His breath came in heavy rasps and she had to admit her own was none too steady. For kissing him was like nothing Eswara had ever experienced, like a hurricane rushing through the room to tug at her clothes, and blow all of her defenses down flat….
REVIEWS
Sensual and exotic
"Martin Jerome gets a second chance at love in this remarkable romance, part of the Rakehell Regency series. Exotic Eswara from India introduces him to a world of sensuality he little dreams exists. Still haunted by his devastating past, he has a hard time trusting any woman until she shows him the healing power of love.
"But sinister forces at work and Martin's own naivete regarding the rigours of Regency society nearly tear them apart.
"A wonderful cast of supporting characters take us right into the glamorous but gritty world of the Rakehells. The love-scenes are erotic, the suspense first-rate. Another real keeper from this incredibly talented author."
Evelyn Trimborn
Heady sensuality, remarkable characters
"No other author is able to create such a depth of characterisation and such heady sensuality. Eswara is a revelation. The cast of Rakehells lends their support, and Eswara's son Ash is someone to watch out for in this as in the previous novel. Every time I think I have guess what is about to happen next, I'mastonished. Exceptional: suspenseful, sensual, and surprising as always.
"This is another triumphant novel in the Rakehell series which captures all the joy and sensuality of falling in love. Martin and Eswara are a magical couple with enough chemistry to blow up a science lab!"
Under the Covers Reviews
Forbidden attraction, spicy and sensual
"Another fantastic novel in this series, heady, and erotic. Eswara is an older woman coping with attraction for a younger man. Something in the grim Martin Jerome speaks to her heart, and she sets about trying to lift his spirits.
"His shocking secret, and even more shocking proposal, set them down the path of self-discovery, their passion driving them ever onwards to the ultimate bliss.
"Martin is naive enough to believe that he has all the time in the world to tell Eswara he loves her. But the sands of time are running out for them both. He must risk everything to save Eswara and her son Ash from a fate worse than death.
"Voluptuous and exuberant writing, and the most fascinating characters, make this another novel in the series you will not want to miss. This is delicious treat as yummy as chocolate, with the most sublime love scenes."
Annabelle Stevens
Fascinating and unforgettably sensual
"Martin Jerome is a fascinating character. From his horrifyingly dramatic entrance in the first novel of the series, The Mad Mistress, he has been growing and developing, and is now ready for the gift of love.
"Complex and captivating, we understand all the torment he has endured ever since he was nearly murdered four years before. His shocking tale of that fateful night should have Eswara running from him in terror. Instead she lets him into her heart and home.
"Her gift of love is a double-edged sword, though, for the more Martin has, the more Martin has to lose. The Rakehells are in fine form as Martin must race against time to save the new family he has tried to create for himself, and the woman he loves more than life itself.
"Only when he understands what true love really means can he win Eswara for his wife. The passion between them sizzles the pages, heady and sensual. This prodigiously talented author just keeps getting better. A keeper to be savored."
Erin Kennedy
December 31st, 1816
CHAPTER ONE
"Damn and blast," Martin cursed, the mud sloshing up between his thighs as he landed in an arctic puddle. His mount was already galloping off into the distance at a breakneck pace, leaving him stranded miles away from his uncle's house, Jerome Manor. He stiffly tried to get to his feet, struggling for breath.
He made the mistake of putting weight on his left ankle without testing it first. He immediately stumbled and slid back down into the mire, saturating the knees of his fawn riding breeches. The cloying mud gurgled down his boots and oozed between his fingers, coating his hands.
"Perdition take it. I'm going to bloody well throw that horse myself when I get hold of him. If I ever get hold of him," he muttered.
He was sure the skittish gelding his brother Samuel had given him for Christmas was probably in the next County by now. Assuredly it was fast, but with the disposition of the most ornery jackass he had ever had the misfortune to meet.
"Good bloodlines indeed," he scoffed as he struggled in the slime. "Capricious out of Fractious, and aptly named Fancy."
He sighed. Samuel had meant well. That was the trouble with his family. They all meant well. But a new horse, books, good food and wine were never going to mend what ailed him. Restore him to the man he had once been.
As if his predicament were not already bad enough, a flurry of fluffy flakes now descended upon him.
Martin eased himself off his hands and knees in a gingerly fashion and looked around. He had been so lost in his grim thoughts he hadn't been paying attention to how close to home he was.
He had also completely lost track of the time. The dark had descended so rapidly this New Year's Eve that he could barely see his hand in front of his face, though it had to be scarcely four o'clock. He leaned against a tree while he tried to get his bearings.
Eventually he grew certain he was on the road between Millcote and Eltham, not all that far from his cousin Blake's house. If he just went up this road, he would be able to pass through the forest with ease and come out just about on the doctor's doorstep.
The forest....
The sound of flapping wings overhead sent a chill through him. He told himself furiously to stop being so silly. There was nothing to fear in these woods now. Those blasted highwaymen, may their souls burn in hell forever, were all dead. And he certainly did not believe in ghosts or spirits.
Still, being hurled down in the mud within a stone's throw of the place where his entire life had ended four years ago would be construed as some sort of omen by many people.
Martin looked around again, and asked for the millionth time why God had been so cruel as to have spared his life that fateful night....
But spared him he had. So he had suffered and endured. Martin's body had eventually healed after the vicious assault, but the memories, the horror, regret and self-loathing had not eased over time.
His handsome mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust, and he was certain he could taste the metallic tang of blood. But no, it was all in his imagination, he tried to tell himself, struggling against the inner darkness which threatened to engulf him once more.
Martin could feel himself begin to tremble uncontrollably. With an anguished cry, he lunged forward from tree trunk to tree trunk, using each sturdy oak for support. He bent under each to search fruitlessly for a branch to use as a makeshift walking stick, until at last he calmed somewhat.
Finding nothing, he halted his panicked flight, and rested for a time, his back flattened against the huge trunk of an oak. It was solid, real....
The vision finally released its vice-like grip upon him. He took another ragged breath and looked around once more. Where was he? Where had he been? Where was he going?
He laughed aloud. Some very metaphysical questions, those. Ones he had asked himself a million times in the past four years. Far more than he ever had when he had been studying theology at university. But he had lost his faith when he had lost everything else.
"Ah, nothing like the arrogant certainty of youth," he muttered, rubbing his arms against the chill. "Or the foolhardiness."
He had only thought to be out for a short brisk ride, and had not even worn his greatcoat. Now the weather had turned, catching him completely unawares. He was injured, in the pitch dark, with barely a clue as to where he was.
Martin toyed with the idea of stopping to wrap his handkerchief around his already swelling ankle. Bu
t the snow had increased in intensity to the point where he was almost blinded by the stinging sleet. No, he simply had to press on.
He looked around once more in effort to descry a light, or any hint as to whether his instincts were leading him in the right direction. If he had got turned around somehow, Eltham was five miles away compared to Millcote's three. With the storm lashing down, he didn't rate his chances out in the open for long. Not with a sprained ankle and in mud-soaked trousers.
Martin stood panting and blowing on his hands for a time longer. At length, peering hard in the darkness, he was sure he could see a light through the trees off to his right. He moved forward, and was relieved to see a trackup from the main road.
It did not deserve the dignified name of drive, but it most assuredly led somewhere. The leaves and mud underfoot showed signs of recent riding activity, and the indentation of the wheels of a vehicle.
He looked up and down the road and shrugged. He couldn't afford not to try at this point. The snow was falling heavily, already obscuring any other clues he might have sought. He shivered once more, pulled his jacket up around his ears, and limped up the path.
The house was of sturdy stone, the local red variety quarried nearby. The front door was off to the right side of the house, leaving a huge expanse of windows for the frontage. He could see candles glowing and winking invitingly, offering an unspoken promise of shelter from the fierce storm.
Eager now that he had found a haven, Martin tried to take a longer stride. His ankle would not bear the extra weight, and he fell heavily, feeling his knee twist as well on the way down.
"Drat. What a bloody fool I am. Out for a simple ride, not bothering to wear my coat, the weather turns, the horse bolts, I get lost, and practically break my own leg trying to get under cover," he raged under his breath as he sat on the ground.
Martin dragged himself to his feet once more, a fit of uncontrollable shivering rendering him even more uncoordinated.
He forced himself upright, and took several tentative steps, careful not to slip again. His boots were solid, but did not have the kind of tread required for frosty conditions.
He put one foot in front of the other painstakingly, and soon came close enough to the house to be able to look in through the unshuttered mullioned windows.
What he could glimpse through the frosted panels looked like paradise. The room was decorated in rich burgundy, gold, and fine wood tones. He could see the shimmer of the fire in the hearth, but a long look did not reveal any inhabitants.
Well, no one decent would leave a dog out on a night like this. Whoever lived here had to be sober and respectable, if the drawing room was any indication. He would introduce himself and ask for help.
Martin hobbled the rest of the way up to the front door and knocked. He waited for a time, getting colder and colder in the process. He gave another rap, then another. Someone had to be home, surely. The drawing room was all lit up. The shutters not being closed was a bit strange. Usually they would be fastened once dusk took with it any chance of daylight.
Well, it was unusually dark now even for this time of year, he reminded himself as he stood there shivering, the flakes flying in his face, freezing his features. Perhaps they had gone out for a visit and been caught by the storm?
He rapped again. As he waited he tried to decide what to do for the best. He was fairly certain the last fall he had taken had settled the issue for him. This was not his cousin Blake's house, but he was obviously not going to be able to get there under his own steam. It was too cold, the snow was already forming into drifts, and his knee and ankle throbbed so badly he could barely stand on that leg. To attempt to walk three miles home to Jerome Manor, even assuming that he had a clue where he was going when he was almost snow blind, would be the height of folly. Impossible.
A small germ of temptation sprang into his mind. Perhaps this was a sign? To just give up the struggle? To go back out into the cold, find the tree they had hung him in, and just lay down and...
A beautiful clear soprano voice singing one of his favourite Mozart arias roused him in an instant. The need to be warm and meet the woman who possessed such a heavenly voice was just too compelling to be denied.
Martin furiously tamped down the seductive thought of bringing about his own demise. Despair was a sin. If he had not killed himself when his life had first been shredded into tatters, he was not going to do it now.
Lay down in the snow and die like a dog? Not the Jerome way. They were made of sterner stuff than that. No matter how bad things were, he simply had to endure.
He tapped at the door once again, speculating as he did so. A woman. On her own? Then it was only logical that she would not like to answer the door on such a night as this. Unless of course she was so busy with some sort of chores, was a maid or housekeeper left to mind the place, that she hadn't heard him knock?
Martin tried once more, but the singing continued. Well, whoever she was, with a voice like an angel, he felt sure she would understand his plight and try to alleviate it.
He wondered if he should hobble around the back to what he guessed would be the servants' quarters or kitchen, and rap there. But his leg hurt like the Devil, and the flakes were coming down fast.
Squaring his shoulders and dusting off as much as he could of the swirling snow, he tested the latch on the door and lifted it.
MORE TITLES BY AUTHOR:
If you enjoyed this novel, then I am sure you will enjoy other novels by Sorcha MacMurrough
The Mad Mistress
The Missed Match
The Miss Matched
The Matchless Miss
Scars Upon the Heart
The Scarred Heart
Guardian of the Heart
The Mistaken Miss
The Model Mistress
Innocence
Innocence Afire
Ravished
Experience
The Model Husband
Ruthless
Madness
Beguiled
Beguiled Anew
Table of Contents
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The Model Master Page 29
