LENGTH: Mid-Novel
SENSUALITY: Sensual

Cover art (c) Alex DeShanks 2009
ISBN 978-1-60394-381-9
Download $5.50
Trade Paperback ISBN: 1-58608-
Retail price $11.99
Our Price $9.59
(s&h not included in price)

Eleanor is forced to marry a wicked rake after she saves his life but she only likes him insane, when he adores her as his angel.

Rating: Sensual.

Genre: Historical Romance.

JASPER'S ANGEL

By

Maggie Jagger

© copyright October 2009, Maggie Jagger

Cover art by Alex DeShanks, © copyright October 2009

ISBN 1-60394-381-9

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

Eleanor refused to chaperone the most annoying matchmakers in England. Giving them an opportunity to be wicked was the only way to stop them plotting to find her a husband, any husband at all. They had no conscience where she was concerned.

Her sister's voice filtered through the perfumed air from the shade of the wisteria bower. "All five of them?"

"You can't count Jasper," said Mr. Benedict. "He's as exclusive as the duke. Your sister won't appeal to either of them. We must pin our hopes on her attracting the rest of the Halyton Horde."

"If one of them falls in love with her and compromises her, she'd have to marry him." Juliet sounded thrilled at the idea. "They are all extremely handsome. Eleanor cannot complain!"

"Complain about marrying a Halyton? Should hope not, my love. Brothers of a duke, you know." Mr. Benedict lowered his voice to ask in worried tones, "Do you find them awfully good looking?"

"Not as handsome as you, Lancie."

Eleanor almost laughed out loud. How could he worry about his appearance? He was the most boyishly handsome man she had ever met. His flowing blond hair framed a face of breathtaking beauty. If he'd never opened his mouth to speak, she might have loved him as ardently as Juliet.

During a noisy interlude filled with masculine moans and feminine sighs, Eleanor edged out of the rose arbor determined to escape the Halyton brothers, known far and wide as the Horde.

"Your sister is not as lovely as you," rasped Mr. Benedict.

Eleanor hoped they forgot all propriety and gave in to their desires. She hoped they got caught anticipating their matrimonial delights.

"Oh, Juliet! Oh! Oh!" Mr. Benedict's eloquence diminished. "Agh."

What were they doing? She couldn't resist a quick glance, just to see if more witnesses were required.

"Oh, Lancie." Juliet stroked her fiancé's chest. Even through all his clothes, it had an effect on him.

Eleanor had never touched a man's chest.

"I adore you, my love. I want us to be married, so badly. So very, very, very badly." Mr. Benedict lost all coherence.

"Me too, Lancie." Juliet held her fiancé's face between her hands to make him look at her. She said in a penetrating whisper, "Don't breathe a word to Eleanor about the Halyton Horde coming to visit."

How could they! Eleanor escaped from the garden. She had heard stories about the Halytons' refusal to take no for an answer. Mr. Benedict's mother was a determined gossip and had confided that her sister, the dowager duchess, had been forced to marry the late duke--their son was born six months after the wedding.

Half an hour later, Eleanor's mount fidgeted under her in the stable yard. The track up to the moor was bathed in sunlight and she was determined to go home. Foiling the trap laid for her was more important than being brave, or being thought rude by the Benedict family.

Bad luck brought Mr. Benedict running up the path from the garden to stop her.

"Miss Tennant, where are you going?" He gasped for air. "Company is coming. You can't go for a ride now."

"I am going home. I left Juliet a note," said Eleanor. She stared down at him from her vantage point on Grizelle's back. "You only want me here to meet your Halyton cousins."

"How can you make a fuss about being introduced to them?" He gave an airy wave of dismissal. "You'll find they won't stand on ceremony. There is no need to be shy." His pride showed in his self-satisfied expression.

"Mr. Benedict, let us have plain speaking between us. You want one of the Halyton Horde to compromise me. I overheard you say so to Juliet."

"Don't call 'em that, the duke doesn't like it," he warned. "You misunderstood! A Halyton only compromises the woman he loves and intends to marry. If it were otherwise, if they just went around compromising ladies, the duke would have their heads." He gave a pitying smile at her ignorance.

"Thank you for explaining it to me. It's so reassuring." Her sarcasm was lost on him. "Are any of them likely to find brown hair and gray eyes particularly alluring?"

He appraised her face and figure with a knowing air. Though her long skirt covered even her shoes, and her tailored riding jacket and shirt were perfectly respectable, she suddenly felt half naked, as if he could see through her clothes.

"I wouldn't have invited them if I didn't think you had a chance to attach one," said Mr. Benedict, when he managed to lift his gaze from her bosom. "You are quite out of the ordinary. Told Juliet so."

"Heavens! I'm sure she thanked you for it."

"I'm just trying to tell you, Miss Tennant, that if you'd be a little warmer, smiling might help, that you'd have a very good chance of marrying the brother of a duke. They are not the usual men you meet."

Her face must have shown her disgust for he stared at her in surprise, and asked, "What have I said to upset you?"

"Your aunt had a miserable marriage."

"What makes you say that?"

"Noblemen make horrible husbands. They are autocratic despots." She cut off his attempt to speak. "Do not argue with me, Mr. Benedict. Those are your mother's words, or did she quote her sister, the dowager Duchess of Lezarth?"

"No one is asking you to marry the duke. Ridiculous idea! Anyway, my aunt's marriage was a love match. Take no notice of my mother! All women enjoy complaining about their husbands when they visit one another."

"Mr. Benedict, I am a republican." Eleanor hid her amusement at his slack-mouthed gape of shock. "I believe in liberty, equality and fraternity--without the unfortunate head chopping. I also think women should stand side by side with men to vote. What this country needs is reform without bloodshed." She admired the pink mounting in his cheeks, and the way the breeze ruffled his hair. In a friendlier tone, she said, "But I have no wish to argue with you about your aunt's marriage."

"I don't discuss politics with females and I'll have you know my aunt became a duchess!" he spluttered.

"But she became a happy duchess only after the death of her husband." Eleanor smiled at him to infuriate him more.

"Miss Tennant! What an awful thing to say!"

The fool had but half a brain and that half was mad with passion for her sister.

"Instead of trying to find me a husband, Mr. Benedict, your time would be better spent convincing my father you have compromised Juliet, so he must allow you to marry."

He almost leapt in the air. "How can you suggest I do such a thing? I begin to think you a most unnatural female, Miss Tennant. And let me tell you, every unmarried lady of my acquaintance has begged me for the introduction I offer you."

"I decline it, sir. And may I add, I only suggested you give the appearance of having compromised my sister, I didn't suggest you do it. If you are so delicate in your sensibilities, why don't you dislike the idea of one of the Halytons forcing himself on me?"

He stared at her stupidly. The connection had never crossed his mind.

Eleanor gave her mare the gentlest of nudges. Grizelle surged forward.

Mr. Benedict grabbed for her bridle. Eleanor gave him a sharp tap with her crop to make him let go. He gave a start of surprise and rubbed the back of his hand.

"You'll regret running away, Miss Tennant!" he called. "Juliet will never forgive you!"

Her sister's reaction did not trouble Eleanor in the least. Being dangled like bait in front of the Halyton Horde troubled her exceedingly. Her ability to attract one of them was surely only a figment of Mr. Benedict's imagination, unless they were all short-sighted and traitors to their class.

Juliet's beauty caught every eye. When some of her sister's fickle suitors had attempted to change their allegiance, Eleanor had always found a lively discussion on the rights of women to be dissuasive.

The ride up to the moor handily reduced the mare's excess of energy. The wind grew stronger the higher they climbed, until the plume on her hat stroked her cheek.

Arguing with Mr. Benedict had heated her blood enough to make her welcome the cooling breeze. She had delighted in deliberately tormenting him and still thought he deserved every word, which made her not a lady. She hoped he'd not break his engagement to Juliet because of it.

A visit to her grandmother in Scotland might be in order. Grandmama thought men an abomination. It was the only place Eleanor would be safe from matchmakers, because her father's edict that his older daughter must marry first, was known to every household in the county. It made every social event an occasion for stares, whispers, and humiliation. As if she wore a sign on her person saying, 'Desperate! On The Shelf! Please Propose!'

Being unmarried didn't trouble her mind. Her body, however, gave embarrassing signs of interest in subjects not suitable, not safe.

She felt longings.

Longings a lady should never have.

Of needs and urges that disturbed her sleep and woke her from dreams about a subject she knew nothing of, to her dismay.

The wind picked up, bringing dark clouds racing towards her. Rain sprinkled a warning as she reached the edge of the moor. Gorse and hawthorn fringed the gritstone outcroppings. The track meandered over the moor for miles.

At first, her path lay through a sea of low bilberry bushes.

Eleanor only had to go west until she saw the needle rock, to find her way home. The mare could find her stable through any weather and had, on occasion, gone home alone.

This part of the moor, although unfamiliar, held no terrors for rider or mount. The heather ran in patches along the drier bits. On either side of the track the grass was nibbled to a smooth bowling green nap by sheep, who moved only when her mare disputed the right of way with them.

Clouds lowered, bringing mist to cloak her.

Visibility was down to a few yards when Eleanor heard the thud of hooves. They were coming towards her. She moved off the path to hide near one of the gritstone boulders.

A man shouted, "He must have headed back."

She stroked Grizelle's ears to keep her quiet.

"Damn this weather," someone answered. "Never find anyone in this."

"Bet he's warming his arse while we search like bloody fools."

"Which way is back? I've lost all sense of direction."

"Follow me. I'm on the path."

"Jasper never wanted to meet that ugly female Lancelot is trying to marry off. Probably had to dose himself at the thought of it."

Wicked laughter greeted his insult to her looks.

She silently consigned the Halyton Horde to everlasting torment as they filed past her hiding place.

"I was going to flirt with the poor old thing. I mean, how ugly can she be?"

Groans and hoots served for an answer. It mingled with the sound of their mounts breathing heavily, as if they'd been ridden hard.

"Lancelot said she was sedate. He didn't say she was ugly."

"Damn him for inviting us!"

"Do you think Jasper really couldn't bring himself to meet her?"

"Jasper? Talk to a respectable virgin? Not unless they were discussing her price!"

Their laughter faded into the distance.

Sedate! It was worse than being thought ugly.

Eleanor regained the path with hatred in her heart for all Halytons. Grizelle trotted along, intent on her stable. The mist was no barrier to a mare who wanted to go home.

Did Lancelot Benedict expect her to attract one of those licentious, depraved noblemen? They were all careless sinners tainted by their rank.

Rain began to clear some of the mist. Cold water trickled down her neck.

Sedate!

Eleanor didn't expect a Halyton to show any interest in her at all. The idea of marrying one of them was laughable. The nobility lived by different rules and married within their own set, or to women of staggering fortune.

Sedate!

The rain cooled her cheeks.

Why not accuse her of being an old maid, of being left on the shelf? Just because she hid her desires, didn't mean a lazy afternoon on a warm languid summer day could not turn her thoughts to yearnings as hot as any rakehell's. Only the details were missing from her daydreams.

Sedate! She'd show them sedate, if she ever had one of them in her power. She'd scorn him, and refuse him, and tell him how ugly he was. Debauched wretches, all of them!

The sky grew darker. Lightning flashed in the distance.

Blast them all!

Thunder rumbled nearer. The sky suddenly lit up, sending Grizelle into a fit of nerves.

With relief Eleanor recognized the needle rock marking the edge of the high lip of Bogs Bowl. Going around the rim added miles, going through it in this weather meant dismounting to lead her mare.

Lightning danced along the high ground and thunder blasted until her ears rang.

Eleanor dismounted at the edge and took off her riding jacket to tie the sleeves in a knot around the mare's neck. Her father's warning that iron attracted lightning, meant leaving behind as much as possible. The rain plastered her white shirt to her body with cold drops driven hard by the wind.

She unfastened the saddle and draped it over a tussock of grass, taking care not to let go of the makeshift halter. Grizelle's bridle was soon tucked under a stirrup.

The wind blew Eleanor's hat back from her head. It tugged painfully on her hat pin. She removed the pin with one hand to secure it better, only to see her hat sail off into Bogs Bowl.

"Damn!" If the Halyton Horde could swear, so could she. She stabbed her silver hatpin into the collar of her shirt. Thunder and lightning roiled about her.

Grizelle sidled closer and trod on Eleanor's voluminous skirt. The laces tore and her skirt fell to the sodden ground. Her white shirt and petticoat made her feel like a ghost in the gloom cast by the thunder clouds. She struggled to retrieve her skirt from under Grizelle's hooves.

The mare shuffled nervously and trod heavily on her toes.

Eleanore urged Grizelle forward to free her foot. She hopped about near the edge only to have her remaining clothes blown skyward by the wind. When she could unclench her teeth, she cursed even harder, "Damn and blast it!"

As if she'd conjured it with her words, a bolt of lightning struck the edge of Bogs Bowl. The peal of thunder almost knocked her off her feet.

In the following silence, a man's voice drifted up, drowsy and warm, "Angel, are you from heaven?"

Eleanor squinted over the lip of Bogs Bowl, through the rain and shadows. Her heart pounded in her breast.

The man lay between mounds of moorgrass lining the steep slope.

She had found the missing Halyton rakehell. The dark-haired sinner who only spoke to a respectable virgin to discuss her price.

LENGTH: Mid-Novel
SENSUALITY: Spicy

Cover art (c) Alex DeShanks 2008
ISBN: 978-1-60394-254-6
Download $4.99
Trade Paperback ISBN 1-58608-
Retail price $10.99
Our Price $8.79
(s&h not included in price)

Fern inherits an island where warring factions try to marry her, or kill her. Lord Jarrad tricks her into marriage, and the priest makes her vow perfect obedience to her husband. Jarrad takes his bride to the Isle of Demons and binds her to consummate the marriage, but he finds that loving his bride is easier than trusting her.

Rating: Spicy.

Genre: Historical Romance.

PERFECT OBEDIENCE

 By

 Maggie Jagger

© copyright January 2008, Maggie Jagger

Cover art by Alex DeShanks © copyright December 2008

978-1-60394-254-6

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

1156

“My lord is waiting for you.” The young guard opened the door to the tower chamber. Fern hesitated on the threshold, her arms laden with soap and drying cloths. She didn’t want to enter alone. The young man smiled at her and crowded her in as if she were a reluctant filly. She stumbled inside to escape his touch. He shut the door behind her and latched it. She could hear him denying entrance to the women who followed her up the stairs.

Fern hoped the stranger in the bathtub stayed seated. She’d never seen a man entirely naked and didn’t want to start now. “Sir, I am not the one who does this.”

He sat with his back to her, gilded by the logs burning in the hearth. He gave a long sigh with an echo of humor in the sad sound. “If you’d wash me, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“I don’t know how, sir.” Fern had never washed a lord.

“I am easy to please and must insist because I fear if I sit here any longer the water wrinkles might eventually be fatal.” A low rumble of laughter came from as him as he pleaded, “Take pity on me, little one, and just get it done or I’ll be late for the wedding. Wash my hair and leave the soap on while you scrub my back. If it makes you feel any safer, I promise not to ask you to wash my dangerous parts.”

If she hadn’t been locked in with him, she might have laughed at his words. The easy warmth of his voice soothed her fear.

Fern approached the man cautiously. She knelt behind him and gave him a cloth to hold over his eyes, before wetting his hair with a dipper full of warm water from one of the buckets.

She rubbed in circles on his scalp, spreading her fingers through his hair, rubbing slowly upwards, while the man relaxed under her hands to give a contented sigh.

“That feels good,” he murmured. “You have the hands of an angel.”

Fern warmed at his praise. She wondered who he was.

He couldn’t be Lord Jarrad. She’d just spent two months embroidering a surcoat for the bridegroom that this man could never wear. He must be one of Lord Jarrad’s brothers, because no one else would dare use the bridal chamber.

“Scrub harder, little one,” the man said in a low voice. He dropped the cloth into the water and leaned back into her hands. The fire in the hearth crackled as the half-charred logs shifted.

Fear of him vanished. He seemed so contented, so relaxed, even his slow breathing soothed her.

Fern admired the view of his chest that she glimpsed. She warned herself that all lords were dangerous. They lived to make war, to fight in tourneys, and to wed brides that brought them riches. Lords rarely felt the need to moderate their appetites, and yet she felt safe with him. Safe from his dangerous parts.

His eyes were closed when Fern moved to see his face. He had faint scars from old injuries on one side of his face from his jaw to his eyes. They had healed well and left only a few thin white lines that didn’t detract from the fine planes of his face. She even liked the length of his long nose.

He had just the face she’d been searching for. Not that she dared use it without his permission.

The man’s shoulders were wide and muscular. His belly was flat and the cloth he had dropped into the water covered his dangerous parts. Not that she intended to look there. She gripped him by the shoulders, and squeezed gently to get his attention.

His eyes opened. They were gray with a thin circle of gold around the pupil. Fern leaned closer to study his face. This du Terrenord brother had kind eyes.

“What’s wrong, chérie?” he asked softly, not moving. “I warn you, when you look at me like that, I feel as if I am some great treasure you have found, and I sadly fear your eyesight is not good.”

Fern let go of him to sit back on her heels. She suppressed the urge to laugh at his words. “Sir, if it pleases you, may I use your face as a model for the Lord Jesus? I am sewing a piece for the Abbess of Fountains Abbey, and you are the answer to a prayer, for I have not been able to finish because I was not inspired. But yours is truly the face I need.”

The man flicked some of his cooling bathwater at her.

She gave a squeak of laughter and wiped her cheek with the edge of her wimple.

He gave a sigh so deep and sad that she hoped he joked. “I knew there’d be some sting to your words. So, little one, I’m happy for your sight, but not flattered by your question.”

“I meant no sting, none at all, sir.” She patted his shoulder to comfort him in case she’d hurt his feelings. “May I use you as a model?”

“If it pleases you,” he said, mournfully. It was all she could do not to kiss his scarred cheek and tell him how handsome he looked.

She measured his face with her fingers, making mental note of the lengths and widths. He closed his eyes and this gave her time to really look at him. She used only the softest touch of her fingertips over his scars.

He sighed and gave a low rumble of contentment that sounded very much like a noise from the baron’s stallion. She laughed under her breath, but she didn’t stop measuring the length of his nose, and where his ears met his head.

“I’m glad to be useful,” he said. “It’s far better to be useful than frightening to look at. Though I have to warn you, I think your taste is lacking. Are you sure you aren’t blind?”

She laughed and measured his shoulders, “Do you mind if I use your body as well, it seems a shame to separate your head from the rest. I mean, may I measure you, sir?”

He lifted one long leg out of the water, taking care not to splash her, and stretched it out to rest his calf on the rim. “You may use me in any way that pleases you, little one, even though your pleasures seem strange to me.”

His invitation warmed Fern’s blood. She was sure it was the reason virgins were not allowed to wash men. Wicked thoughts rose at his invitation. She reminded herself sternly that she wanted to be a nun.

Fern measured the length of his limbs with a hurried touch, not venturing near the parts of him hidden by water or cloth.

A sudden movement took Fern by surprise. She rushed to hold him in his bath by pressing down hard on one of his shoulders. “Don’t stand up!”

He shifted his leg to put his foot back into the water. “My apologies for startling you. My toes were getting cold.” He waited until she let go of him. “Could you wash my back? If you’ve no objection to it?”

Fern took a thankful breath. “You are very tall, sir,” she gabbled, “only some of the Danes from York might equal you in height.”

“Do you dislike the Danes?” The man looked sideways at her. “They seem quiet enough. Did you guess that I have Norse blood? The terre nord in my name implies it. Were you trying to drown me for it just now?”

Fern choked back nervous laughter. “There is not enough water for you to drown.” She lathered her hands and ran her fingers up and down his back.

When she stopped soaping him, he asked, “What is your name, little one?”

Kind he might be, amusing to talk to as well, but that didn’t mean he had to know her name. Not that she mistrusted him, but others might discover who she was if he called her by name.

The man raised his voice carefully, as if trying not to startle her. “Your name is?”

“Matilda, sir.”

She poured the dipper of water over his head. He flinched and groaned a protest as the cold water hit him.

Goodness! What had she done?

“I’m truly sorry, sir.” Fern kept her voice soft and soothing. She prayed he didn’t have a hasty temper. “I forgot to warm the water.”

His hand brushed her wimple aside. She froze and closed her eyes.

“It’s nothing, Matilda. Will you scrub my chest for me?”

She released her breath. He was the kindest man she’d ever met. If she’d managed to wash his back, what more trouble was it to wash his front? Except for his dangerous parts.

With one hand she steadied herself on his shoulder, so close to him that she must bend over his arm to wash him. Her breast touched him once or twice, until she shivered at the contact.

She rubbed the hard muscles of his shoulders while she worked up courage to venture further down. Her hand seemed to know what to do, how to find every hollow and curve. Even her fingertips wanted to play over him, to feel the change as she stroked down to the bands of muscle on his belly. Soap frothed between her fingers. His nipple grazed her palm.

Afraid to stop, afraid to continue. She was so close to him, she felt his breath waft over her cheek. His warmth seeped into her through her fingertips, sending tingles towards her heart.

“Ah, little one, stop,” he murmured. “Stop now and rinse me, Matilda. You did very well, thank you.”

After a moment to compose herself and get her legs to obey her, Fern rose and went to the fireplace for the kettle of hot water to warm the water in the pail. She returned determined to be calm.

She decided to memorize his body as this would be her only opportunity to see him and use him as her model. She poured from the dipper and stroked over him with terrible concentration as she tried to fix in her mind the muscles of his chest.

Even rinsing him seemed a licentious act.

Thank goodness his eyes were closed, for everything she did made her ache in her wicked parts like a wanton woman. Her hand played about his chest as if it had a life of its own, not daring to rest anywhere but wanting to.

He sighed when she stopped. “If only you belonged to me, I’d call you Angel, for you are very like one. I think the bride must take comfort in your presence. Could I tempt you to come with us, to make your home at Hollingham?”

She’d like nothing better than to go with him, to go south to safety. Away from the border and the raiding Scots bent on murdering her. To live with him, to bathe him again, to hear him speak, all those things promised pleasure. She’d soon learn how to school her body not to respond to him.

Before she could answer, the chamber door opened.

Cold air swept the chamber, bringing the scent of the bridal feast.

A tall, thin man stepped inside and closed the door to survey her with a disdainful expression on his long face. His tunic was finely made, cut from a rich black fabric shot through with silver thread. His chemise was black, a most unusual choice.

He walked proudly, but in a ridiculous way, so high and mighty he looked as if he’d burst from it. He had black hair and eyes, and swooping eyebrows, which seemed to sit too high on his brow. His mouth curved downwards as his eyebrows slanted upwards.

Deep lines joined his nostrils to his mouth, he did not look at all like a kind and gentle man. He was tall and lean, with narrow shoulders and narrower hips.

Lord Jarrad had sent his tunic to be measured for the surcoat she’d made, one of the baron’s gifts to the bridegroom. Fern had never seen such a long, narrow garment. The whole castle had wondered and whistled over it.

Fern stared in amazement. The tall, thin man looked exactly like a walking beanpole. She bit back a nervous laugh. It would never do, not when such an aura of cold displeasure clung to him. And yet there was something ridiculous about him, something odd that invited laughter.

It took all her concentration to lower her head respectfully and not stare at him. He had the longest, narrowest feet she’d ever seen.

He strode to the hearth. Fern was glad the bathtub was between them.

The naked man put his arm around her as she knelt beside him. “Did you invite him in, little angel? Shall I turn him out for you?”

She shook her head.

The beanpole warmed his backside at the fire, as he stared at her. “Rise, Lady Fern,” he ordered.

“This is Matilda,” said the man in the bath. He stopped her from rising.

“Lady Fern, explain what you are doing letting that fellow take my bath water,” said the beanpole in a cold voice. “I have searched the castle over to thank you for the beautiful surcoat you made for me, only to find you here bathing him.”

Fern didn’t answer. She was so very relieved to find out that the lord had only sought her out to thank her.

“Tell this knave your name, Lady Fern,” the beanpole invited, “I warn you, do not to lie to me.”

“My lord,” she said, turning to the man in the bath. “I beg your pardon. My name is Fern.”

The man in the bathtub made a low comforting sound. “The little one was so swept away by my beauty that she forgot her name—it’s an effect I have on many women.

We were getting on very well before you intruded.”

The beanpole leaned down from his great height, his long head waggled at her as she knelt by the tub. “I don’t like liars, Lady Fern. Do not think of lying again.”

Fern shot a wary look towards the door and wondered if she should make a dash for it. She had seen as much of Lord Jarrad as she cared to. Her hand crept to the embroidered rose at her breast to calm herself.

The beanpole raised an astonishingly high eyebrow. “Lady Fern,” he asked, “why did you lie? Is it your habit to tell lies? Are you a liar through and through?”

Fern bowed her head. “I am sorry I lied, my lord. My name is unusual and I don’t invite questions about it.”

The beanpole crouched on the opposite side of the bathtub. “Tell me, Lady Fern, how did you get your name?”

“I was named so by my mother because I had been conceived under forest ferns.”

The man in the bathtub gently touched her fingers where they gripped the bathtub rim. “Poor little one, don’t be afraid, there is more than one liar here,” he whispered in her ear. “Go and join your sisters. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Lady Fern,” said the beanpole, leaning over the water to bring his long face closer to hers. “I have a mind to tan your arse, but as you did not lie to me, I’ll let this knave do it for me.” A black clad arm snaked over towards her.

“Don’t frighten her, or be warned that I will frighten you,” said the man in the bathtub. He rose with a great slosh of water to stop the beanpole from touching her.

Fern found herself dragged upwards with him.

She was astonished to hear the powerful Lord Jarrad threatened. Her feet stumbled beneath her as she tried to stand upright. Her knees hit the side of the bathtub. The naked man caught her, to hold her upright dangling in his grasp. Her shoes fell off with a splash. Her toes dipped in the bathwater.

The beanpole thrust his face close to hers and smiled the most awful smile.

Fern could stand it no longer. She struggled to be free. She tried to protest. Only a croaking sound came out of her throat. The naked man winced. He lifted her over the side of the bath to release her onto the slate floor.

She fled towards the door.

“There is nothing to fear. No one will touch you, Fern.”

She knew better than to trust his soothing voice.

How could she believe him when his body betrayed his licentious intentions? Now she knew why virgins were never allowed to see men below the waist. They’d never consent to a bedding if they’d seen a man’s weapon at the ready.

“Forgive me, Fern.” He looked around for something to cover himself with. “Men are untidy creatures, little one. Don’t hate me for it.”

He shouted, “Alaric! Open the door!”

She ducked under the young guard’s arm when he peered inside.

Fern flew down the steps as if the devil himself were after her.

In the chamber, Jarrad stepped out of the bath. His friend fell to his knees before him, mimicking a distressed lady abashed by the view of his rod, which was fast losing interest now that poor Fern had fled.

“Oh, my lord, do not use your lance on me,” sobbed Owen in a high falsetto voice. “Poor me! Alas! Alack! Woe is me, my belle chose will not be able to take it in, so great is your girth, so enormous is your length. Don’t hurt me, I beg you, noble lord. I will expire of fright if you use that,” he pointed upwards with a trembling finger, “scary thing on me.”

Jarrad tried to bring Owen to his senses. “Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t beat you within an inch of your life? I knew who she was. Did you really think I’d not recognize Morag’s daughter when I met her?”

His fool leapt to his feet with a sly grin. “I wasn’t sure. I thought you might need rescuing, in case the lady had found out who you are and why you are here.”

“Is everything ready? How long does the tide allow us?”

“Three hours at the most, less if the wind turns,” said Owen. “The lady cannot cry out, my lord. Did you notice she couldn’t scream? That might be useful. At least we don’t have to worry she’ll burst our eardrums with her protests when we take her home.”

“It won’t be a safe home for any of us if she is unhappy with the marriage,” warned Jarrad. “They’ll look for any excuse to cut my throat and marry her to one of their own choosing. Her terror will have to be eased quickly lest they think she’d plot with them to take the Isle.”

“But if the lady is sure every Celt plots her capture and death, she’d never trust them enough to conspire with them, would she?”

Jarrad took the cloth from Owen to dry his hair. “Wouldn’t you sell your soul to the devil to get what you want? Don’t annoy her, Owen, she needs a friend and I doubt I can play that role.”

“Don’t be angry, my lord. It was done only to make your task simpler, I swear it. The lady will be so relieved she doesn’t wed me, she’ll sit beside you and lean on you, and be so glad I’m not you that all you’ll have to do is smile at her and she’ll spread her legs for you and gladly welcome you in.”

“She is Morag’s daughter and a virgin. Don’t raise my hopes.”

His fool grinned and passed him a hairbrush.

“She thought me amusing,” said Jarrad. “Let’s hope she never changes her mind.”

Owen gave a start of surprise. “Amusing? You?” He gave a mocking, mournful sigh.

Jarrad swatted him with the hairbrush. “What did you find out?”

“By all reports she is not docile and meek, I warn you, though neither is she cruel and vicious.” Owen danced away to bring him clothes. “They like her here. She is loved and returns their love. She doesn’t intend to marry because she wants to be a nun. The lady thinks that will save her from the Scots. No one has ever managed to convince her that the Scots are attacking England, not her.”

“Poor Fern. No wonder she dresses like a servant. Not that it can hide her identity from anyone familiar with the Isle of Demons.” He grabbed Owen by the arm to keep him still. “Once she is in the great hall, make friends with her. I want you to give her a gift, something to make yourself useful to her.”

“The gift of truth, my lord?”

“Use it well. I want her to make a friend of you. Don’t frighten her any more. Have some sympathy. We are her nightmares come to life.”

A bell tolled, calling them down to dine.

“Sweet Fern,” mused Jarrad, “I swear she shall have the gentlest bedding I can manage.”

His fool muffled a snort of laughter. “Then you should pray for a smaller lance to prick her with, my lord.”

LENGTH: Full Novel
SENSUALITY: Spicy

Cover art (c) Alex DeShanks 2008
ISBN 978-1-60394-151-8
Download $5.99
Trade Paperback ISBN: 1-58608-
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Men were beasts and the Felmont men more debauched and depraved than all the rest put together—the viscount needed to wed her for her money, though, and her uncles had threatened her with an asylum if she refused to wed.

The only way Lizzie could think to protect herself was to form a pact with the Beast she was forced to wed.

Rating: Spicy.

Genre: Historical/Regency Romance.

EVERY MIDNIGHT

By

Maggie Jagger

© copyright July 2008, Maggie Jagger

Cover art by Alex DeShanks, © copyright 2008

ISBN 978-1-60394-151-8

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

England, 1815

Lizzie Tempest owed the Beast nothing.

She glanced down the long drive to the gates. The Felmont family had given their word he was not due to return today, but that didn’t make her feel any safer. The family always lied.

Lizzie looked up at the mournful faces staring down at her from the windows of Felmont’s Folly and couldn’t resist waving to them, forcing them to abandon dignity and return her salute. Ever since she had imprisoned one of them for debt, the other members of the noble Felmont family had grown more careful of offending her.

Gravel crunched underfoot as she made her way around the carriage. The air smelled of freedom and of her Cleveland Bays snorting and fidgeting in their traces, eager to start their journey. Sunlight glistened on the golden stone of Felmont’s Folly as the great house rose out of the landscaped park, gilded by the dawn.

“Do get back in, Lizzie,” Aunt Tempest called from the safety of her seat inside the berline. “If the Felmonts see you walking about, they might all troop out to say their goodbyes again. If I have to suffer their slings and arrows one more time, I shall be glad my husband has cut them off without a penny.” Her voice faded into tremulous indignation while her knitting needles clacked furiously.

Lizzie gave a shudder of annoyance. She had no intention of sitting in the carriage while two maids slowly searched the luggage for the missing shawl. They were all conspiring to keep her at the Folly until the Beast returned to claim it for his own.

He did not come to claim her.

She had not forgotten the horrid words he had used the last time she’d seen him. “My dearest Lizzie, I don’t covet your money or your graceless manners. Consider yourself free from any engagement to me.” He’d stared with mocking sadness at her body and then leaned closer to whisper, “You could not tempt me to matrimony, not even in my wildest dreams.”

Inside the great house the Felmonts waited for him, locked in verbal duels with each other. If they had been partial to pistols at dawn, the family would have died out long ago. The only thing they all agreed on was their need for her to marry one of them—to keep her fortune in the family.

Lizzie opened the carriage door. “I shall meet you at the gates, Aunt Tempest.”

“Don’t go by yourself!” Aunt Tempest seemed shocked at the idea. “Wait until my shawl is found. Get in, Lizzie. I cannot abide a draft.”

“Let me replace it, dear Aunt Tempest,” begged Lizzie. “If you are not at the gates by the time I get there, I shall walk to Bath.”

“Fortune hunters will capture you long before you get to the village,” warned the irate lady.

Lizzie stepped resolutely onto the lawn. She had a dozen outriders waiting outside the gates to protect her.

The cool caress of wet grass felt like silk at her ankles. The sun played about her coal-scuttle bonnet and dark traveling dress. Anyone searching for the possessor of the Tempest fortune would never suspect her.

Inheriting her father’s fortune had been both a blessing and a curse. Life was full of blessings and curses. Her widowed mother marrying Viscount Felmont had truly been a curse, but the blessing was his gothic stone mansion known as Felmont’s Folly.

The great house called as she skirted the edge of the lake. For one last time she turned to admire its golden beauty, to love its towers and golden walls with all her heart.

Fixing the house had been a labor of love, an all engrossing project to take her mind off nursing her mother and stepfather. She might even visit the Folly again, when the Beast was laid in his grave. At the thought of him, she hurried across the lawn towards the distant gates.

A quarter of a mile away the gates opened. Thunder rolled low in the distance.

Not thunder. Horsemen raced down the drive, their mounts lathered. She watched them tear up the lawn as they spread out and galloped towards the Folly. She could clearly see the Beast riding in front of his wolf pack.

Her heart began a thunder of its own.

If he thought she lingered, waiting for him, she meant to disabuse him of the notion. Lizzie drew a shaky breath, gathering her dignity against the Beast’s arrogance, against his disdain for her.

Now was not the time to let childish fears surface. At almost twenty-two, she was long past girlish palpitations.

And what was the point of her leaving the outriders outside the park if he meant to ruin the drive and lawn with his pack of inebriated friends? Some of them could hardly stay in the saddle. No doubt the new Viscount Felmont couldn’t wait to begin his beastly debaucheries. Carriages full of whores likely followed him at a more sedate pace.

The Beast dismounted, momentarily lost to view in a noisy crowd of horses and men. His voice, a low rumble, drifted over the lawn. Raucous laughter greeted his words.

The Beast emerged near her berline as a dark shadow in the sunlight. He slammed open the door in search of what? Poor Aunt Tempest. A faint cry of female distress brought a cheer from the Beast’s sodden companions.

Drat the man! What had happened to his manners?

Aunt Tempest’s hand pointed in her direction from the carriage window.

Lizzie’s legs froze.

The Beast turned to stride towards her. One man hurried after him. She forced air into her lungs and waited for them to approach. She’d rather die than show fear, or worse, faint at his feet. To her shame, she had done just that the day the Felmonts had celebrated her betrothal to the Beast. Even her mother had found it vastly amusing ... but those days were long gone.

The Beast was hatless, an almost certain sign he was foxed. He moved with his odd loose-limbed grace, his long legs covering more ground, though he took fewer strides than his companion. They left a silver trail in the morning dew coating the lawn.

Even the way the Beast walked towards her seemed insulting. She willed herself to be calm.

He stopped. Close enough to touch.

His dark brown hair had been bleached at the ends by a foreign sun, showing a strange reddish color, as if he had been singed in hell’s fire and spat out. Maybe Satan had no use for him either?

He had a handsome face if the Felmont likeness could be overlooked, not that Lizzie intended to try. His mouth was wide and finely sculpted. The skin ran tight around his jaw, which had not seen a razor this day. His deep blue eyes looked down the length of his long nose at her. No, not really at her. He looked around her, to the side of her, and for a moment he studied her wet hem. One side of his mouth drew down in a quirk of disgust.

“Miss Tempest, I am sorry to see you haven’t managed to escape your fate.” His voice swirled around her like honey. She felt the sound of his words long before she made sense of them.

The breeze brought the scent of the Beast to her nose. He had washed not long ago and changed his clothes. He smelled of soap from the Priory, as he always did, of jasmine almost hidden by the low note of musk. Strange, how the nose remembered such trivial things.

His hand reached out.

Lizzie retreated with dignity. She didn’t want to be touched by the Beast.

He had obviously called at the Priory to fortify himself with brandy, a scent that made her take a further step away from him. The Beast sober was bad enough. She dared not imagine what he must be like deep in his cups—not that a drunken Felmont was anything new to her.

“Allow me to introduce my friend, Rackham.” He turned to the gentleman standing several yards away. “Miss Elizabeth Tempest, the woman who ruined me. The woman who has pretended to be engaged to me for these last six years so she could do as she pleased with the Folly.”

The slender man stopped dusting at his disheveled town attire. He removed his hat to wave a greeting as if he stood miles away. His fair hair fell over his forehead with boyish charm—he was obviously not a Felmont male.

Quentin Seraphim Dacey Felmont, the fifth Viscount Felmont, the Beast from the Priory and now the owner of Felmont’s Folly, smiled at her. He smiled at her like the Devil welcoming the damned and drawled in a soft voice, “My dear Lizzie, do I get a kiss of welcome? No? It is with great difficulty I hold myself back.”

Lizzie did not doubt it. All Felmonts lived to satisfy their wicked urges.

He lowered his head to whisper in her sensitive ear, “As you refuse my kiss, I have only to decide which to do next. Burn the house down and let you watch, or help you escape and then burn the house down.” He called to his friend, “Rax, how long do you think the Folly will burn?”

“Gracious, all day and night. Can’t detain a lady for so long,” Mr. Rackham said in an apologetic tone. “Or her horses, they are waiting, too. You had better let Miss Tempest go.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, not when the Beast held her mesmerized by his madness. Burn Felmont’s Folly?

“Be a gentleman, Rax,” the Beast chided. “A lady must be given a choice.”

In a soft rumble, he asked her, “What is it to be, Lizzie? Do you want to watch the house burn first or is it enough that you have ruined me?”

While she took a calming breath, Lizzie let his threat dangle in the air between them. “I ruined you? How amusing.”

There was no use answering a madman with emotion and she had no intention of letting him upset her. She replied in a suitably bored voice, “As for the house, burn it to the ground if you must. It is full of your relatives come to welcome you home. Why don’t you burn it down after they are safely out of it and you are safely inside?”

Lizzie heard him give a low rumble of laughter. His obvious surprise at her words gave her a primitive satisfaction. The last time she had seen him, she’d never have dared talk back to him. She had only ever managed to get one coherent sentence out of her mouth when faced with the Beast. Years ago, Lizzie had actually managed to forbid him to look at her face. By some strange quirk of his nature, he had never met her eyes since.

He stepped nearer. She stared at his chest while the brim of her bonnet grazed him well below his shoulder. Lizzie forced herself to look up at him. He towered over her, so close his boots touched either side of her feet.

Her heart thudded.

He snagged her waist with both hands to stay her retreat.

A gasp escaped against her will. He was so close to her she could feel the heat from his body and almost taste the brandy on his breath.

His gaze drifted over her while she trembled in his grip. “Why didn’t you leave when your mother died?” he asked in a voice that echoed down her body to her waist encircled by his hands. “You could have escaped me then.”

Panic rose in her breast. Lizzie couldn’t tell if he caressed her or if her shivering made it feel as if he did. “Release me! I won’t be held like a tavern wench.”

She raised her hand in warning. “Let go!”

He ignored her threat and drew her closer.

She struck his looming face with such force her wrist hurt and her fingers stung, grazed by the stubble on his chin. She feared she had lost some of her skin.

How did women stand being kissed?

His lean cheek showed the mark of her hand. He’d winced. She was sure of it. The Beast released her waist and reached to tug on the ends of the ribbons under her chin. His forearms brushed against her breasts. Lizzie could have sworn she felt fiery brimstone singe her sensitive flesh through all her clothes.

Her bonnet slid off and fell to the ground. The Beast let go of her and kicked it away with one slow, deliberate slide against her leg.

She stepped backwards to break the disturbing contact and to allow him to attack her hat if it amused him. She could afford to buy as many bonnets as she wanted.

He followed her, his mocking blue eyes studying her simple coiffure. “Why did you stay? Did I err when I broke our engagement, my love? Do you wish to be mine?”

Her body trembled, not quite under her control, but she managed to answer him in a bored voice. “I have not lain awake languishing for you, Quentin Seraphim.”

He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of amazement. This pleased her.

The first and only time she had ever called him by name, he had thrown her into the lake. He had fought every village boy who tried to taunt him with his name. They had been permitted to call him Dacey or even Dace. Anything else he answered with violence.

He hated his name, Quentin Seraphim, because four baby boys had died at birth before him, so his mother had named him her fifth angel.

She should have called him Lucifer.

In a tone calculated to put the Beast in possession of the facts and bring him to his senses, Lizzie said, “The repairs to the façade were half finished when my stepfather died. To leave it was impossible. When your father inherited Felmont’s Folly, he didn’t have the funds to complete it. I did. None of this had anything to do with you.”

“Did you really think your banker uncles would allow you to squander your wealth without demanding their pound of flesh?” he asked. The Beast turned from her and walked away. He called over his shoulder to his friend, “Let’s burn it, Rax. I cannot pay for it.”

Lizzie ran to bar his way.

The Beast swept her aside. She ran after him, keeping out of arm’s reach.

“Let me explain, Beast.” She had dared call him Beast to his face. It gave her heart. “I will sign any document swearing the debt is mine. I assure you, I can afford it.”

“But I cannot afford to pay you back and I’d rather burn in hell’s fire than marry a woman who hates me.” The Beast reached out to take her hand. He pulled her towards the house, retracing the footsteps still visible on the lawn.

The heat from his hand burned through to her bones. The strength with which he compelled her to go with him frightened her. She lashed out and tried to hit his shoulder--she had no wish to lose more skin to his jaw. He leapt out of the way. A glancing blow struck him. To her surprise, he staggered, his face turned ashen under his tanned skin.

His recovery was slow, only her wrist caught in his grip kept him upright. At last, he rose to his full height. His gaze settled on her ear as he drew her arm closer to hold her against his side. “Let me speed you on your way,” he rasped in a voice tight with pain. “Stay here, Lizzie, and we will both live our nightmares. Run as far as you can. It’s your only hope.”

Lizzie pulled away to stop the Beast’s thigh from brushing hers. “Do you think I want to stay? Those are my bays waiting for me. Let go!”

He dragged her closer. “Your banker uncles are the enemy, dearest Lizzie, not me. It is by their design that you are still here. They all plot against you.”

She couldn’t match his stride as he strode away and had to run stumbling at his side. How had he managed to strip her of every ounce of dignity? How had he managed to return her to dithering childhood, when she had been so in awe of him, so fascinated yet repelled?

“Rax,” he called to his friend, “I must find a way to persuade the lady to leave. Do you suppose if I insist on a kiss, that might do it?”

A yelp of surprise came from Mr. Rackham as he hurried along beside them. “Dace, let her go. She has gone white with fright at the idea.”

Lizzie twisted in the Beast’s grip. “Stop pulling me and stop threatening me! I hate you!”

“What a picture of domestic bliss we’d make. She’s tried to kill me, Rax, have some sympathy.”

Lizzie bit her lip. It was true. She’d been eight years old, determined to murder him before he had chance to drown her again. She’d offered the Beast poisonous toadstool tea. He’d had too much sense to drink it.

She stumbled over the edge of the lawn when he pulled her onto the drive. Where had all his friends gone? Why did the servants only stand and stare? Didn’t they see the danger she faced?

He captured her flailing hand to hold both her wrists with one large fist. “Easy, Lizzie, I’m trying to help you escape.”

Did he think she wanted to stay? He was devil and fool rolled into one.

“For heaven’s sake! Dace!” Mr. Rackham shouted until the Beast turned his head from his mocking contemplation of her unraveling hair. “Ask Miss Tempest to marry you. There is no point burning it down if she’ll have you. Lovely place. Breathtaking.”

“We discussed this, Rax.” The viscount had lost his drawl.

“Oh heavens, stop! Look at her face! She thinks you are going to commit violence on her person.”

“I never look at Miss Tempest’s face. She has forbidden me to do so. Besides, I have made it clear to Lizzie I have no desire for her scrawny body. Never did have, never will. A kiss is all I claim.” He avoided her kick to his shins.

They reached the door of her carriage. He opened it with a flourish and gestured to her aunt to get out. Clutching knitting and reticule, Aunt Tempest fled up the stairs into Felmont’s Folly with undignified speed.

Lizzie called, “Aunt Tempest!”

The Beast pushed Lizzie towards the berline door. “The lady conspires against you, Lizzie. Flee while you have the chance. Alone!”

She turned and braced herself against the doorframe, almost managing to unman him with a well-aimed kick. She dared not let him enter with her for fear of what he’d do to her in private. Felmonts never stopped at a kiss.

He pried her hands free. Lifting her up as if she weighed nothing, he carried her into the berline.

Lizzie fought him.

Not able to stand upright, he held her pressed up against his chest with her arms pinioned behind her back.

“Let go! Beast! Fiend!” Strangely, her breasts didn’t seem to mind the contact. Traitors, both of them.

He leaned lower to place her on the seat. “One kiss, Lizzie, and then I’ll let you go.”

She kicked at him furiously. Before she had time to realize how she’d managed it, he’d gone. She’d kicked him out. She’d won!

She called to her coachman to hurry.

Her horses started and the carriage shot forward with a jolt. If he were the last man living, she’d never marry that rude, depraved, distempered Felmont Beast.

* * * *

Dace knelt on the gravel. His shoulder ached like the Devil, as though it were in shards. Pain scraped the weariness from his brain.

“Bad luck she got you on the shoulder.” Rax eyed him with sympathy. “I thought I was going to have to send for smelling salts. Do you think it will work? Miss Tempest didn’t really kick you in the ballocks, did she?”

Dace laughed under his breath—for it was that or show his weakness, his despair. “Lizzie is my only hope. Damn all bankers. They have me netted, gaffed and gutted. They have only to salt me and watch the death throes.” He eased into a crouch.

Dace heard Rax tutting over him with mock sympathy. His partner in the plots and pranks of their youth had an endless repertoire of sighs, moans, groans, tsks, and tuts. “You are making those odd noises again, Rax. Learned ’em from your grandmother?” It suddenly felt as if all his years away with his regiment were but an inconvenient interruption to their friendship.

They had dined yesterday at White’s on his way through London. He’d been furious at the news of his impending nuptials. Half the members, the determined bachelors, had insisted on attending the wedding. Even the wild ride, which had almost killed him, had not deterred them.

“Your bride is delightful. Wonder if I can’t cut you out and marry her myself.” His friend leaned down to offer him aid to stand. “Why didn’t you explain it to her properly? Gracious! If that’s how Viscount Felmont pays court to his bride, it’s no wonder she wants nothing to do with you.”

Dace grabbed Rax’s hand and staggered to his feet. “I am the villain of the piece. It’s the only role I have ever played for her. At least now Lizzie thinks she has a chance against me. If it came to a fair fight, she probably believes she could trounce me. I acknowledged every verbal hit and winced at every blow. Damn near fainted at her feet when she hit my shoulder.”

He rubbed his shoulder and moved it cautiously. “Not lain awake languishing for me. I didn’t think she had it in her. Good for little Lizzie Tempest.”

“If only the lady could be persuaded to languish for me. I think I’m in love.” Rax sighed and scuffed his shoes in the gravel.

“You have to stop falling in love so easily, Rax. It only encourages women to think men are romantic.” Dace wondered if he had enough strength to get up all those stairs to the doors. Scuttling into Felmont’s Folly through the servants’ entrance was hardly in keeping with his new status.

“You’ll have to marry her. There is no other way. Why don’t you throw yourself on her mercy?”

Rax was such an innocent—decent to the core.

Dace made for the stairs with as much strength as he could muster. “Dearest Lizzie has no mercy to spare for a Felmont.”

“What if her uncles force her to marry you and she jumps from the roof?” Rax walked with him. “You terrified her. Almost smacked you on the shoulder myself to get you to stop.”

“Not if you value your life.” The smile he gave Rax showed enough menace to convey his threat with the least effort necessary.

“After seeing her, I can understand your revulsion,” his friend said in a bantering tone. “Fair of face with delicate features, pretty hair streaked with blonde, elegant figure, and worth twenty thousand a year, if she is worth a penny. Must admit, I can’t see how you could bring yourself to marry her. She’s a positive antidote!”

As all of Rax’s five sisters were beauties and he should know better, Dace answered with a dismissive drawl. “Lizzie has not one iota of the playful spirit I want in a wife. Her blood turns to ice when she sees me. I doubt she will ever understand passion after what she has been through. Not after witnessing the wages of sin for love and desire, and burying the corpses.” He glanced up at the main floor windows.

They were waiting for him. “Lizzie will never trust a Felmont. Who can blame her?”

He saw Rax give a great start when he saw the faces staring down. “Gracious, that nose does run in the Felmont family. It doesn’t look so bad on you. No rush to introduce me to your relatives. Why don’t we go and see where the others have gone?”

Dace limped towards the stairs as if fatally injured, dragging his friend along in his wake.

Rax peered over the side of the ornate balustrade toward the gates. “They’ve got her. Poor Miss Tempest. Dished before she got near the gates. That must be one of her uncles blocking the way.”

“How did they get here so fast?” Dace watched the scene with dismay.

“How on earth are you going to ... to ... I mean ….” Rax searched for the right word. “The nuptials, the wedding night—after frightening your bride half to death over a kiss?”

“Rax, there you go thinking inflaming thoughts again. Don’t worry, there will be no wedding and no bedding. I am for the Americas if Lizzie fails me.” His stomach knotted at the thought. Home from the hell of war and greeted with threats of bankruptcy and social ruin. Home to the Priory to find he owned nothing but his soul.

He inched further up the steps. He couldn’t bear to watch Lizzie’s return. Rax gave a mournful sigh and joined him on the terrace.

None of the family came out to greet him, not even one of his young cousins. Keeping the doors closed in his face while he waited outside on the terrace heaped insult upon injury. He’d be damned if he’d knock to enter his own house. He looked up as if inspecting his property.

Whatever Lizzie had done to the façade, she had not changed the frieze over the pediment.

His friend stared upwards before walking backwards to get a better view.

Dace grabbed Rax by the arm. “Watch out for the stairs. They are winged victories. The first viscount loved ’em. One in the middle is supposed to bear a close resemblance to his wife.” Dace pulled Rax under the portico.

“Do you suppose she posed like that with her breasts exposed?” asked Rax. “I wonder how many men have fallen down the stairs trying to get a better look. Very angelic. Modesty does not run in your family, obviously. Heavens!”

“Leave heaven out of it. Winged victories, all of ’em.” Dace decided to give the inmates of the damned house a few more moments to open the doors. “There are no angels here in Felmont’s Folly.”

The doors swung wide. Two mismatched footmen stepped out and bowed before taking their positions on either side of the portico.

Footsteps echoed from the hall.

Dace peered into the interior to see the disapproving countenance of the house steward advancing towards him. Gordon had always been small and fierce. All the young Felmonts had felt the back of his hand for sins real or imagined. The years had shrunken the old Scot, but from the looks of him they had not helped his temper.

Not even a welcome from Gordon! Dace stepped over the threshold to put his good arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Don’t stand there staring at me,” he said in full Felmont drawl. “Damn it, Gordon, get everybody out of the house. I’m going to burn it down.”

“I rather think you have to own it first, Lord Felmont.” Only the old man’s cascading white eyebrows were larger than before.

“Go to hell.” Dace patted Gordon on the back and then bent to kiss him affectionately, in the French style, on both cheeks.

Shock at his gesture showed on the house steward’s lean, wrinkled face. “Welcome home, my lord. Will the wedding be this morning?”

“Not unless Miss Tempest begs on bended knee, stark naked, swearing eternal love and all manner of earthly delights to entice me. I think she has deprived me of the ability to father children.” Dace stepped into the circular hall beneath the cupola.

Gordon gave a muffled chortle.

Dace gave Rax time to look around with the curiosity every visitor showed. His friend eyed the circular staircase that dominated the hall. It jutted out in a rising sweep to the upper floors without any visible means of support.

“Is the staircase safe? It’ll frighten the life out of me, if your relatives don’t do it first.” Rax stared at the family portraits on the walls with the expression of one noticing the nose for the first time.

Gordon asked, “Would you care to greet the family, my lord?”

“No. Lead me to the brandy.” Dace stared up at the ceiling.

What in hell’s name had Lizzie Tempest done? A scene of judgment day had been painted on the inside of the dome. Heaven at the top, with a few amused angels, one of whom looked very much like the lady herself. All the sinners consigned to realistic torments were Felmonts. Dace craned his neck. Damnation! There he was—painted as the Devil himself.

All those miserable years he had devoted to ingratiating himself with his betrothed and she had him painted as the Devil in his own house.

“Lizzie has made a liar out of me,” he drawled. If he looked like a devilish Felmont, he may as well sound like one. “Look, Rax, she gave me angels.”

Good for clever Lizzie. A carefully planned insult designed to be discovered when it was too late for him to thank her for it. He owed her one.

Gordon led the way across the marble floor to open a gilded door with a flourish. “I’ll tell them to ready the chapel for the ceremony. There is brandy in the library, my lord.”

Escape was not to be so easy. His family appeared like wraiths in a graveyard. They drifted into the hall with expressions of great disdain on their long faces, angry with him for refusing to marry Lizzie and her fortune. Even his cousins gave him the Felmont stare, though Harry winked over the top of his mother’s head.

Rax shied like a nervous horse.

Bertram Felmont limped forward, garbed in one of his old-fashioned frock coats, his hand rested lightly on his bejeweled cane. He gave a slight bow.

“Dearest Felmont.” Sarcasm, permeated with vitriol, dripped from the thin mouth almost hidden by a long hooked nose—nothing had changed there. “What a shame you survived the great Bonaparte. We were doing so well without you.”

Dace returned the bow with the slightest movement, a mere half shrug of disdain to save his shoulder unnecessary movement. “Cousin Bertram, you are still alive?”

A rustle of interest swept through the family at the veiled threat. One never had to spell it out for a Felmont.

The cane tapped on the floor. “Sweet boy.” An unpleasant grimace accompanied the words. “If you cannot tempt Miss Tempest to your bed, with your so-charming personality, we are here to help you court her.”