Lady Cecily and the Mysterious Mr. Gray

by Janice Preston

  ‘I understand some people find the danger exciting.’

  Anna knew he was teasing her now, but instead of rising to the bait she changed the subject.

  ‘When will it be safe to exit, Mr Edgerton?’

  ‘Lord Edgerton,’ he corrected absently. ‘And now you have me at a disadvantage.’

  ‘Lady Fortescue,’ Anna supplied reluctantly.

  He fixed her with a curious gaze that told her he’d heard the rumours. All the rumours.

  ‘The notorious Lady Fortescue,’ he murmured.

  ‘You’re not meant to say that,’ Anna said, adding under her breath, ‘At least not to my face.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Fortescue,’ Edgerton said, standing and taking her hand, bringing it to his lips after a few seconds.

  This close Anna could appreciate his physical size. He was at least a foot taller than her and sported broad shoulders that filled his jacket perfectly. For the first time since he’d entered, Anna realised the folly of being alone with this man. It wasn’t just the scandal that could occur if they were discovered, but the risk he might take advantage. Slowly she stepped back. He didn’t look as though he were about to pounce on her, but history had shown her to be a poor judge of character. Kind eyes and a relaxed manner didn’t mean a man was trustworthy.

  * * *

  Harry saw the flash of fear in Lady Fortescue’s eyes before the stony façade once again concealed her emotions. Quickly he stepped back, realising it was him she was afraid of. That had never been his intention, to scare the poor woman—he’d been called many things in his life, but frightening was not one of them.

  ‘Let me check the hallway,’ he said, summoning his friendliest smile.

  Crossing to the doorway, he opened the door a crack and peered out. The group of meddling matrons still stood fanning themselves and chattering ten feet away. There was no way past them, at least not without being seen.

  ‘Still there. I’m sure they will return to the ballroom shortly.’

  Harry returned to his chair and sat, watching Lady Fortescue out of the corner of his eye. When she’d introduced herself he’d been unable to stop from staring. Normally so in control of his reactions, he’d been thrown by her identity. She was notorious, perhaps the most notorious widow in society at the present time. Married three times before the age of twenty-five, her latest husband, Lord Fortescue, in the ground for twelve months now. He’d expected her to look different somehow, perhaps more exotic. Instead a perfectly pleasant-looking young woman stood before him. She was pretty, but not any more so than most of the young debutantes. He couldn’t deny she had poise and grace, but there was a coolness about her that hinted at a reserved character and a tendency to shun company. Her most intriguing feature were her eyes. Cool and grey, they seemed impenetrable. Normally a young woman’s eyes gave away her emotions, but not Lady Fortescue’s. If eyes were the window to the soul, then Lady Fortescue’s were shuttered and barred against intruders.

  They remained silent for some minutes, Harry reclining in the armchair, Lady Fortescue standing in the middle of the room, her hands folded together in front of her abdomen, the perfect picture of demure womanhood.

  ‘So tell me,’ Harry said when he could bear the silence no longer, ‘are the rumours true?’

  His companion sighed, a deep and heartfelt sound that hinted that she’d rather be anywhere but here.

  ‘I find rumours rarely are,’ she said evasively.

  ‘Very true,’ Harry murmured. He knew better than most the damage malicious gossip could cause. ‘How do you bear it? People talking about you, speculating?’

  Lady Fortescue shrugged, an instinctive movement that she seemed to try to suppress at the last moment. ‘People will always talk. It doesn’t matter what they say if you don’t listen.’

  Although she was younger than he, and undoubtedly hadn’t been exposed to as much of the world as he, she had a quiet wisdom about her that suggested she’d had more important things to cope with than a little gossip in her time.

  ‘Most women would not feel comfortable leaving the ballroom on their own, let alone wandering about a strange house,’ Harry said, changing the focus of the conversation. He was curious as to why she had put herself in this position in the first place. Although the ton were meant to be respectable, the cream of society, some of the men still got uncontrollably drunk at functions such as this and thought it their right to take advantage of any unchaperoned woman. From a young age the future debutantes were cautioned about wandering away from crowds if they wanted to keep their virtue intact. A necessary requirement Harry was painfully aware of.

  Again that almost imperceptible shrug. Lady Fortescue might be intriguing, but she certainly wasn’t the easiest woman to make conversation with.

  ‘Sometimes a little peace is worth a considered risk.’ Moving gracefully, as if she were gliding across the floor instead of walking, Lady Fortescue crossed to the window. ‘This leads out on to the terrace,’ she said, turning her neck to look in one direction and then the other. ‘It would be an easy way back to the ballroom.’

  ‘Surely my company isn’t so intolerable you have to contemplate climbing out a window?’

  A grimace and then a reluctant smile flitted across Lady Fortescue’s face. Although the smile was barely more than an upturning of the corner of her lips, it transformed her face and Harry caught a glimpse of what her three husbands must have been so enamoured with.

  ‘I am supposed to be chaperoning my young cousin,’ she said by way of explanation, still eyeing up the window as if it were a valid option.

  ‘You’re far too young to be relegated to the role of chaperon,’ Harry said, without thinking the words through. It was a compliment, in a roundabout way, and he had the feeling Lady Fortescue was not comfortable with receiving compliments.

  ‘Three times a widow,’ Lady Fortescue said, adding so quietly Harry was sure he wasn’t meant to hear, ‘and happy to never have to dance a waltz again.’

  She’d just stepped away from the window when the faint hum of voices out in the hallway became a little louder. Both Harry and his companion stiffened, and Harry realised he was holding his breath waiting to see if the doorknob started to turn.

  ‘We can’t be found together,’ Harry whispered, standing quickly and crossing to the window. Normally he wouldn’t worry for his own reputation in this sort of situation. As a titled and wealthy gentleman he could generally withstand being found in a compromising position with a young lady, even one as notorious as Lady Fortescue. However, following his sister’s unfortunate liaison with the dishonourable Captain Mountfield last year and the ensuing scandal, the Edgerton family was not in a position to be embarrassed again. Added to that the look of pure fear in Lady Fortescue’s eyes at the thought of giving the gossips of London society something to really get their teeth into, the window escape was looking more appealing every second that passed.

  Quickly he unbolted the window, slid it up and motioned for Lady Fortescue to join him. She was at his side in an instant, nodding as he motioned for her to go first. With more grace than should have been possible in this situation Lady Fortescue gathered up her skirts, giving Harry a fleeting glimpse of a slender, stockinged leg, and allowed him to steady her as she stepped up to the windowsill.

  Behind them the voices were getting louder still and now Harry had no doubt they were heading for the study. If he could just get Lady Fortescue out of the window he would be able to distract whoever came into the room until she had managed to move out of sight.

  She stepped up as the doorknob began to turn. One foot was through the window, balancing on the sill outside as the door began to open. Then Lady Fortescue gave a quiet cry of pain, lost her footing and came careening back into the room. Harry instinctively caught her, spinning round with the impact of her body into his and ending up with her chest pressed against his, one arm looped around her waist and the other resting between her shoulder blades.
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br />   At that very instant the door opened fully.

  ‘Merciful Lord,’ Mrs Winter, one of the worst gossips in the whole of London, exclaimed loudly.

  Quietly Lady Fortescue groaned.

  All in all there were four women standing on the other side of the study door. Each and every one looked thrilled to be at the centre of such a scandal.

  Slowly, aware his every movement was being observed and mentally recorded for later dissection and discussion, Harry ensured Lady Fortescue had her balance before removing his arms and stepping away.

  ‘Ladies,’ he said with a polite bow.

  ‘Lord Edgerton,’ Mrs Winter gushed breathlessly, ‘and Lady Fortescue.’

  Muscling a path through her companions, a well-built lady in her late forties stepped into the room. Harry closed his eyes momentarily, wondering how he’d sinned to be punished this badly.

  ‘Lord Edgerton, this really won’t do,’ Lady Prenderson, their hostess for this evening, said, her eyes burning with righteous indignation. ‘This behaviour is unacceptable—having relations with this woman in my husband’s study.’

  Harry wasn’t sure what she objected to the most: the supposed relations between him and Lady Fortescue or the fact that it had occurred in her husband’s study.

  ‘I expect this behaviour from certain people,’ Lady Prenderson said, giving Lady Fortescue a disdainful look, ‘but after the scandal your sister has caused your family I would have thought you would know better.’

  Harry had been all ready to apologise, but the mention of his sister made a red curtain descend over his normally cool head. Lady Fortescue must have sensed this change in him and calmly stepped forward.

  ‘Please excuse me, ladies, I have a duty to my cousin.’ Her voice was cool and her demeanour poised and collected. Harry supposed she had endured all manner of gossip over the last few years—she must have had practice at dealing with staying calm when faced with further notoriety. He knew she was just as bothered as he by the position they’d been discovered in—her eagerness to climb out the window to avoid exactly this situation was testament to that fact—but the face she showed the world was one of complete indifference.

  None of the ladies in the doorway moved, blocking the escape route to the more populated ballroom. With a tremendous effort Harry managed to regain control of his emotions and stepped forward, taking Lady Fortescue’s arm. There was only one thing to be done. He took a deep breath, quelled the doubts clamouring for attention in his mind and spoke.

  ‘Ladies, may I present my fiancée,’ Harry said with a confident and winning smile. ‘Lady Fortescue has just agreed to marry me.’

  Shock blossomed on the four faces gawping at them from the study door. Lady Fortescue barely reacted, the only sign she’d heard what he’d just said the subtle stiffening of the muscles Harry could feel where their arms interlinked. She was certainly difficult to shock.

  ‘Surely not, Lord Edgerton,’ Mrs Winter said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. Harry remembered she had two unmarried daughters and had to suppress a smile. The work of the meddling matron was never done.

  ‘Now if you would excuse us, I wish to get my new fiancée a glass of champagne to celebrate.’

  The crowd of gossips parted silently and Harry led Lady Fortescue through them and down the hallway. Only once they were back in the ballroom did they pause, with Lady Fortescue turning to him with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Fiancée?’ she asked.

  ‘It will save us both from the scandal.’ It wasn’t exactly true, but it would at least delay the moment of scandal until a point when they were both prepared for it.

  ‘You’ve just engaged yourself to the most notorious woman in this ballroom. I hardly think you’ve saved yourself from scandal.’

  Harry felt the heat begin to rise in his body. Surely she didn’t think this a real engagement. He’d meant for it to be a simple ruse, an engagement that would last a few weeks, perhaps a month until something else noteworthy occurred in society, and then they would quietly go their separate ways. The ton would still gossip, but it would not be the most scandalous thing to happen all year.

  ‘Being found together in the Prendersons’ study will be all over London by breakfast tomorrow morning. This way we are an unlikely engaged couple, not a disgraced earl and a widow.’

  ‘I thank you for your consideration,’ Lady Fortescue said, her grey eyes latching on to Harry’s and making him shiver with the intensity, ‘but I think it better we dispense with this pretence and ride out the scandal.’ Leaning in, she whispered in his ear, ‘Trust me, a little gossip isn’t the worst thing in the world.’

  Copyright © 2018 by Laura Martin

  Loyalty to the Brotherhood comes before all. Including women.

  Formidable Viking leader Rurik knows the law. His loyalty to the Forgotten Sons is his bond, and he’ll allow no woman—not even the sultry Parisian thrall he finds in his bed—to threaten what he’s built from the ground up...

  Keep reading for an excerpt from KEPT BY THE VIKING by Gina Conkle.

  Kept by the Viking

  by Gina Conkle

  AD 930

  A Saxon outpost on the northern border of Nor’man land

  Smiling grimly at the darkness, Rurik tucked a bone-handled blade in his boot. Norns had spun his life with stingy threads, but his days of hardship were over. Rouen’s overlord, Will Longsword, promised to make him a landsman, a plum prize for a low-born Viking.

  If he got to Rouen by the midsummer feast.

  Door hinges whined in the quiet, and a shrouded figure crept through the outbuilding. Skin prickling with alertness, Rurik’s hand hovered over the knife. Firelight limned the form slipping past loose-weave curtains into his bed box. A bent knee sank into fur. The bed creaked, and a black cloak parted, revealing enticing curves pressed against a thrall’s grey wool tunic.

  A woman to ease his loins. She should’ve come last night.

  “Didn’t expect a companion this morning.” He caressed her smooth-skinned arm. “I don’t have time—”

  She slapped his hand. “Keep your hands to yourself, Viking. I am not here to be your, your...how do you say comfort woman?”

  A lilting accent melted over sharp Norse. It teased his ear, intriguing him the same as her knocking away his hand. Slaves, thralls, the lowest of laborers knew better than to strike a warrior.

  He sat back, amused. “Frilla. That is a Viking comfort woman.”

  Her chin tipped proudly. “I am not a frilla. I bring you urgent news.”

  The folds of her cloak rippled. Did she hide a weapon?

  Familiar, battle-ready tension heated his veins. His eyes narrowed on shadows hiding her face. “Who are you?”

  She scooted closer. “That doesn’t matter. I—”

  He yanked the knife from his boot and sprang at her. It was quick work, wrestling the woman into the pelts. Whatever she’d meant to say was lost in shocked yelps. Her hood fell back. The bed box squeaked in the scuffle, and heavy furs jumbled around his morning visitor. Jamming his forearm high on her chest, he squinted at the woman, but he couldn’t make out her features in scant light.

  “I’ll ask again. Who are you?”

  Shorn fingernails scratched his arm brace. “Stop!”

  The thrall scrabbled beneath him like a doused cat. He jerked his hips back, narrowly missing a knee to his ballocks. Blood thrumming, he swung his leg over thrashing limbs and pinned her with his thigh.

  “I am Sothram’s slave. He is your enemy,” she gasped. “Not me.”

  He held the blade high. “Did he send you to attack me?”

  “No! I detest the man. Put the knife away...if you want to know how the Saxon cheats you.”

  “The blade stays,” he said, nose to nose with her. “And you will tell me Sothram’s plans.”

  Eyes glimmered through tangled black hair. Anger stiffened her limbs. He would feed off it and stay vigilant. A man could never be too careful with the gentler s
ex. In his travels, he’d heard of fair-faced women plying a deathly trade by luring the hapless traveler into a private place. The end of that tale was always cruel. Thieves robbed the man and beat him unconscious or worse—killed him.

  It had happened to Leif, one of the Forgotten Sons. His loss was a wound that wouldn’t heal.

  Glowering up at him, she jammed the heels of her hands against his shoulders. “I know you won’t hurt an unarmed woman, Rurik of Birka. Your reputation says otherwise.”

  A slow smile formed. The she-cat had spirit, he’d give her that. She wriggled hard, the cradle of her body bumping him. The outbuilding was quiet save the squeaking bed and her feet battering the pelts. One glance proved no one lurked beyond the coarse curtains.

  Why not have a little fun before his long day’s ride?

  “Why do you keep fighting? You’re not going to unseat me.”

  “Get off me,” she huffed. “I have no weapons.”

  “How do I know that? I’ll have to search you.”

  “Overgrown brute.” Teeth clenched, she dug her nails into his leather-covered shoulders.

  Low laughter rocked his chest. “You came to my bed. If you want me to listen, it will be as I say or not at all.”

  She stilled. “You will not...touch me?”

  “I want information. Not sex.”

  A rooster crowed in the distance. Time passed thick and quiet, marked by the tension melting from her slender legs resting between his. He couldn’t fully see the woman’s eyes, but he could feel them, searching him, wondering. Yielding. He savored moments like these: the dip of a woman’s loins beneath him, a naked knee touching his inner thigh, bed furs tussled and warm from her body, hair spread out for his touch... Sensual tenderness was a Freyja-blessed gift in his harsh life. He was quick to steal softness when he could.

  The thrall gave the slightest nod.

  “That’s better.” He sheathed his knife. “Now that we’re comfortable.”

  “We need to discuss my reward, Viking. For the information.”

  “A kiss and a coin. Worthy payment for a thrall.”