As a well-dowered, well-bred, well-brought-up Cynster young lady she’d never been short of would-be Romeos. Sadly, she’d never felt the slightest inclination to play Juliet to any of them. Like Angelica, Eliza was convinced she would recognize her hero, if not in the instant she laid eyes on him—Angelica’s theory—then at least once she’d spent a few hours in his company.
Heather, in contrast, had always been uncertain over recognizing her hero—but then she’d known Breckenridge, not well but more than by sight, for many years, and until their adventure, she hadn’t realized he was the one for her. Heather had mentioned that their cousin-by-marriage, Catriona, who, being an earthly representative of the deity known in parts of Scotland as “The Lady,” tended to “know” things, had suggested that Heather needed to “see” her hero clearly, which had proved very much to be the case.
Catriona had given Heather a necklace and pendant designed to assist a young lady in finding her true love—her hero; Catriona had said the necklace was supposed to be passed from Heather, to Eliza, to Angelica, then to Henrietta, and Mary, before ultimately returning to Scotland and Catriona’s daughter, Lucilla.
Raising one hand, Eliza touched the fine chain interspersed with small amethyst beads that circled her neck; the rose quartz pendant depending from it was hidden in the valley between her breasts. The chain lay concealed beneath the delicate lace of the fashionable fichu and collar that filled the scooped neckline of her gold silk gown.
The chain was now hers, so where was the hero it was supposed to help her recognize?
Obviously not here. No gentleman with hero-potential had miraculously appeared. Not that she had expected one to, not here in the very heart of the upper echelons of tonnish society. Nevertheless, disappointment and dragging dejection bloomed.
Through finding her hero, Heather had—entirely unintentionally, but nevertheless effectively—stymied Eliza. Her hero did not exist within tonnish circles, but she could no longer step outside to hunt him down.
“What the devil am I to do?”
A footman drifting around the outskirts of the ballroom with a silver salver balanced on one palm heard her and turned to peer into the shadows. Eliza barely glanced at him, but seeing her, his features relaxed and he stepped forward.
“Miss Eliza.” Relief in his voice, the footman bowed and offered the salver. “A gentleman asked that this be delivered to you, miss. A good half hour ago, it must be now. We couldn’t find you in the crowd.”
Wondering which tedious gentleman was now sending her notes, Eliza reached for the folded parchment resting on the salver. “Thank you, Cameron.” The footman was from her parents’ household, seconded to the St. Ives’ household to assist with the massive ball. “Who was it, do you know?”
“No, miss. It wasn’t handed to me, but to one of the others. They passed it on.”
“Thank you.” Eliza nodded a dismissal.
With a brief bow, Cameron withdrew.
With no great expectations, Eliza unfolded the note. The writing was bold, a series of brash black strokes on the white paper.
Very masculine in style.
Tipping the sheet to catch the light, Eliza read:
Meet me in the back parlor, if you dare. No, we’re not acquainted. I haven’t signed this note because my name will mean nothing to you. We haven’t been introduced, and there is no grande dame present who would be likely to oblige me. However, the fact I am here, attending this ball, speaks well enough to my antecedents and my social standing. And I know where the back parlor is.
I believe it is time we met face-to-face, if nothing else to discover if there is any further degree of association we might feel inclined to broach.
As I started this note, so I will end it: Meet me in the back parlor, if you dare.
I’ll be waiting.
Eliza couldn’t help but smile. How . . . impertinent. How daring. To send her such a note in her cousin’s house, under the very noses of the grandes dames and all her family.
Yet whoever he was, he was patently there, in the house, and if he knew where the back parlor was . . .
She read the note again, debating, but there was no reason she could see why she shouldn’t slip away to the back parlor and discover who had dared to send such a note.
Stepping out from her hiding place, she slipped swiftly, as unobtrusively as she could, around the still-crowded room. She felt certain the note writer was correct—she didn’t know him; they’d never met. She didn’t know any gentleman who would have thought to send such an outrageous summons to a private tryst inside St. Ives House.
Excitement, anticipation surged. Perhaps this was it—the moment when her hero would appear before her.
Stepping through a minor door, she walked quickly down a corridor, then turned down another, then another, increasingly dimly lit, steadily making her way to the rear corner of the huge mansion. Deep in the private areas, distant from the reception rooms and their noise, the back parlor gave onto the gardens at the rear of the house; Honoria often sat there of an afternoon, watching her children play on the lawns below the terrace.
Eliza finally reached the end of the last corridor. The parlor door stood before her. She didn’t hesitate; turning the knob, she opened the door and walked in.
The lamps weren’t lit, but moonlight poured through the windows and glass doors that gave onto the terrace. Glancing around and seeing no one, she closed the door and walked deeper into the room. Perhaps he was waiting in one of the armchairs facing the windows.
Nearing the chairs, she saw they were empty. She halted. Frowned. Had he given up and left? “Hello?” She started to turn. “Is there anyone—”
A faint rush of sound came from behind her.
She whirled—too late.
A hard arm snaked about her waist and jerked her back against a solid male body.
She opened her mouth—
A huge palm swooped and slapped a white cloth over her mouth and nose. And held it there.
She struggled, breathed in—the smell was sickly sweet, cloying. . . .
Her muscles went to water.
Even as she sagged, she fought to turn her head, but the heavy palm followed, keeping the horrid cloth over her mouth and nose. . . .
Until reality slid away and darkness engulfed her.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue is her forty-fifth work and the sixteenth in her bestselling Cynster series.
Readers can contact Stephanie via e-mail at [email protected].
For information on all of Stephanie’s books, including updates on novels yet to come, visit Stephanie’s website at www.stephanielaurens.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Stephanie Laurens
Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue
In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster
Coming Soon
The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae
The Black Cobra Quartet
The Reckless Bride • The Brazen Bride
The Elusive Bride • T
he Untamed Bride
Bastion Club Novels
Mastered By Love • The Edge of Desire
Beyond Seduction • To Distraction
A Fine Passion • A Lady of His Own
A Gentleman’s Honor • The Lady Chosen
Captain Jack’s Woman
Cynster Novels
Temptation and Surrender • Where the Heart Leads
The Taste of Innocence • What Price Love?
The Truth About Love • The Ideal Bride
The Perfect Lover • On a Wicked Dawn
On a Wild Night • The Promise in a Kiss
All About Passion • All About Love
A Secret Love • A Rogue’s Proposal
Scandal’s Bride • A Rake’s Vow
Devil’s Bride
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
K.I.S.S. and Teal is a trademark of the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance.
Excerpt from In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster copyright © 2011 by Savdek Management Proprietary Ltd.
VISCOUNT BRECKENRIDGE TO THE RESCUE. Copyright © 2011 by Savdek Management Proprietary Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780062066190
FIRST EDITION
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