Lost in Pleasure

Lost in Pleasure
Marguerite Kaye

London, 1816Richard, Earl of Kilcreggan, longs for the thrill of the unpredictable—but nothing prepares him for the sudden appearance of a beguiling woman in his library. As a man of science, he’s intrigued by her story of time-travel. As a man of passion, he cannot resist their smoldering desire.Thoroughly modern Errin McGill never dreamed a wish for romance would land her in Regency London—and face-to-face with the most attractive man she’s ever imagined. But her fantasy man and the sensual pleasure he offers is decidedly real…

London, 1816

Richard, Earl of Kilcreggan, longs for the thrill of the unpredictable—but nothing prepares him for the sudden appearance of a beguiling woman in his library. As a man of science, he’s intrigued by her story of time-travel. As a man of passion, he cannot resist their smoldering desire.

Thoroughly modern Errin McGill never dreamed a wish for romance would land her in Regency London—and face-to-face with the most attractive man she’s ever imagined. But her fantasy man and the sensual pleasure he offers is decidedly real…

Lost in Pleasure

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents

Chapter One (#u4e3953e6-2080-5645-9b56-649243279a3c)

Chapter Two (#uce315b2c-d6a9-5975-bb6b-80248e1d0d07)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Kilcreggan House, London, 1816

Richard, the third Earl of Kilcreggan, picked up his newly delivered package of books, crossed his legs, clad in tight-fitting pantaloons and polished leather boots, and settled into his favourite wingback chair. Amongst the bundle was a new German edition of Gauss, but as he idly flicked through the uncut pages, the book he had been so eagerly awaiting failed to hold his attention.

The library, his favourite room, was located at the back of Kilcreggan House, which itself stood on the south corner of Cavendish Square. Sash windows looked out onto the garden where Richard kept his treasured telescope, made to one of Mr Herschel’s designs. Much of the library’s wall space was taken up by glass-fronted bookcases, but a large mahogany cabinet with a rosewood veneer stood in the corner by the fireplace, its innumerable drawers containing the most prized of Richard’s specimens—butterflies and insects, semi-precious stones, fossils, and a plethora of other curios he had amassed on his extensive travels. His famed exotic botanical specimens, also collected abroad, were cultivated at his country seat in a number of expensively heated custom-built succession houses. These featured in the background of the painting that hung above the mantel.

Richard’s portrait, by the renowned Scottish artist Henry Raeburn, was, even he conceded, a good likeness. It depicted a tall man with a darkly brooding face, too forbidding to be considered classically handsome, but arresting enough to be unsettling. Mr Raeburn had captured the earl’s air of amused detachment, as if the sitter took neither the portrait nor himself too seriously. A volume of Erasmus Darwin’s Zoonomia was held open in his hands but his golden-brown eyes gazed out intently at the viewer, something that Richard’s friends and family found so disconcerting that he had been forced to move the portrait from the dining room, in which it had originally been hung. ‘Can’t eat with you staring over my shoulder like that, my dear fellow,’ his friend Nick Lytton had joked.

Richard drummed his fingers on the frontispiece of a volume of poems. He was bored. No, not just bored, he was malcontent, though it pained him to admit it, for there was no logical reason to be so, and he was a man who valued logic above all else. Getting to his feet, he strode over to gaze out of the window. He was in no mood to be convivial, he had no urge for intellectual debate, and even the thought of whiling away an afternoon making love to a beautiful woman roused in him little more than mild ennui. Despite the endless opportunities with which his acknowledged charm and considerable wealth presented him, the pleasure he derived from lovemaking was becoming ever more unsatisfactory, leaving him spent but not sated. The sense that there was something vital missing from his life nagged at him.

He sighed heavily. Nick Lytton insisted that what he needed was a wife. Nick, who had for years forsworn matrimony, had recently been felled by a beautiful French heiress and had now become a staunch advocate of the married state. Richard was not persuaded. Love was a transient illusion, a trick of nature designed to ensure the continuation of the species, nothing more. There was no such thing as eternal love, nor such a woman as the perfect mate. Richard had never even come close to being mildly infatuated, never mind beguiled. Now, at six-and-thirty, he considered himself pretty much immune to emotions of that sort. As a man of science, he held that to be an entirely appropriate state of affairs.

Outside, the rain started to fall, the kind of soft grey drizzle that enveloped one like a damp blanket. It matched Richard’s mood perfectly. He pressed his forehead against the windowpane and closed his eyes. There was much to be said for the reassuring predictability of science, but sometimes, just occasionally, it would be nice to experience the thrill of the unexpected.

London, the present.

Errin McGill pushed open the door of the small junk shop in Camberwell and paused, as she always did, to drink in the familiar evocative smell of old wood, mildewed books and damp upholstery. She loved this place, so much so that she always made it her first port of call on her regular buying trips from New York, though she rarely purchased anything here. Errin’s wealthy Manhattan clients demanded the very best, which meant genuine antiques in mint condition, without any of the scratches and signs of wear and tear that Errin herself preferred, for they gave each piece a provenance, a personality. But her rich clients weren’t really interested in history. They wanted ‘authentic’ period rooms, unsullied by evidence of real age. If antiques could somehow be injected with botox serum, that’s what her clients would have her do to them.

She’d come straight here after dumping her bags at the hotel, having only two weeks in which to acquire a frighteningly long list of commissioned items. The flight from JFK had been delayed by three hours, and she hadn’t eaten since that fateful dinner with Mark the night before. Not that she’d eaten much then, not after Mark dropped his bombshell and produced, with a flourish, the small designer ring box. She had been too shocked to do anything other than stare, and Mark, expecting delighted exclamations, had taken immediate offence. The ring, a diamond solitaire, winked up at her smugly. She hated it. Too big, way too showy, it would brand her indisputably as Mark’s property, another one of his expensively acquired possessions.

Suddenly and with embarrassing clarity, Errin had realised that she didn’t love Mark. She would never love him, not in the crash, bang, dizzy, breathless way that true love should manifest itself. Nor experience that heart-stopping desperate-to-be-with-him, can’t-bear-to-be-without-him feeling. He was rich and gorgeous but that wasn’t enough. Despite her pragmatic sister Megan forever reminding her about biological clocks and career women, Errin wanted something she’d only read about in romance novels. What was wrong with shooting for the stars? She was only twenty-eight. Surely, out of the millions of men out there, her Mr Absolutely Perfect existed and was waiting for her?

Mark had been more angry than upset, stung by her refusal. He was, as he himself pointed out, an excellent catch. They’d been dating exclusively for over a year, so marriage was the next logical step, except now it made no sense whatsoever to Errin. ‘Your loss, Errin. There’s plenty more fish in the sea,’ he’d sneered before storming off, sending their champagne flutes flying and drawing shocked stares from their fellow diners at the exclusive restaurant.

Cringing now at the memory, Errin stooped to examine a companion set of brass fire irons, but although they were prettily made, they had been over-polished, the patina destroyed, so she put them back. Her head ached. Reaching up, she removed the clip that held her auburn hair back and shook it out, sighing with relief and rolling her shoulders in an effort to ease the tension in them.

She’d wanted to explain properly but Mark had refused to take her calls. She couldn’t really blame him, but nor was she sorry. When she got back from this trip, maybe it was time to make some other long-overdue changes to her life. Despite the phenomenal success of her interior-design business, she was bored. It wasn’t how she’d pictured her life panning out when she graduated with a master’s in fine arts seven years ago. She’d imagined an exciting career doing something fulfilling and creative, not becoming a glorified personal shopper for people with more money than taste.

A wingback chair caught her eye. Mahogany, with cabriole legs and ball-and-claw feet, it was upholstered in dark brown leather. Early Regency, one of her favourite periods. She stooped to examine it more closely. It was in sad need of reupholstering, but there was something captivating about it that made her want to try it out. She did so, snuggling into the high seat back, closing her eyes with a sigh of pleasure. The worn leather on the out-scrolled arms spoke of much use. It was a gentleman’s chair. She pictured it sitting in front of a roaring fire in a library or book room.

The chair seemed to envelop her, wrapping her in its welcoming embrace. Whoever he had been, the original owner was clearly a man who liked his comforts. Well-to-do, judging by the quality of this bespoke piece. Maybe a scholar, or a poet—the early nineteenth century was practically awash with poets. Errin smiled to herself. How different life must have been then. How romantic. How much she wished her life...

Her eyes grew heavy, and closed. There were flashing red lights behind her lids. A deeper, more intense red swirled in the background like a hot mist. She felt dizzy. Her fingers and toes tingled. The dizziness took a firmer hold, making her feel as if she were spinning round and falling backwards at the same time. The dazzling light hurt her eyes, but she couldn’t seem to prise her lids open. Then a sudden flash of white light burned through the crimson, making her sit bolt upright.

* * *

The first thing she noticed was the portrait of a man, an extremely attractive man, dressed in the cutaway coat, clinging pantaloons and polished leather boots of the Regency period. His eyes, a striking brown colour that was like burnished copper, were tinged with amusement and seemed to be observing her intently. He had a strong nose, a most decided chin, and his mouth trembled on the verge of a smile, as if he knew some rather shocking secret. Night-black hair cut very close to his head, but no hat. More devilish than handsome really, and very sure of himself into the bargain, Errin decided.

She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t noticed it when she first entered the shop. Her headache had gone. She must have dozed off. The heat of the fire perhaps—that always made her woozy.

The fire? What fire?

The fire burning in the hearth. Above which the painting hung. In the room that looked very much like a library and not at all like Pandora’s Box off Camberwell High Street.

Was she still asleep and dreaming this?

Jet-lagged?

Hallucinating?

Errin rubbed her eyes, but the scene remained the same. She pinched herself, something she’d always thought a ridiculous thing when people did it in books. It hurt, but still nothing changed.

She looked around her, at the glass-fronted bookcases and the beautiful curio cabinet that took up most of one wall. It was a lovely room, authentically Regency, with some much older pieces. She ran her hands over the ebony-and-ivory marquetry of a pedestal side table that looked to be straight out of Sheraton’s Cabinet Dictionary. If this was a dream, it was an extremely vivid one.

The portrait above the mantel drew her attention again. A wealthy man, a scholarly man, but above all a sexy one. It might be the boots, or the way the pantaloons clung to his legs, or perhaps the devil-may-care look. There was nothing insipid about him. His smouldering demeanour suggested a man capable of giving, and receiving, pleasure.

The idea made Errin’s blood heat. Keeping one eye on the portrait, she wandered over to the bookshelves, running an idle finger along the titles. The unlit lamps scattered about the room were oil-fired. There were candelabra on the mantel, standing on either side of a clock showing the phases of the moon. French, she thought automatically. Louis Quatorze, and in perfect condition. Worth thousands. Intrigued, she was about to take a closer look when a door in the panelling opened.

A man stood in the doorway. Tall, with long legs clad in long boots and tightly fitting trousers. A tailed coat left unbuttoned to reveal a striped waistcoat. The coat framed broad shoulders. The white shirt with its high collar framed a strangely familiar face.

Goosebumps rose on Errin’s skin. The man closed the door softly behind him and began to walk purposefully towards her. In the flesh, he was even more viscerally attractive, exuding an almost tangible sexual aura. She backed away from him. Not from fear. She was not at all afraid. Why should she be? Whatever this was, it was not real.

But it felt real. It felt very real.

Her back encountered a bookcase, forcing her to cease her retreat. Her heart was pounding as it did at the end of a spin class at the gym. She tried to speak, but no sound emerged. The man stood in front of her. He didn’t look like a dream. He looked extremely solid. Extremely male. She had thought the width of his shoulders and chest the usual portrait painter’s flattery, but in fact the artist hadn’t even begun to capture the sheer physical presence of the subject.

Errin took a deep breath. He gave off a definitively male scent she couldn’t even begin to deconstruct as it wrapped itself around her and tingled its way into her blood. Sensory overload. Desire kicked in, sudden and violent, like a shattering of glass, sharp and edgy and dangerous.

Please let her not wake up; this was her best dream in ages. ‘Please. Not yet.’