Taming Temperance

by Jillian Eaton

  Frederick’s smile was shark like. “I have been in London since the beginning of October. I knew you would show yourself eventually. Drowning rats always do. But tell me, what are you doing in this hovel?” With a condescending sweep of his eye he studied the work space that Hugh treasured more than gold. It may not have been large or impressive, but it was practical with thick brick walls and a high ceiling. Half-finished projects were crammed into every imaginable space and a thick layer of sawdust covered the floor. More sawdust floated in the air, caught in the sunlight filtering in through the large windows that overlooked the street.

  “Are you actually building furniture?” Frederick’s incredulous laugh caused Hugh’s teeth to clench. “How…adorably quaint.”

  “You did not come here to discuss my career path,” he gritted out. “Get on with it, Brownstone. I have a deadline to meet.”

  “Not so quick.” Frederick’s head canted to the side as he slowly pulled a silver knife from the inside of his jacket. His pale lashes swept down as he turned the knife this way and that, admiring the way the light glinted off the long, deadly blade. “Nothing about this will be quick, Jacobson. I promise you that.”

  “For the hundredth time, I had nothing to do with Aileen’s murder.” Hugh doubted he could make Frederick see reason, but he had to try. There had already been enough bloodshed. Enough pain. Enough death. “You’ve been blinded by your vengeance. If you only opened your eyes, you would see I am telling the truth.”

  Frederick’s face reddened. “The truth?” he hissed. “The truth is you killed my sister in cold blood! You plunged a knife into her beating heart and you ended her life. You stole her from me. From all of us.”

  “No,” Hugh said quietly. “I told you I found her like–”

  “LIAR!” Frederick screamed as he lunged forward with the knife.

  Hugh felt the edge of it slice his cheek before he brought his arm up and blocked Frederick’s second blow. The attack had happened too suddenly for him to grab his own weapon, and he was completely defenseless as the two men grappled for control over the knife. Burning pain radiated up his right arm when the blade nicked him again, leaving a trail of crimson blood in its wake.

  He brought his elbow up and managed to catch Frederick in the nose. More blood sputtered, covering both of their faces as they went crashing to the floor in a shower of sawdust.

  Cursing and grunts filled the work shop. Seeing an opening, Hugh punched Frederick in his ribcage and felt a moment of hard satisfaction when he heard the sharp crack of a bone. Frederick howled, his face contorting in agony as he twisted onto his side and tried to jab the knife between their bodies.

  Deflecting the blade with his forearm, Hugh curled his hand into a fist and struck Frederick again, this time in the shoulder followed by a hard cuff to the side of his head. The knife went clattering to the floor and skidded under a table as Frederick cried out. He was a man content to deliver pain, but when faced with it himself he could not withstand Hugh’s brutal blows. Still, he managed to get in a few lucky strikes, one of which caught Hugh squarely across the jaw and another in his eye.

  Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Hugh fell upon Frederick like a man possessed, finally unleashing all of the rage and torment he had kept bottled up inside for far too long. He eventually lost count of the number of punches he delivered, and he only stopped when Frederick’s begging finally registered through the dull ringing in his ears.

  “Please…please stop. Enough. You – you’re going to kill me!”

  And so he was, Hugh realized with a surge of disgust as he rolled away from his beaten foe and staggered to his feet. Frederick, his entire face an oozing mass of bruises and blood, was slower to rise.

  “You didn’t get me,” he gasped.

  “No,” Hugh said curtly. “But if you do not put yourself on the fastest ship back to Boston I may change my mind. This is over, Frederick, do you hear me?” Ignoring the pounding in his head, he took a menacing step forward and Frederick, like any bully who had been beaten, squealed in terror and jumped back into a pile of wooden crates.

  “I – I’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”

  “And you will never return.”

  “And – and I will never return,” Frederick promised.

  “I could have killed you, you know,” Hugh said suddenly as Aileen’s brother began to limp out of the shop. “I could have killed you right here and no one would have ever been the wiser. It is what a murderer would have done. Think about that, Brownstone, the next time you get it in your head to accuse me of ending her life. Then go and find her true killer.”

  Frederick did not turn, but he did stop. And after a long, tense moment he said, “I will”.

  Without looking back, he hobbled out of the shop – and out of Hugh’s life – forever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Present Day

  Hugh’s right eye was swollen almost completely shut. There was a deep slashing cut on his left cheekbone that had been crudely tended and another on his right forearm. One side of his jaw was completely black and blue. He looked absolutely horrible and Temperance felt most – not all, but most – of her anger slip away as she ran across the room and flattened both hands against his chest.

  “You should see the other man,” he jested with a wince.

  “Who?” she demanded. “Who did this to you?”

  “It is not as bad as it seems. Here, lift your chin. Let me get a look at you.” He tipped her head up, and his eyes warm as he gazed down at her. “Beautiful and angry. Just as I remember.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Hugh…”

  “Frederick Brownstone,” he said with a sigh and another wince as his bottom lip split open and swelled with blood. “Frederick Brownstone did this to me, but I did far worse to him.”

  “Your wife’s brother did this to you?” Aghast, she tried to dab at blood on his lip, but with a pained grimace he turned his head to the side.

  “I told you what he was capable of. I am just lucky the bloody bastard only had a knife instead of a gun.”

  “Was capable of?” she said, noting his use of tense.

  “Frederick left for Boston this morning. A little…worse for wear. Suffice it to say he no longer blames me for his sister’s death and is now in search of the true culprit. He has been in London, all of this time,” Hugh explained. “Which was why I did not dare come for you until I settled the matter once and for all. I couldn’t live with myself if I made you a target of his delusional vengeance.”

  “So you made yourself a target instead,” she said with a scowl.

  “Were you worried for me?” he asked, noting the distress on her face.

  “Of course I was worried! I have been worried every single day. Worried and upset and angry and confused. You could have at least sent a letter, Hugh. You owed me that, if nothing else.”

  “I understand.” His one clear eye met hers. “But I did not want to ask you to be my wife until I had everything resolved.”

  “Furthermore, I cannot believe you – your wife? Did you – did you just say wife?” Stuttering, she could only stare up at him in wonder. “Does this mean you still want to marry me?”

  He shook his head in exasperation. “Of course I damn well want to marry you. It is the only thing I have been thinking about. The only thing that has kept me going these past six months. I have been miserable without you Temperance, but I stayed away because I knew I would only be more miserable if I asked you to be mine before I was able to give you what you needed.”

  Temperance resisted the urge to punch him.

  Barely.

  “All I needed was you!” She stomped her foot. “And now you’ve gone and wasted six months of time we could have been together!”

  “Not wasted,” Hugh corrected with as he ran his hand along the sloping curve of her neck. “Well spent. I have made something of myself, Temperance. And I have saved enough money to buy us a house. Nothing as large or as grand as this, but it
will be

  Seeing the quiet pride in his eyes, hearing it in his voice, Temperance finally let go of the rest of her anger. It simply melted away, like snow turning to water on a warm spring day. “Have you finally sold all of your useless wares then?” she asked, amusement curving her lips.

  Hugh’s chuckle vibrated from deep inside of his chest. “No. I am a furniture maker now. It is something I always loved to do, but never thought I could ever make a living off it until an earl offered to purchase a writing desk I’d made. He has since commissioned me to make several other pieces, and his friends have been in contact as well.”

  “The snowflake.” He had made it with his own hands after all. And she would treasure it all the more because of that. “I knew it was you!”

  “I had hoped you would.” Hugh gathered her close and buried his chin in her hair. “I have missed you every damn hour of every damn day. But I did not want to return until I had made myself into the sort of man your family would be proud to accept.”

  It made sense, Temperance supposed, in a convoluted sort of way. Hugh had already been subject to one family’s derision and disapproval. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to go down that road again. Not when he had finally found something that obviously made him so happy.

  A furniture maker… Whoever would have thought those big, oafish hands of his would have been capable of making something so delicate as a wooden snowflake? Then again, having felt the magic those hands could create for herself, she supposed it should come as no surprise.

  “I will forgive you,” she said graciously, “as long as you promise to never leave me again.”

  “I will promise to never leave you again,” he countered, “if you promise to be my wife.”

  “I suppose I could consider it…” She batted her eyelashes. “And have an answer for you in six months or so.”

  With a half laugh, half groan, he squeezed her tight against his chest. “Witch.”

  “Yes, but I am your witch now.”

  And so she was.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jillian Eaton grew up in Maine and now resides in Pennsylvania. When she isn't writing, Jillian is doing her best to keep up with her three very mischievous dogs. She loves horses, coffee, getting email from readers, ducks, and staying up late finishing a good book.

  She isn't very fond of doing laundry.

  www.jillianeaton.com

  I sincerely hoped you enjoyed the time you’ve spent with Temperance and Hugh! If you could take a few minutes and leave a review, I would greatly appreciate. Then make sure to look for the 4th book in the Swan Sisters, A Duke for Delilah, this coming spring!

  In the meantime, here’s an exclusive excerpt from the very first book in my brand new series, The Bow Street Brides. A Dangerous Seduction is available now in e-book and paperback!

  A Dangerous Seduction

  "A WELL DONE, SEXY, EMOTIONAL HISTORICAL ROMANCE" (Smexy Books) that will delight fans of Christi Caldwell, Lisa Kleypas, and Courtney Milan!

  A MURDER....

  When Lady Scarlett Sherwood's husband is killed in a riding accident that turns out to be no accident at all, she becomes the number one suspect in a murder investigation that takes the ton by storm. Her accuser? None other than the dark, ruthless Sir Owen Steel, Captain of the Bow Street Runners... and the only man Scarlett has ever loved.

  A BETRAYAL...

  Owen was just the poor son of a baker when Scarlett spurned him for a highborn lord. Now he is one of the most powerful men in England, but he never forgot the woman who left him humiliated and heartbroken. He always vowed he would make Scarlett pay for her treacherous betrayal, and what better way to seek revenge than to see her imprisoned for murder?

  A DANGEROUS SEDUCTION...

  But old passions are hard to ignore, and one kiss is all it takes for Owen and Scarlett's sizzling chemistry to be reignited. Soon they find themselves swept up in an affair that could have dangerous consequences for them both. Because there is still a murderer on the loose, and he's just found his next victim...

  Scarlett.

  Exclusive Excerpt

  All of the color drained out of Scarlett’s face.

  Owen couldn’t be here.

  It was impossible.

  Except it wasn’t. Ruth would never lie to her, especially about something so important.

  “Where is he?” Her gaze flew to the door but it was partially closed, obscuring her view of the hallway. “How long has he been here? Did he request me specifically?”

  “Mr. Givens admitted him into the front parlor ten minutes ago.” Ruth shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “And yes, he made a point of requesting you specifically, my lady.”

  “Of course he did,” Scarlett muttered under her breath before she drew back her shoulders. Part of her was tempted to simply send Owen away. He never should have come here in the first place. What if Rodger had been at home? It would have been nothing short of a disaster. Yet there was no denying that she desperately wanted to see him again. How many times had she practiced what she would say if they were to ever come face to face? A thousand? Ten thousand? She’d lost track years ago.

  “Tell Captain Steel…” She hesitated as she struggled to control her conflicting emotions. “Tell Captain Steel I will be with him shortly.”

  Ruth’s eyes widened. “Are you certain that is a good idea? Perhaps you should wait until Lord Sherwood returns home. It would not be seemly for you to visit with a man when your husband is away.”

  The irony of Ruth’s statement coaxed the tiniest of smiles from Scarlett’s lips. “It is not seemly that my husband is out carousing with his mistress when he should be here with me.” One pale brow lifted a notch. “I am entertaining an old friend, Ruth. And that is precisely what you will say should anyone ask. Do you understand?”

  “Yes my lady,” the maid murmured as she stepped to the side, giving Scarlett room to pass. After pinching her cheeks to bring some color back into them, she lifted her chin, murmured a quick prayer, and glided into the parlor.

  Her gaze was immediately drawn to a broad set of shoulders encased in a dark jacket. Owen – could it really be him? – was standing in front of the mantle with his back to the room. As if he sensed her presence those broad shoulders suddenly stiffened, his entire body coiling like a panther ready to spring as he slowly turned to face her.

  “Lady Scarlett.” His voice was deeper than she remembered. He was taller as well, his body lean and well-muscled, evidence of his physical prowess found in the width of his shoulders and the definition of his thighs. His hair was still just as dark, but it was a touch longer than the last time she’d seen him, curling low over his brow and brushing against the collar of his jacket. And his eyes… She caught her breath. His eyes were as cold as the sleeting rain lashing at the windows. “Or should I say Lady Sherwood now?”

  “Scarlett is fine.” Not trusting herself to go any closer than absolutely necessary she remained by the door, one hand curled tightly around the brass knob. Her heart was beating so fast she feared Owen would hear it, but if he did he gave no indication. His countenance was completely devoid of expression, giving away none of what he was feeling.

  If he was even feeling anything at all.

  Owen shrugged as if it did not matter to him one way or the other. Then his eyes narrowed as his gaze came to rest on the exposed curve of her collarbone where a blonde tendril brushed against ivory skin. “You’ve cut your hair.”

  “Yes.” Self-consciously her hand drifted to where he was looking, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her bodice before she forced her arm to drop. “A few days ago. I found long hair no longer suited me.”

  “You were always good at getting rid of things that no longer suited you.”

  Scarlett drew a sharp breath. She had wondered how long it would be before he fired the first shot. The tiny barb hurt her more than she’d thought it would, drawing blood before it buried beneath her skin. “What – what are you
doing here, Owen? What do you want?”

  What was he doing in London, a place he had always despised? And why was he dressed so formally in a gray tailcoat, stark white neck cloth, and beige breeches that clung to his muscular legs like a second skin? The last time she’d seen him he had been wearing his father’s hand-me-downs that were two sizes too big and worn so thin as to nearly be see-through. Now every stich of his wardrobe looked as though it had been tailor-made. If she did not know any better she would have thought him at least a baron, mayhap even a viscount or an earl.

  There were other things she’d wanted to say. Other words she’d wanted to use. But the mere sight of him had washed all of those words away, leaving her with nothing but a long list of questions she desperately wanted answered.

  Where have you been all these years?

  Are you married?

  Do you have a family?

  Do you hate me for what I did?

  She did not have to ask the last question. The answer was already written across every inch of his cold, formidable countenance. Yes, Owen hated her… and the worst part was she couldn’t even blame him for it. Not after what she had done. To him. To them. To the future they should have had.

  “I have come to inform you of your husband’s passing.”

  He spoke so bluntly that for a moment his words and the meaning behind them did not sink in. When they did Scarlett brought both of her hands to her mouth with a gasp and reeled back against the door, her skull striking the wood with a heavy thud.

  “What?” she managed to croak between her fingers. “Rodger is d-dead? How…”

  “He fell from his horse and broke his neck,” Owen stated matter-of-factly. “His body was recovered early this morning in the theatre district. Do you know why he would have been there?”