Back in Your Arms

  Back in Your Arms

  Cecily French

  Julia Fleming never forgot her old lover Gareth McNair, or his betrayal. Years later, he’s back from the Napoleonic Wars—the newest Duke of Harrow—rekindling an old passion. Julia’s only defense against her treacherous feelings is to cling to the sting of heartbreak.

  Gareth did not expect to run into his past in a ballroom his first night back in London. Seeing Julia again awakens painful memories of how she left him to unexpectedly marry another. Now she’s widowed, and more desirable than ever.

  When Julia must enlist Gareth’s help to save her sister from a forced marriage, they find themselves forced confront the love they once shared—a love that never really died.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Back in Your Arms

  ISBN 9781419937200

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Back in Your Arms Copyright © 2012 Cecily French

  Edited by Kahli Reid

  Cover design by Dar Albert

  Photography: Olly/Shutterstock.com

  Electronic book publication January 2012

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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  BACK IN YOUR ARMS

  Cecily French

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to Jane Austen and William Shakespeare, whose works inspired this story.

  Chapter One

  London, October 1815

  “He looks good enough to eat, doesn’t he?” the always overdressed Lady Richardson sighed.

  “Hand me a spoon,” the heavily rouged Lady Flatterly agreed. “Don’t you think so, Lady Fleming?”

  Sweet heaven, no! Speechless, Julia Fleming née Heaton’s gloved hands gripped her fan when she followed the women’s gazes and stared as her past entered the candlelit ballroom. Broad of shoulder, long of leg, his dark hair pulled back into a queue, he drew the eyes of every woman present and, very much against her will, set off in Julia a host of sinful fantasies and wicked desires.

  A pool of warmth gathered between Julia’s legs and unwillingly, her nipples tightened beneath her silk dress as unbidden, old memories crashed through the barrier she had erected against them. Memories of crumpled sheets, capable hands cupping her bottom as her legs wrapped around the waist of the man standing just over there. Heat seared Julia’s skin, but she kept her fan closed. She’d be damned if she would give him the pleasure of thinking his presence upset her. When had he returned to London?

  He, being Gareth MacNair—her old lover and the man who betrayed her the night before their elopement. Even after eight years, he still moved with a panther’s stealthy grace. His scarlet tunic and white breeches clung to him with a smooth fit that bordered on indecency. If she closed her eyes, she could smell the patchouli scent he wore, leaving its imprint on her skin, mingling with their sweat-scented skin and filling the clandestine cottage where they met to make love.

  After all these years, would he still smell that way?

  “And now he’s the Duke of Harrow,” Lady Richardson said plaintively. “If my daughter was out, I’d dangle her like a plum before him.”

  “And my Carolyn is already married,” sighed Lady Flattery. “Of course a duke would never offer for a mere knight’s daughter. Don’t you have a younger sister, Lady Fleming?”

  “Yes.” Julia could not move her gaze from the man in uniform. “When did Gar— I mean, His Grace return to London?”

  “We’ll have to ask him.” Lady Richardson’s giggle could have rivaled her daughter’s. “Imagine him refusing to leave his regiment last year when he inherited the title from his late father’s cousin. But now that Boney is defeated once and for all, he is free to establish himself as the newest Duke of Harrow.”

  “The newest Duke of Harrow,” Julia whispered, her hand gripping her fan. They used to play If-I-am-ever-the-Duke-of-Harrow-you-will-be-my-Duchess as they undressed each other for an afternoon’s tryst and the bygone memories called to her again.

  “Maybe I’ll tie you up with your stockings.”

  “Maybe I’ll tie you up with my stockings.”

  His finger slid past the top of one to touch the nest of hair curling between her thighs. “I should like to see you try.”

  Foolish games, over long ago, leaving only sorrow and heartache.

  “Lady Fleming?” Gareth’s voice carried across the room in a baritone accusation.

  The chattering voices fell silent, and the crowd parted to allow passage to one of Waterloo’s greatest heroes. His eyes cast their familiar commanding spell and Julia couldn’t have moved if she wanted. For the first time in her twenty-six years, Julia thought she might swoon.

  But she’d be damned if she would do that in front of Gareth McNair.

  He stopped before her and after a pause, bowed slowly. Lips pulled into a tight line, his expression might have been carved out of granite. Only his jade eyes smoldered with a raw, accusing anger.

  “Lady Fleming,” he repeated. “I had no idea Lady Pettigrew had invited you this evening.”

  “Constance usually invites me to her parties, Your Grace,” she said, opening her fan and waving it in a languid motion. “But of course you’ve been away at the wars, so you would not have known of our friendship.”

  “But other news does reach the front,” he countered. “I hear you were widowed—what was it—six years ago?”

  “Seven.” Julia’s fan picked up a frisson of speed.

  “My condolences.” So said his lips, but his darkening eyes showed otherwise. “Was it sudden?”

  “Yes,” Julia said. “He fell off his horse while in a state of extreme intoxication.”

  A smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. “Again, my condolences.”

  “Welcome back to London, Your Grace.” Lady Richardson stepped closer. A close-behind Lady Flattery followed, nearly treading on her friend’s gown. “Welcome back to London.” They sank into deep curtsies.

  “Thank you.” Gareth’s eyes never moved from their study of Julia.

  The two women hovered, watching the exchange, faces greedy with the anticipation of shared gossip. Lady Flattery started to speak, but Gareth turned and dismissed them with a single raised eyebrow. Muttering, they curtsied again before slinking back into the crowd.

  “So you are a widow.” His accusing tone c
hanged back to the lazy drawl she remembered so well. “Children?”

  “None.” She raised a gloved hand to cover her yawn, hoping he would not hear the thundering of her heart. A soldier would surely recognize the sound of cannon fire.

  His mouth—the one she had spent afternoons covering with kisses—twisted into a parody of a smile. “Your late husband must have been disappointed.”

  The fan snapped shut between her fingers. “No doubt,” she ground out. “Your Grace will excuse me.”

  She brushed past him, but even this slight touch threatened to flame her skin with an unwelcome and unbidden desire, trying to ignore the curious stares following her out of the ballroom and into the hall.

  For once the retiring room was empty of giggling debutantes or scheming mamas. Ladies who often claimed to be overheated would come here to “collect” themselves, when in truth they wanted to gossip about their dancing partners or criticize what other women were wearing.

  But how many of them came face-to-face with their first love after years of separation? Hands trembling, Julia sank onto a velvet settee and opened her fan again. Beneath her gloves, her rampaging pulse threatened to bruise her skin as her heart slammed against her ribs in a frenzied tattoo. Breathe, she commanded herself, putting her fan to good use. Breathe.

  She inhaled deeply, held it and then expelled it in a long sigh. She sat until her heart and pulse finally lapsed into a more measured beat and the accompanying pain faded into a dull ache. A duke. Good heavens, Gareth McNair was a duke.

  She should leave now. With her younger sister Lucy at home nursing the threat of a cold, Julia had the perfect excuse to leave. Constance would understand. One can never be too careful with a cold and Lucy had only made her debut this past spring. Already she had been declared a “diamond of the first water”, a sure sign of her success.

  But tongues would wag if Julia left now. The ton lived for scandal, passing tidbits of gossip back and forth with salacious glee. Sharks in a feeding frenzy were kinder, and more than one young lady found her hopes for a successful Season ruined by some viperous old dowager at Almack’s by a mistake in manners or her family’s behavior.

  But she couldn’t spend the rest of the night in here either. That would really start people talking. They had talked enough when Charles died. His falling off his horse in front of London’s most notorious brothel had kept the gossip mills running for weeks. What would they have said if they knew she opened a bottle of champagne and drank it all to celebrate her freedom? A freedom she cherished every day and would never again surrender.

  And that included surrendering to Gareth McNair’s disturbing presence. No doubt their paths would cross again. She would rally her inner forces and plan her strategy to keep her feelings in check—if not insuring a victory, at least peace of mind.

  “You have me thinking like a soldier, Gareth,” she said aloud to the empty room. “You’ll not defeat me in this, even if you are the newest Duke of Harrow.”

  She stood and walked to a corner cabinet where Constance had thoughtfully provided a water jug and a basket filled with soft cloths. Julia removed her gloves, dampened a cloth and patted her face, then dried it and her hands. A quick glance in the mirror showed her coiffure still in place and her expression defiant. Oh, yes. She would get through the evening.

  She put on her gloves, smoothed her skirt and walked out of the retiring room door to face her past once again.

  Chapter Two

  Of all the ballrooms in all of London, she had to be in this one. Julia Fleming. Damn.

  Gareth stared at the gentle sway of her bottom beneath the blue silk gown as she left the room and a sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Damnation she could still bring him to near-erection just by walking away.

  Gritting his teeth, Gareth strode to lean against a giant pillar. From the semi-darkness, he cast his gaze around the room filled with other women. Beautiful, desirable women. Women who would gladly come to his bed by him just offering a smile or crooking his finger.

  And none of them mattered a damn except Julia Fleming—the woman who had carved out his heart with her betrayal, leaving nothing but a hollow, empty place. Being heartless had its advantages. It made him a very proficient killer, and he’d had plenty of time to practice killing in the eight years since he last laid eyes on her. Years of hardship and warfare should have wiped away every last scrap of memory of her. He thought it had.

  After Waterloo he had gambled, drank and worked his way through half the brothels in Brussels. He would have continued until the solicitor’s letter arrived reminding him that Cousin Clarence had left him a dukedom last year. What a damn inconsiderate thing to do. Almost as inconsiderate as Julia being in the same ballroom on his first night back in London.

  And how damn unfair she should be more beautiful than ever. Instead of a young girl’s slender figure, Julia Fleming’s body now boasted a woman’s lush curves. The kind a man would pay a fortune to explore inch by inch in slow, sensuous study. A study he had made over and over in a cottage that long-ago summer. The remembered taste of her—all of her—exploded in his mouth and another memory flooded his senses.

  “What if I taste you here?” Her fingers had traced the sensitive peaks of flesh on his chest. “Can women do that, taste a man’s nipples?”

  Even then he had shivered at the thought, wondering where else he might teach her to taste. “You can if you like.”

  Gently she put her mouth on the spot and tasted the tiny points of flesh…first on the right, then on the left. Her tongue swirled over it before her mouth suckled and she purred in contentment. “Do you like that?”

  “Wench,” Gareth gasped, holding her head in his hands. “Or maybe you’re a witch.”

  “What about this?” Her fingers had inched down his body to gently trace the head of his hardened penis. “Should I taste that as well?”

  “God’s blood!” Gareth slammed his fist against the pillar fighting against his hardening groin.

  “Your Grace?” His hostess’ soft voice behind him interrupted his reverie. “Is anything amiss?”

  Forcing his lips into a smile, he turned and bowed. “Not at all, Constance. Just enjoying the sights.”

  Lady Constance Pettigrew smiled in return. “You are referring to the beauty of the ladies present?”

  He offered her his arm. “Indeed,” he said. “It’s just the antidote for a returning soldier. Thank you for including me tonight.”

  Her plumes swayed as they began taking a turn around the room. “I was quite astonished when Blakely informed me of your sudden arrival in London and taking up residence at Rochester’s.”

  “So Blakely still has his fingers on the pulse of the ton?” Gareth managed a laugh while considering what revenge to exact against the manager of London’s best residential hotel for letting slip news of his return. His valet Taggert had only been halfway through unpacking his luggage when Constance’s invitation arrived, pleading for him to attend tonight’s soirée.

  Everyone will want to congratulate you on your good fortune, she had written. Everyone will want to meet the new Duke of Harrow.

  And because she was his closest friend’s sister, he had no choice but to attend. He had even believed it might be a pleasant evening…until he saw Julia.

  Glancing about the room again, Gareth asked, “Is Samuel here tonight? I haven’t seen him.”

  Constance clicked her tongue. “Since Waterloo, the Foreign Office keeps calling my husband back to Brussels,” she complained. “Since you’re a duke now, Gareth, isn’t there something you can do to put a stop to that? Please?”

  He paused to stare at the swell of her belly, indicating the growth of a child. “Cannot your present state of health keep him by your side?”

  “The Foreign Office has promised this will be his last absence, but I’ll believe it when it happens,” she said.

  “I shall do my best,” Gareth promised. “And William? Where is he?”

  At the m
ention of her brother, a flicker of sadness danced across her pretty features. “I believe he’s in the library, playing chess. But I doubt he’ll come out and join us.”

  Gareth gently squeezed her arm. “How does my old friend?”

  “As well as can be expected,” she said. “Did he write and tell you Katherine ended their engagement?”

  “Yes,” Gareth said. “Are all the women in London idiots, Constance? There are far worse things than going through life married to man without an—”

  “Hush.” She choked on the word. “If you make me cry, I shall dunk your head in the punch bowl.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” he teased. “I’m a good deal taller than you.”

  “Hush,” she said again, but gave him a tiny smile. “I saw you conversing with Lady Fleming. I had no idea you were acquainted.”

  “Our families briefly knew one another years ago,” he replied, trying to banish the sudden image that rose behind his eyes. Julia, her long, golden hair unbound and streaming across the pillows. Julia, her skin glowing in the hut’s dim light, after making love. Julia, her clever fingers touching and coaxing him into a frenzy of desire. “I heard of her marriage soon after I left for the army. She says she is widowed now?”

  Constance made a face. “Some say it was a mercy. Charles Fleming may have been a very wealthy baronet, but he was a brute. And the circumstances surrounding his death might have ruined her.”

  “Scandal?” Gareth fought the urge to revel in Julia’s misfortune. Serves her right, playing him for the fool.

  Perhaps coming tonight had not been such a mistake after all.

  Constance lowered her voice to a near whisper. “He dropped dead outside one of the worst pleasure houses in the East End. And the terms of his will were dreadful, the old skinflint.”