Regency England

"No, thank you." Lady Emolen Tarkinton impatiently removed her hand from the moist grip. "I will not go out in the garden with you, or a quiet corner, or the refreshment table, or anywhere else."

"But Em," the most Honourable Robert Salverson, already nearly strangled by his cravat, squawked, "I would never suggest something as improper as the garden!"

It was no use; he had already lost her interest to the gentleman coming up behind him. For a moment near black eyes burned into limpid blue, before the man bowed over her ladyship's hand with inimitable grace and led her unresistingly onto the dance floor. Adrian Morst, ninth Earl of Almergale and the most dissolute rake of his time, had singled out Lady Emolen for the waltz.

And not only the waltz. Without seeming haste he had danced her towards one of the French doors and whisked her outside on the last note of the dance. The terrace was empty, lit by a huge moon. Still saying nothing, the rake pulled Lady Emolen into his tight embrace, bent his head and kissed her until her knees buckled and she knew she was in love. No thoughts of morals or common decency intruded, as she pressed her eager body against his, while practiced hands roamed all over her.

"Come with me," he whispered darkly and Lady Emolen knew she had to follow wherever he was leading. With amazing familiarity, Lord Almergale pulled her along winding passages and unused stairwells, finally stopping in front of a stout oak door. Opening the door, he led her inside a sumptuous bedchamber. They sunk down into the widest four-poster bed Lady Emolen had ever seen and Lord Almergale proved to be the most exquisite lover Lady Emolen had ever dreamt of.

Twenty pages of explicit sex later

"My darling, I hate to leave you but, if I don't sail to France and spy on that horrid monster Napoleon, he will overtake England. My French is excellent and nobody will recognize the well known Lord Almergale in my cunning disguise as a peasant farmer. I'm sure the French intelligence is too shoddy to have picked up on Gillray's latest cartoon of me climbing out Lady Oricles window. It will be very dangerous, after all I'm a hero, but you need not worry, my dear."

"My hero," Lady Emolen breathed in a voicelessly whisper. "I trust you with everything, even though you've taken my virginity without a word of love or affection. I know you will love me to the end of time!"

"Of course I will, my dear. Although I've bedded the most skilled courtesans and the utterly stunning ladies of the Ton, nothing compares to having an innocent maiden like you. By the way, what's your name?"

"I'm Lady Emolen Tarkinton; at twenty the on the shelf spinster daughter of the immensely rich and well connected Marquis of Krawl. I'm tall and slim, with too generous a mouth and prominent cheekbones to be other than an antidote. My only claim to beauty is my enormous blue eyes."

"You look alright to me," drawled the earl and, forgetting for a moment that The Fate of England hung in the balance, made thirty pages of sizzling love to her.

Lord Almergale finally escorts Lady Emolen back to the ballroom where her two hour absence has not been noted by her diligent chaperon…

© Yvonne Forsling 2012. All rights reserved.