Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  “Oh, Florence,” he breathed, “Florence – Florence I am going to give you such ecstasy – ”

  But he could not finish his sentence because she had already captured his mouth with her own, and he was moving now, moving to their own heartbeats which were one and the same now.

  Stars were exploding in Florence’s vision as she felt the heady pleasure building and building, and the crest of the wave was coming now and she grabbed hold of his shoulders as if she were to be swept out to sea, just as when they had first met.

  They climaxed together, thrashing softly in the linen sheets as the glow settled on them, sweating from their exploits and dazed in their joy.

  “I could do that,” Florence breathed into his neck as they twisted, and lay beside each other, “every day of our lives.”

  George chuckled deeply. “Careful, or I will hold you to that.”

  She smiled gently, ripples of carnal pleasure still washing over her body. “Please do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Are you completely sure about this?”

  George grinned as his brother handed over his silk cravat. “Luke, you worry too much.”

  Luke scowled, and strode over to the drinks cabinet to pour himself another whisky. “What was it, a week ago you first met this girl?”

  There was nothing that he could say to dull George’s spirits. “What, you are worried she is out to get my money?” He grinned. “You know I barely have any, and so does she. Please, Luke. Be happy for me.”

  The two brothers were in the library – George’s favourite room in his home – and when the clock over the mantlepiece chimed quarter to the hour, they both glanced over to it.

  “Just fifteen minutes to go,” said Luke darkly. “Fifteen minutes before you begin your journey to tie yourself to this woman, losing all freedom and – ”

  “I lose far more without her than with her,” George interjected. He was staring into the mirror on the way, attempting to get his cravat straight and completely failing to succeed. “Would you give me a hand with this?”

  Luke rolled his eyes, threw his whisky bad-temperedly down onto the table, and returned to the other side of the room. “I just never thought I would be attending your wedding,” he said, pulling one side of the cravat so it came completely undone, and starting again. “Seven days. Seven days ago you met Miss Capria, ‘tis madness!”

  George could not help but smile. He had been true to his word: just five days had passed since they had found each other again, and the church was booked, the flowers arranged, the ring procured, and at eleven o’clock that morning, they would be man and wife.

  His brother nodded curtly at the newly arranged cravat, and shook his head with a wry smile. “I suppose nothing but someone incredible would have tempted you to the altar in the first place.”

  George shook his head. “I could not walk away from her, even if I wanted to. Florence is – she is everything I would want in a woman, and more. Witty, beautiful, caring, insightful – ”

  “And Italian,” Luke interrupted, throwing himself into an armchair. “You may end up living in Rome, or Venice.”

  The bridegroom laughed. “I suppose I might! There does not seem to be anything I would not do for her, Luke. Losing her would mean losing everything, and if she asked me for anything – but then, she never would.”

  Luke scoffed. “George, she is too good to be true: mark my words, you will discover something wrong with her!”

  George shrugged, and pulled on his top hat. “Perhaps. But then, I am no perfect gentleman either. I think we will be happy.”

  His brother sighed, rose from the armchair, and picked up his own top hat. “I have never seen you like this, George. I cannot think of anyone more deserving to find their perfect match, and I hope you are right.”

  “You wait until you meet her,” George’s eyes shone. “Then you will see.”

  It was a chilly day that they stepped into as the front door slammed behind them, and George regretted for a moment not throwing a greatcoat over his wedding outfit: but then, what was the point? The church was only two streets away, and before long he would be warmed by the sight of Miss Florence Capria.

  “You know, as your best man,” Luke said as they strode along the pavement, carefully dodging a young pickpocket who squealed as his fingers were caught moving towards the gentleman’s pocketbook, “‘tis my duty – and as it aligns with my own curiosity, I will definitely ask it – to enquire whether you did ever find Miss Teresa Metcalfe?”

  George grinned at him as they turned the corner. “Worried she will no longer give you a cut of your recommendations?”

  His brother’s eyebrows rose. “You have a very low opinion of me, dear brother.”

  “When it is merited, I am afraid I form very firm opinions,” shot back George. “No, I did not meet Miss Teresa Metcalfe – and I must say, I have no wish to.”

  “I wonder what happened to her,” Luke said musingly. “Perhaps she met another man, and received a better offer.”

  “Perhaps she fell into the Thames, or was stolen by pirates,” George said with a laugh. “Come on.”

  The church stood before them, and George started walking up the steps – only to discover that he was doing so alone.

  He turned around. “Luke?”

  His brother was standing at the bottom step, staring up at him. “We are really going in?”

  George stared at him, puzzled. “Well, of course we are. ‘Tis a little difficult to wed one’s intended from the steps of a church!”

  Luke’s jaw fell open. “All this time, I think I genuinely thought there was a chance this was all a jest!”

  Their shared laughter rang out in the street as a carriage pulled up outside the church.

  “God’s teeth, we are about to get overtaken by the bride!” Luke said hastily as he ran up the steps. “Quickly, quickly!”

  The two brothers burst into the church to receive a very disapproving look from their father; but George completely ignored it due to the sight of two men, seated either side of her, but awkward and embarrassed looks on their faces.

  “T-Tom?” George said, coming to an abrupt halt halfway up the aisle. Luke raced past him as he said, “Harry?”

  The two gentlemen nodded, but George had no time to further converse with his estranged brothers. The door behind him had opened, and the bride was about to enter the church.

  “Hurry, George!” Luke hissed from the altar, and George almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to join his best man.

  The door opened, and a solitary figure entered the church.

  Florence could feel her heart fluttering in her chest, but it slowed to a calm pace at the sight of Lord George Northmere, standing at the altar beside a man who must be his brother, Luke.

  The church was almost empty, but then she had not expected it to be full. She had no family, no friends in this country; George had wanted a small wedding, and she was happy to oblige.

  Anything, anything for this man who made her whole being sing out with joy.

  The organ began, and completely alone, she started her slow procession up the aisle.

  Her fingers tightened around the bouquet of flowers she had made that morning: rosemary and roses, the flowers of true love. Her eyes flickered to the right to see an elegant older woman with two men either side of her – two men who looked awfully familiar, as though she had seen them before through a dark glass, or a rainstorm.

  The music changed, and she looked up to lock eyes with George himself. He had turned, he had twisted around to see her, and there was such pride on his face, such happiness it almost brought a tear to her eye.

  To think she could bring a man such happiness.

  The aisle had seemed long when she had entered the church, but Florence arrived at the altar in what felt like no time at all. George reached out his hand, and she took it. Her hand tingled where he touched it.

  “You are the most radiant creature on Earth,” he
whispered with a smile.

  Florence smiled back. “And you are not too shabby either, Lord George.”

  He rolled his eyes as the vicar began the wedding service.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .”

  “I could hardly believe it when I came in,” George said in an undertone while the vicar droned on, “but my brothers are here.”

  Florence’s eyes widened. “All of them?”

  George nodded.

  She could not help but grin at his words. She had hoped, she had hoped beyond hope but without knowing the exact details of their estrangement . . .

  “I wrote to them,” she whispered, glancing over to him. “And very expensive it was too, getting the letters there within a day. I asked them to come; I told them they had already lost so much time, and that they should lose no more. What better moment to reconcile than a wedding?”

  The vicar interrupted with, “Do you, Lord George Albert Gerald Northmere, take this woman . . .”

  The vows were over before they were begun, and the vicar began the ending speech before he could declare them man and wife.

  George’s eyes were still wide at her words. “You – you wrote to them?” His grip on her hand tightened. “We are not even married and I already do not deserve you,” he said, his smile deepening as he turned to look at his brothers. “Miss Capria, is there nothing you cannot do?”

  Florence nodded with a smile. “Just one thing. I am about to lose my name forever and take a new one – and that is something I cannot stop, and have no wish to!”

  “. . . man and wife!”

  “Ah, but when you lose it to a Lord, you know that it is true love,” whispered George as he pulled his new wife into a tight embrace and a loving kiss.

  ###

  Wondering what happened to Teresa? Discover her Ravishing Regencies story in Drenched with a Duke – read on for the first chapter…

  Please do leave a review if you have enjoyed this book – I love reading your thoughts, comments, and even critiques!

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  HISTORICAL NOTE

  I always strive for accuracy with my historical books, as a historian myself, and I have done my best to make my research pertinent and accurate. Any mistakes that have slipped in must be forgiven, as I am but a lover of this era, not an expert.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Emily Murdoch is a historian and writer. Throughout her career so far she has examined a codex and transcribed medieval sermons at the Bodleian Library in Oxford, designed part of an exhibition for the Yorkshire Museum, worked as a researcher for a BBC documentary presented by Ian Hislop, and worked at Polesden Lacey with the National Trust. She has a degree in History and English, and a Masters in Medieval Studies, both from the University of York. Emily has a medieval series, a Regency series, and a Western series published, and is currently working on several new projects.

  You can follow her on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find her on facebook at www.facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch, and read her blog at www.emilyekmurdoch.com

  To Tame a Highland Earl

  Tarah Scott

  Copyright © 2014 by Tarah Scott

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  March 1807

  Manchester, England

  If ever a woman deserved to be shot, it was Miss Crenshaw. But dawn appointments weren’t meant for the weaker sex. Weaker sex. The lady was anything but weak, which is why Erroll intended to throttle her.

  Erroll laid a shilling in the innkeeper’s palm. “You understand the need for discretion.”

  “Indeed, I do, my lord,” the man replied. “Your betrothed’s reputation is safe with me.”

  Erroll managed to maintain a bland expression as the innkeeper handed him the key to the lady’s room. So news of his impending nuptials had sped from Coventry to Manchester even quicker than he had—which meant London society would hear the news by morning light and the story would cross the border to Edinburgh just as quickly.

  Which of the gossipmongers had he to thank for that? He was grateful to the heavenly powers that his mother had remained in Scotland and not accompanied his father to England this month. God help him if she got wind of this entanglement before he had a chance to extricate himself from the tenacious claw of the husband-hunting wench.

  “A beautiful woman is hard to resist,” the innkeeper said.

  “Indeed,” Erroll murmured, glad the man had interrupted the mental picture of his mother outfitting the deceitful huntress in her wedding dress. No bachelor’s mother was more determined to see her son wed than Erroll’s own dear mamma, and since his return from the navy, his father had put his considerable weight behind her efforts.

  He whirled toward the stairs, climbed to the second floor and made a left down the hall. At the third door on the left, he stopped. Erroll had endured his father’s hour-long diatribe that ended with the command to marry the woman who had accused him of compromising her—a woman he’d never laid eyes on—before he finally broke away to discover his accuser had fled Coventry. The hard five hour ride to catch her before she reached her father’s estate would have been in vain if not for the fact a wheel on her carriage broke forty miles distance from Manchester.

  This experience would teach him to dally with the women outside of London. Had he satisfied himself with the eligible ladies in Town—if those females could be called ladies—he wouldn’t have gone to Coventry and attended the damn house party that had gotten him into trouble. The fact he’d spent a pleasurable hour with a lady in the hostess’ gardens had only served to put him in the very place his accuser said he’d been. Erroll felt sure the cunning creature was well aware he’d been in the gardens, and therefore claimed to be the object of his attentions.

  Erroll quietly unlocked the door, slipped into the darkened room, then eased the door shut and slipped the key into his pocket. Faint moonlight filtered in through thin curtains and outlined the sleeping figure in the bed. Erroll crept forward until he reached the bed. He braced a knee against the side of the mattress, then placed a hand on each side of the woman and brought his face to within an inch of hers.

  She shifted in her sleep and lush breasts grazed his chest. He wondered how long it would be before she became aware a man was in her bed, then concluded that since she hadn’t awoken with a shriek she must be accustomed to having a man in her bed. He should ravish her as she’d said he had just for good measure. The thought froze at the pressure of a pistol jammed against his abdomen.

  “I am a crack shot.” The feminine voice was steady—as was the hand holding the gun. “But even the worst shot in Great Britain couldn’t miss.” The gun dug deeper into his belly. “Move away.”

  Erroll considered. Her calm response to his presence almost made him think she’d expected him. “If I’m to be shot, I should at least commit the crime for which I’m accused.” The click of the pistol’s hammer being pulled back was his answer. “I see you do not agree.” He straightened off the bed.

  “Step back,” she ordered.

  He retreated two paces.

  “More.”

  He moved back another two paces.

  “I promise you, sir, my aim is as true at such short a distance as it was when you were an inch from my face. Back against the door.”
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  Erroll complied. A light click indicated she had released the hammer back into place. She rose, a small figure in the shadows, and picked up something from the night table. The clink of glass was followed by the scrape of a match on wood, then light flared and he got his first look at the woman who claimed he had ravished away her innocence. Dark brown eyes pinned him with a hard stare. Honey-brown hair tumbled down her shoulders. The top of her head was no higher than his chest.

  The muff pistol remained pointed at him as her attention shifted to the lamp on the nightstand. She bent slightly and her full breasts strained against the nightgown as she lit the wick. His cock jerked and he couldn’t deny his good fortune in not having met her at Lady Baldwin’s party. He very well might have fallen prey to her charms and been guilty of her accusations.

  She blew out the match and tossed it onto a metal tray, then took a step toward him. The lamplight illuminated the outline of her body through the nightgown. The curves he discerned were fuller than were fashionable and the kind he’d sought without success. His cock began to lift. He might end up shot after all.

  “You are no common housebreaker,” she said. “Who are you?”

  Erroll’s mind snapped to attention. The wench didn’t recognize him. Fury doused his lust. He gave a mocking smile and bowed. “Lord Erroll Rushton, at your service.”

  Shock registered on her face, then an answering fire appeared in her eyes. “I see we shall have to break you of the habit of entering a lady’s room uninvited.”

  “You use the term lady too loosely.”

  “That is the pot calling the kettle black.”

  He nearly laughed.

  “One would think a prospective groom could keep his cock in his pants with his wedding but two days hence,” she said.

  “Three days,” Erroll corrected. That was how long it would take him to get the special license his father ordered him to procure. “Pray tell, what sort of lady carries a gun?” He didn’t ask what lady used the word ‘cock’ as easily as the word ‘groom?’ That was perhaps too obvious.