Gazing up at her husband, Victoria sighed. She reached up to cup his jaw, drew his head down to hers, and whispered against his beautiful lips, “Oh, very well.”
~~*
Epilogue
“The greater one’s pride, the more disastrous the fall. I shudder to imagine the catastrophe awaiting Blackmore, should he ever meet his match. Do you suppose there is any way to hasten such a thing?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne upon news that the Duke of Blackmore successfully persuaded Lord Wallingham to part with one of his prized hunters.
“A Mr. Drayton for you, your grace.”
Harrison glanced up at where Digby stood between the library doors. The butler wore a forbearing expression.
“Send him in.”
Digby plainly did not care for the runner, whom he considered lowly, furtive, and coarse. But Harrison admired the man’s perseverance and discretion. He was effective and could be intimidated into action, which was all that was required.
“Your grace.” The runner was disheveled as usual, his dark hair tousled by the wind, his caped great coat making his shoulders appear broader than normal. “You asked to see me?”
“Mmm. Sit, Drayton. I have rather a strong curiosity about something and thought you might provide answers.”
Wariness stilled the man’s features, but he slowly approached the chair Harrison indicated and sat.
“Excellent. Now then, previously you reported my brother had traveled to Brighton, is that right?”
Cautiously, Drayton nodded.
Harrison held up a stack of papers, frowned at them as though perplexed, then leveled a flat stare at the runner. “Most peculiar. I have here no fewer than twelve markers, all demanding payment for recent losses at gaming establishments here in London.”
The runner’s eyebrows shot up, then lowered in a glare at the papers.
“Now, unless Digby has been trotting off to Boodle’s in his off hours, I suspect Colin is not, in fact, in Brighton.”
Drayton shifted in his seat. “No, your grace. He must have returned without my men discovering it.”
“That would be logical.” Harrison’s reply was clipped and dry as he returned the markers to his desk.
“I will locate him, your grace.”
He pinned Drayton with a hard stare. “By noon tomorrow. I want details, Mr. Drayton. I trust I am clear.”
The runner nodded vigorously, jumped up from his seat, and gave a quick bow before departing. He brushed past Digby, who stood just beyond the doors. The butler moved silently to Harrison’s desk and presented a salver with several envelopes.
“Your correspondence, your grace. I believe there is a letter from Lady Atherbourne.”
Immediately, Harrison’s heart lightened. He reached for the stack and thanked Digby, who bowed and left. Harrison noted the butler had placed Victoria’s letter on top. He stroked the fine paper with his fingers, seeing her graceful, looping script on its surface.
After everything that had happened—the revelations about Colin’s horrid behavior toward Marissa Wyatt, the girl’s death, the duel, and then Atherbourne’s attempts to seek vengeance—Harrison was grateful his connection to Victoria remained intact. He had been so disgusted by Colin of late that a true rift had formed between him and his brother. He kept watch on him through Drayton, but they hadn’t spoken in over two months. With Tori now ensconced happily with her husband in Derbyshire, Clyde-Lacey House felt rather empty. He knew he should return to Blackmore Hall—there were matters to attend that could not be entrusted to his steward. And he would. But not just yet.
Shaking off the annoying melancholy that had settled over him, Harrison neatly sliced open the letter from Victoria and glanced through it, his eyes widening in genuine surprise, a slow smile spreading across his face. That smile disappeared as he reached the end of her missive, a vague sense of alarm ascending his spine. Love, he thought in disgust, releasing a quiet snort. What a damned nuisance.
Dearest Harrison,
I was delighted to receive your letter, and it will please you to know Mama’s necklace arrived safely, as well. When I wear it, I am reminded of the day Papa gave it to her, of the affection they must have had for one another, though it was not always plain to those of us looking on.
To answer your query, yes, I remain happier than I could have imagined. In fact, I am positively over the moon, and I suspect you will be as well, when I tell you our news. In a few short months, you will be an uncle. The physician confirmed the babe shall likely arrive in the spring. You simply must come for a visit and meet your new niece or nephew. I have spoken to Lucien about it, and he agrees, so do not frown at me. If only Colin were not in such a poor way, I would gladly share the joyful news with him, as well. I worry for him, pray for him.
Speaking of worry, I recently received a letter from Lady Jane Huxley. You remember her, don’t you? The second daughter of Lord and Lady Berne. She has become a dear, dear friend, and her letter sounded—how shall I say it?—lonely. A bit despairing. I must ask a favor of you, Harrison. During the coming season, whenever possible, please ensure she dances at least one dance, even if you must partner her yourself. The marriage mart is harrowing for a young woman, and I wish for her to find the same happiness I now enjoy.
I wish the same for you, as well. You have often said, “Everything in its own good time.” Well, I say, there is no time like the present. Lucien has warned me against matchmaking. Frankly, I do not share his caution. But then, perhaps your true love will appear before I find it necessary to intervene. One can hope.
Your loving sister,
Victoria
~~*
More from Elisa Braden
It’s far from over! There are more scandalous predicaments, emotional redemptions, and gripping love stories (with a dash of Lady Wallingham) in the Rescued from Ruin series. For new release alerts and updates, follow Elisa on Facebook and Twitter, and sign up for her free email newsletter, so you don’t miss a thing!
Plus, be sure to check out all of the exciting books in the Rescued from Ruin series, available now!
The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Book One)
Victoria Lacey’s life is perfect—perfectly boring. Agree to marry a lord who has yet to inspire a solitary tingle? It’s all in a day’s work for the oh-so-proper sister of the Duke of Blackmore. Surely no one suspects her secret longing for head-spinning passion. Except a dark stranger, on a terrace, at a ball where she should not be kissing a man she has just met. Especially one bent on revenge.
The Truth About Cads and Dukes (Book Two)
Painfully shy Jane Huxley is in a most precarious position, thanks to dissolute charmer Colin Lacey’s deceitful wager. Now, his brother, the icy Duke of Blackmore, must make it right, even if it means marrying her himself. Will their union end in frostbite? Perhaps. But after lingering glances and devastating kisses, Jane begins to suspect the truth: Her duke may not be as cold as he appears.
Desperately Seeking a Scoundrel (Book Three)
Where Lord Colin Lacey goes, trouble follows. Tortured and hunted by a brutal criminal, he is rescued from death’s door by the stubborn, fetching Sarah Battersby. In return, she asks one small favor: Pretend to be her fiancé. Temporarily, of course. With danger nipping his heels, he knows it is wrong to want her, wrong to agree to her terms. But when has Colin Lacey ever done the sensible thing?
~~*
About the Author
Reading romance novels came easily to Elisa Braden. She’s been doing it since she was twelve. Writing them? That took a little longer. After graduating with degrees in creative writing and history, Elisa spent entirely too many years in “real” jobs writing T-shirt copy … and other people’s resumes … and articles about giftware displays. But that was before she woke up and started dreaming about the very unreal job of being a romance novelist. Frankly, she figures better late than never.
Elisa lives in the gorgeous Pacific Northwest, where you’re c
onstitutionally required to like the colors green and gray. Good thing she does. Other items on the “like” list include cute dogs, strong coffee, and epic movies. Of course, her favorite thing of all is hearing from readers who love her characters as much as she does.
If you’re one of those, get in touch on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest, or visit www.elisabraden.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.
Cover Design by Erin Dameron Hill
Photo: Hot Damn Designs
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.”
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.
“The sort who knows what to expect of a man,” she replied.
“The very sort who understands a man might object to being forced into marriage?” he said.
She gave a derisive laugh. “You are a rakehell, sir.”
“I never denied being a rake, madam, but I am no liar.”
She wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d been told this was to be her second season, but this woman was no debutante and, given the way she unabashedly stood before him in her nightclothes, he would wager she was no virgin.
“Surely, you’re a little old for this game?” he drawled.
Her brow knit, but he detected no
shame. She was too collected. But a level head—along with a liberal dose of nerve—is exactly what it took to accuse a complete stranger of compromising her.
“Did you really think you could get away with it?” she asked.
The question startled him.
“Now who is the pot calling the kettle black?” he said. She shifted and Erroll could have sworn he discerned a dark patch between her legs. “A shame we met under these circumstances.” He flicked a glance at her breasts. “We could have been friends.”
Her mouth thinned. “By God, I really should shoot you.”
“Tut tut, love, not until the vows are said and I claim what is left of your virtue.”
She drew in a sharp breath.
“Your righteous anger is completely undone by the fact that you’re nearly naked.”
Her mouth twisted in a derisive smile. “Forgive me, my lord. Had I known you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion.”
“You are impeccably dressed for the occasion.”
Did she have any idea how visible the contours of her body were with the lamplight behind her…or how her nipples pressed against her nightgown? She shifted, widening her stance slightly and his cock jerked harder. Oh yes, the witch knew.
“I should send you to hell this instant,” she said.
He lifted a brow. “The marriage vows will take care of that—had I any intentions of marrying.”
“My father will ensure that you do not escape this time.”
“That sounds as though you think I am getting what I deserve.”
“You do not deserve such a good and innocent wife.”
Erroll laughed. “Innocent? A woman who puts herself in such a position is no innocent.”
“How dare you?” she hissed.
“How dare I? I understand there were several suitors for the honorable Miss Crenshaw’s attentions at Lady Baldwin’s party. I wager none of them were as good a prospect as I, which is why you gambled that no one would notice if I was included on that list.”
He didn’t miss the way her fingers flexed on the gun.
Love Regency Style Page 84
