by Tanya Wilde
In fact, she’d like to see Mrs. Jeeves try to force her to do anything. It had not been a good sign that Claire was tied up and in the presence of some clearly deranged individuals, but nonetheless.
At that moment, a deafening crack sounded and the door burst open. Mrs. Jeeves yelped and sprang back from the bed while Nathan leaped from his chair.
Three imposing figures filled the chamber.
Thank God.
Claire had begun to worry, what with all this talk of marriage and force. Her eyes found Roland the moment she turned to the men. He stood behind the Bow Street Runners, his face pale and his eyes haunted. Claire had never loved a face more.
He pushed passed the Runners and hurried to her side.
“Gentlemen, it’s about time you arrived,” Claire piped up, mostly to reassure them all was well. “Not only have I been waiting for hours, I’m in the presence of a complete lunatic.”
“Our apologies, we had to wait until Mrs. Jeeves led us to you,” Mr. Hunt admitted.
“You knew it was me?” Mrs. Jeeves said, aghast.
Mr. Hunt gave a curt nod. “We suspected. A witness glimpsed a man scampering from Miss Northrup’s shop into yours. We weren’t sure about him,” Mr. Hunt’s gaze flicked to Nathan, “Now we are.”
“And we heard talk that your husband was looking to expand his shoe manufacturing business,” Dalziel said. “It wasn’t hard to piece it together after that.”
No doubt they thought Claire an easy target because she lived alone.
“Claire,” Roland breathed, working to free her from her bonds. “Are you alright? Did that bastard hurt you?” He shot a look over his shoulder. “If he did, I’ll gladly knock him out.”
“No, he didn’t hurt me.” She glanced over to the Runners. “Mrs. Jeeves manipulated him into assisting her.”
“That doesn’t change what he did,” Mr. Hunt argued.
“No,” Claire agreed. “But she’s the brains behind the plan.”
“I don’t give a damn whose plan it was,” Roland snapped. “He kidnapped you and broke into your home. He can rot in prison for all the care I give. I could have lost you.”
Claire’s pulse leaped. She lifted her hand to his stubbled cheek.
“What is it, Claire?” he said, gripping her hand on his cheek.
Yes.
But she held the word back, afraid to give him her answer. She loved him. She knew it then that she truly did, regardless of how little time she’d known him. Was it enough? Could he love her in return? And could love conquer their differences?
“Claire?”
“You were worried,” she murmured instead.
“Of course I was bloody worried. I turn my back for a few hours and you get yourself into this mess. That does not inspire faith in your abilities to stay out of trouble . . . or in my dear friends,” he growled the last over his shoulder.
Her heart constricted again.
She loved him.
Now what was she going to do about it?
Chapter 21
Later that same night
Roland stood outside Claire’s little shop, his heart flinging itself at the walls of his chest. Christ, even his palms were sweaty. He was wracked with nerves. In truth, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever get past the confusing welter of emotions. He still reeled from their first encounter, when his whole world had been turned upside down with shocking abruptness. However, after the little stunt by her kidnappers, there was no longer any doubt that his feelings were well and truly involved. He loved her. It was a fact.
Squinting, he peered through the glass window separating him from Claire. She stood behind her desk, staring with a focused brow at paperwork. He wanted to soothe those wrinkled lines with kisses.
He could watch her all night, but he’d rather do it from the vantage point of her arms. Drawing in a deep breath, he entered, a bell jingling to announce his arrival.
She looked up and he was once again arrested by her wide, expressive eyes.
“Roland,” she breathed, her lips stretching wide.
The blood in his veins warmed. So this was what it felt to fall head over heels for a woman. The beat of his heart didn’t quite belong to him anymore. Every breath he inhaled was for her smile, for the look on her face as she gazed up at him.
Roland trembled with all the hopes he cradled deep within him. He would never, as long as he lived, stop wanting her. Strange, he had always known what to say to women, but now when it mattered most, he was at a loss for words.
His eyes flicked to the sprig of mistletoe he clutched in his hand. “Did you know I’ve never received a gift for Christmas, not even as a child?”
She opened her mouth and no sound emerged for a moment. “Roland, that’s terrible. Every child deserves a gift for Christmas.”
“My parents did not believe in the custom,” he murmured.
She looked at him, silently, waiting for him to continue.
His free hand fished into his pocket and withdrew a small box. “I wanted you to know that because I brought you a gift, and if it’s not right, I can return it.”
Her eyes flicked between him and the box before she reached out with an unsteady hand.
“Gifts are not right or wrong, Roland. They are just gifts.”
Roland felt a sense of imbalance as he watched her lips part in a small gasp when she opened the lid.
Her gaze shot back to his in question. “A star pendant?”
“Were you expecting something else?” he asked, flashing her an unrepentant grin.
“I suppose not,” Claire drawled, a dry note seeping into her tone. But still, she traced a finger over the silver and sapphire pendant.
“The star represents a wish, and the color of your eyes.”
“What if I don’t have a wish to make?”
“Everyone has wishes.” He closed the distance between them in two easy strides, but waited for her eyes to rise and meet his before continuing. He held up the sprig of greenery in his hand. “For example, I wish to kiss you under the mistletoe.”
She snorted a little laugh, and then glanced up at the decorative plant. “While I’m all for making wishes come true, isn’t kissing beneath the mistletoe supposed to be unarranged?”
“Not when a wicked rogue has set his sights on you.” He placed a finger on her lips when they parted. “Especially a rogue that has fallen madly in love with you.”
“Oh Roland, we are from—”
“I know you’re going to say we’re from different worlds, Claire. And we are,” he interrupted. She looked away. “But to hell with that. To hell with it.”
Her eyes jumped back to his face. “You may not know this, but I’m quite the independent woman.”
“I’ve noticed,” he remarked with the lift of his brow.
“I won’t give up my shop.”
“Then I won’t ask you to. You want to run this shop? I’ll come in with you every day.”
“Ladies don’t run shops.”
“A lady I love does.”
Claire blew out a breath. “But Roland, even so, you are a rake.”
“I stopped being a rake the moment I met you, don’t ask me how or why. I can’t answer that. I only know that I did. I know I did because I know you have become essential to my being, Claire. I can live without other women. I can even live without wealth. But I can’t breathe without you. Do you understand?”
Roland didn’t give Claire a chance to reply this time. His head lowered to hers, catching her lips in a slow and sensual kiss. A shudder of fierce need rippled through him. He kissed her deeper still, his tongue sweeping alongside hers. His hands gently gripped the sides of her head, drawing her into him.
It wasn’t until she looped her hands around his neck that the tension in his shoulders eased. He tore his mouth away from hers, staring down into her eyes, imagining he rather looked like a desperate man.
“Do you trust me, Claire?”
She nodded, a hint of
a smirk crossing her lips. “More than I ought to.”
“Then marry me.”
He felt her heart speed up against his then, and the first stirrings of hope broke through his own. But instead of answering, she was thoughtful, glancing down at the pendant again. “I’ve no gift for you,” she murmured.
“You’re the only gift I want.”
A twinkle entered her eyes, and she gave a low, melodious laugh. “How about something more attainable? I am hardly a Christmas gift.”
He smiled at her. “How about you grant me a Christmas wish instead?”
She held his gaze in silence, but he could sense the same tremble he felt echoing in her.
“I wish you would marry me. Marry me. It is the only gift you will ever need to give me, one I don’t deserve at that. And so, it is the only wish I will ever make.” His hand lifted to trail the soft skin of her cheek. “For what it’s worth, I can offer you myself in return. My heart, my soul, my very being. I have been in the darkness a long time, Claire. I’ve seen too much of the world. I’ve been a rake, a scoundrel, and a rogue. But I can promise you that I will love you every day for all of your life and spend all of mine making you happy.”
He held his breath.
She didn’t break his gaze as she said, “I shall marry you, Roland, but not to grant a wish. I will marry you because I love you too, you rogue.”
Roland’s breath seized and his chest expanded. “Are you sure?” At which point he cursed his question. “I mean, damn right you will. I won’t have you take it back now,” he said, pulling her close and she laughed.
“I don’t wish to,” she whispered, slipping her arms around his waist.
“Good,” he growled, his lips brushing over hers, as the mistletoe dropped to the ground.
Thanks for reading!
Would you please take the time to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads?
If you’d like to learn more about my books or about me, please visit www.authortanyawilde.com or sign up for my newsletter. You can also find me on Twitter, Instagram, BookBub, Goodreads and Facebook.
Read on for excerpt on Give Your Heart A Rake.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tanya Wilde developed a passion for reading when she had nothing better to do than lurk in the library during her lunch breaks. Her love affair with pen and paper followed soon after she had devoured all of the library’s historical romance books!
When she’s not meddling in the lives of her characters or drinking copious amounts of coffee, she’s off on adventures with her partner in crime.
Wilde lives in a town at the foot of the Outeniqua Mountains, South Africa.
Give Your Heart a
Rake
Excerpt
Chapter 1
“They say he was skinned alive.”
Rosslyn Bakersfield’s head snapped up at that. She’d been so lost in thought, so engrossed in her list of potential husbands, that she’d quite lost track of the conversation. She glanced down at the scribbled names once more before folding the note and pocketing it.
Portia Evington pointed in the direction behind Rosslyn, who dutifully followed Portia’s finger to a man much more familiar to Rosslyn than she would have preferred. Her muscles contracted as her entire body tensed, her gaze drifting over his large form. A deep shudder tore through her. “Is that—?”
“Lord Craven in the flesh,” Portia confirmed with a nod.
Mary Adams, their other companion, snickered.
“And you say he was skinned alive?” Skepticism colored her disbelief.
“Yes, I overheard mother speak of it to her friends,” Portia said.
“I overheard the same from my aunt,” Mary agreed.
“You must be joking,” Ross said and gave her friends a hard look. “If he had been skinned alive, would that not make him dead?”
They seemed to ponder her statement and dismissed it. “That would make him without skin,” Mary put in.
Portia nodded.
“Then what do you imagine covers his face? A mask? Porcelain?”
Portia and Mary both scrunched their brows together and studied the earl with interest. Both their heads were tilted to the side, reminding Ross of two little puppies.
“Perhaps his face and hands were spared,” Portia murmured.
“That does make sense,” Mary once again agreed.
Ross glanced away but failed to keep her face free of incredulity. Not because she believed them, goodness no, but because of the empty-headedness on their part. Surely they did not believe such hogwash? But knowing Portia and Mary as she did, they had in all likelihood eaten up every gossipy word like butter cake.
For two years, she had drawn breath without setting eyes on Lord Craven—had not seen him since he came back from the war and informed her of her fiancé’s death. Though she could hardly claim his acquaintance, she’d known Alfred to only sing the man’s praises. She had never met the earl until that day—the day he arrived on her doorstep with the locket she’d given Alfred as a token of her love. It had been clear that Craven hadn’t even meant to inform her, having instead come to tell her father the news of Alfred’s death. But her father had been away on business at the time.
“I suppose one will never know,” Ross murmured in distraction.
“What was that?” Portia asked.
“Oh, nothing, I was just wondering whether you’ve heard any news of Lady Lucinda.”
The topic set the girls off in a chatty and unremarkably detailed account of Lady Lucinda’s elopement with the clumsy Lord Beaverstoke, which of course Ross already knew all about but had wanted to change the subject to a safer theme.
Her return to London was supposed to symbolize a new start. So far escaping her past remained a fruitless venture. From the moment she arrived a week ago, Lord Craven’s vexing name haunted her every step, like a leopard stalking its unsuspecting prey. Lord Craven, the name on almost every gossipmonger’s lips, seemed to fascinate all of London. By all accounts, he was rumored to be a notorious rake, snatching young girls from their mother’s arms and ravishing them. Nothing was ever mentioned of his past, however, and indeed, it appeared as though nobody had ever been informed he’d fought in the war.
Had Ross known the earl had taken up residence in London, she might have postponed her husband hunting until she was certain he’d departed. As rude as that may sound, she did not desire any more reminders of what she’d lost two years ago. The pain, an endless pit of torment, had haunted her for the better part of those years and only recently had she recovered some form of spark, and with it an urge for companionship. Well, that and her mother had grown tired of her sulking about their home in a tireless fashion.
“You have suffered a terrible loss, Rosslyn, but that doesn’t mean your life has stopped, you still age with each passing day, my dear. Alfred would not have wanted you to close yourself off from the world. He’d have wanted you to find love again—preferably before your skin resembles that of a dry prune!”
Ross flinched as she recalled her mother’s reprimand, touching the flesh of her hand for good measure. Ultimately, it had been those wise words that had prompted her eagerness to reenter society—though on her own terms. She would marry, by all means, but only to a man who posed no danger to her heart. Her husband should also be in possession of mild mannerism, so as to not be bothered to tell her what to do or how to do it. She’d give him an heir and perhaps a spare, though she would prefer a daughter. They would all live a happy, entirely uncomplicated life.
Yet it was sad to say her mother may have been correct in her attempt to get Ross to return to society as soon as possible. In the two years since she stepped out of the haut ton to mourn her beloved Alfred, not only had most of the desired gentlemen married, but even the most timorous of gentlemen had managed to secure wives. Thus, her list of eligible husbands was one of meager scrapings. That should have made the choice easy, except the pickings for someone her age were even slimmer. Most of the un
attached gentlemen were either too young or too old. At one and twenty, still a fledgling truth be told, she appeared to be overlooked.
Luckily, love needn’t be factored in. So after eliminating the too young and the too old, she’d proceeded to scratch off all the other men that did not meet her criteria: too rakish, too rotund, too smelly, too drunk, too little hair, too many teeth—and so forth. Not that she saw anything particularly wrong with those features, but since she’d be spending the duration of her life with this man, share a bed with the gent, and do her duty by him, it seemed to her that he should at the very least be passable. So the list of already meager scrapings had been reduced to a whopping number of six gentlemen.
A painless task, no?
“He is very handsome.”
“Who?” Ross asked, having been brought back to the present by Portia’s statement. “Lord Beaverstoke?”
“No, Lord Craven,” Mary whispered.
Oh, blast, back to Craven again.
“Why are you whispering?” Ross asked.
“Because he is looking this way!” Portia murmured with a giggle.
And immediately she wished she hadn’t. Asked, that is.
Her head snapped his way, and indeed, he was looking straight at them. To her utter dismay, their eyes locked for a brief second before she snapped her head back again.
She did not need this now.
It was hard, no, impossible to imagine how Alfred had become friends with the earl. Her fiancé had been a sweet and kind man, not rude or obnoxious or…heartless like Craven. Yes, “heartless” was the precise word that came to mind when one gazed upon Craven’s stony and chiseled countenance.
“I think he is staring at me,” Mary gushed with an unmistakable note of pleasure.
“Don’t be daft, his eyes are fixed on me,” Portia said. “It’s obvious by the way his body is angled in my direction.”
Lord, take me now.