Away from society’s prying eyes...
After suffering the loss of her beloved husband, quick-witted Lady Margaret Roberts has sworn off the pursuit of passion...that is, until she meets Giles Hadley.
Bitterly estranged from his family, reluctant viscount Giles knows all too well the devastation of an unhappy marriage. So while he is prepared to indulge in an illicit affair, he must beware, for spirited Maggie awakens in him something even more forbidden—the desire to claim her as his wife!
Hadley’s Hellions
Four friends united by power, privilege and the daring pursuit of passion!
From disreputable rogues at Oxford to masters of the political game, Giles Hadley, David Tanner Smith, Christopher Lattimar and Benedict Tawny live by their own set of unconventional rules.
But as the struggle for power heats up so, too, do the lives of these daring friends. They face unexpected challenges to their long-held beliefs and rigid self-control when they meet four gorgeous, independent women with defiant streaks of their own...
Read Giles Hadley’s story in:
Forbidden Nights with the Viscount
Available now
And watch for more Hadley’s Hellions stories coming soon!
Author Note
Change: it’s necessary for life to progress, yet most of us resist or fear it. How do we know which essentials should remain the same and which we should let go of to make room for something better? The period of the Great Reform Act of 1832 has always fascinated me for that reason; men of honor and conscience held radically opposing views of what change should take place.
For Giles Hadley, estranged son of an earl, restricting the power of the aristocracy—including the father who rejected him and his mother—has very personal overtones. On the opposing side, Lady Margaret Roberts, daughter of a conservative marquess, grew up with a love of the land and a deep sense of responsibility toward the people who live on it.
Maggie and Giles agree on almost nothing—except a desire to give full rein to the passion that flares between them. Neither the widowed Maggie, who lost her true love and refuses to risk her heart again, nor the embittered Giles, product of a marriage gone horribly wrong, have any interest in more than a mutually agreeable interlude.
But passion—and love—don’t follow rules or preferences. When a mysterious attacker puts Maggie in danger, prematurely ending their liaison, both the conservative lady and the liberal lord must decide whether they dare risk a radical change of view in order to claim the love of a lifetime.
I hope you’ll enjoy their journey.
Julia Justiss
Forbidden Nights
with the Viscount
Julia Justiss wrote her first ideas for Nancy Drew stories in her third-grade notebook, and has been writing ever since. After publishing poetry in college, she turned to novels. Her Regency historicals have won or placed in contests by the Romance Writers of America, RT Book Reviews, National Readers’ Choice and Daphne du Maurier. She lives with her husband in Texas. For news and contests, visit juliajustiss.com.
Books by Julia Justiss
Harlequin Historical
Hadley’s Hellions
Forbidden Nights with the Viscount
Ransleigh Rogues
The Rake to Ruin Her
The Rake to Redeem Her
The Rake to Rescue Her
The Rake to Reveal Her
Silk & Scandal
The Smuggler and the Society Bride
Linked by Character
The Wedding Gamble
A Most Unconventional Match
Stand-Alone Novels
One Candlelit Christmas
“Christmas Wedding Wish”
From Waif to Gentleman’s Wife
Society’s Most Disreputable Gentleman
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To the Beau Monde group of RWA, without whose historical expertise and graciousness in sharing it this book could not have been written.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Excerpt from Western Spring Weddings by Lynna Banning, Kathryn Albright, and Lauri Robinson
Prologue
London—late April, 1831
‘So your half-brother is getting married.’
At his best friend’s comment, Giles Hadley, ostensible Viscount Lyndlington and Member of Parliament for Danford, looked up from the reports he was studying in the small private room of the Quill and Gavel, a public house near the Houses of Parliament. ‘George?’ Giles asked, not sure he’d heard correctly.
David Tanner Smith, Member from the Borough of Hazelwick, gave Giles a patient smile. ‘Yes, George. Have you another half-brother?’
Stifling his first sharp reply—that he didn’t care who or whether his irritating half-brother married—he said instead, ‘What makes you think George is getting leg-shackled?’
‘It all but says so in the Morning Post. “Lady M., daughter of the Marquess of W.,” David read, “has been seen frequently of late in the company of the Earl of T.’s younger son, the Honourable G.H. The lady has wealth and impeccable connections, the gentleman aspirations to high office, even if he is not to inherit. Might this be a match made in political heaven?”’
‘Lady Margaret, daughter of the Marquess of Witlow—if I’m correctly filling in the newspaper’s discreet blanks—certainly possesses the credentials to make an ideal wife for any man wanting to dominate Tory circles,’ Giles admitted. ‘No wonder George is interested.’
‘Indeed. With the marquess’s wife in delicate health, Lady Margaret has played hostess for her father for years, ever since she lost her husband—Lord Roberts. Died in a carriage accident, tragically soon after their marriage.’
‘Five or six years ago, wasn’t it?’ Giles asked, scanning through memory.
‘Yes. Besides that, her brother doesn’t care for politics. Which means the man who marries Lady Margaret will not only gain a wife with extensive political expertise, but also inherit all the power and influence the marquess would otherwise have expended on behalf of his son.’
‘A shame she supports the wrong party,’ Giles said. ‘Not that I’ve any interest in marriage, of course.’
‘A greater shame, if reports I’ve heard about the lady’s charm and wit are true, to waste even someone from the wrong party on George.’
Just then, the door slammed open and two men hurried in. With a wave of his hand towards the stacks of paper on the table, the first, Christopher Lattimar, MP for Derbyshire
, cried, ‘Forget the committee reports, Giles! The session’s going to be dissolved!’
‘Truly, Christopher?’ David interposed. Looking up at the last arrival, Benedict Tawny, MP for Launton, he asked, ‘Is it certain, Ben?’
‘For once, Christopher isn’t joking,’ Ben replied, his handsome face lit with excitement. ‘Grey’s tired of the Tories making endless delays. He’s going to take the issue to the people. Which means a new election!’
‘That’s great news!’ Giles cried. ‘Sweep the Tories out, and the Reform Bill will be sure to pass! Equal representation for every district, a vote for every freeholder, an end to domination by the landed class—everything we’ve dreamed of since Oxford!’
‘An end to rotten boroughs, for sure,’ David said. ‘I doubt we’ll get the rest—yet. Though I’m not sure why, as a future earl, the rest is so important to you, Giles. To any of you, really. I’m the only one here not of the “landed class”.’
‘You’re the son of a farmer—which makes you “landed” by occupation,’ Christopher said with a grin.
‘My late father’s occupation, not mine,’ David replied. ‘I’d be lucky to tell a beet seed from a turnip.’
‘Whether we get the reforms all at once or by stages, it’s still a landmark day—which calls for a toast!’ Ben said. Stepping to the door, he called out, ‘Mr Ransen, a round of ale for the group, if you please.’
‘Did you truly believe, when we sat around in that dingy little tavern in Oxford recasting the future, that we would ever see this day?’ David asked, shaking his head with the wonder of it. ‘Our views certainly weren’t very popular then.’
‘Neither were we, except with the inn’s doxies. What a mismatched set!’ Christopher laughed. ‘Me, ostensibly the son of a baron, but really the offspring of one of Mother’s lovers, as the snide were ever fond of remarking. Giles, ostensibly heir to an earldom, but estranged from his father, with the favoured half-brother dogging his heels, practically panting with eagerness to step into his shoes.’
‘And making it clear to our classmates that, should he attain that earldom, he’d not forgive or forget anyone who befriended me,’ Giles added, suppressing the bitterness that always simmered beneath the surface.
‘Then there was me, illegitimate son of a lowly governess,’ Ben chimed in. ‘The snide never tired of recalling that fact, either.’
‘But all still gentry born,’ Davie said. ‘Unlike this true commoner. It’s selfish, I know, but I’m glad you three never quite fit in with your peers. I can’t imagine how lonely Oxford would have been otherwise.’
‘You wouldn’t have been lonely,’ Christopher replied. ‘You’re too clever. You always knew the answers, no matter the subject or the don. Who else could have coached us so well?’
Before his friend could reply, the innkeeper walked in with their ale. Claiming glasses, the four friends raised their mugs.
‘To Giles, our impatient leader; to Davie, our philosophical guide; to our rabble-rouser, Ben; and to the final accomplishment of our dreams,’ Christopher said. ‘To the Hellions!’
‘To the Hellions!’ the others repeated, and clinked their mugs.
While the others drank, Davie turned to Giles. ‘A new election means new strategy. Will you campaign?’
‘I’ll make a run through the district,’ Giles said, ‘but my seat’s secure. I’ll probably go canvass in some of the boroughs we’re still contesting. Maybe we can pry more of them out of the hands of the local landowners.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe we can even steal some away from the father of the oh-so-accomplished Lady Margaret.’
Davie laughed. ‘I hear his seats are pretty secure. But by all means, give it a try.’
Giles downed the last of his ale. ‘I just might.’
Chapter One
A month later, from her seat in the open carriage in front of the hustings in the market town of Chellingham, Lady Margaret Roberts smiled out at the crowd. ‘You will all turn out for the election tomorrow, won’t you? I’d be most grateful if you’d vote for my cousin, Mr Armsburn! I assure you, he will do his very best to serve your interests in Parliament.’
‘If he promises to send you back every time he needs a vote, it’s his!’ one of the men next to the carriage declared.
‘Aye, and mine, too, for such a pretty smile,’ the man beside him shouted.
‘Thank you, gentleman,’ she replied, blowing each of them a kiss. The crowd’s roar of approval made her laugh and blow another.
Ah, how she loved this! The excitement of the milling crowds, the rising anticipation on election day as the votes were given, knowing that the winner would take his place in Parliament and help forge the destiny of the nation. The thought that she might in some small way have a part in the making of history was a thrill that never faded.
Since the bitter pain of losing her husband Robbie, resuming the role of her father’s hostess and political assistant had been her chief pleasure in life, the only pursuit that distracted her from grief.
The love of her life might be gone, but there was still important work to do. Or at least, she told herself so in the loneliness of her solitary bed.
Pulling herself from her reverie, she looked up—and met a gaze so arresting she instinctively sucked in a breath. Deep-blue eyes—like lapis sparkling in moonlight, she thought disjointedly—held her mesmerised, the pull so strong she felt as if she were being drawn physically closer to him.
And then she realised they were closer. The owner of those magnificent eyes was making his way through the crowd towards her carriage. At the realisation, her heartbeat accelerated and a shock of anticipation sizzled along her nerves.
Those fascinating eyes, she noted as he slowly approached, were set in a strong, lean face with a purposeful nose, sharp chin and wide brow over which curled a luxuriant thatch of blue-black hair. The gentleman was tall enough that his broad shoulders, clad in a jacket of Melton green, remained visible as he forced his way through the crowd.
Just as he drew near enough for her to note the sensual fullness of his lips, he gave her a knowing smile, sending a shiver of sensation over her skin.
How could he make her feel so naked while she was still fully clothed?
And then he was before her, smiling still as he extended his hand.
‘How could I not wish to shake the hand of so lovely a lady?’ he asked, his deep voice vibrating in her ears like a caress. And though she normally drew back from physical contact when there were so many pressing close, she found herself offering her hand.
His grip was as strong and assured as she’d known it would be. Waves of sensation danced up her arm as he clasped her fingers, and for a moment, she could hardly breathe. If she were given to melodrama, she might have swooned.
Taking a deep breath, she shook her head, trying to recover her equilibrium. ‘I hope you will be equally amicable about according your vote to Mr Armsburn?’ she asked, pleased her voice held a calm she was far from feeling.
His smile faded. ‘I hate to disoblige a lady, but I’m afraid I’m here to support Mr Reynolds.’
‘The radical Mr Reynolds? Oh, dear!’ she exclaimed, her disappointment greater than it should have been. ‘I fear our politics will not be in agreement, then, Mr—’
Before the gentleman could answer, a tide of men washed out of the tavern across the street. ‘Free beer, free men, free vote!’ they chanted, pushing into the square. From the corner, a group of men wearing the green armbands of her cousin’s supporters surged forward. ‘Tories for justice!’ they cried, shoving against the free-vote supporters. Several of the tussling men fell back against her horse, causing the gelding to rear up and fight the traces. Alarmed, she tugged on the reins, but the panicked animal fought the bit.
The gentleman jumped forward to seize the bridle, settling the nervous horse bac
k on his feet. ‘You should get away in case this turns ugly,’ he advised. Making liberal use of his cane to clear a path, he led the horse and carriage through the throng and on to a side street.
‘There’s a quiet inn down Farmer’s Lane,’ he told her when they’d turned the corner. ‘I’ll see you safely there, then locate your cousin.’
She opened her lips to assure him she’d be fine on her own, but in truth, the sudden rancour of the crowd, the shouts and sounds of scuffling still reaching them from the square, disturbed her more than she wished to admit. ‘I would appreciate that,’ she said instead.
Within a few moments, they reached the inn, the gentlemen sent the horse and carriage off with an ostler and offered her his arm into the establishment. ‘A private parlour for Lady Margaret, and some cheese and ale,’ he told the innkeeper who hurried to greet them.
‘At once, sir, my lady!’ the proprietor said, ushering them to a small room off the busy taproom.
Once she was inside, shielded from the view of the curious, the gentleman bowed. ‘It is Lady Margaret, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But I don’t believe we have been introduced, have we? I’m sure I would have remembered you.’ No woman under ninety with eyes in her head and any sense of appreciation for the male of the species could have met this man and forgotten him.
‘We’ve not been formally presented—a lapse I am delighted to rectify. But the Borough of Chellingham has long been in the pocket of the Marquess of Witlow, so what other lovely lady could be canvassing for his candidate than his daughter, the celebrated Lady Margaret?’
‘Oh, dear! That makes me sound rather...notorious.’
He shook his head. ‘Admired and respected—even by your opponents. I don’t believe the squabbles outside will escalate into actual violence, but with “free beer” and elections, one can’t be sure. Promise me you’ll remain here until your cousin can fetch you. Though I cannot help but feel a man lucky to have so lovely a canvasser working on his behalf should take better care of her.’
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