This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2020 by Paullett Golden
Excerpt from The Heir and The Enchantress copyright © 2020 by Paullett Golden
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Fiona Jayde Media
Interior Design by The Deliberate Page
Editing by Bre’ Davis Edits
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming novel The Heir and The Enchantress by Paullett Golden. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect final content of the forthcoming edition.
Also by Paullett Golden
The Enchantresses Series
The Earl and The Enchantress
The Duke and The Enchantress
The Baron and The Enchantress
The Colonel and The Enchantress
COMING SOON
The Enchantresses Series
The Heir and The Enchantress
The Gentleman and The Enchantress
The Sirens Series
A Counterfeit Wife
A Proposed Hoax
The Faux Marriage
This book is dedicated to all our service men and women and their families, all of whom fight battles even when the war ends.
Praise for The Enchantresses
“The author adds a few extra ingredients to the romantic formula, with pleasing results. An engaging and unconventional love story.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The well-written prose is a delight, the author’s voice compelling readers and drawing them into the story with an endearing, captivating plot and genuine, authentic settings. From the uncompromising social conventions of the era to the permissible attitudes and behaviors within each class, it’s a first-class journey back in time.”
—Reader Views
“[The Enchantresses] by Paullett Golden easily ranks as one of the best historical romances I have read in some time and I highly recommend it to fans of romance, history, and the regency era. Fabulous reading!”
—Sheri Hoyt
“It is an extremely well written novel with some subplots that add to the already intense main plot. The author Paullett Golden has a gift for creating memorable characters that have depth.”
—Paige Lovitt of Reader Views
“Golden is a good writer. She knows how to structure plot, how to make flawed characters sympathetic and lovable, and has a very firm grasp on theme.”
—No Apology Book Reviews
“What I loved about the author was her knowledge of the era! Her descriptions are fresh and rich. Her writing is strong and emotionally driven. An author to follow.”
—The Forfeit author Shannon Gallagher
“Readers who enjoy a character driven romance will find this a story well worth reading. Paullett Golden is an author I will be following.”
—Roses R Blue Reviews
“I would say this is a very well-written novel with engaging characters, a compelling story, a satisfactory resolution, and I am eagerly anticipating more from Ms. Golden.”
—Davis Editorials
“With complex characters and a backstory with amazing depth, the story … is fantastic from start to finish.”
—Rebirth author Ravin Tija Maurice
“Paullett Golden specializes in creating charmingly flawed characters and she did not disappoint in this latest enchantress novel.”
—Dream Come Review
“…a modern sensibility about the theme of self-realization, and a fresh take on romance make the foundation of Golden’s latest Georgian-era romance.”
—The Prairies Book Review
“What a wonderful story! I have read a number of historical fiction romance stories and this is the best one so far! Paullett does a masterful job of weaving so many historical details into her story….”
—Word Refiner Reviews
“The novel is everything you could ever want from a story in this genre while also providing surprising and gratifying thematic depth.”
—Author Esquire
“I thoroughly enjoyed meeting and getting to know all of the characters. Each character was fully developed, robust and very relatable.”
—Flippin’ Pages Book Reviews
“It is a story that just keeps giving and giving to the reader and I, for one, found it enchanting!”
—The Genre Minx Book Reviews
“The minor King Arthur plot was also a lovely touch, and the descriptions of the library fulfilled my book-loving dream.”
—Rosie Amber Reviews
“It features characters who exhibit traits and emotions that go above and beyond passion.”
—Melina Druga Reviews
Contents
Also by Paullett Golden
Praise for The Enchantresses
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Visit www.paullettgolden.com/the-enchantresses to view the complete Enchantress Family Tree
Prologue
August 1790
Five years earlier
Stretching out his legs, Duncan Starrett lay across the picnic blanket, his forearm sinking into the dewy grass beneath. His eyes met those of his love’s—wide, walnut brown, framed with black lashes against alabaster skin. For nearly a year he had loved her, yet one look still made his pulse race.
“I want to come with you,” she said, brushing soft fingers against his cheek.
“I’ll return before you notice I’ve gone; a decorated hero worthy of your hand.”
She pleaded with her eyes.
“The battlefield is no place for you, Mary. How could I fight for Crown and country when worrying about your safety? Not that your family would ever consent for you to follow the drum.”
“Oh, Duncan, let’s elope! It would be so romantic.” Wistful, Lady Mary clasped her hands, looked to the heavens, and fell back against the blanket with a sigh of youthful innocence.
Tree branches danced shadows on her features. His heartbeat quickened as he leaned over her, tracing her lips with his fingertips. Leaving her behind would be the most difficult task of his life. His Mary. His love.
“Dream of my re
turn,” he said. “We’ll attend the best parties, dance until our feet blister, and ride into the sunset on our fastest horses. Once I return, I’ll ask permission for your hand.”
She combed her fingers through his hair, sending shivers from scalp to toes. Pulling him to her, she kissed him, a gentle pout of moist lips pursed to his.
“We’ve lingered too long,” he murmured, lost in the depths of her eyes. “Go home before they notice your absence.”
1791
As an ensign in the Light Dragoons, Duncan saw more ballrooms than battlefields, easy to do when there were no battles. He craved the clash of swords and thunder of guns. After a childhood filled with his father’s romantic war stories, Duncan longed to experience the scenes for himself: hiking impossible hills, meeting the enemy with sword drawn, wading through rivers, sleeping beneath the stars. In the quiet of the night, he brandished his sabre at the darkness, practicing his moves, striking a dashing pose.
1792
Lieutenant Starrett had yet to see war. Was this his route to heroism? Was he fated to return home an officer who had never drawn his sword?
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years.
The French were at war with themselves, launching a revolution against their monarchy. The British Army remained idle, waiting. Waiting for what? An opportune moment to fight? Duncan wanted to fight now. For too long he had waited for action. He recalled the promises made when his father purchased his first commission—the Crown would take advantage of France’s weakness. When was this grand takeover? His blade was sharp, his gun was clean, and he was ready.
July 1793
Captain Starrett ached with desperation to prove himself.
And then, he found war. Or rather, war found him.
The daring! The glory! The action exhilarated him.
He roared into battle, a fierce foe, heart in his throat, body tingling with excitement tinged with fear. He fought for his life, for his country, for his father, for Mary. In this moment, he was man—raw power, passionate and invigorated, victory red.
He thought himself debonair, a real hero.
With the elation of battle pulsing through his veins, he wrote to Mary. He could not very well return after wielding his sword only once. He wanted more—thirsted, hungered for more. What was another couple of years after the three he spent waiting? It was not as though he would never return.
April 1794
Major Starrett dabbed the tender skin of his stomach with a wet cloth. The blade had come too close for comfort. Only now did he realize how close, as it had sliced through his waistcoat and grazed his skin. The more superficial, the more troubling. He winced with each stroke of the cloth.
However safe at camp he was, the apprehension of more bloodshed buzzed in his ears. The morning would see the fighting renewed. His limbs were clammy from the cold sweat all too familiar both post- and pre-battle. Tonight, he would dream of holding Mary, inhaling the aroma of her lavender-scented hair, savoring the feel of her velvet skin.
June 1794
He trudged with throbbing feet, overwrought muscles, and pounding head, disillusioned by war. Lost were his dreams in a sea of red, bathed in the glow of regimental coats mingled with blood. This was not heroic. This was not glamorous. This was a horror show of vacant stares and flashing steel. He was Charon, ferrying sons from their mothers and husbands from their wives. No longer did he crave the battlefield with its death and guilt.
And yet he still craved the valor, the camaraderie, the rhythm of the drums, the scent of victory, the sounds of gallantry.
August 1794
Atop his stallion Caesar, Lieutenant Colonel Starrett of the Light Dragoons led his men into battle. British, Dutch, and Austrian troops launched against the French, a proper invasion of a weakened and ruler-less country. With sabre at the ready, he leaned forward and squeezed his calves to the hot horseflesh, signaling his mount to charge. The formation was tight, mere inches between cavalry riders. A roar of power erupted as they broke through infantry lines, slashing an opening for the foot regiments.
There was no greater feeling than a horse beneath him, an inseverable bond between beast and man. Only his legs and weight signaled his horse’s movements, for his hands wielded weapons of war rather than reins. His horse was an extension of himself.
Boxtel was a fierce and bloody battle, but Duncan was untouchable atop his stallion.
January 1795
Colonel Starrett shivered. More men had died from exposure than battle; a harsher winter they had not seen. With white clouds for breath, they prepared to defend the frozen waters of the Lower Rhine. The horses pawed the iced earth, ready. He stroked Caesar’s neck, his hand trembling.
The enemy lined the opposite bank, muskets aimed, bayonets fixed.
Ignoring the smell of fear in the air, Duncan signaled his regiment with his sabre.
Time slowed. Seconds stretched to infinity between spur and charge. Duncan’s attention funneled. He knew only the hoofbeats of his horse, the song of bullets, and his steady breath.
The cavalry hoofed alongside their field commander, an impenetrable wall of horse muscle and blades.
Convinced the Holy Spirit was on their side, the enemy marched across the frozen water.
Steel clanged and men cried as the dragoons broke the line at the riverbank.
A moment of victory before it all went wrong.
Another line crossed the river, muskets aimed, bayonets fixed. Another line behind them. And another. His regiment, decimated by the cold, chattered their teeth along the river’s edge as they watched the endless onslaught of Frenchmen.
Retreat! The cry echoed through the ranks, the survivors running or fighting their way back to safety.
Duncan, one hand wielding his sabre, the other holstering his Elliot pattern pistol, nudged Caesar to about-face. Without further encouragement, the horse turned and retreated, the whole of the allied troops doing likewise.
His one thought: get the men to safety.
A slap to his lower back broke his focus. He looked to either side, expecting to see one of his men. Leaning forward to quicken the pace away from the river, he felt a tightening pressure along his spine, warming as it twisted, a fire poker sinking into his flesh then tugging.
The scorch spread, hot and wet.
As he straightened, slowing his mount, he felt winded, the air knocked out of his lungs. He panicked, struggling to breathe.
Before him, arm outstretched, hovered an ethereal Mary. His Mary. His ladylove. Even as he reached out to her, his head swam in a dizzying vortex. Their fingers touched as he slumped against Caesar’s neck.
Chapter 1
August 1795
The hedgerow in sight, Lady Mary Mowbrah lengthened her arms and loosened the reins. With a light seat and a forward lean, she urged Athena into a gallop.
The mare and rider rode as one, each an extension of the other. Their eyes focused beyond the hurdle. Their bodies relaxed, anticipating the pleasure of the jump. Athena vaulted into the air, hoofs soaring, and cleared the hedgerow. Gracefully, she landed on the other side before slowing to a canter.
Patting her mare’s neck, Mary righted herself in the saddle, a laugh on her lips. There was no greater pleasure than a morning with Athena. They’d been together since Mary’s seventeenth birthday four years ago, the horse a gift from her brother, the current Duke of Annick.
For the return ride home to Lyonn Manor, Mary slowed to a trot, enjoying the weather, time to herself, and time with the thoroughbred.
Tomorrow, they might ride as far as the lake. It was Athena’s favorite destination, but Mary found it difficult to avoid the assault of memories, what ifs, and could have beens each visit to the lake brought. How could she be expected to go there without thinking of him? Ever since their first accidental meeting at the lake, the two had a
rranged trysts under the willow.
It would be five years this month since his father purchased his commission. Although he had written every few months during that time, she had not heard a word from him since before Christmas. Ten months? Perhaps not that long. It seemed a lifetime. She dared not question what his silence meant. Only on the fringes of her mind did she entertain the possibilities, never consciously. She could not, would not, think of that foreboding silence.
Two grooms waited for her in the stable yard. Slipping her gloved hand into a groom’s proffered hand, she dismounted. It took little time for them to lead Athena into her stall and remove the sidesaddle.
For the next quarter hour, the grooms busied themselves elsewhere in the stables. Mary lingered at leisure. She took great pleasure in rubbing down her horse. It was part of their time together, however unusual it might be for a duke’s daughter to brush and cool her own horse.
With a final nuzzle to Athena’s neck, the horse nickering gutturally in response, Mary headed to the house.
A footman awaited her approach. Not far behind him, the butler readied to relieve her of hat and gloves.
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