Confessions of an Improper Bride, page 29
Max wanted to know her. He would learn her name as soon as possible. He would orchestrate an introduction to her and then he would ask her for a dance.
Her small, white-gloved fingers curled around her dance partner’s, and Max’s fingers twitched. He wanted to be the one clasping that hand in his own.
“Lovely, isn’t she?”
Max whipped around to face the intruder. The man standing beside him was Leonard Reece, the Marquis of Fenwicke, and not one of his favorite people.
“Who is lovely?” he asked, feigning ignorance, curling the fingers of his right hand into a fist so as not to reach up to adjust his cravat over his suddenly warm neck.
Fenwicke gave a low chuckle. “The young lady you’ve been staring at for the last ten minutes.”
Damn. He’d been caught. And now he felt foolish. Allowing his gaze to trail after a young woman, even as one as compelling as he found her, was a foolish enterprise, especially at Lord Hertford’s ball—the last ball of the London Season. If Max wasn’t careful, he’d find himself betrothed by Michaelmas.
The dance ended, and the angel’s dance partner led her off the floor toward another lady. The three stood talking for a moment before the man bowed and took his leave.
“Most people think her sister is the great beauty of the family,” Fenwicke continued conversationally. “But I would beg to differ with them. As would you, apparently.”
“Her sister?”
“Indeed. The lady she’s speaking to—the one in the pale yellow, is the youngest of the Donovan sisters.”
Max glanced more closely at the woman in yellow. Indeed, she was what most people would consider a great beauty—slender but rounded in all the proper places, with a crown of gold hair that glinted with the barest tinge of copper where the chandelier light caught it.
“The Donovan sisters?” he mused. “I don’t know them.”
“The lady in yellow is Jessica Donovan,” Fenwicke murmured so as not to be heard by anyone in the crowd milling about the enormous punch bowl between sets. “The lady in blue is her older sister, Olivia.”
The angel’s name was Olivia.
Max knew just about everyone in London. He made it a game to recognize all the faces attached to the names bandied about by the gossipmongers. From the moment he’d caught his first glimpse of the angel tonight, he’d known he’d never been introduced to her, never seen her before. He’d never heard Olivia and Jessica Donovan’s names, either, though their surname did sound vaguely familiar.
“They must be new in Town.”
“Yes, they arrived in London last month. This is only the second or third event they’ve attended.” Fenwicke gave a significant pause. “However, you are acquainted with the eldest Donovan sister.”
Max frowned. “I don’t think so.”
Fenwicke chuckled. “You are. You just haven’t yet made the connection. The eldest sister is Margaret Dane, Countess of Stratford.”
That name he did know—how could he not? “Ah. Of course.”
A year ago, Lady Stratford had arrived from the West Indies engaged to one well-connected gentleman, but she’d ended up marrying another. Like a great stone thrown into the semiplacid waters of London, the ripples caused by the splash she’d made had only just begun to subside.
“So the countess’s sisters have recently arrived from the West Indies?”
“That’s right.”
Max’s gaze lingered on Olivia, the angel in blue. Fenwicke had said she was older than the girl standing beside her, but she appeared younger. It was in her bearing, in her expression. Though Jessica didn’t quite strut, she moved like a woman attuned to the power she wielded over all who beheld her. Olivia was directly the opposite. She wore her reserved nature like a cloak. Her cheeks were paler than her sister’s, and her hair held more of the copper and less of the gold, though certainly no one would complain that it was too red. It was just enough to lend an intriguing simmer rather than a full-blown fire.
Olivia’s dress was lovely, of an entirely fashionable style and fabric—though Max didn’t concern himself with fashion enough to be able to distinguish either by name. The gown was conservatively cut, and her jewelry was simple. She wore only a pair of pearl-drop earrings and a chain around her neck.
Her posture was softer than her sister’s, whose stance was sharp and alert. But their familial connection was obvious in their faces—both perfect ovals with full but small mouths and large eyes. From this distance, Max couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, but when Olivia had been dancing earlier, she’d glanced in his direction, and he’d thought they must be a light shade.
God. He nearly groaned to himself. She captivated him. She had from the first moment he’d seen her. She was simply lovely.
“… leaving London soon.”
The sudden cessation of Fenwicke’s voice had Max’s attention snapping back to him.
Fenwicke sighed. “Did you hear me, Hasley?”
“Sorry,” Max said, then gestured randomly about. “Noisy in here.”
It was true, after all. The orchestra had begun the opening strands of the next dance, and couples were brushing past them, hurrying to join in at the last possible moment.
Fenwicke gazed at him appraisingly for a long moment, then motioned toward the ballroom’s exit. “Come, man. Let’s go have a drink.”
If it had been an ordinary evening, Max would have declined. He found Fenwicke oily and unlikable, even though they mostly ran in the same circles. Fenwicke had been a constant presence in Max’s life, but he’d never befriended the man.
He glanced quickly back to the lady. Olivia. At that moment, she looked up. Her gaze caught his and held.
Blue eyes. Surely they were blue.
Those eyes held him in her thrall, sweet and lovely, and sensual, too, despite her obvious innocence. Max felt suspended in midair, like a water droplet caught in a spider’s web.
She glanced at Fenwicke and then quickly to the floor, and Max plopped back to earth with a splat. But satisfaction rushed through him in a warm wave, because just before she’d broken their eye contact, he’d seen the first vestiges of color flooding her cheeks.
“Very well,” he told Fenwicke. Tonight he didn’t politely excuse himself from Fenwicke’s company, because tonight Fenwicke seemed to have information Max suddenly craved—information about Olivia Donovan.
He turned away from her, but not before he saw another gentleman offering her his arm. Max and Fenwicke walked down the corridor to the parlor that had been set aside for the evening as the gentleman’s retiring room. A foursome played cards in the corner, and an elderly man sat in a large but elegant brown cloth armchair in the corner, blatantly antisocial, a newspaper raised to obscure half his face. Other men lounged by the sideboard, chatting and drinking from the never-ending supply of spirits.
Fenwicke collected two glasses of brandy and then gestured with his chin at a pair of empty chairs separated by a low, glass-topped table but close enough together for them to have a private conversation. Max sat in the closest chair, taking the glass Fenwicke offered him as he passed. He sipped the brandy while Fenwicke lowered himself into the opposite chair.
Holding his glass in both hands, Fenwicke stared at him. “You haven’t seen the Miss Donovans prior to tonight, eh?”
“No,” Max admitted. “Do they plan to reside in London?”
“No.” Fenwicke’s lip curled sardonically. “As I was saying in the ballroom, I believe they’re leaving within the week. They’re off to Stratford’s estate in Sussex.”
“Too bad,” Max murmured.
But then a memory jolted him. At White’s last week, Stratford had invited a group of men, including Max, to Sussex this autumn to hunt. He’d turned down the offer—he’d never been much interested in hunting—but now…
Fenwicke gazed at him. The man had always reminded Max of a reptilian predator with his cold, assessing silver-gray eyes. “You,” he announced coldly, “have a tendre for Miss Donovan.”
It was impossible to determine whether that was a question or a statement. Either way, it didn’t matter. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t know Jessica Donovan.”
“I’m speaking of Olivia,” Fenwicke said icily. If Max weren’t mistaken, it sounded like Fenwicke was jealous. But that was ridiculous. As the man had said, Olivia had been in Town for less than a month.
“I don’t know either of them,” Max responded, keeping his tone mild.
“Regardless, you want her,” Fenwicke said in an annoyed tone. “I’m well acquainted with that look you were throwing in her direction.”
Max shrugged.
“You are besotted with her.”
Max leaned back in his chair, studying Fenwicke closely, wondering what gave Fenwicke the right to have proprietary feelings toward Olivia Donovan. As far as he knew, Fenwicke had nothing more than a civil relationship with the Earl of Stratford.
“Are you a relation of hers?” he asked.
“No.”
“I was watching her,” Max said slowly. “And, yes, I admit to wondering who she was and whether she was attached. I was considering asking her to dance later this evening.”
The muscles in Fenwicke’s jaw bulged as he ground his teeth. “She has no dances available.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked her myself.”
He stared at the man across from him, feeling the muscles across his shoulders tighten as the fingers of his loose hand curled into a tight fist. He didn’t like the thought of his angel touching Fenwicke. Of Fenwicke touching her. The thought rather made him want to throw Fenwicke through the glass window overlooking the terrace across from them.
He took a slow breath, willing himself to calmness. He didn’t even know the woman. Didn’t even know the sound of her voice, the color of her eyes, her likes and dislikes. And he was already willing to fight for her.
He wouldn’t want Fenwicke touching any young innocent, he reasoned. He’d protect any woman from the marquis’s slick, slithering paws.
“How is your wife?” he asked quite deliberately, aware of the challenge in his voice.
Fenwicke’s expression went flat. He took a long drink of brandy before responding. “She’s well,” he said icily. “She’s back at home. In Sussex. Thank you for asking.” His lip curled in a snarl that Max guessed was supposed to appear to be a polite smile.
Max remembered that Fenwicke’s family home was in Sussex, just like the Earl of Stratford’s. He wondered if the houses were situated close to each other.
“Ah,” Max said. “I’m glad to hear she’s well.”
“You can’t have her, you know,” Fenwicke said quietly.
Max raised a brow. “Your wife?”
“Olivia Donovan.”
Max took a long moment to allow that to sink in. To think about how he should respond.
“She’s not married?” he finally asked. He knew the answer.
Fenwicke’s tone was frosty. “No.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Then why, pray, can’t I have her?”
“She’d never accept you. You would never meet her standards. You, Hasley, are a well-known rake.”
“So?” That fact had never stopped any woman from accepting his advances before.
“So, you’re not good enough for her.” Fenwicke’s smile widened, but it was laced with bitterness. “No man in London is.”
“How can you possibly know this?”
“She told me.”
Max nearly choked on his brandy. “What?”
“I propositioned her,” Fenwicke said simply. “In the correct way, of course, which was quite delicate considering her innocence. I dug deeply—quite deeply indeed—into my cache of charm.”
Max’s stomach churned. He could never understand what women saw in Fenwicke—but apparently they saw something, because the man never needed to be too aggressive in his pursuit before capturing his prey, despite his marital status.
Miss Olivia Donovan didn’t see whatever it was in Fenwicke that all the other women saw. Intriguing. Without ever having met her, Max’s respect for her grew.
The thought of how many times Fenwicke had left his young wife alone in Sussex left Max feeling vaguely nauseous. How many times had he seen the man with a different woman on his arm?
Perhaps what left the sourest taste in Max’s mouth was that everyone knew about Fenwicke’s proclivities but continued to invite him to their social events. No one spurned him. He was a peer, after all, a member of White’s, and an excellent dance partner or opponent at cards.
Max’s dislike of the man threatened to grow into something stronger. Something more like hatred. He closed his eyes, and images of his own father passed behind his lids. His mother… alone. The tears she’d tried to hide from him. But even at a very young age, Max had known exactly what was happening. Exactly how his father had betrayed his mother, how he’d ruined her life, ultimately destroyed her. Max would never do that to a wife—he’d never marry so there would simply never be a concern—and he’d never abide anyone who did.
Fenwicke set his empty glass on the table. “I’m afraid Miss Olivia Donovan simply isn’t interested.”
“So, because you failed to charm the lady, you assume that I’d fail as well?”
“Of course. She’s frigid, you see. The girl is composed of ice as solid as a glacier.”
Another of the many reasons Max disliked Fenwicke: If a woman rejected him, he’d think it was due to some defect in her character as opposed to a natural—and wise—dislike or distrust of the man himself. And if a woman professed no attraction to the marquis, naturally she wouldn’t feel any attraction to any man, because all other men were lesser beings than him.
“I sincerely doubt she’s frigid,” Max responded before he thought better of it.
Fenwicke’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
Max met the man’s steely glare head-on. “Perhaps you simply don’t appeal.”
Fenwicke snorted. “Of course I appeal. I’m a marquis, to begin with—”
“Perhaps,” Max interjected, keeping his voice low, “she’s not interested in participating in an adulterous liaison, marquis or no.”
At his periphery, Max could see Fenwicke’s fists clenching. He braced himself for the man’s lunge, but it never came.
Instead Fenwicke’s lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. “I would beg to differ.”
Max shrugged. “Perhaps we should agree to disagree, then.”
“If she did not succumb to my charms, Hasley, then rest assured, there’s no way she’d succumb to yours.” Fenwicke’s voice was mild, but the cords in his neck bulged above his cravat.
Max shook his head, unable to prevent a sneer from forming on his lips. “You’re wrong, Fenwicke.”
Fenwicke’s brows rose, and he leaned forward, greedily licking his lips.
“Would you care to place a wager on that?”
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Caridad Piñeiro
Dear Readers,
I want to thank all of you who have been writing to tell me how much you’ve been loving the Carrera family, as well as enjoying the towns along the Jersey Shore where the series is set.
With THE LOST, I’m introducing a much darker para-normal series I’m calling Sin Hunters. The stories are still set along the Jersey Shore and you’ll have the beloved Carreras, but now you’ll also get to meet an exciting new race of people: The Light and Shadow Hunters.
Why the change? There was something about Bobbie Carrera, the heroine in THE LOST, that needed something different and something very special. Someone very special. Bobbie is an Iraq war veteran and she’s home from battle, but wounded both physically and emotionally. She’s busy trying to put her world back together and the last thing she needs is more conflict in her life.
But I’m a bad girl, you know. I love to challenge my characters into facing their most extreme hurts because doing so only makes their happiness that much sweeter. I think readers love that as well because there is nothing more uplifting than seeing how love can truly conquer all.
Bobbie’s challenge comes in the form of sexy millionaire Adam Bruno. Adam is different from any man she has ever met and Bobbie feels an immediate connection to him. There’s just one problem: Adam has no idea who he really is and why he possesses the ability to gather energy. That ability allows him to do a myriad of things; from shape-shifting to traveling at super speed, to wielding energy and light like weapons. But these powers are challenging for Adam: as his abilities grow stronger, they also become deadly and increasingly difficult to control.
Enter Bobbie Carrera. Bobbie brings peace to Adam’s soul. Adam feels lost in the human world, but in Bobbie’s arms he finds love, acceptance, and the possibility for a future he had never imagined.
But before he can reach that future, he must deal with the present, and that means battling the evil Shadow Hunters and facing the shocking truth about his real identity.
I hope you will enjoy the Sin Hunters series. Look for THE CLAIMED in May 2012, which will feature someone you meet in THE LOST. Not going to spill who it is just yet, but keep in mind I just love stories of redemption….
Thank you all for your continued support. Also, many thanks to our military men and women, and their families for safeguarding our liberty and our country. THE LOST is dedicated to you for all the sacrifices you make on our behalf. God bless you and keep you safe.
From the desk of Jennifer Haymore
Dear Reader,
When Serena Donovan, the heroine of CONFESSIONS OF AN IMPROPER BRIDE (on sale now), entered my office to ask me to write her story, I realized right away that I was in trouble. Obviously, there was something pretty heavy resting on this woman’s shoulders.
