“Yes.”
“I meant to introduce her to Declan McHenry,” said Ben, looking thoughtfully at Devon. “Or Phillip Lovejoy.”
“I’d be obliged if you didn’t.”
“Good God, you are serious, aren’t you?”
“It’s been four years. I am done waiting.” Amusement brightened Devon’s brooding eyes and made his severe mouth curve in a surprisingly warm smile. It did interesting things to his face, the way severity gave way to warmth. At times like this, when he saw Devon smile, Cynssyr understood exactly why women went so eagerly to his bed.
If Devon had really decided the Sinclair spinster was the woman he wanted, then the matter was done. He would have his way. The why of it mystified him. Even as plain Devon Carlisle, he could do far better than some dried-up female who wasn’t even pretty enough to bother taking off her spectacles. As matrimonial material, the earl of Bracebridge was nearly as sought after as he himself. Nearly. But, not quite.
“Enough. No more blather about love and marriage, you two,” Cynssyr said. With a flick of the reins, he steered his horse past a fallen branch then cantered to the edge of a meadow where he waited for Ben and Devon.
“Jade,” Ben accused when he reached the meadow.
Cynssyr flashed a brilliantly arrogant smile. “The trouble with you, my lord Baron Aldreth, is you love your wife. And you, Devon. For shame. You disappoint me. You disappoint all our sex, falling for this Miss Sinclair.”
“Love,” said Dev with one of his wry grins. “A most heinous crime.”
“Love.” Cynssyr lifted one brow in the supercilious disdain he usually reserved for certain rebuttals in the Lords. “You mean a man’s delusion he’s not been robbed of his freedom and a woman’s that she’s gained hers?”
“Exactly,” Devon said.
“How can you trust your judgment now?” He lifted his riding whip, but brought it down on his boot leg, not his horse. “Fools the both of you.” So saying, he urged his horse to a gallop. “Anne Sinclair,” he muttered. He heard Devon and Ben thunder after him and gave his horse its head. They had no chance of catching him now. Only the best horseflesh found its way into his stables. He had the best of everything. Wine. Horses. Women. Friends.
He wanted to roar with disgust and dismay. Devon married. What was he to do with himself then? To the devil with spinsters who set their caps on marriage, he thought as the chill wind whipped past him. “To the very devil with her.” Thus did the duke of Cynssyr, so deservedly referred to as Lord Ruin, dismiss the woman with whom he would soon be desperately in love.
places to get Lord Ruin
Stolen Love
Stolen Love is one of my backlist titles and is set in the early Victorian period. Elizabeth Willard comes to London with her aunt, uncle and beautiful cousin Amelia. Will her cousin end up marrying Elizabeth's childhood friend, Nicholas Villines? And just who is the daring jewel thief who has the Ton wondering when he'll strike next?
Chapter 1
When Geoffrey Villines died in 1836, he left behind him a twenty-two-year-old son ill prepared for anything but a life as a gentleman of leisure. There were so many things for Nicholas to attend to, he hardly knew how he found time to see the family solicitor. What he learned was no less shocking than his father’s sudden death.
Very little remained of a once sizable fortune. Money that should have been spent paying off mortgages had instead been invested in creating the appearance of abundant wealth. To make matters worse, in the year or two before his death, Mr. Villines had made several attempts to regain his declining fortunes by dipping into the capital of what remained and speculating with the sums. The afternoon Nicholas spent with the solicitor gave ample evidence that his father’s talent for business had been close to nonexistent.
For a young man brought up to believe he would never have to work for a living, Nicholas Villines was in a trying situation, to say the least.
It did not occur to him to ask for help from his family, though any one of them would have been more than happy to do so. Indeed, he was shocked when his solicitor advised him to borrow from his relatives or to leave the country for a prudent period of time. Either course was inconceivable to him. Nicholas intended to restore his ruined inheritance, no matter the personal cost. He set himself to the task with all the optimism of his twenty-two years; he resigned his memberships in clubs that cost him money, sold his horses and his carriage, gave all his servants notice (with the single exception of his valet), and moved from his spacious quarters in the Albany to two small rooms on Pycham Street. His resolve hardly wavered at all when he calculated that notwithstanding his severe reductions in expenses, he would be approaching seventy years of age before any significant amount of the interest paid on the remaining capital might be applied to his pocket rather than to mortgages and the like.
It was several weeks after his removal to Pycham Street that Nicholas sat in his room, trying to reconcile himself to the necessity of letting Chester go. His valet, who was repairing a shirtsleeve at the time, seemed oblivious of their cramped surroundings, but Nicholas was unable to believe Chester did not feel the reduction in circumstances just as keenly as he did himself. He cleared his throat, meaning to tell Chester that he was sorry, but if he wanted his wages, he had better find an employer who did not need to have his shirtsleeves mended. What came out was, “It is a pity, Chester, that I cannot discover some way to make a few pounds without any risk.”
“You might apply for a position in a bank, Mr. Villines,” said Chester, never taking his eyes off the shirtsleeve.
“In a bank!” It was testimony to his present difficulties that Nicholas’s first thought was that engaging in commerce on such an intimate level was not entirely out of the question. But he knew his family would not stand for it, and more important, he did not wish to be forced to explain that his father had left him in straits. If the truth were known, he felt lucky to have so far succeeded in preventing them from learning where he now lived.
“There is a great deal of money in banks,” Chester added.
This was just the sort of observation Chester was prone to make and that had once been a source of great amusement to Nicholas. Chester’s pronouncements were invariably accurate and, as a practical matter, generally useless.
“There certainly is,” Nicholas agreed with a sigh.
“It seems to me, sir, that people are inexplicably anxious to give their money to thieves.” Chester shook his head sadly.
“What has that to do with banks?” asked Nicholas.
“It is my opinion that bankers are thieves.”
Nicholas began to laugh but stopped when he saw Chester’s offended expression.
“I fail to see the humor in the subject,” the valet said huffily.
“You are perfectly right. It is a very serious subject indeed. One should never laugh at another’s livelihood.”
“The difference between a thief and a banker,” Chester continued, warming to his subject, “is that one may call in the aid of the police when robbed by the former. With the latter one hasn’t any recourse.”
Nicholas felt compelled to respond. “At least one consents to be robbed by a banker, Chester.”
“If you will forgive my impertinence, Mr. Villines, I should rather be robbed by a thief than a banker! I’ve insurance on everything of value and wouldn’t be out so much as a shilling if I were to be robbed by a thief.”
“Indeed?” There ensued a silence during which Nicholas gazed thoughtfully at his servant.
“Give me an honest thief, I say, sir. There’s no pretense with him. One knows where one stands with a thief.”
“Chester, you’ve given me an idea,” said Nicholas.
“You’re very welcome, sir.”
***
Nicholas’s reentry into Society was gradual. He began by attending dinner parties. Then he had tea at Lady Lewesfield’s, was occasionally present in his grandfather’s box at the opera, and now and then took a walk in
Regent’s Park. The following year he was seen riding in the Park, and only a few months later he had acquired a rather dashing cabriolet. The very next year he’d hired a groom and by Christmas had purchased a large house overlooking the Park. Though he sometimes disappeared for lengthy periods (to look after some property in Derbyshire, it was said), he was much in demand at social events requiring the presence of handsome young gentlemen. Nor was it long before he had obtained a reputation for gallantry. Several broken hearts were directly attributed to the fact that Nicholas Villines preferred brunettes over blondes.
Society welcomed him back; he had absolutely sterling connections, after all. His paternal grandfather was Viscount Eversleigh, and though Nicholas’s father had been the youngest of the viscount’s three sons, by the start of 1840 Nicholas was third in line to the title. Lord Eversleigh’s eldest son had died in 1838, leaving behind him only a son. This scion of the family honor soon found himself twenty-one years old and in control of a considerable income. Having been turned loose upon London at last, he appeared to be making the most of his freedom. It was said Henry took after his father, and there was speculation in some circles that it would be a miracle something on the level of the Second Coming if the health of Nicholas’s cousin did not go into a serious and fatal decline as the result of his profligate ways. The current odds were three to one the Honorable Henry Villines would not live to see thirty and five to one his demise would occur before he had got a legitimate son.
The viscount’s middle son, Russell, was second in line. Russell had no children, and he was now expected to leave his own fortune to his nephew Nicholas. Nicholas was, perhaps, the only person in all of England who paid no attention to distasteful speculations regarding whose death would make him rich, and he did not scruple to let it be known in what light he saw the matter. His hopes for the future, said he, were based solely on the balance shown in his bank book.
Nicholas’s past hardships had taught him that in adversity one might learn a great deal about human nature. Consequently he had few friends, but the few acquaintances he did cultivate were deep ones. He was a generous man since he could now afford the luxury and a thoughtful one; he was quick to return kindness for kindness. Though it was not entirely intentional, he kept quite a bit to himself. He had little patience for fools, and it seemed to him London had more than its share of them.
There was something about Nicholas that set him apart from other wealthy young men of society. First, he was intelligent. Second, he had a great deal of presence; one always noticed when he came into a room. And third, though not precisely handsome, his features were strong, regular, and interesting—commanding, even. If not for a certain gentleness about the set of his mouth, he would surely have seemed forbidding. His eyes were a piercing and unfathomable black. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and long-legged. If he had chosen to have his clothing made by someone other than Mr. Henry Poole (which he did not), he would still have looked good in them. His black hair had a hint of curl in it, and it was worn just long enough to make him seem daring, though he did not know that was the effect it had. There was a small scar on his cheek near his right ear he had once jokingly said was the result of a duel over a woman in Paris. To his chagrin, the tale was quickly repeated all over London and generally credited as true. The more he denied it, the more credence it seemed to gather, so he took to snorting derisively whenever the subject came up. He was almost completely unaware of the influence he had with women on the strength of his smile alone. Doubtless he would have smiled more if he had known it.
Though Nicholas became passionately attached to a suitable young lady, the attachment was not quite deep enough since toward the end of 1839 she married a baronet. On the advice of Chester, Nicholas distracted himself from his admittedly mild disappointment by building a conservatory. Upon its completion he filled it with orchids and was soon thoroughly enamored of the hobby. The pastime enthralled him. He spent hours caring for the delicate flowers, and he quickly discovered he was able to concentrate his thoughts most efficiently while working in the carefully controlled environment, pruning, cutting, grafting, or cataloging his precious orchids. In the confines of his conservatory, Nicholas was utterly free to construct, test, analyze, and refine his plans for the future until he was certain they were foolproof.
places to get Stolen Love
The Spare: Regency Historical Romance
CHAPTER 1
Pennhyll Castle, Cumbria, January 3, 1812
Captain Sebastian Alexander, late of His Majesty's Royal Navy, glared at his valet's reflection with eyes reputed to have frozen boiling water on the spot. To no avail. McNaught continued mixing another noxious remedy guaranteed to taste like poison. Sebastian turned on his chair and found the motion did not pain him as much as he expected. He ignored McNaught and his potion. “I am not mad, James,” he said to the man beside him. A hound the color of a thunderhead raised its muzzle and sniffed the air. He stroked the dog’s head.
“You are an Alexander.” James did not look away from his collection of essays by Montaigne. “You are too practical for madness. Besides, you aren’t old enough to fear your mind in danger of infirmity.”
“I saw a sailor go mad once, and he not yet twenty.” At rest, Sebastian’s face marked him as a young man, barely thirty, a handsome man with blue eyes and hair just shy of black. Certainly, unquestionably, his eyes were blue. As bitterly cold as ice at dawn. From across a room, his eyes pierced with a rapier’s thrust to the heart.
James gave him a look. “I’ll warrant his madness was not from age.”
“The ocean broke his mind. We were becalmed seven weeks on water smooth as glass.”
“Your mind is sound, of that I am convinced.”
“I’m not to be back at sea for weeks yet. What am I to do with myself until then?” He shuddered. The hound at his side rose, and Sebastian rested a hand on its sleek shoulder. “If I don’t get another ship right away, I might be here even longer.”
“Stop complaining. Brave naval captains such as yourself are always at the head of the list for ships.”
“Jesus.” He rubbed his face with both hands, disliking the way his mind whirled all out of order. “I am ancient, James.”
“Hardly.”
“In my soul. Weary to the very core and adrift. Becalmed. I lack purpose.” He drew in a breath, felt pain blossom at the peak of inhalation, and then slowly exhaled. “I want occupation, and I am too exhausted to find one.”
“You are in the very prime of life, Sebastian.” Which James said in a very deliberate and annoyed manner because the idea of Sebastian Alexander succumbing to weakness was ludicrous.
Sebastian eased back against his chair. “Listen to me.” He made a face of self-disgust. “Complaining like an old woman. A man makes of his life what he can. He doesn’t sit about bemoaning his fate. I’ll have my ship if I have to get down on my knees and beg for it.”
James sat straighter. “You are Tiern-Cope. The world comes begging to you, not the other way round.” He gestured, a wave that took in everything. “Forget the sea. Pennhyll is your purpose. Your position in life is now your occupation. You oughtn’t go back at all. Your duty lies here.”
Sebastian sighed. “I never wanted this.”
“I daresay a gentleman doesn’t want half the duties that fall to him, but that does not absolve him of responsibility.”
“Of that, I am painfully aware.”
“Sebastian, you are not old, and you are certainly not mad.”
“Not mad.” He laughed softly. “Last night, I saw—” He pressed his lips together, then continued because he feared silence would break his mind the way a glassy sea broke that young sailor. “I dreamed a man stood at the foot of my bed.”
James closed his book on an index finger. “What an appalling lack of imagination.”
“I thought it was Andrew.”
“Was it?”
Andrew and his countess both gone and their killer not brought t
o justice. By the time the black-bordered letter caught up with him, his brother was nine months dead, on the very heels, it seemed, of the death of their father. And then he’d been wounded and given leave to recuperate and put his affairs and estate in order. Six weeks of his leave passed in a fog of pain. Nothing had been the same since he came to Pennhyll. Nothing. “Andrew is dead.”
“Well, yes, of course he is. But this is Pennhyll, after all.”
Sebastian almost let the subject drop right there. Except he couldn’t. The mood of his dream clung to him like the scent of smoke on a man who went too near a fire. “Andrew never had eyes like that.” He remembered the impact of staring into those eyes as if it had really happened. Blue eyes. Alexander eyes. Instead of the affable gleam so typical of his brother, eyes of keen appraisal. “Like ice in the morning.”
“Is that all he did? Stand at the foot of your bed?”
Sebastian stared at the blanket on his lap. He did not like feeling ridiculous, and he was uncomfortably aware of the absurdity of implying a dream was more than a dream. Jesus, he must be mad. “He spoke.”
“And?”
“As if my life depended upon what he said.” The hound rested its head on his lap. With an absent fondness, his fingers stroked the grey dome of the dog’s head. Even at rest, there was about him the promise of action, as if he might at any moment leap to his feet.
“And?”
“I could not hear him.”
“Actually,” James said, lowering his voice and leaning with one hand at the side of his mouth. “It’s normal to have dreams. Lots of people have them. I had one myself last night. About a lusty widow who—”
“I saw him as clear and solid as I see you right now, and then he disappeared. I don’t want that.” Sebastian pushed away the glass proffered by his valet.
Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) Page 27
