“So, did you enjoy the dancing?” he asked.
“Not as much as you seemed to,” she said, a hint of bitterness shading her words.
“Beg pardon?” James leaned closer to her, certain he’d misheard her.
“I simply remarked that you seemed to be having a grand time dancing with Lady Finkley.” She stared down at her plate. “Is she your lover?”
“W-what?” James sputtered. “Izzie! That—that is totally inappropriate. You shouldn’t even know about—”
“Lovers?” she supplied, gazing up impishly at him as she licked her fingers.
“Yes, blast it! You shouldn’t know about those sorts of things, and you certainly shouldn’t ever speak of them.”
“Then she isn’t?” Isabella queried.
“No!” James exploded, and then lowered his voice. “Dash it all, this isn’t proper. And it certainly isn’t any of your business.”
“Oh.”
The softly uttered syllable contained a definite note of dejection. She looked away, and James thought he saw her shoulders tremble. He instantly gentled his tone. “Izzie, look at me. Come on. Izzie.”
She kept her eyes glued to the plate in her hands. He took it from her and set it aside, then placed a finger under her chin, raising her head until he could look into her eyes.
“My God, you’re jealous,” he said incredulously. She swung her head away but made no attempt to deny it. James cupped his hand around her cheek, turning her face back to his, and felt wetness on the silky, soft flesh pressed to his palm. He watched a single tear trickle down her pale cheek, then another and another, turning her lashes into dark golden spikes.
“Sweetheart,” he pleaded, though he hadn’t a clue what he was pleading for. Direction, he supposed. And he had learned from past experience that uttering an endearment was the safest way to break the silence in situations like these. Of course, he had never been in this particular position before, and he hoped never to be in it again. It was damned uncomfortable!
Bloody hell. Isabella had always dogged his heels when she was younger, but he’d had no idea she fancied him in that way. She looked miserable and defeated, so unlike her usual sunny self, and it killed him to be the cause of it. He slung his arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. She burrowed her face into his shoulder, soaking his jacket with her tears.
“Don’t cry, Izzie,” James begged. “Please, don’t cry.”
“I-it’s j-just that you were s-smiling and laughing with her, and I just w-wished so badly that I was older and could wear a beautiful gown and be the one dancing with you.” The words were muffled as they poured out against the soft, black wool of his coat. He murmured nonsense into her hair, soothing her as he would an upset child, but it only made her cry harder.
“Hush, now.” James cupped her face in his hands and wiped her tears away. “I am not nearly so good a dancer as to be worth all this fuss.”
The small smile she gave him made James feel like the king of England—utterly grand and slightly mad. As James stared into her watery eyes, for a moment, it seemed as if he saw his soul gazing back at him; the thought terrified him, and he pulled his hands away as if burned.
“Someday,” he said gruffly, “when you’re older and have that beautiful dress, there will be so many men wanting to dance with you, you’ll wonder why you wanted to dance with me.”
“That is not true!” Isabella protested fervently. “I will want to dance with you for the rest of my life. Only you. I know it. I know, and I won’t change my mind. I won’t.”
“You will,” James insisted.
“Never.” She sniffed and shook her head mutinously. “I lo—”
“I hope you are not so foolish as to think yourself in love with me.”
She flinched at his tone.
He hated that he was hurting her, but it was best to end this infatuation now. “What you feel for me isn’t love—affection, admiration even, but not love. And if you’re smart, you will save your love for some lucky man who deserves it and will love you back. I am not capable of love.”
“But surely, when you were younger…”
“That was a long time ago. I have had some years, and no small amount of help from my grandsire, in which to conquer that weakness.”
Isabella shot to her feet. “Love is not a weakness—”
“For God’s sake, lower your voice.” He stood and looked down at her. “So young and innocent,” he murmured. “Izzie, I hope you will never find love to be a weakness.” His voice was weary and bleak. “But I promise you it can be.”
She shook her head mutinously and jabbed a finger at his chest. “And I promise you I will still want that dance.”
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TEMPTING THE MARQUESS
While Olivia Weston loves matchmaking and romantic novels, she intends to make a suitable match. But first she wants an adventure, and when given the opportunity to visit a reclusive widower living in a haunted castle, Livvy can’t possibly resist.
After his wife’s death, Jason Traherne, Marquess of Sheldon, shut his heart to everyone but his son, and until now he has succeeded in maintaining his distance. But there’s something about Livvy—her unique blend of sweetness and sensuality—that tempts him beyond all reason.
Though there’s nothing suitable about the feelings he inspires in her, Livvy can’t help falling for the marquess. But can she persuade him to let go of the past and risk his heart again?
Praise for Tempting the Marquess
“As decadent and delicious as a hot fudge sundae—indulge yourself!”
—NYT BESTSELLING AUTHOR CHRISTINA DODD
“Lindsey demonstrates a deft hand with historical romance.”
—BETTE-LEE FOX, LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Lindsey’s Weston series is an enchanting and entertaining read. … The characters are endearing, their romance steamy and their battle of wits will keep readers engaged until the last kiss.”
—MARIA FERRER, RT BOOK REVIEWS
Excerpt:
AS SHE STOOD IN THE medieval entry hall of Castle Arlyss, there were three things about which Olivia was absolutely certain. One, the Marquess of Sheldon was far too attractive for his own good… or for the good of any female in close proximity to him. And her proximity to him was escalating with every purposeful step he took in her direction.
Two, judging by his scowl—and Livvy felt certain that scowl was directed at her, not at her aunt or her cousin—the man did not want her in his home for another moment, let alone for the remainder of the holiday season.
Which brought Olivia to her third certainty, which was that she should never have come.
This had been a mistake.
She had absolutely no business being there.
None at all.
Then again, she had never been very good at minding her own business.
“Hello, Katherine. Charlotte.” The marquess gave each a sharp nod before settling his gaze on Livvy. He briefly took in her appearance before turning to the harried-looking butler. “No, I don’t suppose she is a maidservant. More’s the pity, for we’re in short supply.”
Apparently Aunt Kate had not been jesting about her stepson’s indifferent manners.
The marquess braced his hands on his hips and focused his attention once more on Olivia. “Who the devil are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded. The hostile words hung suspended in the air for a moment before being swallowed up by the heavy tapestries blanketing the impenetrable stone walls.
It was, for all intents and purposes, a simple, albeit rather rude question, and yet Olivia did not know quite how to respond. She couldn’t imagine he’d be pleased if she answered truthfully, but starting their acquaintance with lies seemed impolitic.
Thankfully her aunt saved her from having to answer.
“Jason! I do not know where you have forgot your manners, but you will promptly find them and greet us with at least a modicum of civility.”
A
sardonic smile twitched at one corner of Lord Sheldon’s mouth as he sketched a bow. “Forgive me. You are most welcome to Castle Arlyss,” he drawled as he came forward and took her aunt’s hands, then pressed a kiss to the cheek she presented. “A pleasure as always, my lady.”
Aunt Kate chuckled, a low, husky sound, which attracted men like moths to a flame. Livvy had once tried to make her laugh sound like her aunt’s, but she had ended up with a sore, scratchy throat and difficulty speaking for a few days after her attempt.
“I know you don’t mean a word of it, but we are glad to be here all the same. Now, permit me to introduce my—”
She broke off as Charlotte wriggled free of her mother’s restraining hand and launched herself at her brother with a happy cry. The marquess stooped to embrace her, his expression momentarily softening. The rest of him stiffened in contrast, clearly ill at ease with this display of emotion. He patted her back clumsily before setting her apart from him.
“I’m not certain this is the same girl who visited last Christmas.” He looked her up and down. “This girl is far too grown up to be Charlotte.”
“It’s me! It’s me!” Charlotte bounced with excitement. “This is Queen Anne. You can call her Queenie.” She thrust the doll in the marquess’s face, or as near as she could reach, which was more in the realm of his midsection.
Lord Sheldon gingerly accepted the proffered offering and held the doll at arm’s length, turning it first this way, then that. He appeared to be giving the doll a very thorough inspection, but it was Livvy, not Queenie, who was the recipient of that intense scrutiny. The heat of his gaze burned her as it swept over her body.
Her spine stiffened. Let him look. She might not be the Great Beauty her older sister was, but she had long since come to terms with that and had decided she was at least passing fair. And while the marquess stared so boldly at her, she would take the opportunity to study him.
At once her fingers itched to sketch him, first the strong, hard line of his jaw, then the broad sweep of his forehead and the inky slashes of his eyebrows above equally dark eyes. She wanted to capture the slightly flattened ridge near the base of his nose, the faint hollows beneath his high cheekbones, and the gentle wave in his black hair. The planes and angles of his face were an artist’s dream—no single feature was perfect in and of itself, except perhaps his lips, which could have been sculpted by the great Michelangelo—but everything worked in absolute harmony.
Livvy was no stranger to handsome men. Her older brother, Henry, was quite good-looking, though she would never tell him so, and her brother-in-law, the Earl of Dunston, was another splendid specimen of masculinity. The marquess put them both to shame. There was a swirling, smoldering undercurrent in the air around him that spoke of tightly leashed emotions—a mighty tempest held in check by a will forged of iron.
He was nothing like what she had expected. Her mind had conjured the image of a man so worn down by years of embittered grief that all that remained was a fragile, brittle shell. She could see nothing weak about Lord Sheldon. The marquess radiated strength from the proud set of his broad shoulders to the muscular thighs bulging beneath his tight-fitting riding breeches. Not that she, a young lady of good breeding, would do anything as improper as express an interest in the marquess’s inexpressibles. She quickly looked up lest she be caught but, from the hint of a smile lurking about his mouth, she feared she was too late.
“Delightful,” he drawled, catching Olivia’s gaze as he handed the doll back to Charlotte.
His dark eyes smoldered in blatant masculine appreciation. Livvy’s cheeks flamed despite the icy draughts that always seemed to plague old castles.
Aunt Kate reached out a hand to her daughter. “Come, Charlotte, leave your brother be a moment so I may introduce him to—”
“Mama-promised-I-could-have-a-great-Danish-dog-like-you-have.” Charlotte spoke the words in a rush, determined to get them out before she was reprimanded for interrupting.
Sure enough, she had just eked out the last word when Aunt Kate began to scold. “Promise or no, you will not be getting a dog, great Danish or otherwise, unless you display the requisite maturity to care for the creature.”
As if their words had manifested it, the largest dog Olivia had ever seen lumbered into the room.
“Blue!” Charlotte squealed.
The dog—or perhaps it was really a small horse—gave an answering bark, which exposed far too many sharp teeth for Livvy’s comfort, and then began to gallop toward the little girl. The beast could eat her in a single bite and still be hungry for more.
Olivia lunged forward and grabbed her cousin’s arm, pulling her to safety.
“Let go of me, Livvy! I want to see Blue.” Charlotte shook off Olivia’s grasp and bounded toward the horse-dog.
Livvy cast anxious glances at her aunt and the marquess. “Aren’t you afraid it will attack her?” Her voice rose sharply on the last words as the beast reared up on its hind legs.
At her words, Lord Sheldon’s head jerked up. He quickly scanned the room before his gaze focused on her, or rather on something beyond her. His eyes widened in alarm. “No, Red, no!” he commanded sharply.
“Red? I thought its name was Blue—oomph!”
Something plowed into Olivia from behind, knocking the breath from her as she went sprawling to the ground. The carpet was but a thin barrier against the hard, cold stone that lay beneath. She heard a snarled growl and heavy panting and came to three new certainties.
One, she was about to die.
Two, Blue—and really, what sort of name was Blue?—had a friend.
Three, the other horse-dog-beast was called Red, an equally ridiculous name.
Red and Blue.
Together they made purple, which was the color her body was going to be tomorrow if the pain coursing through her was any indication. Supposing, of course, she didn’t die of mortification first. She shut her eyes tightly, hoping this might turn out to be some dream gone horribly wrong.
“Oh, Livvy, dearest, are you all right?”
Olivia drew some air into her lungs, answering her aunt with a pitiful sound that fell somewhere between a grunt and a groan.
“I think she’s dying,” Charlotte proclaimed, not seeming overly concerned by the prospect. “Bad, Red Dog, bad!”
“No, Charlotte, do not scold Red. He hasn’t been around strangers in a long time and he heard a word that made him so angry he forgot his manners for a moment.”
The marquess’s voice grew increasingly loud and clear as he said this, and suddenly Livvy found herself lifted by a pair of strong arms. Her eyes flew open in surprise. She had never been held by a man other than her father, and that had been when she was a child.
This felt quite different.
She was close enough to see the stubble shadowing his jaw, though it was clear he had been clean-shaven that morning. Close enough to discover his hair wasn’t black, but rather a deep, dark brown, like rich, freshly turned soil. Close enough to breathe in the faint scent of the stables that hinted at an early-morning ride. Close enough to feel the whisper of his breath against her temple when he exhaled.
“This is some welcome you have provided,” Aunt Kate huffed. “It’s a bit late for formal introductions, but I suppose we must observe those proprieties still left to us. Jason, allow me to present my niece, Miss Olivia Weston. Livvy, as you may have surmised, you are being held by my stepson, the Marquess of Sheldon.”
Her aunt’s mention of propriety caused Olivia’s face to heat. She was in the arms of a man to whom she had never been introduced. Livvy pushed at Lord Sheldon’s chest. It was like granite, hard and unyielding, but she could feel the heat of his body through the layers of his clothing. The thought of his skin, of his bare torso, sent a shiver of excitement through her. His eyes narrowed on her flushed face, then dropped to her mouth. She shivered again and a predatory, knowing look came into his eyes.
Oh, my! She had guessed the marquess had a powerful effect
on women, but given the weakness stealing over her body and turning her bones to jelly, she had clearly underestimated his potency.
“Miss Weston, I trust you are not seriously injured?”
She felt more than heard the deep rumble of his voice. She nodded automatically, slightly breathless, held captive by the wicked promise in his deep brown eyes. She hoped she hadn’t just agreed to anything untoward, or rather, anything unpleasant. She suspected untoward behavior with the marquess would be very pleasurable indeed…
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SARA LINDSEY began writing during her senior year of college. The rest, as they say, is history… or rather, historical romance. Along the way, Sara decided a girl could never surround herself with too many books, so she decided to get a degree in library science. Having read many romances featuring librarians, Sara figures this profession bodes well for someday getting her own happily ever after. In the meantime, she plans to turn as many unsuspecting library patrons as possible into fellow romance addicts.
Sara lives in Los Angeles. If you would like to know more about Sara, her books, her ability to write in third person, and/or her penchant for putting hats on her cats, visit www.saralindsey.net.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The biggest thank you has to go to my family. You stood by me, even on the days when I would have run as far away from me as I could get. I’d be lost without your love, your patience, your laughter, and your hugs. I must acknowledge, however, that we’re one man—er, fish— down. Dorio, you took one for the team—swim free in the great blue beyond.
Huge thanks also to my friends, both for allowing me to retreat into the writing cave for long stretches of time and for dragging me out before official hermit status is declared. Lizy Dastin, you overwhelm me every day with your unflagging love and support, and you inspire me to do better and be more. Stacey Agdern, this book wouldn’t exist without our brainstorming sessions and breadsticks. Elyssa Patrick, I know I can count on you, day or night. Jennifer Goodman, you read this book in all its incarnations—from some very exotic locations—and you provided invaluable feedback and friendship throughout this long process. Courtney Milan and Tessa Dare, I sure got lucky when they were handing out big sisters in Romancelandia! Marni Bates, you came along when I needed the final push, and you gave me the energy and enthusiasm to keep going. Merci beaucoup to Brenna Aubrey who helped with some of the French translations—any mistakes are mine. I am also so grateful for the Vanettes and my other romance friends—you know who you are—who always take the time to listen and offer encouragement and advice.
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