Emma’s stubborn refusal to explain why she won’t return home only fuels Lion’s relentless curiosity. So does their undeniable passion. Time is on his side, and his well of patience is deep. But Emma’s trauma runs far deeper…perhaps too deep for love to reach.
Warning: Contains a heroine caught in a treacherous web of deceit not of her making, two adorable children, and a hero determined enough to make things right.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Scarred Heart:
Emma was bored. Seated in a wing chair near the fireplace, she was only marginally aware of the chattering going on around her. Lady Marleton and her daughter, Annalise, sat on a sofa nearby, but those two ladies weren’t interested in including her in their conversation once they discovered she knew no one in London. She didn’t mind. They only seemed interested in the most salacious gossip about people she’d never heard of. She was glad not to have to socialize with them on a regular basis. How did Sarah put up with such empty-headedness?
Setting her cup and saucer on the table beside her chair, she soaked up the warmth of the fire and shut out Annalise’s high-pitched giggle. It wasn’t often she had time on her hands. The last two days had been relaxing and restful. Although she did miss Jamie. He, on the other hand, was likely having too much fun to have missed her much.
“Who’s that?” Annalise’s breathless question caught Emma’s attention.
“I don’t know,” was the reply. “But perhaps we should find out.” Lady Marleton made to rise, but Annalise grabbed her arm.
“He’s coming this way. Maybe Lord Royden will introduce us.”
Emma’s chair faced the two women, who faced the door. Unable to satisfy her own curiosity without bringing attention to herself, she watched the younger woman sit up straighter and paste a bright smile on her face. Heaven help whoever it is. She could only hope the man, for that’s surely who had captured the young woman’s attention, was already married or otherwise taken.
“Ahh, here she is,” she heard Lord Royden say. “Mrs. Laughlin, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
Wonderful, she thought as the two women looked daggers at her. Rising from her chair, she glanced at Sarah’s husband then at the man beside him.
There was a sudden roaring in her ears as she looked up at the one person she never thought she’d see again. Her heart rate doubled, and she grabbed the back of the chair to keep herself upright. Through a fog, she heard Lord Royden make the introductions.
“Mrs. Laughlin, Viscount Lanyon. He is to be David’s godfather, so Sarah insisted I introduce you.”
Emma could not make herself move. She was aware Lord Lanyon watched her curiously, yet she instinctively knew he was as surprised as she. Her first reaction was to turn tail and run, but a quick scan of the room reminded her where she was and she squelched the impulse. She took a deep breath. Calm. She needed to calm down.
Lanyon bowed. “A pleasure, Mrs. Laughlin.” Did she imagine the slight hesitation before her name?
An automatic curtsy on wobbly legs saved her from having to speak, but not long enough for her choosing. About to stammer out something, she was saved when Lady Marleton unknowingly came to her rescue.
“You must have just arrived, my lord,” she interrupted. Emma knew by the stiffening of Lanyon’s shoulders that he did not want to turn and acknowledge the woman, but manners won out.
As stormy gray eyes slid away from hers, so did the paralysis that had stricken her. Busy gathering her skirts, she did not pay attention to the exchange between them, nor did she realize he’d turned back to her just as she was about to escape, until she looked up again. Lord Royden’s puzzled expression told her all she needed to know about her strange behavior, but she was too aware of the dismay growing inside, and that time had just run out on her freedom.
Sarah joined the small group and addressed her husband. “I see you finally found her.”
He responded with a smile. “Yes. But perhaps we should adjourn to the library to discuss tomorrow’s grand event.”
There was nothing to discuss. They all knew that. Sarah glanced from her husband, to her, to Lanyon, and came to her own conclusions. “A great idea.” She stepped between them and linked arms with Emma, drawing her away.
The cool air of the foyer dumped Emma out of her trance, and she stopped abruptly.
“Is there something wrong, Emma?” Sarah’s concerned voice told her she’d noticed Emma’s unusual behavior. “You’re looking a little pale.”
She took a deep breath and tried to still her trembling limbs.
“I’m just a bit tired. Nothing serious. I think I just need a short rest.” She turned to Sarah. “I’m not used to being around so many people. It wears on me.”
Sarah laughed. “Then ’tis good you have no need for a Season. The incessant partying is fun in the beginning, but I vow by the end of it, you are glad to be headed to the country.”
Footsteps echoed down the hall and panic engulfed her. “Please excuse me, Sarah. I will speak to you later.” Then she turned and fled up the stairs.
In the pretty blue-and-white bedroom she’d been given, she locked the door then collapsed into a chair before the fire. Once the shaking began she could not stop, and the more she tried, the worse it became. Closing her eyes did nothing, as memories rushed at her, breaking down the wall she’d erected around them, overwhelming her to the point of nausea.
“Whore!”
The voice lashed her and she flinched. Even after five years, the memory still had the ability to cause her physical pain. As the past rose up to taunt her, pain sliced through her soul, and she gasped for air as she squeezed her eyes shut. But the tears would not be held back, a deluge she was unable to contain as she relived that April day. The day she’d last seen a pair of cold, gray eyes and the look of shock, disgust and revulsion that accompanied the accusation.
Had she known that he knew Max? The name hadn’t jogged any memory when she first met Sarah, or even before when she’d met Max’s twin brother. Calderbrooke had meant nothing to her when she’d first arrived, beyond learning it was the principal seat of an earl of the same name. She’d been so relieved to have a place of her own. A place to raise her son independently, but still within the protection of her family. She hadn’t looked any farther.
Lion watched Sarah and Emma go. He and Royden followed them moments later, but not fast enough. Sarah was standing in the foyer when the two men appeared. There was a concerned expression on her face as she looked up the stairs. Emma was nowhere to be seen.
“What happened?” Sarah turned on her husband.
“Where?” he countered.
“In the drawing room. I’ve never seen Emma so agitated. Not even when Jamie fell out of that tree and broke his arm was she this upset.” She looked at him, wondering if he had any answers.
He did, but he wasn’t certain he was willing to tell them. Yet he knew he owed them some explanation.
“Let’s go into the library,” Royden said, turning his wife in that direction.
Once there, Max turned to Lion. “Sarah and Emma have become fast friends,” he said, “so she’s a bit over-protective. But”—he turned to Sarah—“blaming Lion is going a bit far.”
“Lion?”
He smiled. “Short for Lionel, my lady. You may call me Lion or Lanyon.”
“I see.” She studied him through pale blue eyes brimming with curiosity. “Then you may call me Sarah.” The grouping of three chairs the men had occupied earlier still sat near the fire. Sarah took one then looked up at him. “So, what did you do to terrify Emma?”
Max snorted. “He did nothing. I merely introduced them.”
Lion noted the skepticism that crossed her face. He didn’t blame her. Emma had said nothing at all, only stared at him through large green eyes in a face devoid of color. She’d managed a curtsy and, if it wasn’t for that busybody, Lady Marleton, might have responded. Her reaction left no doubt she’d been shocked at seeing him.
“I’m afraid ’tis true, my lady,” he said now, “however, I suspect Emma reacted the way she did because I was the last person she expected to see. The surprise, by the way, was mutual.”
“So, you know Emma?” she asked.
His attempt at a smile probably looked more like a grimace. He did and he didn’t. “I have been searching for her for nearly five years,” he explained instead. It was obvious he was in for a thinly veiled interrogation.
“Why?”
He glanced over at Max, who had taken the last chair but not participated in the conversation, then sighed as he turned his attention back to Sarah. Why? There were so many reasons, he didn’t know where to start. Perhaps he ought to just give her the most obvious one.
“Perhaps I just wanted to know where my wife and son were.”
Sarah sat back in her chair and frowned at him. “Emma’s a widow.” He shook his head. “Then why would she say so?”
“Perhaps she thought so,” Max spoke for the first time. “You were at Waterloo with me. There was so much confusion in the aftermath that many men were thought dead, but turned up alive, sometimes months later.”
He did not contradict Max’s plausible explanation, but Sarah wasn’t convinced.
“I thought your family name was Cantrell. Yet her name is Laughlin.”
He had no answer to that. Laughlin wasn’t even Emma’s maiden name. He had no idea where she’d gotten it.
“I have no explanation for that.”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps she didn’t want to be found.”
Lady Royden was too shrewd, he realized, but there were some things she would not learn from him.
A panther. A prince. A promise. Can destiny tie the knot?
The Earl
© 2009 Denise Patrick
Gypsy Legacy, Book 3
During a magical childhood summer, a gypsy woman gave Lady Amanda Cookeson a black panther statuette, promising that the man who came to claim it would also claim her heart. Amanda believes the Earl of Wynton is the prince she has awaited. Yet his reluctance to declare them anything more than friends leaves her wondering if she waited in vain.
If he wasn't the last of his line, Jon Kenton, Earl of Wynton, wouldn’t marry at all. Since leaving his inheritance to the Crown is out of the question, however, he is compelled to search for the statuette his great-grandmother promised him. His quest leaves him empty handed—and secretly relieved. Finding the statuette would mean embracing the gypsy roots he has long denied.
Amanda is perfect countess material: lovely, admirable and—he thinks—statueless. Their passion is unquenchable…until the gypsy magic Jon thought he’d buried nearly destroys his future with Amanda.
Warning: Trying to outrun your destiny is dangerous to your beloved’s health, but a little bit of the right drug goes a long way.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Earl:
Jon threw himself into a corner of his carriage as the door shut behind him. Moments later the conveyance began to move and he let out a huge breath, relaxing into the velvet-covered cushions. If tonight was anything to go by, he’d be a candidate for Bedlam well before the end of what was left of the Season.
He pulled out the list Felicia had given him. Why he’d asked her to provide him with a list, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he thought she’d give him a clue as to who he was looking for on it. Maybe she had and he hadn’t discovered it yet. What she had given him was a variety.
Blondes of every shade, redheads, brunettes and all the colors in between. Blue eyes, grey eyes, brown eyes, black eyes, and even one with eyes that mirrored his own. Tall, short, average, pleasingly plump, slim, svelte, rounded and not so rounded. She must have worked long and hard on the list in order to ensure there was little to do in the way of comparison.
She had been right about one thing, though. He had only spoken directly to two of the women on the list, but their reactions had not been very welcoming. Susanna Marsden openly took him to task over his near-rudeness three years ago, then informed him she would be returning to the country after this Season to marry a neighbor with whom she had a long-standing acquaintance. Thank God she wasn’t who he was looking for. A passing reference to a cat had elicited a visible shiver of distaste.
Lady Catherine Hargrave was an empty-headed piece of fluff. She hadn’t even known what a panther was, and her large grey eyes went completely blank once she was no longer the topic of conversation. She would make someone who was looking for a biddable but simple wife the perfect spouse. Thankfully, not him.
His eye unerringly went to one name on the list.
Amanda.
He’d hoped three years would have dimmed the attraction he felt. Had thought it had—until tonight. Seeing her again brought back all the memories he’d suppressed. Touching her, even momentarily, was enough to cause him to react physically. But the worst had been watching her walk away on another man’s arm, smiling up at him as if she hadn’t a care in the world, when only moments before she’d stood tense and stiff beside him wishing, he was sure, she was anywhere but there.
She had looked at him like that once upon a time. Before he’d kissed her. Before he let his emotions get the best of him. Before he’d destroyed her hopes and dreams. He’d watched them crumble in the aftermath of that kiss and known he was responsible. She had not forgiven him—probably never would.
Perhaps it was for the best. She was the only woman who had ever gotten under his skin. The only one who could provoke a reaction in him. He didn’t need that kind of attachment. Not only did he not want a clingy, dependent woman as a wife, he didn’t want to become emotionally attached to the woman he married, either.
He wondered briefly if Felicia hadn’t put her on the list to torture him. But Felicia hadn’t known about the encounter at the Abbey. Amanda had avoided him once Felicia and Brand were gone, pleading a headache in order to retire early in the evening. Even later, at The Downs for Brand’s father’s funeral, she made excuses not to be in his company. The one time Felicia and Eliza had thrown them together had been distinctly uncomfortable.
He may as well cross her off the list now. Yet somehow, he couldn’t. He’d promised himself this afternoon he would work through whatever list Felicia gave him in an orderly fashion, eliminating candidates only after speaking to them personally, until he found the one he was looking for. He owed Nona, and himself, that much of a search. Not that he intended to fall in love with the woman with the statue—he just wanted to know who she was.
There was no doubt he would eventually marry. He was the last of the Kentons, and possibly would be the last Earl of Wynton if he didn’t marry and beget an heir. There had been a time when that wasn’t true.
The coach slowed and came to a stop. Moments later the door opened and he stepped out and climbed the steps to his home. Sending his butler to bed, he headed for the library and poured himself a large brandy. Holding the balloon-shaped glass in one hand, he idly flipped through the correspondence on his desk as he sipped.
Finding nothing that couldn’t wait until morning, he left the room and headed upstairs. He was tired, but would get little sleep tonight. Amanda had done that to him.
His valet, on his orders, hadn’t waited up for him. Undressing, he shrugged into a dressing gown of black silk and went to the window. Still sipping his brandy, he stared into the darkness and relived his past.
He could admit to himself now that he had fallen for Amanda. She was a breath of fresh air in the stale world of London society, yet the embodiment of all that was English. All that he was not. Young and innocent, her wide blue eyes made promises she had no idea how to keep. He’d wanted to be the one she kept those promises to. But he’d been afraid to acknowledge his attraction.
At the time, he told himself he wasn’t looking for his figurine. He still had to make sure Felicia found the person who could identify her ring. When it became obvious Amanda had him in her sights, fear had kicked in.
Then came the disa
strous meeting at the Abbey. The taste and feel of her was permanently imprinted in his memory. Burned into his senses. He’d spent the last three years trying to forget her. Trying to lose himself in other interests and pursuits.
Instead, she haunted him. In Italy he saw her magnificent eyes in the intense blue waters of the Mediterranean. In Greece he saw her in the golden sand of the sun-washed beaches. In France he saw her in the beautiful gowns of the women of the French court. No matter where he went or what he did, something reminded him of her.
Resisting the impulse to ask Felicia directly about her in their correspondence, he had, nevertheless, scanned his sister’s letters avidly for news of her. And even though Felicia never mentioned a marriage, he had been convinced Amanda would be married with a babe in arms by the time he returned.
Only she wasn’t. And she was on his list.
What if she had the statuette? The thought came out of the blue like a bolt of lightning. He froze at the possibility. It couldn’t be. Fate could not be that cruel. But Nona said the woman with the statuette was his destiny. His mate. Could that explain his attraction to her?
He didn’t want his destiny. He only needed a wife to give him sons to carry on his title. Then she could go her way and he could go his. If he married his destiny he suspected that would not be possible.
Despite his scientific and logical bent, he knew better than to underestimate his great-grandmother’s otherworldly intuitiveness. Marrying someone destined to fall in love with him would cause untold misery to that person if he did not reciprocate.
Turning from the window, he put down the now empty glass, shrugged out of his robe and slipped between cool sheets. And wondered what he would do if it turned out Amanda was the person he was looking for.
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