The drawing room was filled with candlelight, firelight and two people who should not have been in the same room. Horatia, not willing to concede defeat, had curled up in her window seat again, her silver gown tucked up around her slippers, knees nestled under her chin. She clutched her novel, Lady Eustace and the Merry Marquess, trying to focus on its pages and not the real life marquess sitting by the fire. In the short span of time between Jonathan's battle of wills with Audrey, and Jonathan's hasty departure soon after, Horatia and Lucien found themselves in a battle of their own. Though Lucien's gaze was on the fireplace's vermillion flames, she could sense his attention on heras though his thoughts had become physical and caressed her skin, making her burn with awareness she wanted to ignore but couldn't."How do you find your novel? Amusing? Trite? Impossibly lurid?" The cold silence of the room succumbed to the surprising warmth in his voice.She shouldn't have answered, but
The next morning, Horatia donned a morning dress of twilled French silk in a dark rosy pink and went down the main stairs. The house was quiet, which meant that Cedric and Audrey were still asleep. Her normally soft steps became tiptoes as she trod through the house. She passed by the drawing room, paused in puzzlement and retreated back a few feet to gaze discreetly through the open doorway.In the far corner, Lucien was stretched out on his back, asleep on the daybed. Muff, the little feline devil, was stretched out on his back across Lucien's stomach, one paw raised in the air, tail twitching at the very tip. Lucien had one hand flat over the cat's belly, his fingers surprisingly graceful as they caressed him. It was the sort of caress a person made half-asleep, or half-awake.Horatia felt an ache rise in her as she watched. She would never know if Lucien would stroke her this way in bed. Only then did it occur to Horatia that Lucien hadn't left last night. A flash of remorse shot
Something wasn't right. Ashton shifted uncomfortably in his knee-high black boots. The actual gardens behind the Midnight Garden were chilly and his breath puffed out in small pale clouds as he waited in a concealed area of tall shrubbery to see where the two men from last night might rendezvous.Lucien had been positive that he'd heard Waverly's voice as the one giving orders to the hired assassin. But it was easy to let prejudices color a man's memory. Ever since the League had confronted Waverly that night by the River Cam, when he'd attempted to drown Charles, Waverly had transformed from mere mortal to bogeyman. An innocent man had perished during their struggle and enmity had been born. It was only a matter of time before someone would pay for the life lost that night.Ashton knew it was nonsense to lay the blame for every misfortunate at Waverly's door, but the man did seem to have a knack for spreading pain and trouble. Ashton had done his best to remain detached from such th
Emily was silent a long time. She sat down next to Ashton, keeping the cool cloth to his head.Ashton held an important part in Emily's heart. He'd championed her cause to Godric, and had been the first to see that she and Godric were in love with each other. Without his cool head and warm heart, the pair might never have believed enough in their love for each other.Ashton began to close his eyes and Emily slapped him forcefully across the cheek."Don't you dare fall asleep, Ashton!"His stunned gaze at the assault seemed to amuse Godric. It took quite a lot to shock Ashton."You slapped me?" he asked, shocked by Emily's behavior."And I'll do it again if you shut your eyes," Emily threatened.Ashton had the gall to let out a hoarse chuckle. "Now I know how Charles must feel on a daily basis. Still, I'm sure the benefits more than compensate for it."Despite her concern, Emily smiled. No doubt if Ashton had enough energy to tease her, he wasn't dead yet.A footman appeared at
The Russell family estate in northern Kent, four miles east of the village of Hexby, was in an uproar. Jane, the Marchioness of Rochester, was on the verge of strangling her second youngest child, one Linus Winston Russell. Despite her own knowledge that she had birthed that troublesome boy twenty-one years before, sometimes she swore he hadn't matured past the age of eight.The young man in question was balanced precariously on a rickety ladder in the entryway of Rochester Hall. He held a sprig of what Lady Rochester feared was mistletoe. That child was in for a thrashing when she got hold of him. She'd found his handiwork all over the house. Every single doorway, window, and alcove was adorned with that dreaded poisonous plant. The chaos and impropriety that would ensue from his little prank could bring down the very stones of Rochester Hall.Lord knew, her brood were wicked enough that they didn't need the help of mistletoe. It was in their blood, and sadly, not a trait taken from
Rochester Hall, Kent, 1815It was a perfect day in May with the heady scent of blooming flowers filling the gardens. Horatia was idly picking her way through the maze of tall hedges as she searched for Linus and Audrey. At fourteen, she was too old to enjoy hide and seek but she still humored the other children. She had counted to one hundred and was now having a devilishly hard time finding the others on the vast grounds of Lord Rochester's estate. Lord Rochester, she sighed aloud at the thought of his name. He was twenty-six years old, her brother's close friend and unbelievably handsome.She also knew Lucien was a rake; she'd heard that whispered in the servants' hall among other places. At first she'd thought it odd that the Marquess had been likened to a gardening tool, but after listening to her brother talk to his friends, she'd learned a rake had another meaning with no botanical connection whatsoever. After a bit of pleading with one of the laundry maids at their townhouse i
Horatia hated how that memory always managed to choke her at the worst times. She blinked and turned at the sound of a polite cough. Lucien was leaning against the wall a few feet away, watching her."Are you all right?" he asked, pushing away from the wall and coming towards her."I'm fine."Lucien frowned and cupped her chin in one hand, turning her to face him."I can always tell when you lie," he said, as if the knowledge of this surprised him."Yes. I hate that." She needed to get away from him. She needed room to breathe.He dogged her steps as she left and picked a room at random to try and hide from him. She shut the door and slid the lock into place, relaxing when he tried the knob and couldn't get inside. Leaning back against the door, she listened to him walk away. Her heartbeat slowed in her chest.Suddenly one of the study bookshelves swung open. Lucien emerged and eased the bookshelf back into its place, grinning. Horatia gaped. Rochester Hall had secret passageway
Lucien couldn't stop himself. Her hands fisted in his hair and her silken mouth welcomed his tongue with a reckless intensity he'd never experienced from any woman before. He'd had countless lovers and mistresses, but none had so completely abandoned their control as Horatia did. She did not lose herself. She was still Horatia, from the soft brown waves of her chestnut hair to the tips of her blue slippers. But when she kissed him, she threw caution, morals and hesitancy to the wind in a way that had him desperate to possess her.He'd always prided himself on his own self-control. Of course, lately he seemed to have little of it and Horatia had been testing what remained to its limit. He wanted to sink so deep into her that he'd never leave, wanted to lose himself in her eyes and drown in the symphony of her breathless cries. He'd thought of nothing else the entire carriage ride to Kent. Each time a curl of her hair was jostled by the bumpy road, he'd watched with envy as it caressed