by Rose Lerner
As foolish as she felt, still she forced her shoulders back and her chin high. “I do not care for being spied upon.”
Beneath the hat, his brow beetled. “Spied upon?” He let out a guffaw. “I’ve been standing in plain view all along.”
Phoebe hated to admit it, but he had fact on his side. Given the way she’d barreled out, it was a mercy she hadn’t plowed into him.
Still, she refused to be cowed. “You are forward, sir.” She lifted her chin another notch. “And rude.”
And handsome as sin, or so he seemed from what she’d so far surveyed. The throat of his silk shirt lay indecently open, the undone buttons revealing a muscular neck banded by a fine silver chain similar to hers. Even in the low light, she marked the darkness of his skin. Gentleman though he undoubtedly was, he must spend a great deal of time out-of-doors.
“You wound me, lady.” He fell back, pantomiming pulling an invisible dagger from his pectoral. In contrast, the wicked-looking curved sword tucked into the crimson sash at his waist looked frighteningly real. “You’d be better served to save your ire for another—the one who made you weep.”
Robert. Robert made me weep. And yet she could hardly fault a dead man for being dead any more than she could a living man for failing to live up to him whom she so dearly loved.
A square of snowy linen appeared in one bare, broad-backed hand. “Please,” he said, passing it to her, his eyes no longer mocking but softened by what seemed to be concern.
Phoebe hesitated and then accepted the handkerchief, acknowledging the courtesy with a small, silent nod. He was barehanded, highly irregular considering the formality of the affair. Their fingertips brushed and gloved though she was, still she felt a tiny tremor trill through her.
“All brides cry,” she snapped, blotting at her eyes with the hankie, the cotton so soft and finely woven as to be Egyptian. “It’s…tradition.” The latter was a lame excuse but she couldn’t think of what else to say. Indeed, with his eyes fastened upon her, she could scarcely think at all.
His smile froze. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had the pleasure of being leg-shackled.”
So he was a bachelor. That tidbit of intelligence lifted her spirits far more than it ought. “In that case, you’re hardly in a position to be offering romantic advice.”
“I suppose you are correct on that count.” Framed by black felt, his bold gaze perused her, the thorough inventory beginning and ending with her eyes.
Handing back the hankie, Phoebe eyed the sword at his side and a hopeful thought struck her. “Perhaps you might employ your weapon to retrieve my mask from those bushes below. I…dropped it,” she added, the bald lie brought on by his steady stare.
His crack of laughter flared heat into her face. “The devil you did. You tossed it over the rail out of pique.” Phoebe opened her mouth to protest, but his chuckle cut her off. “By the by, you’ve an impressive arm for a woman. Beyond my sister, I’ve never seen the like on any female.” One corner of his mouth, his full, sensuous mouth, curved upwards. Phoebe’s heart hitched. She hadn’t seen a smile like that in…a very long time.
More put out with herself than him, sharply she asked, “Will you help me or not?”
“Since you implore so charmingly, how can I refuse?” He turned to the rail, braced both hands atop and peered below.
Coming up beside him, Phoebe tried not to notice how ungodly good he smelled. Not like Aristide, who had a heavy hand with bottled scent, or the other gentlemen of her acquaintance, but rather like leather and sandalwood and the musk of male sweat. And his breath bore the faintest aroma of what must be licorice. “It’s just there,” she said, pointing to the thorny bower upon which it perched, her shoulder inadvertently brushing his side.
He nodded. “Aye, I see it.” One hand on his sword hilt, he took a step back. “Stand away,” he ordered, gaze no longer on her but on his quarry.
For the first time in years, Phoebe obeyed without question. As soon as she’d moved, he unsheathed his weapon and stabbed it into the bushes below, neatly hooking her mask on the tip.
He pivoted, presenting the mask with a bow. “Milady.”
Phoebe hesitated and then plucked the mask from the sharp blade point. Amazingly, the fabric had escaped so much as a tear. “You have my gratitude, sir,” she said, meaning it. Her life seemed to be filled with a surfeit of men of words but standing before her was, at long last, a man of action.
Straightening, he sheathed his sword. “If there are other articles of clothing with which I can assist, please do not hesitate to ask.” A roguish smile accompanied the wicked offer.
That smile seemed to suck the breath from Phoebe’s lungs. “You are most adept with your sword, sir, but I believe that shall suffice.” Dear Lord, had she really said that?
A flash of even, white teeth greeted her gaffe. “For now, perhaps, but should you desire another…demonstration, I shall be happy to oblige.”
The League of Rogues takes what they want—but have they taken on too much?
Wicked Designs
© 2014 Lauren Smith
For too long Miss Emily Parr has been subject to the whims of her indebted uncle and the lecherous advances of his repulsive business partner, Mr. Blankenship. Her plan to be done with dominating men forever is simple—find herself a kind husband who will leave her to her books and her inheritance.
It seems an easy enough plan, until she is unexpectedly abducted by an incorrigible Duke who hides a wounded spirit his behind flashing green eyes.
Godric St. Laurent, Duke of Essex, spends countless nights at the club with his four best friends, and relishes his rakish reputation society has branded him with. He has no plans to marry anytime soon—if ever.
But when he kidnaps an embezzler’s niece on a mission of revenge, the difficult debutante’s blend of sweetness, sharp tongue and razor wit make him desperate for the one thing he swears he never wanted: a love that might heal him, or ruin him forever.
Yet as they find themselves surrendering to passion, danger lurks in Godric’s shadowed past, waiting for him to drop his guard—and rob him of the woman he can’t live without.
Warning: This novel includes a lady who refuses to stay kidnapped, a devilish Duke with a dark past, and an assortment charming rogues who have no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Wicked Designs:
London, September 1820
Something wasn’t right. Emily Parr allowed the elderly coachman to help her into the town coach, and the queer look he gave her made her skin crawl. Peering into the dark interior of the vehicle, she was surprised to find it empty. Uncle Albert was supposed to accompany her to social engagements and if not him, certainly a chaperone. Why then was the coach empty?
She settled into the back seat, her hands clutching her reticule tight enough that the beadwork dug into her palms through her gloves. Perhaps her uncle was meeting with his business partner, Mr. Blankenship. She’d seen Blankenship arrive just before she’d gone upstairs to prepare for the ball. A shudder rippled through her. The man was a lecherous creature with beetle-black eyes and hands that tended to wander too freely whenever he was near her. Emily was not worldly, having only just turned eighteen a few months earlier, but this last year with her uncle had enlightened her to a new side of life and none of it had been good.
Her first London Little Season should have been a wonderful experience. Instead it had begun with the death of her parents at sea and ended with her new life in the dusty tomb of her uncle’s townhouse. With an insubstantial library, no pianoforte and no friends, Emily had started to slide into a melancholy haze. It was crucial she make a good match and fast. She had to escape Uncle Albert’s world, and the only way she could do that was to legally obtain her father’s fortune.
A distant cousin of her mother’s held the money in trust. I
t was a frustrating thing to have a man she’d never met hold the purse strings on her life. Uncle Albert despised the situation as well. As her guardian he was forced to give an accounting to her mother’s cousin, which thankfully kept him from delving too deeply into her accounts for his own needs. The small fortune was the best bargaining chip she had to entice potential suitors. Though the money would go to her husband, she hoped to find a man who would respect her enough not to squander what was rightfully hers. But arriving at the ball without a chaperone would damage her chances in husband hunting, it simply wasn’t done to show up alone. It spoke lowly of her uncle as well as their financial situation.
As relieved as she was to not have her uncle or Mr. Blankenship escorting her, her stomach still clenched. She recalled the cold way the elderly driver smiled at her just before she’d climbed inside. The slickness of that grin made her feel a little uneasy, like he knew something she didn’t and it amused him. It was silly—the old man wasn’t a threat. But she couldn’t shake the wariness that rippled through her. She would have been thankful for Uncle Albert’s presence, even if it meant another lecture on how costly she was to provide for and how kind he’d been in taking her in after her parents’ ship was lost.
The driver was engaged to bring her to Chessley House for the ball, and nothing would go wrong. If she kept saying it over and over, she might believe it. Emily focused her thoughts on what tonight would bring, hoping to ease her worry. She would join her new friend, Anne Chessley, as well as Mrs. Judith Pratchet, an old friend of Anne’s mother, who’d kindly agreed to sponsor Emily for the Little Season. There was every possibility she would meet a man and catch his interest enough that he would approach her uncle for permission to court her.
Emily almost smiled. Perhaps tonight she would dance with the Earl of Pembroke.
Last night, the handsome earl had smiled at her during their introduction and asked her to dance. Emily had nearly wept with disappointment when she informed him that Mrs. Pratchet had already filled her dance card.
The earl had replied, “Another time, then?” and Emily nodded eagerly, hoping he would remember her.
Perhaps tonight I shall have a spot of luck. She desperately hoped so. Emily wasn’t so foolish as to believe she had any real chance of marrying a man like the Earl of Pembroke, but it was nice to be noticed by a man of his standing. Sometimes that attention was noticed by others.
The coach halted sharply a moment later, and she nearly toppled out of her seat, her thoughts interrupted, her daydreams fleeing.
“Ho there, my good man!” a man shouted from nearby.
Emily moved toward the door, but the vehicle rocked as someone climbed onto the driver’s seat, and she fell back in her seat again.
“Twenty pounds is yours if you follow those two riders ahead and do as we ask,” the newly-arrived man said.
Having regained control of her balance, she flung the coach curtains back. Two riders occupied the darkened street, their backs to her. What was going on? A sense of ill-ease settled deep in her stomach. The coach jerked and moved again. As she had feared, the driver didn’t stop at Chessley House. He followed the riders ahead.
What was this? A kidnapping? A robbery? Should she stick her head out of the window and ask them to stop? If robbing her was their intent, asking them what they were doing might be a bad idea… Why would they take her when there were so many other heiresses, ones more lovely than her, having their first come out this year? Surely this wasn’t an abduction. Her mind reeled as she struggled to cope with the situation. What would her father have done in this situation? Load a pistol and fight them off. Having no pistol, she’d have to think of something clever. Could these men be reasoned with? Unlikely.
Emily worried her bottom lip as she debated her options. She could scream for help, but such a reaction could worsen matters. She could open the door and throw herself out onto the street, but the clatter of hooves behind the coach erased that idea. She’d be lucky to survive the fall if she tried, and the horses behind were too close. She’d likely be killed. Emily fell back against the seat with a shaky sigh, her heart racing. She’d have to wait until the driver stopped.
For what seemed like an hour she kept nervously glancing out the windows to assess what direction the coach was going. By now London was far behind her. Only open country stretched on both sides of the road. A rumble of hooves heralded an approaching rider, and a man astride a sleek black gelding galloped past the window. He was too close and the horse too tall for her to get a good view of him. The moonlight rippled off the horse’s shiny coat as it rode past.
She knew by the close proximity of the rider and the determined way he rode in the saddle that he was involved with this business. Who in their right mind, except perhaps that foul old man, Blankenship, would kidnap her? He’d be the sort to engage in such a nefarious activity.
The other evening he’d come to dinner at her uncle’s house and when her uncle had turned away for only a second, Blankenship had twined one of this thick, stubby fingers around a lock of her hair, tugging it hard until she’d nearly cried out. He’d whispered horrible things in her ear, nasty things that made her sick as he told her he planned to marry her as soon as her uncle had approved. Emily had stared back at him, stating she’d never marry him. He’d only laughed and said, “We’ll see, my sweet. We shall see.”
Well, she wouldn’t back down. She wasn’t some pawn to be captured and held at someone’s mercy. They’d have to fight to take her.
Emily looked out the window on the other side to count the riders. Two led the party at the front, mere yards ahead. Another two flanked the coach on either side. One of them rode with a second horse roped to his saddle, likely for the man who rode now with the driver. Not the best of odds. Perhaps she could outsmart them.
The coach slowed, then gently creaked to a stop. Emily took stock of her situation. She fought for composure, each breath slower than the one before. If she panicked, she might not survive. She had to hide. But she could not physically escape five men.
Her eyes fell to the seat across from her.
Maybe—
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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True Pretenses
Copyright © 2015 by Susan Roth
ISBN: 978-1-61922-374-5
Edited by Anne Scott
Cover by Kim Killion
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First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: January 2015
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