Page 78 of Pride & Petticoats

“And what did you say?” Lucia asked.

“That I’m not a Yankee. I’m a Southerner.” She smiled at Freddie and then her daughter, who smiled back. “I think the real problem is that Freddie fears he might end up liking America. And how gauche would that be?”

Freddie cradled his daughter in his arms and looked into her face, his emerald eyes dark and full of love. He leaned over and kissed Charlotte’s cheek, whispering, “I’ll be the most gauche man in Charleston if it means I’ll be by your side.”

She melted. “Keep that up and I might—might—forgive you for naming our child after a rotund dandy with a fondness for apricot tarts.”

Freddie scowled. “One day you will laugh at this.”

Charlotte raised a brow, but she knew he was right. She could imagine the two of them, whitehaired and stoop-shouldered, smiling over all the years and all the memories. Smiling over his pride and her prejudice and their love.

Read the first book in the Regency Spies series, While You Were Spying! Enjoy an excerpt below.

“I won’t hurt you.” His mouth brushed her earlobe. “If I remove my hand, can I trust you not to cry out?”

His voice, a low velvet purr, resonated through her very bones. Francesca chided herself for her overreaction. Of course this man wouldn’t hurt her. This was the Hampshire countryside, after all. Nothing very interesting ever happened here. She felt his warm breath caress her ear again.

Until now.

His hold on her mouth eased. “Don’t scream,” he repeated.

There was something about this man—the smell of him, the steady strength in him—that made her feel secure, that made her nod her acquiescence almost without thinking. She was surprised at her response. For the last half year, her initial reaction to being touched by any man had been nothing short of panic.

He slackened his grip, fingers tracing her mouth as he withdrew his hand. She pressed her dry lips together, wetting them with her tongue, and she could taste the leather of his gloves on them.

“For a moment I was worried,” Francesca began as she turned to peer up at the man. “Who are—”

Her smile fell, and she crushed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle the shriek.

“What are you doing here?”

Reeling from shock, she stumbled backward again, nearly falling over the forgotten bucket.

The wall reached out, grasped her arm, and for the second time in as many minutes, hauled her upright. She jumped at his touch, flailed forward, and landed in his warm, solid arms. Head resting against his warm, solid chest. And, Heaven help her, she didn’t pull away as quickly as she knew she should. She told herself

it was because if she fell over even one more time he’d label her the Clumsiest Girl in All of England.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

Francesca couldn’t believe, even without seeing him, she hadn’t known it was him. His smell, his voice. She’d thought they’d been stamped indelibly on her brain. His physical appearance, too, though each time she caught a glimpse of him it was as breathtaking as the first.

She didn’t need to look at him to picture him. Ethan Caxton, the Marquess of Winterbourne, was the most attractive man she’d ever seen. Tall and lean, he was graced with rich auburn hair and dark amber eyes. Unconventionally handsome, the chiseled angles and sculpted planes of his facial features made him appear harsh but arresting. Even dressed unremarkably in charcoal black with a white shirt and cravat, he radiated danger and sensuality.

She glanced up, her gaze locking with his. What she saw made her belly flutter. Those golden eyes, flecked with burnt honey, were his real appeal. They captured her, trapped her in their sticky allure, like an unsuspecting insect caught in sap. The eyes alone hinted at softness. The rest of him was hard, intimidating, and enthralling all at the same time.

Not him, she thought. Anyone but him.

Francesca forced herself from the security of his arms and flattened her back against the coarse wood of the stable wall.

He watched her as she backed away, dark eyebrows slashed together in a scowl. She felt a bead of sweat meander the curve of her spine. Despite those captivating eyes, he’d always had a particularly potent scowl. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you.” He looked angry, almost offended.

“I know.” She inched her hands behind her body, the barn’s cold prickly wood rasping the tender flesh of her palms.

“Then why are you cowering?” The line between his eyebrows deepened with disapproval.

“I’m not cowering.” Francesca pushed away from the barn, her chin coming up a notch. “I was just being”—she pursed her lips, eyes searching the dusky sky for the right word—“cautious.” She gave a succinct nod. “After all, you could have been a...highwayman.”

His mouth quirked in what she supposed for him passed as a smile. “A highwayman? I’m sorry to disappoint you, miss. I’m not nearly as exciting or romantic as a highwayman. I’m—” He stepped forward, preparing to introduce himself.

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