Seducing the Viscount by Alexandra Ivy (23)

Prologue

 

Chapter 1

The reception room of the hotel on Michigan Avenue was a blaze of color. In the light of the chandelier, Chicago’s movers and shakers strutted about like peacocks, occasionally glancing toward the massive fountain in the center of the room, where a handful of Hollywood B stars were posing for photographs with the guests for an obscene fee that supposedly went to some charity or another.

The similarity to another evening was not lost on Anna as she once again hovered in a dark corner watching Conde Cezar move arrogantly through a room.

Of course, that other evening had been near two hundred years ago. And while she hadn’t physically aged a day (which she couldn’t deny saved a butt-load on plastic surgery and gym memberships), she wasn’t that shy, spineless maiden who had to beg for a few crumbs from her aunt’s table. That girl had died the night Conde Cezar had taken her hand and hauled her into a dark bedchamber.

And good riddance to her.

Her life might be all kinds of weird, but Anna had discovered she could take care of herself. In fact, she did a damn fine job of it. She would never go back to that timid girl in shabby muslin gowns (not to mention the corset from hell).

That didn’t, however, mean she had forgotten that fateful night.

Or Conde Cezar.

He had some explaining to do. Explaining on an epic scale.

Which was the only reason she had traveled to Chicago from her current home in Los Angeles.

Absently sipping the champagne that had been forced into her hand by one of the bare-chested waiters, Anna studied the man who had haunted her dreams.

When she had read in the paper that the Conde would be traveling from Spain to attend this charity event, she had known that there was always the possibility the man would be a relative of the Conde she had known in London. The aristocracy was obsessed with sticking their offspring with their own name. As if it weren’t enough they had to share DNA.

One glance was enough to guarantee it was no relative.

Mother Nature was too fickle to make such an exact duplicate of those lean, golden features, the dark, smoldering eyes, the to-die-for body . . .

And that hair.

As black as sin, it fell in a smooth river to his shoulders. Tonight he had pulled back the top layer in a gold clasp, leaving the bottom to brush the expensive fabric of his tux.

If there was a woman in the room who wasn’t imagining running her fingers through that glossy mane, then Anna would eat her silver-beaded bag. Conde Cezar had only to step into a room for the estrogen to charge into hyperdrive.

A fact that was earning him more than a few I-wish-looks-could-kill glares from the Hollywood pretty boys by the fountains.

Anna muttered a curse beneath her breath. She was allowing herself to be distracted.

Okay, the man looked like some conquering conquistador. And those dark eyes held a sultry heat that could melt at a hundred paces. But she had already paid the price for being blinded by the luscious dark beauty.

It wasn’t happening again.

Busily convincing herself that the tingles in the pit of her stomach were nothing more than expensive champagne bubbles, Anna stiffened as the unmistakable scent of apples filled the air.

Before she turned, she knew who it would be. The only question was . . . why?

“Well, well. If it isn’t Anna the Good Samaritan,” Sybil Taylor drawled, her sweet smile edged with spite. “And at one of those charity events you claim are nothing more than an opportunity for the A-listers to preen for the paparazzi. I knew all that holier-than-thou attitude was nothing more than a sham.”

Anna didn’t gag, but it was a near thing.

Despite the fact that both women lived in L.A. and they were both lawyers, they couldn’t have been more opposite.

Sybil was a tall, curvaceous brunette with pale skin and large brown eyes, while Anna had brown hair and hazel eyes and barely skimmed the five-foot mark. Sybil was a corporate lawyer who possessed the morals of a . . . well, actually she didn’t possess the morals of anything. She had no morals. Anna, on the other hand, worked at a free law clinic that battled corporate greed on a daily basis.

“Obviously I should have studied the guest list a bit more carefully,” Anna retorted, caught off guard but not entirely surprised by the sight of the woman. Sybil Taylor possessed a talent for rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, wherever they might be.

“Oh, I would say that you studied the guest list as closely as every other woman in the room.” Sybil deliberately glanced across the room to where the Conde Cezar toyed with a heavy gold signet ring on his little finger. “Who is he?”

For a heartbeat, Anna battled the urge to slap that pale, perfect face. Almost as if she resented the woman’s interest in the Conde.

Stupid, Anna.

Stupid and dangerous.

“Conde Cezar,” she muttered.

Sybil licked her lips that were too full to be real. Of course, there wasn’t much about Sybil Taylor that was real.

“Eurotrash or the real deal?” the woman demanded.

Anna shrugged. “As far as I know, the title is real enough.”

“He is . . . edible.” Sybil ran her hands down the little black dress that made a valiant effort to cover her considerable curves. “Married?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Hmm. Gucci tux, Rolex watch, Italian leather shoes.” She tapped a manicured nail against teeth too perfect to be real. “Gay?”

Anna had to remind her heart to beat. “Most definitely not.”

“Ah . . . I smell a history between the two of you. Do tell.”

Against her will, Anna’s gaze strayed toward the tall, dark thorn in her side.

“You couldn’t begin to imagine the history we share, Sybil.”

“Maybe not, but I can imagine all that dark, yummy goodness handcuffed to my bed while I have my way with him.”

“Handcuffs?” Anna swallowed a nervous laugh, instinctively tightening her grip on her bag. “I always wondered how you managed to keep a man in your bed.”

The dark eyes narrowed. “There hasn’t been a man born who isn’t desperate to have a taste of this body.”

“Desperate for a taste of that overused, silicone-implanted, Botox-injected body? A man could buy an inflatable doll with less plastic than you.”

“Why you . . .” The woman gave a hiss. An honest-to-God hiss. “Stay out of my way, Anna Randal, or you will be nothing more than an oily spot on the bottom of my Pradas.”

Anna knew if she were a better person she would warn Sybil that Conde Cezar was something other than a wealthy, gorgeous aristocrat. That he was powerful and dangerous and something that wasn’t even human.

Thankfully, even after two centuries, she was still capable of being as petty as the next woman. A smile touched her lips as she watched Sybil sashay across the room.

 

 

Cezar had felt her presence long before he’d entered the reception room. He’d known the moment she had landed at O’Hare. The awareness of her tingled and shimmered within every inch of him.

It would have been annoying as hell if it didn’t feel so damn good.

Growling low in his throat at the sensations that were directly connected to Miss Anna Randal, Cezar turned his head to glare at the approaching brunette. Not surprisingly, the woman turned on her heel and headed in the opposite direction.

Tonight his attention was focused entirely on the woman standing in the corner. The way the light played over the satin honey of her hair, the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the silver gown that displayed way too much of the slender body.

Besides, he didn’t like fairies.

There was a faint movement from behind him and Cezar turned to find a tall, raven-haired vampire appearing from the shadows. A neat trick considering he was a six-foot-five Aztec warrior who was draped in a cloak and leather boots. Being the Anasso (the leader of all vampires) did have its benefits.

“Styx.” Cezar gave a dip of his head, not at all surprised to find that the vampire had followed him to the hotel.

Since Cezar had arrived in Chicago along with the Commission, Styx had been hovering about him like a mother hen. It was obvious the ancient leader didn’t like one of his vampires being in the control of the Oracles. He liked it even less that Cezar had refused to confess the sins that had landed him near two centuries of penance at the hands of the Commission.

“Tell me again why I am not at home in the arms of my beautiful mate?” Styx groused, completely disregarding the fact that Cezar hadn’t invited him along.

“It was your decision to call for the Oracles to travel to Chicago,” he instead reminded the older man.

“Yes, to make a ruling upon Salvatore’s intrusion into Viper’s territory, not to mention kidnapping my bride. A ruling that has been postponed indefinitely. I did not realize that they intended to take command of my lair and go into hibernation once they arrived.” The fierce features hardened. Styx was still brooding on the Oracles’ insistence that he leave his dark and damp caves so they could use them for their own secretive purposes. His mate, Darcy, however, seemed resigned to the large, sweeping mansion they had moved into on the edge of Chicago. “And I most certainly did not realize they would be treating one of my brothers as their minion.”

“You do realize that while you may be lord and master of all vampires, the Oracles answer to no one?”

Styx muttered something beneath his breath. Something about Oracles and the pits of hell.

“You have never told me precisely how you ended up in their clutches.”

“It’s not a story I share with anyone.”

“Not even the vampire who once rescued you from a nest of harpies?”

Cezar gave a short laugh. “I never requested to be rescued, my lord. Indeed, I was quite happy to remain in their evil clutches. At least as long as mating season lasted.”

Styx rolled his eyes. “We are straying from the point.”

“And what is the point?”

“Tell me why we are here.” Styx glanced around the glittering throng with a hint of distaste. “As far as I can determine, the guests are no more than simple humans with a few lesser demons and fey among the rabble.”

“Yes.” Cesar considered the guests with a narrowed gaze. “A surprising number of fey, wouldn’t you say?”

“They always tend to gather when there’s the scent of money in the air.”

“Perhaps.”

Without warning, Cezar felt a hand land on his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the growingly frustrated vampire at his side. Obviously Styx was coming to the end of his patience with Cezar’s evasions.

“Cezar, I have dared the wrath of the Oracles before. I will have you strung from the rafters unless you tell me why you are here wading through this miserable collection of lust and greed.”

Cezar grimaced. For the moment, Styx was merely irritated. The moment he became truly mad, all sorts of bad things would happen.

The last thing he needed was a rampaging vampire scaring off his prey.

“I am charged with keeping an eye upon a potential Commission member,” he grudgingly confessed.

“Potential . . .” Styx stiffened. “By the gods, a new Oracle has been discovered?”

The elder vampire’s shock was understandable. Less than a dozen Oracles had been discovered in the past ten millenniums. They were the rarest, most priceless creature to walk the earth.

“She was revealed in the prophecies near two hundred years ago, but the information has been kept secret among the Commission.”

“Why?”

“She is very young and has yet to come into her powers. It was decided by the Commission that they would wait to approach her until she had matured and accepted her abilities.”

“Ah, that I understand. A young lady coming into her powers is a painful business at times.” Styx rubbed his side as if he was recalling a recent wound. “A wise man learns to be on guard at all times.”

Cezar gave a lift of his brows. “I thought Darcy had been bred not to shift?”

“Shifting is only a small measure of a werewolf’s powers.”

“Only the Anasso would choose a werewolf as his mate.”

The fierce features softened. “Actually, it was not so much a choice as fate. As you will eventually discover.”

“Not as long as I am in the rule of the Commission,” Cezar retorted, his cold tone warning that he wouldn’t be pressed.

Styx eyed him a long moment before giving a small nod of his head. “So if this potential Commission member is not yet prepared to become an Oracle, why are you here?”

Instinctively, Cezar glanced back at Anna. Unnecessary, of course. He was aware of her every movement, her every breath, her every heartbeat.

“Over the past few years, there have been a number of spells that we believe were aimed in her direction.”

“What sort of spells?”

“The magic was fey, but the Oracles were unable to determine more than that.”

“Strange. Fey creatures rarely concern themselves in demon politics. What is their interest?”

“Who can say? For now the Commission is only concerned with keeping the woman from harm.” Cezar gave a faint shrug. “When you requested their presence in Chicago, they charged me with the task of luring her here so I can offer protection.”

Styx scowled, making one human waiter faint and another bolt toward the nearest exit. “Fine, the girl is special. Why should you be the one forced to protect her?”

A shudder swept through Cezar. One he was careful to hide from the heightened senses of his companion.

“You doubt my abilities, my lord?”

“Don’t be an ass, Cezar. There is no one who has seen you in a fight that would doubt your abilities.” With the ease of two friends who had known each other for centuries, Styx glanced at the perfect line of Cezar’s tux jacket. They both knew that beneath the elegance a half a dozen daggers were concealed. “I have seen you slice your way through a pack of Ipar demons without losing a step. But there are those on the Commission who possess powers that none would dare to oppose.”

“Mine is not to question why, mine is but to do and die. . . .”

“You will not be dying.” Styx sliced through Cezar’s mocking words.

Cezar shrugged. “Not even the Anasso can make such a claim.”

“Actually, I just did.”

“You always were too noble for your own good, Styx.”

“True.”

Awareness feathered over Cezar’s skin. Anna was headed toward a side door of the reception room.

“Go home, amigo. Be with your beautiful werewolf.”

“A tempting offer, but I will not leave you here alone.”

“I appreciate your concern, Styx.” Cezar sent his master a warning glance. “But my duty now is to the Commission, and they have given me orders I cannot ignore.”

A cold anger burned in Styx’s dark eyes before he gave a grudging nod of his head.

“You will contact me if you have need?”

“Of course.”

 

 

Anna didn’t have to look at Conde Cezar to know that he was aware of her every movement. He might be speaking to the gorgeous man who looked remarkably like an Aztec chief, but her entire body shivered with the sense of his unwavering attention.

It was time to put her plan into motion.

Anna swallowed a hysterical laugh.

So, it wasn’t the best plan. It was more a click-your-heel-twice-and-pray-things-didn’t-go-to-hell sort of deal, but it was all that she had for the moment. And the alternative was allowing Conde Cezar to disappear for another two centuries, leaving her plagued with questions.

She couldn’t stand it.

Nearly reaching the alcove that led to a bank of elevators, Anna was halted by an arm suddenly encircling her waist and hauling her back against a steely male body.

“You haven’t changed a bit, querida. Still as beautiful as the night I first caught sight of you.” His fingers trailed a path of destruction along the bare line of her shoulder. “Although there is a great deal more on display.”

An explosion of sensations rocked through Anna’s body at his touch. Sensations that she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“You obviously haven’t changed either, Conde. You still don’t know how to keep your hands to yourself.”

“Life is barely worth living when I’m keeping my hands to myself.” The cool skin of his cheek brushed hers as he whispered in her ear. “Trust me, I know.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

The long, slender fingers briefly tightened on her waist before the man was slowly turning her to meet his dark, disturbing gaze.

“It’s been a long time, Anna Randal.”

“One hundred and ninety-five years.” Her hand absently lifted to rub the skin that still tingled from his touch. “Not that I’m counting.”

The full, sensuous lips twitched. “No, of course not.”

Her chin tilted. Jackass.

“Where have you been?”

“Did you miss me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Still a little liar,” he taunted. With a deliberate motion, his gaze skimmed over her stiff body, lingering on the silver gauze draped over the swell of her breasts. “Would it make it easier if I confess that I’ve missed you? Even after one hundred and ninety-five years, I remember the precise scent of your skin, the feel of your slender body, the taste of your—”

“Blood?” she hissed, refusing to acknowledge the heat that stirred low in her stomach.

No, no, no. Not this time.

“But of course.” There wasn’t a hint of remorse on his beautiful face. “I remember that most of all. So sweet, so deliciously innocent.”

“Keep your voice down,” she commanded.

“Don’t worry.” He stepped even closer. So close that the fabric of his slacks brushed her bare legs. “The mortals can’t hear me, and the fey know better than to interfere with a vampire on the hunt.”

Anna gasped, her eyes wide. “Vampire. I knew it. I . . .” She pressed her hands to her heaving stomach as she glanced around the crowded room. She couldn’t forget her plan. “I want to talk to you, but not here. I have a room in the hotel.”

“Why, Miss Randal, are you inviting me to your room?” The dark eyes held mocking amusement. “What sort of demon do you think I am?”

“I want to talk, nothing else.”

“Of course.” He smiled. The kind of smile that made a woman’s toes curl in her spike heels.

“I mean it. I—” She cut off her words and gave a shake of her head. “Never mind. Will you come with me?”

The dark eyes narrowed. Almost as if he sensed she was attempting to lead him from the crowd.

“I haven’t decided. You haven’t given me much incentive to leave a room filled with beautiful women who are interested in sharing a lot more than conversation.”

Her brows lifted. She wasn’t the easy mark he remembered. She was a woman—hear her roar.

Especially if he had even a random thought of ditching her for someone else.

“I doubt they’d be so interested if they knew you are hiding a monster beneath all that handsome elegance. Push me far enough, and I’ll tell them.”

His fingers lightly skimmed up the length of her arms. “Half the guests are monsters themselves, and the other half would never believe you.”

A shiver shook her entire body. How could a touch so cold send such heat through her blood?

“There are other vampires here?”

“One or two. The others are fey.”

She briefly recalled his mention of fey before. “Fey?”

“Fairies, imps, a few sprites.”

“This is insanity,” she breathed, shaking her head as she was forced to accept one more crazy thing in her crazy existence. “And it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?” He lifted a brow. “I didn’t create the fey, and I certainly didn’t invite them to this party. For all their beauty, they’re treacherous and cunning, with a nasty sense of humor. Of course, their blood does have a certain sparkle to it. Like champagne.”

She pointed a finger directly at his nose. “It’s your fault that you bit me.”

“I suppose I can’t deny that.”

“Which means you’re the one responsible for screwing up my life.”

“I did nothing more than take a few sips of blood and your—”

She slapped her hand across his mouth. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed, glaring at an approaching waiter. “Dammit, I’m not going to discuss this here.”

He gave a soft chuckle as his fingers stroked over her shoulders. “You’ll do anything to get me to your rooms, won’t you, querida?”

Her breath lodged in her throat as she took a hasty step back. Damn him and his heart-stopping touches.

“You really are a total ass.”

“It runs in the family.”

Family? Anna turned her head to regard the large, flat-out spectacular man who scowled at them from across the room.

“Is he a part of your family?”

An unreadable emotion rippled over the chiseled, faintly golden features. “You could say he’s something of a father figure.”

“He doesn’t look like a father.” Anna deliberately flashed a smile toward the stranger. “In fact, he’s gorgeous. Maybe you should introduce us.”

The dark eyes flashed, his fingers grasping her arm in a firm grip.

“Actually, we were just headed to your room, don’t you remember?” he growled close to her ear.

A faint smile touched Anna’s mouth. Ha. He didn’t like having her interested in another man. Served him right.

Her smile faded as the scent of apples filled the air.

“Anna . . . Oh, Anna,” a saccharin voice cooed.

“Crap,” she muttered, watching Sybil bear down upon them with the force of a locomotive.

Cezar wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “A friend of yours?”

“Hardly. Sybil Taylor has been a pain in the freaking neck for the past five years. I can’t turn around without stumbling over her.”

Cezar stiffened, studying her with a strange curiosity. “Really? What sort of business do you have with a fairy?”

“A . . . what? No.” Anna shook her head. “Sybil’s a lawyer. A bottom-feeder, I’ll grant you, but—” Her words were cut off as the Conde hauled her through the alcove and, with a wave of his hand, opened the elevator doors. Anna might have marveled at having an elevator when she needed one if she hadn’t been struggling to stay on her feet as she was pulled into the cubical (that was as large as her L.A. apartment) and the doors were smoothly sliding shut. “Freaking hell. There’s no need to drag me around like a sack of potatoes, Conde.”

“I think we’re past formality, querida. You can call me Cezar.”

“Cezar.” She frowned, pushing the button to her floor. “Don’t you have a first name?”

“No.”

“That’s weird.”

“Not for my people.” The elevator opened, and Cezar pulled her into the circular hallway that had doors to the private rooms on one side and an open view to the lobby twelve stories below on the other. “Your room?”

“This way.”

Anna moved down the hall and stopped in front of her door. She already had her cardkey in the slot when she stilled, abruptly struck by the memory of another night she had attempted to best Conde Cezar.

The night her entire life had changed....

 

 

 

Raoul Charlebois is nothing if not notorious.
He’s abandoned his wild life to search out answers
to his dark past, but that doesn’t stop his reputation
as a rake from following him wherever he goes.
In this case, it follows him to the door of a
gamekeeper’s cottage, where beautiful, optimistic,
innocent Sarah Jefferson resides. In all his exploits,
he’s never met a woman like her . . .
and that makes her all the more tempting . . .

 

At first, Sarah will have no part in whatever the
devastatingly handsome visitor wants at the estate . . .
until she realizes what he wants is her.
For as the snow falls down around them,
she finds that the intoxicating scent of evergreen
boughs can prove incredibly seductive.
And maybe there is some glimmer of good in
Raoul hiding deep within.
After all, Christmas has a way of
bringing lost souls together . . .

 

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Alexandra Ivy’s
SEDUCE ME BY CHRISTMAS,
coming in November 2014!

Chapter 1

It was a typical London day for late November.

In other another word . . .

Miserable.

The streets were shrouded in a damp, frigid fog, and had long since been abandoned by the glittering ton who preferred the comfort of their countryseats. Those unfortunate souls who were forced to remain behind huddled near their fireplaces or when pressed to venture outdoors, dashed from one place to another with their heads bent low and their faces covered with heavy mufflers.

Well, at least most did so.

Raoul Charlebois, on the other hand, did not huddle or dash. He did not even waddle, despite the icy slush.

Nature had bestowed upon him a languid, elegant grace that had made him famous upon the stages of London (almost as famous as his stunning cobalt-blue eyes and silver-blond curls that framed his finely crafted countenance perfectly), and with a measured gait he stepped down from his carriage to stroll up the short walk and enter the modest house on Lombard Street.

It was an elegance thoroughly appreciated by the handful of elderly widows that contributed the lion’s share of tenants in the quiet, growingly shabby neighborhood. Oh, they might later agree that they disdained the arrogant set of his wide shoulders beneath the multi-caped greatcoat, and the sardonic smile that curved his sensuous lips, but peering through the lacy curtains at his magnificent form, there was not a one who could halt their hearts from skipping a beat or a whimsical sigh from slipping between their lips.

He was . . . spectacular.

The sort of gentleman who seemed created for the sole purpose of fulfilling a woman’s fantasy.

No matter what her age.

Gloriously indifferent to the avid gazes that followed his every step, Raoul used the key the land agent had sent round earlier in the day to unlock the door. Then stepping into the small foyer, he paused to absorb the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and leather-bound books.

He smiled, slipping off his coat and hat. With only a little effort he could envision Dunnington waiting for him at the top of the steps, or Ian and Fredrick racing down the long hallway to the kitchen, whooping at the top of their lungs.

Raoul had been ten years old when his father had sent him to this small town house. At the time he only knew that Mr. Dunnington was starting a select school for boys of excellent, if not legitimate birth. Bastards. And that he was the first student to arrive.

Not surprisingly, he had been terrified when his father, the Earl of Merriot, had quite literally dumped him on the front stoop.

It wasn’t that he’d been happy at his father’s grand estate in Cheshire. Lord and Lady Merriot made little effort to disguise the fact he was the one blight on their otherwise perfect life. After all, what leaders of the fashionable world desired to have a bastard underfoot when they were entertaining their influential guests with one lavish party after another?

Still, he had not known what to expect from the thin, bespectacled tutor who had opened the door to this nondescript house and led him up the narrow steps to the schoolroom.

Thankfully, it had taken only a handful of days in Dunnington’s presence, not to mention the arrival of Ian and Fredrick (two of his fellow students), to realize that coming to London was nothing less than a miracle.

Suddenly his days were more than an attempt to melt into the shadows and disappear.

He had a kind, intelligent man in his life who offered him an unwavering affection and respect he had never before experienced. He had two friends who he bullied and loved and raised as if they were his own brothers. And he had the opportunity to create a career that had not only made him famous, but wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.

Actually, the only kind thing his father had ever done for him was dumping him on the doorstep of this house, he acknowledged wryly, moving down the shadowed hall to enter the library.

An hour later, he had the Holland covers tugged off the solid English furnishings and a cheerful fire blazing. Seated in Dunnington’s favorite leather chair, he propped his feet on the walnut desk and sipped deeply from the bottle of brandy he had the foresight to bring along.

He closed his eyes, the chill slowly easing from his body.

Yes. This was what he had needed.

Nothing could bring back Dunnington. Or heal the sense of loss that had plagued Raoul for the past year. But there was a measure of comfort in breathing life back into this house that had been shrouded in darkness for too long.

And perhaps, someday, he would . . .

His vague future plans for the house were forgotten as Raoul stiffened in surprise. Was that the front door?

He frowned as the click of the door was followed by the slow, steady tread of boots on the floorboards. Damn, it was.

Who the devil would bother him?

The weather was nasty enough to keep the old tabbies from barging in to sate their rampant curiosity. And he hadn’t shared his intended destination with anyone beyond his groom.

Besides, whoever was approaching was making an obvious effort at stealth. As if hoping to catch Raoul unaware.

On the point of rising to his feet, Raoul’s annoyance suddenly eased as the intruder stumbled, knocking a figurine off a hall table, and muttered a low curse.

He recognized this particularly clumsy gentleman.

“Mon Dieu, Fredrick, halt your tiptoeing around and come in before you break your fool neck,” he called, the French nurse who had cared for him as a tiny lad leaving her mark on his faint accent even after all these years.

Turning his head, he watched the slender man step into the library. Fredrick Colstone, heir apparent to Lord Graystone, tossed his greatcoat and hat onto a nearby chair before moving toward the desk.

“How did you know it was me?”

“You always did have the grace of a drunken sailor.”

Fredrick’s singularly sweet smile curved his lips, adding to the impression of angelic beauty. As a youngster, Fredrick had detested his fragile features and honey curls that had made him the target of ruthless bullying. Thankfully, maturity had added an edge of masculinity, although he would never acquire that annoying arrogance that came as easily as breathing to most aristocrats.

Raoul hid a smile as he noted the dust marring the rumpled cravat and ink staining the cuffs of the charcoal-gray coat. It wasn’t even teatime and already his friend was a mess.

“No doubt my lack of grace explains why I became an inventor rather than a burglar,” Fredrick readily agreed.

“That and the fact you cannot distinguish a Gainsborough from a nursery school scribble,” Raoul pointed out.

“True enough.”

Waiting for his companion to settle in a chair on the other side of the desk, Raoul held up the bottle still clutched in his hand.

“Brandy?”

Fredrick reached beneath his jacket to pull out a silver flask. “I have come prepared.”

“So you have.” Raoul arched a pale, golden brow. “Which begs the question of why you have come at all.”

“I was passing by and noticed Nico standing guard by the carriage out front.” Fredrick waved a hand toward the bay window that overlooked the street. “If you wish to travel incognito, then you should hire a groom that does not quite so closely resemble a cutthroat.”

“You were passing by?” Raoul demanded, ignoring the insult to his groom. Nico did look like a cutthroat. Possibly because that was precisely what he had been before Raoul took him on as a servant. “Since when does your route take you through Lombard Street?”

“I pass by quite often when I am in London,” Fredrick confessed with a grimace. “Ian would claim I am plagued by maudlin sentimentality, but . . .”

“There is no need to explain, mon ami,” Raoul interrupted, his heart twisting with that ruthless sense of emptiness. “Not to me.”

“This morning, however, I came with a purpose.”

“Ah, then it was not fickle fate that crossed our paths?”

“Did you know that the house was recently purchased?”

Raoul took a deep drink from the bottle. “I had heard such rumors.”

“And by any chance, do you know the new owner?”

“Intimately.”

“You?” Fredrick’s silver-gray eyes narrowed as Raoul dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Bloody hell.”

“Does the thought trouble you?”

“Quite the opposite. I am delighted to know the house will belong to someone who will appreciate what Dunnington accomplished here.” The unnerving gaze swept over Raoul’s carefully guarded expression. “But I am curious. You already possess an obscenely large town house. What the devil do you intend to do with the place?”

Raoul glanced toward the towering shelves that were stuffed to the ceiling with leather-bound books.

“I have yet to decide,” he hedged, not yet willing to commit himself.

“Then why purchase it at all?”

“As you said, maudlin sentimentality, no doubt,” Raoul mocked his desperate need to cling to Dunnington’s house. As if the memories that echoed here could somehow fill the hollow ache in the center of his chest. “Or perhaps I am merely becoming batty in my old age, as Nico has kindly suggested.”

Easily sensing Raoul’s reluctance to discuss the intimate reasoning behind the purchase, Fredrick took a drink from his flask and allowed his gaze to wander around the room.

“Do you recall the last time we gathered here?”

Raoul nodded, his mind conjuring the memory of Fredrick and Ian seated near the fire, while he paced the floor. They had just returned from Dunnington’s funeral, then endured the pain of listening to their beloved tutor’s last will and testament being read by the solicitor.

The shock that had gripped all three of them still lingered.

“How could I forget?” His short, humorless laugh echoed through the library. “It was a memorable day.”

“Indeed, it was.” Fredrick grimaced. “Not only were we mourning the loss of Dunnington, but we’d just learned that he had left us each a legacy of twenty thousand pounds.”

“Twenty thousand pounds that the wily old fox had managed to extort from each of our fathers to hide their deepest, darkest secret.”

There was a pause as they contemplated that long-ago afternoon, then Fredrick’s expression abruptly softened. A certain sign he was thinking of his beautiful wife, Portia.

“So much has changed since then,” Fredrick murmured, his voice distracted, as if he were imagining rumpled sheets and a warm woman.

“Certainly for you, mon ami,” Raoul murmured, pretending it was not envy clenching his stomach in a painful vise. “It is not every bastard who discovers he is heir to a noble title, and a damned fine estate. And, of course, you have been blessed with a wife who is not only très belle, but absurdly devoted to you.”

“And for Ian as well,” Fredrick added. “Whoever could have predicted the gentleman toasted as Casanova would so happily settle into married life and devote his days to his tedious investments?”

Raoul snorted. He had shared dinner with Ian and his wife, Mercy, only a week ago.

“There is nothing tedious in the manner that Ian invests.” He shook his head as he took another swig from the bottle. “I had nightmares after he confessed he had risked near fifty thousand pounds on a shipment of spices from the far East.”

Fredrick chuckled. “True enough, he is neck or nothing in everything he does. He is fortunate that Mercy possesses nerves that are not easily overset.”

“He has most certainly been dealt a winning hand when it comes to his wife.” His lips twisted. “Not to mention in his mother and uncle, who I gather are determined to make amends for the past.”

“They have certainly done their best.”

“Indeed. Although, I am not certain Ian would have wished for their amends to be quite so . . . lavish.”

The log snapped in the fireplace, the heat of the dancing flames battling back the gloomy chill of the day.

“Ah, you have heard that Lord Norrington is building Ian a grand new country manor house in Surrey?”

“As well as the sad tidings that it is also to be home to Mercy’s parents.” Raoul shuddered. He had met the Vicar and Mrs. Simpson only once, but that had been more than enough to assure him that he’d rather have his throat slit than live beneath the same roof as the quarrelsome couple. “Mon Dieu. No house, no matter how lavish, would be worth having to reside with those two hideous creatures.”

Fredrick shrugged. “Unfortunately, when it comes to families, we must accept the bad with the good.”

Raoul knew that his companion was no longer speaking of Ian.

“Such as a vindictive stepmother?” he asked, softly.

Fredrick grimaced. “And a ridiculous buffoon for a stepbrother.”

Raoul raised his bottle in a mocking toast. “To families.”

Fredrick readily raised his flask. “Families.”

They both drank, a comfortable silence filling the room. For a long moment, Raoul allowed his thoughts to drift back to the evenings spent listening to Dunnington read from one of the numerous books that lined the walls, or indulging the boys in a game of chess.

Simple, uncomplicated days.

Damn, but he missed them.

At last aware of Fredrick’s unwavering regard, Raoul turned his head to meet the steady gaze.

“Is there a reason that you are studying me as if you expect me to sprout a set of horns?”

Fredrick continued to stare, unapologetic. “I am wondering if the rumors are true.”

Raoul’s lips twisted. Over the years he had become accustomed to the gossip that swirled around him. Hell, he had encouraged most of it. A part of his success on the stage was a reflection of his carefully crafted image offstage.

He was seen only with the most beautiful women. The parties he attended were the most exclusive in London. And he never, ever allowed anyone to see the man beneath the façade that was Raoul Charlebois.

He was an enigma, a mystery.

And that was what kept the jaded members of the ton titillated.

“I find rumors in general to be untrustworthy, but that does not seem to keep them from spreading like a virulent plague.”

“So, the magnificent Raoul Charlebois does not intend to retire from the stage?” Fredric demanded.

“That is hardly a rumor, Fredrick,” he drawled. “I made the announcement myself.”

“Why?”

Raoul smiled with a rueful flare of humor.

It was a question he had no answer for.

At least none that made any sense.

“The most important talent any actor can possess is an immaculate sense of timing,” he said smoothly. “That includes knowing when to take my final bow. I have no intention of having all of London watch me become a decrepit wreck of a man, deluding myself that I am still in my prime.”

Fredrick frowned. He knew Raoul too well to be easily fooled.

“For God’s sake, Raoul, you are far from becoming a decrepit wreck. I would say you are at the very pinnacle of your career.”

Raoul shrugged. “What better moment to walk away?”

Far from satisfied, Fredrick studied Raoul for a long, discomforting moment, then with a shake of his head, he accepted Raoul had said all he intended.

Instead, he smiled wryly.

“It is certainly causing a sensation throughout London.”

“It must be if word has managed to penetrate to the dark, musty bowels of your workrooms, mon ami.”

“My workrooms are not musty,” Fredrick protested. “I am not quite the hermit you think.”

“No? Then tell me, was it Portia who informed you of my recent retirement?”

“I . . .” Fredrick laughed, realizing he would never be able to lie beneath Raoul’s penetrating gaze. “Damn you, yes.”

Raoul chuckled. “You will never change, Freddie, and in truth, I am glad of it. The world would be a sadder place without your odd combination of plodding logic and fanciful dreams.”

“Maudlin, indeed.” Fredrick tilted his head to the side. “Tell me, what devil is plaguing you, old friend?”

“The devil that plagues many gentlemen who have reached my advanced years.” Raoul grimaced. “Quite simply, I am bored.”

“And you believe retiring from the stage will relieve your boredom?” Fredrick demanded. “What the devil will you do with yourself?”

“I have taken an urge to travel.”

“The continent?”

“Cheshire.”

“Ah.” Fredrick’s puzzled expression cleared as if by magic. “So the thorn has at last festered, has it?”

“A charming analogy,” he muttered, recalling Fredrick saying those precise words near a year ago, when they had first discovered the truth behind Dunnington’s legacy.

The silver gaze never wavered. “You seek to uncover your father’s dark secret?”

Raoul kicked his feet off the desk and rose from the chair, suddenly struck by a flare of restless discontent. Not an uncommon sensation. At least not when the mention of his father, Lord Merriot, entered the conversation.

Reaching the bay window, he peered down at the icy street below. “Yes, mon ami, I find that I must discover what my father was willing to pay twenty thousand pounds to keep hidden.”

“Be careful that is all you discover.”

Raoul snorted.

Both Fredrick and Ian had gone on their quest to uncover their fathers’ secrets, only to return with brides.

“There is no fear of that.” Raoul’s gaze shifted to his slender servant who leaned against the gleaming black carriage. Despite the nasty weather, Nico refused to wear one of the dozen fancy uniforms that Raoul had purchased for him. Instead he preferred a plain woolen coat and loose breeches that made him look more a dockworker than valet for London’s most famous actor. Not that many people noticed his clothing. Not with those lean, swarthy features that were finely honed and edged with a promise of violence. Women trembled at the dark, Latin beauty and smoldering dark eyes that perfectly matched the long, raven hair he kept pulled into a queue. Gentlemen instinctively gave him a wide berth. At least they did if they desired to see another day. “While I have the greatest appreciation for the fairer sex, I have yet to encounter one that can claim more than a passing interest. I am resigned to my future as a bachelor.”

Rising to his feet, Fredrick moved to reclaim his hat and coat from the chair.

“Never dare fate, Raoul. It has a nasty tendency to make a fool of a man.”

“Not of me.”

“We shall see.” Fredrick offered a mocking bow. “Happy hunting, mon ami.”

 

 

 

It had been twelve years since his last visit, but Cheshire was precisely as Raoul remembered it.

Rolling timberlands that were dotted with occasional fields and meadows, along with the dangerous kettle holes locally known as meres. The tiny villages were mostly notable for their black-and-white timbered buildings, and the native red stone used in the local cathedrals.

A sleepy, peaceful corner of England that was content to allow the world to pass them by.

Greeted by a light, icy rain that was not at all uncommon for early December, Raoul discovered he was not entirely disappointed by the familiarity of his surroundings.

Odd. His memories of the particular neighborhood were hardly worth cherishing. Hell, most of them still gave him nightmares.

He could only suppose there must be some need within every man to know there is a place in the world that never changed.

Of course, it helped that he had chosen to settle in the small but elegant hunting lodge loaned to him by Sir Harold Baxter, rather than his father’s lavish estate simply known as the Great House.

He would never be able to claim Fredrick’s raw intelligence or Ian’s sheer cunning, but he did understand human nature.

In all its noble glory, and with all its fatal flaws.

And more importantly, he understood his father.

Lord Merriot was a handsome, fiercely proud gentleman who was accustomed to others bending to his will. Predictable, if annoying. The Merriots were by far the most important family in the entire county. Who would dare stand against them?

He would be infuriated that his bastard son would arrive in Cheshire without a formal invitation. And even more infuriated that Raoul had not yet presented himself at the Great House like a proper sycophant, to beg for his father’s approval.

Soon enough, his conceit would overcome his dignity, and he would seek out Raoul.

In that moment, Raoul would gain the upper hand.

Until then, unfortunately, he had little to occupy his time.

Unlike most sons of a wealthy nobleman, Raoul had never developed a passion for hunting, and his one attempt to join in the local society by attending a ball at the assembly rooms had caused a near riot among the local ladies, one of whom had actually swooned at being in the presence of the notorious Raoul Charlebois. Even a brief luncheon at the village pub had created an embarrassing fuss.

Conceding defeat, he awoke his fifth morning in Cheshire and gathered his restive horse from the stables. Then, ignoring the gray clouds that threatened snow, he deliberately took a path leading away from the village. Soon enough, the natives would be accustomed to his presence. Until then it seemed best to avoid stirring the mobs.

For well over an hour he meandered through the countryside, enjoying his ride despite the decidedly brisk breeze.

He had forgotten how soothing the silence could be.

Savoring his rare sense of peace, Raoul was completely unprepared for the small form that appeared from seemingly nowhere to dart across the path.

Before he could react, his horse reared and instinctively struck out. Hercules had once performed at Astley’s Royal Amphitheater and was exquisitely well-mannered, but his nerves were no match for the unexpected disturbance.

Much like his owner, Raoul decided as he vaulted from the saddle to study the fair-haired urchin laying with a terrifying stillness on the frozen ground.

“Damn.”

Bending beside the boy, he studied the large bump already forming on his forehead. What he knew of children could fit into a thimble, but he put the youngster at eight or nine years of age, and seemingly well-fed beneath his heavy wool clothing. Fortunate, since he would heal far quicker if he were not malnourished.

There was a rustle from the side of the path, but on this occasion, Raoul was prepared for the impetuous lad who burst through the hedgerow and dashed to stand beside the unconscious body.

“Jimmy. Sweet Mother of God.” Clutching a well-used cricket bat, the boy stabbed Raoul with a worried gray gaze. “Is he dead?”

This one was older, maybe twelve, but with enough resemblance to the lad on the ground to suggest they were brothers.

“No. Knocked senseless.” Raoul kept his tone nonchalant, sensing the boy was hovering on the edge of panic. “Which is more than the impetuous cub deserves darting into the road without regard to unwary travelers.”

As hoped, the boy’s threatening tears were forgotten, and a flare of anger stiffened his spine.

“It was an accident, sir. Jimmy was chasing after our cricket ball. If you’re worried for your horse . . .”

“I suggest you swallow the remainder of that insult, Mr. . . . ?”

A flush touched the thin face framed by a thick mane of brown curls.

“Willie.”

“Master Willie,” Raoul continued, easily scooping the unconscious boy off the ground and cradling him to his chest as he straightened. “And instead make yourself useful by directing me to young Jimmy’s home.”

“Aye, sir.” With a surprising air of maturity, Willie squared his shoulders and nodded his head toward the massive black horse. “Shall I lead your mount?”

“No need.” Raoul gave a low whistle. “Hercules.”

The gray eyes widened as the horse readily moved to stand at Raoul’s side.

“Hellfire.”

“Does your mother allow such language?”

“Ain’t got a mother.” Willie turned to lead Raoul through the gape in the hedgerow. “She did a flit three years ago. Miss Sarah takes care of me and Jimmy.”

It was not an uncommon story. Too many young women were left alone to raise children they either did not want or could not afford. Most were simply incapable of providing a proper home.

“And who is Miss Sarah?”

“The finest lady in all the land.”

Raoul hid his smile at Willie’s fierce loyalty. The scamp was barely old enough to be out of shortcoats, but it was obvious he considered it his duty to protect his brother, and the mysterious Miss Sarah.

Such loyalty was something Raoul not only understood, but appreciated. It was precisely what he had felt toward Dunnington and his two friends, Ian and Fredrick.

“She is no doubt a fine lady, but not terribly wise to think she can give two rapscallions a cricket ball and bat without dire consequences.”

Willie nervously cleared his throat. “Well . . . as to that . . .”

“Ah. Did you steal them?”

“Nay.” Hurt pride flared through the gray eyes, sharply reminding Raoul of Fredrick when he was just a lad. “We might be poor, but me and Jimmy are no thieves.”

Raoul grimaced with regret. “Forgive me. That was shockingly rude.”

Willie led the way through an overgrown field, his back stiff and his chin high. Raoul was wise enough not to press, instead following in silence.

At last, Willie halted to pull open a gate set in a low stone wall.

“Just through here, sir.”

Stepping through the gate, Raoul came to a sharp halt.

He recognized the timber-framed cottage that was charmingly set beside the tiny stream. When the hell had he crossed into Merriot land?

“Mon Dieu.”

Willie stopped to regard him with a puzzled frown. “Something the matter?”

“This is the old gamekeeper’s cottage,” he breathed.

“Aye. Miss Sarah’s father was the gamekeeper for Lord Merriot afore he died some seven years ago.”

Vaguely, Raoul recalled spotting Jefferson’s raven-haired daughter occasionally about the estate during his rare visits. She had been at least five years younger than himself, and while a pretty little thing, of no real interest to an unhappy bastard who was already dreaming of a life far from Cheshire.

“Miss Sarah, she is not wed?”

“Nay, nor does she ever intend to wed. She says she is happy to be an old maid.”

Old maid? Egads.

Without undue vanity, Raoul comprehended the power of his appearance on women. How could he not? They had been fawning, fluttering, and occasionally fainting since he had left the nursery.

And old maids were always the worst.

“Perhaps you should run ahead and prepare her for my entrance,” he commanded, poised for flight. It was bad enough to be on his father’s land, without having the added annoyance of fighting off a desperate female. He would hand over Jimmy and bolt. “I would not want to send Miss Sarah into a swoon at the sight of her wounded lamb.”

“You don’t know Miss Sarah if you think anything would send her into a swoon. She didn’t so much as bat an eye when I fell from the tree and broke my arm.” Willie glanced toward his brother’s limp body, gnawing his bottom lip. “Still, I wouldn’t wish her to be thinking poor Jimmy is dead.”

Raoul’s impatience melted. Poor lad.

“Go on,” he urged, gently. “The little one is safe in my care.”

The gray gaze studied him for a long moment, then seeming to find something trustworthy in Raoul’s lean features, he abruptly turned and sprinted across the frozen ground, and disappeared into the cottage.

Alone in the cramped front garden, Raoul distracted himself from the impending confrontation by ensuring that Hercules was happily destroying a small bush next to the gate, and then by studying the warm bundle cradled in his arms.

Ugly little bugger, Raoul decided, with his face all thin angles and sharp points. So ugly that Raoul could not possibly feel a tug at his heart at the boy’s small frown of pain. And certainly his arms did not tighten as Jimmy shivered in the sharp breeze.

There was a welcome distraction as a woman stepped from the cottage, and lifting his head, Raoul watched as she briskly crossed the short distance.

No, not a distraction.

A . . . bolt of lightning.

Or at least that was what it felt like to Raoul as he haplessly gaped at the exotic vision swaying across the frozen ground. She was dark, he inanely noted. Thick raven hair tugged into a haphazard knot at her nape, and black eyes that were faintly tilted and surrounded by a thick lace of black lashes. Even her skin held a hint of gold, rather than ivory, reminding Raoul that her mother had been a foreigner, reputedly of gypsy blood.

An old maid?

Sacrebleu. With her lush curves perfectly revealed beneath the plain blue gown, and those lips that were full and tinted with rose, she could make a fortune on the London stages.

Or gracing his bed . . .

Abruptly Raoul realized that far from fending off a hysterical female, he was the one staring like an idiot. As if he had been kicked in the head, instead of poor Jimmy.

Rueful amusement helped to ease the sense of unreality that gripped him, and with a measure of composure, a very small measure, he managed to meet the dark, steady gaze.

“Miss Jefferson, I believe I have something that belongs to you,” he murmured.

“So I see, Mr. Charlebois,” she retorted, proving she was well aware of his identity. Just . . . indifferent. Astonishing. “If you would be so kind as to bring Jimmy into the parlor?”

His amusement deepened as she turned, and with the same brisk movements led the way back to the cottage, clearly expecting to be obeyed.

As if it were England’s most notorious actor’s duty to tend to her precocious scamp.

“Of course.”

A few flakes of snow drifted from the gray clouds, twirling in the icy breeze. Nearby a dog barked in warning. From the cottage wafted the scent of wood smoke, and more distant the potent scent of freshly cut evergreens.

The sights and smells of Cheshire in December.

Ducking his head, Raoul entered the cottage and followed Miss Jefferson through the cramped foyer into the parlor. He had a brief impression of wooden floors and an open-beamed ceiling with plastered walls. The furnishings were plain and ruthlessly polished, and despite the woman’s obvious housekeeping skills, there was no way to disguise they were growing shabby. Oddly, Raoul had the vague feeling he had seen them before as he settled his small burden on a brocade sofa.

It was a feeling he readily dismissed as his beautiful companion moved to stir the coals in the vast stone fireplace.

His breath became elusive as he watched her graceful movements, feeling as focused as a hound on point as she slowly straightened and brushed past him to settle on the edge of the cushion next to her young ward.

As if sensing her presence, Jimmy managed to lift his lashes just a crack, revealing a hint of pale blue eyes.

“Miss Sarah . . .”

“Sssh, poppet, all is well,” she murmured, motioning toward Willie, who had just entered the room carrying a basin filled with lavender-scented water. He set it on the floor and stepped back as the woman reached into the water to withdraw the cold compress, pressing it with tender care to the lump on Jimmy’s forehead. Only when the boy sighed and drifted back to sleep did she lift her head to regard Raoul with a calm expression. Clearly, Willie had not exaggerated. Miss Jefferson was quite prepared for any disaster. “What happened?”

Raoul hid a smile as he felt Willie stiffen at his side. “The fault is mine, I fear,” he said smoothly.

She arched a perfect raven brow. “Yours?”

He smiled, readily disregarding the truth. “My mount is a high-spirited beast that took exception to the poor lad as he stood beside the path.”

The dark gaze shifted toward the window where she had an unimpeded view of Hercules, patiently awaiting his master.

“Oh yes, quite spirited, I see.”

“Beyond question.”

“And no doubt there was an unexpected noise that spooked the poor creature?”

“A covey of quail in the hedgerow, I believe.”

“Ah.” Her gaze slid to the suspiciously innocent expression on Willie’s countenance before returning her attention to the equally innocent Raoul. “I do hope there was no harm done?”

“Only to poor Jimmy. Do you wish me to fetch the local surgeon?”

“Thank you, no.” She turned her head to smile tenderly at the unconscious urchin. Raoul’s heart gave a peculiar flop. “I believe all I shall need is a length of rope and apple tarts.”

“Rope?” Raoul shamelessly vied to regain the minx’s attention. “I do trust that the rope is not destined for my neck?”

As hoped, the dark gaze lifted. “Actually, I intend to tie this impossible scamp to his bed so he cannot sneak out and do even more damage to his battered brain.”

“And the tarts?”

“They tend to make any wound a bit more bearable for the boys.”

“Actually I believe it is you, Miss Jefferson, that makes wounds, not to mention life in general, more bearable for the boys.”