The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  “Truly, you ought to take over Lady Arden’s role as the family matchmaker,” said Georgie. She’d had many words to say to Violet, both on the subject of her clandestine romance with Hardcastle and on her recent flight to Bath.

  Tonight, however, she could only be grateful to her devious sister. If Violet hadn’t intervened, Beckenham might even now be walking down the aisle with Priscilla Trent.

  Violet kissed her cheek, then flung her arms around her. They squeezed each other hard.

  “Be happy, dearest,” whispered Violet.

  “You, too,” said Georgie, blinking back sentimental tears.

  And when Beckenham finally joined her, she slid her hands into his hair, brought his head down to her, and kissed him with all the joy in her heart.

  “At last,” she said on a sigh. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find it was all a dream.”

  His dark eyes were full of tender laughter. “There won’t be much dreaming here tonight—not if I have anything to say about it.” His voice deepened to a husky growl. “Now that I don’t have to sneak away, I am going to love you until you forget your own name.”

  “But I like my new name very much,” she replied. “Georgiana Westruther, Countess of Beckenham. It sounds well, does it not?”

  “It sounds absolutely perfect,” said the earl, and he swept his countess into his arms and strode to the marital bed.

  Read on for an excerpt from Christina Brooke’s next book

  The Wickedest Lord Alive

  Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  Waves of heat broke over Lizzie’s body, alternating with showers of ice. For the first time in her life, she thought she might faint.

  He had found her. Dear Heaven, what was she going to do?

  “Well, don’t just stand there like a looby, gel!” said Lady Chard, flapping her hand in a beckoning gesture that made the drapes of flesh beneath her arm wobble. “Come in and let me make you known to my guests.”

  Years of dissimulation came to Lizzie’s rescue. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with a calming flood of air, and sank into a curtsy as Lady Chard made the introductions.

  “Miss Allbright.” Steyne’s tone was drily ironic, his bow a mere inclination of the head that clearly expressed disbelief.

  Lizzie made a small production of relinquishing her basket and book to the butler—so much for Sense and Sensibility—then propelled herself by sheer force of will toward the grouping of chairs around a handsome Adam fireplace where the small party stood. She sat opposite the two gentlemen, while Lady Chard sank into the armchair in a cloud of black silk.

  Terror gripping her insides, Lizzie braced herself for exposure. There seemed no way to prevent the marquis from revealing the truth. He had her trapped like a rabbit in a snare.

  She’d deny everything, claim she’d lost her memory and refuse to believe anything he said was true.

  But she couldn’t see a way out of the trap. Legally, he had the power to command her, whether she remembered him or no.

  Her mind seethed with plans and her insides roiled with apprehension, but rather than denounce her, the marquis simply scrutinized her closely. He remained stonily silent while Lord Lydgate—a distant cousin of his, she gathered—made elegant conversation.

  “I was just saying to Lady Chard what pleasant countryside you have here, Miss Allbright,” said Lydgate, with his easy smile.

  Lizzie warmed to him, for this slice of Sussex was in no way remarkable. In fact, for her, its lack of attractions of any sort was a great part of the region’s charm.

  She managed to reply, “I like it, certainly, but I fear there is little of interest here for the fashionable set. We live very quietly in Little Thurston.”

  “Aye, that we do,” said Lady Chard. “So if you young rapscallions have a notion of kicking up a dust here, you won’t be received kindly, mark my words.”

  Lydgate did his best to look wounded, but his blue eyes danced. “Lady Chard, you will give Miss Allbright an entirely false impression of us.”

  Steyne did not even bother to acknowledge their sallies. His cold, bright gaze fixed on Lizzie.

  Her cheeks heated but she worked hard to appear unconscious of his piercing stare. Steyne made no attempt to denounce her on the spot, so she tried to relax and respond while Lord Lydgate gently steered the conversation.

  “Is that a smut on your nose, gel?” demanded Lady Chard, breaking in unceremoniously upon Lord Lydgate’s discourse. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she leaned toward Lizzie for a better look.

  Oh, plague it! Lizzie’s hand flew to her face. She rubbed at her nose with her fingertips, flushing with the fire of humiliation.

  “Hmph!” Lady Chard’s shrewd old eyes surveyed her. “And your hair’s all anyhow. You’ve been sweeping and scrubbing over at the Minchins, I dare swear. In my day, we gave them alms and that was the end of it.”

  Any money that came the Minchins’ way would be spent in the taproom at the local inn, as well Lady Chard knew.

  “Is that so?” said Lizzie with innocent surprise. “Then I suppose it was not you, ma’am, who sent little Janey Minchin a doll for her birthday only last week.”

  Lady Chard hunched a shoulder. “I don’t go cooking their dinner for them, at all events.”

  “No more do I,” said Lizzie briskly, uncomfortable with this talk. Mr. Minchin might be a drunkard, but his wife was a proud woman, who would not appreciate the family’s circumstances being bandied about in my lady’s drawing room.

  She sought a means of changing the subject, but for the first time since he’d said her name, Steyne spoke. “Perhaps Miss Allbright would like to go upstairs to freshen her appearance.”

  That made her flush more hotly than before. With what dignity she could muster, Lizzie stood. “No, I thank you. Indeed, I must be going now.”

  The gentlemen had risen when she did. Lydgate glanced at Steyne as if he expected something, but the marquis merely dealt her another of his ironic bows.

  The viscount started forward to take her hand, saying, “My dear Miss Allbright, I hear there is to be an assembly tonight. Would you honor me with the first country dance?”

  Her head jerked up at that. Oh, but this was worse than anything! They were coming to the ball? And if she agreed to a dance with Lydgate, would she not be obliged to take the floor with the marquis, too?

  Recalling all too vividly the last physical contact she’d had with Lord Steyne, she nearly shuddered.

  “I am engaged for the first three sets, my lord.”

  “The fourth, then,” Lydgate said promptly. He really did have an enchanting smile. It was a pity his relation hadn’t an ounce of his warmth.

  “Thank you. I’d be delighted,” she murmured.

  Without looking at Steyne, she turned to go.

  “Miss Allbright.” His cut-glass accents sliced the air.

  Again, she halted and looked back, and for the first time, she met his gaze squarely.

  There is a plummeting sensation one feels as one wakes suddenly from a deep sleep. Lizzie experienced that now. It seemed to her that she plunged headlong into something dark and dangerous.

  With difficulty, she found her voice. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Save me the supper waltz.”

  The command was so peremptory, it set her teeth on edge. Striving for her most affable tone, she said, “I fear I am now engaged for every dance, my lord.”

  “Ha!” said Lady Chard, clapping her hands. “There’s one in the eye for you, sir. You ought to have been quicker off the mark.”

  His eyes narrowed. He had not expected her to react with spirit to his command.

  She couldn’t resist adding sweetly, “But do not fear that you will be without a partner, Lord Steyne. I am sure I can find someone for you to dance with.”

  To her surprise, a gleam of amusement briefly lit his eyes. “Until tonight, Miss Allbright.”

  The words were invested with so much meaning, it was all she co
uld do not to pick up her skirts and sprint from the room.

  * * *

  “I think she likes me,” said Lord Lydgate as they left Lady Chard’s and mounted their horses.

  “Lady Chard?” said Xavier, deliberately misunderstanding him.

  “No, the divine Miss Allbright, of course,” said Lydgate. “You never told me how pretty she is.”

  Xavier threw him a scornful glance. Truth to tell, he’d spent the entire visit quelling the urge to lean in to Miss Allbright and wipe the smudge from her elegant little nose with the pad of his thumb. Even when she’d rubbed at her face, she’d missed the spot. His suggestion that she refresh herself had sprung from a desire to remove temptation from reach, rather than any wish to improve upon her appearance.

  Of course, being female, she’d taken his suggestion as a criticism, and that was just as well.

  “You think her pretty?” said Xavier, investing his tone with indifference he only wished he could feel. “I would not have said so.”

  In fact, he did not consider the lady who called herself “Miss Allbright” to be pretty, nor even beautiful. Those banal epithets did not begin to do her justice.

  “You are trying to provoke me,” said Lydgate.

  “No, I am refusing to allow you to provoke me,” Xavier calmly replied. “You will not flirt with my wife, Lydgate.”

  “Until you claim her as such, I say she’s fair game for flirting,” said his irrepressible cousin with a grin. “I still don’t know why you left her to kick her heels in this backwater for eight years.”

  Xavier made no immediate answer. It was true that after his first, fruitless search, he’d had little trouble locating his new bride. She’d been clever in her attempts to cover her tracks, surprisingly resourceful for a girl her age. But he’d had resources at his disposal of which she could never dream.

  Yes, he’d found her, but he’d left her quite alone. He’d judged her far safer with the kindly vicar than with him.

  Now, he said, “There seemed no urgency. She was very young.”

  “You mean you wanted to go on raising hell without a wife to plague you,” said Lydgate.

  “Now there, Lydgate, you are lamentably wide of the mark,” said Xavier. “But do go on. Enlighten me as to my motives. You are nothing if not entertaining.”

  As their horses walked, Lydgate narrowed his eyes, and a shrewd look came into his face that his family had learned to mistrust. “You profess to be the Devil himself when it comes to sin. You throw orgies to rival the Hellfire Club—”

  “Now there, I must protest,” said Xavier, holding up one gloved hand. “My orgies never involve vulgarity, and I find black masses and the like utterly ridiculous.”

  “—and yet you rarely take part in those orgies yourself,” continued Lydgate as if he had not spoken. “In you, my dear cousin, I detect strong ambivalence. When obliged to marry this Miss Allbright, you did not wish to mend your ways, but you wanted to protect your wife from your world. Perhaps, even, from yourself.”

  Xavier found that his jaw was rather too tightly clenched. He ought never to forget that Lydgate possessed a keen mind beneath all that hair.

  “How is that so far?” asked Lydgate.

  Deliberately, Xavier relaxed his facial muscles. “Like a bad play. But pray continue.”

  Lydgate’s voice gentled. “Now you find yourself in sudden need of a son, a necessity which never seemed likely before.”

  He had braced himself for some allusion to Jack and Charlie, but he felt the anger rise up anyway. Not at Lydgate, but at a cruel, perverse Fate, which had seen fit to take two blameless little boys while allowing corroded souls like his own to live on. He would have died to spare his cousins from the fever that took their young lives, but he’d long ago learned the futility of such bargaining. He might as well hold black masses for all the good that would do.

  In a more forceful tone, Lydgate added, “You cannot allow Vincent to step into your shoes, nor that scurvy boy of his. You need a son.”

  Coldly, Xavier said, “Either that, or I can simply ensure that my wicked uncle and his blasted spawn predecease me.”

  Lydgate tilted his head, no doubt considering ways and means. “Something could be contrived.”

  Xavier snorted. “Do not trouble yourself. I don’t want blood on your hands on my account.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think we’d need to murder ’em,” said Lydgate cheerfully. “No, I mean perhaps we might produce an entirely new heir. A long-lost brother, perhaps?”

  “Dear God, wasn’t Davenport’s resurrection enough?” Another relative, Jonathon Westruther, Earl of Davenport, had staged his own death for reasons which Xavier privately thought nonsensical. If the fool had thought to come to Xavier for help, he would not have needed to take such drastic measures. It was Xavier’s practice never to interfere with his relations if he could avoid it, but sometimes one was obliged to make an exception.

  He waved a hand. “Forget finding a new heir. Even I balk at perpetrating such a fraud. My ancestors would spin in their graves.”

  “Very well, then,” said Lydgate. “So. Unbeknownst to everyone, from your nearest and dearest to the Ton’s wiliest matchmaking mamas, you already have a wife. Ergo—”

  Xavier cut him off. “I think we shall leave the rest unsaid.”

  He never spoke of his affaires, not even with Lydgate, but he found himself particularly reluctant to discuss his admittedly obvious intentions toward his marchioness. In fact, he began to wish he’d never allowed Lydgate to accompany him to Little Thurston. But his cousin knew Lady Chard well enough to make visiting her their excuse for coming. Xavier had no legitimate reason to be here.

  No reason but to bed his wife.

  His naïve, deceitful, pert, and damnably alluring wife.

  Also by

  Christina Brooke

  Heiress in Love

  Mad About the Earl

  A Duchess to Remember

  Praise for Christina Brooke’s Ministry of Marriage series

  A Duchess to Remember

  “Christina Brooke is a bright new star.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A Duchess to Remember surpasses all expectations, leaving you longing for the next installment.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “A delightful, attention-grabbing, sweetly romantic historical read you won’t want to miss.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  “This is a two-night, preferably one, book. Cecily and Rand’s romance is a fun, deceptive, quickstep of a dance.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  Mad About the Earl

  “A true historical gem.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “[A] version of Beauty and the Beast … that readers will take to their hearts.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Captivating!”

  —Night Owl Romance

  “A sweet and sexy romance.”

  —Dear Author

  Heiress in Love

  “Each scene is more sensual and passionate than the last.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Riveting tale of life, loss, convenience, and heart-wrenching love! Superbly written!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “With this delightful debut Brooke demonstrates her ability for creating a charming cast of characters who are the perfect players in the first of the Ministry of Marriage series. Marriage-of-convenience fans will rejoice and take pleasure in this enchanting read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Clever, lush, and lovely—an amazing debut!”

  —Suzanne Enoch,

  New York Times bestselling author

  “A delightful confection of secrets and seduction, Heiress in Love will have readers craving more!”

  —Tracy Anne Warren

  “One of the most compelling heroes I’ve read in years.”

  —Anna Campbell

  About the Author

  Christin
a Brooke is a former lawyer who staged a brilliant escape from the corporate world and landed squarely in Regency England. She lives in Australia with her husband, two sons, and an ancient Great Dane cross called Monty. Christina loves travel, window-shopping in antique stores, pink champagne, and fine Swiss chocolate. She especially loves hearing from readers. You can find Christine on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, or “at home” on www.christina-brooke.com.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE GREATEST LOVER EVER

  Copyright © 2014 by Christina Brooke.

  Excerpt from The Wickedest Lord Alive copyright © 2014 by Christina Brooke.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  eISBN: 9781466822276

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2014

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.