For Desire Alone (30 page)

Her benefactor isn’t the unknown father she dreamed of one day meeting, but Fletcher Thomas—underworld tycoon, gambling den owner, and a man so dangerously mesmerizing that he could spark the scandal Sera has worked so hard to avoid.

Fletcher is only two steps away from leaving the life of crime he inherited from his father. First he plans to join an aboveboard railroad consortium, then claim the one thing his ill-gotten gains have kept safe all these years—Sera.

With every wicked caress, Sera fights harder to remember society’s rules and reject the painful memories his touch resurrects. Accepting Fletcher’s love means accepting her past—a risk too great for a woman who has always lived in the shadows. No matter how safe she feels in his arms.

Warning:
This book contains a do-gooder heroine, an accidentally charming hero with tendencies toward caveman-itis, inappropriate household décor and fabulous sex against a wall.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Wayward One:

A curious weight settled across Sera’s collarbones. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck clawed upright as if she were being watched. Though it had been a long time since she’d felt hunted in such a manner, she knew how to respond. She quieted herself and made a surreptitious appraisal of the theater.

No one in the box watched her. She turned her look outward, across the sea of less fortunate theatergoers who occupied seats in the main house. No faces turned up toward her.

Across the way was another matter. In a tiny jewel of a theater box, a man watched her.

Digger.

No, he was Digger no longer. Not to her and not to anyone else. He was Fletcher Thomas.

He stood half-concealed by the crimson velvet hangings that separated each group, entirely apart from the rest of those occupying the box. His wide shoulders filled out the black and white evening dress with aplomb, not a stitch out of place. A hugely gaudy jewel winked from his cravat.

Yet he seemed more dangerous and wild than the lion she’d once seen at a traveling circus exhibit. That beast had stared back at Sera. The whole time she’d known it only remained behind the rickety fence by its own will. When it decided to break free, its roar would herald her doom.

Though the distance was too great to see the pale blue of his eyes, he watched her. He even had the audacity to tip his chin in a nod. One side of his mouth bent into that half smile he’d used in his parlor three days earlier.

Sera became angry. No, more than that—she was incandescently furious. Her fingertips tingled with the need to do harm. Her stomach wound into a sickly bundle. Sweat sprang up at the back of her neck. She would not sit there and allow him to continue such scrutiny.

She launched to her feet suddenly and without grace. The short train of her gown caught a chair leg as she turned. “Please, pardon me for a moment. I need air.”

To see Lottie’s wide mouth flatten with concern was unusual but heartening. “What’s wrong?”

Sera forced herself to shake her head. If her friends went with her, she’d likely end up venting and the venting would soon lead to screaming. “I’m fine. I only need a trip to the withdrawing room.”

“Would you like us to go with you?”

“No, that’s quite all right.”

It took entirely too long to cross the tiny box. Victoria’s aunt, Lady Dalrymple, was half asleep in her chair next to the door. The ostrich feathers in her headdress bobbed along with each snuffling snore.

Theatergoers crowded the hallway. Breath and heat and musky smells pressed in on her from all sides. Away from the surge of people headed toward the refreshments, she exited toward the quiet, empty hallways leading to the exits.

Near a curtained alcove she stopped, not wanting to venture much farther and risk censure for roving without a chaperone. She flattened a hand against the wallpaper. The flocking snagged softly against her glove. She bent her neck and dragged in heavy breaths. Life had been so much simpler a few days ago. She’d known her place. The charity case. The probable by-blow. But she’d also known how to continue in a respectable mien.

Now she was lost.

An arm reached through the curtains and wrapped around her waist. With a yank, she was pulled into the dark. Panic flooded her veins. She opened her mouth to scream.

A hand covered her mouth. A heavy, large and undoubtedly male body pressed along her back. His chest burned into her shoulders and his arm lay warm across collarbones bared by her low-cut evening gown. Fear overwhelmed her, but only until she smelled a spicy wash of familiar soap.

The fingers across her mouth loosened but still didn’t release. He leaned over her, speaking quietly into her ear. “It’s me. If I release you, do you promise not to scream?”

Fletcher’s breath sent shivers down her neck. She only resented him more for it.

Regrettably, screaming for the pure unadulterated joy of it was not an option. Even if it were acceptable to release one’s anger in such a fishwife manner, she’d only get him in trouble and risk her own reputation.

Finally, she nodded.

His hand slid away. Each finger dragged across her skin. Tingles washed over her.

Sera turned and pressed her back to the wall, but the reflexive retreat didn’t gain her much room. The alcove was little more than a curtain concealing a doorway. He loomed too near, taking up the precious air with his vitality. His mouth was a hard slash of darkness amid more gray. The tiny streams of light that arrowed around the edges of the curtain only accentuated the shadows draping his body.

The first thing that popped into her mind then fell out of her mouth. “You were in the Earl of Linsley’s box.”

Somehow he managed to infuse arrogance in a single nod. “That I was. Are you surprised?”

She slid her hands behind her back, the better to hide their nervous twisting. The rear seam of her bodice abraded her knuckles. “In all honesty, yes. You said you’d taken over your father’s interests. I didn’t think Linsley was the type to…dabble.”

“He’s not. More woe to me for it.” He rubbed a hand across the top of his head. “It might be easier to crack his consortium if he were,” he muttered, so low that Sera barely heard him.

“Consortium?”

“Railroad.” He waved a hand. “No matter. I’ve come to find out if you’ll take the money.”

She narrowed her eyes but saw him no better for it. She’d pay the entirety of the sum to read his expression. “Did you intimidate Mrs. Waywroth in some manner?”

He flattened his hand against the wall next to her head and leaned near. “Define intimidate.”

“To frighten or scare in any manner.”

The air pressed close. If she breathed too deeply, she’d brush against him. “Do I seem like a man who could intimidate, Seraphina?”

She swiped her tongue across her lips as she tried to see past the shadows and memories. He was different now. Not the boy she’d once known. Despite that, she couldn’t help but wonder at his true motivations. Why pay for years of schooling for a girl he’d known for a matter of months? He’d taken her from the gutters and designed his own lady. But why?

For the price he’d paid, there was no telling what repayment he expected.

“If it served your purposes, I think intimidation is well within your purview.”

His head lowered farther, until her world narrowed to the wash of his breath across her jawbone. “And your precious Mrs. Waywroth? Do you think I said frightening things to her?”

“I don’t think you had to.” She refused to show her fear by running away, but her shoulders pressed more firmly against the wall. Anything to sublimate the urge she had to touch him. The wallpaper was cold against the nape of her neck, bared by the meticulously intricate hairstyle Victoria’s maid had created. “I imagine it was an endowment. For the library, perhaps?”

“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your ability to look within people.” The darkness prevented her from seeing his hand move, but she certainly felt it. A whisper of motion along the outside of her arm. The shock of touch.

“And you? Am I supposed to be able to look within you?”

The barest hint of a chuckle colored his rich voice. “I certainly hope not.”

A notorious rake is about to make the ultimate faux pas—fall in love with his own wife.

Unforgivable

© 2013 Joanna Chambers

Gil Truman has eyes only for the beautiful Tilly—until he is forced to marry plain, sickly Rose Davenport to reclaim the lands his father foolishly gambled away. After a disastrous wedding night tainted with his bitterness, he deposits Rose at his remote, Northumbrian estate, soothing his guilt with the thought that she need never lay eyes on him again.

Five years after the mortifying wedding night that destroyed all her romantic fantasies, Rose is fed up with hearing second- and third-hand reports of Gil’s philandering ways. She is no longer the shy, homely girl he left behind, but a strong, confident woman who knows how to run an estate. And knows what she wants—her husband, back in their marriage bed.

Gil doesn’t recognize the bold, flirtatious woman he meets at a ball, with or without her mask. Yet he is bewitched and besotted, and their night together is the most passionate he has ever known.

But when he confesses his sins to the beautiful stranger, the truth rips open the old wounds of their blighted history. Threatening any hope of a future together.

Warning: Contains a flawed hero who can be redeemed with the right woman—the one who’s been under his nose the whole time. Ain’t that just like a man?

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Unforgivable:

“Are you quite sure this is the best course of action,
cara
?” Lottie asked carefully. “Your husband has refused to come to Weartham all these years, and while I’m sure he’ll be gratified to see how beautiful you’ve grown—after all, the man is horribly shallow—I fear the shock of you turning up on his doorstep unannounced might cause him to do something foolish, like send you home before he’s taken a good look at you.”

Pathetically, Rose found herself seizing on the least relevant part of what Lottie had just said. “Do you think he will find me much changed?” she asked hesitantly, staring into her chocolate cup.

Lottie sighed. “
Cara
, I doubt he will know you.”

“Really?”

Lottie rose and held out her hand. “Come here.” She drew Rose over to the seat she’d recently vacated in front of the dressing table, facing the mirror, and sat her down. Then she lifted one of the silver-backed brushes and began to draw it through Rose’s dark hair, still loose round her shoulders from being brushed out last night. After a brief silence, Lottie said, “Do you recall what your hair was like when you married?”

“Short,” Rose replied.

“Yes, just a covering really; this long.” Lottie held her finger and thumb an inch apart. Had it really been as short as all that? Rose touched her head as though to check, but of course, her hair was long now, long and thick and luxurious, dark brown tresses that spilled almost to her waist.

“I remember it well,” Lottie went on, still brushing. “You were very poorly when I met you, and your hair was growing slowly. Your body had more important things to mend first.” She looked up, meeting Rose’s gaze in the mirror with those expressive black eyes that showed a depth of emotion that Rose hadn’t been able to understand back then. “You almost died.”

“Yes,” Rose whispered. She remembered the worst of it not at all, and much of the rest only dimly. Seemingly interminable days of fever, the days and nights running into one another, the hallucinations more real to her than the world around her.

The physicians had glumly told her father she would die; and she would have done so if left to them.

“But you saved me, Lottie,” she said, smiling at her friend in the mirror.

“Pshaw!” Lottie scoffed. “Anyone could see what you needed: rest, food, care. Those doctors would have had you in a coffin while you still breathed! But look at you now—so beautiful.” She beamed. “No, he won’t know you. On your wedding day, you weighed little more than a bag of feathers, and your skin was a mess. But look at you now! The marks are all gone!”

“Not quite,” Rose countered lightly. “I have a few scars.” Not merely physical ones either. She tried to dismiss the memory of a night in an inn long ago; a girl in a pink dress, a pink ribbon in her hair. A memory that still made her feel like that girl all over again.

“You call those scars?” Lottie retorted. “Those little moon-marks?”

There were hardly any scars on her face, which was amazing, considering how awful they had been. They’d been everywhere, even on her eyelids and inside her ears. But she’d been left with just three scars on her face, three little white circles at her left ear, her hairline and her chin. They were tiny, almost unnoticeable, the silvery scar tissue just a few shades lighter than her creamy skin.

There were a few more obvious battlefields on her body. A little ring of them on the back of her neck, like the interwoven links of a necklace; another clutch on the backs of her knees. A few other isolated ones here and there, on flank and thigh and arm. But none of them were unsightly, just little silver indentations in her flesh. They had long ago lost the power to make her feel ugly. Indeed, they made her feel proud now, to have survived.