Folly

Folly

Sabrina York

Widowed and threatened with penury
by her heartless in-laws, Eleanor—Lady Ulster—hatches a plot to save herself.
Determined to produce the Ulster “heir”, she seduces a stranger at a tawdry
masquerade. Little does she know, this magnificent masked lover is none other
than her husband’s greatest nemesis. And God knows Ulster had plenty.

Ethan Pennington is mortified to
arrive at a house party and discover Lady Ulster in attendance. He has wanted
her and
hated
wanting her—his enemy’s bride—for years. When he overhears
Eleanor’s predicament and her plans to place a cuckoo in the Ulster nest, he is
more than willing to oblige. The opportunity to finally claim her—while taking the
revenge he craves—is more than he can resist. Ethan strikes a bargain with
Eleanor, promising to provide her with the heir she so desperately needs…if she
will meet
his
needs in return. Every decadent one of them.

Folly

Sabrina York

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all my favorite Regency authors,
who created my passion for this delicious era.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Carrie Jackson for her editing genius, making this
book the best it could be, and to Dar Albert and the Ellora’s Cave art department
for an awesome cover. To all the Ellora’s Cave staff who work so hard to make
these books shine, you are all amazing!

My heartfelt appreciation to my fellow writers for their
help sharing the word about my books. Especially Delilah Devlin, Lisa Jones,
Cassiel Knight, Cerise DeLand, Danita Minnis, Kate Hill, Sidney Bristol,
Zenobia Renquist and Cathryn Cade. Heartfelt thanks to Heaven O’Shey and all
the Mischievous Authors who work tirelessly to promote my brand.

A special acknowledgement to Celeste Deveney, Carmen Cook
and Sherene Kershner for your friendship and support during this very busy
time.

To all my friends in the Greater Seattle Romance Writers of
America, Passionate Ink and Rose City Romance Writers groups, thank you for all
your support and encouragement.

Chapter One

It was a tawdry affair, the attendees a far cry from the
gentle society in which she had been raised. But her mission was tawdry as
well, so it was fitting.

Eleanor leaned against the gaudily papered wall and stared
out at the ballroom, squinting against the guttering smoke of the candles. Or
perhaps it was the stench of sweat and cheap perfume blurring her vision.

Or the tears.

Angrily, she reached beneath her mask and swiped them away.
She steeled her spine. She needed to do this. She absolutely had to. No matter
how distasteful.

She was no longer Eleanor DeWitt. No longer Lady Ulster.
Tonight she was
Mignon
, a French doxy who knew how to seduce a man and
knew what to do with him once she had.

The swirling crowd was a sea of dominoes, a field of black.
A skitter of trepidation rushed through her and clenched at her bowels. Had she
really thought this was a good idea?

Yes. She had. When one was desperate, even bad solutions
seemed palatable. Though she was beginning to question her wisdom in choosing
this particular venue. She’d heard rumors about the Carlisle-Grant soirées.
Dreadful rumors, but they made clear this was the type of event where anything
could happen. Where anyone was game. And since it was a masquerade, she could
remain blissfully anonymous, which made it a perfect choice. Her only choice.

But as she looked out at the crowd, the drunken, reeling
buffoons, she found she’d lost her taste for this task. It had seemed so clear,
so simple in her drawing room, when she and Helena had plotted it out.

Find a man. Seduce him. Get with child.

Ah, yes. Then everything would be fine.

A bubble of panic rose in her chest.

For Eleanor was not a doxy, French or otherwise. She’d had
relations with only one man in her lifetime and those encounters had been
uncomfortable at best. She knew little about seduction. And having been sold
into marriage long before her first season, she knew little about flirting
either.

But she knew one thing. None of these men, these prospects,
moved her in the least.

She didn’t know what she’d expected. To walk into the
Carlisle-Grant ballroom and see
him
straight away? To hie off into the
garden and fornicate with the first man who approached her?

The first man who had approached her had been fifty if he
was a day and missing several prominent teeth. The second had had breath like a
bilious dragon. The third had been so drunk he’d toppled over into a potted
palm, even as he’d asked her—with a drooling leer—for a dance.

Her soul had cringed at the prospect of being intimate with
any of them. She’d felt her womb cringe along with it. Cringe and curl shut.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

Oh, not her mission. This
party
.

The truth was, she only needed a man’s seed. One man’s seed
inside her. But getting it
in
there, finding a man she could tolerate
long enough to get the job done, now that was the challenge.

It was as she swam in this dark morass that she saw him.

He was leaning against the wall, next to an affected Roman
column curling with fake ivy, watching the crowd in lazy amusement.

There was something about the man that snared Eleanor’s
attention, which was absurd because he was dressed in a domino and mask just
like every other man at the masquerade. Perhaps it was his stature—he towered
above the crowd. And heavens, his body was broad and long. Wide shoulders, trim
waist, powerful thighs. She tried not to fixate on the muscles bunching against
the tight fabric of his leggings. Truly. She did.

Or perhaps it was his smile, crooked and quirked to the
side—other than his eyes, it was the only facial feature visible beneath the
mask. His lips were a man’s lips. Well-defined and mobile, thick but not
trout-like. They didn’t twist in a thin derisive line like other lips she knew
so well. No. These lips made her hungry.

Then again, perhaps it was those eyes. Bright and sharp,
mysterious, the color of swirling smoke. They peered out at the crowd with a
telling alertness, flicking from group to group. He was searching for
something. But what?

Then their gazes met.

And she was lost.

A sizzle of energy coursed through her, making her nipples
tighten and her body weep.

She blinked in surprise, taken aback by this reaction. She’d
never felt like this before, never
wanted
like this before.

She had certainly never wanted her husband.

She’d always wondered what it was like, this desire of which
her friends spoke. Desire that could turn a girl’s head. Make her fling herself
into the maw of disaster. But now she knew. Her body had awakened.

She couldn’t still the tremor in her breast as he strode
toward her, this behemoth of a man. It was as though the air came alive between
them, thickened. With each step he created waves, waves of excitement and fear
that swept in like the sea and swamped her.

But she stood, stolid, determined. Because she knew.

He was the one.

He certainly seemed virile. Fertile. Manly.

She attempted, desperately, to calm the chattering of her
heart. To present a sophisticated mien. Boldly, deliberately, she met his gaze.
Held it. Offered a tiny, knowing smile.

His pace increased, and with it, the thudding of her pulse.

No, she wasn’t a French doxy but she was a beautiful woman,
and she knew it. Men had always desired her.
This
man desired her.

And, dear heavens, she wanted him.

Excitement skittered through her. For the first time in her
life—probably the only time in her life—she was going to have a man who set her
blood afire.

Holy hell.

Ethan Pennington stared at the woman—the vision—standing
like a wallflower in the corner, and lust raged within him. She was beautiful.
Oh, certainly, her face was covered, and most of her body in the long flowing
cape, but the way she held her head, the way her swanlike neck curved, the
delicate tip of her chin spoke to him. Called to him.

And her eyes. Dear God. The glint in her eyes had his cock
at full attention like a soldier in battle awaiting the charge. It wasn’t a
come-hither glance, but close enough.

It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him in
that
way.

Perhaps he should attend these types of soirées more often.

As he reached her side several primal urges struck him. The
first was to protect her. She was a tiny thing, delicate and small. Barely came
up to his shoulder. The second was to taste her, because the scent surrounding
her was exquisite, expensive and alluring. And finally—though certainly not the
least powerful urge possessing him—he wanted to fuck her. He wanted to back her
up against the dingy Carlisle-Grant wallpaper, lift her skirts and thrust
himself into her molten depths. And he wanted it now.

Judging from beckoning smile, she wouldn’t protest.

But he didn’t back her up against the dingy Carlisle-Grant
wallpaper, lift her skirts and thrust himself into her molten depths. He bowed,
a deliberately formal offering. While he was practically panting for her, he
would allow her the privilege of making the first move. “My lady.”

She nibbled at her lower lip—which had Ethan aching to do
the same. “
Monsieur
.”

Ah. She was French. Her accent was lilting, lyrical. It wove
around his gut and tugged at his tightening balls. He offered a hand. “Would
you care to dance?”

He saw the flash of surprise, the minute tightening of the
muscles around her mouth. It was inappropriate for him to ask her to dance
without an introduction. They both knew it. Then again, this was an
inappropriate event. An inappropriate evening. He hoped it would soon become
more so.

His wish was granted, nearly immediately, when she tipped
her head to the side and smiled. “It’s so warm in here,
n’est pas
?” As
an afterthought she fanned herself with her fingers. “Perhaps a turn in the
garden?”

Crowing triumph snaked through him.
Yes!
Without
hesitation, he offered his arm and they strolled toward the French doors. The
journey took far too long, at least in Ethan’s estimation. He attempted to set
a casual pace. It was difficult, because what he really wanted was to bolt for
the terrace, whisk her into the garden and along the flagstone path. To the
folly he knew lay hidden in the center of the ill-kept yew labyrinth.

But he didn’t do so. Rather, he restrained himself and set
his pace to match hers. They made their way through the crowd, arm in arm,
nodding now and then to their fellow partygoers. Finally, they neared the
doors. Ethan’s excitement surged as they emerged from the stuffy ballroom into
the fragrant spring evening.

There were a few couples here and there on the terrace,
talking, laughing. A pair huddled in the shadows, most likely kissing. Or
fucking.

Ethan ignored them and guided her into the deep shadows of
the garden. “Do you come to these events often, my lady?”

Her muscles tightened, just ever so. “No,
Monsieur
.”
She shot him a teasing smile. “Zis is my first time.”

He tightened his hold on her arm, tugging her closer. “Don’t
worry, my dove. I shall be gentle.”

Her laugh was a melody. It trilled through the dusky
darkness and curled up into him like a warm caress. He increased his pace.
“This way.” He led her into the labyrinth.

She hesitated. But only for a heartbeat. Then she followed
him into the darkness. “Won’t we get lost?” Was it his imagination, or had she
lost her accent?

“I know the way.”

“Ah. You’ve done this before.”

Ethan shot her a grin. He could just barely make out her
features. He wished there were a full moon out tonight. He wanted a clear view
of her face as he entered her. “No. But I’ve been to the folly in the center. A
friend of mine wanted to recreate it in his own garden.”

“T-there’s a folly?” Of a sudden she seemed terribly young.
Vulnerable. Frightened. Ethan slowed. The realization that he knew nothing about
her—absolutely nothing—filtered through his burgeoning lust.

It was the purpose of these types of affairs, of course—
affaires
.
Affaires
with no strings. No expectations. No consequences. He toyed
with the idea of turning back, setting her loose and finding some other willing
wench. But then he glanced at her profile and realized he couldn’t.

He wanted her and he wanted her badly. And it had been so
long since a woman had allowed him to lead her down a garden path to any kind
of folly.

The point became moot as they rounded a corner because there
it was, a whimsical, ivy-covered gazebo surrounded by roses, a romantic bower
replete with perfumed air and cushioned benches. The perfect setting for
seduction.

“Oh my.” Yes. Her accent was definitely absent. Ethan
grinned at the thought. A woman, attending an event notorious for illicit
trysts, making such an effort to hide her identity? There was no doubt what she
was here for, why she’d come.

Still, to be sure he wasn’t taking advantage, he restrained
his lust. He would let her make the first move.

If it killed him.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Charming.” She dropped her hand from his arm—God, he missed
that warmth—and studied the structure from one angle and then another. She drew
in a deep breath, stiffened her shoulders and stepped inside. She sat on one of
Carlisle-Grant’s overstuffed benches and smiled at him. And then, with one tiny
hand, patted the bench beside her.

Now, before the duel—the disaster that disfigured him in a
way that would send any proper woman screaming the opposite direction—Ethan had
been something of a ladies’ man. He’d partaken in any number of seductions.
He’d been seduced himself. Numerous times.

As invitations went, patting the seat beside one’s self
wasn’t, by far, the most blatant.

But it would do.

It would do fine.

He sat beside her, nudging up against her, pressing their
thighs together, gratified when she didn’t move away. Elated when she nudged
back.

Ethan decided, then and there, this was a different kind of
woman. No wanton widow, no petulant, dissatisfied wife. She wasn’t used to this
kind of play, although she clearly wanted it. Apparently, he was going to have
to seduce her.

It was a task he didn’t mind in the least.

He took her hand in his and stroked his fingers over her
palm. “What shall I call you, my lady?”

Her lashes fluttered. “Call me Mignon.”

Mignon
. Little one. It fit.

“I should very much like to kiss you, Mignon.” Hell and
damnation. Was that a catch in his voice? What was he? An untried lad?

Her smile soothed his chagrin. “I should very much like
that—”

The sentence died on her lips, smothered by his. He didn’t
ravish her, not as he wanted to. Rather, he took her lips gently, tasting her
essence, questing. After a moment of absolute splendor, tenderly teasing,
tormenting them both, he pulled back and rubbed his lips over hers, dabbing her
mouth with his tongue. It was a tried-and-true method. One he hoped would
result in her, steeped in frustration, turning the tables and kissing him.

It worked.

After a minute of such persuasion, she took the bait. She
fisted her hands in his hair and pulled his head to hers. And she consumed him.
It was not the most practiced kiss he’d ever received but he loved that it was
not. It was sweet and inviting and, most of all, passionate.

It wasn’t long before he responded in kind. Not long at all.

As their lips meshed, as their breath mingled, a power, an
electricity between them rose, sizzled. Ethan’s body tightened, his heart
pounded, his cock strained. He nearly came out of his seat when her hand fell
to his thigh, testing the flesh.