The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance by Candice Hern, Bárbara Metzger, Emma Wildes, Sharon Page, Delilah Marvelle, Anna Campbell, Lorraine Heath, Elizabeth Boyle, Deborah Raleigh, Margo Maguire, Michèle Ann Young, Sara Bennett, Anthea Lawson, Trisha Telep, Robyn DeHart, Carolyn Jewel, Amanda Grange, Vanessa Kelly, Patricia Rice, Christie Kelley, Leah Ball, Caroline Linden, Shirley Kennedy, Julia Templeton Page B

every heartbeat as a knell of doom. Then the tension drained from her face and her eyes turned as blue as a clear sky. Suddenly, in the depths of winter, he basked in the reviving warmth of summer sun.
    She stepped towards him although she didn’t touch him. “Sebastian, I love you too. We’ve wasted so much time. Let’s not waste any more.”
    Shaking, he reached out to curl his hands around her upper arms and drag her against him. He could hardly believe what was happening. Yesterday he’d been lost in an endless mire of despair. Today the world offered love and hope and a future with the woman he adored. The swiftness of the change was dizzying.
    “My wife,” he murmured and kissed her with all the reverence he felt in saying those two words.
    The vivid, passionate woman in his arms kissed him back with a fervour that sent his blood rushing through his veins in a hot torrent. A bright, unfamiliar joy flooded him as he realized that Alicia at last was his.
    Then because it was cold and he wanted her and he loved her — and they’d been apart for longer than mortal man could bear — he swung her up in his arms and strode across to the rumpled bed.

The Dashing Miss Langley
Amanda Grange
    It was a perfect summer morning in 1819 when Miss Annabelle Langley drove her curricle through the streets of London, weaving in and out of the brewers’ carts and carriages with consummate skill. She was a striking sight, her Amazonian figure clad in a sky-blue pelisse and her fair hair topped with a high-crowned bonnet. She had no chaperone except for a tiger perched behind her. He was a splendidly clad urchin and he grinned impudently at the crusty old dowagers who looked on with a frown as the curricle whirled by.
    In anyone else such behaviour would have been considered fast, but as Annabelle was twenty-seven years of age and possessed of a large fortune, she was grudgingly allowed to be eccentric.
    She brought her equipage to a halt outside a house in Grosvenor Square and, handing the reins to her tiger, she approached the porticoed entrance. She lifted the knocker, but before she could let it drop, her sister-in-law opened the door.
    “My dear Annabelle, I am so glad you are here,” said Hetty with a look of relief.
    “But you knew I was coming. Why the heartfelt welcome?” asked Annabelle in surprise.
    Hetty linked arms and drew her inside, much to the disapproval of the butler, whose expression seemed to say,
Ladies opening the door for themselves? Whatever next?
    “It is Caroline,” said Hetty, her silk skirts rustling as the two ladies crossed the spacious hall.
    “What, do not tell me that she is not ready?” said Annabelle. “I suppose she has overslept and she is still drinking her chocolate? Or is it more serious? Is she standing in front of the mirror wondering which of Madame Renault’s delightful creations she should wear?”
    “It is worse than that,” said Hetty with a heavy sigh as she guided Annabelle into the drawing room.
    It was an elegant apartment with high ceilings and tall windows, and it was sumptuously furnished. Marble-topped console tables were set beneath gleaming mirrors, and damasked sofas were positioned between silk-upholstered chairs.
    “Worse?” asked Annabelle.
    “Much worse,” said Hetty emphatically. “It is A Man.” Her tone gave the words capital letters.
    Annabelle stopped in the middle of stripping off her gloves and said, “I see. And who is this man?”
    Hetty looked at her helplessly and groaned. “You will never believe it. If I did not know it to be true then I would not believe it myself. It is the Braithwaites’ gardener!” she said.
    Annabelle raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the Braithwaites’ gardener is seventy years old!” she said.
    “Oh no, it is not Old Ned. He has retired. It is his grandson who is the cause of all the trouble. Able. And a very handsome young man, it has to be said. But quite unsuitable. And,