He rotated in a slow circle in the drawing room at The Grand Palace on the Thames, taking in the worn settees and comfortable mismatched chairs filled with laughing people, the thick old rug that all but hugged one’s feet, the fire leaping in the fine old fireplace, before he abruptly, reflexively—the way he probably would the rest of his life—stopped to admire Mrs. Emily Massey sitting beside Mrs. Lucinda Farraday on the settee. Emily was radiant in a marigold silk, one of the things he’d bought for her with his share of the Blue Rock gang reward money. Emily was grateful for such a lovely dress, she’d told him, but all she really wanted was him.
“I ask you!” he’d said, awestruck, when he told Captain Hardy what she’d said. “Is any man luckier?”
Tristan was no more comfortable with sticky sentiment than he’d ever been. Happiness had made him no more verbose or more patient with fools. He wouldn’t debate the finer points of luck, given that he was certain he was the luckiest man alive.
“You are lucky indeed, Massey,” he’d told him.
They were toasting three weddings with champagne, and singing and pianoforte music was threatened.
Or rather, imminent.
Doubtless he’d be impressed into singing. If it made Delilah’s face light up with pride and pleasure, well, he supposed he’d make that sacrifice.
He stood with Massey in the window through which a rectangle of twilight shone, but he found himself shifting places in the room, subtly, almost unconsciously, like a weathervane responding to a breeze, so Mrs. Delilah Hardy would be his view anytime he turned as she moved from guest to guest.
She glowed like a jewel in garnet silk, her hair caught up high on her head, soft tendrils spilling down along the places she liked best to be kissed, her throat, her ears, the places that made her sigh in surrender. Tonight, in their room at the top of the stairs, he would make her do just that. He was confident that as the years passed they’d discover new ways to make each other sigh. Just as every day she seemed to uncover new places in his heart, and he found even more reasons to love her. Marriage, so far, wasn’t far different from exploring new countries, and learning a new language.
Mrs. Hardy, who was sitting alongside Mrs. Pariseau, a new guest at The Grand Palace on the Thames, and Mrs. Breedlove, gave him a little sideways glance and a secret half smile. When she looked away again a blush spilled into her cheeks, as if she knew precisely what he was thinking.
And as for sailing to new countries, he’d hired a competent captain to make the merchant runs for him in the Zephyr, and he’d spent quite a few satisfying days planning and coordinating their first voyage to India. One day he would captain a voyage, and perhaps even take his wife. For now, he was savoring the wonder of having a permanent home, albeit one with a rotating cast of characters, a soft bed, a cat, and a future involving putting the candles into sconces and fetching things from high shelves.
Mr. Delacorte and Mr. Farraday were shouting with laughter with Mr. Cassidy over in the corner. Cassidy’s crooked smile and affable, irreverent American charm had gotten him past his initial interview at The Grand Palace on the Thames, but he also had a certain subtle steeliness, a secret determination, that perhaps only Tristan had noticed. He recognized the same quality in himself. He would bear watching.
So far, of the tide of potential guests that ensued when word got out of the king’s visit, the ladies had made a few interesting choices. Mrs. Pariseau, a widow by way of Ireland and Italy, could tell fortunes with cards, Delilah had whispered in confidence.
Tristan had rolled his eyes.
She was soulful and kind and dryly witty, and everyone quite liked her.
Delacorte bellowed, “Shall we have music?”
A delighted outcry from all of the females present confirmed that, yes, they most certainly would have music. And under cover of the happy squabbling that ensued over who would play first, and what they ought to play, Angelique took the opportunity to slip from the room. Ostensibly to look for Dot, who had been sent to fetch some of the little lemon seed cakes Helga had made, and hadn’t yet returned. But mainly to breathe air, for a moment, that wasn’t also being breathed by three couples ecstatic to be coupled—Mr. and Mrs. Farraday, who had stopped in for the celebration, Mr. and Mrs. Hardy, and Mr. and Mrs. Massey.
She’d settled astonishingly easily into this life, which wasn’t precisely easy, but was filled with joy, laughter, work, and unlikely friendship. For the first time in her life her days had a rhythm and a consistency that wasn’t fraught. She didn’t at all begrudge the happiness surrounding her; it created a balmy climate of optimism. It was just that part of her was convinced that such happiness could not be sustained at such a pitch, any more than a soprano could hold a pure high note forever. And didn’t a sustained high note ultimately shatter glass? She liked Captain Hardy; she believed he was a genuinely good, occasionally even amusing, person. But he was not an easy man, and Delilah was no milquetoast.
Angelique smiled and to amuse herself, she gave a little exaggerated, delicious shiver of relief. She was the lucky one. She was tremendously relieved to be inured to the complications of men. She’d learned her lessons early on, thankfully, and apart from enjoying the occasional admiring glance—she was human, after all—nothing could persuade her to do more than that.
And Angelique knew she was liked and would be missed should she stay away for more than a few minutes. For a brief second, she felt as though she were a ghost, looking on.
They’d had the happy burden of sorting through a dozen or more potential guests in the past eventful month, including aristocrats who had no excuse to be there other than curiosity and gossip, given that the king had graced them with a visit. Delilah and Angelique were unmoved by titles. Who would be an amusing dinner companion? Who needed comfort and a safe home? Who intrigued them? Their criteria were as shifting as the light through the windows, but they were always in agreement.
She gave a start when Dot came up behind her, eyes dancing, hands wringing urgently.
“Oh, Mrs. Breedlove, I went to fetch the cakes as you asked, but I’ve let a man into the drawing room. It’s getting late, you see, and no one heard him knock over all the laughing and singing. Will you go and speak to him?”
Angelique stifled a sigh.
“What sort of man, Dot?”
Dot took a breath. Curiously, she hesitated. “The sort . . .” She gave up. “I think, that no matter what you and Mrs. Hardy decide, I don’t think I shall ever forget seeing him.”
Well, then.
It was difficult to tell whether Dot would cherish this memory or not. Her eyes were worried.
Angelique sighed aloud this time. “Will you bring in some tea?”
She glanced back toward the drawing room. Delilah was standing next to the pianoforte. Her mouth was wide open and she was singing happily.
Well, if she was needed, Angelique would go and get her. She strode toward the reception room, confident she looked both stunning and every inch a lady who brooked no nonsense in her simply cut, burnished, pale gold silk.
He was facing the hearth, one knee indolently bent, hands outstretched before the fire, perhaps for the pleasure of watching the flames nick glints from a heavy signet ring. Tall. Lean. Hair a little longer than fashionable, and black. She whisked him with a glance more expert than the king’s valet’s and discerned that his coat was expertly cut and expertly tended. A magnificent greatcoat had been shed and was lying on the opposite settee. His cravat billowed.
“Good evening, sir. I’m Mrs. Angelique Br . . .”
The words snagged in her throat.
Surely only gypsies, or possibly wizards, possessed eyes like those. A crystalline gray-green. Amused. Perhaps a trifle jaded.
He took her in. And those eyes went smoky. His expression changed only subtly, but his conclusion was eloquent and the smolder in those eyes was all for her. Angelique, who, by her recollection, hadn’t blushed in at least a decade, flushed from her head to her toes.
He stretched out his hand as if he intended to cast a spell.
His voice was smoke edged, too. “I think you have something that belongs to me.”
He uncurled his fingers, and in his palm lay the other half of the token.
Acknowledgments
My gratitude to my editor, May Chen, for her insight, enthusiasm, and inimitable wit; to Avon’s hardworking staff for the gorgeous cover and for everything they do to get this book into the hands of readers; to my agent, Steve Axelrod, and his brilliant staff, just because; and to all the lovely readers who wrote to tell me how much they’re looking forward to the new series.
Announcement
The next sparkling romance in Julie Anne Long’s The Palace of Rogues series is coming Fall 2019!
Angel in a Devil’s Arms
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author JULIE ANNE LONG originally set out to be a rock star when she grew up (and she has the guitars and fringed clothing stuffed in the back of her closet to prove it), but writing was always her first love. Since Julie hung up her guitar for the computer keyboard, her books frequently top reader and critic polls and have been nominated for numerous awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice, and the Quills, and reviewers have been known to use words like “dazzling,” “brilliant,” and “impossible to put down” when describing them. Julie lives in Northern California.
Visit Julie at www.julieannelong.com
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By Julie Anne Long
Lady Derring Takes a Lover
The First Time at Firelight Falls
Dirty Dancing at Devil’s Leap
Wild at Whiskey Creek
Hot in Hellcat Canyon
The Legend of Lyon Redmond
It Started with a Scandal
Between the Devil and Ian Eversea
It Happened One Midnight
A Notorious Countess Confesses
How the Marquess Was Won
What I Did for a Duke
I Kissed an Earl
Since the Surrender
Like No Other Lover
The Perils of Pleasure
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
lady derring takes a lover. Copyright © 2019 by Julie Anne Long. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition MARCH 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-286747-6
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-286746-9
first edition
Cover design by Guido Caroti
Cover illustration by Juliana Kolesova
Cover photograph © Peter Dedeurwaerder/Shutterstock (stairs)
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HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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