Sinning in Secret, page 1
Charlie Lane
Sinning in Secret
A Steamy Regency Romance
Copyright © 2020 by Charlie Lane
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Charlie Lane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
Editing by Krista Dapkey
Cover art by Holly Perett
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
To Brian—whose sharp mind and wit gave shape to Bax’s brain.
Contents
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Charlie Lane
Acknowledgement
So much gratitude goes to Holly and Krista, my cover artist and editor. They help me shine and are such stellar humans to work with! I can’t say enough how wonderful Rachel Anne Smith is (and her books are! Check them out!); without her, my characters would be unlikeable and my sex scenes would have more arms and legs than is likely … outside of science fiction, at least.
I also must thank Julie, who was the first to read and give feedback on Willow’s story when all I really knew about it was that Willow had a voice, and I must let her speak.
And most importantly, if my husband and sons didn’t put up with my absent-mindedness, where would I be? Nowhere, I tell ya, nowhere.
Chapter 1
Lady Willow Willoughby had no reason to complain. Really, she didn’t. Daughter of a wealthy and powerful duke, attractive, in possession of more than half a brain, no pesky siblings to complicate her life, and with an attentive mother, the girls of England and beyond envied her, to be sure. But Lady Willow realized, as she traveled the rocky road away from the Stonefield house party in complete silence next to her mother and father, that she did have a rather large complaint.
And it wasn’t that, suddenly, she had no suitor. Nor was it that the grand country house where she’d spent the most interesting days of her life shrunk behind her as the silent coach carried her back to her tedious life in London.
No. Her singular complaint was that she didn’t seem to care. At all. About any of it, her suitor’s loving someone else in particular. And that just seemed wrong.
“Jilted,” her mother hissed. “My daughter, the Duke of Valingford’s daughter, jilted,” she moaned.
“It’s all right, Mother, really it is. And he didn’t exactly jilt me. Lord Rigsby never proposed to me, after all.” Everyone had expected him to, of course. Her family had left the season to travel to this house party for that very reason.
Her mother’s reticule flew across the small space and hit Willow on the shoulder.
Without moving a muscle, her father spoke. “Enough.”
Her mother’s wailing stopped, and she turned with a huff to the window.
At least someone could shed tears over the matter. Willow’s eyes remained dry and her heart free from pain. Only one emotion weighed heavy on her soul: crushing indifference.
She was broken. She had to be. She checked her heart, resisting the urge to thump her chest to see if she could turn it on. Oh, it beat steadily enough, but therein lay the problem. It should have crashed erratically against her ribs when Lord Rigsby had told her he planned to marry another woman. It should have wailed, constricting her chest and restricting her breath. It had not.
Nor did it participate in such melodramatics now.
She seemed to be incapable of feeling.
Did she really feel nothing? Would she feel nothing for the rest of her life? She was stuck. Oh God, she was stuck.
Wait … no. She felt something now, an uncomfortable thumping in her chest. She rubbed the spot. What caused it?
There it was again! She sucked in a breath and held it, listening to her body. The thumping continued, spreading outward from her heart until her whole body pulsed.
Surely her parents noticed. She looked over at her mother leaning back against the squabs, eyes closed, mouth pinched. Willow snuck a peak at her father only to find him gazing stonily at her. She snapped her gaze back out the window and snapped her attention back to the thumping in her chest. She curled her hand against her chest and pushed, as if she could press it into submission.
But she couldn’t, and the thumping grew into a feeling that burst through the boredom, one she’d been intimately acquainted with throughout her life. Panic. It curled around her like a London fog, dark and deep. She thought she’d long ago mastered the beast, ignoring the frequent scenes between her father and mother, ignoring the accompanying fear and dread. Curious that it returned now, just as it become clear how empty she’d been for who knew how long.
“Get out.”
Willow’s head whipped forward at her father’s curt order. “Where are we?”
“Get out.”
Never one for explanation, her father. She looked out the window again to see a bustling inn yard. They could not have gone far. She would have registered it, even with the panicked fog enveloping her. “I thought we were to drive right through to London,” she inquired of the empty coach.
Her father had already crossed the yard and stood waiting impatiently at the inn door. Her mother poked her head back into the coach. “We’ve stopped to wait for the arrival of the rest of the trunks. Now come along.”
Willow did as she was bid. She missed London, and she wanted nothing more than to disappear inside their cavernous house and figure out if she could feel anything other than panic. Heartbreak, for instance. But her parents insisted on traveling like royalty with coach after coach lining the roads, a caravan of opulence. She pulled her cloak tight and followed them under a swinging sign with a bee on it and into the inn.
A neatly dressed man approached them, bowing low. “I am Thomas Jenkins, owner of the Pink Bee. How may we serve you?”
Willow’s father flicked his fingers and a footman stepped forward. “The Duke of Valingford would like your best private sitting room,” the footman explained.
“Ah, yes. Step right this way.”
“He should like to inspect them first.”
“Of course. Right this way, Your Grace.”
Willow followed her parents and the inn keeper toward a staircase at the back of the dining room.
A cloaked figure stepped in front of her. “Excuse me.” A pretty, pale, familiar face appeared from beneath the cloak’s hood and glanced nervously out at her.
“Miss Cavendish?” Joy leapt up in Willow’s chest as the other girl broke into a shy grin. She’d only spoken with Miss Cavendish a handful of times at the house party, but each time had brightened Willow’s drab day.
“Precisely so.”
“What are you doing here?” Willow glanced toward the stairs where her parents had disappeared. “Did you wish to speak to me?”
“Call me Ada, and yes, I do wish to speak with you. But I fear your parents will not approve.”
“You’re correct. They will not.”
“But you do.”
Willow ventured a smile. “I do.”
Ada nodded, clearly pleased, then she glanced anxiously about the room. “I will not stay long. I do not wish to rain your parents’ displeasure down upon your head.” She reached into a pocket and folded a square of paper into Willow’s hands. “Do not read it now. Hide it.”
“Isn’t this a bit dramatic for a note?”
Ada lifted her chin. “My father is a renowned scholar and adventurer. Drama and intrigue are part of my nature. Not part I often indulge in, but part nonetheless.”
“I see.”
“Good. I hope you also see the need for secrecy.”
She did. If her father found this note, no matter its contents, it would be consigned to the fire before Willow laid a single eye on it, let alone two.
“You came simply to give me a note? You could have posted it.”
“Yes, but how could I be sure you’d receive it? No, this is better.”
“And more in line with your seldom-indulged adventurous nature, no doubt.”
Ada’s eyes crinkled. “I like you. I thought you might need to know that as well. What with being jilted and all. It’s lovely to know someone likes you when such things happen.”
“Everyone knows, then? Already?” They’d left the
house party less than an hour ago!
“Of course.” Her eyes softened. “It’s not your fault Lord Rigsby did not propose. He’s quite in love with Miss Blake.”
“I’m aware. Lord Rigsby does not hide his emotions well.”
“Just so.” Ada reached into her pockets and pulled out a book, a pencil, and an apple. “I confiscated these from the house party before coming. I thought you might need entertainment.”
“And food?”
She shrugged. “If your parents try to starve you for failing to bring Lord Rigsby up to scratch, you’ll not go hungry.” She eyed the small apple. “Much. You might want to save it for your darkest moment.”
Willow arched a brow, a skill she’d learned from a lifetime of watching her father. “You are dramatic.”
“I wish to be, at least. Mostly, I’m simply practical.”
Willow understood such unfulfilled desires. She’d long been bored but wanted to be … what? She hardly knew. The panic nipped at her again.
“Are you all right? You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” She spoke more to convince herself than to convince Ada. “Thank you for everything.” Especially for liking her. “You’d better go now. She glanced toward the stairs. “My parents could return at any moment. And they won’t like me speaking with a baron’s daughter.”
Ada huffed. “A famous baron’s daughter, thank you very much.”
“Of course. I’ll make sure to always introduce you as such in the future. ‘Please meet Miss Cavendish, the famous baron’s daughter.’”
Ada smirked and pulled her hood closer. “I like you,” she repeated. “And remember, keep the note secret. Read it only once you get back to London, to the safety of your room.”
“You!”
Willow’s heart stuttered to life. “Oh, no!” She whipped around. “Mother!”
The Duchess of Valingford stormed toward them, fury flaming across her crimson cheeks. “I know you! You’re that Cavendish chit.”
“I think it’s time for my exit,” Ada whispered. “Make sure to remind your mother I’m not just that Cavendish chit.” She winked then turned in a swirl of cloak and skirts and fled into the crowded dining room and out the door. She made as dramatic an exit as she had an entrance.
Willow liked her, too.
As Willow slipped the note into her pocket, her mother’s fingers wrapped around Willow’s upper arm, swinging her around. “Why was that girl here?”
“She was here to meet a friend.” The lie came smoothly, thankfully. “She happened to see me and wanted to say hello.”
“Why did she flee so quickly?”
Willow tried to pull out of her mother’s grasp, but the grip remained too strong. Willow tried another lie. “Wouldn’t you if an angry duchess were bearing down upon you?”
The duchess pushed Willow away. “You’re not to associate with that girl. She’s good friends with the … the tart that stole Lord Rigsby away from you.”
“Yes, but isn’t she a famous baron’s daughter? And I’ve told you, Mother, I do not mind the loss of Lord Rigsby. His heart is too occupied for me to take up space.”
Her mother gasped. Her mother sputtered. Her mother let her mouth hang open in quite an undignified manner. What if a bug were to fly between her gaping lips? The duchess turned pale (as if she had swallowed a fly).
Willow should have laughed at the sight, but she felt no such urge, and the panic that gripped her surged anew.
Her mother snapped her mouth shut and sniffed. “This way.”
Willow followed her toward the stairs, thinking of the house party and the two lovers who had ruined her parents’ plans for her future.
Her parents’ plans. No wonder she could not summon anger or heartache over Lord Rigsby. He had not been her choice. Of course, she’d never expected to have a choice, so she’d never given the arrangement a second thought. But …
With the arrangement shattered, everything around her seemed new. Her future now stood open, like a window letting in a fresh breeze on a sunny day. With her parents’ matrimonial plans laying in pieces about their feet, that future seemed more hers. How would she fill it up? The anxiety that had been snaking through her since her Great Realization of Disinterest transformed into—could it be?—excitement. Perhaps, like Ada, Willow could live life as she pleased.
“Daughter.” A voice, cold, oily, and familiar, doused her pleasure with icy fear. Her father stepped from the stairway and offered her his arm. She took it, and he clamped her to his side and ushered her up the stairs and through an open door where their footman stood waiting, Willow’s mother following swiftly behind. “Sit,” he commanded, and she obeyed without thought.
He stood above her, his face unforgiving, stony and unreadable. “Lord Rigsby will be punished.”
Her voice, so resilient, so strong just moments before, fled. Her father did not make idle threats. He’d ruined one of her governesses when the woman had made friends with a housemaid. He’d burned all of Willow’s dresses when she’d had her bodices cut a fraction lower than usual. She had a cat once. It disappeared after her father found papers from his desk shredded. “I … I don’t think that’s necessary, Father,” she whispered, her eyes downcast. “There was no contract, after all. Verbal or otherwise.”
“There will be next time.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Of course there would be a next time. She must have gone temporarily mad to think otherwise, to consider a life of her own choosing. Fool. Of course there would be another suitor.
But who? Her foot tapped under her skirts. Who were the eligible bachelors her father would consider appropriate? She ran through a short list. She knew names, but not faces. She’d always known she’d have no choice in who she wed. A duke’s daughter rarely did. So, she’d not paid much attention to the options. But now the thought tightened the panic coursing through her until she thought she might break. Hells bells! No wonder she’d not felt a thing for years. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? If you simply existed without love or hope, you didn’t have to experience fear, either. She closed her eyes tight and wished it all away, the panic, the lost hope—temporary though it had been—the fear.
“Stop that.” Her father’s voice arrested her tapping toes.
She glued her feet to the floor to please him, but did a brave thing. She spoke to please herself. “Do you have someone in mind, Father?”
She waited. And waited. And waited. But received no answer.
“Father, I—”
“You are incapable of bringing a man up to scratch. Next time, there will be no courtship period, no time for the man to recognize your flaws. I’ll find a man, and you will marry him. And if you manage to ruin that arrangement …”
Willow shivered in his pause.
“If you manage to ruin yet another engagement, daughter”—he turned away from her and brushed lint off his sleeve—“well, just remember that Italian madhouses are much less choosy than potential husbands. They’ll accept anyone. Even you.”
Willow studied her father’s grim profile and saw every window—and door—in her life close, one by one, in the black halls of his empty eyes.
Chapter 2
Baxter Arthur Arthurson, Viscount Cordell, Bax to his family and friends, considered the neat list on the paper in front of him. Three columns, evenly spaced. At the top of the page, a single question.
What is the type of compatibility best suited to marriage?
The first two columns, labeled subsequently Friendship and Lust, contained notes aplenty, but the final column, labeled Social, remained blank.
The first note under the column labeled Friendship was a name—Miss Belinda Waters. Bax had known Bell since childhood. And while they enjoyed an easy companionship, when he’d kissed her two summers ago … nothing. Not a zip, not a zing, not a bit of seductive energy had hissed between them. Unfortunate, that. He could easily imagine sharing toast and tea with her at the morning table, playing with their children together on a lawn. The making of the children, though, would prove problematic.
Friendship, it seemed, offered no answer to the question.
The notes for the Lust column also began with a name. Miss Pepper Bodkin, product of an ill-advised love match between a famous French chef and an English earl’s only daughter. Pepper was a fiery as her name implied, and she possessed a pair of breasts as plump and delectable as the pastries that had made her father famous. Their few encounters had been as heated as his kisses with Bell had been tepid. However, while he could easily envision Pepper in his bed (though he’d never taken her there), he could not envision her at the breakfast table. They had nothing to talk about and, once, she’d told him she didn’t want children.
