Excerpts from my books

February 1823, on the road from Newbury to Avon

The day was rather spectacular for late February. Sir Henry March, accompanied only by his groom, piloted his curricle along a small country road toward Upavon and his ducal cousin’s estate. He’d taken his hat and greatcoat off some miles back to let the sun warm him. The dry and unseasonably warm weather had left the roads passable, the riverbanks painted in crocus yellow and purple, and the bare trees brightened with the first hint of spring. Sir Henry had high hopes the familiar beloved landscape in all its spring glory would cheer him, but so far, nature’s exuberance had served only to highlight the melancholy holding his heart hostage.

It was out of character for Sir Henry to feel so low. At four and thirty he was in his prime, blessed with a considerable fortune and the respect of his peers. He enjoyed good health, and nature had favored him with a pleasing countenance, straight limbs, and the kind of charisma women found hard to resist. His eyes were blue and penetrating, his hair sandy blond and cropped short, and his smile engaging.

However, only three weeks had passed since he’d said goodbye to his lovely mistress, Eliza. There was no anger to carry him through the parting, since her sacrifice was as great as his own, and so he could only miss her. He missed her smell, her smile, the way she twirled her long dark locks around her fingers while she read. But most of all, he missed knowing she would be there when he got home. But Eliza had taken on the task of helping his friend and partner, Allen, who had returned from a foreign assignment with considerable injuries. And, to honor his agreement not to see Eliza for six months, Henry had to trust another agent to investigate the Russian threat and to keep Allen and Eliza safe.

Henry and his groom had just passed through a sunlit oak forest, bright with early whispers of green, and were heading up the last rise before the descent into the Avon valley. He pulled up his grays on the crest of the hill overlooking the river. His cousin’s ancestral castle stood in the distance. The horses bent their heads to nibble at tufts of grass by the side of the road while Henry allowed himself a moment to take in the familiar vista.

The road ahead led down a sheep-studded incline and over an ancient stone bridge spanning one of the arms of the Avon River. It passed through the charming hamlet of Upavon and disappeared into the forests beyond. The calmly flowing river below was bracketed by willows and hazel, shimmering silver where the sun hit the water.

The scene was utterly peaceful. Not even the river had any sense of urgency, meandering here and there along its gently sloping valley, bordered by farmland and wooded groves. Henry took a deep breath, wanting the calm of this place to penetrate every cell of his being.

He let his gaze travel back up the side of the hill to the forest to his right and paused. There, some distance away, where the forest stopped and the grassland began, a woman sat silhouetted against the horizon. She was seated on a portable stool and leaned toward a spindly easel as she painted.

The woman was half turned away from him, absorbed in her work and oblivious to his presence. Henry found that circumstance most intriguing. It left him free to observe her, as she observed the landscape, and just like that, his love of the land was shared with another and his loneliness somewhat alleviated.

Her figure was pleasing, and she seemed too young to be sitting at the edge of the forest by herself. Even from where he sat, the look of concentration on her profile was unmistakable. Her dark hair was brushed back from her face and held together at the nape of her neck with a sky-blue ribbon. Curiously, there were also several brushes stuck in it, and some of the shorter, slow-curling strands were unceremoniously tucked behind her ear. She wore a rather dowdy blue dress, and a large green triangular shawl was tied around her peasant-style to keep her warm and her hands free.

But what held Henry’s attention was not her youth, or her looks, but the way she painted. Now she blindly bent to wash out her brush in a preserve glass on the ground, then flicked it behind her to expel the excess water, while looking alternately at the scene before her and her unfinished painting. Then she dipped her brush into two different pots of paint, swiftly mixed the color on her palette, held the palette up to check the accuracy of the hue, and added a few self-assured dabs to her composition. She cocked her head to the side to check the effect, added one more dab, and moved on to paint the sky with a broader brush she pulled from her hair.

Henry couldn’t see the watercolor from his perch on the curricle, but he was willing to bet it was good. Every movement she made proved she was put on this earth to paint, and seeing her embrace her purpose was very attractive. Perhaps if he could find a woman who had a purpose he could understand and respect, married life might not be so bad. Eliza was right: he had to open himself to the possibility of meeting a woman he could at least like, if not love. He would never even have contemplated such a thing if she hadn’t insisted they go their separate ways.

Over at the forest’s edge, the painter lifted her clasped hands overhead and reached skyward to stretch out her shoulders, inadvertently offering Henry a tantalizing view of the curve of her breast. But before he could wonder who she was, his attention was drawn to two riders emerging from the woods across the river and racing toward the old stone bridge. The flag of silvery blond hair streaming behind the female rider identified her as his daughter, Emily, who urged her dappled gray Arabian into a hair-raising full gallop, intent on winning the race. Impatient to see her, Henry pulled up the reins, set his team in motion, and promptly forgot all about the intriguing woman on the hill.

***

Emily beat her cousin Bertie to the bridge and slowed her mare to a canter to cross it, having spotted her father driving down the hill. Coming to a halt, she kicked her boot free of the stirrup and slid down the side of her horse with practiced ease. She patted the mare on her rump to let her know she was free to munch on the tender spring grass, then pulled herself up to sit on the bridge’s stone wall, letting her booted feet swing from under her slightly too short riding habit.

As Henry approached, he couldn’t help but notice that not only had Emily outgrown the length of her frock but the material stretched tightly over her chest. With growing unease, he realized his lovely Emily—his treasured baby daughter—had grown a pair of breasts. No wonder the well-meaning matrons in Henry’s life had deemed it necessary to impress upon Eliza the urgency of considering Emily’s coming out.

Oblivious to his musings and her growing feminine allure, Emily sat there with the air of one who had patience with the male of the species, but only to a point.

Bertie reined in his big bay gelding just as Henry pulled up to the side of the bridge. But Emily’s attention was still on Bertie, obviously keen to see his reaction to her win. At seventeen, Bertie was tall and lanky, and promised to fill out into a fine male specimen before too long. Right now he brushed his overlong dark-blond hair from his eyes and looked at Emily with a mixture of admiration and annoyance. “By Zeus, Em, how do you get her to go like that? She’s barely bigger than a pony.”

Emily’s blue eyes sparkled, her silver-blond hair still wild and her face flushed from the exercise. “Maybe she just loves me and knows how much I love winning. Don’t you, Adonis?”

Adonis lifted her head at the mention of her name and softly blew in Emily’s direction. 

Bertie, meanwhile, frowned and shook his head. “That name is just wrong. You should rename her, or stick to calling her Addy.”

The horse moved to her mistress’s side and nuzzled her neck in silent support while Emily glowered up at Bertie. “Adonis is her given name. It’s not my fault that stupid Greek deity turned out to be male. I just liked the name and what’s done is done.”

Familiar with the ceaseless bickering between his daughter and her favorite cousin, Henry shook his head, tossed the reins to Roberts, and jumped down from the curricle. Taking her cue from her father, Emily hopped off the wall and stepped into his waiting arms. “Hello, Papa. Do you want me to ride with you back to Avon?”

Henry hugged her close and grinned at her cheek. She may have grown up, but she was still the same incorrigible, gregarious, horse-mad tomboy she had always been. “Hello, Poppet! Yes, I would very much like your company, and yes, you can take the reins. Has Uncle Arthur been giving you lessons?”

Emily wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. Secretly the irreverent gesture delighted Henry, especially because it infuriated Hortense, his cousin’s humorless, unbending wife.

“Hardly ever! Aunt Hortense doesn’t approve of women driving, especially not teams. We have to sneak around so she doesn’t find out—and you know how much Uncle Arthur hates sneaking around.”

“That’s not fair, Em. I’ve been teaching you at least twice a week. And I’ve incurred more than one lecture from Mama for it too.” Bertie’s righteous indignation fairly made him tremble, while Emily’s eyes danced with amusement.

Listening to them, Henry wished Bertie would stand up to her. It was really too bad the boy let Emily run roughshod over him and that they both acted in all ways like siblings. They may have made a match of it, had their childhood love turned into romance over time. Obviously that was a vain hope now, a fact certain to please the duchess. Henry would just have to look for a suitably chaste and well-connected wife, reform his debauched ways, and launch Emily into society when the time came so she could find a husband she could love as well as respect.

Henry extended his hand to Bertie, who had not bothered to dismount. “Good afternoon, Bertie. My grays and I surely appreciate your efforts to teach Emily, even if she herself remains ungrateful. When are you going up to Oxford?”

The young man beamed down at Henry and shook his hand enthusiastically. “September, Uncle Henry. Reverend Spittle thinks my Latin still needs work, but since I don’t have the brains for law or medicine, and no inclination to join the church, I really don’t think it signifies.”

Henry nodded his understanding. There was another reason Emily would have been a good match for the boy: he loved the land, and the only way to get his hands on an estate was to marry an heiress. “Are you still planning on studying land management and taking over from Watson when he retires?”

Bertie huffed. “If he ever retires, you mean. But, yes, that’s my plan until I can buy my own land.”

Henry smiled at his favorite nephew. Perhaps he would do something for the boy if he proved himself. “Good for you. Stick to your guns and don’t let your mother push you into the church if you don’t feel a calling. There are more than enough mediocre churchmen out there already.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Bertie announced, “That’s what the good reverend said. He even went as far as to tell Mama so.”

Both Henry and Emily gasped in mock shock.

“He did not!”

“Does the man have a death wish?”

Bertie chuckled. “I thought it was rather brave of him. Mama almost had an apoplexy though, and if Father had not agreed with him, Mama may have pushed to have poor Spittles excommunicated.”

That statement sent Emily into a fit of giggles before she noted with a superior eye roll, “They only excommunicate people from the Catholic Church, you dolt.”

And off they went into their next enthusiastic round of bickering.

PROLOGUE

Hyde Park, October 1825

The morning sun set the trees around the Serpentine alight in shades of yellow, orange, and red, and reflected them in the mirror-smooth surface of the lake. Bending to pick up another horse chestnut, Emily March decided she had more than enough to teach her two-year-old brother, Danny, how to play conkers. Slipping the chestnut into the pocket of her powder-blue walking dress, she picked up her skirts so she could move faster. The path narrowed among the fall-colored trees. Emily rushed ahead, eager to get to the bridge across the Serpentine, where she was to meet with her friend Eliza for a morning walk.

Emily was almost at the far edge of the wood, the road already in sight, when she was lifted off the ground by a strong arm seizing her around her waist and pinning one of her hands to her side. Just as she let out a surprised shriek, she heard a similar shout from behind her and felt her heart sink. Her maid, Suzie, must have been similarly accosted. Had Emily been at Avon, she would have assumed her cousins were intent on scaring her witless, but this wasn’t her uncle’s estate, and it was unlikely one or more of her cousins had made their way to the capital. Emily realized, just as a rough leather-clad hand clamped over her mouth, that she was once again in trouble. And then she saw the black coach and knew someone was intent on kidnapping her. Truly frightened now, Emily thrashed wildly in hopes of dislodging herself, or at least the hand over her mouth, so she could scream.

“Did you think I would let that arrogant ass rob me of my revenge?”

Emily recognized the Baron Ostley’s voice instantly, a nightmare come to life on this lovely autumn day. She pulled frantically on the gloved hand over her mouth. Not him, not again. Her eyes darted around, hoping to find someone who could help her, but there was no one in sight.

“And did you know his grandfather also has an axe to grind with your father? He has very interesting plans for you.” The words, accompanied as they were by a nasty cackle and the stench of his breath wafting against her skin, made Emily nearly faint with nausea. She kicked with all her might against his shin, which earned her a slap across the face. It stung, but the nasty baron’s hand was off her mouth, so she screamed as loud as she could until the hand stopped her once again.

“Warthon will have fun with you, you bloody wildcat!” Ostley panted with the thrashing girl in his arms. They were out of the stand of trees now and perhaps forty paces from the coach. “Open the door, Charles. And you better hold on to her until I can climb in. Looks like you’re going to have to earn your turn with her.”

Emily was busy pulling, scratching, and making herself as difficult to carry as she could, so when Ostley barked the command over her head, it took her a moment to comprehend the meaning of what he had said. The realization that there were two of them this time made her redouble her efforts.

An angelic-looking blond boy in his mid-teens opened the door to the coach and jumped down. His eyes were wide with horror. “I don’t think she wants to come, Papa. We should go before we attract even more attention.” He pointed toward a nursemaid clasping a crying child to her bosom and running as fast as she could toward Rotten Row, where a few gentlemen were on their morning ride.

Ostley seemed unperturbed by the prospect of a bigger audience and kept dragging Emily toward the vehicle. “Nonsense, no one is going to believe a maid’s word against mine. Get in the coach and hold the door open.”

Emily’s predicament was frightening enough, but the arrogance with which Ostley assumed he would get away with kidnapping her was truly terrifying. And she had only herself to blame. She had been just as arrogant to think she was safe, that she could leave behind Thomas, the guard her father had imposed. She had been a fifteen-year-old fool the first time Ostley had assaulted her, and she was still a fool. After Ostley had been foiled two years ago at the inn by Lord Didcomb, Emily had assumed the baron would simply go back home and leave her be. And he had, for two years. But apparently he had been waiting for the right moment all the while. Emily’s skin crawled as she realized he must have been watching her.

Pulling Emily’s head against his shoulder, Ostley breathed into her ear. “I’m going to let him fuck you before I tell him who you are. We will see what he thinks of his precious mother then. She’s a whore just like you are.”

The words cut through Emily like a knife. Her mother, Lady Ostley, had loved her father; she was not a whore. Tears of frustration gathered behind her eyes. Then it dawned on Emily who the boy was. The monster was going to make her have relations with her brother. Fury burned within her at the injustice of it. How dare this monster make her the instrument with which to punish her mother. Emily wasn’t sure she wanted to meet the woman who had given her up at birth, but she would rather have died than meet her like this.

As the door to her doom loomed closer and closer despite her constant kicking and scratching, the panic engulfing Emily sent blood rushing in her ears, so she didn’t hear the horse approaching until it was almost upon them. But she saw the look of panic on the face of the boy—her brother Charles. Then she was jerked around violently as Ostley turned and shouted, “Take the bint, Charles.” Then louder: “Bob, drop the maid and help the boy.”

Emily was now facing backwards but still being dragged toward the coach. They were followed by a burly brute, who grinned a gap-toothed grin and had the writhing Suzie flung over his shoulder. At his master’s command, he dropped the maid, but before he could carry out the second command, he was mowed down by the approaching horse. Behind the wild tangle of horse’s hooves and the fallen man, Emily could just make out Suzie struggling to her feet and running for the trees.

Emily’s golden god, Lord Didcomb, Max, the man who had come to her rescue two years prior, jumped off the still-moving horse and landed not ten paces from her and her captor, his riding crop raised high and ready to strike. “Didn’t I tell you never to come near Miss March again? Let her go this instant!” His green eyes flicked to Emily’s for a moment, making her knees weak for an entirely different reason.

Even in her present predicament, Emily had to admire the young lord’s stormy countenance. The scowl on his face suited her romantic hero image of him perfectly, but behind her she could feel Ostley tremble, and she didn’t think it was with fear. “Charles, grab her hair and yank on it hard if she doesn’t do as you say. I must deal with this upstart.”

“Charles, I would advise you not to lay a hand on your sister.” As soon as Max said it and saw the shock on the boy’s face, he knew Charles hadn’t known who his father was kidnapping, and he began to feel just the tiniest bit sorry for the younger Ostley. Max knew all too well how a cruel relative could bend a boy to his will. Only a few short years ago, his grandfather had had Max so far under his control, Max had wanted to hurt Emily March himself.

Lord Didcomb’s voice was icy cold and menacing, making Emily feel sorry for the boy gasping behind her. But she had no time to worry about him. Though Ostley literally vibrated with rage, his voice was oddly calm. “And now you’ve gone and ruined my surprise.” He grabbed Emily by the hair himself so he could free up his right hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, Emily caught sight of a pistol, and panic flooded her once again.

“Gun!” was all she could get out before the shot ripped through the morning air.

At the same time, Emily saw a pistol glint in Didcomb’s hands, and then another shot rang out. The baron fell back, pulling her to the ground with him. He let out a strange little gurgling sound and then went completely limp and still, while a stench worse than his body odor hit Emily’s nose. Realizing Ostley no longer held on to her, she scrambled away as fast as she could. Didcomb was next to her in three long strides and lifted her to her feet.

Emily, shuddering with disgust, stepped into Maximilian Warthon’s arms for the second time in her life. “God, he stinks.”

Max folded his arms protectively around Emily March and thanked the gods he once again had reached her in time. “My father was a soldier and used to say the worst thing about death was the smell.”

Emily chanced a glance at the man on the ground. “Is he dead?”

“Yes, I got him square in the chest.”

“Good.” Emily sighed gratefully and rested against his broad shoulder once more, but then abruptly looked up as a thought struck her. “Did he shoot you?”

Max grinned, which put a dimple in his left cheek, making him look boyishly young. “Luckily the late Baron Ostley was a very bad shot and at eight paces only managed to ruin my jacket.” He nodded to his right shoulder, where the bullet had ripped a powder-burned hole.

Emily stuck her finger in the hole, making sure there was no blood despite Max’s soft laughter at her fussing. She loved the velvety sound and smiled up at him, completely captivated by the man in front of her. He was just as tall, his face as perfectly manly and his blond curls as impossibly golden, as she remembered. His arms around her felt like heaven. And in this perfect moment, she heard the click of a gun being cocked, and then Charles’s voice.

“Step aside, miss. I don’t wish to hurt you, especially if you are indeed my sister.”

Emily froze and then slowly turned around. She was calm enough, but all the blood had apparently drained from her brain. She couldn’t, for the life of her, think of a way to save her rescuer without getting herself shot by the shaking, wide-eyed boy in front of her. And then the second fortunate event of the morning occurred. From around the side of the coach stepped none other than Eliza, the friend Emily had planned to meet today, with a small pistol clasped in both hands. Her gun and her determined dark eyes were trained on the brand-new baron intent on avenging his father.

“Charles Ostley, lower the blunderbuss. Your mother will never forgive you if you harm Emily.”

Charles shot Eliza a surprised look. “Mrs. Strathem, what are you doing here?”

Max used the moment of inattention to pull Emily behind himself, but Emily would have none of it and stepped back in front of Max. Luckily it was of no consequence. Eliza was now close enough to Charles to put her hand on the barrel of the gun and force it lower.

“Stopping you from making a huge mistake, apparently.”

The boy looked stricken and very young. His voice was unsteady. “But this man just killed my father. A gentleman can’t leave that unavenged.”

Max, impatient with Emily’s insistence to position herself in the line of fire, wrapped both arms around her, but before he could swing her around and shield Emily with his body, Eliza took the gun out of the boy’s shaking hands.

“There is nothing to avenge, Charles. You know better than anyone what kind of husband your father was to your mother. You saw what he just tried to do to your sister. Everyone is better off without him.”

The boy leaned into Eliza and began to sob. “What am I to do?”

Eliza handed the heavy shotgun to Max, who had stepped closer, slipped her own gun into a pocket in her burgundy walking dress, and pulled Charles into a warm embrace. “I think we should load your father into the coach and take him to Oxfordshire so your mother can arrange for his funeral.” She then turned to the coachman who had watched the whole scene unfold, doing his best to keep the nervous horses under control. “What do you say, Coachy? Will you help us convey your late master back to his estate?”

The coachman nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And I think we should get the young sir away from here before the law arrives. But”—he pointed to the burly ruffian on the ground—“I’d rather not take him back, he’s a nasty piece of work.”

Eliza nodded and turned to Max. “Can I leave you to deal with Ostley’s man? I think paying him off will be sufficient.”

Max regarded her for a moment, a look of quiet admiration in his eyes, then bowed. “Thank you for your timely intervention, Mrs. Strathem. You may depend on me. I will also convey Miss Emily safely back to her father.” He then bent to help the coachman pick up the late baron and carry him to the coach, where Charles held a somber watch over the proceedings.

At last, Eliza turned to Emily and pulled her into a tight embrace. “I was worried about you when you weren’t on the bridge at the appointed time. Are you well, poppet? It seems you found yourself a reliable champion.”

Emily gratefully returned her friend’s embrace and sighed her relief. “My golden god, you mean? Yes, he has proven himself twice over now.” Considering her friend, she asked, “You are in contact with my mother, are you not?”

Eliza kissed both her cheeks. “Yes, poppet, I’m acquainted with your mother. Your father couldn’t contact her for fear of bringing Ostley’s wrath down on her, but I struck up a friendship with your grandmother some years ago. She timed her visits during Ostley’s absences whenever possible and took me along on a few of them with me posing as her companion. That’s how I got to know your brother, too. Let me take him home and get the baron under the ground, and then, if you wish, we can arrange for you to meet your mother.”

Emily couldn’t help feeling conflicted at the prospect of meeting the mother who had condemned her to the life of a bastard, to never quite belong. It had been done to protect her, but still. She was glad Eliza was there to wipe away the tears rolling down her cheeks unbidden. These weren’t the kind of tears she wanted to shed in front of a near stranger, no matter how beautiful he was, or how safe his arms felt. By the time Max had caught his horse and was striding toward her, Emily had herself under control again. At the same time, Emily’s footman, Thomas, leaning heavily on Suzie, emerged from the edge of the wood, and her landau arrived, convincing Emily that she was finally safe. She urged Eliza into the coach, to take Charles away from the gathering crowd of onlookers. Then she went to help Thomas to the landau, while Max dealt with the deceased baron’s now conscious servant.

Before Emily stepped into her conveyance to make her way home, she sent Max a shy smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

Max nodded his acknowledgment. “You are most welcome, Miss March.” He held her gaze just long enough to make her blush, then returned to dealing with the bruised brute.

Before long, they were on their way across the bridge. Leaning back into the comfort of the carriage seats and surrounded by people she could trust, Emily had to admit even her taste for adventure was satisfied for some time to come.

A well-appointed country estate, England 1790 

Lord Dillings had her cornered. She should have known what he intended, should never have responded to his call, and she most definitely should not have stopped to talk to him. But she was a maid; she had to be nice to the guests, no matter how depraved she knew them to be.

His eyes were lust-filled and determined. “Come on, Marianne, I have seen the way you catch your breath when you watch the others at their games. You want it, I know you do.” 

Marianne tried one last time to reason with him. “Sir, I’m married! That fact hasn’t change since yesterday.” 

Lord Dillings only grinned at her. Christ, his hands were everywhere, his brandy-laden breath hot on her neck and his mouth about to descend on hers. There really was only one thing for it. She raised her knee and stomped her heel on his foot as hard as she could. 

“Damnation!” He hissed in pain and stepped back in shock, giving her enough room to slip past him, hike up her skirts, and flee towards the back stairs as fast as her legs would take her. She could hear him behind her, trying to catch up. 

Part of her enjoyed the chase, but she did not want him. She had no interest in any of the guests in this house. They may have been fine lords who knew all about pleasure, but they lacked her Joe’s broad shoulders and his kind heart.

“Little wildcat! I’ll have you in front of the whole company for that.” Dillings wheezed.

Not if she could help it. There was only one man, other than her husband, she would ever contemplate even fantasizing about, and that was Lord Linford. Marianne redoubled her efforts, ran down the stairs and lost him in the maze of servants’ corridors. When she was sure he no longer followed, she made her way to the library where she had scoped out a hiding place previously.