Regency Masquerades: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Six Traditional Regency Romance Novels of Secrets and Disguises

by Brenda Hiatt

  “I much prefer to wake up with you like this. Consider it a second lesson. But I have barely begun to even the score between us. I am still greatly in your debt.”

  “This is hardly the way to show it, sir!” She sat up, brushing the hay from her shoulders. She stopped when she realized that he was enjoying watching her.

  “We could continue the lesson, if it upset you to stop.” His attempt to look innocent failed utterly.

  “You know very well that is not the reason I am upset! I never accepted this offer of yours. My help is given freely and does not need to be bargained for. The only insight your lessons are giving me is the certain knowledge that you are as devious and dishonorable as my father said escaped Frenchmen would be.”

  He stiffened under the lash of her words, as if she had actually slapped him.

  “But of course,” he said, the bitterness back in his voice. “Why would you think otherwise? I asked you before why you thought to help me. But wait! It is not too late to regret it. You could still turn me in.” He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps that is what you have planned all along.”

  In her heart Merissa knew she did not mean what she had said. She didn’t think those things about him, but he confused her. In some deep and very secret corner of her soul she had to admit not only that his kiss had been exciting, but that it had left her desiring more. She could never allow him to know that she had indeed not wished to stop. What she knew he meant as a harmless flirtation was awakening her to a shocking passion that she had never known was part of her nature. But was such knowledge a gift or a curse? She had been kissed before. No other man had ever created such reactions in her. Shackled to Harlan or some stranger in the future, would not this new awareness bring only misery?

  She looked at the captain, whose face now bore only a hard, mocking expression. “No, I will not turn you in. I apologize. I did not mean what I said.”

  “No? But perhaps I deserved it. Perhaps you should have listened to your father. He is obviously a man of far more experience in the world. You will remember, I warned you.”

  “People are not all the same, despite what he said. I will still help you. Perhaps we should just forget that this happened.”

  Buy The Captain’s Dilemma

  Gail Eastwood

  Gail Eastwood started writing stories as a youngster, and believes that A. A. Milne and Beatrix Potter set her on an early path to becoming an Anglophile. She served as a journalist, theatre critic and PR consultant, among other jobs, before she finally wrote and sold her first novel. That book and others that followed have won awards and recognition. Hailed as “a master at painting pictures of Regency life,” Gail earned a reputation for pushing her genre’s boundaries with emotional depth and original plots. Family issues took her out of the field for a dozen years, but now she’s excited to be back, working on new stories along with the e-book reissues of her backlist. Her affection for Regency England is no surprise given her love of history, Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer. Gail holds a degree in Humanities/Drama and Sociology from Case Western Reserve University. She lives in Rhode Island in a busy “refilled nest” with her lawyer/actor husband and two adult sons.

  Learn more about Gail and her books at:

  www.GailEastwoodAuthor.com

  www.Facebook.com/GailEastwoodAuthor

  www.Twitter.com/GEastwoodAuthor

  Gwen’s Ghost

  by Alicia Rasley and Lynn Kerstan

  Cover

  Chapters

  Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  Books by Alicia Rasley

  Excerpt from Allegra’s Song (a Drewe Sisters novella)

  About Alicia Rasley

  Prologue

  Eternity was a bloody bore.

  Valerian Caine didn’t know exactly how long he had been in this not-heaven, not-hell, but he knew he’d had enough.

  Unfortunately, no one had bothered to consult him on the matter. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, dead. And dead men had three alternatives—Heaven, Hell, and this remote antechamber of the Afterlife.

  Time seemed to be irrelevant here, and consciousness an occasional thing. Now and again he would find himself engaged in some useless task, but nothing that gave him any excitement. He had vague recollections of monitoring the motions of a comet, and was marginally certain he’d once been put to nursemaiding a troop of breeding sea-turtles. A profound waste of talent, in his opinion.

  But then, death was a waste of his talent. He had been very good at living, and a notable failure since his life was cut short by a bullet.

  Whatever assignments he was given, he invariably bungled them, or so he was informed whenever Proctor called him to account. That was never a pleasant experience. And now he had been summoned once again, from a place he could not recall to a place he didn’t recognize, to hear yet another pious lecture on the subject of his imperfections.

  ’Struth, he had never claimed to be a saint. Indeed, he claimed, with some pride, to have reveled in all the Seven Deadly Sins and invented a few of his own. But Proctor held him to higher standards, enumerated in tedious platitudes that only confirmed his dedication to wickedness.

  Usually Valerian listened with sullen incomprehension, but this time he intended to stand up for himself and get a few answers. This time he felt stronger, more truly himself, than he had done in a long time.

  For one thing, he had some awareness of his body. Not much—an outline at most—but when he concentrated he could see his arms and legs. As he peered down at what seemed to be his body, he saw something appear below his feet. A floor. He looked up and saw that an office had materialized around him. There was a massive desk, a couple of chairs, and wisps of mist rather than the fog that usually enveloped this place. Something—no, someone—sat behind the desk.

  Naturally, now that he was geared for battle, he was deprived of his opponent. Instead of Proctor, he was greeted by a sweet-faced, balding man wearing a long white robe.

  “Won’t you be seated?” Politely he gestured toward a chair. “I am Francis, your… er… Guardian.”

  Valerian slumped onto the chair, surprised that it felt solid. He ran his fingers over the carved wooden armrests. “Is this real? It looks transparent. So do you, by the way.”

  Francis sighed. “I was hoping to make you feel more comfortable, but I’m woefully inept at reproducing solid objects. Not many souls care about physical sensation once they have… moved on.”

  “Moved on? You mean died?” Euphemisms might be appropriate here in this translucent no-place, but suddenly Valerian wanted clarity. “And if you are my guardian, why haven’t we met?”

  “But we have, although you’d not be aware of it. I was assigned to you from the instant of your creation.” Francis chuckled. He even managed a shake of the head, though it left long wavery trails in the air. “I was warned how much trouble you would be. But my last charge was Teresa of Avila, and I had little to do beyond modifying the content of her visions. When she Advanced, I was dispatched to the Major Challenges Department. You have proved to be that, I must confess. I did my best, but if anything, you have sunk below the point where you started.”

  Valerian had once been known for his expressive face, but now it took all his concentration to lift a quizzical brow. “Were you supposed to see to my salvation?”

  “Something like that. Alas, my abilities are circumscribed. You see, only through your own free will can you move to a higher place. At most, I am permitted to nudge your conscience and… rarely… protect you from harm.” Francis folded his arms, looking sad. “I admit to having let you down in that regard. Do you remember how you passed from earthly existence?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  Francis winced. More shimmers trailed from his face and dissipated into the mist. “That is not a word we like to use around here.”

  “My apologies. But if I was such a failure, why aren’t I there? In Hell, I mean. Not that I’m complaining,”
he added hastily. “But I have to wonder if there even is such a place.”

  With a frown, Francis began to pace the room. The mist didn’t so much part for him as slide through him. “There is indeed a state of eternal damnation. Fortunately for you, every soul is given many opportunities to choose good over evil. Now and again a creature is bent on perdition, and no amount of mercy can stay his course.” Some emotion—regret?—flickered across his face. “Even angels can choose evil over goodness. Lucifer was like that.”

  Valerian nodded. He had heard of Lucifer, had, in fact, gone once to a club named for him. Only once, for the cards were marked and the dice were loaded. “He is real, then? Lucifer?”

  “Oh, yes. Our greatest disappointment. We were friends once, you know.”

  It was hard to imagine the sweet, slightly dim Francis befriending the Evil Angel. “No longer, I take it.”

  “Oh, no. He never forgave me for not joining his band of rebels. I sometimes wonder if he attacks my clients for that very reason. Your earthly death is a case in point.”

  That was more interference than Valerian could accept. “Sounds like humbug to me. You think the Devil had some hand in my demise?”

  “Possibly. You caused the duel, of course, by seducing Richard Sevaric’s wife. But I assumed you would win—you always did—and I did not think to monitor the outcome. How was I to guess his bullet would ricochet off a stone and strike you in the temple?”

  Valerian erupted from his chair, more slowly than he would have preferred. But he ended up standing on the something-like-a-floor. “You caused my death?”

  “Certainly not.” Francis clucked. “But I might have saved you. At least, I could have moved that stone, although the bullet might have found it anyway. We Guardians never know when our efforts will have any effect. And accidents do happen. If it’s any consolation, Sevaric died from a bullet to the heart.”

  Even after eternity, Valerian felt a certain vindication. “As I intended. So—where is he now?”

  “That is none of your concern,” Francis replied austerely. “Now pay attention, because Proctor will be here shortly. I have put my reputation on the line and asked an enormous favor on your behalf. For once, try for a little humility and make the most of this opportunity. If you succeed, you will get what you keep wishing for. Unfortunately, that is not to what you ought aspire, but as things stand now we are making no progress whatever.”

  What he kept wishing for? It couldn’t be—he couldn’t hope. “You’re being as clear as mud,” he muttered, just as another Presence manifested itself. An imposing Presence.

  Proctor put him in mind of a Roman Senator. Tall and lean, with a stern face and penetrating eyes, he radiated authority. Valerian recognized him, although he had no solid recollection of their previous meetings.

  “You again,” Proctor said in a resigned voice. “What is that Earth-proverb about a bad penny? Do sit, Valerian. So long as Francis has gone to the trouble of semi-materializing an office, we may as well use it.”

  Sullenly, Valerian lounged on the chair and folded his arms. “I suppose I have tripped up again. Damned… er… blast if I can even remember that last assignment.”

  “Irrelevant, but you botched it as always.” Proctor glanced at Francis. “How much did you explain?”

  “Nothing, sir. But I advised him to cooperate.”

  “That would be a refreshing change.” The stern gaze transferred to Valerian and fixed there. “The fact is, Valerian Caine, you have been trouble from the moment you joined us. The only thing I can say in your favor is that with all these galactic storms, we have been too busy to diagnose the exact nature of your difficulties. However, Francis has suggested a solution. For his sake alone, I am considering a radical departure from the usual procedure.”

  “The usual procedure?” Valerian grimaced. “So far as I can tell, there is no ’usual’ in this place.”

  “It isn’t a place, and you are by no means ready to comprehend the slightest aspect of the Divine Plan.” Proctor pointed a long finger in his direction. “Know only this. There are many paths a soul may take after a Transition, from physical reincarnation to a position here with the Directors. And you suit none of them.”

  “That’s because you haven’t let go your previous existence,” Francis put in.

  Proctor shot him a dark look, but didn’t contradict him.

  “Do you mean the life I led before that idiotic duel?” Valerian took a deep breath as memory flooded him. “Of course I can’t let it go! I had everything a man could possibly want—good looks, position, money, women. All snatched away because a bullet bounced off a rock. Dammit, I was just twenty-seven years old!”

  “And a fool,” Proctor said curtly. “A useless, self-absorbed mortal, wasting gifts that should have been put to better use.”

  “Perhaps.” Valerian slumped lower in his chair as that litany of flaws echoed in the mist. “Oh, very well, I made a few mistakes. But—” Cannily he introduced a term he had heard someone use around here. “I never had a chance to repent.”

  “Death comes like a thief in the night,” Proctor intoned.

  “You don’t say.”

  Proctor glared at him. Then, with what looked to be an almighty effort, he assumed a more pious face. “We have decided that you will never progress while your spirit continues to hunger for mortal animation. And frankly, we are weary of cleaning up after you here. Therefore, you will be granted one chance to reclaim your former existence. Complete the tasks assigned and you will find yourself in the garden moments after the duel. This time, Sevaric’s bullet will miss you.”

  Valerian felt a surge of exhilaration. To live again! To feel blood coursing through his body. To taste brandy, to laugh, to hold a woman in his arms. “I’ll do anything,” he vowed. “What will it take, to go back to what I was?”

  “It won’t be easy,” Proctor warned. “Your dalliance with the Sevaric woman precipitated a feud that has endured, by Earth-time, a hundred years. Caines and Sevarics have been at daggers drawn ever since.” He shook his head. “I cannot count the sins, on both sides.”

  “You hold me responsible?”

  “In part. A soul is accountable for its own actions, and for the consequences of those acts. But judgment is not mine to pass.”

  “Thank God,” Valerian muttered.

  “Exactly.” Proctor raised his eyes to the insubstantial ceiling, as if seeking divine patience. “Nevertheless, you are in my charge for what is beginning to seem like an eternity, so I suggest you practice the unaccustomed virtue of self-restraint while I rid myself of you. Otherwise, I shall put you to work hatching dung-beetles.”

  Valerian slid down an inch in his chair and lowered his head. He could restrain himself, even with Proctor, if he had hope of a return to life.

  “Very well then,” said Proctor with satisfaction. “We were speaking of the feud. Not long ago the most virulent of the antagonists, Basil Sevaric and Hugo Caine, passed into the Afterlife, and so far their heirs have not pursued the quarrel quite so diligently. We have some hope this matter can be put to rest before old wounds begin to fester in the younger generation. And that, Valerian, is to be your task.”

  “You expect me to end a feud? But I don’t even know why they are fighting. I cannot credit that my affair with Blanche Sevaric was to blame, because heaven knows I was scarcely her first lover.”

  “Heaven,” Proctor informed him dryly, “knows everything. But that does not mean it will all be explained to the likes of you. As a rule, we do not interfere in earthly matters, and you must not count on extraordinary assistance to acquire information you can discover for yourself. If you are to claim your reward, by God you will earn it.”

  “Whatever you say. So, if everyone, Sevaric and Caine, shakes hands and calls it quits, I may continue my former life?”

  “Oh, we shall ask more of you than that.” Proctor’s patrician lips curled. “Now pay attention, because you will hear this only once. Turn your chair
around.”

  Puzzled, Valerian obeyed and found himself looking at what appeared to be a blank wall. Suddenly it dissolved and he saw a man sitting at a desk, a quill in his hand. He was frowning.

  “Maximilian Sevaric,” Proctor said.

  This was clearly a descendant of Richard Sevaric—dark-haired and dark-browed, with a powerful set of shoulders. He hadn’t any of Richard’s fashionable pallor, but otherwise, Valerian had to admit, he was better-looking than Richard. More formidable, at least.

  A young woman came into view, carrying a cup and saucer, which she handed to Sevaric. He smiled at her warmly, and she perched on the corner of the desk. The girl was plain and petite, with short, curly, ginger-colored hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She had a stubborn chin, a pursed mouth, and large hazel eyes.

  “Gwendolyn Sevaric is the baron’s sister,” Proctor said. “Until her father died, she kept house for him, and now does the same for her brother. She is unmarried.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Valerian observed. “She’s no beauty.”

  Francis made a tsking noise. “Do not be unkind, boy. It ill becomes you.”

  “Sorry. But she doesn’t look dangerous either. Not like a woman engaged in a lethal feud.”

  “Appearances are often deceiving,” Proctor chided. “If physical beauty reflected the soul, you would surely have been a saint. But—”

  “I get the point.” Mischief seized Valerian and he glanced over his shoulder at Proctor. “Have you considered that unattractive people may be virtuous only from lack of opportunity to be otherwise?”

  “For shame!” Francis scolded. “Sometimes I despair of you, Valerian.”

  “I begin to think,” Proctor said in a forbidding voice, “that this project is doomed to failure before it begins. Obviously you are more suited to marshaling dung beetles.”