Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
“[The] grand mistress of sensual, scorching romance.”*
“Very hot romance. Readers who enjoy an excellent, sizzling Victorian story are going to thoroughly enjoy this one.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Scorcher! Bernard debuts with an erotic romance that delivers not only a high degree of sensuality, but a strong plotline and a cast of memorable characters. She’s sure to find a place alongside Robin Schone, Pam Rosenthal, and Thea Devine.”
—*Romantic Times
“Madame’s Deception is shiverlicious! A captivating plot, charismatic characters, and sexy, tingle-worthy romance . . . Fantastic!”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“Steamy historical romance is a great debut for this new author . . . Filled with steamy and erotic scenes . . . The plot is solid and the ending holds many surprises . . . Tantalizing.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Sinfully sexy . . . Wickedly witty, sublimely sensual . . . Renee Bernard dazzles readers . . . Clever, sensual, and superb.”
—Booklist
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
REVENGE WEARS RUBIES
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / March 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Renee Bernard.
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To my grandmother, who has inspired me in so many ways and demonstrated what true grace and beauty can be. I cannot imagine this world without you, and I’ve decided I simply won’t try. I’ll just celebrate you and love you for the rest of my days.
And to Geoffrey, there are no words, my love. Every time you take my favor into battle, I marvel at the luck of finding a Renaissance man of my very own.
Acknowledgments
I often wonder who reads the acknowledgments and imagine it can be like one of those acceptance speeches where an actor is thanking his first grade teacher and every other human being he ever knew . . . and most people aren’t listening. But it is a rare chance to truly acknowledge the people that have made a difference and contributed to the strange life of this writer, helping me to achieve my goals and maintain some semblance of sanity. So, here goes!
Kate Duffy once told me that the mark of a great editor is one who quietly but confidently assists you in becoming the writer you were meant to be. (You’ll be missed, m’lady.) Kate Seaver, my dear editor, has proven that she is, in every sense, a truly great editor, and I love working with her, as she makes this process so painless.
I want to thank Robin Schone for once again standing by me as a phenomenal mentor and friend. To all my writer friends in the odd world of romance, thank you for making me feel less isolated in the quest and for inexplicably putting up with my quirky sense of humor. To Amanda McIntyre, “thank you” doesn’t cover it, so I’ll just have to come up with something else.
My thanks go to Sean and Toni, Sierra and Stephen for attempting to occupy the Elf while I’m juggling things on the home front. When they say it takes a village, they aren’t kidding! My heartfelt thanks to the entire Shire of Mountains Gate for keeping my clan afloat these last few months and for proving that in any realm of the Knowne World, you are the ultimate definition of family and community.
And finally, I have to thank all the wonderful readers who have sent their personal notes of encouragement to me. It’s a humbling thing to receive your compliments, and I’ve treasured every sentiment and vowed to do my best to never let you down. You inspire me, and for that, I’ll be eternally grateful. (And continue to wickedly use your names as secondary characters now and then just for fun!)
Whoever finds love beneath hurt and grief
disappears into emptiness
with a thousand new disguises.
—RUMI
Prologue
Bengal, 1857
They’d just been voices in the dark to each other in the first few days. The familiarity of English accents and the simple relief at not being alone were stark comforts none of them had ever experienced. In an ancient pitch-black oubliette, unsure of their ultimate fate, they’d observed the rituals of introduction and exchanged names and shaken hands as if they were in the foyer of a music hall in Brighton and not standing ankle deep in muck in a raja’s dungeon in the bowels of his stronghold.
Galen.
Michael.
Josiah.
A
she.
John.
Darius.
Rowan.
Sterling.
Eight men from various walks of life, but their paths had led them each to India and now to this. . . . And even without knowing the speaker, their personalities had almost immediately declared themselves as a unique alliance was formed.
“No one else in our travel party was taken, I think. But it happened so quickly, I can’t be sure.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I lost track, but not more than a few days. Four or five?”
“This is ridiculous. We’re British citizens! Our kidnapping is not going to go unanswered by the imperial regiments or—”
“The regiments have their hands full of other duties than tracking every British citizen, I suspect.” The interruption resonated with calm authority.
“What the hell is this place?”
“An old cistern, I think. The walls feel carved, as if chiseled out of rock and of course . . .” The sound of a boot being pulled from the wet kiss of the mud around it was unmistakable. “There’s evidence of water.”
“We’ll not last in here.”
“That may be the intent, unless you experienced a different welcoming committee than I did.”
“Gentlemen,” another man spoke, “we’re facing two possible outcomes. One, we’ll be killed immediately as a show of strength, or to please someone’s taste for revenge and rebellion.”
“Or?” one of them pressed as if asking about the odds of a game of whist.
“Or we need to figure out how to survive a long stay, considering our host’s accommodations and hospitality.”
The sound of a rat or some other subterranean inhabitant underlined his words, and the men unconsciously shifted to stand nearer to each other.
“Damn! I hate it when I’m only offered two choices and they’re both unacceptable.”
“As you wish, a third option. The raja has eight beautiful daughters and each one of us will get to choose an exotic beauty for a wife and live like princes in a penny novel.”
“Now that is more like it!”
Soft chuckles broke out and the choking darkness was momentarily forgotten.
“We’re going to die.”
A long silence answered the words, until one of them summoned a reply. “Undoubtedly, but let’s do our best to wait until we’re gray old men sitting by a warm fire in England, shall we?”
“To hell with that! I’ll have a warm wench astride my lap when I make my farewells! You may keep your dusty hearth to yourself.”
“I will. Especially if you’re going to pop off and scare the lights out of some poor dolly!”
The men laughed again.
“He’s right. You’d better leave a few extra coins in your waistcoat to make it up to the poor creature.”
“My God, how many coins cover that sort of thing?”
They’d laughed even harder until the sound of metal on metal had ended their first “party.” The door at the head of the steep tunnel entrance had opened, and a single torch had blinded them enough to make it easy for the guards to move in and start to remove them. A few had struggled but were quickly overpowered with punishing blows from short, weighted sticks that the guards carried. They’d been taken out through a labyrinth of dim passageways with stale air and damp walls. Each man’s sense of direction was tested as the floors rose and fell, until none of them were sure that they were ten feet or ten thousand feet from the surface.
Finally, they’d been pushed into a four-chambered cell with musty straw on the floor and made to understand that the airless cave with its elaborate iron bars was, for now, home.
Half their number were chained by one wrist to the outer walls, and the others were unshackled. No pallets or provisions were evident, and when the guards closed the heavy door behind them, they took their torches with them and robbed the men once again of light.
Minutes passed in the cloying dark until at last, someone spoke.
“So much for playing cards to pass the time . . .”
And then they’d laughed until they’d cried.
Chapter 1
London, 1859
Galen Hawke’s head pounded in a miserably slow fashion that foreshadowed a long afternoon. He eased out of the large bed, stretching his tall, lean frame with caution to allow his muscles to ignore twinges and small aches after a night of little rest. His arrival in London hadn’t helped him outrun the restless dreams that still plagued him, and Galen yielded up a long, ragged sigh at the very thought of a lifetime meted out by haunting images of dark holes and suffocating tropical heat.
“You had a nightmare, sir.”
Galen winced at the woman’s unsympathetic tone and his own lapse in forgetting that he hadn’t retired alone. The courtesan stood by the window in a transparent shift, positioned to no doubt let the morning rays highlight the ample curves of her figure and inspire him to lust. Instead, the bright light was making his eyes water, and Galen was in no mood to indulge her. “I never dream. Perhaps it was your snoring that kept me up.”
She sniffed in protest, her brass-tinted curls bouncing as she turned mercifully away from the window to sit down in a graceless move at a side table already laden with a morning repast and the day’s paper. One glance at the tray told him that his faithful manservant had come and gone while he’d slept. Damn. I’ll be getting that look from Bradley again. And I’ll deserve it since I swear to God, I’ve forgotten this chit’s name . . .
His guest picked up the paper and fanned herself. “Suit yourself, then. Mind you, from any other man you’d hear otherwise, but since you acquitted yourself so wonderfully last night, I’ll let it go.”
She’d seemed prettier to him the night before, but Galen wasn’t fool enough to express his disappointment openly. “How generous of you.” He ran his fingers back through his rebellious black curls before reaching for his robe. “Why don’t you have something to eat before you go?”
Galen regretted the words the instant he uttered them. It was a clumsy dismissal, but the need for solitude had temporarily overridden the required pleasantries when trying to get rid of an unwanted breakfast guest. He tried to soften the impact by taking the chair across from her. “Shall I ring for tea?”
She snapped the newspaper open in front of her face, effectively ignoring him. Galen waited for a few moments, oddly grateful for the reprieve from conversation. His headache had just started to ease, so he poured himself a glass of barley water.
It wasn’t that he’d had too much to drink the night before. Truthfully, he’d always envied men who could merrily throw caution to the winds when it came to distilled spirits, but his own body had never tolerated more than a sip. Ever since his first taste of liquor at sixteen and the disastrous and nearly fatal illness that had followed, Galen had been forced to accept that drinking was one masculine pursuit he would have to abandon. No, this headache was from hours spent in smoke-filled rooms playing cards and a lack of sleep. Last night, he’d hoped a bit of bed-play would drain him physically enough to allow for the dreamless sleep he craved, but once again, he’d met with failure.
“Aren’t you friends with Hastings?” she asked, interrupting his peaceful recovery.
“Why?” Galen set his glass down, instantly wary. What the hell has Josiah done now?
“Some little odd reference of him here. See?” She waved the paper toward him. “What’s this about a secret club?”
He made no move to take the pages from her. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Truly?” her smile took on a mischievous flavor. “Talk and rumor of a clandestine gentlemen’s club, and it’s nothing? Lady Barrow is said to defend ‘the Jaded’ here, and she is not a woman to be amused by phantoms.”
“I do not know the lady well enough to contradict you, but I pay no attention to rumor. And if there is talk, then it’s hardly clandestine.” Galen shifted back in his seat, confident that the matter was closed.
/> Her pout was practiced, but not without appeal. “Come, Mr. Hawke. Why not give me a tip? It sounds wicked, this club. Do they exist or is it something your friend made up to keep some blue-nosed beak out of his social calendar?”
I’m going to wring Josiah’s neck the next time I see him.
“What makes you think I could answer that question?” he asked, looking across the table with icy regard.
“Because,” she answered, squaring her shoulders, “I’ve heard the Jaded described as a sullen group of impossible men too handsome for their own good, and you—while you are a delectable specimen, you are the dreariest man I’ve ever met.” With another shake of her head, she stood, tossing the paper on top of the tray. “If you aren’t one of them, Mr. Hawke, you should be!”
He watched her hastily gather up her clothes and pull them on with unladylike grunts and snarls, amazed at the speed with which she managed the feat on her own. It occurred to him that he might have offered to help or rung for a maid, but Galen was sure that this time a safe distance was the better part of valor.
She snatched up her shoes with one last angry sniff, and carrying them in her hand, she sailed toward the door. Galen kept a subtle eye on her as she did, just in case her temper got the better of her and she realized what lovely weapons those heels could be and decided to launch one at his head.
She threw the door open and disappeared from view, and he closed his eyes in relief. Well, there’s my day off to a lovely start . . .
He idly picked up the paper, scanning for the article she’d mentioned. “I’m not that damn dreary.”
“Of course you are!” Josiah Hastings replied from the still open doorway, leaning against the ornate wood with his arms crossed. “Bradley let me in and said you wouldn’t mind the company.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to appreciate the retreating figure of Galen’s guest, and then looked back at his friend. “Ever since we made it back to England, you’ve spent months hiding in that dreary country retreat of yours.”
Revenge Wears Rubies Page 1