With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

Donald Lowson, his wife and two-month-old daughter sat in the back row—lest she begin to wail again. Merrick hadn’t minded. He wanted a few of his own someday.

  “I simply do not know what to say,” he confessed. Ian had yet to learn the truth and Merrick couldn’t find the words to explain all that had transpired, all that he felt. He wanted to know his brother—but more than that, he wanted to somehow make amends for all the years Ian must have felt like a beggar in his own home.

  Chloe rubbed gently at his neck, calming his nerves. His lovely wife had a way of making everything perfectly clear. “Are you still certain you wish to give it all up?”

  Merrick pulled out a clean parchment. “Yes,” he said, “Without question.” He stared at the paper a moment and then realized he needn’t say much at all—at least until they were face-to-face. Until then, Ryo would explain the rest. All Merrick needed to do was to give up the ring. So, he penned the following.

  My dearest brother, wear it in good health.

  And with the letter completed, he removed the ring from his finger, wrapped it in a kerchief and waited for Rusty to arrive. He trusted Rusty to deliver it safely to its destination.

  “There. It is done,” he said, and he sighed in relief. “No more worries.”

  They were in somewhat cramped quarters until the new house was complete. Every last man in Glen Abbey had come together to rebuild the manor. Merrick, along with the rest of the men, had rolled up his sleeves to help reconstruct his mother’s home. He labored with his hands day by day, building calluses along with his home, but he came to bed every night feeling blissfully tired and complete—satisfied in a way he had never known.

  There was little that survived the fire. A few baubles here and there. Most everything else was gone—save for the aviary, the stables and his mother’s rose garden.

  He turned in his chair to face his wife, reveling in the beauty of her smile. “Do you realize we’re alone until Mother returns?” Fiona had ventured out for a picnic and a walk with Constable Tolly. He raised a brow meaningfully.

  Chloe giggled.

  She tapped him gently on the bridge of his nose. “I suppose you wish to try again for that daughter you so desire?” She sighed, as though it were the greatest of burdens, but it was betrayed by her impish grin.

  Merrick shrugged. “Or son. It matters not to me.”

  She bent to kiss him sweetly, wrapping her arms about his neck so possessively that it made him shudder with desire. His loins stirred at once. She never failed to do this to him, rouse him to incredible heights of passion.

  “What say we retire to the bedroom?” he suggested.

  “Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” she teased, whispering in his ear, “Anything you say, Your Majesty.”

  Merrick grunted as he lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom. She said, “You will always be my king.”

  “And you my queen.”

  Surely, as much as they had coupled in the last month, she should be increasing by now… but oh, well… Merrick was having the time of his life trying.

  “About that daughter,” he said as he lay her down on the bed, grinning mischievously.

  “Son,” she returned with a smile and lifted her chin.

  “Whichever,” he said. And then, “I love you, flower.”

  “I love you, too,” Chloe whispered back.

  And they made love, whispering sweet words to each other, promising to adore each other for the rest of their days.

  Preview A Crown for a Lady

  Book 2 of The Prince & the Impostor Series

  One Week Later

  The door to the pawnbroker’s stood slightly ajar, beckoning to the wary. A swinging wooden sign read: Money Advanced On Jewels, Wearing Apparel And Every Description Of Property. The large display window held but a meager sampling of the wares offered within. Today’s teasers included a distinguished-looking portrait of someone’s grandfather with a pipe dangling from his lips, a few prayer books, a mismatched set of spoons displayed fan-style and a multitude of brooches.

  Claire Wentworth stood outside the shop, clutching the heavy wooden box that contained her grandmother’s fine silver. Hesitating before going inside, she stared into the display window, examining an old brooch. That, too, had belonged to her grandmother, along with one of the prayer books stacked atop a pyramid-style display. She hadn’t been able to redeem them, and now the items sat awaiting a new owner. It couldn’t be helped.

  Her brother was all she had left in this world. No amount of money or possessions could compensate for his death. The silverware could be replaced, she decided. Whatever memories they inspired were hers to keep, despite their loss. There was only one Ben.

  Resolved, once again, she took a deep breath and pushed open the whitewashed door, stepping into the now all-too-familiar shop. As the sign promised, inside were all manner of wares: furnishings, tapestries, snuffboxes, jewelry, blankets, an assortment of dusty hats, clothing and just about anything else one might imagine, including an old heavy sword that must have been wielded by somebody’s noble ancestor in some ancient battle. Its hilt was worn to the wood and the blade bore the scars of many, many blows—someone’s history sold for the price of a week’s rent. The thought of it sickened Claire, but such was life and there was no use bemoaning her circumstances.

  No prayer or rueful wishes could alter the facts: Their father’s death had left them in serious debt. Ben had fully intended to honor those debts, but he’d chosen to do so by gambling away the remainder of the estate and he’d ended up in far worse trouble than debtor’s prison.

  Now, it was up to Claire to rectify that situation.

  Making her way toward the privacy closets, she passed through the common shop, choosing the compartment second to the end. Once inside, she bolted the door, feeling safer even though she knew it was an illusion. With a sigh, she heaved the silverware box onto the counter to await the clerk.

  At least four gas lamps lit the dust-filled shop, but none of their dusky light reached the privacy closets, which were open only to the counter. The goods offered here were cast in shadow, along with the faces of their owners. Either the occupants were ashamed of their circumstances or they were thieves peddling ill-begotten wares.

  The clerk was preoccupied with someone in the last stall. That door had been closed, or Claire would have chosen it instead. The occupant of the darkest little closet was weeping ever-so softly. Fortunately, the clerk on duty seemed the most compassionate of the three Claire had dealt with—she recognized his voice—and he spoke to the girl gently.

  “What name shall I write?”

  The girl paused. Claire imagined that she swallowed before answering. The first time Claire had ventured into this place, she’d been unable to find her voice.

  “Sarah… Sarah Jones.”

  Claire didn’t recognize the name. But then, she hadn’t used her true name, either.

  Once released into the shop’s inventory, Claire’s possessions would be lost forever. Even if she could manage to raise the funds, she wouldn’t raise them in time to redeem her belongings, of that much she was certain.

  “Do you hereby certify tis your own property?” the clerk interrogated.

  It was an obligatory question, but Claire doubted it was a true concern for the shop owner. She’d noted the shady sorts who frequented the shop, and not once had a clerk requested proof of ownership from Claire. For all the clerk knew, Claire could have stolen the items from her employer.

  The girl’s reply was soft. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Three shillings,” the clerk offered.

  Claire wondered what the girl was selling.

  Gasping, clearly affronted, the girl declared, “But, sir! This is fine—”

  “Three and six,” the clerk snapped, and Claire recognized the finality in his tone.

  “Please… oh, please… take a look at the stitching,” the girl pleaded. “This gown was purchased from one of London’s finest—”


  “My patrons won’t pay more,” the clerk interrupted, unimpressed. “Three and six—take it or leave it.”

  Silence met his offer, and he wouldn’t offer more. Claire had sold the man enough goods by now to recognize when negotiations were over. He would stand silently, his face an expressionless mask, waiting for the decision to be made.

  “Very well,” the girl relented, sounding defeated. “Three and six.”

  As though he had anticipated her answer, Claire heard the clerk count out the coins at once. The compartment door opened and closed and the girl’s footfalls hurried away.

  Claire waited patiently, knowing her position in this gloomy place. Here, the shopkeeper ruled and the genteel were no more respected than the downtrodden.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait.

  The clerk appeared at once, his graying hair hanging over thick, dirty glasses. He brushed his greasy bangs aside and gave Claire a nod, recognizing her. And well he should; he owned half her possessions by now. With a heavy heart, she lifted the latch of her box, then the lid, revealing the precious contents.

  “Splendid!” he exclaimed, dispensing with formalities. He gave her an assessing glance. “And you’re quite certain you wish to part with it?”

  Claire shrugged.

  She wasn’t at all certain about anything except that she was in a terrible pinch.

  The shopkeeper seemed to think about it a moment, and then offered, “Eight guineas.”

  Claire’s gaze snapped upward. “Eight guineas!” she repeated, aghast, despite having expected a pillage.

  Whatever pleasure the clerk had expressed at seeing her offering now vanished behind his mask.

  Claire arched a brow, knowing better than to bait him, but she couldn’t help herself. She had at least a shred of pride remaining. “Surely you mean eight guineas only for the box, sirrah!” The box alone was worth far more, as the lid was inlaid with ivory.

  The man smiled, amused, though he shouldn’t have been. Claire was hardly in the frame of mind to be entertaining.

  “No, Madame. I am overstocked on silverware as it is—be rid of the lot. Eight guineas it is.”

  Claire tried to reason with him. “But these are pure silver,” she explained, laying a hand protectively over her grandmother’s heirlooms.

  His mask didn’t crack.

  Claire used the clerk’s own bargaining tactic against him. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak, realizing that the first to open his mouth would be the one to lose.

  It didn’t work quite as well as she’d hoped.

  “Bah!” the clerk exclaimed. “Silver isn’t worth as much as it once was. Nine guineas is my final offer.”

  Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Nine guineas wouldn’t buy me a hat and a pair of shoes,” she said tautly, slamming down the lid. A lady shouldn’t use show a temper, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. “No thank you, sir,” she said with as much aplomb as she could muster and, with some effort, she lifted the box from the counter, fully prepared to lug it the entire distance home. For that insulting price, she’d take her silver to her grave. Nine guineas wouldn’t put a dent in the remaining twenty thousand pounds she owed for Ben’s ransom, and she was running out of items to sell.

  “Be seein’ you,” the clerk said smugly.

  Claire was so incredibly furious that she didn’t even bid him farewell. Seething, she marched out through the common shop and out the door, tears of frustration pricking at her lids. What was she supposed to do now?

  She was down to her last possessions and still hadn’t raised nearly enough money to cover Ben’s debts.

  To some, twenty thousand pounds might not seem like much, but she had scarcely more than a thousand now after selling nearly everything she owned. The remaining nineteen thousand pounds seemed quite impossible.

  Lord, it was a dreary day—as dreary as her mood.

  Cursing the mist, she started home, preoccupied with her predicament. As she reached the corner of Drury Lane, sensing a presence at her back, she turned to find a stranger about twenty paces behind her, his focus settled unmistakably on her box. Looking very sinister in his dark overcoat and wide-brimmed hat, he strode with terrifying purpose straight toward her.

  Alarmed, Claire quickened her pace.

  Could he be one of Ben’s captors, following to make certain she complied with their demands?

  More likely, it was some petty thief.

  She tried to remember whether she’d spied the man in the pawnbroker’s shop, but she was nearly certain; there had been no else one inside she could recall except the weeping girl and the clerk.

  Had the man followed her to the shop and waited outside while she took her business within?

  No, Claire didn’t think so. She hadn’t noticed him before now, and as suspicious in nature as she was becoming, she doubted she would have missed him.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  He could have been inside the pawnbroker’s shop—perhaps in one of the privacy closets. From there, he would have been able to overhear everything she had been saying. Nine guineas might not be motivation enough for her to sell her grandmother’s fine silver, but she was quite certain a thief wouldn’t care about its true or sentimental value. If he could get the nine guineas from the pawnbroker, that would be motivation enough.

  Or this was an entirely new possibility; had the pawnbroker set the man upon her? She didn’t get a sense that he enjoyed losing, and she trusted no one these days. It behooved her to remain wary.

  The mist turned to rain.

  She could almost hear the man’s footfalls behind her, but she was afraid to turn around. Her breath caught painfully in her lungs as she hurried through the crowd.

  Please God—don’t let him be after me, she prayed silently, and she thought perhaps that the sound of his footfalls ebbed. But it was difficult to tell with the rain pattering down on her head. Her hair must be a horrid mess by now. Her curls were stuck to her face.

  Calm down, Claire, she commanded herself. Think clearly.

  Perhaps he wasn’t following her after all?

  Perhaps it was only her imagination? She was certainly beginning to see conspirators on every corner.

  She cursed Ben’s infernal habits and said a quick prayer that her brother was well—wherever he might be. She hadn’t actually spoken to him since the morning he’d gone missing. She had only his captor’s word he was alive. What if she gathered the money and paid off his debts, only to discover Ben hadn’t survived?

  She swallowed convulsively over the thought, tears pricking at her eyes. She had considered hiring a private investigator, but how the devil would she pay the man? And besides, even if they were able to find Ben and free him, there would be no guarantee the criminals wouldn’t come after him again. He would still owe the money, after all. As difficult as it had been to raise the sum she’d already raised, spending it on a private investigator seemed folly.

  Rain pelted the top of her head and she spit a few strands of bandoline coated hair away from her lips.

  By the by, she had so little remaining of the prepared variety, and once her supply was done, there was no buying more. Fortunately, she’d acquired a recipe for a homemade variety, made with quince-seed, rose-water, a bit of cologne and brandy. She would have to resort to that, unless she could locate some of the wax pomatum her grandmother used to use. Regardless, she should have kept at least one good hat.

  Weaving through the mob, she ducked beneath umbrellas, clutching her box of silver to her breast as she looked about for a hansom. To her dismay, there were none to be found.

  At the instant, she heartily regretted not taking the one remaining phaeton, despite the fact that it was nearly in shambles—nor had she ever handled one. It was a long way to Grosvenor Square and certainly too far to have to dodge footpads in the pouring rain. A profusion of very unladylike curse words paraded through her mind, though she wasn’t desperate enough to resort to vulgarity.


  Alas, for all the fine talk about the new Metropolitan Police force, where was a bobby when you needed one?

  Buy A Crown for a Lady

  About the Author

  Tanya Anne Crosby is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty novels. She has been featured in magazines, such as People, Romantic Times and Publisher's Weekly, and her books have been translated into eight languages. Her first novel was published in 1992 by Avon Books, where Tanya was hailed as "one of Avon's fastest rising stars." Her fourth book was chosen to launch the company's Avon Romantic Treasure imprint.

  Known for stories charged with emotion and humor and filled with flawed characters Tanya is an award-winning author, journalist, and editor, and her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She and her writer husband split their time between Charleston, SC, where she was raised, and northern Michigan, where the couple make their home.

  For more information

  Website

  Email

  Newsletter

  A Whisper of Rosemary

  Colleen Gleason

  Prologue

  “I cannot wed him!”

  Allegra, Lady of Cleonis and Firmain, grasped at her lover’s hands, clutching them with her cold fingers. “’Tis you I love! Only you!”

  He smoothed a hand down the side of her face even as pain thrummed in his temples. “My love, you must do as the king wills. And you know that I cannot wed with you, for I am promised to another.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes and he thumbed one away, then reached to hold her hands with both of his own. He blinked furiously, squeezing his eyes closed, trying to force the pain away from his head, but it would not abate.

  He must not think on the image that came always with the pain, the image of his parents lying, broken, on the ground beneath the tower. It had happened long ago, and there was naught he could do to save them—then or now.