Traitor in Her Arms

by Shana Galen

  She grabbed his arms. “Then go at first light. Stay with me tonight. One last night.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “I’m begging you.”

  With a sigh, his arms came around her. “How can I refuse you?”

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs and to the bedroom. She had one night left to plead and cajole and finally capitulate. Though he made love to her with a fervor that left her breathless and weak, he would not be dissuaded. Before the sun’s first light, his lips brushed her temple, and he was gone.

  —

  Ramsey walked out of the king’s chambers feeling dazed. He still did not understand what had happened or how he had walked out on his own and not in chains.

  The king had forgiven him.

  Apparently, word of Ramsey’s valor in France had reached the king’s ear. Ramsey had been surprised, but after seeing Gabrielle’s debts paid by the Pimpernel, he had not been shocked.

  What had shocked him was his reward.

  After much throat clearing, the king had suggested that with all the hubbub in France at the moment, this might not be the best time to show the British peerage in a bad light. Did anyone really need to know that Ramsey had impersonated an earl? It was the royal opinion that Ramsey had earned a title by his acts of bravery, and why not simply bestow the title of Earl of Sedgwick upon him, as there were no heirs. And might the new earl be willing to keep his recent demotion and elevation to himself?

  The new earl was more than willing to do so.

  He was free. He was finally free, and he no longer had to pretend to be Sedgwick. He was Sedgwick. The first thing he would do would be to go to his family in Cumbria and tell them the good news. He’d move them into the earl’s estate there and let a town house in London for them. After all, he was the earl now, and he’d worked damn hard to bring the earl’s estate back from ruin.

  And then he saw Gabrielle.

  And he realized he’d been mistaken. The first thing he would do wouldn’t be to go to his family.

  “The comte de Tonnerre just told me the good news,” she said, moving toward him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked at the same time.

  “Where else would I be? Is it true? Are you forgiven?”

  “Yes, but how does the comte know?” And then it all became clear. The comte had spoken to the king on his behalf. The king had not only seen the wisdom in protecting the British peerage, he’d wanted to do a favor for an old family friend. “That’s not all,” he told her. “As a reward for my valor in France I’m to be given a title.”

  “The king knighted you?”

  “No. He bestowed the title of Earl of Sedgwick on me.” And with that title, Ramsey finally felt he could begin to deserve a lady like the viscountess.

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “Neither do I, but before I wake from this dream, I must ask you one question.” He lowered himself to his knees. “Gabrielle, I wanted you the first time I saw you. You were beautiful and witty. But I fell in love with you in France when I saw qualities even more dear to me—your loyalty, your courage, your compassion. I barely begin to deserve you, but I dare to ask. Will you consent to be my wife?”

  She squealed, and he thought for a moment she was angry at the proposal, and then she fell into his arms and rained kisses on his cheeks. “Of course, you foolish man. I thought you would never ask!”

  —

  Her heart felt so full it would surely burst. Ramsey wrapped his arms around her and she held him tightly, her head on his shoulder, secure in knowing he would be there to support her, love her for the rest of their lives. A movement in the shadows caught her gaze, and she lifted her head and peered into the gloom. A figure in an ebony cloak stood watching them.

  Slowly he withdrew a small white paper from the depths of the black garment. She could just discern the small scarlet flower on the front. Gabrielle held her breath, equally terrified and elated that the Pimpernel might request her services again.

  But then the man stepped back, and with a wave of his white handkerchief, seemed to bid her adieu. Gabrielle couldn’t help but wonder to whom the Pimpernel’s note was addressed.

  For Joanna MacKenzie and Danielle Egan-Miller, because you never gave up on this book

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks again to my fabulous agents, Joanna MacKenzie and Danielle Egan-Miller, as well as Abby Saul, for your comments, your critiques, and your support.

  Thanks to my friend and hardworking assistant, Gayle Cochrane. I couldn’t do this without your help. Thanks also to the Shananigans: Sue, Lisa, Flora, Susan, Ruth, Kristy, Barbara, Monique, Misty, Patti, Sarah, Connie, and Melanie!

  And thanks go to my friends Sophie Jordan, Tera Lynn Childs, Lily Blackwood, Lark Brennan, Nicole Flockton, and Kerrelyn Sparks for your help and support and for cheering me on.

  Thank you to Sue Grimshaw, who took a chance on this book. I’m so privileged and excited to be working with you. Finally!

  Most important, thank you to my family and friends. I know you aren’t as excited about the French Revolution as I am, but you were very patient with me!

  Of course, thank you to my readers. You’re at the heart of every book I write.

  BY SHANA GALEN

  The Scarlet Chronicles

  Traitor in Her Arms

  PHOTO: PATRICIA HOMESLEY, THE WHIMSICAL TREE PHOTOGRAPHY

  SHANA GALEN is a three-time RITA nominee and the bestselling author of passionate historical romps, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Kirkus says of her books, “The road to happily-ever-after is intense, conflicted, suspenseful and fun,” and RT Book Reviews calls her books “lighthearted yet poignant, humorous yet touching.” She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston’s inner city. Now she writes full time. She’s happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making.

  shanagalen.com

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  Read on for an excerpt from

  A Love to Remember

  A Disgraced Lords Novel

  by Bronwen Evans

  Available from Loveswept

  Prologue

  DEVON, ENGLAND, JULY 1815

  I’ll wear your memory proudly

  My honorable brother…my true friend

  May my love for you reach heaven above

  Until we meet again

  Philip Flagstaff, the new Earl of Cumberland, barely heard the words as he stood beside his elder brother’s open grave. All he felt was the chill of Robert’s absence, and the burning stares that came at him from every side.

  Whether friend, foe, or family, Philip knew each one thought the same: Why are you alive, you selfish bastard? Why are you alive when your brother lies dead?

  He’d asked himself the same question every moment since Waterloo.

  Their father’s firstborn favorite, Robert was destined to be the earl. Yet he’d never lorded it over his siblings. He had loved them, taken care of them, and stood up for them. As a brother, he was perfect.

  When their father died, Robert turned the estate and family fortune around and proudly—earnestly—taken his seat in the House of Lords, determined to play his part in making England great.

  Everyone loved him.

  Everyone wanted to be him.

  And everyone gathered at his grave today in the pouring rain knew why they had lost him.

  Because of Philip.

  Philip, who had been trouble since the day he was born.

  Philip, who almost burned the house to the ground lighting a campfire in the nursery. Philip, who had cost his father a champion horse when the animal had failed to jump the river, broken its leg, and had to be shot. Philip, who had pretended to l
ose their sister Portia in the forest just before a storm, only to truly do so, and find her hours later ill with fever and at death’s door. Philip, who only the previous year had invested in a “sure thing” only to lose more than a year’s allowance.

  Philip, who—against Robert’s advice—had taken a commission, and dragged his brother onto the battlefield with him because there was no way Robert would let a genuine walking, talking, breathing disaster go to war alone.

  If anyone should have died on the battlefield of Waterloo it should’ve been Philip. Instead, he had watched in a macabre dream as Robert, selfless to the last, shoved between his brother and a French bayonet and took the mortal blow.

  He hadn’t believed it. Had seen his own shock and disbelief mirrored on their friend Grayson Devlin’s face as he fought his way to them. And then nothing else mattered. He’d dropped to his knees beside Robert’s body, pressed his ear against the blood-soaked jacket, and caught his brother’s final words. “Look after the family. You’ll make a fine earl.”

  Moments later, Robert had died in his arms.

  And nothing would ever be the same again.

  Philip’s stiff shoulders almost buckled under his guilt. It should have been his body, not Robert’s, in the grave at his feet. His life over and done. Instead, he stood in the churchyard, alive—and the new Earl of Cumberland.

  You don’t deserve the title. Everyone at the graveside knew it. Was thinking it. It’s your fault he’s dead.

  And they were right. He should have tried harder to make Robert stay home, to acknowledge that as an eldest son his duty was to his family. But he had not tried harder. He’d loved having Robert with him. Somehow it made him feel safer to have his perfect, indestructible brother riding by his side.

  Perfect? Yes.

  Indestructible? No.

  Look after the family. You’ll make a fine earl.

  Philip stared blankly down at the elaborate coffin in the gaping hole and vowed he would be a man his brother could be proud of. He would look after his family. He would become a fine earl. But he would not continue his family line or profit from his selfishness. He had that much honor. Better that he never marry. Never produce a legitimate heir. Then the title would pass to Thomas, his younger brother, a younger replica of Robert, and one far more worthy of the line of succession than Philip would ever be.

  He barely noticed as the others left the graveside. Maxwell had tried to draw him away but he’d brushed his brother’s hand from his arm. If only he could go back to Waterloo. Shove Robert away. Take the killing blow himself as he should have. He’d be in that grave, his guilt and pain finally over—and Robert would be here, alive, with a future bright before him.

  He had no idea how long he stood in the downpour before a small, warm hand slipped into his chilled one.

  He glanced down.

  Rose Deverill, the Duchess of Roxborough, stood beside him. She was his sister Portia’s best friend. When they were younger she had adored him, following at his heels like an obedient puppy wanting attention. God knew why. She’d been one of the few people to ever see good in him. In the past few years she’d grown into the most beautiful woman, and since her elderly husband’s death—well, he’d heard her nickname. The Wicked Widow.

  “The grave diggers need to finish their work before the grave floods,” she said gently. “Come home, Philip. Your mother and siblings need you.”

  The compassion in her eyes almost undid him. For an insane moment he wished Rose would be the Wicked Widow with him, that she’d take him in her arms and make the pain go away. Make him forget—

  No. A shudder ran through him. Nothing would take the pain away. Nothing would make him forget his guilt.

  Nothing.

  “Philip.” She tugged his hand. “Your mother needs you. Come. Please.”

  For the brief moment that he looked into her eyes it wasn’t only compassion he saw. It was also tenderness. It was—

  He jerked his gaze away and straightened to his full height. There was no room in his life now for more than duty to his family. That was what he would live for. He would ensure the Cumberland seat was the most profitable in all England when he handed it to Thomas, the eldest of the remaining three brothers or Thomas’s children, on his death. God willing, that death would be sooner rather than later.

  Silently, Philip squeezed Rose’s hand and let her lead him back through the waterlogged garden, toward the house.

  To a life, title, and estate that should not be his.

  Chapter 1

  SCOTLAND, EARLY AUGUST 1817—TWO YEARS LATER

  Rose Deverill, Duchess of Roxborough, had not always enjoyed sex. Sexual congress with her elderly husband—the man to whom her family had literally sold her—had been something to endure. Then, as a young widow of one-and-twenty, she’d taken her first lover.

  Imagine her surprise. Her older brother’s friend, Viscount Tremain, had been a marvelous teacher who had introduced her to a world of desire and pleasure and she was forever grateful.

  But on that same day she’d made a decision. She would never marry again.

  Marriage held few advantages for a woman. As a widow, no one told her how to behave, what to wear, what to eat, what to drink, or where she could go. It was a glorious freedom. She had her son, money, and a title. She did not want for anything.

  The ton of course did not understand her resolve, or why she would turn down so many eligible proposals. She was still young and beautiful. She needed a man to make her life complete.

  But Rose had men—a different man whenever she wanted, in fact. She just didn’t have a husband. Which meant she did not have to put up with a man’s tantrums, his boring displays of jealousy, or worry that she might be left financially ruined by his profligate spending. When a man bored her, she simply sent him on his way. After all, none of them really mattered to her.

  The reputation she had crafted and built over the five years of her widowhood—and the double standards of their society—ensured most men would never again look at her as a potential wife. Although she could not guarantee it. Having a title and money forgave many sins.

  Now six-and-twenty, Rose could say that she still enjoyed pleasure, the giving and receiving of it—especially the receiving. Who wouldn’t? But she’d learned from her experience of many paramours that not every man was as considerate, or as skilled a lover, as her viscount.

  To her consternation, she’d also come to realize that making love was far more fulfilling than simply experiencing pleasure. Lovemaking was the most sensual and exquisite experience a woman could have. It was like touching heaven, and Rose had only ever felt that touch at the hands of one man. And she knew she’d only ever feel that with one man.

  Philip Flagstaff, the Earl of Cumberland.

  The man who’d become her lover on that wet, stormy day they had buried his older brother. The one man who could perhaps get her to change her mind and marry—if he asked.

  The man currently naked and buried to the hilt inside her.

  “Oh, God, Philip!” Rose fought to keep hold of the headboard as he thrust forcefully into her from behind. “Yes, that’s it, I’m going to—“

  And she did, her words lost in a scream of pleasure as her world exploded in a vision of color. Only his strong arm about her waist prevented her slumping to the bed as his thrusts became more frantic. Suddenly, and with a roar, he pulled out of her body and spilled his seed on the sheets.

  Panting from his exertions, Philip tumbled sideways onto his huge bed, pulling her with him so that she landed curled into his side. Rose struggled to get her own breathing under control. She knew she should be grateful that he was so scrupulous about not getting her with child. But lately she hoped for a sign that he wanted to take their relationship further. A sign that he might want more from her. He’d invited her to Scotland, after all. He hadn’t done so last year. She’d thought perhaps he was thinking of marriage. His actions just now of ensuring his seed did not take root in h
er womb indicated that if he was thinking about marriage, it probably wasn’t with her.

  The thought should have made her happy. It didn’t.

  She glanced out the large windows and saw the sun low in the sky. “What is the time?” she asked, pushing at Philip’s arm still pinning her to his side.

  “We have time.”

  “Time for what?” She giggled as he tightened his hold. “You can’t possibly have that much stamina.”

  They’d been in his bed since her arrival at lunchtime. Philip hadn’t even let her recover from her journey. He’d wanted her with a ferocity that excited and warmed her. After their third bout of lovemaking, her body was numbly sated and she needed a bath.

  He lifted her hair and pressed a kiss to her neck. “I have missed you, darling. It’s been eight weeks since I saw you. Eight long weeks.”

  Very long weeks. “I missed you. too. But Lord Kirkwood didn’t need my reputation shoved in his face while he was in London visiting Drake.”

  Drake, was her five-year-old son. The Duke of Roxborough. The only person she loved more than Philip.

  Philip snorted inelegantly. “Kirkwood knows we are lovers. Hell, the whole ton knows.”

  Marquess of Kirkwood had been Rose’s husband’s and her father’s best friend. Luckily for her, the late Duke of Roxborough named him guardian of Drake.

  Luckily for her because he was a kind man. He had always thought it wrong that she had been married off at such a young age to a man old enough to be her grandfather, so he tended to be lenient when it came to her behavior. But while he indulged her need to be free, Lord Kirkwood controlled every aspect of Drake’s life. Kirkwood had a son of his own, Francis, and he was a bit on the wild side. It was as if Kirkwood wanted to ensure he did not make the same mistakes with Drake.

  Of course, he consulted with her. But ultimately, he was the one making decisions both as trustee of the Roxborough estate and as Drake’s guardian.