Escaping His Grace

by Kristin Vayden

  Heathcliff groaned as he read the last phrase. Damn the man; his friend was probably right, much as he hated to admit it. While Lucas and he were less afraid of scandal, Ramsey was the total opposite. He hated it, hated whispers, and loved nothing more than staying in his private room in Temptations alone with his numbers and ledgers. But he was invaluable, and Heathcliff recognized his strength was exactly where he and Lucas were weak. It was a good combination for them all.

  As he read the rest of the letter, he noticed a gentle click of the door as it opened. He glanced up to see Samantha walk toward him with her perfectly graceful movements and flashed her a wicked smile of appreciation.

  Between you and Lucas, I’ve had my fill of scandal for the century, so if there’s anything else I need to be aware of to prepare myself, please send word immediately. I hope all is well, that you find yourself in delightful married bliss, such as Lucas has, and I pray fervently that it is not catching. I send my hearty congratulations and expect to hear from you soon, but perhaps not too soon.

  Regards,

  Ramsey Scott, Marquess of Sterling

  Heathcliff folded the letter and set it aside as Samantha came around the desk and placed a hand at his back. “Morning,” she whispered, then leaned down to kiss him on his slightly whiskered cheek.

  “Good morning to you,” he murmured back, then turned in his chair, pulling her onto his lap. He smiled as she gave a little squeak at the quick movement, but she settled in nicely, reminding him of just how perfect her round bottom was. He reached up to kiss her neck softly, chuckling against her warm skin as he felt her shiver with delight.

  “A good morning indeed,” he murmured again.

  “You mentioned that,” she replied breathlessly.

  He gave a final kiss to her soft skin and then reached for the letter. “There’s news from London.”

  She snatched the letter from his offering hand, her eyes quickly skimming its contents.

  “He knows,” she whispered, then turned to Heathcliff.

  “He bloody well better know. I made sure of it.”

  “Claiming what’s yours?” she asked with a teasing laugh.

  “Exactly.”

  “Have I no say?”

  He chuckled, pulled her in a little tighter as he caressed his fingers down her arm, tickling her ever so slightly at the elbow, then finding her hand and grasping it tightly. “My love, you speak as if you were the one without a choice in the matter. As much as I wish to claim total control in this situation, I cannot. You were the one who owned me from the moment I saw you, and the only one who did not have a choice was me.”

  “Are you complaining?” she asked, squeezing his hand and regarding him with a tender look.

  “No. It’s much better that way.”

  Samantha gave an answering smile, one that was full of wonder and delight. “I never thought of it that way.” She tipped her chin.

  “Oh?” he asked, growing rather distracted by the way her shoulders curved up to her neck, which led to an intense examination of her perfect lips, which only reminded him of how sweet they tasted.

  “Yes.” She touched his chin, pulling his gaze upward to hers. “I always assumed I was the one without control. It was how I was raised, and I laid the same sin at your feet as well. But in the end, if it’s as you say, I chose you. It’s fairly profound to discover that after thinking the opposite. Maybe . . .” She paused, her expression thoughtful. “You know, I always wanted to be more, to have the determination and drive of my sister, to plan my future without fear, or without force from another’s power over me. And I think,” a smile started at her lips, then reflected in her eyes, “I think the person who underestimated me, was me. How wonderful to realize that all along, I was already something more. I just wasn’t willing to see it.”

  He kissed her then, savoring the truth of her revelation on her lips. When he withdrew, he murmured his reply softly, blowing the words across her waiting lips. “You always were more, more than I dared dream. And I think I shall prove it to myself once more.”

  “Prove what?” she asked, her smile seducing him all over again.

  “That you’re mine.” And without delay, he kissed her into silence, and went about taking advantage of that silence by moving their escapades to the very lovely chaise longue just beyond.

  It was a lovely thing to be in love.

  It was an even lovelier thing to be in love with one’s wife.

  All because she was willing to escape from His Grace.

  Sneak Peek at The Temptation of Grace

  Edinburgh, Scotland—for now

  Miss Iris Grace Morgan had always hated her name, and with the current schedule of arriving in London in a mere week, she made a decision.

  She would come to London not as Iris, the woman who couldn’t waltz to save her soul, nor as the lady who was utterly a failure at all things ladylike. No, she would arrive as Grace; the woman who personified all things that . . . well, she was not. It couldn’t hurt her to have a name that implied what she was not, but she certainly hoped it would indeed help. After all, her governess, now her guardian’s wife, had taken great pains to pull the lady from within and give her some much-needed polish, along with a much-needed friendship.

  But as much as she had tried, Iris—Grace, that is—wasn’t entirely sure she had taken on said polish. Viscount Kilpatrick had assured her she would make a splash, which was very sweet of him. But she wasn’t concerned about making a splash. She was certain she would.

  She just wasn’t sure it would be a good splash. It would probably be of the clumsy variety, when she’d trip on her own two feet, smash into some cranky dowager, and spray lemonade across a ballroom. It could certainly happen.

  It had almost happened last night after dinner, only it wasn’t lemonade, it was white wine, and it wasn’t her own two feet she’d tripped over. It had been the bloody chair.

  Samantha, her guardian’s wife and once her governess, had given her a smile and helped her clean up the mess before Mrs. Keyes, the housekeeper, clucked over them and shooed them away from it all.

  Grace smiled at the memory. She loved it at Kilmarin. All the servants were kind, and they didn’t expect her to be anything she was not. Sothers, the butler, was ever so thoughtful, and opened the door extra wide for her, just in case she misjudged the step, and Mrs. Keyes never complained once when she’d spill or trip over something or other.

  Even Samantha. Grace frowned over how many times she stepped on her toes when trying to learn how to waltz. It was her utter Achilles’s heel, that dance. She hoped fervently she simply melted into the woodwork of the London ballrooms.

  Because while many young ladies wanted to be in the limelight, and find a suitable match, Grace was utterly content simply not to make a scene. But have a Season she would, and it wouldn’t be long in coming. They were planning on leaving Kilmarin in just a few days’ time to travel to the viscount’s London home, where she could ease herself into society

  Dear Lord, this was going to be a disaster.

  If they could only just talk, not dance. She could do verbal arabesques with her words! She could speak intelligently on almost any subject, and her parents, God rest their souls, had given her an education that Eton couldn’t claim, but they had neglected to teach her the one thing she needed most at the moment.

  How to be a lady.

  So it was with utter trepidation, more than a few prayers, and several late-night dancing sessions that she allowed Maye to pack her belongings for the trip to London.

  It couldn’t be that bad . . . could it?

  She knew the answer to her own question.

  Yes. Yes, it could.

  The next book in the

  GENTLEMEN OF TEMPTATION

  miniseries:

  THE TEMPTATION OF GRACE

  by

  Kristin Vayden

  will be available in

  May 2019

  In the meantime, if you’ve missed the first
book,

  FALLING FOR HIS GRACE

  Turn the page for a peek at the romance between

  Lucas Mayfield, the eighth Earl of Heightford,

  and

  Lady Liliah Durary,

  daughter of the Duke of Chatterwood

  Available at your favorite bookseller and e-retailer!

  Prologue

  London 1817

  Lucas Mayfield, the eighth Earl of Heightfield, was a lot of things, depending on whom you asked. But chief amongst all the adjectives his peers or others might attribute to him, none was more accurate than the one with which he labeled himself.

  Bored.

  It wasn’t a benign state either, rather a dangerous one—because boredom bred ideas, and the ones spinning about in his mind were of the scandalous, inventive, and daring variety. Ideas also necessitated risk, something with which he didn’t dally lightly. Rather, he craved control—thrived on it, in every aspect of his life. Control prevented pain, prevented others from manipulating you—because you held the marionette strings. If you were in control, life couldn’t toss you on your ear with blindsiding betrayal, death, or worse.

  Because yes, indeed, there were always things worse than death.

  Life, being one of them.

  However, risk compromised that basic need for control, so it was with careful calculation that he even considered such a reckless and delightful diversion.

  He would also need assistance, but that was easily afforded and solicited. Heathcliff and Ramsey were as bloody bored as he. Among the three of them, they had every connection and resource necessary to breathe life into this concoction of his imagination.

  He tapped his finger against his brandy glass, the amber light of the fire in his study’s hearth casting an inviting glow. Darkness was so predictable, so protective. Much easier to manipulate than light.

  He took a long sip of the fine French brandy, savoring the burn. It was heavenly. The perfection leading to temptation . . . leading to . . .

  He sat up straighter, the leather chair squeaking slightly from the abrupt movement. Tempting.

  He rolled the word around in his mind, a grin widening his lips even as he shook his head at the audacity of such an idea.

  It was the perfect irony.

  His idea had a name—a bloody insightful one.

  Different than all the other gaming hells about London—his would thrive on anonymity. No names. No faces. Masks and the uttermost exclusivity that no other hell could boast. No strings attached, where your privacy is also your security—your pleasure.

  Temptation. Short, sweet, and directly to the point.

  Where you could fall from grace and never want to go back.

  He lifted high his brandy glass, toasting himself, and took a long swig. It would solve so many of his own problems, the problems of his friends as well. And no doubt, if he struggled with such things, countless others did too.

  Unable to resist such a brilliant plan’s lure, he stood and crossed his study in several wide strides, heading to the door. It was still somewhat early in the night, surely his friends would be still lingering at White’s. So with an eager expectation, he rode off into the night, the irritation of his boredom long gone.

  In its place, something far more hazardous.

  Determination.

  Chapter One

  Lady Liliah Durary urged her mare, Penny, into a rapid gallop as she flew through Hyde Park. A proper lady should have a care about the strolling couples about the park. A proper lady should not ride at such breakneck speed. A proper lady should obey her father in all things.

  Liliah was not a proper lady.

  And hell would have to freeze over before she’d ever even try.

  Tears burned the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision as she urged Penny faster, not caring that she was in a miserable sidesaddle—or that her speed was indeed dangerous for her precarious position. She wanted to outrun her problems—rather, problem. Because aside from the one damning issue at hand, life was otherwise quite lovely.

  Being the elder daughter of a duke had its distinct advantages.

  Of course, it had its distinct disadvantages as well. Like your father demanding you marry your best friend.

  Who so happened to be in love with your other best friend.

  It was a miserable mess . . . and she was caught in the middle of it all. If only her father would see reason! Yet asking such a thing was like expecting her mare to sprout wings and fly: impossible.

  She slowed Penny down to a moderate walk and sighed deeply, the light breeze teasing the strands of unruly blond hair, which came loose from her coiffure as a result of her quick pace. She blew a particularly irritating curl from her forehead, and tucked it behind her ear. Glancing about, she groaned, remembering that she hadn’t taken a maid with her. Again.

  Thankfully, the staff at Whitefield House was accustomed to her constant disregard of propriety. Maybe Sarah, her maid, would notice and make herself scarce, giving the impression she was with her mistress. Liliah bit her lip, turning her mare toward home—even if that was the last place she wished to be—simply for Sarah’s sake. It wouldn’t go well for her maid if her father discovered the way his staff allowed his unruly daughter far more freedom than he did, and should he discover it, such freedom would end abruptly—and badly.

  Being attached to the staff—especially her maid Sarah—Liliah increased her pace. Besides, running from problems didn’t solve them. As she swayed with the steady rhythm of Penny’s trot, she considered the situation at hand once more.

  It made no sense.

  Yet when had one of her father’s decisions required logic? Never.

  Her best friend Rebecca was delightful and from a well-bred and heavily pursed family. There was no reason for the family of her other best friend Meyer, the Baron of Scoffield, to be opposed to such a match. Yet Meyer’s father refused to see reason, just as Liliah’s father refused. Only Meyer’s father, the Earl of Greywick, had threatened to disinherit his son and grant the title to a cousin when Meyer had objected to the arrangement.

  It was wretched, no matter how one looked at it. Love matches were rare amongst the ton, and here was a golden opportunity for each family—squandered.

  It was true, Liliah was quite the match herself. The elder daughter of a duke, she understood she was quite the heiress and pedigree, yet was her breeding of more importance than Rebecca’s? She doubted it.

  Apparently, her father didn’t agree.

  Nor did Lord Greywick.

  As she crossed the cobble street toward her home, she took a deep breath of the spring air, feeling her freedom slowly sifting through her fingers like dry sand. As Whitefield House came into view, she pulled up on the reins, halting Penny’s progress toward home. The horse nickered softly, no doubt anticipating a thorough brush-down and sweet oats upon returning, yet Liliah lingered, studying the stone structure. One of the larger houses in Mayfair, Whitefield demanded attention with its large stone pillars and wide, welcoming balcony overlooking the drive. It fit her father’s personality well, as if magnifying his overinflated sense of importance. Reluctantly, she urged Penny on, taking the side entrance to the stable in the back.

  Upon her arrival, a stable boy rushed out to greet her, helping her dismount. Penny jostled the lad with her head, and he chuckled softly, petting her velvet nose.

  “I’ll take care of Penny, my lady. You needn’t worry.” With a quick bow, the boy led the all too pampered horse into the stable, murmuring softly as they walked.

  Carefully glancing around, once she was certain that no one lingered about, she rushed to the servants’ entrance just to the side of the large manor. The heavy wooden door opened silently and she slipped inside, leaning against the door once it was closed. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she took the stairs to the second floor, turning left down a small hall and turning the latch on the door that would lead to the gallery, just a short distance from her chambers. The metal was cool
against her gloved hand as she twisted, then peered out into the sunlight-filled room. Breathing quietly, she listened intently for footsteps or voices. Just before she dared to step out, Sarah, her maid, bustled down the hall, a pinched frown on her face as she opened the door leading to Liliah’s rooms.

  After waiting one more moment, Liliah stepped from the servants’ hall, rushing her steps till she approached her room, then slowed as if she weren’t in a hurry at all, just in case someone noticed her presence.

  Quickly, she opened the door to her room and swiftly shut it silently behind her, Sarah’s relieved sigh welcoming her.

  “My lady! You’ve not but a moment to lose! Your father is searching about for you! When he noticed me, he bid me find you, but I fear he is growing impatient. He was in the library.”

  “Quick, help me disrobe. I need an afternoon dress.” Liliah started to tug off her gloves, exchanging them for ones that did not bear the marks from the leather reins, as Sarah made quick work of the buttons on her riding habit.

  In only a few short minutes, Liliah was properly attired—all evidence of her earlier unchaperoned excursion tucked away. And with a quick grin to Sarah, who offered a relieved sigh, Liliah left her chambers and strode down the hall as if without a care in the world.

  When in truth, the cares were heavy upon her indeed.

  Because her father rarely spoke to her, unless demanding her obedience in some matter—and she knew exactly what he had on his mind.

  Drat.

  She clasped her hands, trying to calm the slight tremble as she took the stairs and walked toward the library. How she hated feeling weak, out of control in her own life! With a fortifying breath, she made the final steps to the library entrance, the delicate clink of china teacups drifting through the air.

  “Your Grace.” Liliah curtseyed to her father, taking in the furrow in his expression, drawing his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows like thunderclouds over his gray eyes.