The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

by Vivienne Lorret

  She smiled against his lips, nipping him lightly. Over the rims of her spectacles, her smoky gaze heated. “My husband tells me that I have a clever mind.”

  “And clever hands as well.” Those hands slipped beneath his coat and skimmed down his torso to the fall of his trousers. He was thick and ready . . . always. In the ten years of their marriage, his passion for her had never waned. In fact, he wanted her—he loved her—more and more each day.

  “Mmm . . . do you think we have time before—”

  The brass door handle turned suddenly, in rapid back-and-forth movements. Lucan and Frances went still. They held their breath. Their hearts pounded hard against each other’s chests. With a look between them, they shared a hope that they would be left alone for just a few more minutes . . .

  “Mum, Da, I know you’re in there.”

  Damn. Lucan let out a breath.

  “Later,” he whispered against his wife’s luscious mouth before he pulled away. Then, stalling for a moment to adjust his clothing and until the telltale sign of what he and Frances were doing—or were about to do—subsided, he spoke to the child on the other side of the door. “How did you find us so quickly?”

  “You always hide in the music room,” the small, feminine voice answered on a sigh. She sounded far too exasperated for an eight-year-old. “If you ever expect to win, you should find a better place.”

  Frances stifled a giggle and smoothed her hands over her dress, her figure slightly fuller now and even more enticing. “An excellent observation, Margaret. Your father and I will take that under consideration next time.”

  Next time . . . Yet his body said, Now, please now. Lucan’s passion flared once more and he took a step toward his wife. She answered with a saucy grin. Then the door handle rattled.

  “Why did you lock the door? That’s rather unfair.”

  It was no use. Their daughter was a determined creature. In fact, all four of their children shared that trait, which made Lucan love them all the more.

  “It must have been a breeze that closed the door and jostled the key in the lock . . . ” Frances said as she turned the key.

  In the same instant, their daughter blew in like a force of nature, her dark bronze hair wispy around her face. Behind her RJ loped in, his muzzle more silver than gray, his stride a bit slower, but his eagerness for a good scratch never abated. He nudged Frances first before moving on to Lucan and then stayed close to Margaret.

  Margaret’s amber eyes took in the room at a glance. “The windows aren’t open. Why are your spectacles foggy, Mum?”

  “Margaret Elise, you are too perceptive by half.” Frances laughed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

  Lucan cleared his throat to hide his amusement. “Well, she is named after your mother.”

  “And yours,” Frances answered fondly, cleaning her spectacles. She moved to stand by his side and then stopped abruptly, staring at Margaret. Or more aptly, staring at what Margaret held behind her back. “What do you have there?”

  It was a rather familiar-looking booklet, though slightly aged from when Lucan had last seen it.

  “I don’t know,” Margaret answered, bringing the object around for further study. “I found it in your keepsake box with violet petals pressed inside. I thought it must be important, but it’s just a bunch of sketches.”

  Lucan couldn’t believe Frances had kept it all this time. Not to mention the violets he’d given her as well. Still, he couldn’t resist teasing his wife when the opportunity arose. He tsked and addressed their daughter. “At one time, your mother entertained the idea of becoming a tailor. Quite scandalous.”

  Frances bent down and placed a kiss to Margaret’s head before she took the booklet and slyly slipped it up the sleeve of her own dress.

  Margaret’s brow furrowed. “Why should it be scandalous? I believe a woman ought to be allowed to do whatever she wants with her life.”

  “Woman. Bah.” A laugh came from the doorway as nine-year-old Theodore Lucan swaggered into the room. He was the very picture of Lucan, only with Frances’s eyes.

  A year younger, but with a much more mature soul, Margaret ignored the taunt. At first. “Grandfather says I have a head for figures, unlike Theo.” This earned her an eye-roll from Theo, to which she responded by surreptitiously sticking out her tongue at him. “Perhaps I’ll run a shop. Or I could teach Artful Defense like Mum does when she visits Aunt Kaye and Uncle Burt’s registry in London.”

  “Run a shop?” Theo snorted. “You can’t have a business. You’re—”

  “And why not?” Margaret interrupted, her eyes flashing as she set her fists on her hips. “Mum and Da are always telling us to find ways to practice good deeds.”

  Theo looked at his parents and shook his head as if to say, You’ve created a monster. But to his sister, he said, “You can’t run a shop because you’re the daughter of the Marquess of Camdonbury.”

  Lucan stiffened at the reminder. He’d never wanted the title. His elder brother, Victor, however, had been desperate for it. So desperate in fact that he’d poisoned their father. Unfortunately for Victor, he did not have a friend like Clivedale to cover up the murder. The garish evidence left behind on their father’s corpse had sent his brother to the hangman.

  Sadly, this happened the day before Whitelock’s infamous ruin. If Victor had only waited, then their father would have gone to the hangman for treason, and the heir would have inherited the title.

  Aunt Theodosia had been right. Clivedale had played right into her hand. When confronted about conspiring with Whitelock to keep the viscountess drugged on opium, he’d confessed that the viscount had been blackmailing him. Then, in order to worm his way into a prison cell instead of at the wrong end of a rope, Clivedale had sold out the Marquess of Camdonbury as well. Shortly afterward, the true evidence against the marquess, in addition to the false evidence against Thorne, had been found in a wall safe behind a lurid painting in Whitelock’s bedchamber. To this day, the viscount had not regained the use of his legs.

  Thankfully, after paying his debts, Hugh Thorne was released from gaol. He was living at Fernwood Glade as a reformed man and overindulgent grandfather. He’d even taken Arthur Momper under his wing and trained him. Now, at twenty years, Arthur was steward of Fernwood Glade.

  “Title or not, you are children of a noble, generous man,” Frances said from beside him, drawing Lucan away from the past and reminding him of the blessings in his life. “You ought to live by his example.”

  Unwilling to control the impulse, he slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her up to her toes, and kissed her, full on the mouth. “I love you beyond reason,” he whispered and set her back down.

  Leaning against him for a moment, she let out a slow breath and then adjusted her spectacles. Margaret smiled and rocked on her feet, her skirts swishing to and fro, and her anger at her brother temporarily forgotten. Theo was not impressed by the show of affection and issued a sound of disgust as he wandered back toward the door.

  “When do you think they’ll arrive?” he asked, peering down the hall, referring to Everhart’s and Danvers’s broods. “I left George and Marcus as lookouts on the stairs.”

  Each summer and at Christmastime, they gathered at Fallow Hall with all their family members, parents, siblings and their spouses, and children, until this vast manor fairly bulged with occupants. When they weren’t here, Everhart and Calliope divided their time between Briar Heath and London. And of course, Rafe and Hedley lived next door at Greyson Park, but they also kept a house in town.

  In addition to Fernwood Glade and Camdonbury Place, Lucan and Frances were the caretakers of Fallow Hall. After their infamous bachelor’s wager gained them far more than ten thousand pounds could ever buy, Everhart, Danvers, and he had purchased this estate and now, each owned a third.

  “Your brothers are supposed to be taking their naps.” Frances clucked her tongue at Theo, but there was no scorn in it. Her excitement to see her friends was clear a
s she addressed Lucan. “We’ll soon have a house full of exhausted and overexcited children.”

  Lucan grinned. For him, it was heaven on earth. He loved having his family together. All of them. “Let’s set up a picnic in the garden. When they arrive, we’ll sit on the terrace and watch the children play together.”

  “I had Miss Culpepper prepare Delaney and Rafe’s favorite biscuits, as well as the tarts that Calliope and Everhart favor,” Frances said but then winced. “Mrs. Swan insisted on preparing the main dinner. I didn’t have the heart to remind her that she is here as our guest and that she needn’t work in the kitchens anymore.”

  Lucan’s stomach rolled at the thought, but truly, he didn’t mind. He owed Mrs. Swan a debt. Ten years ago, on the day of his wedding, he’d asked her to prepare a glazed bun for him. He saw it as one final battle to overcome. Surprisingly, the pastry had been edible. However, a glazed bun was nothing he cared to eat again.

  “It will be fine. I’m sure Everhart and Danvers will welcome the familiar cuisine,” he said with a laugh. He couldn’t wait to see their faces.

  Theo began to pace the room, absently rolling a coin over his fingers. “Will they ever arrive?”

  He possessed the same restlessness that had driven Lucan to mischief and then eventually to the life of a gambler. Although nowadays, Lucan was more of an investor than a gambler. With Theodosia, they’d settled some money on a railway venture that was doing quite well.

  Even though his aunt was immensely wealthy, she still preferred to run the Flame and Spit. It was—Lucan had discovered—the place where she’d been meeting Valentine for years. And while the butler of Fallow Hall had proposed to her time and again, Theodosia chose to continue their monogamous, scandalous affair without a formal ceremony.

  Margaret sat at the piano, plunking away, with RJ’s head in her lap. She’d inherited her mother’s musical ability. “Will I have a chance to perform, Mum? The last time he was here, Sebastian said I played beautifully,” she said referring to Everhart’s nine-year-old son.

  “Sebastian,” Theo mocked, halting in the middle of the room to clutch his heart. “I think he would prefer for you to call him the troll king, as you used to. He doesn’t want you mooning over him. After all, he’s going to be a duke someday.”

  Margaret stopped playing and straightened her shoulders. “I don’t care about that, Theo. Even if he were just a troll king, I would be his troll queen.”

  RJ lifted his head and added a woof to the conversation.

  Lucan looked at Frances. Mischief flashed in her gaze as her hands skimmed up the lapels of his coat, and she rose up to press a kiss to his lips. “The matchmaker has spoken.”

  He pulled her closer. “Would you care to wager on that?”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This series, like all of my books, started out with a “what if” idea that kept me company through many sips of tea, loads of laundry, errand running, and sleepless nights. Before this concept ever made it to a paper proposal, it ran by my sisters—my league of supporters, my toughest critics. The phone conversations trotted along the usual paths, with familiar murmurs—“Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . hmm . . . ”—as they multitasked before they eventually stopped, adjusted the phone, and said, “Oooh . . . I like that!”

  Deanna and Cyndi, thank you for being my sounding board, for picking up the phone even when caller ID tells you that I’m on the other end, for failing to murder me when I was younger, and for attempting to understand my particular brand of oddness.

  This series happened because of an extraordinary editor who read the proposal and decided to give it a chance. Her comments in the margin inspired, tweaked, and molded the stories, smoothing out the rough edges. She offered her time and valuable resources in order to see these books shine.

  Chelsey, thank you for all the hours you’ve put in, for all the comments that make me dig deeper, for all the smiley faces and hearts in the margins, and for the precious gift of believing in me.

  This series had a spectacular team of people behind it: the Avon Art Department—the magicians who create the most swoon-worthy covers in the industry; the awesome marketing and publicity departments—the creative geniuses who spread the love; and the copyeditors—the grammar fixers who sweep in and clean up the dirty sentences left behind after a lengthy writing binge.

  Most of all, I’m thankful to God, each and every day, for blessing this weird introvert with whispered stories and characters’ voices in my head.

  Don’t miss Vivienne Lorret’s first two books in the Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

  The Elusive Lord Everhart

  and

  The Devilish Mr. Danvers

  Available now from Avon Impulse.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  USA Today best-selling author VIVIENNE LORRET loves romance novels, her pink laptop, her husband, and her two sons (not necessarily in that order . . . but there are days). Transforming copious amounts of tea into words, she is proud to be an Avon Impulse author of works including Tempting Mr. Weatherstone, the Wallflower Wedding series, and the Rakes of Fallow Hall series.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  BY VIVIENNE LORRET

  The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

  The Elusive Lord Everhart

  The Devilish Mr. Danvers

  The Maddening Lord Montwood

  The Wallflower Wedding Series

  Tempting Mr. Weatherstone (novella)

  Daring Miss Danvers

  Winning Miss Wakefield

  Finding Miss McFarland

  Give in to your impulses . . .

  Continue reading for excerpts from

  our newest Avon Impulse books.

  Available now wherever e-books are sold.

  CHASING JILLIAN

  A LOVE AND FOOTBALL NOVEL

  By Julie Brannagh

  EASY TARGET

  AN ELITE OPS NOVEL

  By Kay Thomas

  DIRTY THOUGHTS

  A MECHANICS OF LOVE NOVEL

  By Megan Erickson

  LAST FIRST KISS

  A BRIGHTWATER NOVEL

  By Lia Riley

  An Excerpt from

  CHASING JILLIAN

  A Love and Football Novel

  by Julie Brannagh

  The fifth novel in USA Today bestselling author Julie Brannagh’s Love and Football series! Jillian Miller likes her job working in the front office for the Seattle Sharks, but lately she needs a change, which takes her into foreign territory: the Sharks’ workout facility after hours. The last thing she expects is a hot, grumbly god among men to be there as witness.

  As Jillian discovers that the new her is about so much more than she sees in the mirror, can she discover that happiness and love are oh-so-much better than perfect?

  One dance with him and Jillian was pulling herself out of his arms and getting back into the car. She could dance with him and not get emotional about it. He was just another guy. She was not going to let herself get stupid over someone who was clearly only interested in her as a friend.

  His hold on her was gentle. He smelled good. She saw the flash of his smile when she peeked up at him. She’d felt shy with Carlos because she didn’t know him. She didn’t have that problem with Seth. She wanted to move closer, but she shouldn’t.

  She tried to remind herself of the fact that Seth probably had more than a few friends with benefits, even if he was between girlfriends at the time. He was a guy. He probably wasn’t celibate, and they weren’t romantic with each other. There was also the tiny fact that anything that happened between them was not going to end well.

  She was in more trouble than she knew how to get out of.

  At first, Jillian rested her head against his cheek. A minute or so later, she laid her head on his chest. They swayed together, feet barely moving, and he realized his heart was pounding. He’d never experienced anything as romantic as dancing late at night in a deserted city p
ark to a song playing on his car’s sound system. The darkness wrapped them in the softest cocoon. He glanced down at her as he felt her slowly relaxing against him.

  It’s not the pale moon that excites me

  That thrills and delights me

  Oh, no

  It’s just the nearness of you

  He took a deep breath of the vanilla scent he’d recognize anywhere as hers. His fingers stroked the small of her back, and he heard her sigh. Slow dancing was even better than he remembered. Then again, he wasn’t in junior high anymore, and he held a woman in his arms, not a teenage girl. There was a lot to be said for delayed gratification. Dancing with Jillian was all about the smallest movements, and letting things build. He laid his cheek against hers.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered.

  “Why not?” he whispered back.

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “We’re just dancing, Jill.”

  And if things got any hotter between them, they’d be naked. She didn’t try to step away from him. If she’d resisted him at all, if she’d shown reluctance or fear or hesitation, he would have let her go, and he would walk away. Her fingers tangled in his hair.

  They were just friends. He didn’t think he had those kinds of feelings for this woman: the sexual, amorous, bow-chicka-bow-bow feelings, despite the fact his pulse was racing, his fingers itched to touch her, and he knew he should let go of her. It didn’t matter that he was still having hotter-than-the-invention-of-fire dreams about Jillian most nights, either. He wasn’t going to consider what kind of tricks his subconscious played on him. Instead, he pulled her a fraction of an inch closer. He slid one hand up her back, feeling her long, silky-soft blonde hair cascading over his fingers, and she trembled. He cupped her cheek in his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. Just a couple of inches more and he’d kiss her. He moved slowly, but purposefully.