by Isobel Carr
Devere waved his cup high, and the landlord’s daughter appeared scant seconds later with a pot of steaming coffee. He heaped lump after lump of sugar into his cup until Gareth nearly gagged at the thought of drinking it.
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Devere asked. “You’ll be back for our cricket match, won’t you?”
“Cricket’s a sacred trust, especially when it’s us versus the chuffs from Eton. Even my father wouldn’t seek to prevent my returning for that.” Gareth grinned and topped off his own cup.
“Bloody Etonians.” Devere blew on his coffee, steam curling up and obscuring his eyes for a moment. “It’s Harrow forever, and we’ll show them this year as we have for the past ten.”
“Now, now,” a deep voice scolded from the door, and Anthony Thane crossed to join them. “League first; school second.”
Gareth watched as the largest of his friends settled onto a chair that appeared far too small to hold him. Thane was certainly tall enough to be in the running for Beau’s hand, but like himself, Thane was hobbled by his status as a second son. That and his position as an MP.
If Thane ever did marry, it would be to someone who could be a brilliant political hostess, not to a girl who preferred hunts to the balls that followed them and hobnobbing with dusty squires to playing games of political intrigue with the king’s courtiers.
“League first, now and always,” Devere agreed. “But all such bets are off when it comes to cricket. You shall be on one side, and we shall be on the other.”
Thane chuckled, showing an expanse of teeth that seemed almost predatory. “Enemies on the field; friends off it. You should be aware that we have a new man. A bowler of unusual skill. Crawley’s youngest brother. He’s seventeen and preparing to take orders. But for now”—his smile grew—“he’s all ours.”
Devere grinned in return. “I wish you luck with your Crawleys, but I doubt one green boy will make the difference.”
Thane nodded sagely, but a confident smile lurked in the corner of his mouth. “We shall see. Our luck has to turn eventually.”
Gareth sipped his coffee, letting the bitter liquid linger on his tongue, and settled in to watch his friends bicker. It was likely to be the last amusing conversation in his life for several weeks, knowing Souttar.
Beau stepped out of the circulating library on Pall Mall and was nearly bowled over by a mob of running boys. Curses flew between them as they dodged around her in a swirling mass. The ball they were kicking bounced off the window of a passing carriage, earning them a rebuke from the driver, who pulled to, the axles groaning in protest at the sudden change in speed.
“My lady?” Beau’s footman eyed the roving pack of boys with distrust.
“I’m fine, Boaz. Just apprentices on the loose.”
“Yes, my lady.” As he spoke, his eyes widened, and he dropped the carefully wrapped stack of books that he was carrying and lunged for her.
Hands grabbed her from behind, dragging her into the stopped coach. Boaz was shouting furiously; she could hear him even after the door shut behind her. He hit the side of the coach hard enough to rock it, but the coach rolled into motion all the same, leaving him and his tirade behind.
Beau flailed, hands fisted, feet lashing out. Her foot connected with some part of her abductor. He yelped, and then she was being crushed into the seat, the man’s weight bearing down on her. Further struggle became impossible. Futile.
Musk flooded her nostrils, the man’s cologne so strong that it choked her. Nowlin. Her eyes watered, and she held her breath, trying to clear her head. This close, inside the small coach, the scent was overwhelming.
“Get. Off. Me.” Beau lay still, heart beating madly, as though it might claw its way out of her chest. The seat creaked and sagged as Nowlin finally clambered off her.
“Oh, my darling, tell me I’ve not hurt you.”
Beau clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. His Irish lilt didn’t make his preposterous blandishments one jot less ridiculous. Her pulse dropped so suddenly she felt dizzy. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the dark interior of the coach. He sat poised near the door, a patently false smile lifting the corner of his lips.
“Mr. Nowlin. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? We’re eloping, my sweet love.”
Beau’s throat tightened. She’d been abducted before. Her fortune almost guaranteed such rough-and-ready attempts to acquire it, and she seemed cursed to inspire acts of deluded romance. But neither of the men who’d attempted to gain her hand and dowry had been a mere acquaintance as this one was. “Mr. Nowlin.” She laced her voice with steel, doing her best impression of her father. “Stop this coach and put me down at once.”
“Can’t do that.” His smile grew, cocking up on one side. “Can’t, my sweet love. We must make haste.”
“Do stop calling me that. You sound like a moonling.” She struggled with her hat, which seemed to have been irrevocably crushed and was now drooping over her eyes.
A hearty laugh answered her, and she felt the first flush of real concern. She freed the ribbon that held her hat and stared down at the broken circle of straw.
Her father and brothers would catch them long before they reached Scotland—of that she had no doubt—but she’d been warned not to get herself into any more scrapes. A wave of panic radiated through her limbs.
Her brother had suggested that perhaps they should have left her to Granby. But this was entirely different. Granby had admittedly been one of her flirts. One of her favorites. A man who might, in his wildest imaginations, have convinced himself that she would welcome his advances, even if her father wouldn’t. Nowlin was very nearly a stranger. She’d only ever danced with him the once, for heaven’s sake.
Leo couldn’t be so cruel. He wouldn’t. She forced herself to breathe and watched Nowlin for any hint that he might be creeping toward her. If he touched her, she couldn’t possibly be held responsible for what she might do.
Her stomach threatened to turn itself inside out as he turned to look at her, but her glare kept him pinned firmly in place. He didn’t look like a man inflamed by love—or even lust—and there was something grim about his eyes. Something serious that belied his smile.
Beau swallowed and hunched into the corner, refusing to give in. Panic and terror wouldn’t serve her at all. At some point, they’d have to stop. They’d have to change horses, and he’d have to let her out of the coach. It was six days or more to Scotland. She simply had to be ready to seize whatever opportunity for escape presented itself. She’d done it before, and she could do it again.
When they stopped for the first change, Nowlin sat with his foot propped up on the opposite seat and his leg pressed hard against the door, barring the only exit. At the sound of a knock, he dropped the window. A cool breeze, promising rain, washed over her. Beau found herself inhaling deeply, as though there’d been not enough air inside the coach.
Nowlin took a parcel wrapped in brown paper from his servant and shut the window up with a loud bang the moment that the coachman’s hand disappeared. Beau sagged back into the squabs. Tension drained out of her. This stop offered her nothing, no chance of escape, no opportunity to bolt.
Once the coach was back in motion, Nowlin unwrapped the paper and offered her a small loaf of brown bread and a chunk of grayish cheese. Beau took the bread and gnawed on it in silence, shuddering at the thought of even touching the cheese. The stench alone was enough to set her stomach roiling.
Her abductor shrugged one elegantly clad shoulder. “There’s scant time for hot meals taken in taprooms, so you’d best learn to make do. No? Have it your way.” He ate her portion in two healthy bites and washed it all down with the contents of his flask.
Beau methodically chewed the leathery crust of the bread. She was certainly hungry, but not hungry enough to eat that cheese. Not yet, anyway. A few more missed meals and she might be regretting her choice.
A few miles on Nowlin tapped the roof and
the carriage rolled to a halt. He flicked his gaze over her and climbed out. The scrape and a thunk told her that he’d latched the door shut from the outside. Beau eyed the small window in the door. If she took off the pads that held out her petticoats, she might be able to squeeze through… but her bright, floral jacket would be all too visible if she was forced to run. She might as well be waving a flag.
Beau peeled off her gloves and took her purse from her pocket. She hurriedly counted the coins. Nearly a pound. Plenty of pocket money for an afternoon’s shopping, but not nearly enough to get her home even if she could somehow manage to slip away from Nowlin.
Beau cursed under her breath and shoved the purse back into her pocket. Even with her brothers both out of town and her father likely ensconced at his club, the wheels of her rescue must already be in motion. Boaz would have seen to it.
Leo might have threatened to leave her to her fate in a fit of anger, but surely he wouldn’t actually do so. Beau worried the seam of her glove with her teeth. No, even if Leo wouldn’t come for her, her father would.
Of that she was sure.
Shadows lengthened as they rolled swiftly northward. Shivering, Beau rummaged through the small storage spaces under the seats: empty wine bottles, a single woman’s shoe, a scanty wool blanket, slightly moth-eaten, and smelling oddly of dog and mold. What was more telling was what was missing. There was no gun. Either there never had been one, or Nowlin knew better than to leave her alone with one. Aside from the bottles, there was nothing to arm herself with, not even a traveling set with a dull knife.
Still shivering, she curled up under the blanket, the sturdiest of the bottles clutched in her hand.
Also by Isobel Carr
Ripe for Pleasure
Ripe for Scandal
Praise for
The League of Second Sons Series
Ripe for Scandal
“With her witty dialogue and tender romance, Carr draws readers into her marriage-of-convenience plotline that delves into what happens when the couple falls in love and then struggles to build a strong marriage against the odds. It’s a lesson all can savor.”
—RT Book Reviews
“An exciting tale of sensuous romance, seduction, and misunderstandings… An appealing mixture of fun and danger, I was soon caught up in Ripe for Scandal… Isobel Carr is an author I will watch for in the future.”
—RomRevToday.com
“An enjoyable Georgian romance… With an intelligent marriage of (in) convenience plot, the second League of Second Sons is a fabulous tale.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
“I really connected with both Beau and Gareth. And I enjoyed their happily ever after. Beau is a strong and sassy heroine who believes in going after what she wants, and Gareth complements her so well. I like the idea of the League of Second Sons, and will be checking out future stories in the series.”
—RomanceNovelNews.com
Ripe for Pleasure
“Carr is a born storyteller. She enriches her sensual tale with colorful details, suspense, a treasure hunt, and charming, delightful characters… The fast pace and added humor will have readers eagerly awaiting the next novel in the League of Second Sons series.”
—RT Book Reviews
“With sensual and witty characters, sexy love scenes, a hint of mystery, and evildoers, Ripe for Pleasure is simply intoxicating… An exciting start to a wonderful series. I will be eagerly looking forward to the next one.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Charming… Filled with adventure, action, a treasure hunt, and romance, Ripe for Pleasure is the perfect summer romance book… One of my favorites! A quick read that will have you turning the pages. I cannot wait to read what comes next in the series.”
—Renees-Reads.blogspot.com
“Fun and steamy… If you’re in the mood to leave the reality of life for a while, you just might want to pick up this book and lose yourself within its pages. I found it a delightful read.”
—SeducedByABook.com
“Delightful… Tense throughout yet fully ‘ripe’ with humor. Sub-genre fans will enjoy this charming late-eighteenth-century tale.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
“This book is worth every cent if you are looking for… lots of steamy sex. Seriously, this is one amazing debut, and the League of Second Sons… promises to provide enough intrigue to keep this series going for a long time… I can’t wait to get my hands on [the next book].”
—Book Hounds (Maryinhb.blogspot.com)
“Enticingly intoxicating… Jealousy, scandal, gossip, and passion is what this book delivers. A must-read for all fans of Isobel Carr. I’m so looking forward to the next book.”
—HistoricalRomanceBooksCa.blogspot.com
“A solid historical read with just enough variety in the characters to keep it fresh. I can’t wait to read the second book.”
—TheBookBinge.com
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THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Katie Lane
Dear Reader,
Have you ever pulled up to a stoplight and looked over to see the person in the car next to you singing like they’re auditioning for American Idol? They’re boppin’ their head and thumpin’ the steering wheel like some crazy loon. Well, I’m one of those crazy loons. I love to sing. I’m not any good at it, but that doesn’t stop me. I sing in the shower. I sing while cooking dinner and cleaning house. And I sing along with the car radio at the top of my lungs. Singing calms my nerves, boosts my energy, and inspires me, which is exactly how my new Deep in the Heart of Texas novel came about.
One morning, I woke up with the theme song to the musical The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas rolling around in my head. You know the one I’m talking about: “It’s just a little bitty pissant country place…” The song stayed with me for the rest of the day, along with the image of a bunch of fun-loving women singing and dancing about “nothin’ dirty going on.” A hundred verses later, about the time my husband was ready to pull out the duct tape, I had an exciting idea for my new novel.
My editor wasn’t quite as excited.
“A what?” she asked, and she stared at me exactly like the people who catch me singing at a stoplight.
She relaxed when I explained that it wasn’t a functioning house of ill repute. The last rooster flew the coop years ago. Now Miss Hattie’s Henhouse is nothing more than a dilapidated old mansion with three old women living in it. Three old women who have big plans to bring Miss Hattie’s back to its former glory. The only thing that stands in their way is a virginal librarian who holds the deed to the house and a smokin’ hot cowboy who is bent on revenge for his great-grandfather’s murder.
Yes, there will be singing, dancing, and just a wee bit of “dirty going on.” And of course, all the folks of Bramble, Texas, will be back to make sure their librarian gets a happy ending.
I hope you’ll join me there!
Best wishes,
From the desk of Amanda Scott
Dear Reader,
What happens when a self-reliant Highland lass possessing extraordinary “gifts” meets a huge, shaggy warrior wounded in body and spirit, to whom she is strongly attracted, until she learns that he is immune to her gifts and that her father believes the man is the perfect husband for her?
What if the warrior is a prisoner of her father’s worst enemy, who escaped after learning of a dire threat to the young King of Scots, recently returned from years of English captivity and struggling to take command of his unruly realm?
Lady Andrena MacFarlan, heroine of THE LAIRD’S CHOICE, the first book in my Lairds of the Loch trilogy, is just such a
lass; and escaped Highland-galley slave and warrior Magnus “Mag” Galbraith is such a man. He is also dutiful and believes that his first duty is to the King.
I decided to set the trilogy in the Highlands west of Loch Lomond and soon realized that I wanted a mythological theme and three heroines with mysterious gifts, none of which was Second Sight. We authors have exploited the Sight for years. In doing so, many of us have endowed our characters with gifts far beyond the original meaning, which to Highlanders was the rare ability of a person to “see” an event while it was happening (usually the death of a loved one in distant battle).
It occurred to me, however, that many of us today possess mysterious “gifts.” We can set a time in our heads to waken, and we wake right on time. Others enjoy flawless memories or hearing so acute that they hear sounds above and/or below normal ranges—bats’ cries, for example. How about those who, without reason, dream of dangers to loved ones, then learn that such things have happened? Or those who sense in the midst of an event that they have dreamed the whole thing before and know what will happen?
Why do some people seem to communicate easily with animals when others cannot? Many can time baking without a timer, but what about those truly spooky types who walk to the oven door just before the timer goes—every time—as if the thing had whispered that it was about to go off?
Warriors develop extraordinary abilities. Their hearing becomes more acute; their sense of smell grows stronger. Prisoners of war find that all their senses increase. Their peripheral vision even widens.
In days of old, certain phenomena that we do not understand today might well have been more common and more closely heeded.
