by Jo Beverley
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Teaser chapter
Praise for the Novels of Jo Beverley
A Lady’s Secret
“Well-matched, charming protagonists banter beautifully as they play a game of double deception. This cleverly plotted story rewards readers with a captivating blend of thrilling adventure, steamy sensuality, and gratifying emotion, as well as a surprise link to some of Beverley’s earlier titles. Another flawless Georgian gem.”—Library Journal
“With wit and humor, Jo Beverley provides a wonderful eighteenth-century romance starring two amiable lead characters whose first encounter is one of the best in recent memory. The tale is filled with nonstop action. . . . Jo Beverley provides a tremendous historical.”—Midwest Book Review
“Jo Beverley’s writing is usually a cut above the crowd, and A Lady’s Secret is no different . . . a book to enjoy.”—Curled Up with a Good Book
“Beverley’s attention to historical detail is as good as ever . . . delightful.”
—The Romance Reader
Lady Beware
“Jo Beverley carries off a remarkable achievement in Lady Beware, the latest and possibly last in her Company of Rogues novels. . . . It is the unusual combination of familial comfort and risqué pleasure that makes this book a winner. . . . No doubt about it, Lady Beware is yet another jewel in Beverley’s heavily decorated crown.”—The Romance Reader
“Enchanting . . . a delightful blend of wit (with banter between Thea and Darien), intrigue (as evil lurks throughout) and emotional victories (as love prevails in the end). . . . Watching Thea and Darien spar is entertaining, and watching them succumb to the simmering love and passion is satisfying.”
—The Columbia State (SC)
To Rescue a Rogue
“Beverley brings the Regency period to life in this highly romantic story [with] vividly portrayed characters. [Readers] will be engrossed by this emotionally packed story of great love, tremendous courage, and the return of those attractive and dangerous men known as the Rogues. Her Company of Rogues series is well crafted, delicious, and wickedly captivating.”
—Joan Hammond
“With her usual beautifully nuanced characters and lyrical writing, RITA Award winner Beverley brings her popular Company of Rogues Regency historical series to a triumphant conclusion . . . [a] quietly powerful romance.”
—Booklist
“Lighthearted and serious, sexy and sweet, this exquisitely rendered story is a perfect finale to this classic series.”
—Library Journal
The Rogue’s Return
“Beverley beautifully blends complex characters, an exquisitely sensual love story, and a refreshingly different Regency setting into one sublime romance.”
—Booklist
“Jo Beverley has written an excellent character study. One of the best books I’ve read this season.”
—Affaire de Coeur
A Most Unsuitable Man
“Picking up exactly where Winter Fire leaves off, Beverley turns a rejected ‘other woman’ into a fiery, outspoken, sympathetic heroine; pairs her with a dashing but penniless, scandal-ridden hero; and lets the fun—and the danger—begin. Once again readers are treated to a delightful, intricately plotted, and sexy romp set in the slightly bawdy Georgian world of Beverley’s beloved Malloren Chronicles.”
—Library Journal
“Beverley brings back some of the characters from Winter Fire as she takes her readers into the dangerous, intriguing, and opulent world of Georgian England. Her strong characters and finely honed dialogue, combined with a captivating love story, are a pleasure to read.”
—Romantic Times
“I found myself enjoying every minute of the relationship in this story of love, hope, and increments of witty humor. As usual, a Malloren novel is a keeper.”
—Rendezvous
“Expertly laced with danger and skillfully sweetened with sensuality, A Most Unsuitable Man is a most captivating romance.”
—Booklist
More Praise for Other Novels of New York Times Bestselling Author Jo Beverley
“A well-crafted story and an ultimately very satisfying romance.”
—The Romance Reader
“Jo [Beverley] has truly brought to life a fascinating, glittering, and sometimes dangerous world.”
—Mary Jo Putney
“Another triumph.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Wickedly delicious. Jo Beverley weaves a spell of sensual delight with her usual grace and flair.”
—Teresa Medeiros
“Delightful . . . thrilling . . . with a generous touch of magic . . . an enchanting read.”
—Booklist
“A stunning medieval romance of loss and redemption . . . sizzling.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A fast-paced adventure with strong, vividly portrayed characters . . . wickedly, wonderfully sensual and gloriously romantic.”
—Mary Balogh
“Deliciously sinful . . . Beverley evokes with devastating precision the decadent splendor of the English country estate in all its hellish debauchery . . . a crafty tale of sensuality and suspense.”
—BookPage
ALSO BY JO BEVERLEY AVAILABLE FROM NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
REGENCY
THE ROGUE’S WORLD
Lady Beware
To Rescue a Rogue
The Rogue’s Return
Skylark
St. Raven
Hazard
“The Demon’s Mistress” in In Praise of Younger Men
The Devil’s Heiress
The Dragon’s Bride
Three Heroes (Omnibus Edition)
OTHER
Forbidden Magic Lovers and Ladies (Omnibus Edition)
THE MALLOREN WORLD
The Secret Wedding
A Lady’s Secret
A Most Unsuitable Man
Winter Fire
Devilish
Secrets of the Night
Something Wicked
My Lady Notorious
MEDIEVAL ROMANCES
Lord of Midnight
Dark Champion
Lord of My Heart
ANTHOLOGIES
“The Dragon and the Virgin Princess” in
Dragon Lovers
“The Trouble with Heroes” in
Irresistible Forces
SIGNET ECLIPSE
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Published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Walker edition. Published by arrangement with the author.
First Signet Eclipse Printing, February
Copyright © Jo Beverley, 1989
Excerpt from The Stolen Bride copyright © Jo Beverley, 1989 All rights reserved
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eISBN : 978-1-101-18485-1
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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.
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Writing is a solitary profession, but I have always found my fellow writers to be immensely supportive. I thank them all and wish to single out four here—
Audrey Jessup and Liz Palmer, my fellow Regency writers, who make sure I stay genteel; Vicki Cameron, who snipped any loose threads in my mystery plot; Linda La Prade, who put fire into my French.
1
FRANK HALLIWELL, undergroom at Delamere Hall in the county of Lancashire, rode into the stables and swung off his sturdy cob. He was a tall young man with unruly straw-colored hair and dimples when he smiled. He didn’t smile often these days, however.
The stable boy took the horse away, and Frank went up to the house with the postbag he had collected from the village of Heysham. He entered the large graystone house by the kitchen door, wiping his boots carefully before stepping on Mrs. Pickering’s tiled floor, even though that lady had far too soft a spot for a handsome lad to scold.
“Morning to you, Frank. Here, have an Eccles cake. Fresh and warm, just for you.”
The cook was a buxom woman, with the smooth skin of a Lancashire lass despite her forty-odd years. She gave him a buss to flavor the pastry.
A slight smile eased the young man’s expression. “Go on with you, Mrs. P. It’s not me that pays the wages.”
“No,” said a wiry young footman sitting at the table polishing silver. He glanced at the groom with a smirk. “But it’s in the family, so to speak.”
An ugly scowl banished the humor from Frank’s face, and it looked as if he would take a swipe at the footman. Instead, Frank dumped the leather postbag on top of the other man’s work and stamped out.
“What did you have to say a thing like that for?” asked Mrs. Pickering.
As he removed his cuff-protectors and washed his hands, Matthew Riggles only said, “I have my reasons.”
The cook turned back to her pastry rolling, shaking her head. Troubled times at Delamere, troubled times. She’d come to work at the Hall as a girl, when the first viscount—and he’d been only a baronet then—had been newly married to a woman pretty as a picture and happy as a lark. Miss Sophronia Stacey, she had been, Toast of London. They’d called her Sweet Sophy.
A duke had wanted to marry her, or so it was said, but she’d chosen Sir Henry. There’d never been a sign she’d regretted it. Lady Delamere seemed as happy in this simple northern spot as traveling about Europe with her diplomat husband; happy to be anywhere as long as she was with her darling Henry.
See what times they were come to now, with the first viscount eight years in his grave, his sweet lady’s wits gone wandering, and his two successors dead within one year.
Stirred to philosophy by her thoughts, Mrs. Pickering said to the footman, “Life’s too short for quarrels, lad.”
“Life’s too short to let others spoil it,” he retorted.
With that, he shrugged into his braided jacket, picked up the postbag, and went in search of the person regarded by all as the mistress of Delamere Hall.
He found her, as he expected, in the Sea Room, the saloon with three large windows overlooking Morecambe Bay.
Chloe, Lady Stanforth, a widow at only twenty-three, thanked Matthew with her usual warm smile, but did not immediately investigate the contents of the bag. Instead, she let her gaze return to the grassy headland outside the large windows and the Irish Sea beyond.
She had been raised in Leicestershire and educated in Gloucestershire. Before her elopement from the schoolroom she had never seen the sea. When her late husband, Stephen, had brought her to his home, the vista of Morecambe Bay, backed by the distant hills of the Furness Peninsula and the Lake District, had stunned her. Delamere Hall—a simple, modest manor—sat square and strong on the cliffs above the sandy bay, just outside the ancient village of Heysham. From many of its windows the tableau could be enjoyed through the seasons, and that was one of Chloe’s greatest pleasures.
Changing moment by moment as the tide swept in to fill the bay or retreated to leave it as mud; as the distant shore shone clear in sunlight, fields and houses distinct, or became shrouded in mist so she could imagine the sea to go undisturbed all the way to America; as the vault of sky formed an arch of pure cerulean blue, or filled dramatically with the tumbling clouds of an approaching storm; this vista always enchanted.
Just now the tide was receding, and flocks of birds called as they picked over the exposed marine life. The blue October sky reflected in the deeper channels of water ruffling under a brisk autumn breeze. In pleasant weather Chloe often pulled on a pair of sturdy boots and walked far out across the pebbles and mud, investigating the tidal pools. This cool day, however, did not tempt her.
An observer would have found Chloe as entrancing a sight as the view beyond the windows, for she was that rarest of creatures, a natural beauty. Of medium height, her form was slender, but with nothing of frailty about it since she was by nature active. The only part of her that suggested weakness was her long neck, which appeared almost too delicate to hold her fine-boned head and mass of dark curls. She was even gifted with natural color—shapely lips of a deep pink and a fine-grained skin that showed the roses in her healthy cheeks. The penalty, of course, was that embarrassment could not be concealed, but Chloe Stanforth could not be easily discomfited.
The most interestingly uncolored part of Chloe’s features was her eyes—a clear silver gray, they were saved from insipidity by a dark outer edge to the irises and thick dark lashes. They shone brilliantly whenever she was in spirits, which was often, and so were commonly spoken of as her finest feature.
These days, however, Chloe was not often in spirits. She had been cooped up at Delamere since the summer of 1809, when she had come north for her annual stay. In September of that year she had been preparing for a return to her husband and the social life of the south, when she had received news of Stephen’s death in a carriage accident. She remained at Delamere for her year of mourning, so recently over. Now, despite the appeal of the scenery, she wanted to escape and
build a new life for herself. She wouldn’t feel able to leave, however, until the new Lord Stanforth arrived to take responsibility for the Hall and all its dependents.
Justin Delamere, Stephen’s cousin . . .
Sliding away from thought of Justin, Chloe turned her attention to the postbag and unfastened the clasp. At that moment the door opened, and an ancient lady tapped her way into the room with the help of a sturdy cane.
“Grandmama.” Chloe smiled as she rose to escort the lady to her favorite straight-backed chair near the fire. “I might have guessed the postbag would bring you hot-foot.”
“Hot-foot!” snorted the Dowager Duchess of Tyne as she eased her body into a position of comfort. “It’s many a day since I’ve been even warm-foot, my dear. But I confess I do like to read my letters.”
“And you always have some,” remarked Chloe. “What devoted correspondents you have, Grandmama.”
“The secret is to keep writing, gel. Then they must write back. Well. Open it up and see what we have.”
