TEMPLE
Whitefawn Abbey, Devonshire
November 1819
He
woke with a splitting head and a hard cock.
The situation was not uncommon. He had, after all, woken each day for more than
half a decade with one of the items in question, and on more mornings than he
could count with both.
William Harrow, Marquess of Chapin and heir to the dukedom of Lamont was
wealthy, titled, privileged and` handsome—and a young man blessed with those
traits rarely wanted for anything relating to wine or women.
So it was that on this morning, he did not fret. Knowing (as skilled drinkers
do) that the splitting head would dissipate by midday, he moved to cure the
other affliction and, without opening his eyes, reached for the female no doubt
nearby.
Except, she wasn’t.
Instead of a handful of warm, willing flesh, William came up with a handful of
unsatisfying pillow.
He opened his eyes, the bright light of the Devonshire sun assaulting his
senses and emphasizing the thundering in his head.
He
cursed. He draped one forearm over his closed eyes, sunlight burning red behind
the lids, and took a deep breath.
Daylight
was the fastest way to ruin a morning.
Likely, it was for the best that the woman from the previous evening had
disappeared, though the memory of lovely lush breasts, a mane of auburn curls
and a mouth made for sin did bring with it a wave of regret.
She had been gorgeous.
And in bed—
In bed she’d been—
He stilled.
He
couldn’t remember.
Surely he hadn’t had that much drink. Had he? She’d been tall and full of
curves, made just the way he liked his women, a match for the height and
breadth that was too often his curse when it came to women. He did not like
feeling like he might crush a girl.
And
she’d had smile that made him think of innocence and sin all at once. She’d
refused to tell him her name . . . refused to hear his . . .
Utter perfection.
And her eyes—he’d never seen eyes like hers, one the blue of the summer sea,
and one just on the edge of green. He’d spent too long looking at those eyes,
fascinated by them, wide and welcoming.
They’d crept through the kitchens and up the servants’ stairs to his room,
she’d poured him a scotch . . .
And that was all he remembered.
Good Lord. He had to stop drinking.
Just as soon as today was over. He would need drink to survive his father’s
wedding day—the day William gained his fourth stepmother. Younger than all the
others. Younger than him.
And very very rich.
Not that he’d met her, this paragon of brideliness. He’d meet her at the
ceremony and not before, just as he’d done the other three. And then, once the
familial coffers had been once again filled, he would leave. Back to Oxford,
having done his duty and played the role of doting son. Back to the glorious,
libidinal life that belonged to the heir to the dukedom, filled with drink and
dice and women and not a worry in the world.
Back to the life he adored.
But tonight, he would honor his father and greet his new mother and pretend
that he cared for the sake of propriety. And perhaps, after he was done playing
the role of heir, he’d seek out the playful young thing from the gardens and do
his best to recall the events of the night before.
Thank Heaven for country estates and well-attended nuptials. There wasn’t a
female in creation who could resist the sexual lure of a wedding, and because
of that, William had a great affinity for holy matrimony.
How lucky that his father had such a knack for it.
He grinned and stretched wide in the bed, throwing one arm wide across the cool
linen sheets.
Cold linen sheets.
Cold wet linen sheets.
What in hell?
His eyes flew open.
It was only then that he realized it wasn’t his room.
It wasn’t his bed.
And the red wash across the bedsheets, dampening his fingers with its sticky
residue, was not his blood.
Before he could speak, or move, or understand, the door to the strange bedchamber
opened and a maid appeared, fresh-faced and eager.
There were a dozen different things that could have gone through his mind at
that moment . . . a hundred of them. And yet, in the fleeting seconds between
the young maid’s entrance and her notice of him, William thought of only one
thing—that he was about to ruin the poor girl’s life.
He knew, without doubt, that she would never again casually open a door, or
spread sheets across a bed, or bask in the rare, bright sunlight of a
Devonshire winter morning without remembering this moment.
A moment he could not change.
He
did not speak when she noticed him, nor when she froze in place, nor when she
went deathly pale and her brown eyes—funny that he noticed their color—went
wide with first recognition and then horror.
Nor
did he speak when she opened her mouth and screamed. No doubt he would have
done the same, had he been in her position.
It
was only when she was through with that first, ear-shattering shriek—the one
that brought footmen and maids and wedding guests and his father running—that
he spoke, taking the quiet moment before the coming storm to ask, “Where am I?”
The
maid simply stared, dumbstruck.
He
made to move from the bed, the sheets falling to his waist, stopping short as
he realized his clothes were nowhere in sight.
He
was naked. In a bed that was not his own.
And
he was covered in blood.
He
met the maid’s horrified gaze again, and when he spoke, the words came out
young and full of something he would later identify as fear. “Whose bed is
this?”
Remarkably,
she found her answer without stuttering. “Miss Lowe.”
Miss
Mara Lowe, daughter of a wealthy financier, with a dowry large enough to catch
a duke.
Miss
Mara Lowe, soon-to-be the Duchess of Lamont.
His
future stepmother.
