She’s the unlikely wallflower of the extraordinary Shaw family. A woman who will never marry, but not for the reasons you might think . . .
Attacked on the streets of London, Lady Livia Shaw is relieved when a gentleman comes to her aid—and startled to discover her rescuer is Adrian, the Duke of Preston, a notorious rogue. But their association—and instant attraction—does not end there, much to the Shaws’ distress. For Livia was robbed of a memento—one that is both her most precious possession and a reminder of a shameful secret. It is a secret she knows will cause her to lose Adrian forever, yet he is determined to track down the thief . . .
Adrian never wanted to be anyone’s hero, but now he’s finding the prospect as pleasing as he does Livia’s company, and her beauty. Certainly he wants her in his bed, but what surprises him is how much she comes to mean to him. Which is why the revelation of her scandalous past is nearly his undoing. Arrogantly, he had assumed only he had the power to shock. But it is too late to turn back, and now Adrian may have to risk everything for Livia, even his heart . . .
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Books by Lynne Connolly
The Shaw Series
Fearless
Sinless
Dauntless
Boundless
The Emperors of London Series
Rogue in Red Velvet
Temptation Has Green Eyes
Danger Wears White
Reckless In Pink
Dilemma in Yellow Silk
Veiled In Blue
Wild Lavender
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Boundless
The Shaws
Lynne Connolly
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Books by Lynne Connolly
Boundless
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
References and/or Bibliography
Meet the Author
Copyright
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Lynne Connolly
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: December 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0879-4
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0879-5
First Print Edition: December 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0880-0
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0880-9
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my lovely daughter, Cat, who is finally old enough to read this!
Author’s Foreword
So we come to the last story about the Shaw family. With Livia’s book, I either have to leave them to their happy endings, or go on to the next generation. I doubt they’ll disappear altogether though. I lift a glass to Marcus, Val, Darius, Drusilla, Claudia, and Livia. Thank you for all the fun I’ve had discovering your stories.
Chapter 1
Adrian slumped against the squabs of the hackney cab as it set off from his house in King Street. Correction—Ophelia’s King Street house. He’d already had the deeds put in her name, but she’d generously given him another day to quit the premises.
In the shadows of the vehicle, he grinned. A house was a small price to pay to rid himself of the exquisite, grasping, tediously mundane person Ophelia d’Arblay had turned out to be. Every man in London wanted Ophelia for his mistress. Well, she was back on the market and they were all welcome to her.
With a groan, he stretched his limbs. After a tough all-night session in the House of Lords, he’d repaired here to find Ophelia entertaining one of the few peers not in Parliament that evening. Truly, he should have guessed she was seeing someone on the sly. But what had surprised him the most was his inability to care. Her subsequent spectacular tantrum merely bored him. It did not move him. She had broken his one and only rule, and she must suffer the consequences.
Exhausted, he looked forward to falling into his own bed and leaving the day behind.
A movement ahead caught his attention. A woman stood at the edge of the road, her gown a flash of bright blue, while children scurried like rats around her. One skinny youth had his mouth open, laughing, catching her attention while the other––Adrian spied trouble. And where trouble lurked, so did he.
Grabbing his cane, he rapped the roof of the carriage. “Stop! Stop now!”
Before the driver had managed to haul the nag to a halt, Adrian had opened the door and leaped into the street. Turning only to toss a shilling to the driver, who caught it deftly, pocketed it and gave his horse the office to continue in one smooth move, Adrian faced the trouble.
That blue silk belonged to a lady, although the gown had become sadly smeared with mud and torn in her efforts to escape her tormentors. Her face was obscured by the broad brim of her bergère hat, its pink ribbons askew and the jaunty bow on top crushed. For all that, this was a lady. The gown was good, the skirts too wide for this part of London, and her linen fine, the nearly sheer veil over her tantalizing bosom hinting at the pink flesh beneath. Despite his recent disappointment, Adrian’s mouth watered.
All this he absorbed as he headed at speed for the unfortunate woman beset by street urchins. He kept his attention on her while he struck out with his cane, lashing right and left, ignoring the ensuing yelps and protests.
The woman whirled right into him, and Adrian found himself with an armful of warmth and silk. That made wielding his cane trickier. Rolling the woman to the left, he looped his arm around her waist and used his right hand to advantage. Battle heated his veins, sending a fire coursing around his body and rousing him from his ennui. He had not felt this alive for a long time. Although he was only one man against six urchins who had learned to fight on the streets, he made a good account of himself. The trouble was, they kept coming at him from different directions. Catching one importunate boy a crack across his s
houlders appeared to deter them. All but one, who darted around the other side of the female before shrieking. A wordless yell meant to deflect, if Adrian knew anything about it.
The one in front crashed into her and a sickening crack rent the air. Not from him, but he couldn’t stop to check her. He tightened his hold and dealt the boy a telling blow to the side of his head with his cane. The responding yelp warmed his heart.
“Let me go! You can’t fight like this.”
She was right. Her voluminous skirts and the cloak around her shoulders hampered him. He snapped, “Don’t go out of my sight,” before releasing her. He settled in to the rhythm of the fight. Fully awake now, all trace of tiredness gone, Adrian swung his cane, wielding it more like a club than a delicate fashion accessory. Sooner or later it would break, and then he’d have to resort to his fists.
He looked forward to it.
“Come on then, you cowards!” he yelled as one of the assailants ran off, screaming. Crouching into a fighting stance, he stood ready, his cane held before him, waiting for the next attack.
His maiden stood where he’d told her to, the bright blue of her gown a flag of fresh color in this grimy London street. She leaned to one side. Had that crack he’d heard a moment ago been one of her bones? And yet she didn’t move and when she bade him release her, she’d sounded steady enough.
As if someone had waved a gun, the boys turned tail and ran, scattering into the alleys feeding the street, like the rats they were.
Adrian straightened up and shook his coat free of dust.
He flicked his gaze over the woman, scanning her disheveled appearance. Clearly she needed help. With the blood of war still thrumming through his veins, he drew a deep breath, savoring the sheer joy of being here, alive and healthy. Why would he not? His relentless pursuit of life led to that wonderful feeling, better than a case of wine, better than the finest French brandy. And for sure better than a night’s gambling.
Better than spending a night in his mistress’s bed? Perhaps. Not the one he had just discarded, but this one…he might have found his new interest. A well-dressed young woman in this part of London would hardly be the kind he’d meet in the ballrooms of Mayfair.
“They got my purse,” she said then. Although her voice was soft, it still trembled. She was more shaken than she cared to tell him.
“Did they take much?”
She shrugged a delicate shoulder. “A few guineas, an ivory comb, a fine linen handkerchief––no, not much.”
Aha. Any woman who considered that haul “not much” had recourse to more.
Gallantly, he offered his arm. “You are shaken, madam. May I offer you the hospitality of my house?” At least, it was his house until the morning when the new deeds came into effect. “You may tidy yourself up and recover from your ordeal.”
From beneath the broken brim of her hat, she peered at him warily. “You speak like a gentleman.”
“And you sound like a lady.”
Without warning, she sagged, dipping forward, threatening to fall. Adrian caught her, curving his arm around her waist at the front and tilting her gently back to lean against his shoulder. “Can you walk?” he murmured, his mouth so close to her ear that her curls tickled his skin. She had blonde hair with a hint of red. He’d seen that shade before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where.
She nodded, lowering her head to rest on his shoulder. If he had to, he’d carry her.
To his relief, when he took a small, slow pace, she came with him. Although her feet dragged, he detected no sign of a stumble, or anything that would indicate she was seriously hurt. If they took it at a snail’s pace, they could manage the distance. “The house isn’t far, at the end of King Street.”
His hackney had almost reached Covent Garden. King Street abutted it. Since his mistress worked as an actress at Drury Lane, in fact was a star of the stage there, she liked the proximity. No doubt she would continue to do so.
“I should not,” she murmured.
Shock, he assumed. Tilting up her chin, anticipating the credit his good deed would accomplish, he gazed into her face.
Damn and blast it. He recognized her. He would not be making this woman his mistress, sadly.
But what was Lady Livia Shaw doing in this part of London, and on her own too?
* * * *
She had not wanted to tell her savior, but Livia had suffered a wallop on the head before the man had appeared on the scene. She’d assumed her attacker meant to knock her out, but she had moved aside. Besides, her hat was new, and the stiffening in the straw hard. But he’d still caught her. The blow had made her ears ring and her head spin. Otherwise, she would not have gone anywhere with this stranger.
But he smelled good and he had a gentle touch that soothed her while it interested her. His body was as hard as any of her brothers’, comforting to lean on, providing the reliable support she needed. More used to closeness with men than most young, single women, she did not find him inappropriate. She would deal with all that business later. When her head stopped spinning.
But coming here? Lord, what was she thinking?
He had taken her a short distance to a fine house fronting King Street. Respectable people lived here, but not her sort. Perhaps he was married, and he could have servants to help her. Servants gossiped.
Until he closed the door behind them and led her into a front parlor, full awareness had eluded her. However now, as she shook her head and lifted her hands to loosen the bow under her chin, the odd sensation of not-quite-there cleared, and appalled realization sliced through her.
“I cannot thank you enough for your help, sir,” she said, trying to quell the tremor in her voice, “but if you would find me a hackney cab or a chair, I’ll be on my way.”
He stepped closer, taking her hat from her. The brim flopped over his dark hands, the sharp line of the break indicating its uselessness. Gently, he placed it on a nearby chair. He flicked open the clasp that fastened her cloak and let it fall where it would.
Livia turned her head to one side, strangely unwilling to meet his eyes. “Goodness!”
“I’m afraid these walls haven’t seen much of that lately,” he confessed. “But yes, it is—spectacular.”
“You chose this scheme?” If that was the best way to describe her surroundings. Wallpaper red and gold silk vied with mahogany furnishings, their surfaces covered with porcelain figures, decorative plates and glittering candelabra.
“The lady who will own this house chose it. I considered the gift fair exchange for my peace of mind.” He touched his lips, drawing her unwilling attention to their inviting fullness. “She has a larger reception room above this one, but I would not advise that you see it. Yesterday it rivalled this room, but now you need sturdy shoes to crunch across the floor.”
“Oh! Was there an accident?”
“Only one caused by her fair hands after I presented her with her congé. I did not intend to drive her to cause such destruction. Perhaps the world can use fewer figurines.” He picked up a porcelain monkey and turned it, handling the delicate piece so carefully. Livia could feel those fingers drifting across her skin, stroking her into doing his will. Heat spread over her, nothing to do with her recent altercation.
What on earth was she thinking? Her innate good manners came to her rescue. She must keep talking. She could not risk that enforced closeness again. Because she did not have the same response to this man as she did with her brothers. What had he said? Oh yes. “So you had to break bad news to the lady? Pray, where is she?”
“She is gone to the playhouse. She performs there tonight.”
Livia’s gasp bounced off the walls. “An actress?”
“The actress, as she would no doubt insist. Yes, my lady, Ophelia d’Arblay owns this house. Or will, after I have quit it.” He gave Livia a broad smile. “And I could not be
happier. By the way, her real name is Fanny Smethurst, but I presume she did not consider it good enough for the stage. I never asked.”
The room spun, and she momentarily lost her footing, her knees sagging. He tucked a hand under her elbow, his touch sure, and helped her to a green upholstered chair, lowering her gently into it. Very fine, and also comfortable, but Livia would not have placed it in this room. That was none of her concern. She only needed to recover and leave with as much dignity as she could.
At least the giddiness had stopped, and the brim of her hat no longer drooped in her eyes. Livia tilted her head, surveying the mountain of a man standing before her. His sober clothes and easy demeanor had fooled her. He wasn’t even wearing lace at his wrists or around his neck, just plain linen.
Her second gasp sounded just as loud as the last one. “You’re the Duke of Preston.”
She was eye to eye with the most scandalous peer in London. Olive-skinned, black-eyed, with gleaming black hair tied ruthlessly back from his sensually handsome face, there he was in person. Unmistakable now she could see him properly. He stared back boldly. According to rumor, he avoided respectable women like the plague and ran with the less respectable ones. That explained this house, and why she had not immediately recognized him. He rarely inhabited her part of society.
He bowed mockingly. “The last time I looked, yes. And you are Lady Livia Shaw. Since no one is here to do the honors, we must shift to manage the introductions for ourselves.” He grinned.
That smile would make stronger women than Livia faint. It was reported to have done so, but she had always doubted the stories. Until now, that was. Perhaps the smile hadn’t caused the hot wash of attraction that swept over her. The attack may have had more serious effects than she had first thought.
So here she was, sitting in the parlor of an actress with the woman’s keeper. So scandalous that only a Shaw could survive it. Except Livia wasn’t that kind of Shaw. “How did you know I wasn’t my twin sister?”
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