“My dark lord with the glowing eyes.” Her restless hand went to one side whisker. She blinked up at him, tracing the edge and imprinting his beautiful, tired face in her mind.
He reached a chamber she hadn’t noticed the night before, wrenched the door open, walked through, then slammed it shut with his foot. He approached the large, handsome bed—forest-green hangings and draperies intact—dominating the room and dropped her onto the middle.
Following her down, he brushed her hair back from her forehead. “Do not let those concerns cross your mind ever again. Listen to yourself. Do you really think that I, of all people, would find fault with your eyesight? As if I do not have any demons lurking in my dungeon.”
“You have a dungeon? Hmmm.”
“Francine,” he said with a frown. “Do not interrupt me when my goal is convincing you how wonderful you are.” He kissed each eyelid. “In fact, I think these are exceptionally lovely.”
“Thank y— Stop kissing my eyes!” She squirmed, shaking her head. “I cannot help but worry. Aunt Prudence always said—”
“Your aunt belongs in a dung heap,” he surprised a smile out of her by saying. “If the idea of anyone learning your secrets bothers you, I shall insist on being unfashionably droll and always keep my wife by my side.”
“Wife.” She clutched his shoulders, her eyes and cheeks still tingling from his kisses. “That does sound rather decent.”
“Decent? That is all you can muster? You should know by now I am not nearly buffle-headed enough to let you get away. Ever.” He began peeling down the neckline of her gown, baring her shoulder.
“I should hope not.” Her skin sizzled at the look on his face. “You will not ask me to leave again? Even when the beast returns?”
“I vow, I shall never ask you to leave again.” The soft glow started up, heating his gaze from within. “No notion of what I was thinking, really, to not tell you everything before.”
“Perhaps all that hair on your face last night got tangled in your brain.” When he tugged harder, she arched her back so that, together, they could slip her arms from the sleeves, leaving her dress loose about her waist, her shift the only covering. “Did you really have the banns read? I thought both parties had to meet with the minister first.”
“How did you—? Nash. Caught.” Caught, mayhap, but not repentant. Not when he gloated, “It does help, having a soul doctor not opposed to extra coins in the plate. How could such a pious body of divinity not want to assist granting my heart’s fondest desire?”
As she started to dismiss his flim-flam, he turned serious. “For what began as a farce, thanks to a stubborn chit with frizzled hair and a fine mind, truly has proved my salvation.”
Her eyes tracked over his countenance. So strong. So dear. His longish hair hung down, giving him a bit of a boyish air she’d not seen before.
His fingers continued their downward trek, pulling her shift indecently low. “Ah, I do believe… Aye, I have located the lovely…boundary…”
Curious what he referred to, she tilted her head, only to see his fingers tracing the narrow path where her skin took on two distinct shades. “Now that I finally have the time, wherewithal and mental capacity, I shall apply myself to divesting you of every article of clothing, so I may satisfy a particular longing… That of appreciating, of mapping, that fine line between your sun-kissed skin—and the porcelain portions normally hidden from view. The portions I want reserved only for my lips and gaze henceforth.”
Her throat made a sweet-sounding little moan. “Agreed.”
“I admit to pondering any number of things of late—when my mind was not crazed with The Change. ’Tis time I put forth a new proposition to you. One I expect you to accept with all due haste.” His gaze abandoned where his fingers explored the pale skin he’d exposed to give her a heady look from beneath his brow. “Do you remember my original terms? You were to obey me in all things.”
“What a royal clanker!” Though ’twas hard to protest, given the way he was staring at her with such an indulgent expression of caring, of love. “Your memory is faulty, Erasmus. I do believe I agreed to service your physical needs or absent myself—”
“Have we not established that there will be no more absenting? I forbid it.” Though they made her giggle, the words were heartfelt and he left off gazing at her to scoop her in his arms and roll over, balancing her on top of his chest. “I, in turn, shall spend the next several decades convincing you of my sincerity.”
She cupped his face, skimming one thumb down his dear nose, then she leaned forward to place a kiss right on the scar. “I might just have to spend the next several decades taming this monstrous beast I recently found lurking in my garden.”
“Monstrous?” He slid his hands down her back and filled his palms with her glorious arse, using the hold to slide her…exactly…where he…needed. “Would you be referring to this, my lady?”
“Nay, I was not.” She laughed, giving a delightful wiggle until she cradled his rapidly firming erection. “But if it will make you feel better…”
“Only one thing will make me feel better: having you by my side. Always.”
Sky-blue eyes, full of serenity and love gazed down. “What about on top of you?”
With a growl, Erasmus William Charles Hammond, Lord Blakely, the former avoider of innocents and current purveyor of pleasure, proceeded to show his lady that it didn’t matter how well she could see or exactly where she was positioned—beside, on top of, around—he would love her forever, any way he could have her.
* * *
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Ensnared by Innocence. I hope you loved meeting my shapeshifters and their world. If you enjoyed the story, it would be terrific if you could please leave a review at your favorite retailer, telling others. Reviews really help authors!
The novel-length version you just read is three times as long as the short novella originally released a number of years ago. I am so, so happy Erasmus and his Francy finally got their full-fledged love story.
Those who’ve read Seductive Silence may have recognized Lord Tremayne at the museum—several years before he meets the love of his life (most definitely not his current mistress!).
As you can tell, I’m expanding my Regency world, including different aspects of the paranormal—and time travel—along with fabulous mere mortals, who aren’t always aware of what else is going on in their fair city.
Stay tuned, Nash’s story is next! Keep reading for details…
* * *
Anyone with a keen interest in lions may have recognized the Felis leo classification used throughout the story and wondered What is Larissa thinking? Everyone knows lions are under the genus Panthera. True, which is why, in the early version of this story the men struggled with their Panthera leo essence.
As I was rewriting this, doing additional research on word choice—always attempting to portray the Regency era using words that were common in the early 1800s instead of our more modern equivalents (except in Adam’s case!)—I discovered that it wasn’t until 1816 when the “Panthera” word was first proposed. Meaning that my 1812 Regency gents, and their ancestors, would have been familiar with Felis leo instead, a term in use since the late 1750s.
Now it’s Nash’s turn!
* * *
Cursed into the form of a lion without nightly sex, Lord Nash Hammond wants only two things—his liquor strong and smooth, and his wenches wild and willing. What he doesn’t need is a virgin!
* * *
Swipe on for a look at the blurb and most of the first chapter.
PREVIEW: Deceived by Desire
Book 2 - Roaring Rogues Regency Shifters
In Deceived by Desire…
Meet a Shakespeare-quoting shapeshifter who wants nothing to do with love…
Nash senses the man across from him in the cramped stagecoach is trouble, a danger to the veiled woman accompanying her lofty “protector”. Nash knows he’s no hero, y
et she keeps asking for his help. And how is it the vexing female knows so much about his secrets? Ones that could rip her apart if she only knew it…
And the spunky “lady” from the streets who masquerades as another man’s mistress…
Blessed with the second-sight—or cursed, depending upon which relative she believes—Laney sees her two possible futures: bleak and a soon-deceased victim (ack!) or frolicking with her fellow stagecoach passenger: a golden-eyed, tawny-haired gentleman—who’s anything but.
* * *
The miserable rip who’s already stepped on her dress, who keeps staring…
* * *
Nash is surly and rude and resistant to her every effort to speak with him. When they stop for the night and she overhears him order a “strumpet” to bed, Laney takes the doxy’s place, convinced she can pretend well enough. After all, she’s pretended to be a mistress for years. She’ll satisfy his needs, but refuse his money—demand he listen and help her instead. Then she’ll be safe.
* * *
Until, along with her body, Nash starts to claim her heart as well.
Reader Advisory: While Deceived by Desire is laugh-out-loud funny in places, it contains a short vision of violence and brief references to past abuse. Beyond that, expect a fun and steamy good time because…
Changing into a lion is all fun and growls—until it isn’t.
Standalone ~ HEA ~ 80,000-word Novel ~ Book 2 - Roaring Rogues Regency Shifters
Deceived by Desire - part of Chapter 1
The Wretched Hat and the Wretched Man
Nash roused from his latest bout of self-pity long enough to crack open his eyes and watch the new passengers climb aboard the already cramped, soggy stagecoach and settle in directly across from the corner he’d occupied for the past several hours.
He shifted and pressed his foot solidly against the floor of the coach.
Demmed inconvenient it was, having to share the dank spot he’d staked out as his own with the outwardly perfect pair. He kept his head lowered in the guise of dozing and refused to admit, even to himself, that he’d cared enough to peek.
People. Who needed ’em?
Certainly not Nash Hammond. The stagecoach, on the other hand? Now that he needed, though if the blasted sky would just cooperate, not for much longer. He had enough money that he could buy his own horse—a damn fine one if he wanted. Hell, an entire stable full if he so desired and actually had a stable. But then he’d have to care for it. Them. No demmed matter!
It was easier to put up with public transport.
Gave him something to think about other than his own contemptible problems.
“Pardon me, sir, but your foot’s snagged on my dress.” The cultured voice cascaded over him like a heaven-sent waterfall, at odds with the jarring way she tried to wrench her long, surprisingly dry skirts from beneath his boot.
Nash refused to budge, kept his boot clamped down and continued to feign sleep as he’d been doing ever since the horses had splashed to a stop, the stagecoach rolling to a sodden halt behind them when the driver paused for a fresh team and additional passengers.
Experience had taught Nash that folks usually left a sleeping man alone, thinking he was drunk most likely, and would refrain from asking him to scoot over. That was the pertinent motivation—if he was going to be trapped inside, then he’d make blame certain he had all the space he could muster. He always left a couple of extra inches between his body and the side of the coach, celebrating privately whenever he managed to secure more than the typical sixteen inches allotted to paying dolts like himself.
He’d begun his flight out of London as an outside passenger on the Royal Mail Coach—because it moved faster than lightning—but the incessant rains drove him inside and onto a public conveyance. He never could abide being exposed to the elements when it was pouring.
“Mister! My dress,” the female hissed, trying in vain to arrange herself across from him. “It’s caught under your boot!”
She pulled harder and he glanced at her through slitted lids, but the frilly contraption perched precariously atop her head completely hid her face.
Did she know that he’d stepped on her trailing hem on purpose?
Could she tell he was fighting back a smirk at her pathetically puny efforts to free her skirts? Did she have any idea of his pathetically useless existence?
Just as Nash tensed the muscles in his thigh to lift his foot, a ripping sound exploded from the floor and she plopped backward on the opposite bench, her skirts flying up to expose surprisingly inviting petticoats.
“Wretched man!” he heard her mutter under her breath.
Acting no better than an unlicked cub, he was amusing himself at her expense. He should apologize.
But he didn’t move.
Or say a word.
He was too busy rumbling a fake snore or two and inspecting the luscious treat whose lacy hem remnants lay trapped beneath his sole, and the fop who’d just climbed in after her, lurching more than a bit in the process. The fop who she appeared to be wedded to, if the dandy’s sour look toward Nash was anything to go by.
Figured.
Refined thing like that. Her in her fancy hat and frilly white traveling dress—white! As if she shouldn’t be covered from head to toe with a thick layer of mud and grime. How she managed to look so pristine and proper on a day like today, with her apricot-colored kid slippers, closed ruffle-edge parasol that matched her dress to perfection and immaculately gloved fingers was beyond him.
Her generous bosom looked anything but refined though, ready to spill from the not-quite-decent neckline with just the slightest encouragement.
Nash strangled on the sudden growl of desire that threatened to erupt, turning it instead into a garbled snore.
Damn cock. Rearing up as if it needed a warm cunny, as though he hadn’t attacked his brother’s woman just hours before. Damn him! His penis deserved to be ground beneath her heel.
“All set, m’dear?” the red-haired dandy asked on a hiccup, squishing close to the woman and placing his arm across her shoulders in a proprietary move while he cast Nash a glower as if he could read minds.
Nash heard the slight hitch in her breathing, caught a hint of fear, just before she answered. “Indeed, Mr. Tate. Thank you for asking.”
Her cultured tones had turned puny. From vibrant waterfall to watered-down dribble.
Nash hunched lower, slightly lifting his lids to gaze at her from beneath the overlong fall of hair that blocked half his face. Some sort of netting hung from the brim of the ungodly confection perched atop her head, fully hiding her features. He could just make out the curve of her cheek, but that was it.
Probably had the face of a sow. God surely had to give such a one a curse to balance the bounty of figure He’d blessed her with.
The dandy patted his pocket, drawing Nash’s attention. The man pulled out a snuffbox and made a great show of meticulously placing a pinch just inside his lower lip, which he ruined with another hiccup, then did everything in reverse, returning the snuff to his pocket. His actions were ludicrous, done with one hand as the other was still firmly ensconced atop the sow’s shoulder.
Nash hadn’t seen more flounces even at court. How the dandy could even talk with so much starched linen and lace at his throat was beyond him. The clunch likely spent more time at Weston’s than he did his own dinner table.
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! his conscience taunted, compliments of Mister William Shakespeare.
Jealous? Jealous of the overdressed man and his feminine fortune? Never. Never! As if hearing the mental shouts, the man echoed…
“Never fear, m’dear,” Dandy drawled, “only two days confined in this infernal conveyance—three at the most if this Scotch mist keeps up—and we shall arrive at our destination.”
She left off gazing at the torn hem fraying in her fingers and glanced through that damn netting at Dandy. “Will you please bring yourself to tell me where we are go
ing?” she inquired so softly if Nash’s hearing hadn’t been exceptional he would have missed it. At the dulcet sound, he realized he could never think of her as a sow again. Pig-faced or not, she had the voice of a princess. “I am quite sure it will not ruin your surprise if you—”
“No! And leave off asking!” The dandy swatted her shoulder sharply. “You will enjoy it,” he added cajolingly. “I can assure you.”
At the threatening undercurrent in the man’s voice, Nash lifted his head and uncrossed his arms. He intentionally remained slouched, giving the appearance of only casual interest. “You would not be taking the lady somewhere she prefers not to go, now would you?”
The woman flinched. Nash smelled her fear. It had grown stronger.
“Of course he is not!” She trilled a practiced laugh. “Mr. Tate is forever treating me to new experiences and surprises.”
“Mind your own bloody business!” the dandy bit out loudly.
“Here! Here!” an older man in the opposite corner grumped. “Females present and all that. Mind your mouth!”
“Forgive me,” the redhead said urbanely, but Nash saw how his knuckles whitened on her shoulder. To the others, he was all polish and shine. Slime.
Nash wanted to lose his breakfast on the man’s gleaming Hessians. Instead, he tried to see past the netting, clueless where his sudden bout of chivalry had sprung from. “Ma’am?”
He sensed her nervous smile, could almost taste how close to tears she was. “I am wonderful. My life is…wonderful.”
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 27
