Christian flinched under the low blow. He was not like his cowardly father. He’d proved it on the battlefield. Blood was not thicker than water. He would never hit or hurt a woman. Or would he?
He thought of the French woman who’d so casually set fire to the cart he had been trapped under, happy to watch his skin burn, and he knew, to his horror, this was no longer true.
To survive, he would. He’d do anything.
But could he have done such a vile act now that he was safe and the war was over? His mouth dried even further. In one of his blackouts, perhaps he would.
Fear, stinking fear, slid over his nakedness.
It seemed illogical that he’d been set up. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why anyone would go to such elaborate lengths to discredit him. He was nothing, a nobody. His injuries had made him a recluse from society. He was the decorated war hero everyone pitied and no one wanted to look at. They admired his sacrifice for mother England, but they did not want the constant reminder of it.
His stomach churned. He hated the pity. The flinching when people saw his face he could take. He flinched at himself too, hence his aversion to mirrors. But pity . . .
Simon voiced the question swirling in Christian’s mind. “Would you have us believe someone has impersonated you? Why would this occur? Stop denying the changes in you since Waterloo, and do the honorable thing. Leave England, or I cannot say what my father will do to you.”
Simon was right. Christian had no enemies that he knew of, and prior to the war he’d been one of the popular, lovable group of rogues known as the Libertine Scholars.
He and five of his friends had attended Eton together, and they’d taken to books and learning, drawn together by a desire to use their brains for more than just sport and whoring—not that they hadn’t partaken of their fair share of those, and then some more. So much so, they’d earned the nickname of the Libertine Scholars, sin and learning being a wickedly exuberant combination.
Those happy and enjoyable days now seemed a distant memory.
Christian ran a hand through his hair and licked his cracked lips. “Could you pass me the water jug—please?” he asked, stalling for time so that he could try to make sense of what he was hearing.
“Bloody cheek,” said the Duke, but Simon passed him a glass of water.
“I’d never do this.” He stared hard into Simon’s eyes and saw a shadow of doubt flickering in their uneasy depths. “I’d never hurt your sister. I abhorred my father’s behavior. I am nothing like him.”
“Perhaps you committed this terrible atrocity because of everything you’ve suffered. Perhaps it has unhinged your mind.” Simon could not hold his gaze. “I think it best if you leave England. And don’t ever come back.”
“I’m not running. I did not—I could not have done this.” But his voice lacked conviction.
“You know you have not been yourself since Waterloo. Grayson—Lord Blackwood—tells me the blackouts have been getting worse. Can you honestly tell me you remember everything about last night?”
Grayson. Grayson was the only reason Christian was still alive.
Damaged, but alive. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
He shook his head. “No. On my honor, I cannot categorically state I remember everything about last evening. But surely the ladies of the house will vouch for me.”
“We cannot find a woman among them who shared your bed last night. The madam didn’t even know you were here.”
This was getting ridiculous. Christian ran a hand over his face. God, he was tired. Since Waterloo he couldn’t remember when he’d last had a proper night’s sleep. His nightmares made sleeping next to impossible.
Every time he closed his eyes he felt the searing heat melting his skin and the horrifying smell of his impending death. The unbearable pain . . .
He sucked a steadying breath deep into his lungs.
The madam did know he was here. Christian was the Honey Pot’s most consistent customer. What woman in her right mind would want to touch him unless paid to do so?
Christian stood and began pulling on his breeches. “I paid for a woman to come to my bed—I do remember that. Something is amiss. I remember that the woman seemed very cheap. Usually I have to pay over the odds.”
Simon had the gall to look at him with pity. “You don’t remember bringing Harriet here?”
“God damn it, I did not bring your sister here. I walked here. I remember because I noticed the chill.” Christian suddenly halted in his dressing. “Maybe this has something to do with Harriet. Maybe someone is trying to discredit her, not me.” He swallowed. “If that is the case and I have been used as a tool for vengeance, then I will of course do the honorable thing and offer my hand in marriage to save her reputation.”
The room fell silent, and the Duke’s fists clenched by his side, his face flaring red with rage.
Holy hell, he’d said the wrong thing.
“So that’s what this has been about. You can’t get any gently bred woman to marry you, so you resort to dishonor in order to trap my only daughter.” The sword was back at his throat. “I should slit your throat from ear to ear.”
Christian looked toward Simon for understanding, but the coldness had returned to Simon’s eyes.
“You think I’d let Harriet marry you now? She’s so traumatized she can’t even say your name without shuddering. You marry her? Why, I’d sooner marry her to a leper.” The sword pressed into Christian’s neck. “No. I have a more fitting punishment in mind for you. With you out of the way, this incident never occurred. I’ll protect my daughter from disgrace and ensure Harriet marries a man befitting her station.”
Christian’s muscles tensed; the Duke wanted him dead. But he hadn’t survived months of agony to die at the end of a sword held by one of his own countrymen. Through lowered eyelids he appraised his chances of making it to the door. He’d learned that when the odds were stacked against him, it was far wiser to retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.
He assessed the room, and a plan began to emerge in his mind. If Simon would just move away from the door, toward the windows, he could make it past the Duke. He might be scarred, but he was healthy and strong, something that many of his contemporaries overlooked.
He feigned a move toward the window, and Simon, seeing that his father’s sword had the door covered, moved to block that avenue of escape—perfect!
Christian made for the door before the Duke even had time to blink, although the Duke’s sword sliced Christian’s neck on the way past.
Hell, what was one more scar?
His bare feet hardly touched the floor as he ran for the back stairs. For once, he didn’t care that his twisted and marked body was on display.
He’d only just taken a couple of steps down when he scented danger in the form of floor polish—but it was too late. His feet slid out from under him, and he went down headfirst, tumbling down the narrow staircase. Tucking himself into a ball, he tried to protect his head.
He thought for one moment he might survive the fall unscathed, but when the iron doorstop came into view at the bottom of the stairs, dread set in. He knew he was going to hit it. He desperately clawed at thin air, trying to ensure he found the open doorway, but his actions were in vain.
I hate it when I’m right, was his last thought before his head collided with the iron doorstop. Then pain seared through his brain until, mercifully, everything went dark.
Other Books by Bronwen Evans
Historicals
To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield
(Book #1 Wicked Wagers Trilogy) To Wager the Marquis of Wolverstone
(Book #2 Wicked Wagers Trilogy)
To Challenge the Earl of Cravenswood
(Book #3 Wicked Wagers Trilogy)
Wicked Wagers, The Complete Trilogy
A Kiss of Lies (Disgraced Lords Series Book #1)
A Promise of More (Disgraced Lords Series Book #2)
A Touch of P
assion (Disgraced Lords Series Book #3)
And more in the Disgraced Lords series to come…
Invitation to Ruin
(Winner of RomCon Best Historical 2012)
Invitation to Scandal
(TRR Best Historical Nominee 2012)
Contemporaries
The Reluctant Wife
Invitation to Passion
Copyright © 2014 by Bronwen Evans
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Excerpt of Invitation to Desire copyright © 2013 by Bronwen Evans
Excerpt of A Kiss of Lies copyright © 2014 by Bronwen Evans
Cover designed by Carrie Divine (Seductive Designs)
Edited by Caroline Fuller
Table of Contents
Prologue
ChapterOne
ChapterTwo
ChapterThree
ChapterFour
ChapterFive
ChapterSix
ChapterSeven
ChapterEight
ChapterNine
ChapterTen
ChapterEleven
ChapterTwelve
ChapterThirteen
ChapterFourteen
ChapterFifteen
ChapterSixteen
ChapterSeventeen
ChapterEighteen
ChapterNineteen
ChapterTwenty
ChapterTwentyOne
Epilogue
InvitationToDesire
Author’sNote
BookList
Copyright
Invitation to Passion Page 31
