The Historical Collection. Stephanie Laurens
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Emma, Alex, and Nicola brought their families to visit. Last year, they’d even welcomed Bradford and his boys for a few weeks, just before the Michaelmas school term began—and Gabriel was actually civil to her brother, for the most part.
Gabriel sat down on a bench to remove his boots. “Where’s Jacob?”
“At the park, with Emma and Richmond.”
“The baby?”
“Sleeping.”
He dropped his boot to the floor and gave her a slow, wicked grin. “Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.” She walked toward the bench, moving with a coquettish sway in her hips. He caught her by the waist and hauled her into his lap for a slow, deep kiss.
“I love you,” he said. “You may never teach that damned parrot to say it, but you taught me. You’ll never hear the end of it now, pretty girl. I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.”
Penny laced her arms about her husband’s neck. “Fancy a fuck, love?”
My editor, Tessa Woodward, has my adoration. Best editor in the world. Yes, Tessa, I have compared you to a fictional dog. Unlike a certain hero, you are entirely deserving of the compliment. I can’t possibly thank you enough. I’m out of words to express my indebtedness, and you know why.
Brenna Aubrey has my devotion. Every writer should be so lucky to have a friend who sneaks a life-size cutout of Chris Evans into her office while she’s out of town.
Brittani DiMare has my gratitude for her heroic patience and my deepest apologies.
Kayleigh Webb and Elle Keck have my warmest appreciation for all they do.
Steve Axelrod, Lori, and Elsie have my admiration. Best in the business.
The Darelings, and the entire extended Dare family, have my undying love.
Mr. Dare has my heart.
Readers, you have my thanks. Always.
Eva Leigh
EVA LEIGH is the pen name of a RITA® Award-nominated romance author who writes novels chock-full of smart women and sexy men. She enjoys baking, tweeting about boots, and listening to music from the ’80s. Eva and her husband live in central California.
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM EVA LEIGHAND MILLS & BOON
The Scandalous Ladies of London series
FROM DUKE TILL DAWNCOUNTING ON A COUNTESS
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
To Zack
London, England
1816
A droplet of sweat rolled between the shoulder blades of Thomas Edward O’Connell Cúchulain Powell, Earl of Langdon, as he steadied the cocked dueling pistol and took aim. He looked down the weapon’s barrel, his concentration fixed on his target twenty paces away. His exhalation misted in the chill midnight air as he fought for calm.
He inhaled, held his breath, then pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a cloud of smoke as the weapon’s concussion split the night’s stillness.
Twenty paces away, glass shattered.
The hushed crowd burst into applause and cheers of “Bravo!” as Tom lowered the pistol and grinned. He kept his footing as people swarmed around him, offering their congratulations and hearty thumps on the back. Numerous women, scented heavily with perfume, kissed his cheeks—so many that he imagined it looked as though he wore rouge.
“The hero of Regent’s Park,” George Mowbray declared.
“Not to Culver, I’m afraid.”
Tom looked over at his opponent, Lord Culver, who sulked as he handed his dueling pistol to a footman. Culver had missed when taking aim at the bottle of claret. Perhaps if Tom had been more virtuous, he would have deliberately missed so that there was no winner and no loser. Though Tom was an earl and the heir to the Duke of Northfield, no one would ever call him virtuous.
“Ah, shag him,” Mowbray said magnanimously.
“I’ll leave that to the professionals.”
Tom smiled ruefully as Culver’s hired companion for the evening attempted to soothe her client. When Culver shoved her away and she stumbled, Tom immediately strode through the crowd and jammed his fist into his opponent’s sternum.
“You may have lost, but you’re still a gentleman,” Tom said in a low, warning voice. Gently, he took the woman’s arm to make sure she kept her footing. “Apologize to the lady.”
“She’s just a whore, Langdon,” Culver said.
“Apologize.” Tom’s jaw firmed as he held up the pistol. “Or else the next time I fire this, it will be at your worthless heart.”
Culver scowled, but said in a grudging voice, “I’m sorry.” Under his breath, he muttered, “You Irish son of a bitch.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Repeat that.”
“I …” Culver gulped. “It was a jest.”
“A poor one.” Since the age of twelve, when he’d been brought from his mother’s Irish home to be educated in his father’s country of England, Tom had heard some variation of Culver’s insult. Why anyone thought Tom ought to be embarrassed about his Irish blood, he’d no idea. But he wouldn’t tolerate slurs. “Must I ask for another apology?”
“My sincere contrition,” Culver said. After casting Tom a wary glance, he hurried toward his waiting carriage.
“Hope I didn’t cost you your night’s earnings,” Tom said to the woman.
“Ah, no.” She gave him a dry smile as she eyed the throngs of young, wealthy bucks passing bottles back and forth as they caroused. “There’s plenty of pickings in this crowd.” She glanced at him and her smile turned more genuine. “Happens that I’m free right now, my lord. If you’re interested.”
“Perhaps another evening.” He wasn’t ready for bed yet.
One of the rakes came forward with a substantial bundle of cash and jammed it into Tom’s hand. “Your winnings, Langdon.”
No sooner than the cash was in his hand than Tom turned and handed it to the woman. “For putting up with Culver.”
“I couldn’t, my lord,” she said as she tucked the money into her bodice. She gave him a wink. “’Night, love.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then strode off into the darkness.
“That was near seventy pounds, Langdon,” Mowbray said in shock.
“She’ll have better use of it than me.”
There was no shortage of funds in Tom’s coffers, between income from his earldom as well as his generous allowance provided by his father, the duke. Other lordlings and bucks swam in seas of debt, hounded constantly by tailors,