Mad for the Marquess

by Jess Russell

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Jess Russell

  Mad for the Marquess

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Preview

  Chapter One

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “A trade?”

  He flicked his paintbrush against his open palm. “It would appear, Miss Owl, you are learning the ways of the world. Very well, I am open to a fair trade. What would you have of me?”

  She sat up straighter, struggling to maintain her new-found power. “A kiss.”

  His brush dropped to the floor.

  Hell and damnation, wasn’t he supposed to be the one seducing her?

  Little Miss Prim sat placid as a potted plant after firing her cannon shot directly at his guts.

  Step up to the wicket, man, and take her.

  But Anne Winton was not his usual model. If she was unchaste, he was the Pope. A virgin from her endearingly furrowed brows to her ugly cracked boots.

  “Perhaps you are no longer desirous of a story?” Her low whisper sent another round at him. But this time the volley hit his heart.

  “Oh, I am desirous, never you fear. But let a man get his feet under him first before you completely fell him with your feminine wiles.” He bent to pick up his paintbrush, but really the action only served to give him a moment to gather himself. When he rose, she had also risen.

  He stepped toward her. She answered with her own step forward.

  Three feet separated him from those lips.

  He licked his. She bit hers.

  Ludicrous to be so nervous. In a last rush, he filled the space between them. Devil be damned, he could never play the saint.

  Praise for Jess Russell

  “Engrossing, emotion-packed, hard-earned happily-ever-after you won’t soon forget.”

  ~Collette Cameron

  ~*~

  “Dev and Anne are exquisitely drawn, complicated creatures who linger long after the last page has been turned.”

  ~Julia Tagan

  ~*~

  “Reminded me of Kinsale’s Flowers from the Storm.”

  ~PFTH judge

  ~*~

  “Rich, vivid description! It unfolds like a movie.”

  ~*~

  “Everything in the book is excellent—the tension, the setting, the secondary characters, the dialogue—everything.”

  ~Shelia Judge

  ~*~

  “A compelling and intensely emotional story with complex and flawed characters I really cared about.”

  ~Rakes and Rascals

  ~*~

  “In my top ten books for this year. If you enjoy exciting, emotional stories with damaged heroes and heroines, this is the perfect one for you.”

  ~Long and Short Reviews

  Mad for the Marquess

  by

  Jess Russell

  Reluctant Hearts, Volume 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Mad for the Marquess

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Jess Russell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1533-1

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1534-8

  Reluctant Hearts, Volume 1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To the women in my life who bear me up.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to:

  Ash, Veronique, Mary, and my family for weighing in and giving me the thumbs up;

  My fellow writers Amber Belldene, Collette Cameron, Julia Tagan, and Mary Beth Bass—you inspire me with your heart and tenacity;

  To Dianne Cooke, Helen McIver, and Rose Blue, who I have yet to meet but who have been uber supportive in my writing journey;

  And on that note, to Kate Mercial Nelson, because every writer needs a steadfast (and patient) fan;

  To the Beau Monde Chapter, and most especially Laura Mitchell and Susan Pace, who answered a gazillion questions about C-section;

  With deep gratitude to Cynthia Young, who I rely on utterly and who is always there for me;

  To Nicole D’Arienzo and The Wild Rose Press;

  And finally to Bliss Bennet, Laurie Alice Eakes, and Judith Laik—the “Three Graces” or alternately, “The Three Witches” (depending on the feedback they are giving) but either praising or criticizing, I know they are striving to make my story better. Thanks, ladies!

  Chapter One

  The Scottish Highlands, late March 1863

  Ballencrieff Hall crouched upon the crag like a wary giant, its arm-like towers thrust up as if to hold off the heavy clouds that threatened its battlements.

  Anne Winton took in a draft of cold foggy air. Ignoring the sick feeling of dread lodged deep in her belly, she bent her head into the wind and made her way up the last of the stone stairs, stepping onto the castle’s portico.

  A huge brass phoenix hung fixed to the door, wings spread, talons at the ready, its red eyes daring her to enter.

  She turned back toward Ballencrieff’s massive gates, now far below. Like a broom, her too-long cloak marked her progress through the thin dusting of snow and up the steep drive.

  A stiff wind blew, blurring her trail. Soon it would be swept away altogether.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. There was no going back. Her fate lay within the walls of this madhouse.

  Straightening her shoulders, she caught the stray hairs that lashed her cheeks and tucked them beneath her bonnet. She met the glare of blood-red eye
s. “I want this.” She reached up to lift the curved beak that served as the door’s knocker.

  “Ahhhhhhh!”

  The scream from within sent her jumping back. Her foot caught the hem of her cloak, nearly sending her to her knees. Hesitating only a moment, she pressed the heavy iron latch expecting—hoping—it would not yield, yet the massive door swung open with nary a sound. She stepped inside.

  The gloom of the outdoors was nothing compared to the cavernous dark of the great hall.

  “Hallo?” Her greeting echoed as if the darkness was a living thing. She pulled her cloak more tightly about her.

  Twin heavily-carved staircases hugged the stone walls like corded vines before meeting at the gallery above. Enormous pillars soared as if straining toward the light, whose pale beams washed the hall’s timbered ceiling, but had no chance of penetrating to the dark below.

  Hoping to find a living being, she headed to the back of the hall. Halfway across the room, a burst of color bloomed at her feet. Startled, she looked up.

  Tiny panes of colored glass flashed and winked within a raised cupola. The sun, which she had not seen since crossing the Scottish border, must have momentarily breached its prison of clouds. She spread her arms, her drab woolen cloak transforming into a jeweled robe.

  “You will not geld me!” A deep voice shattered the quiet. “I will not bow to your will to become some managed thing!”

  The bright spangles of light jumped and shuddered as if the voice and light were one.

  She leaped into the safety of shadows, searching for the owner of that desperate voice.

  Then she saw him.

  He flew across the gallery. Head thrown back, arms spread wide, his shirt tails streaming like a shooting star. Taking three or more steps at a time, he fled down the farthest stairway.

  A gaggle of women followed in his wake.

  Unaware he stood only a few feet from her, he paused within the dappled circle of light, then, like a showman, he turned and made an elaborate bow to his audience.

  Startled, the women stopped halfway down the staircase, seemingly uncertain how to proceed.

  He laughed when they clucked in confusion.

  Anne touched her fingers to her mouth, as if she might catch his joy.

  The jeweled kaleidoscope melted away as more clouds must have moved in. His limelight lost, the man ran past her, his shirt a bright flash as he dashed up the opposite staircase.

  Yes. Yes, get away. Damp wool filled her hands as she grasped the edges of her cloak.

  Two large, dark shapes skidded to a halt at the top of the gallery. His keepers?

  The beautiful man threw a long leg over the balustrade.

  “No!”

  Only when his gaze locked on her did she comprehend it was she who had cried out.

  She should duck her head and retreat, leaving the keepers to do their job. But she found herself stepping toward him, caught in the warmth of his gaze.

  “No sense runnin’, ya devil!” One of the shadows moved forward.

  Her breath caught as both keepers moved in.

  The man tossed his head, pitch-black hair whipping his pale face, and then slid down the banister, hopping off, light as an acrobat.

  She backed under the stairway, praying he might somehow escape into the depths of the castle, or perhaps out the front door, which still stood open.

  Only he didn’t. He came straight to her.

  Hot breath blew against her brow and eyelashes. A musky smell filled her nostrils—a man’s smell? Utterly foreign. She should move away, but his gaze, so tender and alive, had her heart knocking at her breast and her tongue darting against her teeth.

  Heavy boots slapped on the stairs above. The keepers. Closer now.

  The man never flinched, seemingly oblivious to the oncoming threat.

  Go! But the word froze in her mouth.

  Dear God. What was happening to her? She must look away. She must at least step away.

  She groped for the wall behind her. Cold rock pressed at her back, framing her in a curved niche. But he only stepped closer, his body radiating heat.

  What did this beautiful madman seek? She closed her eyes to gather her own light, her powers of healing. Perhaps she might bring him comfort.

  If only she could quiet her fluttering heart and chaotic breath. His scent filled her nose. A distraction. But soon familiar tingles coursed through her body. She took in more air and then raised her hands to touch him.

  Rough fingers bracketed her cheeks, as heavy hips pinned her to the wall.

  She flinched. Something hard pressed against her belly, but when she looked down, his fingers cradled her chin, asking her to meet his gaze. He frowned, cocking his head, his mouth now a soft smile, his eyes shimmering pools of silver. “You…” The feather of breath fanned over her lips.

  He seemed at a loss to say more. Instead, his fingers wove into her hair, knocking her bonnet sideways. His breath came hot against her lips, his mouth so close.

  Like a young child seeking to hide, she closed her eyes as if the darkness would be enough to conceal them. Bracing herself, she waited for the touch of his lips against hers—her first kiss.

  Nothing.

  Cold rushed in, and she blinked her eyes open. Please… Her hands pulsed with healing power, but now she wanted only the touch of his lips against hers. She reached to pull him back just as the keepers tore him away.

  Her gaze snapped up to see the smirk on the larger jailor’s face.

  Oh, dear God. What had she done?

  Her cheeks and neck flared hotly as horror and shame surged through her body. A hundred times since learning she was to be sent to Ballencrieff, she had imagined this first introduction. Always calm, assured, in control. What must they think? A silly, naïve girl, breathless over a madman. But just as she thought to drown in her disgrace, the beautiful man smiled.

  Oh…Bless Bess. Perfect white teeth, one corner of his lips hitched up a fraction higher, his eyes crinkling to crescent moons. She could not look away. He seemed to pour himself into her, filling her with—

  She had no inkling. But one word bobbed to the surface. Yes.

  Her reply rose from her very center, over her belly, surrounding her heart, moving past her constricted throat to finally spill from her lips.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Whatever he wanted, her answer was yes.

  He smiled wider.

  Someone thrust a lantern between them, and her answering smile froze.

  Held fast now, the keepers jerked his arms up. Light spilled onto his hands and wrists. They were smeared with something. His cuffs and shirt front were also soiled with red and black. Soot, she thought, and—blood?

  “I say, miss, did he harm you?” A woman’s profile appeared at the edge of light.

  Harm? She touched her cheeks. His blood?

  The man’s smile hardened. And his beautiful eyes iced over.

  No, this was wrong. “No—Wait—I—”

  He jerked his head, snorting like a shying horse.

  The woman touched her shoulder. “Truly, are you well?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am…” But she shook her head despite her words and pulled her cloak about her. If only it were magical and she could disappear.

  “Now you’ve had enough fun, your lordship. Sent us on a merry chase, you have.” The older keeper’s voice rang within the small niche.

  “Do not harm him!” The words were not hers, though they echoed her prayer. A golden-haired man burst through the clump of bystanders and came to the bloody man’s side. “Unhand him!”

  “Nothing for it, Lord Austin.” A nasty scar twisted the keeper’s upper lip. “Your pardon sir, but Doctor Hives’ orders. The marquess has to learn. Can’t have them other unfortunates seeing this behavior and thinking to follow suit, now can we?”

  “Mr. Macready, I do realize Lord Devlin is not the only patient here at Ballencrieff. However he is a marquess and our father the Duke of Malvern. You’d do well to remembe
r that.”

  Lord Devlin? James Drake, The Mad Marquess? The girls at Ardsmoore had spoken of him in hushed tones calling him Handsome as the Devil. But in the same breath, Butcher and Murderer. She could not imagine this man willfully harming anyone. As to handsome, she had only seen a handful of men in her sheltered life, but even with his angelic-looking brother standing next to him, she could well believe Lord Devlin the handsomest man in all of England.

  Lord Austin dropped his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “How did he get out this time?”

  “Esther and I came with his porridge and—well…” Mr. Macready rose up on the balls of his feet, eager as a boy for his first taste of treacle. “Let’s just say the marquess was very busy in the wee hours of the morning. While I was calming Esther.” Lord Devlin snorted and Macready jerked his lordship’s arm up sharply behind his back. “He slipped by us and threw the bolt.”

  Lord Austin turned to the woman. “Doctor Hives has not yet returned?”

  “No, your lordship. He is still in Edinburgh. Then with the upset over Major Cummings…”

  The marquess’ frozen smile cracked, his entire body seeming to draw in on itself. He wheeled on the keeper and spat.

  “Why you damned—” Macready swiped at his face and then pulled back his fist.

  “Enough!” Lord Austin stayed his hand. “Take him away. Do as Doctor Hives prescribes, but nothing outside the usual treatment. Do you understand me, Macready?”

  “Aye. I understand you perfectly, my lord.” He jerked his wrist from his lordship’s grip.

  Lord Devlin shifted his features from a grimace into one of boredom. But the pain in his eyes as he turned to her and performed a courtly bow made her want to weep.

  Oh, why did you not run when you had the chance?

  And what was this treatment that lay before him? Her hands still throbbed and burned, so ready to ease his pain.

  “Enough gawking. You all have your duties. Get on with them.” The woman made a shooing motion. The keepers jerked Lord Devlin away, and the group of servants began to disperse, further blocking him from sight.

  “You must be Miss Winton, from Ardsmoore School.” The woman offered her a handkerchief.

  She took the linen napkin, taking care not to touch the woman’s hand, as hers still burned hot. “Thank you. Yes, I am Anne Winton.” She wiped her face and then folded away the blood and soot into a tidy square. Would that she could fold her emotions away as easily.