Hearing the catch in his voice, Rose reached up her arm to caress his soft, springy curls and closed her eyes. This was by no means the first of such avowals but they still had the power to stir her in ways she’d not believed possible. How sweet love was. And she and Rampton had a lifetime together in which to enjoy it.
Edith now fulfilled Beth’s role, except when Rose and Rampton slipped away for afternoon pleasure jaunts like this one. It seemed they could not get enough of one another.
She thought he’d straighten and resume the task at hand which was to prepare themselves to return to Larchfield for the vicar’s visit, which the dowager had organised. Instead, shivers of longing radiated through her as his soft murmur tickled her cheek. ‘You think it won’t always be like this?’ The gentle pressure of his hand, which had grasped one of hers, increased. ‘It won’t, my darling, I promise you. It will only get better. I shall only grow to love you more. You must believe it.’
Rose turned in his embrace and twined her arms about his neck. She stared into his face. ‘Then I will believe it,’ she whispered, feeling joy curdle in the pit of her stomach. ‘I’m sorry Charles could not have found similar happiness.’ She thought of him with sadness, bearing his grievously disfigured wife back to their island home aboard the The Emily.
‘If Charles had shown her a firm hand from the outset, I doubt her behaviour would have got so out of hand.’
Rose ignored the criticism. ‘Poor Charles. He’ll forgive Helena anything. But it will be a life sentence for Helena.’
Rampton’s arms tightened about her and she saw the fervour in his eyes as they locked gazes. ‘My life sentence is one I have yet to earn, my sweeting.’ Briefly, he caressed her cheek, his look tinged with remorse. ‘I needed forgiveness for believing what was offered to me as irrefutable proof … though I wasn’t sure whether you would grant it to me.’ He sent her a meaningful look and Rose blushed. She could not deny the thrill of power she had felt when Rampton had gone down on bended knee and kissed the hem of her skirt, pledging his love and begging her forgiveness while Helena lay screaming in Geoffrey’s arms. For all his faults, Geoffrey had not left her, although that was probably more due to the fact he’d been unable to slip the cord that bound him to Rose before Rampton had arrived.
Of course Rose had given her forgiveness without reserve. She knew that her husband, having already been deceived by Rose, was not to know she was blameless when all the evidence pointed to her.
They strolled back in leisurely fashion to Larchfield, pausing at the edge of the park to gaze at the beautiful stone house with its mullioned windows peeping through its cloak of ivy as the sun dipped behind the hill.
A nightingale began its evening tune and Rose shivered with pleasure.
Rampton squeezed her hand. ‘Mother has offered you her diamond and ruby choker to wear to Felix and Arabella’s wedding.’ There was amusement in his tone, for Rose had declared that her mother-in-law would never fully trust her until Rose had supplied the nursery with at least half a dozen sons. ‘Perhaps you should wear it when you pay your last respects to Geoffrey and Oswald in prison.’
Rose shuddered. ‘I never want to see Geoffrey Albright again. The person I feel saddest for is Aunt Alice.’
Rampton’s response was robust. ‘Aunt Alice has never slept so peacefully since Oswald was incarcerated. She told me so.’
As Rose’s mouth dropped open Rampton seized the advantage, stooping to brush her lips with his own. As always the familiar sensations of earthy satisfaction and all-consuming happiness swamped Rose as her wonderful husband murmured, ‘I’d say we’ve all been given our just rewards. Wouldn’t you?’
The End
Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly Excerpt & Reviews
Long and Short Reviews - 4 1/2 Stars
"Sweet with heat and hard to beat, Lady Farquhar's Butterfly gains momentum as it builds to a terrifying climax....
Beverley Eikli’s concise, smooth, and subtle writing reveals characters and their motivations with a style that makes Lady Farquhar's Butterfly fascinating—a thoroughly enjoyable, page-turner of a tale."
RED ROSES FOR AUTHORS - 5 Stars and a Red Roses for Authors award
EXCERPT
This scene takes place when Olivia’s actions to save her cousin have been misinterpreted by the man she loves.
The empty silence stung her ears.
Shocked, she whispered, “I had no idea you hated me so much.”
“Not as much as I love you.“ He gave a shuddering sigh and his voice cracked as he added, “But self-preservation prevents me from succumbing to the lust that consumes me as we speak. For it is lust, only, Olivia. Tonight you proved there is nothing in you to love.” Raising himself he glared at her. Never had he looked so like Lucien. “Besides, you are going to marry Kirkman. You know there is no other path open to you.”
Stung to indignation she wiped her eyes. “Should I be compelled to atone the rest of my life for compromising myself before him?” Hunching herself into the corner the anger built within her. “I can’t do it. I won’t,” she flung at him after a moment’s silence.
“And Julian?”
Goaded, she muttered, “He is Lucien’s heir and as long as the world believes that he will be fine.”
“Is that a threat?” Max spoke quietly. After a moment he let out a humourless chuckle. “So you would tell the world the truth if I only had been prepared to wed you and conveniently dismiss what stood between us?”
He was looking at her as if he could not believe it.
“I can manage very well without Mr Kirkman and if you choose to deny me my son on account of it, you are within your rights,” she said coldly.
“And I can manage very well without you!”
The anger drained from her. Sorrow took its place. They had once loved each other. It could have been so wonderful.
“Olivia.” There was so much pain invested in the word she nearly wept. She kept her head averted.
After a silence he shrugged and there was a distance to his tone as he said, “A boy needs a father.”
“Mr Petersham would have done just as well.”
Max gave a sardonic chuckle. “You really are trying to live up to your reputation.”
She made her tone deliberately careless. “Since it was only you I wanted—yet clearly it is impossible for us to live with the uncomfortable truth between us—I no longer care what becomes of me. I shall make a point of enjoying my road to eternal damnation.” She smiled sweetly. “When your worthy Miss Hepworth becomes too tiresome you can look to The Tatler for some diverting scandal about the latest exploits of the brazen Lady Farquhar.”
Clearly he did not share her self-deprecating humour for he said with a narrow look, “The future Viscount Farquhar will not be brought up in such a manner. If you want to keep Julian, you forget yourself, Olivia.”
She tensed as she registered his words exhaled on a shuddering breath.
“At the end of the week you shall marry Reverend Kirkman. He has been … good … to you. You deserve each other.”
“Oh God,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands. “Would you really condemn me to torment by forcing me to marry the reverend? Just because he knows the worst of me? I am not so far beyond redemption?”
“I have discovered too much, Olivia, to know what alternative you have.”
She nearly choked on her anger. “You self-righteous beast!” she cried, lunging at him with flailing fists. “You’re no better than Lucien! I hate you!”
Caught by surprise as the glancing blow struck his jaw, he gripped her wrists while pain tore behind his eyes.
“You hate me?” he repeated.
He could not believe it of her. What did she expect? To allow her carte blanche to continue her reckless, ill-chosen path, dragging Julian along with her?”
Wincing, he acknowledged his love for the boy. How could he not? For more than a year they had been as close as father and son.
&nb
sp; Her eyes were like blue thunder, her skin flushed and her creamy flesh tantalisingly bared by her sumptuous, scandalous dress; he thought he’d never wanted her so much.
But the price was too high. She would forever revel in the power she had over him. He did not think his manhood could sustain a lifetime of it.
She was straining across his lap as he caught her wrists. Holding them above her head caused her body to sag into his. He closed his eyes against the desire to place a kiss upon the flesh that swelled above her low cut bodice; fought the raging impulses that rushed through his body as anger faded beneath his yearning. Her hot breath on his cheek as he parried her blows quickly fanned the flames into full blown desire.
For an instant she stilled. He opened his eyes in the startled silence and saw that she felt it, too. She wilted in his embrace, her face inches from his, her eyes dark pools of need.
The thread that connected their two hearts from the moment they’d met tugged tighter. He was devastatingly aware of the soft contours of her body and for a second he almost yielded.
Of all the women he’d known, none had the power to stir his senses as the fascinating, faithless creature before him.
Common sense returned and he jerked back as if stung.
He turned his head away before the hurt and surprise on her face could weave their spell upon his all too susceptible heart.
“We’re here,” he said as the horses turned into the stable yard. With enormous effort he kept his voice neutral. “Kirkman is waiting for you.”
She did not want to go. He knew he forced her against her will; that he was abusing his power in this act of spite and self-righteousness.
He didn’t care. If she hated him for it, all the better. He didn’t know if he had the fortitude to hold out if it was any other way.
Smoothing her dress she sat back in her seat, glaring at him. “I had not known such a fine line existed between the affection you’ve always extended towards me and” — she nearly choked on the words — “the disgust you clearly feel for me now.”
When he didn’t answer she whispered after a silence, “Could I change your mind?” Then, more desperately, “I do not wish to marry Reverend Kirkman. Since I have made that plain, perhaps you’d like to know my reasons.”
“I’m not interested in your reasons.” He knew he was being childish and pig-headed but he wanted to hurt her. Humiliate her.
The carriage jerked to a halt and Max rose over her in the small space. It was not a comforting thought that his domination and angry snarl: “Perhaps confessing tonight’s little dalliance might ease your conscience” could only remind her of Lucien. Yet perhaps Lucien’s behaviour was not so reprehensible given all he had learned of Olivia. Opening the door and jumping out onto the hay-strewn cobblestones he added, “If you have one.”
Lady Sarah’s Redemption – Excerpt & Review
‘Dramatic, heartfelt and unusual!’ Eikli sweeps you away into a dangerous world where only the most daring player wins love.’ – Best-selling romance writer, Anna Campbell.
The following scene takes place when Sarah demonstrates to her young charge, Caro, the power of deportment and presentation as she adopts three different personas: the dowdy dormouse performing at a musical recital, followed by the poised and confident performer. Here she’s taking her performace to extremes.
Sarah hurried down the stairs to the large, lovely drawing room where Caro waited patiently. The longer she spent at Larchfield, the more intrigued she became. Poor Caro. Even running a comb through her hair must fill the girl with doubt as to whether she was doing it to court admiration, or simply to get the knots out.
Well, this was a great lesson in demonstrating the vast middle ground between being a self conscious dormouse and a raging coquette — and it was fun!
Confidently she threw open the door, boldly meeting Caro’s eyes above her ivory fan. Oh, she knew how to use her eyes to great effect, and she did so now, playing to her young charge as if Caro were the most handsome, gallant gentleman in a room crowded with them.
“Since you have asked me so charmingly to play for you, sir, how can I refuse?” she asked, inclining her head coquettishly and sweeping Caro a smouldering look from beneath downcast lashes. “Any requests from such a handsome gentleman, will be happily acceded to.”
Caro’s eyes widened at the double entendre though she stammered, obligingly, “Perhaps, Miss, you would regale the company with Over Yonder Mountain?”
Sarah affected a show of false modesty. “Oh, but you will think my singing very poor after what you have already heard this evening.” With a dazzling smile she took a deep breath so that the swell of her breasts could not fail to be admired above the line of her low cut evening dress. “However, if you insist.” Sarah sank gracefully onto the piano stool and began to sing in tune to the emotional music.
Everything this evening had been play acting. But this, her singing, was real, and her voice was exquisite. She knew men found her attractive, but the many sincere compliments she’d received on her voice were even more gratifying. She adored music. Until now, she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it in this sad, songless house.
Soon Caro, who Sarah knew worked hard to maintain a cynical exterior, was dashing tears away.
The strains of the last chord drifted into nothing but Caro did not applaud; just stared at her governess with wonder while Sarah was filled with a sudden sadness for the home she had left behind, and the lovable, tyrannical father who would probably be out of his mind with grief.
Footsteps sounded from beyond the open French doors that led onto the terrace behind her. Alarmed, Sarah half turned, then rose and stepped out from behind the piano stool.
The footsteps stopped. There was silence. Mr Hawthorne stood on the threshold to the garden, his face blanched by moonlight. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
Sarah’s hand went to her breast, as if to still her thundering heart. Her mouth went dry.
Passionless? Had she once thought this man passionless?
The seconds became an agony of eternity as she waited for him to come to her. She watched the play of emotions roil in the tortured depths of his dark grey eyes. She thought he looked like a man who’d found Nirvana and would risk his life to cross the crocodile-infested raging torrent to lay claim to it.
In three strides he’d closed the distance between them. Then she was in his embrace. Thrown backwards over his arm, helpless and not wanting to be anything else, his mouth came down, swiftly and all-consumingly, upon hers.
She did not struggle. Objection was the last thing on her mind.
Breathing in his familiar smell of sandalwood and leather, she twined her hands behind his neck. She could feel the pounding of his heart beneath his waistcoat of watered silk, his hard chest pressed against her breasts.
It was not a gentle kiss; rather the kiss of a man who fears his chance may not come again and wants to plunder what he can before all is taken away.
Sarah did not need gentleness. With her mind in thrall to her body she surrendered herself wholeheartedly. The redoubling of his passion signalled he’d registered her enthusiasm.
Clearly, he hadn’t registered her true identity.
Sarah wilted with want, bent to his will, consumed by a primal determination to take everything this fascinating man could give her before he realized his mistake.
She’d had many admirers but as a young, unmarried woman she’d been kissed by only one man: her fiancé. This was infinitely more exciting.
She arched her back to achieve a more snug fit, and he responded, skimming his hand the length of her body from cheek to thigh while his other arm bore the full weight of her.
Waves of desire hit her with increasing force, coursed hotly through her veins, and pooled in her lower belly.
She gasped with disappointment when his mouth left hers. Compensation was swift as he thrilled her body with a feathered line of kisses down her throat. He trailed them over her collar
bones, tracing the contours of her cleavage before returning once more to plunder her mouth.
She never wanted him to stop. Arching deeper against him, she raked her hands through his hair.
Then Caro screamed.
About the Author
Beverley Eikli wrote her first romance when she was seventeen. However, drowning the heroine on the last page (p550!) was, she discovered, not in the spirit of the genre so her romance-writing career ground to a halt and she became a journalist.
After throwing in her job on South Australia’s metropolitan daily The Advertiser to manage a luxury safari lodge in the Okavango Delta, in Botswana, Beverley discovered a new world of romance and adventure in a thatched cottage in the middle of a mopane forest with the handsome Norwegian bush pilot she met around a camp fire.
Eighteen years later, after exploring the world in the back of Cessna 404s and CASA 212s as an airborne geophysical survey operator during low-level sorties over the French Guyanese jungle and Greenland's ice cap, Beverley is back in Australia living a more conventional life with her husband and two daughters in a pretty country town an hour north of Melbourne. She writes Regency Historical Intrigue as Beverley Eikli and erotic historicals as Beverley Oakley.
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