by Mia Marlowe
When only seduction will do...
Wherever Cassandra Darkin goes, fire is sure to follow. It’s not until she’s swept into the arms of a handsome, infuriating stranger that she learns she’s responsible for the fires. As it turns out, Cassandra is a fire mage...and with her gift comes a blazing desire for sins of the flesh.
With his pretenatural ability to influence the thoughts of others, Garrett Sterling is sent to gather Cassandra for the Order of the M.U.SE. He’s entirely unprepared for his immediate attraction to the comely little firestarter. But it’s an attraction that he must quell, even as his body craves her touch and her fiery, sensual hunger.
For Garrett’s gift has a dark side...and the moment he begins to care too much for Cassandra, he knows he will doom her to an inescapable fate.
The Curse of
Lord Stanstead
The Order of the M.U.S.E.
Book one
Mia Marlowe
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Diana Groe. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Select Historical is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by Kelley York
Cover art by Shutterstock & Bigstock
ISBN 978-1-63375-377-8
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition July 2015
Table of Contents
Welcome to the Order of the M.U.S.E.
Meet the M.U.S.E.s
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
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more Entangled Select Historical titles… The Thornless Rose
Dark Secrets, Deep Bayous
Dark Angel
The Miss Mirren Mission
To my husband, for letting me borrow from him to give to my heroes.
Welcome to the Order of the M.U.S.E.
His Grace, the Duke of Camden, has recruited (some say coerced) gifted individuals from all strata of society to join his Metaphysical Union of Sensory Extraordinaires. Their purpose is to protect the Crown from arcane weapons of a psychic bent. The duke fears that one such malicious object may have slipped by them and is responsible for King George III’s periodic descents into lunacy. There may be no help for His Majesty, but Camden intends to see that a similar fate doesn’t overcome “Prinny,” the Prince of Wales.
Meet the M.U.S.E.s
Cassandra Darkin—Debutante, second daughter of Sir Henry Darkin, and an unwitting fire mage. Cassie must deal with losing her first love, and possibly her place in society if it becomes known that she’s the one who accidentally set the fire at Almack’s. Her newly manifested psychic ability terrifies her even more than the prospect of spinsterhood.
Garret Sterling—Nephew and heir apparent to the Earl of Stanstead. Garret is able to implant a thought in another’s mind with such seductive force, his suggestions are irresistible. Usually. Cassandra Darkin seems oblivious to his gift, which makes the fact that the duke has asked him to help her control her accidental fire-starting a difficult assignment. Garret is a libertine who carouses to avoid sleep because his nightmares have the bad habit of becoming someone else’s waking reality. Garret avoids caring about people because that might mean they’ll steal into his dangerous dreams.
Edward St. James, Duke of Camden—Founder of the Order of the M.U.S.E., Camden is the protector and mentor of those who display unusual sensory and metaphysical gifts. In addition to safeguarding the Crown from psychic attack, he’s searching for a way to make contact with his deceased wife. He’s exhausted all natural means of investigating the mysterious deaths of Mercedes and his infant son. Now he has turned to the supernatural.
Vesta LaMotte—Top-tier courtesan who is also a fire mage. She’s called in to educate Cassandra in the ways of her gift…and the ways of men. She and the widowed Camden have had an on-again, off-again “arrangement” for years.
Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall—a telepath whose skills are the mirror image of Garret Sterling’s. If Sterling is the universal dispenser of unwanted thoughts, Westfall is the universal receiver of everything rattling around in the heads of others. Unfortunately, he hasn’t learned to filter anything out. Because of his propensity to “hear voices,” Westfall was only recently released from Bedlam on the condition that the Duke of Camden be responsible for him should his “voices” urge him to violence.
Meg Anthony—a former ladies’ maid and a psychic “Finder.” Her ability to locate misplaced items and people is uncanny, but not without danger to her, a fact she tries to hide. She’s in awe of the Duke of Camden and fears disappointing him if she can’t learn to act the part of a proper lady instead of a domestic. She hides the truth of her parentage because she’s on the run from her uncle who used her abilities for profit and to ruin others.
Chapter One
If once to Almack’s you belong,
Like monarchs you can do no wrong;
But banished thence on Wednesday night,
By Jove, you can do nothing right.
—Cornelius Luttrell, illegitimate son of an earl who nevertheless possessed an Almack’s voucher by virtue of his wit
“I am not responsible for that fire.” Cassandra Darkin was certain of it.
Almost.
“Of course you’re not responsible, dearest.”
Cassandra startled guiltily when her older sister Daphne patted her forearm. She hadn’t meant to speak her fear aloud.
“What a silly notion,” Daphne continued. “You weren’t even particularly close when the candle flame leaped from the wall sconce to the ostrich plume on Lady Waldgren’s turban.”
“Make that the ridiculous ostrich plume on the odious Lady Waldgren’s turban,” Cassie amended. Her sister cast a warning glance, but didn’t disagree. No one who’d felt the sting of Lady Waldgren’s waspish tongue would argue the point.
However, they’d probably take care to express it less publicly.
Daphne was right about the rest, though. Cassandra hadn’t been near when the feather had burst into flames, but she had passed by the wretched gossip prior to the incident and had heard her name in whispered conversation. The hissed tone had been enough to tell Cassie that Lady Waldgren’s comments had not been meant kindly.
Still, no one wished to see the gossip’s head aflame. Fortunately, Lord Waldgren’s quick action and obvious glee at being able to rip off his wife’s outlandish headgear and stomp it into oblivion
had averted a tragedy. After that, the evening at Almack’s had progressed with hardly a hiccup.
If Lady Waldgren’s small conflagration had been the only one in recent memory, Cassandra wouldn’t have given the matter a second thought. But only that week, there had been three unexplained fires at the Darkin’s fashionably situated town house. One flame had ignited in the breakfast room when Cassandra’s father had announced he’d heard talk at Brooks that the son of Lord Bellefonte, their country neighbor, was courting the daughter of an earl.
The other fires had erupted in Cassandra’s bedchamber on two separate occasions after that—once when she was trying to decide which gown to wear to a soiree that Roderick Bellefonte was expected to attend, and then again when Cassandra had returned home that evening. An unexplained blaze had flared up when she’d told her abigail to burn the peach silk moiré because she’d never wear it again.
If Cassandra hadn’t been speaking of burning when the candle on her dressing table toppled over of its own accord, she might never have wondered if the frequent fires were somehow her fault. She’d been present each time, but that did not mean she was responsible.
Surely not.
Still, to err on the side of caution, Cassandra stationed herself in a dark corner of the assembly room, far from any sources of flame.
“For heaven’s sake, Cassie, sit up straight,” Daphne said as they watched the dancers move through the prescribed steps of the quadrille. “You look like a wilted lily.”
Cassandra felt like one, too. Her bodice was cut low enough to keep her shoulders rounded. “I wish I’d insisted on that fichu.”
“Nonsense. Your décolletage is perfectly appropriate for evening. Look at Lady Cowper. She’s not a bit dismayed over baring her shoulders and a good bit more.” Daphne arched her spine, her own pert mounds shown to good effect by the Empire style. Since Daphne had already accepted the suit of the son of a baron in Kent, she had no need to preen so. “There are plenty of bosoms on display this night.”
“Yet the only bosom I’m concerned with is mine.” Cassie was aware she sounded like a hopeless bluestocking, but she couldn’t help herself. In truth, she wished she could hide all of her, not just her bosom, until the Season was over. Or better yet, convince her father to return to Wiltshire without waiting to see if his youngest daughter would catch the interest of a suitable beau or if she’d be placed firmly on the shelf.
Sir Orlando Mayne passed by with a dance partner on his arm. He sent Cassandra a quick appraising glance and a wink. Heat crept up her neck. Sir Orlando was Roderick’s closest friend.
What did Roddy tell him?
“How do you expect to attract an eligible gentleman if you don’t present yourself with confidence?” Daphne whispered.
“You’re quite right,” Cassie snapped. “Perhaps I should hire a tradesman’s window and put myself on display.”
“Now you’re being vulgar. We are not in trade.”
“Not anymore, you mean.”
Their father had returned from India when Cassandra was ten years old with plenty of wealth to show for his stint in the Gorgeous East. He was subsequently dubbed Sir Cornelius for his service to the Crown, but even with a baronetcy, the Darkins were too nouveau riche for full inclusion by the ton. It was only because Countess Esterhazy’s cousin owed their father an astronomical gambling debt, which he’d been willing to forgive, that they’d been given the opportunity to purchase a coveted Almack’s voucher that admitted them to the weekly assemblies.
Daphne had explained that it would take another two generations before their family would be fully considered “good ton.”
“I don’t make the rules,” she said airily. “But I’m certainly glad my fiancé is light enough in the pockets not to mind that my blood isn’t as blue as his. In any case, it’ll be ever so nice to be Lady Mooreland someday.”
Unfortunately, Roderick Bellefonte’s father was not in dun territory. Along with thousands of acres, he had plenty of coin. What the viscount needed was a politically and socially advantageous match for his son and heir in order to increase the family’s standing and range of influence. Against such requirements, the second daughter of a recently made baronet did not signify.
Cassandra understood that. Certainly she did. If she truly loved Roderick, she’d want what was best for him. It would be selfish of her to try to hold him back.
But she wished with all her heart that she’d held herself back.
Does it show?
Another of Roderick’s friends smiled at her. Perhaps the mark of sensual experience was perfectly visible to those who knew to look for it. Her gaze dropped to the dance-worn floor.
A pair of spit-shined shoes with silver buckles appeared on the hardwood in her line of vision.
“Will you do me the honor of this dance, Miss Cassandra?”
She looked up the sleek stockings, past the correct knee britches, starched white shirtfront, and cutaway jacket. Sir Orlando’s boyishly round face was attached to the request.
A lady was always supposed to accept a dance with a gentleman to whom she’d been properly introduced. She’d known Orlando for years. They’d played together as children when he’d visited Roderick’s family. The boys had snuck over the rambling rock wall that separated the viscount’s land from her father’s. She and Daphne had excelled at being fair maidens in need of rescue from imaginary dragons lurking in the haymow. Roderick and Orlando had been their worthy champions, subduing menacing hay bales with a single blow.
Cassandra wondered what sort of game Orlando wanted to play with her now.
No, I’m imagining things. There’s no slyness in his gaze.
Even so, she almost pleaded a headache to avoid dancing with him. Then across the room, Roderick entered with Lady Sylvia on his arm. In another moment, Cassandra’s heart would cease beating and she’d have the perfect excuse not to join Sir Orlando in the gavotte.
Lady Sylvia was slim, but not lacking in curves in the proper places. Blessed with fashionably blond curls, she also boasted a flawless pale complexion. The earl’s daughter floated across the room as if her kid-soled slippers didn’t deign to touch the floor. A being of such loveliness ought to have been winged.
Even if Lady Sylvia hadn’t possessed overwhelming social advantages, Cassie couldn’t compete with that brand of ethereal charm.
How could I have been so monumentally stupid?
Roderick leaned down and whispered in the lady’s ear. Lady Sylvia laughed, a silvery sort of laugh that lifted the hearts of everyone near her by virtue of its otherworldly cheer.
Sir Orlando cleared his throat.
Cassie had no excuse to refuse him. Despite expectations to the contrary, her heart continued to pump in her chest. However, something unnamable smoldered in the space around it.
The burning malevolence wasn’t directed at Lady Sylvia. She couldn’t help being beautiful and wellborn. And Cassie couldn’t fault Roderick for choosing to woo her. Two such pretty people deserved each other.
No, Cassandra’s ire was reserved for herself. Every candle in the room flared for the space of two blinks.
“Of course I’ll dance with you, Sir Orlando.” Cassandra rose and made a correct curtsy. She forced a smile. “The honor is mine.”
…
“A secret panel in the room reserved for séances does suggest skullduggery.” Edward St. James, His Grace, the Duke of Camden, prowled the perimeter of his sumptuously appointed parlor. He considered himself a man of moderate temperament and would have been surprised to learn that his intensity made even his friends liken him to a wolf stalking a weakling to cull from the flock. “Then it is your opinion that the medium in Cornwall is a fraud?”
“As much a fraud as the notion of Cornish society,” said Garret Sterling. He didn’t count himself Camden’s friend and lounged with one knee hitched over the arm of the leather wing chair as if he weren’t in the presence of one of the most powerful peers in the realm.
; If Camden was the lead wolf, Sterling was the wary stray on the fringe of the pack who hadn’t made up his mind whether to join the group or challenge the ruling authority.
Camden glared at Sterling’s booted foot. Camden House wasn’t a courtesan’s salon, after all, but he resisted the urge to order Sterling to conduct himself with more decorum. Though the duke would have no qualms about dressing down a member of the House of Lords who quarreled with him, Garret Sterling required special handling. Camden had high hopes for him and his considerable gifts.
Besides, a reprimand to Sterling would have all the effect of waving a red flag before a bull.
Sterling had come to Camden’s attention one night at a dinner party. From out of nowhere, the outlandish idea of stripping off all his clothing and going for a swim in Lord Fairbank’s deep fountain had lodged itself in Camden’s brain. Since the duke had sensed a release of psychic energy nearby, he realized the thought was not his own. He had traced it immediately to the gentleman seated at the far end of the long table and knew he’d found another soul to add to the Order of the M.U.S.E, the Metaphysical Union of Sensory Extraordinaires.
Not that Sterling had come willingly. He had been quite content to invade the secret core of others and imprint them with his own brand of mischief. However, once Camden had offered to help him harness his other, more unwieldy gift, Sterling had sullenly been brought to heel.
“Make a note regarding the Cornish medium, Bernard,” Camden said as he continued his circuit of the room. Walking helped him think and now that yet another medium had proved to be a fake, he needed to boil away some frustration as well.
“Very good, Your Grace.” His steward’s sagging jowls and bushy white brows always put Camden in mind of the breed of mountain dog whose name Bernard shared. However, his trusted servant was far too dignified for Camden to share this observation with him. Bernard scratched notes of the Order’s meeting at the small escritoire that sat beneath a bank of Palladian windows.
“Next time you decide to send me to the hinterlands, Your Grace,” Garret said with considerably less deference in his tone than Bernard, “I beg you to lace my port with arsenic instead.”
