by Alyson Chase
“Yes.” She nodded until he recaptured her mouth. She slid her hands down his back, under the waistband of his breeches. She gave herself to his kiss completely, feeling so light she didn’t know if her feet even touched the ground. Joy burbled out of her, unable to be contained, her laughter breaking their kiss.
“Are you laughing at your future husband already?” Sliding his hands up her waist, he brushed his thumbs against the sides of her breasts. Shivers danced down her spine.
She stepped out of his grasp. Liz took in his large hands, admired his muscled form, his proud bearing. This man would be her husband. She wanted to laugh until the heavens shook down. But perhaps she could do something even better.
“And if I were laughing at you?” She intentionally placed her lower lip between her teeth, bit down. Edging away from Marcus, she hopped up on the bed, placing her knees near the edge and dropping down to her elbows. “Is there some punishment you want to give me?”
A broad grin split his face, a smile so rare and beautiful it stopped her heart. She would make it her life’s mission to see that smile as often as possible.
His eyes hardened, his expression turned stern. Her mouth dried, and moisture gathered at her core. He disappeared behind her and Liz dropped her head to the bed, the anticipation almost as delicious as the act. Almost.
Marcus placed a firm hand on her lower back, that simple touch making her moan. Yes, this man would be her husband.
What a magnificent marriage it would be.
Read on for an excerpt from Alyson Chase’s next story
BOUND BY THE EARL
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Press!
Chapter One
London, 1814
Julius Blackwell dug his fingers under the mask covering his face. The damn thing itched like the dickens. And smelled like a swamp. He tried to remember the last time he’d worn it. Vauxhall Gardens? That assignation with Godfrey’s sister?
His lips scratched the wool as they curved beneath the mask. That had been a lovely evening, notwithstanding his flight along the banks of the Thames with Godfrey’s men in pursuit. Julius couldn’t understand the man’s outrage. His sister was a lovely widow who had more than her fair share of trysts. In Godfrey’s defense, it was one thing to know of his sister’s behavior, but quite another to come across it along one of the garden’s winding paths.
Julius’s escape through the filthy river had been hard-won. It also explained the smell.
He readjusted the mask. If only bed sport were the reason he wore it tonight.
The floorboard beneath him groaned, and Julius froze. He’d attached felt to the bottoms of his boots, but that was no protection against an ill-constructed house. Blast Liverpool for sending him on this fool’s errand. No earl should condescend to sneak through a widow’s home in the middle of the night to steal a painting.
The previous Lords Rothchild would roll over in their graves if they knew what the current one was doing. It had been ingrained in Julius since infancy that honor was the mainstay of the aristocracy. Honor and idleness. Julius was sure none of his ancestors had ever worked a day in their lives, much less worked for the Crown as a spy.
And blast Ashworth for getting blackmailed in the first place. If Liverpool didn’t seek some form of retribution for this indiscretion Julius damn well would.
Easing into another sitting room, Julius examined the walls, but didn’t find his object. All that remained to search were the widow’s own bedchambers. A pulse throbbed behind his temple. Of course the harlot would keep it close. That painting was worth twenty thousand pounds to her, or a certain disgrace to Viscount Ashworth if he didn’t pay.
His footsteps were mere whispers as he crept down the hallway. Julius prayed the Widow Westmont kept her door well oiled. Liverpool’s instructions had said to recover the item at all costs, but violence against women didn’t sit well with Julius. Even against conniving blackmailers.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the door open, the wood hissing over the raised carpet. Moonlight streamed in through the uncovered window, falling on the form beneath the coverlet. Her chest rose and fell smoothly, enjoying the sleep of the innocent.
Julius bit back a snort. Mrs. Abigail Westmont was anything but. Although Julius had never enjoyed the pleasure of her favors, he’d known many men who had. Many, many men. He wondered how many of them she’d blackmailed, too.
The shadowed walls were bare. He narrowed his eyes. Where would she keep it? He peered over the back of her settee. Nothing. Opening her wardrobe, Julius pushed aside swathes and swathes of fabric. Why did women have so many clothes? It wasn’t to impress men. They didn’t give a shit about current fashions. The less worn, the better. Julius wanted the smallest barrier possible between him and bending—
His gaze flew to the bed. On silent feet, he padded close, listening to her even breathing. Dropping to his hands and knees, he lifted the ruffle and stared into the pitch black beneath the bed. Feeling his way, he searched the floor, finding nothing. He flattened to his stomach, and scooted as far underneath as he could, straightening his arm. His fingertips nudged a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Stretching his shoulder, Julius ignored the familiar pain that shot through the joint, and grasped the edge of the painting, tugging it towards him. As quietly as possible, he pulled the two-foot-square canvas free of the counterpane. Rolling to a crouch, he shot one last look at the Widow Westmont, and slid out of her room.
Julius stalked to the window at the end of the hall. He unwrapped enough of the canvas to see that it was, indeed, a portrait of Ashworth. Tucking the picture under his arm, he escaped out the house the way he’d entered.
Two blocks away, he climbed into his carriage and headed for White’s. He found Liverpool where he expected, ensconced in a private room, a stack of papers on the table next to him, smoke curling from the end of his pipe.
“I see you were successful,” Liverpool said. Turning a page in The London Gazette, he flicked a glance at Julius.
“Did you doubt I would be?” Julius strode to a sideboard, unwrapped the canvas, and propped it against the wall. Taking a step back, he grimaced. “Bloody hell. Ashworth deserves to be blackmailed. He posed for his mistress like this?”
Liverpool peered over the paper, his spectacles glinting in the light. He harrumphed. “I understand the lady painted it from memory. Not very flattering to the man, is it?”
“I’d object more to the girlish pose on the settee than the lack of proportion.” Julius cocked his head. “Maybe.” Not wanting to look upon it a moment more, he rewrapped the canvas. “I assume the wine-colored birthmark above his groin was the source for the blackmail?”
Liverpool nodded. “Something only his wife and doctor should know.”
“A lot of men have affairs.”
“Not all of them have the ear of the Prince Regent. Not all of them have built a political platform of family values. The man seems particularly aggressive in wanting to imprison adulterers. Of the lower classes, of course.” The prime minister shook his head. “No, Lord Ashworth was a fool to be so indiscreet.” He flipped to another page, dismissing Julius.
Another job done. Julius’s shoulders sagged. Finishing a job for the Crown usually left Julius full of energy. Eager for more adventure. Being a spy gave his life purpose. Tonight, he felt drained. He just wanted to get home, go to bed. Perhaps it was the absurdity of the task. He needed a bigger challenge.
With a curt nod, Julius strode for the door.
“Good job, Rothchild.” Liverpool’s words stopped Julius.
Turning, Julius looked once more at the canvas. “You know Mrs. Westmont can paint another picture.”
“Yes.” Liverpool sucked at his pipe. “It’s no longer your concern.”
Julius hesitated. “If everyone knew about the birthmark there could be no recourse to blackmail. A friendly prank among friends that went awry.”
Liverpool pursed his lips. “Perhaps. Good night, Rothchild.”
Crossing the club, Julius ignored the greetings of acquaintances. How tenuously Mrs. Westmont’s life hung in the balance. Everything she knew could be taken away from her tomorrow if the prime minister wished it. A scandal created to destroy her reputation. A crime faked to separate her from society. Which path would Liverpool take to eliminate the threat? The prime minster called upon Julius and his friends in the House of Lords to help the Crown when the situation arose.
Liverpool called upon others less honorable for the jobs Julius refused to do.
It was a messy business keeping an empire together.
Climbing into his carriage, Julius sagged into the velvet seat and called, “Home!”
The driver closed the door and poked his head in the open window. “Home, my lord? Or the Duke of Montague’s town house?”
Julius leaned his head back on the seat and stared at the ceiling. Bugger. That was his home now. At least while Marcus was touring the Continent with his new bride. His friend’s stifling town house with its crush of servants watching his every move.
Its other occupant made him feel just as uncomfortable, but for a whole other reason.
He sighed. “To Montague’s. And don’t look so relieved. I know you like staying in the duke’s carriage house more than mine.”
His driver kept his lips even. “No, my lord.”
The carriage shifted as the man took his seat. The flannel-wrapped bricks at Julius’s feet had long since cooled, and he tugged his coat tighter around him. Closing the window wasn’t an option. His shoulder ached, and he idly rubbed the old hurt.
He felt a hundred years old, in both body and soul. He’d seen too much in life. No matter how hard he and his friends worked, nothing would change. The same battles were fought every year. If it wasn’t France it would be the Russian Empire, or an internal enemy that threatened the peace. Human nature was set.
The wraith that haunted the halls of Montague’s town house attested to that fact.
So much pain in one so young. Fire burned in Julius’s chest. Every time he saw Miss Amanda Wilcox, he wanted to kill every man who had a part in putting the hollowness in her eyes.
He wanted a lot of things when he saw her. But she was his good friend’s sister-in-law, and under his care.
He snorted. Marcus had left the chit under Julius’s protection while he was away with his new bride. The idiot. Like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse. Or perhaps his friend was brilliant. Believing that if caring for Amanda was Julius’s duty he’d never touch her.
That was putting a lot of faith in Julius. Faith he didn’t know was justified.
The carriage rattled to a stop. Julius trudged up the steps to the front door, the blasted thing swinging open before he could even knock. The butler must have stood sentry by the window watching for him. Always watching.
“Thank you, Carter.” Julius handed the man his gloves. “You didn’t need to wait up. I’ve told you that before. Many times.”
“Yes, my lord.” The man’s wig was askew and sleep creased his face, but Julius knew he would have stayed up all night just to open the damn door for him. Next time Julius left the house, he would tell the man he was staying out all night just so the butler wouldn’t wait up.
Carter picked up a candle. “Shall I lead you to your room?”
Julius’s scalp prickled. “I know my way. You go on to bed.” He waved away the offered candle. “And keep your candle. I can see well enough in the moonlight.”
“Yes, my lord.” The golden aura faded as the man walked to his quarters. Julius faced the stairs to the second floor, and sighed. Too many steps. Turning, he trudged to the duke’s library. It was Julius’s favorite room in the house, with high ceilings, large windows, and a surprisingly comfortable settee to sleep on.
He pushed the door open, and frowned. It was black as pitch, all the curtains drawn. He’d told Carter to keep the drapes open. It wasn’t like the man to forget.
Julius crossed the room, and pulled back the curtains, inhaling deeply. The muscles in his shoulders unknotted as the night sky opened up before him. Alone at last. As alone as one could be in a metropolis of 1 million denizens.
Fabric rustled, and he jerked his head around. Slippered feet disappeared under the hem of a skirt hanging over a bench seat. The body attached to the feet was hidden in shadow, but Julius knew who it belonged to. Only one woman would be hiding in the dark in this house.
“Miss Wilcox, the hour is late for you to be out of bed.”
No answer.
“And sitting in a library without a light seems a bit pointless. Unless you can read in the dark.”
She sighed.
Julius moved closer, slowly, careful not to startle her. She moved around the house like smoke, and he didn’t want her to slip through his fingers. “Can’t you sleep?”
“I’ll leave you be if you wish to be alone.” Her husky voice surrounded him like a thick fog. The rasp that she’d developed in prison had never truly left.
“I didn’t say that.” He held out his hand. “But I would like for you to stop hiding in the dark. Let’s sit by the window.”
He waited, pulse pounding in his ears, until she placed her small hand within his own. Satisfaction coursed through him. Amanda shied away from most contact, only stiffly tolerating her sister’s embraces. Her hand was cool, and he rubbed it as he led her to the settee.
“What are you doing up?” he asked.
“Waiting for you.”
Julius sat back. Moonlight fell on her cheek. A strand of dark hair fell against her neck, and his fingers itched to tuck it back behind her ear. “Was there something you needed? You’ve only to ask. You know I’m here in Marcus’s stead. Anything you would ask of him you can ask of me.”
A smile ghosted across her lips. “I hope not. There’s something I wish to ask you that I could never ask my brother by marriage. My sister wouldn’t care for it.”
He squeezed her hand, hoping to reassure her. “If it is in my power to deliver, it’s yours.”
Raising her other hand, she cupped his palm. Tentatively, she brushed her thumb up and down the length of his hand, like he was made of porcelain, and could be broken.
His skin prickled. Blood flooded his cock, and a longing filled him that stole his breath. Its strength had never been matched.
“What I want,” she said, “what I’ve wanted since the moment you moved into this house, is for you to take me to bed and have your way with me.”
About the Author
ALYSON CHASE writes historical romances that are just a bit . . . naughty. She is a former attorney, and thought that her flair for dramatic and sexy writing was seriously undervalued in her legal career. She also writes under the name Allyson Charles.
She lives in Northern California where the incredible weather and natural beauty so far outweigh the overcrowding and congested freeways. Also, the food in the Bay Area rocks.
If you want to know when Alyson Chase’s next book is coming out, visit her at www.alysonchase.com and sign up for her newsletter.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Acknowledgments
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
Excerpt: Bound by the Earl
About the Author
Copyright Page
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.
DISCIPLINED BY THE DUKE. Copyright © 2017 by Alyson Chase.
Excerpt from Bound by the Earl copyright © 2017 by Alyson Chase.
All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Mimi Bark; man © Anastasiia Kazakova/Shutterstock.com; background © Number One/Shutterstock.com
eISBN 978-1-250-15525-2
First eBook Edition: August 2017
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