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London, 1816. A handsome baron. A faux betrothal. And Horatia's plan to
join the London literary set takes a dangerous turn. Now that the war
with France has ended, Baron Guy Fortescue arrives in England to claim
his inheritance, abandoned over thirty years ago when his father fled to
France after killing a man in a duel. When Guy is set upon by footpads
in London, a stranger, Lord Strathairn, rescues and befriends him. But
while travelling to his country estate, Guy is again attacked. He
escapes only to knock himself out on a tree branch. Aspiring poet
Horatia Cavendish has taken to riding her father's stallion, "The
General", around the countryside of Digswell dressed as a groom. She has
become bored of her country life and longs to escape to London to
pursue her desire to become part of the London literary set. When she
discovers Guy lying unconscious on the road, the two are forced to take
shelter for the night in a hunting lodge. After Guy discovers her ruse, a
friendship develops between them. Guy suspects his relative, Eustace
Fennimore is behind the attacks on his life. He has been ensconced in
Rosecroft Hall during the family's exile and will become the heir should
Guy die. Horatia refuses to believe her godfather, Eustace, is
responsible. But when Guy proposes a faux betrothal to give him more
time to discover the truth, she agrees. Secure in the knowledge that his
daughter will finally wed, Horatia's father allows her to visit her
blue-stocking aunt in London. But Horatia's time spent in London proves
to be anything but a literary feast, for a dangerous foe plots Guy's
demise. She is determined to keep alive her handsome fiance, who has
proven more than willing to play the part of her lover even as he
resists her attempts to save him.
Excerpt:
“This is a dance with which I’m familiar,” he said, drawing her close in his arms. “We danced it in Paris long before it came to England.”
She supposed he considered England far behind Paris in most things fashionable. Finding herself pressed up against his hard chest produced the memory of how it looked unclothed. Her breath caught, and she wriggled within his arm. “We do not dance this close in England, my lord.”
He let her go in surprise then took up the pose again, leaving space between them. “Merci. I did not know. You have saved me from making a faux pas.”
She suspected he knew quite well, for the devilry in his eyes betrayed him. “You might learn by observing others, my lord,” she admonished him.
At least now she could breathe. But this was unlike the night they had spent together, when her disguise had protected her. Did he find her attractive?
She had no idea if his charm was merely part of his personality. It shouldn’t matter, for he would choose a bride from the aristocracy, but somehow it did.
His hand at her waist, guiding her, made her recall their time in the hut and his indecent revelations of lovemaking. Her breath quickened at the thought of such an act perpetrated by him on some woman, and even possibly her. His proximity and the strength and pure maleness of him overwhelmed her.
Breathing in the familiar woody Bergamot scent, intermingled with starched linen and soap, she closed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. After examining his masterfully tied cravat adorned with a sapphire pin the color of his eyes, she raised her eyes to his. “I have not seen a cravat tied in that way before. What is it called?”
He smiled down at her. “I believe it is called Trone d’Armour.” The style hailed from France most likely. He was different from the English in other ways too. The French had a disconcerting way of looking at someone. Was he the real Baron Fortescue or an impostor?
She supposed he considered England far behind Paris in most things fashionable. Finding herself pressed up against his hard chest produced the memory of how it looked unclothed. Her breath caught, and she wriggled within his arm. “We do not dance this close in England, my lord.”
He let her go in surprise then took up the pose again, leaving space between them. “Merci. I did not know. You have saved me from making a faux pas.”
She suspected he knew quite well, for the devilry in his eyes betrayed him. “You might learn by observing others, my lord,” she admonished him.
At least now she could breathe. But this was unlike the night they had spent together, when her disguise had protected her. Did he find her attractive?
She had no idea if his charm was merely part of his personality. It shouldn’t matter, for he would choose a bride from the aristocracy, but somehow it did.
His hand at her waist, guiding her, made her recall their time in the hut and his indecent revelations of lovemaking. Her breath quickened at the thought of such an act perpetrated by him on some woman, and even possibly her. His proximity and the strength and pure maleness of him overwhelmed her.
Breathing in the familiar woody Bergamot scent, intermingled with starched linen and soap, she closed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. After examining his masterfully tied cravat adorned with a sapphire pin the color of his eyes, she raised her eyes to his. “I have not seen a cravat tied in that way before. What is it called?”
He smiled down at her. “I believe it is called Trone d’Armour.” The style hailed from France most likely. He was different from the English in other ways too. The French had a disconcerting way of looking at someone. Was he the real Baron Fortescue or an impostor?
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