The couple on the bed noticed nothing but each other.
About Patricia Rice
With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today's bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance's hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.
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Acknowledgments
Although The English Heiress was written and purchased by a major publisher shortly after the release of The Marquess, for various business reasons, Michael’s book was never printed. For years I had requests for Michael’s story, but I was caught up in new contracts, the historical romance market changed, and I knew the once sprawling tome would need severe editing. The story languished on floppy disks and in various paper drafts in my basement.
Then technology offered new opportunities, and I finally saw a chance to resurrect those disks and scan those drafts. I pieced together lost chapters, edited and cut, but after so much work, I still only had raw copy.
That’s where Book View Café stepped in. I had two marvelous editors, Jennifer Stevenson and Sherwood Smith. They whacked at plot holes and all the old-fashioned verbiage that once adorned my Regencies and successfully pulled it into shape for modern readers. The story remains the same, but it’s 20,000 words lighter and immensely more readable. I couldn’t have done it without them. I owe you guys major big time!
And blessings on everyone else in the BVC co-op who made this book finally happen. No matter what anyone says, books do not mysteriously appear without a lot of hard work.
The cover was designed by the talented Kim Killion of Hot Damn Design, who always knows what I need better than I do.
Finally, I thank the many, many readers who have asked me for Michael’s story so I never gave up on him. This book’s for you!
Copyright & Credits
The English Heiress
Patricia Rice
Book View Café Edition July 10, 2012
Copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice
ISBN: 978-1-61138-153-5
Cover by Kimberly Killion
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About Book View Café
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A Sample Chapter: The Marquess
The Marquess
A Sample Chapter
Patricia Rice
Book View Café Edition
June 12, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-61138-173-3
Copyright © 1997 Patricia Rice
www.bookviewcafe.com
Chapter One
May 1817
Flames shot through the lower windows and licked at the eaves. Smoke billowed in thick black clouds blending with the night sky. Women garbed only in cotton nightclothes hugged each other in horror and screamed hysterically from the lawn as a beam crashed in the interior.
All eyes turned with despair and helplessness to the slender female materializing in the upper-story window. Fire ate at the old wood just below her. Smoke nearly concealed her as she lowered another bundle of valued possessions to the ground.
“The woman’s mad as a hatter,” an auburn-haired footman exclaimed in disbelief as the servants dived to sort through the rescued valuables.
Dillian ignored the new servant’s comment as the falling blanket gave her an idea. Even as someone handed her the rescued bag of coins representing all her worldly goods—outside her father’s useless papers—her mind returned to the blanket.
Blanche played the role of martyred heroine well, but Dillian had no intention of allowing her best friend, cousin, and employer to die a heroine’s death. She had no intention of allowing her to die at all.
“Grab a corner of that blanket!” she yelled to the footman and the burly butler. “Hold it out flat so Lady Blanche can jump!”
A wail of joy replaced cries of distress as people grasped Dillian’s idea. When the lady next appeared in the upper-story window, they had the sturdy blanket spread between the fingers of a dozen servants yelling, “Jump!”
Dillian’s stomach knotted in fear as Lady Blanche hesitated. Fire had already destroyed the old wooden stairs, trapping Blanche in the upper stories. Flames had charred all the downstairs windows and worked its way through the centuries-old floorboards.
Only Blanche’s quickness had seen the household roused and sent to safety, but she hadn’t been quick enough to save herself. Blanche had always been too good for this world, seeing to others before she saw to herself. Selfishness was not a concept Blanche understood. Sometimes, it made Dillian want to scream. Right now she could scale that wall and wring her cousin’s neck.
“Jump, Blanche! Now!” she shouted over the roar of fire and hysteria.
For a brief instant through the swirl of smoke, Dillian saw Blanche turn despairing eyes in her direction. Then the wind caught the flame and sent it flying upward.
Screams pierced the night air as the figure in long blond tresses disappeared behind the inferno.
The blazing figure leaping from the upper window was barely recognizable when it finally soared in the direction of the blanket. Shaking hands lowered the net to the ground.
Tears rolled down the cheeks of the liveried footman as he smothered flaming night-clothes with the blanket. Auburn hair gleaming like the fire behind him, he lifted Blanche gently, and a path opened through the crowd.
Hysterical shrieks died to quiet sobs.
Refusing to resign herself to the inevitable, Dillian fought her way through the crowd to follow him.
Blanche couldn’t die. Dillian would slit her own throat and stake herself in a lion’s den before she would let Blanche die.
And if Dillian discovered Neville had been responsible for that fire, she would throw the grand and glorious young duke into the lion’s mouth ahead of her.
* * *
Clinging to the rear postilion of the gleaming black barouche in which the footman was stealing Blanche from the physician’s care, Dillian shivered in equal parts fear and cold. The vehicle swayed through the darkness concealing a rutted, overgrown drive.
Was the footman in the duke’s employ? Where was he taking Blanche? She had hoped to a better physician, but that dream crashed with their race into the empty countryside.
Taking a curve at a reckless rate, the carriage tilted, and she grasped the rail in white-knuckled terror, not seeing the edifice looming ahead until the vehicle rumbled straight for it.
S
he widened her eyes in disbelief at the gothic monstrosity silhouetted against the starlit sky, like some fable from a storybook. Nothing else was visible. Not a single light glowed in the whole of that black sprawling monolith. Where in the devil was the madman taking them?
Already so terrified she could scarcely unbend her fingers from the rail, Dillian felt the carriage roll to a stop at this unwelcoming edifice. As the driver leapt down and pounded on a massive oak door, she glanced around for a hiding place.
She found no lack of concealment in the rambling thorns and untrimmed shrubbery at the base of the mansion. She had only to concern herself with keeping her gown from being torn from her back.
The gown was the least of her worries as she pried her fingers free and darted into the bushes. The worst of her fear centered on the helpless occupant of the carriage. She need only focus on Blanche and all else seemed trivial.
The insistent shouts and knocks of the carriage driver on the massive doors of the manor brought a creaking groan of aging wood. Beyond terror now, Dillian watched in astonishment as a tall lean figure materialized in the opening, the folds of his cloak flapping in the cold spring wind as he listened to the driver’s hushed arguments. Not until this grim specter loped down the stone stairs to remove Blanche from the carriage did Dillian realize her peril.
As the black creature carried Blanche through the gaping maw of the gothic cavern, Dillian realized she would have to enter after him.
* * *
The eighth Marquess of Effingham didn’t notice the slight shadow slipping in behind him as he carried his sleeping burden into the manor. One more shadow among many didn’t disturb him. He’d lived with shadows long enough to welcome their privacy.
He cursed under his breath as the doddering clock on the landing struck eleven chimes and one expiring whistle. He cursed the clock, cursed the purloined coach, cursed its driver who now raced up the dust-coated stairway ahead of him. He cursed the stairs as he climbed them carrying the helpless bundle in his arms. He cursed the generations of Effinghams who had sunk all their spare capital into expanding this hideous architecture into a gothic village one needed a horse and carriage to traverse.
He hadn’t begun to exhaust his extensive repertoire of curses when he saw Michael disappear down the entire length of the hallway and enter the farthest room. At times like these he suspected Michael of seeking subtle revenge for the differences in their heritages, but he knew Michael too well to believe that for long. His appearance here now with this unconscious woman meant he’d embarked on another of his harebrained adventures.
Were it not for the fact that his brother had a heart wider than his chest, the marquess would have turned around and gone back to the carriage. He and Michael had been through too much together, however, for Gavin to disregard his brother’s summons now.
Besides, Michael acted as Gavin’s eyes and ears to the outside world, so the marquess indulged his idiosyncrasies. The old war wound in his side ached as he carried his light burden to the end of the hall. The woman wore a voluminous nightshift that trailed on the floor and a nightcap that left her long blond hair falling over his arm. In the furtive shadows of this unlit hallway, Gavin couldn’t see more than that.
She stirred as he reached the room where Michael already knelt at the fireplace. Laying her down on one of the few whole mattresses left in the house, the marquess relinquished his burden and strode toward the window to pull back the draperies.
“Don’t!” Michael warned, turning from his task. “Light might endanger her eyes. It’s freezing in here. Where’s the coal?”
Gavin swung around to confront the smaller man speaking so peremptorily. Dragged from his slumbers by Michael’s knocks, he wore only the breeches and stockings he’d fallen asleep in. The cloak and hood he had pulled around him before answering the door served both as blanket for warmth and protection from prying eyes. His voice was cold when he spoke.
“It’s May. I haven’t bought any. I wasn’t precisely expecting guests.”
“You have one now. I’ll find some firewood.”
Cloaked, Gavin remained in the shadows as Michael departed, watching as the woman on the bed stirred. She would no doubt waken soon. He’d known Michael to go for firewood and disappear for weeks. The marquess wondered if it cost anything to commit a relative to Bedlam.
The soft moans from the bed tore at what remained of his softer insides, but he could do nothing. He didn’t dare light a candle or lamp—even should he have one—to examine the extent of her injuries.
Gavin sighed with relief when he heard Michael’s footsteps pounding down the hall. His bloody aristocratic stockinged toes had practically frozen to the floor while waiting. Gavin had half a mind to slip out through the secret passage and leave Michael to his patient, but then he might never get his questions answered.
Michael carried a candle and a coal scuttle filled with wood chips and kindling when he returned. Holding the candlestick high, he searched the darkened corners until he found his brother’s frozen shadow. “Damn you, Gavin, she’s waking. Get out here and make her comfortable.”
“You think she might be comfortable clinging to the ceiling and screaming?” Gavin asked dryly, not moving from his hiding place in the shadows as Michael arranged his fuel in the fireplace.
Michael threw the cloaked marquess a glare and uttered a few pithy phrases of his own. “Her eyes are bandaged. She can’t see a thing. She may never see anything again. You’ll just be a voice and hands to her. You needn’t worry about your pretty phiz.”
Perhaps one-tenth of Michael’s tales contained some portion of truth. This particular tale had the sound of tawdry drama from beginning to end. Still, the fact remained that a real woman lay in that bed, apparently moaning in pain. Reluctantly, Gavin stepped forward to see to her comfort.
“Who in hell is she?” he muttered as Michael struggled with the fire. “And why the devil did you bring her here?”
The figure on the bed suddenly lay still. Gavin suspected she could hear him, and he cursed his uncouth tongue. He had lived too long from civilization.
“Her name’s Blanche Perceval. She’s an heiress. Someone set her house on fire. She made sure all the servants escaped, then found herself trapped. So she rescued her companion’s life savings and flung the purse out the window for lack of anything better to do.” Michael’s tone didn’t hold the same sarcasm as his words.
“By the time the servants found a blanket for her to jump into...” He shrugged and turned away from the fireplace to watch the woman on the bed. “The surgeon says she’s lucky to be alive. She’s a heroine. I thought you’d appreciate the irony.”
With small flames finally burning in the grate, Michael carried the candle to the bed. Its flickering light made a ghostly gleam across the figure on the sheets. For the first time, Gavin realized she wore bandages and not a nightcap. The linen covered her eyes, but not the raw burns on her cheeks. His fingers involuntarily traced the scars on his own jaw.
“She belongs in a hospital,” he said curtly, turning away, leaving Michael to adjust the pillow beneath her singed hair and draw the sheets over her.
“I told you. Someone set her house on fire. I couldn’t take any chances.”
Gavin knew he didn’t want to hear more. If it weren’t for Michael, he’d lead a relatively peaceful existence in this decrepit hermitage he’d burrowed into. Michael, however, had never been one for staying quietly at home. Michael had always kept Gavin on a permanent carriage ride to hell with a lunatic for driver. Not for the first time, the marquess considered exiling his younger brother to one of their distant American relatives.
Not that any of those stuffy Puritans would take a man of twenty-six years who routinely masqueraded as anything from a gentleman’s gentleman to a street magician. This time, he’d apparently taken on the role of footman, judging by the sooty livery.
Gavin never knew what caused Michael to behave as he did. He just knew his brother operated un
der his own peculiar sense of morality, which had nothing to do with society’s. Their relatives had disowned him at an early age, which had only reinforced Michael’s tendencies to behave as if spawned by the devil.
But Gavin knew the man behind the deceptive facade. For that reason, he didn’t throw his brother out now. Gavin had sheltered untold legions of Michael’s homeless, maimed, and starving creatures before, but this was the first time in recent memory he had hauled home a grown female.
Gavin had a niggling remembrance of a grimy waif brought home in the middle of a blizzard once. Unfortunately, Michael’s propensity for rescuing the needy didn’t differentiate between the honest and the villainous. Once the snow cleared, that same waif had disappeared with the last coins for their food. Gavin clung to his wariness now.
Suspecting the invalid feigned sleep, the marquess gave a jerk of his head and indicated the hallway. Michael obediently followed him out of the room.
“Are you telling me you brought her here to protect her from arsonists?” Gavin demanded, not concealing his incredulity.
“You’d rather I leave her to be murdered in her bed?”
“I’d rather you find somewhere else to take her! Bloody damn hell, Michael! What am I supposed to do with her? The servants think the place haunted as it is. That silly chit of a maid would take off screaming the first time the wind blew around the corner if I asked her to come up here.”
“We can’t tell the servants she’s here. They’ll spread it all over town, and the wrong person might hear it. You’ll have to do it yourself, old chap. I’ve got to get that carriage to Dover or somewhere and lead any pursuit off the track.”
Gavin swung around and paced the hall, cloak flying as he flung his arms wide to emphasize his words. “You’re a bloody lunatic, that’s what you are! What in hell am I supposed to do with her? Send her shrieking into the night the moment she catches sight of me?”
Patrica Rice Page 31