Mercy came to him and he wrapped her in his arms and held her close. “I can’t believe how brilliantly you played. When have you had time to rehearse?” he asked.
Mercy shot a grin in the direction of Lord Grant. “I have a small confession. Sometimes when I told you I was going wedding shopping; I was actually coming here to Banfield House to practice. Callum and Owen have been rehearsing with me, while Reid and Marco have kept you busy.”
Kendal feigned outrage at such a wicked scheme. “You are a naughty girl. I can see I am going to have to keep an eye on you,” he said.
She shook her head. “I might be Lady Hartley, but I still know my way around London far better than you. You will have to bring your best game if you are going to keep up with me.”
Lady Hartley. Now that was a name, he could get used to hearing Mercy say.
“My clever Mercy. I am so proud of you. And beyond happy that from today you are forever mine.”
Kendal had finally found his muse, his love, and he would never let her go.
Chapter Forty-Three
Mercy stirred from slumber as Kendal slipped into the bedroom in the late afternoon. He held a folded up document in his hand. She rubbed her eyes, wiping the sleep away. The sun’s shadow on the wall had drifted since she had closed her eyes.
“What time is it?” she asked.
He came over to the bed and sat beside her, brushing a kiss softly on her lips. He went to pull away, then came back for a second one. “It’s almost five. You, Lady Sleepyhead, have been napping since two o’clock.”
Mercy had never realized how tiring making a baby could be, but after she’d fallen asleep at the piano in the early afternoon, Kendal had insisted she go and rest.
She looked at the paper in his hand. “What do you have there?”
The smile on his face grew wide. “It’s a letter from Phillip and Randolph, from Greece. How amazing is that—a letter travelling all that way and coming to us here in England?”
She couldn’t imagine how such a thing was possible.
“Apparently Phillip found someone who was sailing back to London and penned a note. It arrived at Banfield House this morning, and after my parents and Ophelia had read it, my father sent it over to us.”
Kendal lifted some pillows from his side of the bed and stuffed them behind Mercy as she sat up. Propped comfortably on the pillows, her hand resting on her now-visible baby bump, she waited for news of her brother-in-law and Randolph. “Well, come on. What does it say?”
He opened the letter. “Apparently Greece is very warm and both he and Randolph enjoy the sunshine immensely. They have made some friends with the local English community in Patras and are both taking lessons in order to learn Greek. Unfortunately, the Greeks don’t use the Latin or Roman alphabet so all those years of Phillip studying Latin have not been any help.”
“Oh dear.”
“When they arrived, everyone assumed they were cousins, and so they have decided to keep things simple and not say anything else,” added Kendal.
It was sad to think that Phillip and Randolph would never be able to openly show their love for one another, but what they had away from England was more than they could ever have had at home.
“I wonder if we could write to them. It would be wonderful to let them know of our happy news,” she said.
“Marco has some connections who run trade out of the east coast of Italy and across to Greece. With the war in Europe now at an end, there is a lot more shipping passing through the Mediterranean from England. Hopefully he can get a letter on board a boat from here soon and then pass it onto a ship sailing to Patras.”
The joy on Kendal’s face had Mercy wiping away tears. With pregnancy she found herself often tearing-up at the slightest of things.
“You silly thing,” he gently chided.
“I know. I am such a watering pot. I can’t believe I cried over that piece by Beethoven you played this morning.”
Kendal hopped off the bed, then scooted around to the other side and climbed on next to Mercy. He took hold of her hand and raised it to his lips. “Yes, you did have me wondering at that. Now if it was Mozart that made you cry, I could understand. I have shed more than a few tears over him.”
Mercy laughed. Mozart had made her cry. When Kendal and the rest of the Noble Lords had struck up the ‘Marriage of Figaro’ right at the end of the wedding ball, Owen’s wife, Amy, had quickly run out of handkerchiefs as she handed them to a weeping Mercy.
“We shall just have to write more music over the next few months, create some compositions that don’t have me all a blubbering mess,” she said.
Kendal laid his hand softly on Mercy’s belly and gave it a gentle rub. The look of joy on his face had her biting down on her bottom lip. She had been born to love this man, to spend her life with him. And every day she would give thanks that he had gifted her his love.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, but I don’t know about us writing anymore music,” he said.
She looked at him. Why wouldn’t he want to create more music? This was Kendal; he lived to bring new melodies into the world. The concertos he had written with her help over the past couple of months were some of the most magnificent pieces of music Mercy had ever heard.
He reached over and kissed her on the lips.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Well, alright, we might write some more music, but nothing will ever come close to the child our love has created. In my heart, I am certain that this baby will be our greatest composition ever.”
Epilogue
Late September 1816
Manchester, England
* * *
He was late, but Marco Calvino was a patient man; one who believed firmly in the adage that revenge was a dish best served cold. To get even with the man who had stolen almost everything from him and his friends, he was prepared to wait.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stamped his feet. England was a cold place even in the early days of autumn. His Venetian blood would never get used to the chill of English weather.
“You look cold, my friend,” said Reid.
“I don’t know why you are shivering. This is positively balmy weather for Manchester. In fact, I almost forwent my coat,” added Owen.
Marco shot them both a sideways glance. He had been around the Noble Lords long enough to know that they were full of merda, or what the English called shit. They all seemed to live to tease and outrageously insult one another.
He loved it.
It made being this far away from his home and family that much easier.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” asked Marco.
“Yes,” replied Kendal.
Callum nodded. “Kendal’s spy had it right. I know Manchester well; I was based here for some of my military training. If the blackguard who stole your money and left you and your cousins on the verge of destitution is staying at Andrew’s Hotel, he will have to pass this way tonight.”
The fire of rage which continued to simmer in Marco’s belly was the only thing keeping him warm. The burning need to get revenge his reason for remaining in England. Until he had made Floyd Rowe pay for stealing from him, he could not go home to Venice and face his father. The Calvino family honor was at stake.
And his family’s honor meant everything to him.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, the five friends fell silent and took a step back into the darkness of the laneway.
Marco gritted his teeth as the familiar tune that Rowe was always whistling drifted to his ears. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. Adrenaline coursed through his body at a fierce rate.
It was him. The long weeks of waiting to confront Rowe were almost at an end. He could have done this alone, but it was good that he had men such as the Noble Lords at his back. Men who knew about honor and who also knew how to fight.
Kendal tapped him on the shoulder; he turned and
nodded. Reid held up one finger—the signal for how long they should wait. If they made their move too soon, they risked spooking Rowe and having him slip through their fingers.
After what felt like an eternity, Reid whispered, “Now, but keep well back.”
As Marco stepped out from the shadows, the others followed close behind.
Floyd Rowe was about to regret that he had ever met Marco Calvino.
Promised to the Swedish Prince
* * *
A fake engagement with one rule only. Don’t fall in love.
* * *
Swedish Prince Christian Lind is a prince in name only. As the youngest son of a youngest son, there is no fancy castle or vast wealth awaiting him.
His country has become a side player in the grand politics of Europe, so in order to make his mark he journeys to the one place where it is all happening. London.
Christian’s childhood friend, Countess Erika Jansson is based in the British capital helping her father who is attached to the Swedish envoy.
Erika speaks perfect English, she knows all the right people, and most importantly she offers to help Christian with his plans to become an influential diplomat.
But as individuals the walls of society are set high against them, and they quickly discover that they will need to work together in order to succeed.
They come up with a clever plan. A fake engagement.
After an elegant betrothal ball, Christian and Erika quickly become the darlings of the London social scene.
But brief touches and heated glances soon have them both wondering if there is more to their relationship than just old friends helping one another.
One stolen, passionate kiss, changes everything.
This is a lively, and at times steamy tale of two people discovering the truth that home is not only always where you think it is.
Promised to the Swedish Prince is a standalone book in the London Lords Series.
Pre-order your copy here!
Reid
* * *
Regency Rockstars
* * *
1816
* * *
The war against Napoleon has been won. For those nobles who fought at the battle of Waterloo, the rewards have come freely from the scandalous women of London high society.
Reid Follett, Owen Morrison, Callum Sharp and Kendal Grant have had unfettered access to the charms of every lady who takes their fancy. They have had their pick of any woman they wish to bed.
Until now…
With the war having been over for a year, the luster of being celebrated war heroes is beginning to fade. When a group of hot, supremely talented Italian musicians arrive in London and begin to tear up the social scene, the English lords suddenly find themselves having to fight to keep the sexual favors of the wild women of the ton.
But Reid, Owen, Callum and Kendal are determined to defend their territory and decide to take the Italians on at their own game. The Noble Lords quartet is born.
What follows is everything that makes Rockstar Romance so great. Outrageous egos, shocking scandals, and of course wicked sex. And somewhere in the heart of it all is the music.
The Regency Rockstars series is a new twist on Historical Romance and Rockstar Romance.
Stories of war-scarred English lords who are bad boy musicians and the women who dare to love them.
London 1816
Something was seriously amiss with Reid Follett’s plan. He clenched his fists tightly and swore under his breath. The Follett Plan, as he had privately dubbed it, was ironclad, infallible. A plan so cunning and cocksure he should have letters patent taken out on it.
Upon arriving at whichever party, ball, or private soiree he had decided to attend that evening, he would hand over his coat to a footman. Next, he would seek out the closest tray of drinks and avail himself of the largest glass of brandy. With drink in hand, he would then take a slow turn about the room, greeting various guests and, of course, the party host as he went.
A small chat here, a welcome kiss there. All the while, his gaze would be roaming the room, searching. His primal brain would note which of the haute ton’s sexually promiscuous women were in attendance. Like a stallion seeking out mares in heat, his lustful instincts would soon find the right one.
Brief flirtatious glances would be exchanged, encouraging smiles given. He would never be so crass as to make a cold, direct approach. Women were always keen to bed him.
After making his way over to the lady of his choosing, the full seduction would begin. It required little effort on his part. He was Lord Reid Follett, hero of the Battle of Waterloo. The Follett Plan had never let him down.
Until now.
Across the room, he sighted his prey. Lord Keating’s wife. She batted her eyelids at him and flicked open her fan.
Here we go. About bloody time.
His cock twitched at the prospect of some hard bed action. Lady Keating was one of his regulars.
A quick glance around the room and he spied Lord Keating sidling up to someone else’s wife. Reid did prefer to wait until the husband of his lust object was not in sight before making his move. A jealous spouse could make for an ugly scene.
He took a step toward Lady Keating, a charming greeting ready for her. As he approached, she blinked slowly, then turned her head.
A soft smile appeared on her lips as she greeted another guest—a tall, dark-haired gentleman who immediately bowed low to her. When he placed a kiss on Lady Keating’s hand, she all but melted for him.
“Shit,” muttered Reid.
As he passed by Lady Keating and her gentleman friend, Reid caught the lilt of an Italian accent.
“Tesoro mio, Lady Keating. It means ‘my treasure,’ which you truly are. Would you like to take a turn about the garden with me?”
Reid saw red. The Italian had beaten him to the prize.
He was still trying to calm his temper when from out of the crowded gathering he spied his friend approaching. He nodded in greeting. “Owen.”
Lord Morrison was Owen to his closest associates and the numerous women he had bedded. The list of ladies in London who could refer to him by his first name was long and illustrious.
“You look ready to do bloody murder,” said Owen.
“If I could find a loaded pistol I would do just that. I had Lord Keating’s wife lined up for some bed sport. She had given me all the right signals, even did some of that fancy fan work just to make sure I got the message. But no sooner had I taken a single step in her direction, than one of those bloody Italians stepped in and snapped her up,” Reid replied.
Owen nodded. “Yes, well, an Italian stole Mrs. Timms right from under my nose. I went to get a glass of wine for her, but by the time I came back she was slipping her arm in his and whispering sweet nothings to him. The blackguard didn’t even have the good manners to look embarrassed by what he had done. He just gave me a self-satisfied smirk as he led her away. The bastard.”
With the pick of the crop now gone, Reid was facing the ugly and unusual prospect of going home with his lust unsated. He shook his head in disbelief. Had he lost his touch?
One unwed young miss in a pale cream gown attempted to practice her come hither smile with him, but Reid only frowned at her.
“Not until you have a husband who has broken you in, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath.
“So much for being bloody war heroes,” grumbled Owen.
Reid downed the last of his brandy and snorted in disgust. Three times this week his efforts to woo the wayward wives of the ton had come unstuck at the hands of the newest arrivals on the social scene. It was starting to become an unwelcome habit.
“Who are these chaps, and why have they suddenly descended upon our hunting grounds? It’s just not on. I am sure the tupping of our women is against some international treaty or something,” he huffed.
Owen raised an eyebrow.
“It’s enough to make you want to go and get yourself a wife. If I
had one, I wouldn’t have to fend off these sorts of attacks just to get my itch scratched,” Reid added.
The look of abject horror which appeared on Owen’s face had Reid laughing. He gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “Don’t faint away, sweetie. I was only in jest.”
“I think my heart might have just missed a beat or two. I need another brandy, and quick smart,” replied Owen.
“Sorry to have frightened you. But seriously, we need to do something about this situation before we are forced to consider those sorts of drastic measures. The whole thing is threatening to get out of hand.”
Heaven forbid a man would give up the enjoyment of private dalliances with a different woman every night in exchange for seeing the same woman under him for the rest of his days.
Wives were more trouble than they were worth, if the matrons of the ton were anything to go by. A chap would have to be either mad or madly in love to take one on. Reid was sure of his sanity, and love was a foolish notion meant only for the poets. In his book, there was nothing worse than seeing a fellow lothario taken down in his prime by one of Cupid’s arrows.
Thankfully there were enough society marriages based purely on practical grounds such as money, power, and bloodlines for there to be plenty of women prepared to stray.
“The time will come when we will both have to address the issue of heirs, but I plan to be sporting a few more grey hairs before then,” replied Owen.
Reid shuddered at the prospect of having a wife and a family. One day it would have to happen; he had a title and an estate to pass on. But he had plenty of wild oats yet to sew before putting his head into the parson’s noose.
He grabbed Owen and himself another brandy from a passing footman. He finished his in three quick gulps. The brandy burned his throat as it went down, but nothing could stir the chill in his loins.
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