his blood to ice.
How was he to know for certain? Approach her directly? Ask if she remembered their kisses…those fevered, stolen kisses? Then again, if his memory served, he didn’t have tostealanything from the woman in his coach.
If Miss Taylor admitted it, what then? She despised him already. If she believed he trifled with her, all while engaged to her friend, she would ruin him with a word.
And yet he could not reveal the truth. He could not tell her—or anyone—that Wayne Worthington was no more than a role, an alias. That beneath the polished manners, he was a Bow Street Runner with orders to bring Harold Meyers to justice. If Regina Taylor discovered his true purpose, she might confide in Jane, and the whole operation would unravel.
Groaning, he dragged himself back to his bed, sinking into the mattress with the heaviness of defeat. His head throbbed, his body clamored for rest, but his mind refused. No matter how he tried to shove the memory aside, her lips lingered. Her touch haunted. Her scent of roses clung to him like a brand.
He clenched his jaw. First the case. Always the case. Meyers’s crimes must be uncovered. Only then could he eventhinkabout the woman who now plagued his every thought. But in the pit of his soul, he knew the truth. His duty was about to collide violently with his heart.
Chapter Four
Regina lay inbed, staring at the canopy as if the fabric itself might unravel the torment of her mind. She had been home since half past three that morning, yet her mother had not so much as cracked the door. What kind of mother did not pace the corridors, wringing her hands, when her daughter failed to return from a ball until almost dawn? Did Ma even care that Regina had been alone with a man, in his coach, in a manner no respectable lady ought?
But then again, if her mother had known, Regina would not have lasted two minutes under her scrutiny. Wayne Worthington or not, her mother would have torn her to pieces with her disapproval.
At three thirty, when she had crept like a thief into the house, silence had greeted her. Her parents slumbered, the servants abed. Not one person had seen her slip into her chamber. The relief had been immediate, but as the hours dragged on, the relief turned to unease. Why had they not checked her before retiring, if only to be certain she had returned from the ball? They had known she was out of sorts.
She gave a mirthless laugh.Out of sortswas an understatement.
Something had overtaken her inside that coach. She had not been herself—of that much she was certain. Her mind had spun like a top, her limbs uncooperative, her reason drifting as thoughshe were outside her own body. Yet she remembered every kiss. His touch. His voice. His mouth teaching hers what it meant to yield.
She buried her face in her hands.Perhaps I am mad.
Unable to remain in bed once the sun spilled across the carpet, she dressed slowly, every movement weighted with dread. Facing her parents was unavoidable, and though her body quivered with nerves, her stomach reminded her of its own desperation. She had eaten little at the ball, and nothing since.
Her legs shook as she descended to the dining room, each step echoing like a drumbeat of doom. Surely her mother would be waiting at the table, eyes red from weeping, her father grim with disappointment. She almost expected to hear sobbing, or the clink of a teacup abandoned in despair.
But there was only silence.
She paused at the door, breath shallow. The rich scent of a cooked breakfast reached her, making her stomach clench. With a trembling hand, she turned the knob.
The dining room was empty.
