The Carhart Series

by Courtney Milan

  She took off her spectacles and turned away in a gesture so regally dismissive that he had to look twice to remind himself that she was, in fact, sitting in a heap of skirts at his feet. That from this awkward angle above her, he could see straight down the neckline of her gown—right at the one part of her figure that didn’t strike him as severe, but soft—

  Save that for later, he admonished himself, and adjusted his gaze up a few inches. Because she’d turned away, he saw for the first time a faint scar on her left cheek, a tangled white spider web of crisscrossed lines.

  “Wherever your mouse has wandered off to, it’s not here,” Ames was saying. “Likely she’s in the lady’s retiring room. I say we go back to the fun. You can always tell your mother you had words with her in the library.”

  “True enough,” Gardley said. “And I don’t need to mention that she wasn’t present for them—it’s not as if she would have said anything in response, even if she had been here.”

  Footsteps receded; the door creaked once more, and the men walked out.

  Miss Pursling didn’t look at Robert once they’d left, not even to acknowledge his existence with a glare. Instead, she pushed herself to her knees, made a fist, and slammed it into the hard back of the sofa—once, then twice, hitting it so hard that it moved forward with the force of her blow—all one hundred pounds of it.

  He caught her wrist before she landed a third strike. “There now,” he said. “You don’t want to hurt yourself over him. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes wide.

  He didn’t see how any man could call this woman timid. She positively crackled with defiance. He let go of her arm before the fury in her could travel up his hand and consume him. He had enough anger of his own.

  “Never mind me,” she said. “Apparently I’m not capable of helping myself.”

  He almost jumped. He wasn’t sure how he’d expected her voice to sound—sharp and severe, like her appearance suggested? Perhaps he’d imagined her talking in a high squeak, as if she were the rodent she’d been labeled. But her voice was low, warm, and deeply sensual. It was the kind of voice that made him suddenly aware that she was on her knees before him, her head almost level with his crotch.

  Save that for later, too.

  “I’m a rodent. All rodents squeal when poked.” She punched the sofa once again. She was going to bruise her knuckles if she kept that up. “Are you planning to poke me, too?”

  “No.” Stray thoughts didn’t count, thank God; if they did, all men would burn in hell forever.

  “Do you always skulk behind curtains, hoping to overhear intimate conversations?”

  Robert felt the tips of his ears burn. “Do you always leap behind sofas when you hear your fiancé coming?”

  “Yes,” she said defiantly. “Didn’t you hear? I’m like a book that has been mislaid. One day, one of his servants will find me covered in dust in the middle of spring-cleaning. ‘Ah,’ the butler will say. ‘That’s where Miss Wilhelmina has ended up. I had forgotten all about her.’”

  Wilhelmina Pursling? What a dreadful appellation.

  She took a deep breath. “Please don’t tell anyone. Not about any of this.” She shut her eyes and pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Please just go away, whoever you are.”

  He brushed the curtains to one side and made his way around the sofa. From a few feet away, he couldn’t even see her. He could only imagine her curled on the floor, furious to the point of tears.

  “Minnie,” he said. It wasn’t polite to call her by so intimate a name. And yet he wanted to hear it on his tongue.

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’ll give you twenty minutes,” he said. “If I don’t see you downstairs by then, I’ll come up for you.”

  For a few moments, there was no answer. Then: “The beautiful thing about marriage is the right it gives me to monogamy. One man intent on dictating my whereabouts is enough, wouldn’t you think?”

  He stared at the sofa in confusion before he realized that she thought he’d been threatening to drag her out.

  Robert was good at many things. Communicating with women was not one of them.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he muttered. “It’s just…” He walked back to the sofa and peered over the leather top. “If a woman I cared about was hiding behind a sofa, I would hope that someone would take the time to make sure she was well.”

  There was a long pause. Then fabric rustled and she looked up at him. Her hair had begun to slip out of that severe bun; it hung around her face, softening her features, highlighting the pale whiteness of her scar. Not pretty, but…interesting. And he could have listened to her talk all night.

  She stared at him in puzzlement. “Oh,” she said flatly. “You’re attempting to be kind.” She sounded as if the possibility had never occurred to her before. She let out a sigh, and gave him a shake of her head. “But your kindness is misplaced. You see, that—” she pointed toward the doorway where her near-fiancé had disappeared “—that is the best possible outcome I can hope for. I have wanted just such a thing for years. As soon as I can stomach the thought, I’ll be marrying him.”

  There was no trace of sarcasm in her voice. She stood. With a practiced hand, she smoothed her hair back under the pins and straightened her skirts until she was restored to complete propriety.

  Only then did she stoop, patting under the sofa to find where she’d tossed the knight. She examined the chessboard, cocked her head, and then very, very carefully, set the piece back into place.

  While he was standing there, watching her, trying to make sense of her words, she walked out the door.

  Want to read the rest of this book? You can buy The Duchess War now.

  Excerpts

  Once Upon a Masquerade

  Tamara Hughes

  Self-made shipping magnate Christopher Black first spies Rebecca Bailey at a masquerade ball and is captivated by her refreshing naïveté and sparkling beauty. But when Christopher’s investigation of the murder of his best friend leads him straight to Rebecca, he fears his ingénue may be a femme fatale in disguise. Now he must decide if he can trust the woman he’s come to love, or if her secrets will be his downfall.

  REBECCA’S FEET HURT SO badly they burned. “Where are we going?” she wheezed, pulling back on Christopher’s hand.

  “Just a bit further,” he assured her, his grip tightening.

  A mild saltiness seasoned the damp air. When they rounded the corner, she understood why. They’d reached the harbor. Merchant vessels towered over the wooden docks along the coastline as waves lapped against their massive hulls.

  The hollow rapping of their boots on the pier jarred her frazzled nerves as he led her down the wooden path to a merchantman. “Welcome to The Fair Maiden,” he gasped out when they reached the gangplank. “I’ve been captain of this ship for the last several years.”

  He took her elbow and assisted her up the ridged panel. A man on deck approached them from the shadows, and she tensed, ready to run, but Christopher’s step never slowed.

  “Jack, let me know immediately if anyone comes near this vessel,” he said.

  “Aye, Captain,” the sailor replied, barely sparing her a glance.

  Crossing the deck, Rebecca huddled against the chilly breeze off the waters, vaguely recalling this ship as the one Christopher had repaired with his father.

  They passed through a door and descended a staircase into the darkness below. At the base of the steps, he lit a lantern hanging from a peg and held it aloft.

  “Why are we here?” she asked, her feet shuffling as exhaustion settled in, making each step a chore.

  “This was the closest, safest place I could think of.”

  They entered a modest room, and he shut the door.

  “Is this your cabin?” she asked, spying a bed in the corner.

  He set the lantern on a bed table bolted into the wall. “It was.” Christopher stripped off his jacket and tossed it onto
the end of the bed before running a hand through his untamed hair. “What just happened back in the street?”

  She dropped into a desk chair. “I don’t know.” Numbness settled into her bones. Her situation was hopeless.

  “You don’t know,” he echoed, dumbfounded. “All right then. What were you doing there? From your clothing, I suspect you knew what manner of place you planned to go.”

  “I borrowed the dress,” she muttered. “I…I had to see someone.” Her father was gone, running for his life. Without her to help him… A mist of tears blurred her vision. She didn’t think she could bear it if something happened to him. He was all she had left.

  “Must have been someone important.”

  “It was.” Staring at a black knot in the floorboards, she shook her head. “It would be best if you didn’t get involved in this.”

  “Best for whom?”

  “For both of us,” she croaked. Each time she saw Christopher Black, she dreamed of things she couldn’t have.

  He knelt before her and grasped her hands. “Look at me.”

  Lord, she didn’t want to. It hurt too much.

  “Rebecca, look at me,” he insisted as his fingers nudged her chin higher.

  Lifting her gaze, she willed herself to stop dreaming.

  “Talk to me. Let me help you. You could have been killed.”

  The eerie groan of the ship’s hull echoed the emptiness in Rebecca’s chest. “What does it matter? No one would care.”

  “Don’t say that.” His voice cracked, and his palm smoothed over her cheek, the touch so tender, she nestled her face into his work-worn skin. “God help me, I care.”

  She clenched her eyes shut, and tears slid down her cheeks. His words seeped through the numbness and revived her aching heart.

  “Don’t cry.” Christopher’s lips grazed her face, kissing her tears away. “You’re safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Large hands cradled her head, and his mouth settled lightly on her lips.

  With a shuddering breath, she kissed him back, refusing to listen to the doubts in her head—the sensible voice that had sent Christopher away. Drawn to the comfort he offered, she slipped off her seat and knelt before him on the floor.

  His arms engulfed her in a warm embrace, clutching her to his chest. “When I heard you scream, I almost went out of my mind. My God, I thought I was going to lose you.”

  Her skin tingled from his quiet confession. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to her with such devotion. She clung to him, drinking in the safety of his arms. “Thank you for saving me,” she whispered.

  Christopher drew back. “You saved yourself. You’re an amazing woman.”

  Her hand rose to his clean-shaven cheek. The flickering glow of the lantern cast shadows around them, but the lines of worry were unmistakable.

  This man had occupied her thoughts day and night. He’d defended her against sharp tongues, advised her and taken care of her despite her rejection. Now he’d saved her life.

  Her lips brushed over his. The dreams she’d held at bay drifted through her mind as his mouth responded to her touch. Achingly sweet, his lips trembled, and his hands roamed over her back.

  The world outside of the ship disappeared, washed away by the constant lap of waves against the hull. The dangers they’d escaped, society’s godforsaken rules, even her father faded from her thoughts. For this one night, she would allow herself a moment of happiness.

  Her hands skimmed up his solid chest. The heat of his body radiated through the fine fabric, warming her fingertips. He stared down at her hands, and swallowed hard, desire smoldering in his eyes. With brazenness she didn’t realize she possessed, she unknotted his necktie and slid the cloth free, dropping it to the floor.

  “Rebecca, I don’t think—”

  Shrugging out of her cloak, she lifted a finger to his lips, halting his words. “I want to touch you.”

  Under his watchful eye, she removed his vest and unfastened the buttons of his starched white shirt. The coin he’d worn to the masquerade ball glistened in the lamp light.

  With the tip of her finger, she touched the warm metal and moved on. Her hands smoothed over his hot skin, exploring the unfamiliar contours of his bare chest, her fingers floating over the taut muscles. She reveled in the restrained power just beneath her fingertips. “You’re beautiful.”

  Impulsively, she bent forward and tasted the bared hollow of his throat, and he sucked in his breath. The mild saltiness of his skin tantalized her tongue.

  His hand lifted her chin, and his lips captured hers in a hungry kiss, his mouth feverish, demanding. A thrilling tremor raced from her stomach to her toes, and she parted her lips to his probing tongue, eager to experience more.

  Returning the fervid play of his mouth, of his tongue, she welcomed the pleasant fog that stemmed all thought. Her insides fluttered with each small tug that trailed from her neck to her waist as Christopher freed her dress buttons. The hooks of her corset followed with a few well-placed yanks, and soon cool air touched her flesh. A shiver passed through her when his warm palm cupped her breast through her cotton chemise.

  Nowhere in her mind did she think to stop him. Heaven help her, she craved his touch like a dying woman given a last chance at life.

  Her hands roamed freely through his jet-black curls as his lips brushed along her jaw.

  “Your scent haunts me,” he groaned, his warm exhale tickling her ear. Wet kisses and soft nips trailed down her throat.

  Want to read more? Once Upon a Masquerade by Tamara Hughes is available now.

  Romancing the Rumrunner

  Michelle McLean

  Jessica Harlan is known only as The Phoenix, the owner of the most popular speakeasy in town. When Gumshoe Anthony Solomon goes undercover for the Feds to catch The Phoenix, Anthony never suspected the notorious rumrunner would be a dame—or that he’d be so drawn to the feisty little minx. They play a dangerous game of cat and mouse, knowing they can't trust the other, but unable to walk away. While their hearts dodge the crossfire, the mobsters raise the stakes, and even the Phoenix may not rise again.

  THE LITTLE BELL over the shop door tinkled and Jessie looked up to greet her new customer. She froze, struck momentarily goofy at the sight of the man in her doorway. She’d heard the expression “tall, dark, and handsome” before but had never seen a man who embodied it so completely.

  She leaned on her broom mid-sweep to look up at the man through her lashes.

  His broad shoulders nearly filled the narrow doorway, his suit jacket fitting a little too tightly across his biceps. The suit itself was good quality but had obviously seen better days. He took off his hat and the sunlight gleaming through the glass highlighted the slight shades of brown in his black hair. And those deep, chocolate brown eyes…well, if he wasn’t just the bee’s knees, she didn’t know who was.

  His full lips twitched into a smile and he cleared his throat. “Excuse me, are you open?”

  “Oh!” Jessie said, startled back into awareness. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten about the broom and when she straightened, taking her weight off the handle, the bristles flung tiny bits of dust and debris straight into the man’s face.

  He gasped and stumbled back, brushing at his face.

  “Oh, horsefeathers!” All the blood rushed to Jessie’s cheeks and she slapped her hand over her mouth, mortified she’d let that slip. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  The man blinked frantically, his eyes watering. “I think I’ve gotten a bit of something in my eye.”

  “Here.” Jessie grabbed his arm and led him to a stool behind the counter. “Let me see.”

  The man straddled the stool and tilted his face up for Jessie to see. There wasn’t much space behind the counter and in order for her to get close enough to look in his eye she had to stand between his legs. A position that made her cursed cheeks flame even hotter. Her father had always teased her about her penchant for blushing. Could read her emotions in her cheeks,
he’d said. He’d affectionately called her “Rosie” from the first moment he’d seen her blush. He’d thought it was sweet. Jessie despised it.

  She gave herself a mental slap and tried to pull it together. She’d probably blinded the poor man and all she could think about was how the muscled leg encased in his smart pinstriped suit was brushing against her thighs. It had been a while since she’d been this close to any man, let alone one handsome enough to make her sigh at the very sight of him.

  She forced her attention to his eye, tilting his head farther up to the light. She pried his lid open and stared straight into his deep brown iris. The color reminded her of a bar of dark chocolate she’d once seen melted on the pavement outside…all silky smooth and utterly decadent.

  “Do you see anything?” he asked.

  Oh. Right. “Hang on. Yep, I think there is a little bit of something here…” She carefully swiped at the corner of his eye and removed the speck of dirt that clung there.

  The man rubbed at his eye and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I’m so sorry about that. I feel terrible. You must let me make it up to you. The chops are divine today. How about one on the house? It’s the least I can do.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said, standing and coming around to the front of the counter. “I would like the chops. Two of them, actually. But I’m more than happy to pay for them.”

  “No, really, I insist,” Jessie said, quickly wrapping up the best cuts she had available. “I won’t take a dime.”

  “Well, then.” He took the meat and his smile had the heat flaming in Jessie’s face again. “If you won’t let me pay for these, at least tell me your name.”

  “Jessica. Jessica Harlan.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Harlan. I’m Tony Solomon.”

  “It’s Miss Harlan. The shop belonged to my father before he died.”

  His brows rose faintly. “I’m sorry for his passing. You run it on your own now?”

  Jessie nodded, more warily this time. She didn’t like to impart too much personal information.