“I beg your pardon,” the lady said with a huff and the slightest lilt to her accent he could not place.
“You may, but perhaps I shall not grant it,” he said, feeling like the devil tonight.
“Grant what, sir?”
“My pardon.” He dipped his head lower, drawn to her warmth. Though he could see only faint outlines of her as his eyes adjusted to the dim light—a cloud of dark hair, a small, retroussé nose, a stubborn chin—he was nevertheless drawn to her. “Have you done something requiring it?”
She made a sound of irritation in her throat. “Release me, if you please. I have neither the time nor the inclination to play games with a stranger who arrives in the midst of the night, smelling of spirits.”
“Allow me to introduce myself.” He stepped back, offering her an exaggerated bow. “The Duke of Carlisle, m’lady. And you are?”
She moved forward, into the soft light of the hall. With the gas lamps illuminating her fully at last, he felt as if he had received a fist to the gut. She was striking, from her almost midnight hair, to her arresting blue gaze, to the full pout of her pink lips. And she was proportioned just as he preferred: short of stature yet shapely. Her bosom jutted forward in her plain dove-gray bodice.
Damn him if the woman wasn’t giving him a cockstand here and now, at midnight in the midst of the hall with the hushed sound of servants seeing to his cases fluttering around them. They were not alone, and yet they might have been the only two souls in the world.
Her eyes sparkled with intelligence, and he could not shake the feeling that she was assessing him somehow. “I serve as governess to the young duke.”
Governess.
That explained the godawful gray gown.
It did not, however, explain his inconvenient and thoroughly unwanted attraction to her. He did not dally with servants.
More’s the pity.
Leo frowned. “What is the governess doing flitting about in the midst of the night, trading barbs with a stranger who smells of spirits?”
He could not resist goading her, it was true.
Her brows snapped together. “You waylaid me, Your Grace.”
He would love to waylay her. All bloody night long.
But such mischief was decidedly not on the menu for this evening. Or ever. He had far too many matters weighing on his mind, and the last thing he needed to do was ruin a governess. He had come to celebrate his brother’s nuptials, damn it, not to cast the last shred of his honor into the wind.
“Whilst you are being waylaid, perhaps you can direct me to the library,” he said then. “I am in need of diversion. My mind does not do well with travel.”
The truth was that his mind was not well in general, and it hadn’t a thing to do with trains and coaches. But that was his private concern, yet another weakness he would admit to no one.
He expected the woman to inform him which chamber he sought and how he might arrive there. He did not expect her frown to deepen, or for her to turn on her heel and stride away down the hall in the opposite direction.
“Follow me, if you please,” she called over her shoulder. “I shall take you there.”
Leo followed, admiring the delectable sway of her hips as they went.
The governess intrigued him far too much, and he hoped to hell it wasn’t going to become a problem. As it stood, he would only be at Harlton Hall for a few days’ time. What could possibly go wrong?
A whole bloody lot, answered a voice inside him.
He ignored it. A faint hint of lemon taunted him. Nor could he wrest his gaze from her. She was exquisitely formed. And a governess, he reminded himself. When had he last been intrigued by a female? It had been years. It had been Jane, to be precise. Her name still curdled his gut, even after all the summers and winters since she had married Ashelford. That had been when Leo had been a callow youth still foolish enough to believe a woman’s heart could be steadfast. Good of her to rectify his ignorance. His allegiance belonged to the League now and forever, just as it always should have done. Crown and country. The safety of England.
Not the tempting swell of the governess’s lower lip. So full and bewitching, that succulent pink flesh. He longed to sink his teeth into it. The spirits he had consumed were making him maudlin and randy in equal measures, he decided as they entered a long, narrow chamber with shelf-lined walls. A bloody terrible, dreadful coupling. He required more liquor at once, for nothing blunted the furious grip of lust like the obliteration to be found at the bottom of a bottle.
The gas lamps were low, bathing the room in a soft sensibility that did nothing to alleviate the inappropriate bent of his meandering thoughts. His brother had yet to fill the shelves. The books were scarce, though the carpet was new, and a banked fire crackled in the hearth.
She stopped on the periphery of the chamber, spinning toward him, hands laced together at her waist. He noted the bones of her knuckles, white through her skin. Her shoulders were stiff, her neck rigid, entire body immobile, almost as though she stood on a slippery slope and didn’t wish to move lest she go tumbling down.
Leo was trained to observe. He trusted no one but his brother Clay and the woman he considered his true mother. Everyone else was suspect. What could a pretty little governess like her have to hide? What did she fear?
He moved nearer to her, driven by suspicion. Driven by need. Driven by the darkness inside him. By desire. Today, he could not rein himself in. He stopped just short of her, crowding her with his considerable height. She scarcely reached his shoulder.
The deeper note of bergamot hit him. Her eyes widened. They were not pure blue. Flecks of gray enriched them. Her brows were fine and dark, elegantly arched. A flush stole over her cheeks at his silent regard.
“Here we are, Your Grace,” she said softly. Her voice was husky. It was like a plume of fine cigar smoke, unfurling to envelop him. “The library, just as you requested.”
She remained so still and tense. A doe in the wood poised for flight. Was he the hunter, arrow nocked? He was too intrigued to step away. Too intrigued even to search for more spirits. Surely Clay had whisky, and he would find it at his leisure. First, there was something about this blasted governess. Something he could not shake.
“Your name.” He meant to ask her a question, but he was not terribly adept at polite conversation. He led his agents. He hosted depraved fetes at his townhouse. He did not speak to governesses, pay social calls, or whirl about at balls. He was a machine. And like any machine, he was beginning to show wear.
“Palliser, Your Grace.”
“Miss Palliser,” he repeated, thinking the name familiar. He searched the dusty corners of his mind before lighting upon it. “Glencora, by any chance?”
It was meant to be a sally, a reference to the Anthony Trollope character—an irregularity for him, as he had not much cause for levity in his life—but the governess paled, her lips parting. “Jane Palliser, Your Grace.”
Christ. There was that hated name again. Surely, this was the Lord’s idea of a cruel jest. A means of retribution for the vast catalog of sins Leo had committed in the name of serving his queen. Why else would a governess with the face of an angel and the body of a courtesan be placed before him on this day of weakness, bearing the same name as the woman who had nearly been his ruin?
His lip curled. “Jane.” The name felt heavy on his tongue, acidic and bitter, the taste of disillusionment, and even though this was a different Jane before him, he could not separate the emotions from the moment. “You do not look like a Jane to me.”
Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “And yet, that is what my mother chose to name me, Your Grace. I am so sorry to disappoint you.”
He did not miss the undercurrent in her voice, a strange hint of something that suggested Miss Jane Palliser harbored secrets. Perhaps he would make it his mission to uncover them during his brief stay at Harlton Hall.
Leo raked his gaze over her in an assessing fashion, unable to resist the urge to d
iscomfit her. “I doubt you could disappoint me, Miss Palliser.”
The Duke of Carlisle had come to Harlton Hall. It was almost not to be believed, far too fortuitous a circumstance to be ascribed to anything other than fate. And he was not just here, within her presence, within her reach, standing near enough to touch in the barren library, but he was flirting. With her, or at least with the woman he presumed her to be. Pretty London lass Jane Palliser. Nothing but a fiction.
The anxiety she had known upon his sudden proximity and odd queries—the dark, plumbing gaze of his that seemed to see far more than she wished, cutting straight to the heart of all her desperate prevarications—lifted. She was accustomed to men who thought they could have everything they wanted. She had spent her life in their shadows.
She gritted her teeth and forced herself not to allow her hatred to show. He wanted her, and if there was one thing she had learned in her life, it was the power a woman wielded over a man. One twitch of her skirts, the revelation of an ankle, the flit of her tongue over her lips, and he would be in the palm of her hand.
Precisely where she wished him.
For she may have arrived at Harlton Hall as Miss Jane Palliser, but in truth, she was Bridget O’Malley, and she had come to fight a war.
Want more? Get Heartless Duke here!
Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!
(Listed by Series)
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Heart’s Temptation
A Mad Passion (Book One)
Rebel Love (Book Two)
Reckless Need (Book Three)
Sweet Scandal (Book Four)
Restless Rake (Book Five)
Darling Duke (Book Six)
Wicked Husbands
Her Errant Earl (Book One)
Her Lovestruck Lord (Book Two)
Her Reformed Rake (Book Three)
Her Deceptive Duke (Book Four)
League of Dukes
Nobody’s Duke (Book One)
Heartless Duke (Book Two)
Sins and Scoundrels
Duke of Depravity (Book One)
Stand-alone Novella
Lord of Pirates
CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
Love’s Second Chance
Reprieve (Book One)
Perfect Persuasion (Book Two)
Win My Love (Book Three)
Coastal Heat
Loved Up (Book One)
About the Author
Amazon bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and Regency romance with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, adorable identical twins, and one TV-loving dog.
A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything, but especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. When she’s not reading, writing, wrangling kids, or indulging in her inappropriate sense of humor, you can catch up with her on her website www.scarlettscottauthor.com. Hearing from readers never fails to make her day.
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Lord of Pirates
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2018, 2019 by Scarlett Scott
Published by Happily Ever After Books, LLC
Kindle Edition
Edited by Grace Bradley
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
For more information, contact author Scarlett Scott.
www.scarslettscottauthor.com
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