He darted a look back at Mrs. Townsend and stopped. It was not, it occurred to him, a very good likeness, aside from the coiffure, the shockingly short red curls.
Perhaps he was wrong about the model. Trying not to be obvious about it, he compared the unclothed reclining body with the muslin-clad figure seated at the escritoire. Surely the painting’s figure was more voluptuous. Were her breasts not quite a bit larger? Mrs. Townsend, he realized, knew what was going through his head, and she was laughing at him. He felt himself flush with embarrassment at being caught staring at her bosom.
“Is it you?” he mumbled.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. If it is, the painter is no great hand at a likeness. You aren’t that plump.” He cringed as the words emerged, but she didn’t seem offended. She was a most unusual woman.
In fact, she was quite unlike anyone he’d ever met in his life. For all the grandeur of his birth and rank, Thomas was, he knew, a simple man, almost a country bumpkin, except that no one would ever insult a duke so. Mrs. Townsend was the opposite, a lady used to the artificial style of town life. The ingenuous curls and plain white gown he’d initially seen as the simple attire suitable to a young girl were in fact quite the opposite, evidence of polished sophistication such as he’d never encountered. He couldn’t envision any of his sisters dressed like that. Or speaking thus. He should think not!
He stared at her, perplexed by how to deal with her.
Caro stared back at the duke, holding back open mirth with some difficulty. Her interrogation had been intended to embarrass him and had succeeded. His reaction to the picture was a bonus.
None of her friends would find the picture shocking, whether or not it depicted her. She’d forgotten the prudery of so much of the world. And this man, she had no doubt, possessed more than his fair share of that dismal virtue. A pity. Her initial impression of him had been unwillingly positive. She’d even detected a hint of dry humor. You don’t look anything like my aunts. She’d swear his lips had twitched when he said it. But his recitation of his assets and qualities had reignited her fear that poor Annabella might find herself wed to a damnably dull dog.
She shouldn’t have mentioned his mistress. It was the kind of thing that upset stuffy types. He probably didn’t have one, the dried-up prune. She’d surely teased him enough, but for some reason she very much wanted to know.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “Do you keep a mistress?”
“You haven’t answered my question,” he retorted. “Is that you?” He pointed at the picture.
“I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“Precisely.”
She leaped to her feet. Even irritated, his manners were so instinctive he didn’t remain seated when she stood. He towered over her, and she noted again that he was a big man. Tall and solid, with broad shoulders and chest tapering to narrow hips and well-muscled legs. His clothing, like the cut of his brown hair, was distinguished only by tasteful propriety. His features were pleasant without being excessively handsome, his eyes an ordinary blue. Though she had noticed unusually long and thick dark eyelashes. Looking for the key to his character in his appearance, she found nothing but dignified reserve exemplified by the stillness of his hands. Unlike hers, with her constant fidgeting, her need to keep busy with embroidery. So she’d pressed him with her questions, trying to provoke a reaction.
She’d succeeded but couldn’t flatter herself she’d learned much except that his attitudes were as provincial as his tailoring. She glared at him and he glared back, his breathing a little elevated. The atmosphere in the room seemed thick with some unnamed emotion. Probably disgust.
When he spoke his tone was measured. “I find your inquiry impertinent, Mrs. Townsend. But I’ll grant you the benefit of the doubt and assume it is motivated by concern for your cousin’s future happiness rather than prurient interest. I will tell you this much. Once married, I will be true to my wife. She will have no cause for concern.”
While she couldn’t object to such a sentiment, it wasn’t her plan to show him any approval. He needed to do much more to convince her he was the right man for Anne. But his cutting response left her momentarily at a loss for words. Luckily, a door closing and a commotion downstairs informed her that Anne had returned.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
MIRANDA NEVILLE grew up in England before moving to New York City to work in Sotheby’s rare books department. After many years as a journalist and editor she decided writing fiction was more fun. She lives in Vermont. For more about Miranda please visit her website www.mirandaneville.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Miranda Neville
Confessions from an Arranged Marriage
The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton
The Dangerous Viscount
The Wild Marquis
Never Resist Temptation
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at two brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
THE FORBIDDEN LADY
By Kerrelyn Sparks
TURN TO DARKNESS
By Jaime Rush
An Excerpt from
THE FORBIDDEN LADY
by Kerrelyn Sparks
(Originally published under the title For Love or Country)
Before New York Times bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks created a world of vampires, there was another world of spies and romance . . .
Keep reading for a look at her very first novel.
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday, August 29, 1769
“I say, dear gel, how much do you cost?”
Virginia’s mouth dropped open. “I—I beg your pardon?”
The bewigged, bejeweled, and bedeviling man who faced her spoke again. “You’re a fetching sight and quite sweet-smelling for a wench who has traveled for weeks, imprisoned on this godforsaken ship. I say, what is your price?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The rolling motion of the ship caught her off guard, and she stumbled, widening her stance to keep her balance. This man thought she was for sale? Even though they were on board The North Star, a brigantine newly arrived in Boston Harbor with a fresh supply of indentured servants, could he actually mistake her for one of the poor wretched criminals huddled near the front of the ship?
Her first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with anger. It swelled in her chest, heated to a quick boil, and soared past her ruffled neckline to her face, scorching her cheeks ’til she fully expected steam, instead of words, to escape her mouth.
“How . . . how dare you!” With gloved hands, she twisted the silken cords of her drawstring purse. “Pray, be gone with you, sir.”
“Ah, a saucy one.” The gentleman plucked a silver snuffbox from his lavender silk coat. He kept his tall frame erect to avoid flipping his wig, which was powdered with a lavender tint to match his coat. “Tsk, tsk, dear gel, such impertinence is sure to lower your price.”
Her mouth fell open again.
Seizing the opportunity, he raised his quizzing glass and examined the conveniently opened orifice. “Hmm, but you do have excellent teeth.”
She huffed. “And a sharp tongue to match.”
“Mon Dieu, a very saucy mouth, indeed.” He smiled, displaying straight, white teeth.
A perfectly bright smile, Virginia thought. What a pity his mental faculties were so dim in comparison. But she refrained from responding with an insulting remark. No good could come from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again.
“I do so like your nose. Very becoming and—” He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed.
She waited for him to finish the sentence. H
e was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn’t help but wonder—did he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end.
He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. “Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and . . . disdainfully haughty. Yes, that’s it.”
Heat pulsed to her face once more. “I daresay it is not surprising for you to admire something disdainfully haughty, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, sir, we have not been introduced.”
He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Definitely disdainful. And haughty.” His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks.
She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved.
A short man in a brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. “Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?”
Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. “Oh, dear, what a delightful little faux pas. I suppose you’re not for sale after all?”
“No, of course not.”
“I do beg your pardon.” He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face.
A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed.
“Well, no harm done.” He waved his handkerchief in the air. “C’est la vie and all that. Would you care for some snuff? ’Tis my own special blend from London, don’t you know. We call it Grey Mouton.”
“Gray sheep?”
“Why, yes. Sink me! You parlez français? How utterly charming for one of your class.”
Narrowing her eyes, she considered strangling him with the drawstrings of her purse.
He removed the silver engraved box from his pocket and flicked it open. “A pinch, in the interest of peace?” His mouth twitched with amusement.
“No, thank you.”
He lifted a pinch to his nose and sniffed. “What did I tell you, Johnson?” he asked the short man in brown buckram at his side. “These Colonials are a stubborn lot, far too eager to take offense”—he sneezed delicately into his lacy handkerchief—“and far too unappreciative of the efforts the mother country makes on their behalf.” He slid his closed snuffbox back into his pocket.
Virginia planted her hands on her hips. “You speak, perhaps, of Britain’s kindness in providing us with a steady stream of slaves?”
“Slaves?”
She gestured toward the raised platform of the forecastle, where Britain’s latest human offering stood in front, chained at the ankles and waiting to be sold.
“Oh.” He waved his scented handkerchief in dismissal. “You mean the indentured servants. They’re not slaves, my dear, only criminals paying their dues to society. ’Tis the mother country’s fervent hope they will be reformed by their experience in America.”
“I see. Perhaps we should send the mother country a boatload of American wolves to see if they can be reformed by their experience in Britain?”
His chuckle was surprisingly deep. “Touché.”
The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her skin, striking a chord that hummed from her chest down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked at him more closely. When his eyes met hers, his smile faded away. Time seemed to hold still for a moment as he held her gaze, quietly studying her.
The man in brown cleared his throat.
Virginia blinked and looked away. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Once more, she became aware of the murmur of voices and the screech of sea gulls overhead. What had happened? It must have been the thrill of putting the man in his place that had affected her. Strange, though, that he had happily acknowledged her small victory.
Mr. Stanton gave the man in brown a mildly irritated look, then smiled at her once more. “American wolves, you say? Really, my dear, these people’s crimes are too petty to compare them to murderous beasts. Why, Johnson, here, was an indentured servant before becoming my secretary. Were you not, Johnson?”
“Aye, Mr. Stanton,” the older man answered. “But I came voluntarily. Not all these people are prisoners. The group to the right doesn’t wear chains. They’re selling themselves out of desperation.”
“There, you see.” The dandy spread his gloved hands, palms up, in a gesture of conciliation. “No hard feelings. In fact, I quite trust Johnson here with all my affairs in spite of his criminal background. You know the Colonials are quite wrong in thinking we British are a cold, callous lot.”
Virginia gave Mr. Johnson a small, sympathetic smile, letting him know she understood his indenture had not been due to a criminal past. Her own father, faced with starvation and British cruelty, had left his beloved Scottish Highlands as an indentured servant. Her sympathy seemed unnecessary, however, for Mr. Johnson appeared unperturbed by his employer’s rudeness. No doubt the poor man had grown accustomed to it.
She gave Mr. Stanton her stoniest of looks. “Thank you for enlightening me.”
“My pleasure, dear gel. Now I must take my leave.” Without further ado, he ambled toward the group of gaunt, shackled humans, his high-heeled shoes clunking on the ship’s wooden deck and his short secretary tagging along behind.
Virginia scowled at his back. The British needed to go home, and the sooner, the better.
“I say, old man.” She heard his voice filter back as he addressed his servant. “I do wish the pretty wench were for sale. A bit too saucy, perhaps, but I do so like a challenge. Quel dommage, a real pity, don’t you know.”
A vision of herself tackling the dandy and stuffing his lavender-tinted wig down his throat brought a smile to her lips. She could do it. Sometimes she pinned down her brother when he tormented her. Of course, such behavior might be frowned upon in Boston. This was not the hilly region of North Carolina that the Munro family called home.
And the dandy might prove difficult to knock down. Watching him from the back, she realized how large he was. She grimaced at the lavender bows on his high-heeled pumps. Why would a man that tall need to wear heels? Another pair of lavender bows served as garters, tied over the tabs of his silk knee breeches. His silken hose were too sheer to hide padding, so those calves were truly that muscular. How odd.
He didn’t mince his steps like one would expect from a fopdoodle, but covered the deck with long, powerful strides, the walk of a man confident in his strength and masculinity.
She found herself examining every inch of him, calculating the amount of hard muscle hidden beneath the silken exterior. What color was his hair under that hideous tinted wig? Probably black, like his eyebrows. His eyes had gleamed like polished pewter, pale against his tanned face.
Her breath caught in her throat. A tanned face? A fop would not spend the necessary hours toiling in the sun that resulted in a bronzed complexion.
This Mr. Stanton was a puzzle.
She shook her head, determined to forget the perplexing man. Yet, if he dressed more like the men back home—tight buckskin breeches, boots, no wig, no lace . . .
The sun bore down with increasing heat, and she pulled her hand-painted fan from her purse and flicked it open. She breathed deeply as she fanned herself. Her face tingled with a mist of salty air and the lingering scent of Mr. Stanton’s handkerchief.
She watched with growing suspicion as the man in question postured in front of the women prisoners with his quizzing glass, assessing them with a practiced eye. Oh, dear, what were the horrible man’s intentions? She slipped her fan back into her purse and hastened to her
father’s side.
Jamie Munro was speaking quietly to a fettered youth who appeared a good five years younger than her one and twenty years. “All I ask, young man, is honesty and a good day’s work. In exchange, ye’ll have food, clean clothes, and a clean pallet.”
The spindly boy’s eyes lit up, and he licked his dry, chapped lips. “Food?”
Virginia’s father nodded. “Aye. Mind you, ye willna be working for me, lad, but for my widowed sister, here, in Boston. Do ye have any experience as a servant?”
The boy lowered his head and shook it. He shuffled his feet, the scrape of his chains on the deck grating at Virginia’s heart.
“Papa,” she whispered.
Jamie held up a hand. “Doona fash yerself, lass. I’ll be taking the boy.”
As the boy looked up, his wide grin cracked the dried dirt on his cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”
Jamie winced. “Mr. Munro, it is. We’ll have none of that lordy talk aboot here. Welcome to America.” He extended a hand, which the boy timidly accepted. “What is yer name, lad?”
“George Peeper, sir.”
“Father.” Virginia tugged at the sleeve of his blue serge coat. “Can we afford any more?”
Jamie Munro’s eyes widened and he blinked at his daughter. “More? Just an hour ago, ye upbraided me aboot the evils of purchasing people, and now ye want more? ’Tis no’ like buying ribbons for yer bonny red hair.”
“I know, but this is important.” She leaned toward him. “Do you see the tall man in lavender silk?”
Jamie’s nose wrinkled. “Aye. Who could miss him?”
The Second Seduction of a Lady Page 11
