by Joanna Shupe
“It’s no more than I allowed when you returned to England. I let you to get one in and didn’t bother fighting back because I knew I deserved it. Up, Colt. Let’s go.” Winchester clenched his fists and raised them into a fighting stance.
A shot in the face was no less than he deserved, so Nick got to his feet. “I cannot wait for you to fall in love, Winchester. I vow to make your life a living hell.”
“Cease your squawking, old man, and come closer.” Winchester raised his fist, drew back his arm, and—
“Simon!”
Their heads spun toward the door, where Julia stood, horrified. Winchester quickly dropped his arms, his expression sheepish as the duchess marched into the room.
“Were you going to hit him, Simon? You promised me you wouldn’t!”
Winchester clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of innocence. Nick almost snorted. “No, of course not. I merely wanted to show him some moves from a boxing match I attended recently in London. Why in the world should I want to hit Colton?”
This time Nick really did snort. His wife narrowed her eyes on both of them. “I don’t know what is between you two,” she snapped, “but you need to make up. Now. Let bygones be bygones. Both of you. You’re acting like children.”
Nick raised his hands in surrender. “I apologized.”
They both looked at Winchester, who heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Fine. But if he causes you any trouble again, promise to contact me, madam duchess.”
She smiled at him affectionately. “I will, Simon. Now, if you’d like to come up and see your goddaughter . . .”
“I’d love to.” Winchester started to follow but stopped when Nick put a hand on his arm.
“We’ll be along in a few minutes. I want to have another word with Winchester.”
“A word that does not involve striking one another?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes. We’ll come to the nursery in a bit.” Julia gave them both glares of warning before leaving. Nick motioned for Winchester to sit. “Tell me how you and Julia came to be so close. I’ve never known why you seemed determined to protect her.”
“Ah.” Winchester shifted in his chair, a flush creeping up his neck. The reaction intrigued Nick even more. “Did you ask Julia?”
“Yes,” Nick replied. “She told me to ask you.”
“It’s not a story I care to recount, so let’s just say your wife once stopped me from doing something incredibly stupid.”
When Winchester did not elaborate, Nick prompted, “And? You don’t think you can stop there, do you?”
His friend chuckled softly. “And have you mock me for the rest of my life? You must think me a veritable half-wit, Colt. No, I’ve told you all you need to know.”
“We’ve been friends for more than twenty years, and you won’t tell me?”
“It’s not an event I share proudly. But I can say this: When I marry, it shan’t be because I fancy myself in love.”
“I don’t know, Winchester. Love has its benefits.”
Winchester rose. “All this happiness would be bloody revolting if I weren’t so disgustingly fond of you both. Let’s go see your daughter, Colton. I’m told she possesses her father’s temper.”
When they walked into the nursery, they found Julia cradling Olivia, singing to her softly. Nick couldn’t remember a more beautiful sight. He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, perfectly content to watch the two females he loved above all else.
Winchester slapped him on the back. “You are incredibly fortunate for a degenerate.”
Nick’s grin nearly split his face. “I know.”
When Julia spotted them, she beamed at Nick, happiness and love shining in her eyes, and Nick’s heart stuttered. Damn, she could get him every time, simply knock him down with a look.
“Olivia, come meet Uncle Simon,” she cooed, and Winchester scooped up the child, handling Olivia with sure but careful hands. He swung her around, and the infant smiled broadly.
Julia sauntered over to where Nick stood and laced her arm through his. They watched Winchester and Olivia together. “You have the oddest expression on your face,” she murmured. “What are you thinking?”
He pulled her tight to his side and pressed gentle lips to her temple. “I know Winchester has just arrived, but I had plans for this afternoon. Mayhap we could sneak away for a bit?”
She looked up, her eyes twinkling. “Hoping for a visit with Mrs. Leighton, are you?”
Leaning down, he whispered, “I only need you, sweetheart. Preferably without clothing and in my bed.”
“Why, Nick. How positively boring,” she teased. “You shall never retain your nickname with habits such as those.”
“Nothing is ever boring with you, wife. I daresay you’ll be leading me in circles until the day I drop dead.”
“That is the plan, husband. That is the plan. . . .”
Keep reading for a special sneak peek at
The Harlot Countess,
coming next month . . .
Lady Maggie Hawkins’s debut was something she’d
rather forget—along with her first marriage.
Today, the political cartoonist is a new woman.
A thoroughly modern woman. So much so that her
clamoring public believes she’s a man . . .
FACT: Drawing under a male pseudonym, Maggie is known as Lemarc. Her (his!) favorite object of ridicule: Simon Barrett, Earl of Winchester. He’s a rising star in Parliament—and a former confidant and love interest of Maggie’s, who believed a rumor that vexes her to this day.
FICTION: Maggie is the Half-Irish Harlot who seduced her best friend’s husband on the eve of their wedding. She is to be feared and loathed as she will lift her skirts for anything in breeches.
Still crushed by Simon’s betrayal, Maggie has no intention of letting the ton crush her as well. In fact, Lemarc’s cartoons have made Simon a laughingstock . . . but now it appears that Maggie may have been wrong about what happened years ago, and that Simon has been secretly yearning for her since . . . forever. Could it be that the heart is mightier than the pen and the sword after all?
Spring, 1809, London
Silence rippled throughout the ballroom the moment her slipper hit the top step.
Before Lady Margaret Neeley had a chance to comment on this odd reaction, her mother began tugging her down the stairs. Only then did the impending doom become apparent: the way each person avoided her gaze, the hushed tones sallied around the room, dancers paused midturn.
And she realized at once that they knew.
They knew.
Somehow, despite her best efforts, stories of what happened the night before had circulated through the streets of London this afternoon. On morning calls, rides in Hyde Park, and promenades down Rotten Row, the ton had spread the tale of what had happened hither and yon.
With Maggie’s younger sister ill today, Mama hadn’t wanted to go on calls. Relieved, Maggie had spent the time drawing, grateful that they hadn’t received any callers. Now it was clear why.
She hadn’t done anything wrong, she wanted to shout. In fact, she had tried very hard during her debut to appear a proper English girl. With the black hair and fiery temper of her Irish father, it had been a constant battle. She neither looked nor acted like all the other girls, and the ton seemed to enjoy casting her in the role of outsider despite that she’d spent most of her life in London.
“Why has everyone gone quiet?” Mama hissed in her ear. “What have you done, Margaret?”
Of course Mama would pick up on the disquiet. Also unsurprising she would place the blame for the uneasiness squarely at Maggie’s feet. Even still, Maggie couldn’t answer. A lump had lodged in her throat and even breathing proved a challenge.
Escape, her mind cried. Just run away and pretend this whole evening never happened. But she’d done nothing wrong. Surely someone would believe her. All she had to do was explain what occurred in the Lockheed gardens.
&
nbsp; Lifting her chin, she continued down toward the glittering candlelight. Stubbornness had long been a defect in her character, so everyone said. Mama lamented that Maggie would argue long after the point had been made. So she would not turn tail and run, though her stomach had tied itself into knots. No, she would face them, if only to prove she could do it.
When they reached the bottom of the steps, the quiet was deafening. Their hosts did not bustle forth to greet them. Not one of her few friends rushed over to share gossip or compliment her dress. No young buck approached to request a spot on her dance card.
Instead, the crowd swelled backward as if an untamed beast had wandered inside and might run amok at any moment.
“Come,” her mother ordered, taking Maggie’s elbow. “Let us return home.”
“No,” Maggie whispered emphatically. What happened was not her fault, and she would not allow anyone to bully her. Someone would believe—
A blur of blue silk sharpened into the flushed features of Lady Amelia. “I cannot believe you are so foolish as to show your face,” the girl hissed.
Maggie straightened her shoulders and focused on her friend. “Whatever you have heard—”
“He told me. Did you think he would not? My betrothed confided in me of your . . . your wickedness, Margaret. You tried to steal him from me but you failed.”
The entire room was now avidly watching and listening to this conversation. Even the orchestra had quieted. “Amelia, why would I—”
“You were always jealous. I’ve had three offers this Season and you haven’t had a one. It comes as no surprise that you would try to steal Mr. Davenport for yourself.” The heir to Viscount Cranford, Mr. Davenport was widely considered the most eligible young man in London. He had proposed to Amelia more than a month ago and Maggie had been nothing but pleased for the other girl.
So Maggie ignored her mother’s gasp and kept her eyes trained on Amelia. “You are wrong.”
“Amelia.” Lady Rockland appeared and tugged on her daughter’s arm. “Come away this instant. You will ruin yourself by even speaking to that . . .” She did not finish, did not add the hateful word before spinning away in a flurry of obvious revulsion. Maggie could well imagine what Lady Rockland had been about to say, however.
Whore. Harlot. Strumpet.
Is that what she’d become in their eyes? It seemed incomprehensible, especially since Mr. Davenport had lied. Maggie had agreed to meet him to, as he said, discuss Amelia. Yet once on the edge of the gardens, it had become apparent the young man had something else in mind. He’d grabbed her, tried to pull her close, and put his mouth on her. He’d ripped her dress. Maggie struck back in the one place it counted on a man and he’d released her. When she hurried back to the house, the couple arriving on the terrace must have drawn their own conclusions about her dishabille.
Mr. Davenport had tricked her. Tried to seduce her. Then he compounded the sin by lying about it to Amelia, one of the few girls Maggie had befriended. The unfairness of it tore at her insides. Did no one care for the truth?
As she swept the room with her gaze, the hatred staring back at her made it undeniably clear that the truth did not matter. The ton had passed judgment. She wanted to scream with the unfairness of it. Would no one come to her aid? Surely one of the other unmarried young girls or the man she thought—
More than a little desperately, she searched the room, this time for a tall, blond-haired man. He had been her safe harbor this Season, the one person who truly knew her, who would believe she’d never do anything so reckless. Likely he’d heard what happened by now. So why had Simon not stepped forward to defend her?
There, in the back of the ballroom. Her eyes locked with the brilliant blue gaze she knew so well, a gaze that had sparkled down at her for more nights than she could count. His eyes were not sparkling now, however; they were flat, completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. A flush slowly spread over his cheeks, almost as if he was . . . angry or perhaps embarrassed—which made no sense at all.
She clasped her gloved hands together tightly, silently imploring him to come rescue her. Yet he made no move toward the stairs. Without glancing away, he raised his champagne glass and drained it.
Hope bloomed when Simon shifted—only to be quashed when she realized what was happening. He’d presented her with his back.
Simon had turned away.
No one stirred. No one spoke. It seemed as if they were all waiting to see what she would do. Hysteria bubbled up in Maggie’s chest, a portentous weight crushing her lungs.
Dear God. What was to become of her?
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Joanna Shupe
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.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3552-7
First Electronic Edition: April 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3553-4
eISBN-10: 1-4201-3553-8