Page 43 of A Lady’s Rules for Seaside Romance (The Harp & Thistle #3)

E venings offered a respite from the summer heat.

It didn’t get nearly as hot here in Brighton as it did in London, but it still made sleep difficult sometimes.

Which was precisely why Victor had all of his windows open.

And why he had pulled a chair to one window, to sit in front of it.

With his third whiskey. Inhaling the cool sea air, to cool off from the summer heat.

Yes. That was it. The summer heat.

Victor threw back the remaining sharp liquid and set the glass down heavier than he’d meant to. He sunk further into the seat, letting his head fall back against the chair with a thud .

Tonight, Anne had called him “the Phantom.” But she was the one doing the haunting.

Victor closed his eyes and visions of Anne spun around him.

That first time he’d laid eyes on her crying in Vivian’s receiving room, he had been stunned to his core by her.

Then there was the time they’d shared a train car to Brighton and she’d gotten tipsy as she’d told him her entire life story.

Every word she’d said to him had been a gift he’d held on to.

Then there was the way she’d run after her scoundrel husband and slipped in the mud.

The promise that he would wait for her for as long as it took. Years, decades—it didn’t matter.

And he remembered all of the little moments in between.

Brief, loud conversations over the heads of patrons at the pub.

Dinners at her home. Offering her a hand to help her step out of a carriage.

To step into a carriage. Family carriage rides around Hyde Park.

Easter egg hunts with the children, which became a whole family affair when Ollie’s boys had been born, then Dantes’s daughter.

Years of Christmas dinners, New Year’s Eve parties, and every other holiday, it seemed.

Every moment, big and small, he’d locked safely away in his memory like a precious gem.

Although she claimed to have no memory of their promises made in the rain, or the declaration he’d made. Maybe he had gone mad with his wanting of her, and it was a figment of his imagination.

Because it was mad, this deep obsession he had for Anne.

He’d spent every free moment he could with her.

Watched her, year after year, recover from her marriage and the sudden shock of widowhood.

Watched her raise her children as a single mother, and break through the shell of her former self.

The meek, pliant creature she used to be when he’d first met her had blossomed into the strong woman he now loved and admired endlessly.

He would never know what his own mother, what Anne had gone through as widows with young children.

But he could appreciate the special difficulty of raising young children in the midst of mourning and grief.

The constant worry their unbreakable melancholy would turn them into ruffians or ruin their lives, or any other number of worries a caretaker shouldered in silence.

Victor reached out to his glass and made to take another sip before remembering it was empty. He let the glass fall out of his hand and drop to the carpet below him to roll away somewhere.

Anne.

Anne, Anne, Anne.

Beautiful, tempting, luscious, breathtaking Anne.

How in the blazes was he supposed to recover from the masquerade? He had never known desire, had never know this feral, animalistic urge to consume a woman before. If he had even the faintest idea of what lust, passion, and love had felt like, he never would have messed with it.

Despite his lack of experience in the ways of women, he had heard far more than he’d ever wanted to from the lads at the pub.

For decades, he’d been forced to listen to scoundrel men’s stories about taking women, the details about what happened behind closed doors.

Or in carriages. Dressing rooms at the theater.

Alleyways. On the floor, on the chair, on the table.

He knew far too many details about how it happened and what it entailed.

It had all sounded ridiculous to him, as if these people had had a brain fever at the moment.

He’d never understood the appeal. Until tonight.

Those little moans and sighs she’d made as he’d kissed her. The smell of her hair, of her skin. The way she’d pressed against him, begging him for more, the taste of champagne upon her tongue a temptation and a promise of its own.

Christ, she’d begged him to bed her. Begged .

And he’d refused.

Victor leaned forward and pulled at his hair. He may have known what happened, he may have known how it worked, but he had never gone to bed with a woman before.

No one had ever tempted him enough to, but also, he was terrified of even one night resulting in a child.

After raising Dantes and Ollie in the streets of Whitechapel, running off to start his own life, then seeing his mates from the docks struggling to support families on meager wages… he’d wanted nothing to do with that.

It didn’t matter that he had money now. It didn’t matter that he would have more in the future. He would always worry it could be taken away, somehow all lost, and his young children would be left to fend for themselves in the streets like he had been.

It would sound like nonsense to anyone who hadn’t experienced what he had. But it was an all-consuming fear he would also never be able to get over. Simply, he couldn’t stomach the worry that would come with having children of his own.

But how could he tell Anne that? She would just try reassuring him again that there were ways to prevent pregnancy.

Except… nothing other than celibacy was risk-free.

If she became pregnant, he would have to do honorable thing and marry her, which he knew she would not want. Would he even want that? He was unsure.

He knew one thing, if he did give into Anne’s temptation despite his fears, he would be forced to admit to her that he had never lain with a woman. A man his age! She would think him daft, or laugh in his face. Surely.

In an idiotic moment, what felt like ages ago, he had tried to tell her about this while he’d brushed her hair.

Too ashamed to outright say it, he’d hinted at it by telling her he’d never brushed a woman’s hair before.

Which, looking back, was idiotic. Of course he’d never brushed someone’s hair before.

Not surprisingly, she’d simply looked confused, scaring him off from being more explicit about what he’d meant. Now, he was too afraid to bring it up.

Him, afraid! Pathetic.

Victor let out an audible sigh. Celibacy had never been a problem. Until now.

Now, he had held Anne. Tasted her kisses. Felt her hot skin against his lips, her waist and hips in his grip. Heard her sultry bedroom voice, her sighs and moans.

And she had no idea the Phantom was him .

Victor had to fight back the urge to roar out at the thought.

He could feel himself unraveling. And nothing could stop it.

What in the blazes was he going to do?

Victor jumped to his feet and stared at the door that led to her bedroom. He was half-tempted to embrace his drunkenness, bang on that door, and admit he was the Phantom. He took a few steps toward the door but stopped himself. What, exactly, would he say?

Even if he had the perfect words, it would never end well. She thought of him as her dearest friend in the world. So he would, what, say, “Anne, I’m the Phantom. I’m in lust with you. I’m in love with you. I’ve no experience with women and don’t know what I’m doing. What do you say?”

No. Any woman, from young maidens to experienced widows, with half a mind would run away cackling.

Victor let out a sigh and went back to his chair to focus on the sea air that cooled him.

Eventually, he fell into a restless sleep.

Vivid, dark dreams of Anne consumed him.

Just as the sky was turning light, the faintest dusty pink lifting on the horizon, he awoke with a start.

He felt horrid but couldn’t stand another minute dreaming about Anne.

He was also mostly sobered up, and though he had a terrible headache, at least he didn’t feel as if he would vomit.

But he had to get out of his bedroom. Victor washed up and dressed, walked past the dining room, and went straight for the stables.

Recently, he had gained the confidence to ride on his own for long lengths of time.

He now understood why riding appealed to nobs—the solitude, the freedom one felt from riding was unmatched by any other activity.

Upon seeing him, the stablehands saddled up Pancake—of whom Victor had grown to be fond—and off Victor went.

Together, mare and man galloped across the open, green fields of Brighton as the morning sun climbed higher, peeking over the horizon and then rising for the day. Hungry seagulls cried overhead as salty waves crashed into the shore.

He started to feel better, and after a time, he stopped to let Pancake rest and nibble on grass.

And that was when he heard her.

Off in the distance, Anne shouted his name, the sound carried by the wind. She was a mere dot at the moment, but she was coming toward him.

He had not been expecting to see her so soon after last night and had hoped to ride to clear his head and his heart.

Moments later, she came to a stop beside him upon Onyx.

The pretty, black stallion nickered and shook his mane, as if showing off to Pancake.

Anne was wearing her dark-green riding habit that Victor loved her in.

Her face was flushed from the ride, but her smile was wide and bright. “Good morning, Victor!”

He nodded, dour. Kissing mysterious men apparently put her in a brilliant mood.

“What a lovely morning. Dew upon the grass, salty air in the lungs. Did you sleep well last night?”

Victor looked out at the sea’s horizon, forcing back the passionate memories. “Not particularly.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”