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And make sure you read on for a sneak peek at the fourth and final installment in the London Ladies Quartet, Lady Harper! Then stick around for an exclusive excerpt from A Dangerous Seduction, the thrilling first book in my newest series, The Bow Street Brides.
LADY HARPER
Chapter One
Winfield Estate
August, 1816
“I still cannot believe you refused his proposal.”
“Whose proposal?” Harper replied absently as she turned the page of the book she’d begun two days ago. It was a bit slow for her taste and the heroine lacked a great deal of God given common sense, but the hero was quite dashing. She only hoped he chose someone else in the end.
Miss Mary Hartley, a petite blonde with porcelain skin and large blue eyes, sniffed loudly. “As if you have received so many you cannot tell one from the other. His proposal, Harper. The Duke of Greenwood!”
Closing her book with an annoyed snap, Harper set it aside before she sat up off the blanket she was using to protect her dress from grass stains and frowned at her closest friend. A beam of sunlight shimmered down through the leafy branches of the oak they were using for shade, causing her to squint. “Of course I remember it. How could I forget, when it is the only thing you have been talking about for the past three months straight?”
Mary pursed her lips. “As though there is anything else to talk about.”
“I am quite certain you could find something if you put your mind to it. You weren’t even at the Farcott ball, remember? You were home sick.”
Lucky.
“But Edna was there,” Mary reminded her, “and she saw the whole thing.”
Not the whole thing, Harper thought as a flush heated the back of her neck. She didn’t see Doyle holding me indecently tight against his hard body…or see his hand wander down to the curve of my bum…or see his tongue glide along the outside of my ear… “Edna would do well to learn how to keep her mouth shut.” And I would do well to stop thinking about Doyle Flynn, she added silently. Unfortunately, it was one of those things that was far easier to say than do.
Twelve weeks had passed since Doyle wooed her senseless, and she still couldn’t get him out of her head. Irksome man. She wished she’d never met him, and now no matter how hard she tried she was unable to forget him. Especially not with Mary and Edna inserting his name in every other sentence they spoke. Harper loved her friends dearly - they were, after all, the only two she had - but if she heard either one of them mention the Duke of Greenwood one more time…
“You do know he is coming here next week, don’t you?” Mary asked, her cheeks tinged pink with excitement. Dropping the book she had been pretending to read, she swept the skirts of her printed muslin dress aside and leaned forward onto her gloved hands. “Everyone is talking about it!”
“Who?” Harper said suspiciously.
“Well, I heard from Edna who heard from Lady Cecily who said she-”
“No,” Harper said with an exasperated shake of her head that sent loose tendrils of silky black hair sliding over her shoulders, “not who is talking about it, who is coming here next week!”
“Oh.” Mary blinked. “The Duke of Greenwood, of course.”
“He certainly is not!” Doyle Flynn, come here? It was unthinkable. It was horrible. It was-
“He is.” Looking quite smug, Mary sat back. “Well,” she amended, pale brows drawing together over the bridge of her nose, “perhaps not precisely right here, but he will be taking up residence at Longmeadow Park for the remainder of the summer.”
Harper’s chest lifted and fell as she breathed a sigh of relief. Longmeadow Park, a sprawling manor of twelve hundred acres (and but one of Doyle’s rumored half dozen estates), was at least ten miles away in the neighboring town of Brayberry. The odds of crossing paths with him here, at Winfield, were slim to none.
Particularly if I never leave the grounds.
It wouldn’t be a hard sacrifice for her to make, for it wasn’t as though she’d had any other plans for the next few weeks beyond reading the books she’d acquired during her time in London and working on her own manuscript, a fledgling thing of thirty pages that had more sentences crossed out than were written down. It was a romance. At least, that’s what it was supposed to be. The heroine - a high spirited, rebellious young woman named Lady Elle - all but wrote herself, but the hero…the hero was regrettably lacking in all of the characteristics that, to Harper’s mind, made up a good hero. To put it quite bluntly, Sir Edgar Thomas was a bore. He wasn’t dashing like Tom Betram from Mansfield Park or brooding like Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice (two of her most favorite novels). Even his name was boring, although for the life of her she couldn’t think up a better one.
The problem, Harper mused as she reclined all the way back on the blanket and stared up at the piercing blue sky through a shifting bramble of glossy green leaves, was that all of the men she’d encountered thus far - with the exception of her brother, although Miles could certainly have his moments - were irrefutably boring. Each and every one of them. Well, almost each and every one.
Doyle hadn’t been boring. Infuriating, yes. Arrogant, certainly. But boring? No. Not that.
For the first time in her life she’d felt…alive. Yes, that was a good word. Alive and exposed and exhilarated and dizzy, all at once. And then angry. A little angrier than she’d had a right to be, but it was rather hard to check one’s emotions when one was feeling alive and exposed and exhilarated and dizzy, all at once. When Doyle had taken her in his arms… She blew out a breath. The spark she’d felt then was the same exact spark that was lacking between Lady Elle and Sir Edgar Thomas now. A spark she couldn’t seem to capture, no matter how many ways she went about setting up their first meeting where everyone knew all good sparks began.
The main problem, as Harper saw it, was that she simply did not have the experience required to write a male character deserving of Lady Elle. As the saying went, writers wrote best when they wrote what they knew…and she didn’t know what it felt like to be a handsome, dashing, arrogant rake.
But someone else did.
As an idea began to form - a very foolish, very hair brained idea - Harper sat up on her elbow and slanted Mary a speculative glance. “When is he due to arrive?”
Distracted by the crown of flowers she was busily weaving, it took Mary a few seconds to reply. “Who, the Duke of Greenwood?” At Harper’s nod she quickly set the half-finished crown aside and, biting her lip in poorly disguised anticipation, said in a rush, “Lady Cecily told Edna who told me that he should be arriving this afternoon! Do you want to go introduce ourselves? I’m sure my father could get us an invitation!”
Though not a lord of the realm, Mary’s father - Sir Betram Hartley - was an influential member of Parliament and had a seat in the House of Commons. As such, he - and by turn, Mary and her mother - were often granted audiences with some of England’s most notable peers. Given that Harper’s own brother was an earl she could have no doubt garnered an invitation on her own merit, but then it would seem as though she wanted to see Doyle again. Which she didn’t. Not even a little bit. But for the sake of her writing…well, no sacrifice was too great.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I think we should. After all, it is only the neighborly thing to do.”
A DANGEROUS SEDUCTION
Exclusive Excerpt
When Lady Scarlett Sherwood’s ne’er-do-well husband is killed, she becomes the number one suspec
t in a murder investigation that takes the ton by storm. Her accuser? None other than Sir Owen Steel, Captain of the Bow Street Runners…and the only man Scarlett has ever loved.
Available in e-book and paperback.
All of the color drained out of Scarlett’s face.
Owen couldn’t be here.
It was impossible.
Except it wasn’t. Ruth would never lie to her, especially about something so important.
“Where is he?” Her gaze flew to the door but it was partially closed, obscuring her view of the hallway. “How long has he been here? Did he request me specifically?”
“Mr. Givens admitted him into the front parlor ten minutes ago.” Ruth shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “And yes, he made a point of requesting you specifically, my lady.”
“Of course he did,” Scarlett muttered under her breath before she drew back her shoulders. Part of her was tempted to simply send Owen away. He never should have come here in the first place. What if Rodger had been at home? It would have been nothing short of a disaster. Yet there was no denying that she desperately wanted to see him again. How many times had she practiced what she would say if they were to ever come face to face? A thousand? Ten thousand? She’d lost track years ago.
“Tell Captain Steel…” She hesitated as she struggled to control her conflicting emotions. “Tell Captain Steel I will be with him shortly.”
Ruth’s eyes widened. “Are you certain that is a good idea? Perhaps you should wait until Lord Sherwood returns home. It would not be seemly for you to visit with a man when your husband is away.”
The irony of Ruth’s statement coaxed the tiniest of smiles from Scarlett’s lips. “It is not seemly that my husband is out carousing with his mistress when he should be here with me.” One pale brow lifted a notch. “I am entertaining an old friend, Ruth. And that is precisely what you will say should anyone ask. Do you understand?”
“Yes my lady,” the maid murmured as she stepped to the side, giving Scarlett room to pass. After pinching her cheeks to bring some color back into them, she lifted her chin, murmured a quick prayer, and glided into the parlor.
Her gaze was immediately drawn to a broad set of shoulders encased in a dark jacket. Owen – could it really be him? – was standing in front of the mantle with his back to the room. As if he sensed her presence those broad shoulders suddenly stiffened, his entire body coiling like a panther ready to spring as he slowly turned to face her.
“Lady Scarlett.” His voice was deeper than she remembered. He was taller as well, his body lean and well-muscled, evidence of his physical prowess found in the width of his shoulders and the definition of his thighs. His hair was still just as dark, but it was a touch longer than the last time she’d seen him, curling low over his brow and brushing against the collar of his jacket. And his eyes… She caught her breath. His eyes were as cold as the sleeting rain lashing at the windows. “Or should I say Lady Sherwood now?”
“Scarlett is fine.” Not trusting herself to go any closer than absolutely necessary she remained by the door, one hand curled tightly around the brass knob. Her heart was beating so fast she feared Owen would hear it, but if he did he gave no indication. His countenance was completely devoid of expression, giving away none of what he was feeling.
If he was even feeling anything at all.
Owen shrugged as if it did not matter to him one way or the other. Then his eyes narrowed as his gaze came to rest on the exposed curve of her collarbone where a blonde tendril brushed against ivory skin. “You’ve cut your hair.”
“Yes.” Self-consciously her hand drifted to where he was looking, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her bodice before she forced her arm to drop. “A few days ago. I found long hair no longer suited me.”
“You were always good at getting rid of things that no longer suited you.”
Scarlett drew a sharp breath. She had wondered how long it would be before he fired the first shot. The tiny barb hurt her more than she’d thought it would, drawing blood before it buried beneath her skin. “What – what are you doing here, Owen? What do you want?”
What was he doing in London, a place he had always despised? And why was he dressed so formally in a gray tailcoat, stark white neck cloth, and beige breeches that clung to his muscular legs like a second skin? The last time she’d seen him he had been wearing his father’s hand-me-downs that were two sizes too big and worn so thin as to nearly be see-through. Now every stich of his wardrobe looked as though it had been tailor-made. If she did not know any better she would have thought him at least a baron, mayhap even a viscount or an earl.
There were other things she’d wanted to say. Other words she’d wanted to use. But the mere sight of him had washed all of those words away, leaving her with nothing but a long list of questions she desperately wanted answered.
Where have you been all these years?
Are you married?
Do you have a family?
Do you hate me for what I did?
She did not have to ask the last question. The answer was already written across every inch of his cold, formidable countenance. Yes, Owen hated her… and the worst part was she couldn’t even blame him for it. Not after what she had done. To him. To them. To the future they should have had.
“I have come to inform you of your husband’s passing.”
He spoke so bluntly that for a moment his words and the meaning behind them did not sink in. When they did Scarlett brought both of her hands to her mouth with a gasp and reeled back against the door, her skull striking the wood with a heavy thud.
“What?” she managed to croak between her fingers. “Rodger is d-dead? How…”
“He fell from his horse and broke his neck,” Owen stated matter-of-factly. “His body was recovered early this morning in the theatre district. Do you know why he would have been there?”
Scarlett stared at Owen with eyes awash in tears, unable to believe not only what he was saying but how he was saying it. For all the emotion in his voice he might as well have been talking about the dreary weather or the recent appointment of a new Speaker of the House in Parliament.
“You must be mistaken.” Her own voice was shrill and filled with incredulity. Rodger was dead? Impossible. She’d seen him just last night in the library! What were the last words she had spoken to him? Had they been cruel? Kind? Indifferent? Suddenly it was imperative that she remember. She squeezed her eyes shut, searching the vestiges of her memory. He had insinuated she join him in his bed and she… she had asked if he still had his mistress.
His mistress who lived in the theater district.
Scarlett’s eyes flew open.
“Where did you say the body was found?”
“The theater district.” Owen watched her closely, studying every wayward emotion that rippled across her expressive face as she flew through the stages of shock, denial, and finally grief.
Scarlett may not have loved Rodger, but that did not mean she ever wished for him to die. Well, perhaps in a moment of anger… but this was different. This was permanent. Her husband was dead. And the man she’d spurned so she could marry him had delivered the news.
“What did you do?” Without thinking she flew at Owen with her hands raised and managed to rake her nails across the shadow of scruff clinging to his jaw before he captured her wrists and pinned them against his chest.
“Nothing,” he snarled, restraining her easily as she continued to claw and kick and scratch. “I did not kill him. You are going to hurt yourself. Stop it. Scarlett, I said stop it.”
It was the sound of her name spilling from his lips that finally pierced the thick fog of furious grief. She froze, her chest rising and falling on a gasping breath as she dragged air into her lungs. When the hazy mist rolled away she realized Owen had both of his arms banded around her body. She felt the burn of his touch through the layers of fabric that separated them, the scorching heat of it as achingly familiar as it was painful.
It hurt to be this close to him again.
It hurt her body.
Her mind.
Her very soul.
Peeking up at him beneath a thick sweep of blonde lashes she saw his entire jaw was rigid, his icy blue gaze pinned to the far wall. And she couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too. The burn. The heat. The need.
Rodger is dead, she reminded herself harshly. Before you throw yourself into the arms of another man perhaps you’d best mourn the one you just lost.
“You can release me now,” she said stiffly. “I – I apologize. I did not mean to insinuate you had anything to do with Rodger’s death.”
One dark eyebrow shot up. “And here I thought that was exactly what you were insinuating.” But he let her go nevertheless and she quickly stepped back, putting some much needed space between them even as she cursed her inability to control her emotions.
No matter how angry Rodger made her, she had always been able to command a façade of indifference. Whether she choose to do it or not had depended on how much she wanted to infuriate him, but at least she’d been able to pick whether she wanted to be angry or aloof. But with Owen she’d never been able to make that choice. No matter how hard she tried, she could not hide what she was feeling from him. It made her feel small and vulnerable; two things Scarlett was not accustomed to feeling.
Lifting her chin she met his gaze without flinching; no small feat given the erratic flutter of her pulse and the hard, rapid pounding of her heart. “If my husband really is dead–”
“He is.”
“–then how is that you are the one to inform me?” Her glare let him know she did not like being interrupted. The faint smirk lurking in the corners of his mouth told her he did not care.
“It is my duty.”
“Your duty?” Her brow creased with confusion. “What do you mean your duty?”
Forgotten Fiancee Page 25
