Dangerous Lords Boxed Set

by Andersen, Maggi

  Guy groaned. It was time. This was too delicious, too exciting, and he’d wanted it too long.

  He slipped between her thighs and pressed himself against her entrance, she stilled. Her body was ready for him, rosy and wet. He searched her eyes which gazed at him with love and apprehension. “This may hurt a little.”

  She shook her head as if incapable of replying.

  With a thrust of his hips, he nudged inside her, met with a resistance, and pushed through. She drew her breath in sharply.

  “Shall I go on?”

  “Yes,” she said cautiously.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  She bit her lip. “A little.”

  He paused.

  “No, don’t stop, please.”

  Guy began to move, slowly, as her body accepted him.

  Hetty released a breath and drew him close.

  He withdrew and pushed in again, then settled into a rhythm. As her body rose to join his, she threw back her head with a mew of pleasure. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as if she could pull him closer. Her body closed around him like a hot velvet glove, the pleasure so intense, he fought to retain control.

  *

  Hetty lay sprawled beside Guy, his hand resting on her breast, rising and falling with her rapid breaths.

  “Je t’aime ma chéri,” he said huskily. “You are my life.”

  “Oh, my darling. I love you.” She could barely speak, her body weighed down with a pleasurable fatigue. She settled beside him and closed her eyes.

  She woke as the soft patina of moonlight slid across the room through the open curtains. It must have been close to midnight. While she’d slept, Guy had put a taper to the fire and pulled the covers over them. He stirred beside her, woke, and gathered her into his arms. She snuggled against the warm length of his body, settled her head on his shoulder, and slept again.

  They woke to birdsong. Drowsy and exhausted, Hetty sat back against the pillows as they fortified themselves with the hot chocolate the maid had brought.

  She put down the cup and pushed back the covers.

  “Where are you going?” His eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep and awakening desire.

  “I was just going to ring for the maid to draw my bath.”

  “Not yet.” He drew her back into bed.

  Hetty leaned into his hard body as the familiar sensations of warmth and need flooded through her. How she loved this man. Her need for him robbed her of breath as she pressed her mouth to his.

  Hunger drove them downstairs at luncheon to find Genevieve and Eustace had tactfully gone to visit her father and Marina.

  Ravenous, they devoured a late breakfast. Then, holding hands, they walked over the grounds enjoying order restored to the gardens, the hedges trimmed, the parterre garden free of weeds, the roses pruned, and the lawns scythed. Gardeners were raking up the first of the autumn leaves to fall and burning them, the smoke coiling into the sky. Rosecliff Hall had been restored. But to Hetty, it was more than a restoration. Rosecroft Hall had been lifted from the mortmain past, which had held it in thrall ever since Guy’s father had deserted it. “I can’t wait for you to see how glorious the estate is in the spring.”

  “We may not be here in the spring,” Guy said.

  She looked up at him. “Why? Where shall we be?”

  “Genevieve wants us to visit her in Paris,” he said with a grin.

  “Oh, Guy. I’d love to!”

  He lifted a curl to press a kiss on her neck and warmth spiraled down her spine. “I knew you would. But Genevieve may have to wait. It may not be advisable for you to travel.”

  She leaned into him and smiled. “Might I be with child?”

  “Perhaps.” He leveled a glowing look at her.

  “I expect the others will return soon.” She wanted to be alone with him and found a similar need in his eyes. He began to turn back to the house.

  She tugged at his arm. “Let’s walk to the summerhouse by the lake.”

  Guy’s brows rose. For a moment, she thought he might refuse, but then his eyes smoldered with desire and he grabbed her hand.

  Epilogue

  Rosecliff Hall, Spring 1817

  Hetty wandered the glorious gardens, breathing in the floral scents carried on the breeze. Footfall behind her made her turn. Guy walked down the path. “Are you ready to leave, mon amour? The carriage is being brought around.”

  She smiled and took his hand. “I’m saying goodbye to the garden.”

  “It’s only for a few months. We’ll come home when it gets too hot.” He raised her chin with a finger, his blue eyes questioning. “Looking forward to London?”

  “But of course. The Mayfair house has been made ready for us, and I can’t wait to see it.” Hetty turned for one last glance of the sunlight brightening the new spring green in the trees. She didn’t want her perceptive husband to see the dread in her eyes.

  “You will be a great success, Hetty.”

  She took an anxious breath and shook her head. “You are biased.”

  “Not at all.” He grinned and shook his head. “We shall see.”

  After they’d journeyed to France to visit Genevieve in her chateau and met her charming husband and children, they’d returned here and spent the following months closeted in Digswell, through Christmas, and the fierce winter that kept them snowbound for one whole delicious month. Now the moment had finally arrived. She must face the haute ton as the Baroness Fortescue.

  She took Guy’s hand, and they walked up the path to where the coach waited, while footmen loaded the trunks. As Hetty’s maid and Guy’s valet traveled with them, she wouldn’t have a chance to talk to him privately about her concerns. She squared her shoulders, she must deal with this herself. She wanted him to be proud of her.

  “Our house party proved to be a great success, was it not?” he reminded her.

  “Because they are our friends.”

  “You shall make many more friends this season.”

  “I hope so.”

  Their house party held at Rosecliff Hall last October had been great fun. John came with his sisters and their husbands. Georgina, now Her Grace, Lady Broadstairs was still lively, but she’d gained considerable poise. Her husband, His Grace, proved to be an amiable fellow and not at all haughty. Eleanor’s husband, Lord Gordon Fitzherbert, had rallied enough to make the journey, but looked thin and pale. Hetty found him to be bookish, calm, and patient, as many with serious infirmities could be. He’d been unable to join the men on their shoot and spent his time in the library where she and Eleanor had joined him for a cozy afternoon discussing poetry. Hetty liked his sense of humor and the twinkle in his eye, but she feared that he would not live overlong.

  They settled in the carriage, and the horses trotted down the drive and soon left Rosecroft Hall behind. Digswell was not a great distance from London, but Hetty felt as if she was about to make a very long journey.

  Hetty’s first real experience of the ton came a week after settling in London. Lady Montague’s was the first ball of the season. She wore her new peach silk gown lavishly trimmed with old lace, which she thought suited her.

  They stood with other guests waiting to be announced at the door of the elegant ballroom. The orchestra played Mozart, and beneath crystal chandeliers, guests drank pink champagne seated on sofas and chairs around the walls where a variable garden of flowers in vases perched on occasional tables.

  “Baron and Baroness Fortescue,” a footman proclaimed loudly. A hush fell. To Hetty, it seemed as if time had stopped, before chatter began again. Their host and hostess warmly greeted them, then Hetty, her hand resting on Guy’s arm, continued into the room.

  In a moment, they were surrounded by friends and others begging to be introduced.

  “We have been so eager to meet you.” Mrs. Drummond, a large bosomed lady in gray, sank into a curtsy. “Your prolonged stay in the country after your marriage has had everyone talking.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize.” Hetty e
mployed her fan, imagining the talk would be unfavorable.

  “Yes, indeed, my lady. The beau monde could do with an injection of new blood, and to find such a glamorous couple in our midst.” Mrs. Drummond flicked a glance at Guy. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, well…we are all delighted.”

  The following hours became a blur as they chatted, ate supper, and danced. It was close to dawn when the carriage took them home. Hetty slipped off her dancing slippers and snuggled within Guy’s arm. “Well?” He ran a hand gently up her arm. “Was it so awful?”

  “Not at all. Really quite pleasant. I met many interesting people.” She yawned. “I am fatigued though. They keep such appalling hours in London.”

  His deep chuckle made her lift her head to observe him. “With my preference for the country and your fear that society would shun you, we may never have come.”

  She ran a finger along his jaw. “But we will continue to come every year, will we not?”

  Guy groaned. “If that is your wish, mon amour.”

  The End

  Seducing the Earl

  Dangerous Lords Book Two

  By

  Maggi Andersen

  Prologue

  Linden Hall, Yorkshire

  October 1817

  The elegant ballroom was filled with guests enjoying the Hunt Ball. Laughter rose in the heated smoky air as decorative ladies mingled with the more soberly dressed gentlemen.

  As they danced, Lady Sibella Winborne smiled mischievously at her host, John Haldane, Earl of Strathairn. “This is a splendid ball. I feel I should congratulate you, except I know Eleanor arranged it.”

  Strathairn’s gray-blue eyes twinkled. “Come, am I not deserving of a little praise? But yes, my sister excels at these affairs.”

  “Eleanor is remarkably efficient. Indeed, a wife could hardly do better.”

  Strathairn’s hand tightened at her waist. “Eleanor intends to live in Devon. She dislikes London life since her husband, Lord Gordon passed away. I fear my grouse will now breed unchecked.”

  “You do plan to marry at some stage?”

  “I accept the need for an heir.” He arched his eyebrows. “Your brother still seeks a husband for you?”

  Sibella sighed. “Yes. Chaloner is committed to marrying me off sooner rather than later.”

  “Don’t allow him to push you into a marriage not to your liking.”

  She lowered her lashes. “I should like very much to choose my husband.”

  He grinned. “You will have quite a list to choose from. A man would be lucky to have you.” His matter-of-fact tone belied the warmth of his gaze.

  Sibella feared that her hand trembled in his. She studied the tall blond man who led her gracefully over the floor in a waltz. Did he suspect her of encouraging him to propose? She was, in all likelihood, although she knew it to be a lost cause. Hopeless at flirting, she doubted he would fall for it. They had been friends for years. Before the war, John might have married her, but those years away on the Peninsula had changed him. Something held him back from marriage now. She wasn’t sure what it was, but he desired her, she could recognize ardor in a man’s eyes when she saw it, it was just that he didn’t want her enough it seemed.

  “It’s desperately sad about Catherine, Harrow’s wife,” she said to change the subject. “The duke is a friend of yours, is he not?”

  Strathairn sighed. “Yes. Tragic to lose your wife in childbirth. The babe survived. A daughter.”

  “I’ve heard he’s devastated.”

  “Dreadfully cast down. Andrew plans to leave England. He has taken up a diplomatic post in Vienna.”

  “Are the children to accompany him?”

  “No, that would be unsuitable. He is leaving them with his mother and the nursery staff. I believe a governess has been employed for his heir. Young William is now six.”

  The dance came to an end. Sibella took John’s proffered arm, and they joined her sister Cordelia.

  He bowed. “Viscountess Bathe.”

  Cordelia curtsied. “Lord Strathairn.”

  “You dance very well together,” Cordelia said after the earl left them. “Can’t you get him to propose?”

  “Apparently my charms are not sufficient to lure him into matrimony,” Sibella said and puffed at a wisp of hair on her forehead that had escaped her coiffure.

  “Well, you’ll have to stop mooning over him,” said her annoyingly pragmatic sister. “And find a husband.”

  *

  While wandering his ballroom, speaking to guests, Strathairn encountered Sibella’s brother, the Marquess of Brandreth, who had made a beeline for him through the crowd.

  “I hope we bag a few more birds tomorrow,” Chaloner said.

  Strathairn eyed him. He had something on his mind. “One trusts so. My chef plans a grouse dish flavored with juniper berries for our dinner.”

  “Sounds delicious.” Chaloner raised his glass. “I’m willing to rise at the crack of dawn for that.” He took Strathairn’s arm and drew him away into a quiet corner. “I don’t wish to strain a friendship I value, John, but I feel I must offer a word of advice.”

  “Oh?” Strathairn had liked Chaloner better before his father died. The man seemed to lose his sense of humor after inheriting the title.

  “You are often seen in Sibella’s company. Don’t get too fond of her.”

  Faintly irritated, Strathairn glanced over at Sibella in her white muslin, talking earnestly to Mrs. Bickerstaff. “Your sister is intelligent and good company. I enjoy our conversations. Nothing too scandalous about that.”

  “I struggle to believe it is just conversation. I may not be privy to the details of the work you perform for the military, but rumors do float about the House of Lords. You must admit that due to those circumstances alone, you would not make her a good husband.”

  Chaloner’s determination put him in mind of a robin with a worm. Pointless to argue. With a sigh, Strathairn acknowledged that he only strove to protect his sister from possible hurt. “No need for concern,” he said. “I have no plan to marry your sister, or anyone else for that matter. I do intend to ask Sibella to dance again though. Unless you think my dancing with her will ruin her reputation.”

  Chaloner huffed out a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Only among the biddies. I don’t enjoy having to say this to you, Strathairn, but it befalls me as head of the family. Sib has a love of home and hearth. She looks for a husband who will sit by the fire with her at night. That isn’t you, is it?”

  “She deserves the best, and no, that isn’t me, Chaloner.”

  Chapter One

  London Docks, Summer

  1818

  A gunshot shattered the quiet air. The Earl of Strathairn dropped into a crouch as another ball whistled overhead, followed by a thud as lead bit into the wall above him, showering him with fragments of brick. A bead of sweat trickled into his brow. Hell’s teeth—not the first time he’d been shot at by a long chalk, but he hadn’t expected it to happen tonight. In fact, he’d been sure this was a fool’s errand. The moon sailed free of the clouds. It cast the new dock in silver light, revealing it empty. Where was Nesbit?

  Breath held against the stench of low tide, he listened. Nothing but the surge of the swell and the creak of ships moored out in the middle of London Pool waiting to unload their wares. The faint voices of the sailors aboard carried over the water.

  When the slap of running feet echoed into the distance, Strathairn gripped his pistol, hunched over, and rushed forward. He leapt over a pile of crates and flattened himself against a wall, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears as he edged around the corner.

  Nesbit lay spread-eagled on his back. Strathairn rushed to his stricken friend, fell to his knees, and groaned. Blood seeped from his partner’s head onto the ground. Nesbit’s eyes, a lively brown only moments before, stared blankly up at him. A prickle of foreboding climbed Strathairn’s spine. Had Nesbit been as surprised as he was by this attack, or might he have rec
ognized his killer?

  Aware it was futile, he placed his fingers against Nesbit’s throat and searched for a pulse, then cursed effusively under his breath. He’d witnessed the death of too many good men. As bitterness twisted in his gut, he rose to his feet determined not to allow his sadness to weaken him. His mind focused on the business at hand as he moved stealthily through the shadows, sure that whoever committed this dastardly act was gone.

  Apart from the scamper of rats, the rest of the dock stood empty and silent. The moonlight picked out something shiny on the ground. Strathairn stooped to pick up a finely wrought gold cravat pin in the shape of an eagle, just like the one Count Forney favored. A familiar restless energy and heightened alertness sent his heart racing.

  A calling card? Word had come that Forney was dead. But was he? A flowery scent lingered in the air. Strathairn held the pin to his nose. Parisian, and a lady’s fragrance, if he was any judge.

  *

  Beneath glittering chandeliers, the dancers spun over the floor to the strains of a Handel waltz. Strathairn smiled down at his partner, her slim waist beneath his hand. Lady Sibella Winborne looked like a delicate flower in a gauzy pale gown covered in amber blossom. White ostrich feather plumes adorned her luxuriant dark locks. He enjoyed looking at her. Her serene, oval face lifted and she smiled at him, her mouth wide and full. Too wide for beauty some might say but perfect for kissing. She had inherited her mother’s famous eyes, a delectable mix of blue and green, but her quiet nature lacked the vivacity of her mother in her youth. The dowager was said to have had men fall at her feet. Strathairn admired Sibella’s calm beauty, but she was oh, so much more: practical and intelligent with a delightful sense of humor. Yet still unmarried, which surprised him.

  Her blue-green gaze met his. “You arrived late tonight. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I was tied up with business.”