by Heather Snow
PRAISE FOR SWEET ENEMY
“Historical intrigue and heart-pounding passion make Sweet Enemy a great read. Romance fans will love it.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Julie Garwood
“Heather Snow combines sizzling tension, witty dialogue, and achingly raw emotions for a passionate love story you’ll remember long after the last page.”
—USA Today bestselling author Kathryn Smith
“Newcomer Snow makes a mark on the genre…. The plot, with its tinge of mystery, matchmaking, and a bit of mayhem, will warm readers’ hearts.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Sweet Enemy combines romance, history, and intrigue into one excellent read. Readers won’t be able to put Sweet Enemy down. A fast-paced plot and captivating characters make [this] a must read for all historical romance fans. Well deserving of the Perfect 10 rating, readers, myself included, will be eagerly anticipating another novel by this delightful author.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Unlike so many other Regencies, almost everything from the setting to the characters to the suspense comes with a twist and never feels cliched…a wonderful, emotional, and intellectually satisfying read.”
—All About Romance
“Amusing, delightful, and charming…. The characters are well developed and the writing is highly engaging. I was vested in the characters and their goals from the start.”
—Manic Readers
“A solid plot, well-developed characters, and deftly drawn setting…an excellent first novel. Readers will be delighted to add Ms. Snow to their list of must-read authors.”
—BookPage
“Liliana was a wonderful heroine and was so vastly different than the other historic heroines that I have read before…a fantastic book and I still can’t stop thinking about it. Looking forward to reading Sweet Deception later this year, and Heather Snow is definitely an author to watch.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“[A] refreshing romance…. Heather Snow has done a phenomenal job of writing characters a reader can connect with. Sweet Enemy is a must read for any historical romance fan!”
—Fresh Fiction
Sweet
Deception
A VEILED SEDUCTION NOVEL
HEATHER SNOW
A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Heather Snow, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN: 978-1-101-59299-1
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
This book is dedicated to my parents, Tom and Sarah Fry. I can’t thank you enough for all the extra time you spent spoiling…er, I mean…loving on your grandsons as my deadline approached. I’m forever grateful to be part of such a supportive and giving family. The example of love you’ve always set is one Jason and I strive to pass on to our sons.
Acknowledgments
I’d always heard second books were tough, and even then, I underestimated just how tough it would be—at least for me. There are many people who helped me through this process, who held my hand and assured me that yes, I could do this—even with a new baby and a toddler and a husband gone on business much of the year and sleep deprived within an inch of my sanity. People who read along and made me believe that I was a good writer, that I had more than one book in me. People who talked me off my ledge when I needed it. I am grateful for you: Karen King, Leigh Stites, Keri Smith, Christie Novak, Tatiana Henley, Gretchen Jones, Cindy Renshaw, Lisa Lovelace, Georgina Green, Carolyn Reece, Erin Knightley, Erica O’Rourke, Eliza Evans, Jennifer McAndrews, Ashley March, Angi Morgan, Jillian Stone and Carla Cassidy. Please, please forgive me if I’ve forgotten someone—I’m still sleep deprived, you know!
Also, to my editor, Danielle Perez, and my agent, Barbara Poelle—you both showed tremendous faith in me as a writer and as a person, and I appreciate you.
Finally, my sincerest thanks to Cathy, Steve and the rest of the staff at the Laclede County Library in Lebanon, Missouri, for going out of your way to welcome me, encourage me and make me feel at home away from home.
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Sweet Madness
Chapter One
Derbyshire, June 1817
The medieval tower rose high and proud above the bilberry heath covering the castle’s grounds, its vibrant red bricks proclaiming it a foreigner amongst a plateau of white limestone. Derick Aveline, Viscount Scarsdale, exhaled with a snort—he certainly knew what that felt like.
If there was one place on earth he’d hop
ed never to set eyes upon again, his northernmost family estate was certainly it. He supposed that would surprise most people, given the dangerous and often unpleasant spots he’d been in over the years. But these lush rolling hills and deep, narrow valleys of his childhood loomed ominous and more treacherous to his well-being than even the filthiest of French prisons that had once held him.
With a sharp tap of his heel, Derick directed his steed down the knoll and onto the lane, as a wealth of memories he’d thought long locked away assailed him. The restless boy he’d been, roaming the hills and dales of White Peak with endless summer days stretching out before him. His mother’s red-rimmed eyes, looking at him with alternating sadness and indifference. The last day he’d seen this patch of England, the day his identity had crumbled away like the ancient limestone the area was named for.
Gravel crunched beneath his stallion’s hooves as they entered the stable yard, shaking Derick from his thoughts. He’d been a fool to come back. If not for this last mission for the Crown, he would never have returned. But he always did what must be done for love of country.
Even when it wasn’t his country to love.
“Boy!” Derick called out, throwing his leg over his saddle and dismounting. He rolled his shoulders, stretching knotted muscles. He’d had to race to stay ahead of the weather and felt every rough mile bone deep. If God were merciful, a hot meal, a warm fire and a clean bed waited within. He scanned the yard for a stable hand.
The lane leading up to Aveline Castle was in clear view of both the stables and the main hall. It was inexcusable that no one waited to greet him, particularly as he’d sent word well ahead to expect him.
Several moments passed, yet no one appeared.
“Damnation,” Derick grumbled, turning his collar up against the chilly wind. The clime this far north had yet to recover from last summer’s unimaginable cold, and with dusk fast on Derick’s heels there was little sun left for warmth. He’d managed to beat the coming storm by only minutes, he’d guess. He led his horse to the deserted stable, secured the mount and promised the animal that he would send a groom straightaway to brush him down.
Derick strode along the north side of the fifteenth-century castle, his gait far from the languid, leisurely manner of walking that he usually affected. He would slip into his ne’er-do-well persona once there was someone about who might observe him.
He climbed the front steps two at a time. When he reached the stoop, he found the massive door half open. Had the staff lost all discipline since his mother had died? The place was drafty enough without carelessly leaving the door unlatched. He pushed it wide, the ancient carved English oak giving way with a groan.
No candlelight greeted him. Indeed, it was as if the place were deserted. Derick frowned, his steps echoing as he walked into the stone foyer. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. His trunks, which had been sent ahead and should have long since been unpacked, sat stacked at the base of the grand staircase. No fire burned in the grate. No lamps had been lit.
Where the devil was everyone?
“—take this area, from the bend in the creek to the waterfall—”
A feminine voice, full of authority, drifted to him from the back of the house.
Curious, Derick started in that direction.
“—and Thomas, you and John Coachman take from here to Felman’s Hill.”
Derick furrowed his brow. There was something eerily familiar about that voice, which was ridiculous given that the only woman he’d known in Derbyshire was his mother, and she had been dead two months now. As he turned into the long hallway leading toward the kitchens, light spilled from the dining hall and a low murmuring of voices reached his ears.
He slipped unnoticed into the room, melting into the shadows along the far wall. It wasn’t even a challenge, as no one paid him a bit of mind. His eyes took in the whole room at once, a skill honed through years in the espionage game.
A dozen and a half people of mixed age and company hovered around the table—all servants, from their dress. Aveline Castle employed only a skeleton staff now that his mother was gone. So who were all these people whispering quietly, their faces grim?
The room smelled crisp, filled with the tang of the outdoors carried in on clothing. And indeed, most of those gathered around were dressed for the elements, garbed in coats and hats or scarves. Several noses were red, as if they had been long out in the wind, and many boots were dirty, covered with mud.
The group seemed to be waiting for something, or someone. Derick shifted more into the corner until he found a break in the wall of people large enough to see through.
Ah, the source of the mysterious voice, he’d wager. The woman stood at the head of the table, but he could not see her face, as she was leaning over a large square of paper that was rolled out across the polished mahogany. Her position made it difficult to gauge her height as well, but there was no mistaking the ample curves her simple muslin dress couldn’t hide.
Her well-tailored frock was a vibrant green, the dye not faded as a castoff would be. A lady of quality, then. One slender hand braced her as she marked furiously upon the paper. The tilt of her head and the way she held herself in determined focus niggled at his memory. Derick tried to place her, but locks of chestnut hair had slipped her coiffure, obscuring even her profile from him.
He turned his attention to the paper and squinted his eyes in the low light. That looked suspiciously like…A discarded frame caught his attention then, propped up against the wall. His eyes snapped back to the table, to the blotchy inked areas the mystery woman was currently drawing lines through.
She was scribbling all over an irreplaceable Burnett map of the countryside, commissioned by his grandfather over half a century ago.
He should be appalled. But Derick had long ago shed any care for the trappings of the viscountcy. Instead, he eyed the scene with detached curiosity, angling for the best way to use it to his purposes. Hmmm. Outrage would be precisely what people would expect of the “pampered aristocrat” persona he typically used for these missions. And Little Miss Map Despoiler had given him the perfect opening. All he had to do was take the stage she’d inadvertently set for him.
“What the devil are you doing?” he barked as he pushed off from the wall. His exclamation had the desired effect. A chorus of gasps registered, but Derick ignored them as he reached the head of the table in three long strides and snatched the priceless map from atop it.
He rolled the map with deceptive casualness, the dry paper making a hissing sound against his palms in the now otherwise silent room. He raised a brow and injected a supercilious tone into his voice as he turned to the woman standing frozen before him.
“Do you mind telling me just who you are”—his gaze traveled up her slim body in an intentionally arrogant perusal—“and why you are vandalizing my property?”
The last word caught in his throat as his eyes finally reached hers.
A flash of memory came, of a scrawny blond pest who’d trailed behind him every summer like an unwanted hound, a little hoyden with unforgettably wide amber eyes.
No longer a blonde, he noted.
And no longer a girl, his baser side chimed in. Derick pressed his lips together, hard. Damnation. The neighbor girl, Miss Wallingford.
Anna? Ella? No, Emma. Derick was surprised he recalled her Christian name. He’d always just called her Pygmy. She’d hated the nickname, thinking he was poking fun at her tiny stature. There was that, but he’d really given her the moniker because her golden eyes and tenacious nature had reminded him of the pygmy owlets that hunted these hills at twilight.
She was apparently still a pest—and one already interfering with his plans, even if she couldn’t possibly know it.
Miss Wallingford’s wide gaze narrowed, and her mouth flattened in what was certainly pique.
Derick waited for her answer, tapping the rolled-up map against the highly polished walnut tabletop in feigned irritation.
Well, mos
tly feigned. This wasn’t quite the foot he’d hoped to get off on with Miss Wallingford. As sister of the local magistrate, she could prove integral to his mission. He’d intended to call on her at her home, play on their childhood friendship—if one could call it that—to gain better access to her brother. Not snap her head off in front of a room full of witnesses.
But what was done was done. Derick had learned long ago that the key to a good deception was to always go on as one had begun. He would brazen through, play his part and find a way to sweeten Miss Wallingford later.
Emma Wallingford had never felt so riveted to one spot in her entire life. It was as if she were carved out of marble, much like the statues of the Greek scholars she’d so admired on her only trip to London. Move, Emma, you ninny!
What was this abominable awareness? Her logical mind told her it was only Derick. Yet her stomach fluttered, forcing her to amend that thought. Yes, it was Derick, but he was also…more. His hair was still black as night, thick and unruly, yet the lines of his face were more angular now, more chiseled. His shoulders seemed wider, his hips more narrow. His eyes hadn’t changed, though. They still glittered like fiery emeralds and still gazed at her as if she were the bane of his existence, sent by Hades himself with the express purpose of bedeviling him.
“My—my lord.” Billingsly, Aveline Castle’s aged butler, brushed past her, his stooped form cutting through her line of sight, rescuing her from Derick’s hard green gaze. Emma dropped her eyes to the floor, grateful for the moment to collect herself as the chaos of stammered excuses erupted around her.
His arrival shouldn’t be such a shock to her—the entire village knew he was due today. Only she hadn’t intended to come anywhere near Aveline Castle while he was in residence, but then Billingsly’s note had arrived and—
Emma gasped. How could she have forgotten? She, of all people, didn’t forget things like that.
Taking advantage of the continued distraction, she stepped forward and plucked the map from Derick’s loosened grasp, berating herself for loss of focus. She spread it out on the table and resumed drawing the border she’d started. With dusk coming, time had become critical.
