by Lara Temple
Under cover of a turn in the dance, Genevieve tried to put more distance between them. Kit noted her resistance and his hand slipped a little lower, coaxing her into a twirl.
He returned her deftly to their original position, but now they were even closer than before. Worse, his hand kept shifting slightly against the small of her back in a way that was probably not apparent to observers but would have merited a sharp rebuke from any respectable partner.
“I am appreciating your tactics, my lord. They are most...persuasive. Though at the moment they are sitting rather a shade too low on my back. I think if you shift your hand a tad higher, you could achieve the same effect without risking gossip.”
“Like this?”
His words were as smooth as his hand as it eased the silk of her gown against her back, his fingers finding and tracing her spine until they reached the stiff barrier of her stays. His finger teased that line and the tingling continued its path unimpeded, wrapping around her ribs, over her shoulders, creeping up her cheeks.
It was all done as he turned her from the very edge of the dance floor, and by the time they were back in the fray of the other dancers, his hand was decorously settled precisely where the strictest of dancing masters would approve.
LARA TEMPLE
A Match for the
Rebellious Earl
Lara Temple was three years old when she begged her mother to take dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life: by day an investment and high-tech professional who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls, she loses herself in history and romance—at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help weave it all together.
Books by Lara Temple
Harlequin Historical
Lord Crayle’s Secret World
The Reluctant Viscount
The Duke’s Unexpected Bride
The Return of the Rogues
The Return of the Disappearing Duke
A Match for the Rebellious Earl
The Sinful Sinclairs
The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge
The Rake’s Enticing Proposal
The Lord’s Inconvenient Vow
The Lochmore Legacy
Unlaced by the Highland Duke
Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies
Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress
Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal
Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Excerpt from Her Banished Knight’s Redemption by Melissa Oliver
Chapter One
‘Useless fops...’ thump ‘...the lot of them!’ thump ‘What is the point...’ thump ‘...of having a stable of stallions...’ thump ‘...if not one of them has sired an heir?’
Thump, thump, whack!
Genny straightened the small table that had fallen victim to Lady Westford’s enthusiastic cane-wielding. Her tantrums were always accompanied by a militant tattoo, but today she seemed intent on wearing a hole in the carpet. It didn’t help that Carmine, Her Ladyship’s off-key canary, accompanied the thumping with contrapuntal warbling and frenetic leaps about his large gilded cage.
Mary and Serena sat stiffly in their chairs, dark and light heads bowed, hands folded in their laps. With their lovely profiles aligned they looked like women posing for a tableau of penance.
Genny plucked a stalk of hay from her skirt and began stripping it into slivers, imagining it was Lady Westford’s cane she was shredding.
Or, better yet, Lady Westford.
‘And now the family is headed by a wastrel and a rogue who did not even see fit to attend his grandfather’s funeral, and never cared one snap of his fingers for the Carringtons.’
‘To be fair, Lady Westford, other than Emily and Mary, I haven’t seen that the Carringtons have ever cared one snap of the fingers for him either. Quite the opposite, in fact,’ Genny intervened—and immediately regretted her impulsive comment. Her object was to soothe the dragon, not throw oil on its fiery breath.
Lady Westford’s cane slashed the air towards her. ‘We gave that doxy’s boy everything and he repaid us by shaming us even further! This is what we are brought to... Oh, go away, all of you!’ she exploded, her voice cracking. ‘You are no use to me. You’ve had your chance and failed. You two...’ her cane slashed the air again, now towards Mary and Serena ‘...you were gifted the finest of the Carrington men and you brought them both to nothing. Now all you do is feed off the Carrington teat like the empty vessels you are. Soon I shall follow Alfred to the grave and leave the Carrington tree bare of fruit. I’m surrounded by nothing but fops and rogues and barren women and hangers-on and... Oh, go away!’
They did as they were told and Genny sighed as she closed the door behind her.
‘Well, that will teach me that silence is golden,’ she said far more lightly than she felt as she surveyed her sister.
Serena Carrington was ashen, her hand pressed tellingly to her abdomen, as if the pain of her third stillbirth was as sharp inside her as it had been two years ago.
‘Come out to the garden, Serena,’ Genny suggested, but her sister gave her a slight smile and shook her head.
‘I think I shall rest a little, Genny.’
Mary and Genny stood in silence until the door to her room closed.
‘Well, this cannot continue,’ Genny said, taking Mary by the arm and guiding her downstairs to the library. ‘Serena will never recover from losing Charlie and her babes if that harridan keeps flaying her every single day.’
‘Lady Westford is suffering too, you know, Genny,’ Mary reproached gently. ‘Losing three sons, her favourite grandson and a husband is enough to turn anyone sour.’
‘I know she is suffering, Mary, but that is no excuse to torment Serena. I know Lady Westford never thought my sister good enough for the heir to the title, but she has the biggest and truest heart in the world. When Grandfather died she fought for me to come live with her, despite their objections. I cannot stand by and watch her ground to dust by that Medusa. I will not. She deserves better.’
‘Of course she does.’ Mary clasped Genny’s hand between hers and their comforting warmth sparked a long-gone memory of her mother, holding her hand as they walked down to the village.
‘I’m tired, Mary.’ The words burst out of her before she could stop them. ‘I’m tired of watching the person I care for most in the world suffer. I’m tired of living on the fringes of Lady Westford’s charity. Soon there will be nothing left of Serena and nothing left of me, and I want... I need to breathe...’
She choked the words to a stop. The urge to lean again
st the older woman and cry was so strong Genny pulled her hands away and went to look at the rainbow of spring colours out in the garden.
‘I know we must do something—but what?’ Mary asked. ‘We cannot change Lady Westford.’
‘I don’t intend to change her. My grandfather always said that if you cannot choose your enemy, try and choose your battlefield. Lady Westford is most bearable when surrounded by her cronies and whist partners in London. We could convince her to hold a...a ball for Emily in Town, perhaps to celebrate her upcoming marriage.’
Genny watched the idea take root in Mary’s mind, her handsome face softening. Envy flicked at Genny’s heart—partly for herself, but mostly on Serena’s behalf. She’d seen how her sister watched the bond of love between Mary and her daughter when she thought no one was looking.
Finally, Mary smiled. ‘You’re tired, I’m frightened, and Serena is...lost. What a trio we are, Genny. You are quite right: it is high time we return to the living. But how shall we convince Lady Westford? She might consider it a betrayal of Alfred’s memory.’
‘The way to convince Lady Westford is to offer her something she wants. Leave that to me.’
‘The only thing she seems to want is for her grandsons to produce an heir. And that, unfortunately, is highly unlikely. They are all well past thirty, and none of them has shown the slightest inclination towards matrimony.’
‘Yet,’ said Genny, and headed towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Mary asked behind her.
‘To make a deal with the she-devil. And then I shall have a word with one of her useless fops.’
* * *
‘Useless, perhaps, but I take offence at being called a fop,’ Julian said as he shifted some papers off the sofa.
Genny raised her veil and sat down in the cleared space, glancing around the room. She’d never been to Julian’s rooms on Half Moon Street. They were not quite what she’d expected. The place looked as if a whirlwind had just passed through and left it littered with papers, books and instruments.
‘I suppose there is some method to this madness?’ she asked and Julian leaned against the table, a rueful smile on his handsome face.
‘There is always method to my madness, Genny. I hope there is some to yours? It would be much safer to stick to our arrangement and summon me to Dorset.’
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’
‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’
‘Probably not. I told your grandmother I might accept your proposal after all.’
Julian’s abrupt movement almost knocked over a precariously placed miniature orrery. The planets set to dancing giddily and he steadied it, glaring at her.
‘That was three years ago! And, as you may recall, you turned me down, Genny.’
‘I never actually turned you down. I merely pointed out that marrying me to gain your aunt’s legacy was a poor bargain for both of us. And since it turned out she meant to leave it to Marcus all along, it is lucky we didn’t wed.’
‘Well, you cannot just resurrect a proposal when it’s convenient. Why don’t you stop beating about the bush and tell me what it is you really want, Genny mine?’
She smiled. ‘I need your help to appease your grandmother.’
‘How?’ he asked, still suspicious.
‘She is lonely and bored and hasn’t had a decent game of whist in months...’
‘I am not playing whist with my grandmother, Genevieve Maitland. I would rather walk naked down Piccadilly.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s not a pleasing image, Julian.’
‘I protest. Some would call it a very pleasing image indeed.’
‘I’m sure they would,’ she said placatingly. ‘In any case, I don’t expect you to play whist—you are a terrible player. What I mean is that I plan to bring her to London, where she can meet all her old cronies.’
‘That sounds sensible. Where is the catch?’
‘There is no catch.’
‘Of course there is. There’s always a catch with you, Genny.’
‘Well, it is not precisely a catch... The Carrington women have been in mourning and away from London and society for two years. They will need a supporting arm to ease them back into society. If you could convince Marcus to come to London for a show of familial solidarity...’
Julian grinned. ‘And there it is. So this whole proposal nonsense was merely to make the alternative seem more palatable.’
‘Julian Carrington, how ungallant of you!’
‘Genevieve Maitland, how devious of you!’ he replied, in a falsetto that had little in common with her husky voice.
She laughed. ‘Well, will you help? You might even find someone new to finance your projects.’
‘I doubt it, but I promise to attend a couple of entertainments of your choice.’
‘Not a couple. Nine.’
‘No, you madwoman. I said a couple.’
‘A couple is hardly anything at all. Eight, however, is a nice round number.’
‘Eight isn’t round.’
‘It is—it goes round and round like a snake.’
She traced a slow figure eight on the table, leaning forward to provide a nice display of her low bodice. Julian had always told her she’d been blessed with one of the loveliest bosoms of his acquaintance, and at the moment she was not above using any weapons at her disposal.
Predictably his gaze flickered between her suggestively sweeping finger and her bodice. ‘For heaven’s sake, Genny, you are shameless. Three, and not one more.’
‘Seven.’
‘Four.’
‘Six.’
‘Five.’
‘Seven.’
‘Six... Damnation. That’s not fair—you reversed direction.’
‘Oh, very well, only six,’ she said demurely.
He planted his hands on the table. ‘You are lucky I am fond of you, you cunning pixie.’
‘I am not only lucky, but grateful. Will you try and convince Marcus to come as well?’
‘I’ll try. Why not command me to go down to the docks, prostrate myself before our new Lord and Master and beg him to attend as well, while you’re at it?’
‘Lord Westford is in London?’ she asked in surprise. Mary had told her he planned to attend Emily’s wedding in Hampshire, but she’d said nothing about him arriving in London.
‘Docked only yesterday.’
‘Oh, no—that isn’t good.’
Julian’s brows rose. ‘I agree, but I didn’t think you shared my distaste for my very inconvenient cousin and the new head of the misbegotten Carringtons. You and Charlie used to leap to his defence every time any of us dared speak ill of your precious Captain Christopher Carrington.’
She raised her chin, a little embarrassed. She had been very careful to patrol her true thoughts on the Carrington clan when she’d gone to live with Serena and Charlie, well aware of the tenuous nature of her position. But she’d been so shocked by the way they’d vilified Captain Carrington that she’d been goaded more than once into defending the man her grandfather had considered his most trusted officer during the year he’d served with him.
‘I defended him because I thought it terribly unfair and disrespectful the way you and Marcus and your grandparents spoke of him, when in truth it appears you hardly knew him, since he’d spent so little time at the Hall.’ She saw Julian gather himself to argue old grievances and hurried on. ‘But, in the interests of fairness, I admit his behaviour since he sold his commission has hardly been exemplary—and as Lord Westford he is abysmal. Do you know that neither the lawyers nor the steward have heard from him since your grandfather died, apart from a perfunctory letter from some solicitor in London to direct all correspondence to him?’
‘Ah. So you have discovered your idol has feet of clay?’<
br />
‘I have never idolised anyone in my life—not even my grandfather, and I respected him more than anyone I know. I admit I did expect a modicum of accountability from Captain Carr—from Lord Westford, but since he seems to have shed his scruples along with his uniform, I must find other means to pursue my ends.’
‘Meaning me?’
‘Precisely. So concentrate your efforts on bringing Marcus. If you find it rough going I shall have a word with him.’
‘The threat of that alone should be enough to convince him to come, darling.’
‘Thank you, Julian.’
‘Huh. Now, you’d better be off before I’m tempted to demand recompense for being so useful.’
She smiled and lowered her veil once more. ‘Now, now, Julian. Think of how much worse it might be.’
‘It might?’
‘Yes, I might have agreed to marry you three years ago, and you would have been saddled with my devious ways for good.’
Chapter Two
‘A month ago I was swimming stark naked in the Bay of Alexandria,’ Kit said as he leaned against the bulwarks of the Hesperus and surveyed the fog. He could see no more than a few yards into the noxious soup, but occasionally the outline of the warehouses formed, like a hulking beast pacing the docks, waiting for the unwary to step ashore.
It might be April in the rest of the world, but it was darkest, dankest December in the London docks. Beneath him Kit could feel the sluggish pull of the Thames towards the sea. The temptation to weigh anchor and slide just as sluggishly out of the grip of his home town was powerful.
‘This fog—it is a bad omen, Capità,’ Benja said, and spat into the sluggish water of the Thames below.
‘Why is it you always turn superstitious when we come to England, Benja?’
‘Because it was on a day like this that your father brought his ship to England for the last time.’
Kit grinned. ‘No, it wasn’t. I may have been only eleven, but I remember well we docked in Portsmouth in full sunshine.’
‘I remember fog. There is always fog in England...’ Benja stopped as a voice called up from the dockside.
