A Notorious Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  He drew away, and found himself gazing at her, drinking in her bedazzled, hungry expression.

  “Oh,” she breathed. She swayed against him. “Oh, that was lovely. Kiss me like that again?”

  He tightened his arm around her waist and kissed her again, and she opened to him, a surrender of herself to his arms and mouth at the same time she answered his passion, and it was fierce, the way she did that. “Marry me, Lucy. You’re the woman I want. No other. Marry me. Be with me.”

  She took three steps backward. “I’m no suitable wife.”

  “Yet, you are the wife I want.”

  “Thrale.”

  “I love you, Lucy. I love you passionately and ardently. These are not words I use lightly. You know I would not say them unless I meant them. I love you. I’ve been in love with you for an eternity. I want to live the rest of my life with you. For you. Because of you.”

  She covered the lower part of her face so that all he could see of her was her blue, blue eyes.

  “If you do not return my feelings, I hope you will allow me to court you properly and prove myself worthy of your love.”

  “Your worthiness is not the issue.”

  “I don’t care what anyone thinks of you or says. I don’t give that for women like Mrs. Glynn. They may say what they like and have all the outrage they require for their dislike of you, and it changes nothing about the woman you are or the woman I love.”

  Slowly, she lowered her hands. “You mean this.”

  “Marry me, Lucy. Be my wife. If you come to love me half as much as you loved Devil then there will be no luckier man in the world than me. No one luckier.”

  “Oh.” Tears pooled in her eyes.

  “I wish nothing more or less than to spend the rest of my life making you happy. You and that noble dog of yours.” He saw her try not to smile, and fail at that. “Darling. Lucy, darling. Roger adores me. Can you be so cruel as to separate us?”

  “I suppose,” she said. “I suppose that when you put it like that, I cannot.” She laughed, and walked into his arms, and wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t think I do not love you. I do. I do, Thrale, I do. You know what I am, you know all my flaws, and you have been steadfast despite them.”

  His heart continued to jitter away in his chest. He could have lost everything, and he hadn’t. “We can live here, or anywhere you like when I am not called to Town. Cynssyr won’t object. Nor Aldreth, and if they do, bugger them.”

  “Yes, yes, Thrale. Exactly so. I daresay they will be relieved to have me off their hands.”

  He kissed her again, and she kissed him back. When they parted, a wicked grin lit her eyes. “All this,” she said, “for my Milton?”

  “I’ll have the lawyers make an exception. The Milton will be your sole property.” He put his arms around her, too. “I’ve my own paradise found.”

  · · ·

  The End

  If you enjoyed this story, I would be grateful for a review. By all means, feel free to loan this book to someone you think will enjoy it.

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  Also included: brief excerpts and a list of changes made to this book.

  Thank you so much for reading!

  About Carolyn Jewel

  Carolyn Jewel was born on a moonless night. That darkness was seared into her soul and she became an award-winning author of historical and paranormal romance. She has a very dusty car and a Master’s degree in English that proves useful at the oddest times. An avid fan of fine chocolate, finer heroines, Bollywood films, and heroism in all forms, she has two cats and two dogs. Also a son. One of the cats is his.

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  Books by Carolyn

  Historical Romance Series

  Sinclair Sisters Series

  Lord Ruin Book 1

  A Notorious Ruin, Book 2

  Reforming the Scoundrels Series

  Not Wicked Enough, Book 1

  Not Proper Enough, Book 2

  Other Historical Romance

  Christmas In The Duke’s Arms Anthology with Carolyn Jewel, Grace Burrowes, Miranda Neville, Shana Galen

  One Starlit Night, novella from the Midnight Scandals Anthology

  Midnight Scandals, Anthology

  Indiscreet Winner, Booksellers Best, Best Short Historical

  Scandal 2010 RITA finalist, Best Regency

  Moonlight A Regency-set short(ish) story

  The Spare

  Stolen Love

  Passion’s Song

  Paranormal Romance

  My Immortals Series

  My Wicked Enemy, Book 1

  My Forbidden Desire, RITA finalist, Paranormal Romance, Book 2

  My Immortal Assassin, Book 3

  My Dangerous Pleasure, Book 4

  Free Fall, Book 4.5, a novella

  My Darkest Passion, Book 5

  Other Paranormal Romance

  Alphas Unleashed, Anthology Dead Drop

  A Darker Crimson, Book 4 of Crimson City

  DX, A Crimson City Novella

  Fantasy Romance

  The King’s Dragon - A short story

  Erotic Romance

  Whispers, Collection No. 1

  Excerpts and Free Reads

  Lord Ruin

  London, 1818

  Cynssyr glared at the door to number twenty-four Portman Square. “Blast it,” he said to the groom who held two other horses. “What the devil is taking them so long?” He sat his horse with authority, a man in command of himself and his world. His buckskins fit close over lean thighs, and the exacting cut of his jacket declared a tailor of some talent. A Pink of the Ton, he seemed, but for eyes that observed more than they revealed.

  “The Baron’s a family man now, sir.” The groom stamped his feet and tucked his hands under his armpits.

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  A handbill abandoned by some reveler from one of last night’s fetes skimmed over the cobbles and spooked the other two horses, a charcoal gelding by the name of Poor Boy on account of the loss of his equine manhood; and a muscular dun. The groom had a dicey moment what with the cold having numbed his fingers but managed to send the sheet skittering to freedom.

  “Man with a family can’t leave anywhere spot on the dot,” the groom said.

  “I don’t see why.”

  The door to number twenty-four flew open with a ringing crack of wood against stone. Of the two men who came out, the taller was Benjamin Dunbartin, Baron Aldreth, the owner of the house. He moved down the stairs at a rapid clip, clapping his hat onto his blond head as if he meant to cement it in place. The other man gripped his hat in one hand and descended at a more leisurely pace. The wind whipped a mass of inky curls over his sharp cheekbones.

  “My lord.” The groom handed Benjamin the reins to the dun. Before the groom could so much as offer a leg up, Ben launched himself into the saddle without a word of greeting or acknowledgment. Most everyone liked Benjamin. With his good looks and boyish smile, it was practically impossible not to. At the moment, however, Cynssyr thought Ben did not look like a man who cared for the family life.

  “Come along, Devon,” Benjamin said to his companion. He spoke with such force his dun tossed its head and pranced in nearly a full circle before Ben had him under control again.

  Cynssyr’s green eyes widened. “Have you quarreled with Mary?”

  “Certainly not,” said Ben.

  “Well, you look like you’ve been hit by lightning from on high and still hear the angels singing. What’s put you in such a state?”

  “None of your damned business.” The dun stamped hard on the cobbles, and Ben swore under his breath.

  Cynssyr’s bay snorted, and he reached to soothe the animal. “I sh
ould say it is, if I’m to endure such behavior from you.”

  “Devon!”

  “Is this, by any chance, about Devon’s letter?”

  Ben’s neck fairly snapped, he turned so quickly. “What do you know about that damned letter?”

  “He wouldn’t let me read it, but it must have succeeded. Camilla Fairchild is too young to be looking at a man that way.” Cynssyr’s mouth quirked and with the slight smile his austere features softened. When he smiled, he was about as handsome as a man could get, a fact not lost on him. He knew quite well the effect of his smile on the fairer sex.

  Devon reached the curb in time to overhear the last remark. Coal-black eyes, at the moment completely without humor, slid from Ben to Cynssyr. “Disgraceful, ain’t it? Her mother ought to set the girl a better example.” He, too, accepted the reins of his gelding from the groom. He glanced at the stairs.

  “Do you think she will?” Cynssyr managed, quite deliberately, to sound as though he hoped she wouldn’t. Christ, he hoped not. He fully expected to soon discover what Mrs. Fairchild’s backside felt like under his hands. Soft, he imagined. Energetic, he hoped.

  “You ought to know better, Cyn,” Devon said. “Even Mary said so.”

  “You will be relieved to know that at lord Sather’s rout Miss Fairchild’s passion was as yet untempered by experience. I merely provided her some.” His smile reappeared. “A regrettably small amount, to be sure.”

  “You know, Cyn,” Ben said, “one of these days you’re going to miscalculate and find yourself married to some featherbrained female who’ll bore you to tears.”

  “What else have you done, Devon, that’s made him such wretched company?” Cynssyr kept one eye on Benjamin.

  “Not one word,” Ben said, glaring not at Cynssyr but at Devon.

  Devon stopped with one foot in the stirrup to gift the world with affronted innocence. “All I did was—”

  “Not one!” Ben turned a warning glance on him, too. “Not a word from you, either, Cyn.”

  Get Lord Ruin

  Scandal

  Havenwood, near Duke’s Head, England,

  NOVEMBER 2, 1814

  The first thing Gwilym, Earl of Banallt, noticed when he rounded the drive was Sophie perched on the ledge of a low fountain. Surely, he thought, some other explanation existed for the hard, slow thud of his heart against his ribs. After all, he hadn’t seen her in well over a year, and they had not parted on the best of terms. He ought to be over her by now. And yet the jolt of seeing her again shot straight through to his soul.

  He was dismayed beyond words.

  Beside him, Sophie’s brother continued riding toward the house, oblivious.

  She heard them coming; she left off trailing her fingers in the water and straightened, though not before he caught a glimpse of the pale nape of her neck. Just that flash of bare skin, and Banallt couldn’t breathe. Still seated on the fountain’s edge, she turned toward the drive and looked first at her brother and then, at last, at him. She did not smile. Nor, he thought, was she unaffected.

  Nothing at all had changed.

  “Sophie!” Mercer called to his sister. He urged his horse to the edge of the gravel drive. Banallt took a breath, prayed for his heart to stop banging its way out of his chest, and followed. He wasn’t afraid of her. Certainly he wasn’t. Why would he be? She was a woman and only a tolerably pretty one at that. He had years of experience dealing with women. “What luck we’ve found you outside,” Mercer said, leaning a forearm across his horse’s neck.

  Anxiety pressed in on Banallt, which annoyed him to no end. What he wanted from this moment was proof she hadn’t taken possession of his heart. That his memories of her, of the two of them, were distorted by past circumstance. They had met during a turbulent time in his life during which he had perhaps not always behaved as a gentleman ought. They had parted on a day that had forever scarred him. He wanted to see her as plain and uninteresting. He wanted to think that, after all, he’d been mistaken about her eyes. He wanted his fascination with her to have vanished.

  None of that had happened.

  Banallt still thought he’d do anything to take her to bed.

  Sophie lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “Hullo, John.”

  She was no beauty. Not at first glance. Not even at second glance. Bony cheeks only just balanced her pointed chin. Her nose was too long, with a small but noticeable curve below the bridge that did not straighten out near soon enough. Her mouth was not particularly full. Thick eyebrows darker than her dark hair arched over eyes that blazed with intelligence. The first time he saw her he’d thought it a pity a woman with eyes like hers wasn’t better looking. Not the only time he’d misjudged her; merely the first.

  She stood and walked to the edge of the lawn. Behind her, nearer the house, mist rose from emerald grass, and above the roof more fog curled around the chimneys to mingle with smoke. Havenwood was a very pretty property.

  “My lord.” Sophie curtseyed when she came to a halt. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Banallt saw the wariness in the blue green depths. She didn’t trust him, and she was still angry. Considering his reputation and their past interactions, a wise decision. She knew him too well. Better than anyone ever had.

  Banallt relaxed his hands on the reins. Really, he told himself, his situation was not dire at all. He preferred tall women, and Sophie was not tall. In coloring, his bias had always been for blondes, and she was a brunette whose fine-boned features added to one’s impression of her fragility. Delicate women did not interest him. She was in every way wrong for him. Havenwood might be a gentleman’s estate, but despite the wealth and property, despite the fact that Mercer had important connections, the truth remained that Mercer and his sister were only minor gentry. Sophie’s marriage had most definitely been a step down for her. His dismay eased. He would get through this ill-advised visit unscathed. He would tell her good morning, or afternoon, or whatever the hell time of day it was, express his surprise at seeing her, and be on his way, having just recalled an important engagement.

  “You haven’t changed,” he told her. Good. He sounded stiff and formal. It was not in his nature to abase himself to anyone. Not even to Sophie Evans. His Cleveland Bay stretched its nose in her direction, remembering carrots and sugar fed from her hand, no doubt.

  “You’ve met?” Mercer asked. His mount danced sideways, but he settled his gelding quickly. He was a competent horseman, John Mercer was. And far too alert now. Mercer was a dutiful brother looking out for his sister. Well. There was nothing for it. Banallt was here after all, and Mercer had reason to be suspicious.

  “Lord Banallt was a friend of Tommy’s,” Sophie replied when Banallt did not answer. She pressed her lips together in familiar disapproval. Sophie had seen him at his worst, which was quite bad indeed. Legendary, in fact. Heaven only knew what was going through her mind right now. Actually, he thought he knew. It was not much to his credit.

  Get Scandal

  Moonlight

  Chapter 1

  June 3, 1815, The ballroom at Frieth Hall, The Grange, North Baslemere, Surrey, England

  By the time Alec McHenry Fall, who had been the third earl of Dane for a very short time, made his way around the ballroom, Philippa was by herself. She sat on a chair backed up against the wall, her chin tipped toward the ceiling. Her eyes were closed in an attitude of relaxation rather than, so Dane hoped, prayer.

  Her position exposed the slender column of her throat to anyone who might be looking, which was almost no one besides him since the room was nearly empty. Her hands lay motionless on her lap with the fingers of one hand curled around an ivory fan, the other held a corner of a fringed shawl the color of champagne.

  He continued walking, not thinking about much except that Philippa was his good friend and that he was glad to have had her assistance tonight. He stepped around the detritus of a hundred people jammed inside a room that comfortably held half that number. A gentleman’s glove. A bit of lace, a handkerch
ief, silk flowers that had surely started the evening pinned to some young lady’s hair or hem.

  Dane stopped in front of her chair. “Philippa.”

  She straightened her head and blinked at him. Her shawl draped behind her bare shoulders, exposing skin as pale as any Englishwoman could wish. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and her feet were tucked under her chair. Dane was quite sure she smiled before she knew it was him. He didn’t remember her eyes being quite so remarkable a shade of green. An usual, light green. How interesting. And yes, disturbing, that he should notice any such thing about her.

  He grinned and reached for her hand. He’d removed his gloves for the night, but she still wore hers. “A success, my little party, don’t you think?”

  A concoction of lace, ribbons and silk flowers covered the top of her strawberry blonde hair, a fashionable color among the young ladies of society. That he was now the sort of man who knew such things as what was fashionable among the ladies remained a source of amazement to him. He’d known Philippa his entire life. Her hair had been that shade of reddish-gold before it was fashionable.

  Philippa was no girl. She was a mature woman. Thirty-one, though she could easily pass for younger. Her features were more elegant than he had called to mind during the time he’d been away. The shape of her face and the definite mouth above a pointed chin balanced out her nose, and her eyes, as, for some reason, he was just noticing tonight, were striking. Her smile, in his opinion, came too rarely.

  “My lord.” Her eyes traveled from his head to his toes, and he quirked his eyebrows at that. She meant nothing by the perusal, after all. Another smile played about her mouth. “How dare you be so perfectly put together after dancing and entertaining all night.”