Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison

by Annie Burrows

  But, most comforting of all, she had finally come to terms with her mother. Instead of wondering why her “aunt” had been unable to love her, she marveled that her mother had loved her enough to lift her from the poverty she’d been left in, take her home and show her kindness and consideration every single day, protect her from the disturbing truth, provide for her future and leave her all her worldly goods. She’d been a good woman who’d tried her best to do what she believed was right. She’d only wanted to find Georgiana a safe harbor and an honorable life. That was love enough for her.

  Charles had been busy every day and long into the night, working with Lord Wycliffe to unravel the full extent of Mr. Gibbons’s—she would never be able to think of that man as her father—crimes. And in the still hours before dawn, he came to her, wordlessly making a passionate, almost desperate, love to her, as if he was trying to tell her something for which he couldn’t find words. Was he simply telling her that he still craved her body? Was it an attempt to sate his desire before she was gone? Or was it a lingering and bittersweet goodbye?

  The sun dipped behind the house and Georgiana removed her bonnet as she worked the soil. The simple work was rewarding and soothed her nerves. Her hand spade hit something solid and she dug carefully around it. A rock?

  She turned and looked up as a shadow fell across her shoulder. Charles. Her peaceful feeling abandoned her and her pulse sped. Was he finally free to deal with her?

  He sat on the grass beside her, an uncertain expression on his face. She looked into his eyes and wondered if this was the last time she would feel as if she were drowning in the violet-blue depths or lose her train of thought when he smiled.

  She left the trowel stuck in the dirt and sat back, ready to hear him out. Annulment? Divorce? Denouncement? Quiet retirement to Kent and banishment for life so that he would not have to see her every day? Whatever he had decided, she braced herself to agree and accept it with good grace. She would remain as much a lady as her mother had been.

  He inclined his head toward the trowel. “Did you find it?”

  “What?”

  He pushed the trowel deeper and scooped the object out of the earth. When the dirt fell away, she saw the laudanum vial. She gave him a puzzled look.

  “I had to get rid of it. Wycliffe warned he would send men to search the house. Because of Hathaway’s lies, that is all they would have needed to arrest you, Georgiana.”

  “I wondered what had become of it.” She smiled, touched by all that Charles had risked for her sake. “You wouldn’t have let them arrest me?”

  “Over my dead body.”

  She laughed. “That was a distinct possibility, Charles.”

  “Aye. If Gibbons had had his way.”

  She bowed her head and removed her gardening gloves. “I have tried to think what to say to you. How to explain—”

  “It has taken us a while, Georgiana, but we now have the loose ends tied up. Wycliffe and I have gone to the families and explained that you are completely innocent and that the murderer has been caught and dealt with. We told them only that he was a madman who had become obsessed with you and did not feel anyone was good enough for you.”

  “Cold comfort, I would imagine. They still must hold me a little responsible.”

  He shrugged. “They must deal with that however they can. That is the official story and is what will appear in the files. The case is closed.”

  She nodded as she busied herself wiping the dirt from the laudanum vial.

  “I want you to know that the only one aside from me and Wycliffe who will ever know the truth is Lord Carlington. I thought he deserved to know what Lady Caroline...your mother...had gone through and what had formed her reason for never seeing him again.”

  “I hope that brought him comfort.”

  “It did. Though he said he was not entirely certain he was not your father.”

  She looked up and met his gaze. “How very kind of him, though we both know that is not the case.”

  “Nevertheless, he swears he will claim you as his should Lady Caroline’s secret ever come out—though we’ve been quite careful that it will not.”

  “But the facts of my parentage remain.”

  He nodded somberly. “They do indeed. And the facts are these—that you are the daughter of a peeress. She alone formed you and nurtured you. You are well educated and intelligent. You risked your life to save mine though I wouldn’t have been able to live without you. And I have loved only you since the first day I saw you.”

  “But you said—”

  “Do not remind me what I said. I was...I am a complete idiot and my foolish prejudices nearly cost me the one thing I hold dearest.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “When I saw you standing there with Gibbons holding a knife to your throat, I realized, with clarity uncommon to me, that you were all I cared about. That I could not breathe without you. He was right, Georgiana. You are too good for me. But I would be honored if you would consent to remain my wife, to bear my name and my children as well as my occasional idiocies.”

  Tears stung her eyes. She could not speak for the lump in her throat, so she nodded instead. He threw his arms around her and they fell back on the soft fragrant grass. As he looked down at her, she only had one last apology to make.

  “I am so sorry to have turned your life upside down, Charles. And I regret the scandal, gossip and danger I have brought you.”

  “No apologies necessary, my love. I am counting on our daring liason to keep me from growing bored. Have I not told you that I have a deep passion for loving dangerously?”

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Some Like It Wicked by Carole Mortimer.

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  Chapter One

  May 1817—Highbury House, London

  ‘Do smile, Pandora; I am sure that neither Devil nor Lucifer intends to gobble you up! At least...it is to be hoped, not in any way you might find unpleasant.’

  Pandora, widowed Duchess of Wyndwood, did not join in her friend’s huskily suggestive laughter as they approached the two gentlemen Genevieve referred to so playfully. Instead she felt her heart begin to pound even more rapidly in her chest, her breasts quickly rising and falling as she took rapid, shallow breaths in an effort to calm her feelings of alarm, and the palms of her hands dampened inside the lace of her gloves.

  She did not know either gentleman personally, of course. Both men were in their early thirties whereas she was but four and twenty, and she had never been a part of the risqué crowd which surrounded them whenever they deigned to show themselves in society. Nevertheless, she had recognised them on sight as being Lord Rupert Stirling, previously Marquis of Devlin and now Duke of Stratton, and his good friend, Lord Benedict Lucas, two gentlemen who had, this past dozen years or so, become known more familiarly amongst the ton as Devil and Lucifer. So named for their outrageous exploits, both in and out of ladies’ bedchambers.

  The same two gentlemen Genevie
ve had moments ago suggested might be considered as likely candidates as lovers now that their year of mourning for their husbands was over...

  ‘Pandora?’

  She gave a shake of her head. ‘I do not believe I can be a party to this, Genevieve.’

  Her friend gave her arm a gently reassuring squeeze. ‘We are only going to speak to them, darling. Play hostess for Sophia whilst she deals with the unexpected arrival of the Earl of Sherbourne.’ Genevieve glanced across the ballroom to where the lady appeared to be in low but heated conversation with the rakish Dante Carfax, a close friend of Devil and Lucifer.

  Just as the three widows were now close friends...

  It was sheer coincidence that Sophia Rowlands, Duchess of Clayborne, Genevieve Forster, Duchess of Woollerton, and Pandora Maybury, Duchess of Wyndwood, had all been widowed within weeks of each other the previous spring. The three women, previously strangers, had swiftly formed an alliance of sorts when they had emerged from their year of mourning a month ago, drawn to each other by their young and widowed state.

  But Genevieve’s suggestion a few minutes ago, that the three of them each ‘take one lover, if not several before the Season was ended’, had thrown Pandora more into a state of turmoil than anticipation.

  ‘Nevertheless—’

  ‘Our dance, I believe, your Grace?’

  Pandora had not thought she would ever be pleased to see Lord Richard Sugdon, finding that young gentleman to be unpleasant in both his studied good looks and over-familiar manner whenever they chanced to meet. But, having found it impossible to think of a suitable reason to refuse earlier when he had pressed her to accept him for the first waltz of the evening, Pandora believed she now found even his foppish company preferable to that of the more overpowering and dangerous Rupert Stirling or Benedict Lucas.

  ‘I had not forgotten, my lord.’ She gave Genevieve a brief, apologetic smile as she placed her hand lightly upon Lord Sugdon’s arm before allowing herself to be swept out on to the ballroom floor.

  * * *

  ‘Good Lord, Dante, what has put you in such a state of disarray?’ Rupert Stirling, the Duke of Stratton, enquired upon entering the library at Clayborne House later that same evening, and instantly noticing the dishevelled state of one of his two closest friends as he stood across the room. ‘Or perhaps I should not ask...’ he drawled speculatively as he detected a lady’s perfume in the air.

  ‘Perhaps you should not,’ Dante Carfax, Earl of Sherbourne, bit out. ‘Nor do I need bother in asking what—or should I say, whom—is succeeding in keeping Benedict amused?’

  ‘Probably best if you did not,’ Rupert chuckled softly.

  ‘Would you care to join me in a brandy?’ The other man held up the decanter from which he was refilling his own glass.

  ‘Why not?’ Rupert accepted as he closed the library door behind him. ‘I have long suspected that my stepmother would eventually succeed in driving me either to drink or to committing murder!’

  * * *

  Pandora—having found herself trapped in a corner of the ballroom with Lord Sugdon once their dance came to an end, and only managing to escape his company a few minutes ago when another acquaintance had engaged him in conversation—could not help now but overhear the two gentlemen’s conversation as she stood on the terrace directly outside the library.

  ‘Then let it be drink this evening,’ Dante Carfax answered his friend. ‘Especially as the Duchess has been thoughtful enough to conveniently leave a decanter of particularly fine brandy and some excellent cigars here in the library for her male guests to enjoy.’ There was the sound of glass chinking and liquid being poured.

  ‘Ah, much better.’ Devil Stirling sighed in satisfaction seconds later after he had obviously taken a much-needed swallow of the fiery alcohol.

  ‘What are the three of us even doing here this evening, Stratton?’ his companion drawled lazily as he threw wide the French doors out on to the terrace with the obvious intention of allowing the escape of the smoke from their cigars.

  ‘In view of your dishevelled state, your own reasons are obvious, I should have thought,’ the other gentleman remarked. ‘And Benedict kindly agreed to accompany me, once I told him of my need to spend an evening away from the cloying company of my dear stepmama.’

  Dante Carfax gave a hard laugh. ‘I’ll wager the fair Patricia does not enjoy being referred to as such by you.’

  ‘Hates it,’ the other man confirmed with grim satisfaction. ‘Which is the very reason I choose to do it. Constantly!’

  Devil by name and devil by nature...

  The thought came unbidden to Pandora as she remained unmoving in the shadows of the terrace, having no wish to draw the attention of the gentlemen to her presence outside by making even the slightest of noises.

  The aroma of their cigars now wafting out of the open French doors was a nostalgic reminder to Pandora of happier times in her own life. A time when she had been younger and so very innocent, with seemingly not a care in the world as she attended such balls as this one with her parents.

  Occasions when she would not have felt the need, as she had this evening, to flee out on to the terrace in order to prevent any of Sophia’s tonnish guests from seeing that Pandora had finally been reduced to humiliated tears by Lord Sugdon’s blatant and crude suggestions...

  Not that most of the ton would care if she did find herself insulted, many of society not even acknowledging her existence, or troubling themselves to speak to her, let alone caring if she constantly found herself being propositioned by those gentlemen brave enough to risk her scandalous company.

  Indeed, if it were not for the insistence of Sophia and Genevieve in having her also received at whatever social functions they chose to attend, then Pandora believed she would have found herself completely ostracised since she had ventured to return to society a month ago.

  ‘A futile exercise, as it happens,’ Rupert Stirling continued wearily, ‘now that my father’s widow is also recently arrived at the Duchess’s ball.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure that Sophia did not—’

  ‘Don’t get in a froth, Dante, I am not blaming your Sophia—’

  ‘She is not my Sophia.’

  ‘No? Then I was mistaken just now in the perfume I recognised as I entered the room?’

  There was the briefest of pauses before the other gentleman replied reluctantly, ‘No, you were not mistaken. But Sophia continues to assure me I am wasting my time pursuing her.’

  Pandora’s mind was agog with the implication of this last conversation. Sophia? And Dante Carfax? Surely not, when Sophia lost no occasion in which to criticise the rakishly handsome Earl of Sherbourne...

  ‘Would not the taking of a wife solve at least part of your own problem, Rupert, in that the Dowager Duchess would then have no choice but to leave off living openly with you in your homes, at least?’ Dante now asked.

  ‘Do not think I have not considered doing just that,’ the other man rasped.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it would no doubt solve one problem, but surely bring about another.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘In that I would then be saddled for the rest of my life with a wife I neither want nor care for!’

  ‘Then find one you do want, physically, at least. There are dozens of new beauties coming out each Season.’

  ‘At two and thirty, my taste in women does not include chits barely out of the schoolroom.’ The to-ing
and fro-ing of Rupert Stirling’s voice indicated that he was pacing the library in his agitation. ‘I cannot see myself tied for life to a young woman who not only giggles and prattles, but knows nothing of what takes place in the bedchamber,’ he added disdainfully.

  ‘Perhaps you should not dismiss the existence of that innocence so lightly, Rupert.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, no one could ever accuse you of a lack of finesse in the bedchamber, which would surely allow you to tutor your young and innocent wife as to your personal preferences. And secondly, innocence does have the added benefit of ensuring—hopefully—that the future heir to the Dukedom would at least be of your own loins!’

  ‘Which may not have been the case if Patricia had succeeded in giving my father his “spare”—an occurrence which would have succeeded in rendering me fearful for my very life whilst I slept,’ the Duke of Stratton stated venomously.

  Pandora was aware she no longer remained silent outside on the shadowed terrace merely to avoid detection, but was in fact now listening unashamedly to the two gentlemen’s conversation. Two gentlemen, having seen them from a distance but a short time ago, it was all too easy for Pandora to now envisage.

  Dante Carfax was tall and dark with wicked green eyes, his impeccable evening attire fitting to perfection his wide and muscled shoulders, flat abdomen and long powerful legs.

  Rupert Stirling was equally as tall, if not slightly taller than his friend, his golden locks fashionably styled to curl about his ears and fall rakishly across his intelligent brow, his black evening clothes and snowy white linen tailored to emphasise the powerful width of his shoulders, narrow waist and long and muscled legs. His eyes would no doubt be that cool and enigmatic grey set in his haughtily handsome fallen-angel face, with a narrow aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and a wickedly sensual mouth that could smile with sardonic humour or thin with the coldness of his displeasure.