“Perhaps not,” Stephen replied, almost contritely. “Times like these I’m very glad to be a man.”
“Yes, well, God in his infinite wisdom knew men were complete milksops, that is why women are tasked with pregnancy and childbirth. However I’d be delighted to kick you twenty times in the groin, wake you half-hourly at night and pour purging liquids down your throat so you can experience some of the excitement though.”
He went green. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“So it is,” she replied serenely, carefully lowering herself into a high-backed chair and digging into her food.
Unfortunately she’d barely cleared half the plate when Innes poked his head through the door.
“Your pardon, but there is an urgent messenger here to see you, Lady Westleigh.”
Anticipation flared. Was it the investigator Stephen hired to discover the identity of her real father? The dapper, bespectacled man had only been given the vaguely dated family portrait which was hardly a great deal of information to work with, but she still clung to hope that one day he would come calling with a bulging folder to answer all her questions once and for all.
“Who from?” she said quickly.
“Master George.”
“Oh. Inform the boy I will see him in the foyer presently.”
Innes bowed. “Very good, my lady.”
Dabbing her mouth with a white linen napkin, she glanced at Stephen. “George never sends messengers. It must be important.”
“Indeed.”
“Maybe Sir Malcolm is dead.”
“I think if that were the case we’d be hearing a brass band, and fireworks.”
“Talking of fireworks, or lack thereof, Mama mentioned that her life with Sir Malcolm has improved immeasurably, in fact, she hardly sees him anymore. Ever since a day when there was some sort of violent altercation in his library. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Stephen swallowed a forkful of bacon. “Violent altercation? No, no. I was amiable. In a particularly amiable manner I demonstrated my extreme displeasure with the tea tray incident, and that if anything similar happened again involving you or your mother, there would be severe consequences. And in case Sir Malcolm wondered, Southby, Standish, Liverpool, Castlereagh and White were all more than happy to provide me with an alibi.”
“Most amiable of them.”
“I thought so. Now, the sooner you go and see what George’s messenger has to say, the sooner you can conquer the second mountain range on your plate.”
“Have I told you lately how splendidly humorous you aren’t?” she asked, bracing both hands on the table and hauling herself to her feet. “I actually feel a little sorry for the baby. I’m not sure my far superior intelligence and wit will be enough to counteract your pitiful contribution.”
Her husband nodded sadly. “Poor wee thing. And poor me. Inadequate in so many areas. A decent wife would attempt to cheer me up.”
“When you find such a paragon, give her my regards,” Caroline said pertly, ambling past him. But before she’d gone two steps, Stephen grabbed her hand and pulled her sideways into his lap.
“One moment please, countess.”
“I’m getting too big to hug,” she groaned, resting her head on his shoulder and sighing deeply at the thought of having to forgo the absolute pleasure of being securely wrapped in his arms.
“Nonsense,” he replied, reaching down to knead either side of her spine with the knuckles of his left hand, right in the sore spot, until she whimpered at the soothing deliciousness of it. “I’ll just grow longer arms.”
“The least you can do.”
He grinned, cupping her cheek and turning her face towards him. Then his lips brushed hers and as it always did, heat flared. In seconds they were devouring each other, she loosening his cravat and stroking his chest, him tugging down the sleeve of her gown and cupping the generous fullness of her breast.
Caroline moaned, rubbing herself against Stephen until he took the hint and began to pluck and tease her swollen nipple. Their increased sensitivity made this particular activity a sheer delight, how divine it was to settle on a pile of pillows and let him play for hours. Of course they had to be rather creative nowadays to accommodate her ever-growing belly, but in the process had made some exquisite discoveries. Like the time he’d braced her against the…
“A-hem.”
They both froze.
“As requested, my lady, the messenger is awaiting your arrival with great anticipation in the foyer,” intoned Innes, his face carefully blank.
Caroline bit her lip, keeping her gaze fixed on a painted seaside landscape while she adjusted her gown and clumsily scrambled off her husband’s lap. “I will be there directly.”
“The boy will be delighted to hear such welcome news, ma’am.”
Glaring at the butler’s retreating back, Caroline scowled. “Why haven’t you fired him?”
“Because he knows too much,” replied Stephen. “Probably just as well Innes interrupted us though. Since you won’t permit her to retire to the dower house, Mama will no doubt be down for breakfast soon.”
“Her first grandchild will be arriving soon. At least I hope so. And, now she has learned to clomp her heels or cough when approaching communal rooms. Besides, between all her charity committees and finally being allowed to sponsor your cousin’s come out…”
“We’re all going to help with that. With her parents, poor Samantha will need all the heavyweights she can get.”
She sniffed. “Heavyweights? Exactly what are you implying—”
“Caroline. Messenger.”
“Yes, yes, I’m getting there.”
“Caroline.”
“What?” she said irritably, waddling towards the door.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Pfft!” she replied, waving a hand so the infernal man didn’t see the smile tugging at her lips.
The foyer was far cooler than the morning room, and she rubbed her arms.
“You have a message for me?” she said politely.
The young, dark-haired boy swung around. “Please, Lady Westleigh, you need to come now. Mr. George said right away. That it’s an e-mer-gen-cy.”
Exasperation filled her.
Oh God. What had her twin done now?
~ * ~
To Love a Hellion was book 1 in The London Lords series. Book 2 (Rake to Riches, George's story) will be releasing late 2016. In the meantime try my erotic Regency romance Once Upon a Promise.
About Nicola Davidson
New Zealander Nicola Davidson always adored words, romance and history, so writing historical romance was a logical career progression…er, eventually. After completing a communications degree and journalism diploma she left to teach English in Taiwan and travel through Asia before returning home to work in television. Jobs in tertiary education, local government communications and print media followed, but the lords and ladies in her head wouldn’t hold their peace a moment longer and so began the years of professional daydreaming. When not chained to a computer writing wickedly sexy, witty and twisty turny stories, Nicola can be found ambling along a beach, cheering on the champion All Blacks rugby team or driving her nearest and dearest batty with her history geekisms, chocolate hoarding and complete lack of domestic skills.
For more information visit
www.nicola-davidson.com
LORD GALLANT
Lords of Night Street - Book 1
by
Wendy Vella
Born into wealth and privilege, the Lords of Night Street have vowed to serve those most in need. They navigate the glittering ballrooms of society and London’s criminal underworld with equal ease, leading the fight for love and justice.
The Earl of Attwood (Nick) and Miss Grace Esseltte, two characters who should really not marry, but circumstances put them together. Instead of getting the docile wife he wanted, Nick ends up with the scholarly Grace, a dowdy spinster with a ta
rt mouth and secrets of her own. Nick soon finds that while protecting prickly Grace, he must also confront dangers of the heart, as well as his foe.
Copyright © 2015 by Wendy Vella
CHAPTER ONE
Grace wanted to scratch her wrists. The stiff lace the seamstress had put around the cuffs was chafing. In fact the whole dress was uncomfortable, and it was not made better by her corset, which was laced so tightly she felt light-headed. Grace didn’t like corsets, and usually instructed her maid to tie it so that she could at least draw a deep breath, however today that was not the case, as today was her wedding day.
“Nicholas William Theodore Charles Carlisle, fifth Earl of Attwood, will thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?”
Lord, he even had more names than she, Grace realized as the vicar recited them. She shot the big man at her side a nervous look. His dark brown hair curled just as it should over his ears and rested on his perfectly starched snow-white collar. Everything about the man who was to be her husband was perfect, right down to his straight teeth. He was honorable as well, otherwise neither of them would be there in the church, because Grace had begged and pleaded with him not to marry her. She didn’t care about her reputation, after all, but he had simply looked at her with anger banked deep in his dark brown eyes, and said in a cold, clear voice that he did, and that was that.
Her clumsiness had finally been her downfall. Seeking solitude at the Holland ball, Grace had found a dimly lit parlor. Upon entering, her foot had caught the leg of a low table she had not seen, off balance she had also not seeing the earl, who had risen from a chair and reached to catch her. Grace had landed on top of his large body, her skirts raised, his hands on her, and with perfect timing society’s biggest gossip, Lady Coburn, and her lover Lord Haven had arrived. Thus, she was now about to marry the bloody fifth earl of somewhere!
He thought she’d set out to trap him. Grace knew this, even though he was too much a gentleman to mention it. She also knew he would hold it against her for many years to come, if not all of them.
She’d seen him before, one evening when Grace and her cousin Harry had attended a play at Covent Garden. He had been talking with other elegant people whilst she and her cousin had found their seats. An aristocrat to his toes, he had stood there with the chandelier above casting a glow around him, tall and distinguished, whilst several women had tried to attract his attention.
According to her best friend Ruth, well her only friend actually, he was a very correct and proper and highly respected man, who sat in the House of Lords, and rarely displayed unseemly emotion. In fact, he was the exact opposite of Grace.
Her cousin Harry had been in a lather once he was informed as to what she had done, and whom she was to marry. He, like she, had believed she would never wed, and also knew that she had no wish to. Harry had done all he could to change the earl’s mind, but he had not yielded. The earl had been perplexed as to why they would not want such a fortuitous union, considering Grace’s circumstances and lack of suitors.
“It is your cousin’s reputation at stake, sir,’ he had said in a cool voice that Harry had said made him quake in his boots. “One would think that marrying an earl would be in her favor, Lord Harrington, considering what the outcome would be if she did not.”
Grace did not want to be a countess; in fact, she’d thought herself a devout spinster. Even if she had one day married, she’d been sure her future spouse would be a bland, innocuous sort who did not demand over much of her so she was left to herself. But no, Grace was about to marry an earl, and not just any earl, the earl of the moment, according to Ruth, who rarely thought before she spoke, and viewed the world through a silly pink haze of romance. ‘I had heard a rumor that he was to marry a Duke’s daughter,’ Ruth had told Grace, to which she had replied, ‘excellent, I will not only acquire an unwanted husband, but also one who bears his new wife a grudge.’
Stealing another look at the man beside her, Grace wondered if it were true that he’d already decided to wed another, and was now nursing a broken heart as well as smoldering rage at what Grace had done. Not that he would ever let that show; a man of his standing did not display emotion, he was always in control. Grace was rarely controlled, even though she would dearly love to be. How was she to live up to this man? Her only redeeming feature was her ability to read and speak fluently in five languages. Outspoken and no great beauty; Grace could never hope to be the wife he should have, she thought, feeling queasy. Between the nerves and lack of food, she was not her usual robust self. She couldn’t live up to him, that much was obvious. The only thing passably elegant about her was her name, which her mother had felt would give her a good start in life, and was far too romantic for a woman who looked below average on a good day.
Grace was clumsy, bookish, and tended to laugh at things that others found no amusement in. She didn’t speak in hushed tones, nor hold her tongue when she should. In fact, according to her cousin she should have been born a man.
The earl was frowning now, and of course still looked handsome doing so. As if sensing her thoughts he turned his head, and Grace wanted to take a step backwards at the anger in his eyes. He turned away again and she was able to draw a breath.
He hated her, which to Grace would be understandable if she had indeed set out to trap him, but she hadn’t. And her worry now was that no amount of convincing on her part would change his mind on that fact, ever.
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Grace didn’t want to think about the earl’s large body, because then she’d think about the wedding night and when and if he would come to her room to consummate the marriage. It wasn’t that she was a prude, far from it. When she and Harry retired to the country each year, Grace was often seen striding about in breeches. She’d attended the births of animals, and even been there in the village when a woman had given birth. However, she’d never actually thought she’d ever have a child or experience a man doing what he did to give her a one.
“I pronounce that they be man and wife.”
The vicar smiled at them when the service was at a close, and Grace knew neither she nor the earl returned the gesture. Thankfully, there was to be no kissing to seal the union.
“Lady Attwood.”
“Pardon?” Grace looked at the earl as he spoke to her.
“Take my arm, my Lady,” he said in a smooth deep voice that was as perfect as the rest of him.
“Thank you,” Grace said, as she placed the tips of her fingers on his arm. Dear lord, she was a countess. The thought was not a pleasing one.
They walked slowly down the aisle, and she managed a tight smile for the people present, more a grimace really, and he simply nodded his dark head like royalty. Disaster struck as they reached the door and she did not lift her foot high enough to clear the step. Her toe struck it and she felt herself falling. Grace closed her eyes and braced for the inevitable impact, but it never came. Instead, two large hands righted her.
“Are you all right?”
Grace felt the hot flush of color fill her face as titters came from behind them.
“Thank you,” she said again. “I’m s-sorry for the embarrassment.” She added the last with a quick look at him before pulling away. His lips were in a tight line, and he was frowning, no doubt wishing himself wed to an elegant woman who would have floated down the aisle looking ravishing, not an ungainly spinster dressed in muddy colors.
“I’m not embarrassed,” he said, much to Grace’s surprise. “You tripped; it is hardly something I could be embarrassed over.”
“Give it time,” Grace whispered quietly. “I’m sure you’ll revise that opinion.”
She looked at him as she heard a soft snort, but his face was emotionless. She must have been mistaken. He gave her an elegant nod. Really, w
as there nothing this man did badly? Did he perhaps suck his food through his teeth, laugh in deep booming gusts, or snore? Not that Grace would share his bed long enough to find out the last one, but she hoped he did just the same. Something, anything, that would make him less than bloody perfect.
“Yes, well, we all have our crosses to bear, my Lady,” he then said, taking her arm again as he navigated them down the steps.
“Grace.”
“Pardon?” He lowered his head to hers, which was some distance below.
“My name is Grace, and I would like you to use it.”
She’d surprised him, because the fingers on her arm tightened briefly, and then relaxed.
“Grace,” he said, making it sound exotic, which instantly made her wish she’d not offered it, because Grace could not be any further from exotic if she tried. “Shall we greet our guests?”
She wanted to say no but instead nodded. Grace’s stomach hurt. It had been twisted with anxiety since she’d woken and the reality that today her life would change had dawned on her. Thoughts swirled around inside her already sore head about what her future held, and she wondered how she was to get through the next few hours.
The guests soon surrounded them and as they had married in St George’s, there were plenty of people on hand to witness the event. The season was also in full swing, so that ensured everyone knew that the earl’s wedding to Grace was today, as was witnessed by the carriages lining both sides of the streets. She tried to stand slightly back, as no one was addressing her in the hushed solicitous tones, accompanied by sympathetic pats on the arm, as they were her husband, but he did not allow that. Placing a hand in the middle of her spine, he propelled her forward, until she stood at his side. Grace found a fake smile, and kept it on her face as the guests came and went. It was like a funeral; there was no laughter or happiness, no rose petals, and were she of a romantic nature, she would be justifiably put out. However, she wasn’t a romantic, and this was a wedding to save her reputation, nothing more. It was loveless and cold, and that was a depressing thought, made more so by the fact that Grace was fairly certain her future loomed long and lonely, with little humor and laughter with a husband who hated her.
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