Alicia smiled. “Only those who want to know what makes things go. I think he has just discovered the purpose of a wheel.”
Travis grunted at this heresy and returned his attention to the partially unbuttoned opening of Alicia’s bodice. “Why isn’t he with Anne-Marie? I have some time before lunch, and I have in mind a way to put it to good use.”
“Travis!” Alicia scolded, blushing, but fastening one of her lower buttons, she went to the door to call for the nursemaid.
Not daring to look Anne-Marie in the eyes as Travis led her from the nursery down the hall, Alicia finally gave into her natural desires as soon as he closed the bedroom door behind them. She slid her arms around his neck and pulled his head down where she could reach him.
Travis bent eagerly to her demands and forgetting the letter in his pocket, plied her lips with heated kisses. The buttons of Alicia’s bodice pressed into his chest, plaguing him with their intrusion, and he set to work on their demise.
Within minutes he had disposed of the simple gown and was carrying his prize to the sprawling four-poster where both his children had been conceived, and where they all would be born. Alicia pulled at his shirt as he dropped her to the mattress, and only then did the crackle of paper remind him of his news.
With a grin Travis dropped the letter on Alicia’s stomach, then sat at the bed’s edge to remove his boots while she read. He did not even need to look to see her in his mind’s eye. He could feel her sitting up against the pillows, propping them behind her, unaware of how that pushed her chemise low over her full breasts so he could almost see the rosy peaks pushing from the lace. The frail material would ride high over rounded thighs, revealing garters and stockings and the pale flesh above them he intended to kiss in another moment. That was how he wanted her right now.
“Travis!” Alicia cried excitedly as she scanned the elegant penmanship on the expensive vellum. “This means your father has another son to carry the title. Lady Royster must have been pregnant when she was last here!”
“That’s what these American winters will do for you,” Travis agreed smugly, throwing aside his shirt and leaning backward to caress her thigh. The letter had lost its importance with the sight of silky skin hidden in the shadows of her lacy chemise. His hand slid to capture her stockinged knee and move upward.
Alicia could scarcely finish reading as her husband’s hand made a stealthy invasion. Heat spread through her, finding its center where Travis’s hand roamed. She moaned and threw the letter aside as his lips followed the path his hand had stroked.
Burying her hands in his dark hair, she tried to halt his advances. “Travis! You are mad. He says you are still his heir and he wishes us to at least come visit for a while. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know about you, but I know what I intend to do.”
As he found his goal, Alicia emitted a cry of delight and protest, and the letter fell forgotten to the floor.
There would be time next week to discuss trips to England. For now, they had each other.
GET A FREE STARTER SET OF PATRICIA RICE BOOKS
Thank you for reading Lord Rogue.
Would you like to know when my next book is available? I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offers and other bits of news. If you sign up for the mailing list, I’ll send you a free copy of the Patricia Rice starter kit. The books average 4.4 out of 5 stars and together usually retail over $15.00.
To download your free Patricia Rice Starter Kit, just sign up at http://patriciarice.com/
I am an independent author, so getting the word out about my book is vital to its success. If you liked this book, please consider telling your friends, and writing a review at the store where you purchased it. Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.
Find more of Pat’s books on her website: http://patriciarice.com
About the Author
With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today’s bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance’s hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina and Missouri, she currently resides in Southern California, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.
For further information, visit Patricia’s network:
http://wordwenches.typepad.com/word_wenches/
@Patricia_Rice
OfficialPatriciaRice
www.patriciarice.com
Also by Patricia Rice
The World of Magic:
The Unexpected Magic Series
Magic in the Stars
Whisper of Magic
Theory of Magic
The Magical Malcolms Series
Merely magic
Must Be Magic
The Trouble With Magic
This Magic Moment
Much Ado About Magic
Magic Man
The California Malcolms Series
The Lure of Song and Magic
Trouble with Air and Magic
The Risk of Love and Magic
Historical Romance:
The Rebellious Sons
Wicked Wyckerly
Devilish Montague
Notorious Atherton
Formidable Lord Quentin
Rogues & Desperadoes
Lord Rogue
Moonlight and Memories
Shelter from the Storm
Wayward Angel
Denim and Lace
Cheyenne’s Lady
The Regency Nobles Series
The Genuine Article
The Marquess
English Heiress
Irish Duchess
Mysteries:
Family Genius Series
Evil Genius
Undercover Genius
Cyber Genius
Moonlight and Memories
Rogues & Desperadoes Series, Book 2
Patricia Rice
Moonlight and Memories Excerpt
Patricia Rice
Copyright © 1993, 2011 Patricia Rice
First Publication: New American Library, NY 1993
Second Edition: Book View Cafe, 2011
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Rice Enterprises, Dana Point, CA, an affiliate of Book View Café Publishing Cooperative
Cover design by Killion Group
Book View Café Publishing Cooperative
P.O. Box 1624, Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624
http://bookviewcafe.com
ISBN 978-1-61138-118-4 ebook
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Thank You.
-
Excerpt
To buy Moonlight and Memories by
Patricia Rice
Buy Moonlight and Memories
* * *
When Nicholas Saint-Just woke, it was to find the black-clad figure of his sister-in-law grimly waiting for him, a glass of sherry near one hand and fresh bandages at the other. He winced as he reached for the glass. She sat down beside him and held it so he could sip.
“What in hell is the brat screaming about?” The infant’s cries pounded through his brain with the remains of the brandy he had imbibed the night before.
“She is most likely hungry. Annie will see to her shortly. She will need a name, you realize.”
The woman he had scarcely noticed these last months spoke curtly, with only a vague hint of the lilting accent of her ancestors.
“Give it any name you like.” Removing the glass from her hand, Nicholas gulped the sherry. When she did not move, he regarded her through narrowed eyes. Until now he had barely exchanged three words with this woman. She was a timid little thing who stayed out of his way, but because she gave Francine someone to talk to, he had not objected to her presence.
Now, after his wife’s death, he would soon be forced to acknowledge the awkward situation.
“The child is a girl, not an it. Francine wanted her very much. Perhaps you could call her Francine in remembrance.”
Instead of going away, the irritating woman began probing the bloody bandage at his side. Nicholas closed his eyes and let her fuss. Dominic had always been naive when it came to a pretty face, and this Irish female had more than a pretty face. Unfortunately, she had none of the manners of her betters.
It was a pity Eavin Dupré couldn’t resemble Francine more. A soft voice and delicate charm would go a long way toward ending this pain eating at his innards. With his eyes closed, Nicholas could almost see his wife’s frail, blond beauty, hear her enchanting southern voice with the exotic hints of her parents’ French and Spanish accents.
Dominic must have gone out of his way to find a woman so opposite to his sister in looks and breeding.
Grimacing as the bandage came off, Nicholas opened his eyes again. The witch wore black as usual, but it went well with her white complexion and black hair. Heavy black brows and thick lashes should have looked coarse, but instead they accented damnably wide green Irish eyes and rose-stained cheeks. She never met his eyes, but he could feel the contempt with which she treated his wound.
“Call the creature anything you like, just keep her out of my sight. And hearing.” The infant’s screams in the other room were escalating.
“Francine for her mother and Jeannette for St. Joan.” Eavin cleansed the angry slash with a solution left by the doctor. “And Madame Dupré means to take her to New Orleans, so you needn’t worry about hearing her for long.”
“Over my dead body!” Abruptly shoving Eavin aside, Nicholas threw his legs over the edge of the bed, only to discover he wasn’t dressed. Holding the sheet to his waist, he shouted, “Bring the old biddy in here! And get the hell out while I find some clothes.”
Not certain how well her plan had worked, Eavin scampered to do as told. It would be much more pleasurable to stay and tell the arrogant creature what she thought of him, but she knew better than to beard a lion in his den. And Nicholas Saint-Just was no less than a ferocious lion as he began yelling for servants. Eavin just hoped she hadn’t unleashed an uncontrollable beast.
For now, she thought only of the home she didn’t have and would make if he would let her. It was obvious that Nicholas Saint-Just was a man alone, and men were incapable of making homes. She wanted to keep the place she had created for herself these last months in the neglected mansion. And she wanted to keep the child.
Oh, how she wanted to keep the child. Sending one of the maids to find her mother-in-law, Eavin reached the comfort of the nursery in time to see Annie take the child to her breast again. She ached to hold that tiny body, but the black nurse had just lost a child, too, and Annie cuddled the white infant as tenderly as anyone could wish.
It didn’t seem fair that she couldn’t have one of her own, but Eavin wasn’t one to bewail the fates and do nothing. If her choices were to stay here and fight for the child or return to Baltimore and the disorder of that boarding house, she would choose to fight.
Comforted now that she had seen the babe quieted, Eavin returned to the hall to hear Nicholas shouting at Madame Dupré. He would tear open his stitches if he continued in that manner. He was lucky he was still alive if he had truly fought a duel this day. She wouldn’t think about what had happened to his opponent. She didn’t know these people or their histories, and she really didn’t want to know them. She just wanted to be left alone to make a place for herself. And the child.
Eavin returned to Nicholas’s room to find her mother-in-law weeping into her lace-edged handkerchief. Madame Dupré and Francine were much alike with their elegant grace and soft, swishing silks. Eavin knew very little about the kind of genteel life they lived, but she did know a distraught woman when she saw one. She put her arm around Francine’s mother and lifted a questioning glance to the man still trying to shove his shirt into his trousers.
“The brat stays here. Call her Francine or Josephette or Napoleon Bonaparte for all I care, but she stays here. I’ll not send her to that pit of vipers in the city. Calm down, woman, I don’t mean to eat her for breakfast!” He roared this last as Madame Dupré increased her wails.
“Come, madame, you must calm down. We can discuss this reasonably a little later. Monzure San-Juze needs his rest.”
“Bloody damn hell, just call me Nicholas, or Mister Saint-Just! I’m a bloody American like everybody else now. There’s no point in fracturing two languages.” He stalked toward his wardrobe, ignoring Eavin’s pained expression at her placating attempt to use his French name correctly.
“Sure, and we’ll poison his milk should he come down to eat,” Eavin murmured in a mocking brogue as she led Isabel out.
The threat shocked the woman into staring at her, which had the immediate effect of halting her weeping. If the man behind them heard, he gave no indication, and the door slammed after them as they departed.
Eavin’s irate expression settled into the calm mold required of any good servant. She might be out of her depth with these high-strung aristocrats, but she had enough experience dealing with people to know how to smooth over any situation. Life in a boardinghouse full of powerful and temperamental men had that effect.
“We must call for the priest and have little Francine baptized before he can change his mind.” That served to distract Isabel, although frankly, Eavin fully intended to call the child Jeannette. Two Francines, even when one was dead, was more than one household needed.
Pacified that this one request would be carried out, Isabel hurried to put her plan in motion. Eavin stuck her tongue out at Nicholas’s closed door and headed for the outside kitchens. She’d only had a brief nap in twenty-four hours, but it was obvious that no one would sleep while the lion prowled.
It was odd that she had never noticed Saint-Just’s true nature while Francine was alive. True, the servants had whispered behind his back and even Francine had occasionally expressed uncertainty about his temper, but Eavin had always thought of Nicholas as the polite gentleman who bowed to her whenever she went in and out of the room. Perhaps he had been on his best behavior while his wife was ill and now felt the need to vent everything he had kept pent up. She could sympathize.
She was quite certain Nicholas didn’t realize who had taken charge of his kitchen and his servants and returned order out of chaos, but Eavin fully intended to remind him if the need arose. Confined to her bed, Francine had been less than useless in overseeing the help, and they had taken full advantage. They would do so again if Eavin left. It wasn’t a large lever, but it might hold open the door until she could find another.
It would be an uphill battle all the way. Reluctant servants, a filthy-tempered man, and a country so strange that it might as well be another planet did not make the task of stayin
g easier. But when Eavin considered the alternative, she set her jaw determinedly.
That night, after the child was baptized and arrangements were made for Francine’s funeral and Nicholas had disappeared somewhere on his own, Eavin lay in bed wondering if she had made the right decision.
She could die out here and no one would know the difference, or even care. At least back in Baltimore she had her mother and, occasionally, her brother. Before his death, when Dominic had mentioned coming here, he had assured her that his sister and mother would welcome her with open arms, but of course, she had been pregnant then.
It had seemed wisest to join his family while she carried his heir, particularly with the British sending their navy up and down the coast to terrorize seaports. But now she no longer carried a child, and it seemed the British were just as likely to take New Orleans as the East Coast.
But she had been told the Saint-Just plantation was far enough up river not to be bothered by the war and close enough to the city not to be a target of Indians.
Remembering the helpless infant sleeping in the next room, Eavin knew there had to be a way to stay; she just had to find it. If God had seen fit to deprive her of children of her own, He must have sent her here to take care of Francine’s child. The will of God would win out over the temper of a Nicholas Saint-Just.
We hope you have enjoyed this sample of
Moonlight and Memories by Patricia Rice
Buy Moonlight and Memories
Lord Rogue Page 38
