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.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Richard eyed the strange female cowering against his folio edition of the Encyclopédie with a mixture of amusement and surprise. She was very tall for a woman; those hazel eyes of hers did not have to look too far up to meet his. Fiery red hair, most unfashionably cut, hinted at an equally fiery temperament, and there was intelligence there too, in that unusual countenance. She looked exotic, though he couldn’t quite say in what way. Foreign perhaps?
He stepped closer, the better to appraise her. Smooth skin. A well-defined face, a strong face, for a woman. She held his gaze with something akin to defiance. He liked that. Richard smiled. The strange female smiled back. It transformed her face. She was quite lovely in an unconventional way.
Her skin looked soft, her complexion remarkably clear and smooth. Arched brows, finer than was the fashion. She wore a light, citrusy scent, not a perfume he recognised. Intriguing, like the woman herself. Under the incongruous shirt and jacket she wore, he could see the rise and fall of her breasts. Richard raised an enquiring brow. ‘Delightful surprise as this is, may I ask what you’re doing in my library?’
‘Your library? Who are you?’
Her voice was low, pleasantly husky, her accent most unfamiliar. Richard gave a little bow. ‘Richard, Earl of Kilcreggan. Third earl, if you wish to be precise.’
‘You’re the man in the
