Henry's Bride (London Libertines Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  Henry’s Bride

  London Libertines, Book One

  by Emily Royal

  Copyright © 2019 Emily Royal

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author, Emily Royal

  London Libertines

  Henry’s Bride, Book 1

  Hawthorne’s Wife, Book 2

  Roderick’s Widow, Book 3

  *** Please visit Dragonblade’s website for a full list of books and authors. Sign up for Dragonblade’s blog for sneak peeks, interviews, and more: ***

  www.dragonbladepublishing.com

  Amazon

  Dedication

  For Jasmine, who is a better person than her mother and who, with luck, on reading this, will pledge to look after me in my infirmity.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author, Emily Royal

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Excerpt from Hawthorne’s Wife

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not have seen the light of day without the support of my family and friends.

  Big thanks to my fabulous tribe, the Beta Buddies, who read the rough drafts. An extra huge hug to Sarah Painter for the writing sessions complete with tea, pizza and wine, which helped me over the final editing hurdle.

  To Violetta and all at Dragonblade, thank you for having so much faith in this book, for your invaluable feedback and the beautiful cover.

  To my high school mathematics teacher, you made me believe it’s cool for a girl to be numerate and my heroine thanks you. I’m also grateful to the Romantic Novelists’ Association who provided an early critique through their New Writers’ Scheme, and encouraged me to take writing seriously.

  And finally, to Neil, Jasmine, and Frankie – no words can express how much your encouragement means to me.

  Prologue

  With his body humming from the afterglow of pleasurable release, Henry Drayton, Marquis of Ravenwell, straightened his cravat and descended the stone steps outside the brothel entrance. Betty ran one of the more exclusive bawdy houses, catering to tastes few men could afford. Discretion was favored over publicity, and he glanced up and down the street before setting off. The sun had yet to rise, and few would be up and about this early except men like him who sought a willing female body to relieve the tedium of polite society.

  Lights flickered in the top stories of the terraced houses he passed, servants enduring the cold while donning their uniforms to embark on their duties. Tasks like setting the water to boil, laying the fireplaces so their masters and mistresses met the new day with warmth, comfort, and fresh tea, unaware of the toil that had gone into preparing their breakfast.

  The doors of a townhouse ahead opened, and the cloaked figure of a woman stepped out.

  Henry stopped in his tracks. What the devil was a servant doing using the front entrance? Or was she a doxy paying a visit to the master of the house?

  A shaft of sunlight stretched across the street, illuminating her face as if the sunrise had waited for her. Intelligent eyes the color of emeralds brought a splash of life to her otherwise drab appearance. With a furtive glance that mirrored Henry’s own, she set off at a pace too fast for a lady, but lacking the urgency of a thief.

  Her figure was discernible even beneath her cloak; a frame lacking the brittleness prized among society ladies. Her body glowed with the curves and tones of health and vitality. Henry’s own body tightened with lust, and he set off in her wake.

  Which bawdy house did she belong to? Or was she a courtesan? Currently between mistresses, Henry was looking for another. Perhaps she was in need of a protector. Not only in terms of a man’s relationship with his mistress, but someone to warn her of the dangers of wandering about the streets of London unaccompanied.

  Maybe she courted danger on purpose.

  The woman turned into Hyde Park, and her pace slowed. She stopped at a tree and ran her palm over the bark, fingers caressing the texture as if she drew strength and joy from Mother Nature. Her eyes were closed, the light of the dawn emphasizing the contentment in her face, lips upturned in a peaceful smile as if she had come home.

  Male voices called out, and she jerked back, continuing along the path and then disappearing into the park.

  Before Henry could follow her, two men appeared. They wore the familiar garb of the Bow Street Runners and carried a body between them. Icy fingers caressed the back of Henry’s neck.

  It was a woman. Water dripped off her clothes and hair which hung lifeless, dark stains spreading across the Runners’ red waistcoats. Her face was bloated, evidence she had been in the water for several hours. Her head lay at an unnatural angle, bruises dark against her pale skin.

  Someone had broken her neck.

  Henry hailed the runners. “What do you have there?”

  The taller man spoke. “Just another doxy, sir. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “Aren’t you concerned?”

  “Of course. It’s our job to investigate.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “Some lad told us about a body. Reckon she’s been floating in the Serpentine all night. Probably indulged on gin and fell in. You know what their sort’s like. We had three of them last month.”

  “That may be,” Henry said, “but even I can see the marks on her neck.”

  “Them type like it rough.” The man nudged his companion. “Come on, John, the sooner we deal with this brass, the sooner we can have a brew.”

  He tipped his hat at Henry. “Mind how you go, sir. London’s a dangerous place at night.”

  Henry nodded. Dangerous indeed. Yet these men dismissed the death of a whore as an inconvenience which kept them from their tea. These women were people, too.

  As was Jenny.

  Jenny.

  A prostitute like any other but for one thing; she was the mother of Henry’s child.

  If these men were to be believed, the woman in their arms hadn’t been the first body they’d discovered. If they d
idn’t care, perhaps Henry should look into the matter himself. He owed it to Jenny even though she’d long since died. Betty may have heard something. Only last night she’d mentioned the disappearance of one of her girls, though she rarely spoke of her fears, possessing the talent only the best woman of her sort had, revealing little of herself, concentrating only on the needs of the men she serviced.

  But he’d have to be careful. A man investigating murders in London put his life at risk. It was fortunate he had no loved ones who might be endangered by association. Perhaps, then, it was not time to find a mistress just yet.

  A pity. The intriguing creature he’d followed into the park might have provided an excellent diversion for the Season.

  Chapter One

  “Good grief, look at her!”

  “Is it me, Dom, or are debutantes getting uglier each Season?”

  Henry shifted his attention from the company—unmarried ladies whose muscles tensed at the sight of him—to his friends, Rupert and Dominic, who gestured toward a group of unattached ladies at the edge of the ballroom.

  Two sat apart from the rest. The one on the left was the Honorable Andrea Elliot. Recently betrothed to an American privateer, she lacked the air of desperation which clung to most debutantes. Henry didn’t recognize her companion.

  “A plain, plump little thing,” Dominic laughed. “That pink is hideous, and the expression on her face could curdle milk.”

  “Given her prospects, I’m not surprised she’s miserable,” Rupert said.

  She wore a discontented expression, her mouth downturned, brow creased into a frown, and body slumped forward. Her marked contrast to the ocean of elegance in the room was enough to incite curiosity, even if it rendered her unpalatable.

  Henry voiced his curiosity. “What prospects?”

  “That’s Miss Claybone, née Smith.” Rupert relished the emphasis on Smith. “Her father’s a baronet, but it’s a new title. The mother has blue blood, though French, and she’s trying to further her ambitions through her daughters.”

  “As is every mother in the room,” Henry said.

  Rupert laughed. “She’ll have difficulty getting that one off her hands. Perhaps I’ll have some sport with her. I’m rather partial to a fine set of curves.”

  As Henry watched her, she lifted her head and their eyes met. His breath caught in his throat. They were the eyes of the woman he’d followed into the park. Deep oceans of green punctuated by sparkles of gold radiated a sharp intelligence. They seemed to look right inside him and find him wanting. He shifted his legs at the surge of heat in his groin.

  “She’s not worth your notice, Rupe,” he said. “Where’s the sport in tormenting a mouse when there’s bigger game to be had?”

  Her eyes hardened and she looked away.

  “It’s all right for you, Dray,” Rupert said. “Your quarry’s in the room. I’m sure the countess awaits your pleasure. And hers.”

  Henry ran a hand through his hair—thick, black locks which women seemed to enjoy burying their hands in while he pleasured them. His gaze fell on their hosts, the Earl and Countess of Darlington. The countess caught his eye and lifted her lips into a seductive smile. Nearby stood Lady Holmestead, arm-in-arm with her husband.

  Perhaps he’d have some sport tonight after all.

  *

  “There they are, Jeanie. The worst rakes of the ton.”

  Jeanette looked away from the crowd—row upon row of bright, vibrant silks shimmering against each other, sparkling headdresses and glittering jewels—and turned her attention on her friend. Andrea Elliott looked every part the society lady, her yellow silk gown complementing her classic beauty to perfection. Pale blonde hair fashioned into soft curls and dotted with pearls, framed a face flushed a delicate shade of rose and eyes the color of cornflowers. No wonder she’d secured an offer of marriage less than a week into her first season. To Jeanette, Andrea was a jewel among society, for she possessed intelligence, independence, and wit, and had managed to attract the attention and secure the hand of the only man in society Jeanette deemed worthy of her.

  “I thought all men were rakes, Andy,” Jeanette said, “except your Mr. O’Reilly.”

  “Ah, dearest Theodore! Pity he’s not titled, but I love him regardless.”

  Jeanette sighed. “You’re unique among your class, for you care nothing for their nonsense.”

  “I find it entertaining,” Andrea said. “For example, those three are infamous debauchers, but look how the women lift their heads when they enter the room. The biggest and best catches of the day! I swear, if your mama had a butterfly net, she’d be running across the ballroom now.”

  “I doubt that, Andy. If she caught me running, she’d have an attack of the vapors.”

  Andrea giggled. “Luckily you’re of little consequence to attract their notice. And just as well. I hear most of the fallen women in London have them to thank for it. Their tastes include half the married ladies in this room…” She lowered her voice, “…and they frequent bawdy houses to relieve their more sophisticated passions.”

  “Who are they?” Jeanette said.

  “Surely you’re not interested?”

  “Of course not, but at the very least, I ought to know the names of those I should avoid.”

  Andrea lowered her voice. “The small brown-haired chap is the Honorable Dominic Hartford, eldest son of Viscount Hartford. The blonde fellow is Rupert Beaumont, Viscount Oakville.”

  “And the darker one?”

  “That, my dear, is Lord Ravenwell. He’s to inherit a dukedom from his cousin. They say he has more children than any other man in London. Quite the achievement.”

  “Not one to be proud of. What of the mothers of his children?”

  “A man of his status can do whatever he likes, Jeanie, without making the slightest ripple in his reputation.”

  Jeanette shook her head. “Pity the women caught in the ripples.”

  The three men looked perfectly comfortable in their surroundings, an environment Jeanette found both alien and hostile. Her gaze lingered on Lord Ravenwell; tall, broad-shouldered, with a toned, athletic build accentuated by his form-fitting dark jacket and pale cream breeches, right down to his calfskin boots.

  His hair was longer than socially acceptable, brushing his shoulders in thick black waves. His features exuded breeding, the strong jaw, straight nose, and dark lashes which framed his brilliant blue eyes. His gaze met hers, and a knowing smile curled at the corner of his lush, sensual mouth. What might it be like to be claimed by those lips, to feel his breath on her skin?

  Deep longing pulsed in her stomach. How could he master her body from a single glance?

  She dropped her gaze to break the spell. It was an unjust world where men ruled the lives of others through circumstances of birth rather than merit. How could she hope to survive in it?

  “Jeanette.”

  Mama’s voice made her sit up almost instinctively.

  “Don’t forget Colonel Chambers.”

  Mama had tried to persuade Hugh Chambers, the youngest son of the Duke of Bowborough, to offer for the first dance, with thinly veiled comments about how sons of dukes should fraternize with daughters of French aristocrats, oblivious to the titters of onlookers hungry for objects of ridicule and subjects of gossip. To avoid further embarrassment, Jeanette had sought refuge among the wallflowers where man rarely ventured.

  Mama fanned herself. “Take a turn about the room. You’ll not fill your dance card chattering in the corner. And hold your stomach in. That gown is supposed to hide, not exaggerate, your curves.”

  To attract a husband, a lady had to appear emaciated, have porcelain skin, and a meek disposition, which was valued over wit or kindness.

  Jeanette pulled a face at Mama’s retreating back. “I don’t know why she doesn’t have the size of my dowry embroidered onto this horrible pink gown. Papa could secure a ring through my nose and parade me about the room.”

  Andrea stifled a giggle. �
�You see this ball as a cattle market?”

  Jeanette eyed up the brightly colored gowns milling about, feathers nodding in the air, the women seemingly desperate to out-feather each other in terms of height. A wicked idea formed in her mind and she leaned toward her friend.

  “Watch the women, Andy. See how they flick their fans? A cow in season will approach the bull and show him how—available—she is, by flicking her tail just so. Come hither, virile creature. I’m ready for you.”

  Andrea waved her fan as a blush deepened on her cheeks.

  “Now to the men,” Jeanette continued, “one must inspect a bull before placing a bid.”

  “Would you inspect their teeth?”

  “My dear, Andy,” Jeanette said, biting her lip to temper the urge to laugh, “a bull is not prized for his teeth.”

  “What is he prized for?”

  Andrea, curse her! How did she manage it? Eyes wide with mock innocence, the merest glint of wickedness in their expression. A lifetime in the aristocracy had taught her complete self-control, a quality Jeanette lacked. Andrea lifted an eyebrow in challenge.

  Go on, Jeanie, make me laugh.

  “When inspecting a bull, you’d look at the same place as you would a cow when checking her udders,” Jeanette said.

  To her credit, Andrea’s composure remained, though she continued to fan herself.

  “Of course, Andy, men and women differ from cattle. The udders are somewhat higher on a woman’s body. When inspecting a man, we must look further down.”

  “What if you’re caught l-looking?” Andrea stuttered.

  “Men are too easily distracted. Look at Lady Darlington over there. I’ll wager the Earl of Strathdean is so enthralled by her décolletage that she could perform a manual inspection of his—accoutrements—unnoticed.”

  Andrea’s composure shattered and an unladylike snort burst from her nostrils. Jeanette threw back her head, no longer able to contain the tide of mirth which exploded from her throat. Disapproving voices drifted across the room.