“Yes?”
“What are you doing twenty feet in the air?”
She brazened on, pretending not to notice that he had positioned himself beneath her, as though she would not crush him like a beetle should she go hurtling to the ground. “Looking for a book.”
“Would you mind very much returning to the earth?”
Luckily, the book for which she had been searching revealed itself. She pulled it off the shelf and made her way back down the ladder. When she had both feet firmly on the ground, he let loose. “What are you thinking, climbing to the rafters in your condition?”
“I am not an invalid, Simon, I still have use of all my extremes.”
“You do indeed—particularly your extreme ability to try my patience—I believe, however, that you mean extremities.” He paused, remembering why he was irritated. “You could have fallen!”
“But I did not,” she said, simply, turning her face up to his for a kiss.
He gave it to her, his hands coming to caress the place where his child grew. “You must take better care,” he whispered, and a thrill coursed through her at the wonder in his tone.
She lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck, reveling in the heat and strength of him. “We are well, husband.” She grinned. “Twelve lives, remember?”
He groaned at the words. “I think you’ve used them up, you know. Certainly you’ve used your twelve scandals.”
She wrinkled her nose at that, thinking. “No. I couldn’t have.”
He lifted her in his arms and moved to their favorite chair, evicting Leopold. As the dog resumed his nap on the floor, Simon settled into the chair, arranging his wife on his lap. “The tumble into the Serpentine . . . the time you led me on a not-so-merry chase through Hyde Park . . . lurking outside my club . . .”
“That wasn’t a real scandal,” she protested, cuddling closer to him as his hand stroked across her rounded belly.
“Scandal enough.”
“My mother’s arrival,” Juliana said.
He shook his head. “Not your scandal.”
She smiled. “Nonsense. She’s the scandal that started it all.”
“So she is.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I shall have to thank her someday.” He pressed on. “Toppling Lady Needham’s harvest bounty . . .”
“Well, really, who decorates a staircase in vegetables? And if we’re going to count all my scandals, how about the ones in which you were scandalous as well?” She ticked them off as she listed them. “Kissing me in my brother’s stables . . . ravishing me at your own betrothal ball . . . and let’s not forget—”
He kissed the side of her neck. “Mmm. By all means, let’s not forget.”
She laughed and pushed him away. “Bonfire Night.”
The amber in his eyes darkened. “I assure you, Siren, I would never forget Bonfire Night.”
“How many is that?”
“Eight.”
“There, you see? I told you! I am the very model of propriety!” He barked his laughter and a worried look crossed her face. “Nine,” she said.
“Nine?”
“I insulted your mother at the dressmaker’s.” She lowered her voice. “In front of people.”
His brows shot up. “When?”
“During our wager.”
He grinned. “I would have liked to see that.”
She covered her eyes. “It was awful. I still cannot look her in the eye.”
“That has absolutely nothing to do with cutting her in a modiste’s shop and everything to do with the fact that my mother is terrifying.” She giggled. “There were at least two that first night—at the Ralston ball.”
She thought back. “So there were. Grabeham in the gardens and your carriage.”
He stiffened. “Grabeham, was it?”
Her fingers wandered into the curls at the nape of his neck. “He does not require additional handling, Simon.”
Simon raised a brow. “You may not think so . . . but I shall enjoy paying him a visit.”
“If you are allowed into his home, considering what a scandal you are,” she teased.
“There! That is your twelfth. The Northumberland Ball,” he announced, wrapping her tightly in his arms. “No more climbing of ladders while incinta.”
“Oh, no,” she protested. “Your storming of Northumberland House is entirely your scandal. I had nothing to do with it! Take it back.”
He chuckled against the side of her neck, and she shivered at the sensation. “Fair enough. I claim that one in its entirety.”
She smiled. “That’s the best one of them all.”
He raised a brow in ducal imperiousness. “Haven’t I told you that I find it is not worth doing anything if one does not do it well?”
Her peal of laughter was lost in his kiss, long and expert, until they pulled apart, gasping for air. He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “My magnificent wife.”
She dipped her head at the worshipful tone, then remembered. “You had news. When you entered.”
He settled back in the chair, removing a letter from his jacket pocket. “I did. We have a nephew. The future Marquess of Ralston.”
Juliana’s eyes went wide with pleasure, snatching the paper from his hand, reading eagerly. “A boy! Henry.” She met Simon’s gaze. “And two becomes three.” Nick’s daughter, Elizabeth, had been born two weeks earlier, and now shared the nursery at Townsend Park with a growing, happy Caroline.
Simon pulled Juliana to him, placing a kiss at the tip of her eyebrow and tucking her against his chest. “Come autumn, we shall do our part and add a fourth to their merry band.”
Pleasure coiled as she thought of their blossoming family—a wild, wonderful family she’d never dared imagine. “You realize that they shall be the worst kind of trouble,” she teased.
He was silent for a long time—long enough for Juliana to lift her head and meet his serious, golden gaze.
When she did, he smiled, broad and beautiful. “They shall be the very best kind of trouble.”
And they were.
Acknowledgments
As the third book in this series comes to a close, I must make a confession. Gabriel, Nick, and Juliana would never have found their way to the page without the help of some amazing people.
Carrie Feron, my editor, has flawless insight and infinite patience, and she made these books what they are. Carrie comes handsomely packaged with the fabulous Tessa Woodward and the rest of the incomparable Avon Books team—Pam Spengler-Jaffee, Christine Maddalena, Jessie Edwards, Adrienne Di Pietro, Tom Egner, Gail Dubov, Ricky Mujica, and Sara Schwager—who have worked tirelessly to bring this series to life.
My agent, Alyssa Eisner-Henkin, had the surprise of her life when I told her that I was writing an adult romance. Alyssa, thank you for taking this leap with me.
Then there are my friends—geniuses all—without whom these books would have either never been written or simply been awful. Thanks to Sabrina Darby, Cate Dossetti, Saundra Mitchell, Aprilynne Pike, Carrie Ryan, Lisa Sandell, and Meghan Tierney for helping me find paths out of the weeds. Sophie Jordan, I still can’t believe you take my calls; thank you for showing me the ropes. And thanks to all my Facebook and Twitter friends for endless encouragement!
To my family, thank you for always letting me come back home. Special thanks go to my parents for checking my Italian (all errors are entirely my own), and equally to my father for proverbial brilliance and Juliana’s lovable quirks.
And to Eric, thank you will never be enough. Ever. I am yours.
About the Author
SARAH MACLEAN grew up in Rhode Island, obsessed with historical romance and bemoaning the fact that she was born far too late for her own season. Her love of all things historical helped to earn her degrees from Smith College and Harvard University before she finally set pen to paper and wrote her first book.
Sarah now lives in New York City with her husband, their dog, and a ridiculously large collection
of romance novels. She loves to hear from readers.
Please visit her at www.macleanspace.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Sarah MacLean
Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart
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The Season
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Ascension
By Sable Grace
Copyright © 2011 Heather Waters and Laura Barone
Kyana has straddled both the human world and the underworld for the past 200 years after being turned half-vampire, half-Lychen by a stranger following a frightful stint in a Sultan’s harem. Being able to go between the Above and Below as she pleases, Kyana relishes in the freedom that comes with being a “Dark Breed.” With no love or sympathy for the human race that she once dwelled among, it comes as a shock to hear what the Order of the Ancients have in store for Kyana, and the handsome demigod from her past who they’re teaming her up with.
Below wasn’t technically below anything. More like sideways or parallel to the other two realms—Above where the humans resided and Beyond, a.k.a Olympus. But, Below was where nonhuman creatures did their daily business. Though some, like Kyana, preferred to live Above, smack in the middle of the action, most lived here. This was where magical herbs were tended, where lesser gods and demigods resided, where the Order’s Vamps hid from daylight. It served as a mirror to the Earth, so to speak, where the sun burned hot and bright, but was merely an illusion just as were the sea, the moon, and the stars. In other words, Vamps could sunbathe Below without becoming a spectacular fireworks event.
The portals leading from Above to Below had become revolving doors for Order members since the Break-out, but right now, in the predawn hours, the alcove and streets around it were blessedly quiet. Moonlight bounced off the white, marble buildings, disorienting Kyana. She squinted and made her way past the small marketplace that, come morning, would be busy with the hustling herbalists peddling their wares to Mystics and Witches.
A little further down the narrow street, a butcher shop was ablaze with lights, busy in its late-night workday for Vamps who came in for sustenance before sleeping the day away in their chosen shelters. As Kyana passed the building, she closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet aroma of fresh blood. Not nearly as rich and decadent as human blood, but still quite addictive.
She turned away from the intoxicating scent and pressed on.
Along the cobbled streets, tiny alcoves carved out of alabaster led to different locations within the human world Above, as well as a very potent, magically-guarded portal alcove to Olympus where gods could come and go to do their duties. But the one Kyana sought, however, led directly to the River Styx.
She headed to the end of the street, enjoying the stillness of the city. Soon, other night dwellers would be wandering the curving roads, loud and bawdy as they boasted of their latest feats and accomplishments, but for now, the quiet was the first bit of peacefulness Kyana had experienced in a week. She entered the cave nestled between large marble boulders, her keen eyes having no trouble finding the path in the dark. Down. Down. Down. The carved steps spiraled like a snail’s shell, and soon, she was able to hear the faint whisper of water lapping at sand.
The darkness shifted, giving way to a faintly glowing gold light a short distance away. As her foot made contact with the soft sand, she breathed in the scent of death that always came with entering the River Styx, and made her way to Charon, the ferryman. Flipping two coins at the haggard old spirit, Kyana stepped onto the long, flat boat and braced her feet for balance.
She loathed the River Styx. She hated the smell of death and the low wails coming from Tartarus below that chilled even her icy Vampyric blood, reminding her of her fate should true death ever find her. While some of the spirits waiting for eternal placement roamed visibly along the banks of the River, some remained unseen, and those she hated most of all. It was as though they passed through her, each of them pleading quiet demands to her soul as she tapped her foot impatiently at the torturously slow ferry.
“Can’t you make this thing go faster?”
Charon didn’t acknowledge her request. He stood at the helm of his little ferry, not needing to do anything more than stare in the direction of their destination to make his vessel obey.
If threatening, intimidating, or shoving him off his damn ferry would get her there faster, she would have done it. But Charon didn’t scare easily. In fact, she wasn’t sure he felt anything . . . ever. He was just a cold, transparent, expressionless being that almost . . . almost . . . evoked her pity.
Having no other choice but to bear the slow journey, she focused on the distant cave and turned her thoughts toward Jordan Faye and the strange mark on her breast. Only three of those marks had been branded in the last ten-thousand years. Two others were out there. Perhaps safely Below. Perhaps discarded like all the other meaningless humans littering the mortal roads. Only time would tell.
When the boat docked, she snarled at the ferryman before stepping onto the rocky beach. Dark water licked her boots, but no tide touched the path leading to the stone chamber in front of her.
Kyana heard the faint sobbing before she made out the shadowed silhouettes of the three women huddled at the end of the cave. Their forms hunched over a smoking cauldron, the scent of which stirred within her a fresh hunger. She’d never learned what, exactly, the contents of that cauldron were. The scent seemed to change depending on the person smelling it, becoming intoxicating, reminding them of something they desperately wanted but usually couldn’t name.
For Kyana, the longing made her woozy and slightly sad. For what, she didn’t know. Desperately trying to place the desire kept her occupied as she made her way down the passage, but she couldn’t remember a time, living or undead, when she’d been as melancholy as the nostalgic sensation that aroma evoked in her now.
As she approached the women, they stepped away from the cauldron and lifted their hoods in greeting. The middle woman wiped a tear from her cheek, her shaky smile not quite genuine.
“Kyana,” she whispered. “You’ve come unannounced.”
Much lovelier than Shakespeare’s interpretation of them as the Wyrd Sisters, the Moerae, also known as the three Fates, peered at Kyana with youthful eyes. Their entire beings glimmered with golden dust, though that dust was nowhere near as bright as it had once been.
Kyana nodded in greeting. The beacon she refused to wear burned in her pocket. She was being summoned by an Ancient. More than likely, Artemis. But the Goddess of the Hunt would have to wait. Kyana wanted answers before she went anywhere. “I’ll only need a minute.”
Clotho adjusted her long golden braid over her shoulder and fixed Kyana with a cold stare. Vamps were still considered outsiders, even those who’d proven their allegiance over and over as Kyana had. She prided herself on her ability to stare others down, to intimidate them with the quickest of glances, but Clotho’s penetrating blue eyes forced Kyana to avert her gaze.
“Speak quickly, Kyana,” Clotho said. “It takes us far longer to tend our souls these days.”
“I would think your tending wouldn’t be so tiresome, given the lack of human life Above. So many are dead.”
Tears welled in the Fate’s eyes. “We don’t need a Vampyre to remind us of our failures. We are faced with them every day.”
At least she hadn’t called Kyana Dark Breed.
Uncomfortable with the tears, Kyana blurted out, “I found Jordan Faye.”
“We know.” Atropos, the eldest of the three sisters and by far the most menacing, tossed something green into the cauldron and gave it a quick stir.
For a blessed moment, that taunting, mysterious scent vanished a
nd all Kyana could smell were the rotting waters of the River Styx.
“Of course you do.” If Jordan had died, Atropos would have known before anyone else. She was, after all, in charge of death and guided those newly deceased to the River where they’d await their eternal fate.
“I want to know about the mark on her breast.”
Scowling, Atropos raised a black brow. “You demand answers from us?”
“Not demanding. Asking.” Kyana softened her tone. “Is she one of you?”
The sisters looked to one another. The middle sister, Lachesis, began weeping again. Atropos and Clotho wrapped their arms around the beautiful redhead in quiet comfort. Again, the scent rose from the cauldron and twisted Kyana’s belly. What the hell was it?
“You think we enjoy knowing we are to be replaced?” Atropos hissed. “That we are to hand over the duties we’ve been charged with for ten-thousand years?”
The very walls shook with their combined anger. Kyana held her ground and remained silent. No one wanted to be replaced, but the Fates couldn’t deny that their time had come. For more than two centuries now, Oracles had been professing that the power of the gods would soon wane. Since then, the Fates had been marking Chosen, making certain strong bodies were born on Earth, capable of absorbing the enormous powers of the gods when the time came to transfer them into newer souls.
That demons and other Dark Breeds now walked the earth was proof that the power of the Fates and the gods no longer held the strength they once had. Their era of reigning was over and hope rested on the shoulders of their replacements.
Time stood still as the Sisters whispered comforts to each other. Kyana strained to hear the hushed conversation but her head was full of the powerful scent, the unknown ache, the wanting. The heat of the beacon seared her thigh, pulling her mind back from the hypnotic effects of the cauldron’s aroma. Artemis impatience over Kyana not arriving at the god’s temple Below was burning a hole in her leather.
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