Love Revealed

by Sorcha Mowbray

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Love Revealed

  Copyright © 2012 by Sorcha Mowbray

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-207-8

  Cover art by LFD Designs

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

  Love Revealed

  The Market Series

  by

  Sorcha Mowbray

  ~DEDICATION~

  Thank you to Kristen Koster and Elise Hepner for your early comments and encouragement. I would also like to thank my beta readers Shelly Munro, Andrea Haywood-Gray, and Jarrah Dale. Without all of you and the Decadent editors this book might still be sitting on my hard drive.

  Chapter One

  Heath’s shoulders ached as though the weight of the world rested upon them. Well, the weight of Christine’s future anyway. His niece needed a husband. As her guardian, he had to ensure she made the best possible match. His brother would have expected nothing less. He ran his finger along the collar of his shirt to relieve the sensation of slow strangulation.

  It was hard to say which was more choking—delving back into society in order to marry off his ward, his shirt and cravat, or the duty of filling in for his dead brother.

  Absorbed in watching the young buck escorting Christine into the next dance, he missed his opportunity to avoid the pack of women bearing down on him. Lady Albright and her winsome daughter lead the charge, followed smartly by Ladies Winthorp and Rollings, widows of dubious reputation.

  Gritting his teeth Heath bowed as the gaggle came to a full stop before him. The pungent mélange of their perfumes punched him in the face. “Good evening Ladies, Mademoiselle.”

  “Good evening Lord Heathington.” They chorused back to him and curtsied. The two widows dipped so low he thought they might not make it back up. There was also the very real possibility one of them might dislodge a precariously perched breast. Heath struggled to control the curl of his upper lip.

  Clearing her throat, Lady Albright shoved her daughter forward. “You remember my daughter Clarisse? You met her in the spring at your cousin’s house party.”

  Repressing a long suffering sigh, he nodded. “Of course. How do you fare, Miss Albright?” A stealthy glance around the room held no salvation.

  “My lord, I am well.” Her limpid smile and shy darting glances were off-putting under the best of circumstances.

  Elbowing the poor girl out of the way, the wicked widows pressed their bosoms against each of his arms. “Lord Heathington, we missed you at the Hampton house party last month,” Lady Winthrop purred and pressed closer. Lady and Miss Albright stood by, mouths agape. Not unlike the trout he sometimes fished for at his country estate.

  “I’m afraid I had another engagement that required my attention.” He stepped back and attempted to disengage from the slavering pack of women. “I believe I see my cousin, please excuse me.” He made his escape.

  How much was one man expected to contend with?

  He was at cross purposes with every matchmaking mama and horny widow in the immediate vicinity. Marriage was of no interest, and dalliances too risky. No, he’d continue to manage his sexual needs at The Market, with a woman who could handle his baser desires. It worked better that way. No chance of miscalculated expectations ruining things, or of terrifying an unsuspecting lady, and no chance Christine could be tainted.

  “Heath.” The soft voice of his cousin’s wife intruded on his brood. “You look upset. Is anything wrong?” Cassandra asked, a worried furrow forming between her eyes.

  “Not at all. I was just mulling over a few things after a quick escape from a gaggle of enterprising ladies. I am pleased to see you here. I take it Dorian is with you?”

  “Here I am, Heath.” Dorian joined them. “I see my wife has found you again. I wonder if I ought to be jealous.” They all laughed at that silly idea. Heath and Cassandra attempted making a match of it years ago, before he recognized his darker sexual needs. Then she met Dorian and fell in love.

  “No, I am just glad to see you here. You know how much I enjoy these occasions.” He flashed a wry smile and clapped his cousin on the back. “Shall we go find ourselves and the lady a drink? I believe Christine will be busy for the next few dances.”

  They proceeded to the main ballroom and looked around at the swirling mix of gowns. The wave of heat slapped Heath in the face, followed in rapid succession by the less appetizing odor of bodies and perfume. A sudden burning need gripped him, the need to inhale the scent of Kat. Her smell always lingered on him for hours after they were together at The Market.

  Tonight she would be his, nobody else’s.

  His jaw clamped shut as the idea of her in the arms of another man annoyed him. Shaking off the foolish notion he excused himself and edged around the ballroom. Fresh air might be in order.

  As he neared the potted plants in the corner, Heath spotted Lady Drummond. Rather plain, with her simple bun, pale cheeks, and brown eyes. Forever alone in the corner, it was rare that she danced. In fact, he wasn’t sure he had ever seen her dance. Doomed to be left withering on the fringe of society, she was too old to be among the girls vying for husbands, and too young to be welcomed by the matrons who eyed her with suspicion. Not to mention the general scandal of her husband’s death. He pitied her, often spent time discussing plants with her so she might feel less alone. It was time well spent in kindness to her and to himself.

  He sidled up next to her and dropped to the bench she occupied. “Lady Drummond, I see you’re taking a break from the crush.” He nodded toward the dancers whirling past. A faint but familiar scent teased his nose. Sweet and soft. Carnations. Kat. His fixation with the mysterious woman was starting to bleed into every aspect of his life. He gave himself a mental shake and focused on the isolated widow at his side.

  “Lord Heathington. Yes, I needed to catch my breath.”

  She lied. Her very calm even breathing and dry brow indicated the truth. Being a gentleman, he let her keep her dignity by accepting her statement in silence. “Did you attend the last lecture at the Botanical Society? Dr. Luden holds some interesting views on the hybridization of roses.”

  Dorian and Cassandra drew his eye as they weaved past to join the other dancers. The starched woman next to him recaptured his attention as her crisp accents broke through his distraction.

  “I did. I was most disappointed in his lack of interest of splicing plants together to make the most of their strengths. Why wouldn’t you want a rose that could grow in cooler climes and resist pests? Why must everything always be about superficial wants? Why not make a better quality flower? A stronger one? Not just a pretty thing to look at.”

  Heath noticed a sparkle in her eye as her passion for plants broke through her reserve. She bordered on pretty. That was not how he saw her under normal circum
stances. “I completely agree. Strength is more useful than beauty alone. It is very short sighted of Luden.” And men in general.

  Lady Drummond nodded in agreement and they fell into a comfortable silence as they observed the dancers go by. The music ended and he rose.

  “It was lovely to chat with you, as always, Lord Heathington.”

  “I do enjoy our botanical discussions. Perhaps you would be inclined to continue them on the dance floor?” To be honest, he could not explain why he asked Lady Drummond to dance. Maybe he was intrigued to feel her in his arms? Curiosity got the better of him. Would she light up while dancing as she did when discussing plants? He wanted to know.

  Surprise flitted across her features. “You want to dance? With me?”

  “I don’t bite, my Lady,” he assured her as he stood with his hand out.

  Her brow creased in confusion before her manners reasserted themselves. “Of course not. Thank you.” A blush turned her face a rosy shade of pink, which made her look rather pretty. Again, his perceptions of her were challenged.

  A waltz was starting as they walked toward the floor. A gentle tug on his arm indicated her hesitation. Ignoring her reticence, he shifted them on to the floor and swept her into his arms. Her lips parted, cheeks still a bit flushed. Might she look similar in the throes of passion? Her soft scent of carnations teased him again as the music began. He reminded himself he was heading to The Market later to see Kat. Perchance he needed an extra visit this month, without a doubt he was in need of some release.

  Katherine looked up into the soft gray eyes of the Earl of Heathington and tried to imagine what was running through the man’s head asking her to dance. What could he possibly want with her? Then he spun them into the lilting flow of the waltz. He swept them around the floor with effortless ease despite her awkwardness. She had not waltzed with a man since her dead husband had courted her, normally she was lucky to dance a Quadrille on occasion. Wary of her partner’s motives, she held herself away from his body with an unnatural stiffness.

  “Do you enjoy the waltz, Lady Drummond?” His warm baritone caused her heart to skip a beat.

  “I do, my lord, but I am afraid I neither dance often nor with a partner as capable as you.” Where had those words come from? The flames of mortification licked at her cheeks. Tucking her head down, she caught notes of lime and sandalwood. She breathed deep, absorbing the entrancing scent.

  “Thank you. I find few women are capable of truly giving up control of the dance to their partner. Without trust, the waltz is but a battle of wills instead of the beautiful exchange it is meant to be.”

  Peeking up, her breath caught at his sensual smile. It was not the one she’d seen—always from across the room behind the plants—bestowed on countless ladies. This one held a warmth, an honesty, his usual grin lacked. Yet, it was too brash to believe he might intend anything but friendship. The rigidity eased as he continued to sweep her around the floor. “I appreciate the chance to experience such mastery of the dance.”

  “I always find you are full of excellent conversation, which only enhances an excellent waltz.”

  The heat sweeping across her cheeks had little to do with the exertion of dancing and everything to do with the kindness paid her by her dance partner. And still, she waited for the criticism or backhanded comment that inevitably came from her peers. Nothing. No rude comment or dry observation about how solid she was, stony. Instead they returned to their previous discussion of hybridization.

  They made one last sweep around the floor before the music ended with a flourish, followed by a handsome bow from the Earl. Katherine dipped a curtsey, resting her fan over her breasts shielding them from view. Holding her body rigid in an attempt to hide her ridiculous thoughts, she rested her hand on his arm as he led her back to her bench in the bushes.

  “Thank you for an exquisite waltz.” She could not look up at Lord Heathington from her seat. Her gaze stayed glued to her hands in her lap. A flood of awareness and angst caused her to shrink back within her shell.

  “You are welcome. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” Then he was gone.

  Enjoy the rest of her evening? Not a probable scenario as the remainder of it would be split between the bench she occupied at present and the retiring room. His departure was for the best. She had no desire to forfeit control of her life to a husband ever again, not even to have someone to wake up next to in the morning. Men were not to be trusted. They wooed you, charmed you, lured you in and then like a Venus Flytrap devoured you. Regardless, it was a non-issue when the lone man who spoke to her was Lord Heathington, and he was nothing but an acquaintance.

  He danced with her. He talked plants with her. He didn’t court her. He showed no interest in courting anyone for that matter. So the chances of her ever rolling over to look into his soft gray eyes in the pink haze of dawn was somewhere south of her becoming Queen.

  An independent widow, her life was filled by books and research. When her physical needs became too great, she would sneak off to The Market to find release. The shame she experienced her first time had come close to paralyzing her. She had lain like limp cloth as the masked man above her rutted until he came.

  Fortune smiled when she stumbled across The Hall of Windows.

  Behind each pane of glass a set of curtains could be opened allowing the occupants to display themselves. Transfixed by the first couple, she had stared until her eyes burned with the need to blink. The woman writhed beneath the man as he pumped his cock into her body. Then suddenly they shifted, and she was straddling his hips bouncing up and down as her breasts followed.

  It was erotic to watch.

  With cheeks flaming she had fled, but soon after returned with the desire to experience the kind of pleasure that couple had shared. The Market had become her secret shame and greatest pleasure. Nobody would believe the retiring Lady Drummond enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, and she intended to keep it that way.

  A glance around the ballroom reminded her there was no reason for her to stay. She was invited out of some strange loyalty to her dead parents, or perchance morbid curiosity. Attending the few events she was invited to, gave her a chance to be out. However, over the years it seemed she was more tolerated than welcome. Maybe it was time to cease the charade and skip society all together? Well, except for the Clarendon’s dinner. She’d at least attend their small gathering since they were such close friends of her parents.

  The exit of the ballroom was in sight when she collided with a gentleman.

  “Excuse me, Madame.” As he turned to look at whom he had bumped into, recognition flashed before his face drew blank.

  “No, it was—” before she could finish her mumbled words, he turned his back on her and walked away. No pleasantries, it was a simple and succinct cut once he recognized who she was.

  Lord Drummond’s proclivities were not precisely a secret, but his failing health had been impossible to hide. That he had contracted syphilis became the best-known secret in London. Of course, it was assumed she had the disease, too. Her apparent health was no deterrent to a juicy bit of speculation by the Ton. As though they expected her to suddenly leap off a balcony and wrench her hair out raving like a lunatic. She was aware of the truth. The visions appeared at the end when the victim was too weak to do much of anything but mumble in their delirium.

  Resigned, she forged ahead gaining the foyer of the house where one matron, standing near the ladies retiring room, whispered to another. The damning words husband and syphilis floated on the fetid air of too many bodies packed into too small a space. It was cloying. Suffocating. More so than the truth of what she had known but refused to acknowledge. Katherine needed to escape more than ever as the horrid suspicions of her peers nipped at her heels.

  Outside, she gained the cool night air and drew in a fresh, cleansing breath. As the burst of oxygen hit her lungs, all she wanted was to forget. Forget society, forget her dead husband, and forget who she was. The Market was where
she turned to do that, and she was due there tonight. She tried not to be a frequent visitor. It would be easy to become addicted to forgetting, and that was something she could not afford to do for long. Remembering was important if she were to avoid making the same mistakes again.

  Thankfully her carriage appeared, allowing her to escape into its dark confines. She would be more careful in considering which events she attended in the future. Indeed, it was quite obvious her invitations stemmed from morbid curiosity.

  The coach rolled on as she allowed her depressing notions to float around her. She was alone in the world, her parents dead before her husband. For five years she’d had no one to turn to but herself. Independence was easy when there was no other choice.

  Chapter Two

  Katherine shivered and huddled deeper into her hooded cloak. A damp London mist hung heavy in the night air as the hackney bounced, jostling her with a comforting gentleness. A dull, achy throb built between her thighs, intensified by the ride. Another bump had her sucking in a breath. Sensation rippled through her, heightening her anticipation.

  She was on her way to meet Sir. Submission to Sir was unlike any other encounter she had experienced at The Market.

  His dominating presence was a natural extension of who he was. It flowed off him in overwhelming waves. When she was with him, nothing intruded on the pleasure he bestowed.

  The hired coach jerked to a halt, swaying back and forth for a moment. She struggled to contain her need to escape the interior of the carriage. Alighting with practiced grace, she attained the sidewalk and floated through the rear entrance. One of the girls awaited her arrival to show her to a dressing room for the evening.

  Once enclosed in the small space, the girl helped her shed the layers of cloak, gown, petticoats, and corset. Her short chemise and regular pantalets were all that remained. Deftly, she laced up the working style corset cinching it in front. A maid’s uniform was provided; though no maid of her experience had ever worn such a low cut bodice. It would not have been practical. Not when her breasts threatened to spill from the top if she bent over. The last touch to her toilette was her mask.