Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress. Ann Lethbridge
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Excerpt
‘I do not wish you to enter into an arrangement that is distasteful to you.’
Distasteful? It ought to be distasteful, given all it would mean. She ought to be snatching up the papers and running for her life. And yet something in his eyes froze her in place. Raw hunger swirled in the dark brown depths. Not the heat of desire, although that was there too, but a bleak, deep-seated loneliness as he waited to bid her farewell.
Her foolish heart ached to ease his hurt. A wild desire to dispel that look from his eyes pulled at her soul. She’d made a bargain.
‘Go,’ he said.
The harshness in his voice said if she accepted his generous offer she would never see him again. Torn in two, she stared at the documents.
Go now, the voice of sanity whispered. She didn’t want to go.
Reckless Ellie, always too impulsive by half, crossed the room behind him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘My lord, I would not have suggested it if I did not wish it.’
He lowered his gaze to meet hers, then he pulled her close and brushed her lips with his—a hesitant, questioning kiss, as if he doubted her words.
A rush of pleasure heated her body. Two days ago had been the first time she had felt a man’s body, hard and strong against her own. And she’d liked it. She’d had no idea, until then, that kisses created such internal conflagrations. And now she wanted more.
Author Note
The moonlight meeting between Eleanor, a lady highwayman, and the brooding Marquess of Beauworth played out in my mind like the opening scene of a movie one quiet summer evening. Why would a woman take to the High Toby? And why did Garrick so obviously hate the idea of going home? These were puzzles I had to solve. By the early nineteenth century highwaymen were a rarity. And it was a time when a man’s home was his castle.
I hope you enjoy unravelling the answers and learning their story as much as I did. If you would like to know more about my writing and my books visit my website at www.annlethbridge.com. I always love to hear from readers, and can be reached at [email protected]
Ann Lethbridge has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
A previous novel by this author:
THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN
Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress
Ann Lethbridge
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I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, Keith, and my wonderful critique partners, Molly, Maureen, Mary, Sinead, Teresa and Jude. My special thanks go to my editor Joanne Grant, whose skill and patience is gratefully acknowledged.
Chapter One
Sussex, England—May 1811
The anger burning in the Marquess of Beauworth’s throat tasted of bile and bitter regret. While the horses thundered through shadows and moonlit tracts of rolling Sussex landscape, Garrick fought the urge to turn back for London.
He swallowed his ire and the carriage raced on. Home to Beauworth. The place he hated most in the world.
Not even the person closest to him, Duncan Le Clere, understood his hatred of the place. Sometimes he didn’t understand it himself, but lack of knowledge didn’t lessen the tension in his shoulders or the foreboding.
The pain of bruised tendon and bone reminded him of the reason for his return. One by one, he unclenched his fingers, forcibly relaxing his hands in his lap, breathing deeply and slowly, regaining control. He lounged deeper in the corner, stretching his legs along the gap between the seats, a picture of insouciance. After all, the Marquess of Beauworth, idle rake, reckless gambler and bored dandy, had a reputation to uphold.
The carriage swayed violently. He grabbed for the strap beside his head. The vehicle slowed, then stopped.
‘Mon Dieu! What now?’ He let down the window and stuck his head out.
The carriage horses tossed their heads uneasily, their shapes indistinct in the shadow of the high hedges lining the road. The sound of their hard breathing and jingling harnesses cut through the warm stillness. Garrick narrowed his eyes, staring ahead into the dark. ‘What do you see, Johnson?’ Probably a puddle. The poor old fellow should have retired years ago.
Something white gleamed eerily in the shadows ahead. A white horse walking in the centre of the road, moonlight slipping luminescent over a dappled coat. At first he saw only the horse. Then another dark shape, a slight figure clutching the bridle. A woman in a black riding habit. Walking alone? Bloody hell. She must be in trouble.
He wrenched open the carriage door, leapt down and started forwards with an offer of help on his lips. The sight of a pair of long-barrelled pistols in her hands, one aimed at his forehead and the other at his servants, stopped him short.
Cold moonlight revealed a black mask covering all but her mouth, while a point-edge cocked hat adorned a curled and powdered peruke. Black lace frothed at her wrists and throat.
‘Good God.’ The exclamation exploded from his lips as recognition struck. Lady Moonlight, the daring cavalier’s lady from Cromwell’s time, forced to take to the High Toby to feed her family. Her exploits were legendary in this part of Sussex as were the sightings of her spirit after she’d hanged.
‘Stand and deliver!’ Her husky voice, tinged with the accent of the dregs of London, echoed off the overarching trees. The grey minced sideways and she checked it with a low murmur.
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