A week to be wicked…
Widowed Selina Martin faces another marriage founded on duty, not love. When notorious libertine Lord Bruard invites her to his isolated hunting lodge, he promises discretion – and seven days of hedonistic pleasure before she weds her boorish fiancé. All her life, Selina has done the right thing, but this no-strings-attached chance to discover the handsome rake’s sensual secrets is irresistible. She’ll surrender to her wicked fantasies, seize some brief happiness, then knuckle down to a loveless union. What could possibly go wrong?
In a lifetime of seduction, Brock Drummond, the dashing Earl of Bruard, has never wanted a woman the way he wants demure widow Selina Martin. When Selina agrees to become his temporary lover, he soon falls captive to an enchantment unlike any other. He sets out to slake his white hot desire until only ashes remain, but as each day of forbidden delight passes, the idea of saying goodbye to his ardent mistress becomes more and more unbearable.
When scandal explodes around them and threatens to destroy Selina, Brock is the only person she can turn to. After so short a time, can she trust a man whose name is a byword for depravity?
Will this sizzling liaison prove a mere affair to remember? Or will their week of passion spark a lifetime of happiness for the widow and her dissolute Scottish earl?
An international e-book release 30th June 2020
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Derwent Hall, Essex, December 1823
“You will arrive at Mowbray Place on Christmas Eve, and not too late either. Mamma likes her dinner at five o’clock on the dot.”
Selina Martin struggled not to wince at her fiancé’s hectoring tone. Was it her imagination that the walls of Derwent Hall’s library with their Etruscan decorations closed in on her? “Yes, Cecil.”
She and Cecil Canley-Smythe had been guests at this luxurious manor in Essex all week, while Cecil and Lord Derwent discussed business matters. But the visit had not proven a success. The other guests had been a disreputable selection, however blue their blood, and Cecil hadn’t approved of the way they’d carried on with one another. Nor had the disreputable gathering approved of Cecil, with his propensity for laying down the law, even while in someone else’s house. Tonight at dinner when Cecil announced that he and his betrothed were leaving in the morning, Selina had noticed a general air of relief.
“You will speak to the boy about restraining any excessive high spirits over the Festive Season. Mamma cannot abide undue noise.”
“The boy” was her nine-year-old son Gerald. Sometimes she doubted whether Cecil even remembered Gerald’s name. A problem when he was about to become Gerald’s stepfather.
Selina told herself she could bear this. She could bear anything for her son’s sake. “Yes, Cecil.”
“And I hope you’re not doing anything silly with your wedding dress. Mamma expects our wedding to be a suitably dignified occasion. You’re a widow, and I’m a respectable man of mature years. Any undue frivolity will reflect badly on a person of my standing.”
Mature years? He had that right. Despite how tightly he was tied to his mother’s apron strings, he was fifty-five. She was only twenty-seven, even if right now she might feel a hundred and seven.
Curling her fingers at her sides until her nails bit into her palms, she kept her voice calm. “I’ve chosen a plain cream frock without a train, Cecil. Nobody will accuse me of extravagance or vanity.”
Selina hadn’t selected her modest gown entirely because of Cecil’s dislike for frivolity. Even purchasing such a plain dress had stretched her meager financial resources.
“I’m pleased to hear it. Now after I leave tomorrow, I’ll be busy every day with my mills in Northumberland. Don’t look for any letters. I won’t have time to write to you.”
“I understand. I won’t trouble you either, unless something urgent comes up.”
“Urgent?” He frowned in displeasure. “I’m not expecting anything urgent.”
Well, the bride might yet jump off Westminster Bridge to avoid her nuptials, but that probably wouldn’t count as urgent in Cecil’s estimation. Whereas if Selina sewed a scrap of lace onto her wedding gown, she was certain he’d consider that an emergency.
“I’m sure there won’t be anything,” she said, in the meek voice she’d learned to use during her first marriage to soothe her husband’s erratic temper.
She glanced past her hulking fiancé with his wet lips and balding head to where a long, high-backed settle faced the crackling fire. The imposing piece of furniture dominated the room.
“See that there isn’t.” Cecil regarded her with a disapproval that she surely didn’t deserve. “Mamma has always been worried that your youth makes you unreliable. I told her that you’re a sensible woman, able to handle any problems that arise. Don’t make me a liar.”
Selina wanted to tell Cecil’s mamma to button her wrinkled lip, but defiance served no purpose. She chose this path with her eyes wide open. A show of spirit now would only toss her back to the wolves. Her and her son. “You can rely on me, Cecil.”
His manner softened, and he gave her a smile. “Of course I can, my dear. That’s why I asked you to be my bride.”
He no longer sounded like a sergeant dressing down a tardy recruit, but somehow that was worse than a scolding. The “my dear” made her hide a shudder. Because while Cecil was determined that in public she behaved like a sober widow, she suspected his private intentions weren’t nearly so circumspect.
He wanted her in his bed. She’d known it from the first.
Lucky her.
“I’ll make you a good wife.”
“Of course you will, my dear. If I had the slightest doubt, I’d never have proposed. The world has always praised your devoted care of your late husband, despite his unfortunate wildness, and your comportment in your widowhood has been exemplary.” He stepped closer. “Now it grows late, and we both have a long journey in the morning.”
While Cecil headed north, she returned to her humble lodgings in Marylebone to wait out the fortnight before the wedding on Boxing Day. The second week of that period at least offered Gerald’s company, once his school closed for Christmas. But while she loved her son, she wasn’t entirely looking forward to that either. Gerald had only met Cecil once, and he hadn’t liked him. He wouldn’t be slow to make his resentment of his future stepfather felt.
He was too young to understand why his mother gave herself into Cecil’s keeping, and she’d done her best to hide how desperate things were in the Martin household. Selina had so many doubts about this marriage she entered into, but the tragic truth was that if she didn’t marry Cecil, she might end up on the streets. And if she did, she’d lose Gerald.
So she raised her chin and summoned a smile and battled to ignore how her stomach knotted with revulsion when Cecil kissed her cheek. In their eight weeks of betrothal, he’d never kissed her on the lips. But the reprieve was only temporary. She had no illusions that he’d keep his distance, once his ring was on her finger.
Damp lips skimmed her skin, and the overpowering scent of Pomade de Nerole made her dizzy. He stepped back before she could gag, thank heavens. “Shall I escort you to the staircase?”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to choose a book, or I’ll never sleep. You go ahead, and I’ll see you in a fortnight.”
Cecil was leaving early, so they wouldn’t meet in the morning. The prospect of two weeks of freedom both exhilarated and troubled her. Fourteen days without her fiancé shouldn’t feel like rescue from a death sentence. She had to reconcile herself to this marriage, or the years ahead would be too wretched to contemplate.
“Very well. It’s not long now. I know the waiting grows wearisome, but you’ll soon be my wife.”
“Yes, Cecil.” She hoped he didn’t notice the dullness in her tone.
The heady sensation of freedom had lasted a mere second. Now she was back to sitting inside the condemned woman’s cell, waiting for sentence to be carried out.
Once Cecil left, she moved across to one of the bookcases. Cecil liked women to read improving sermons, full of strictures on obedience and modesty. A spirit of rebellion had her pulling Tom Jones from the shelf.
“Well, that was a remarkable demonstration of unbridled passion, if I ever heard one. When I listened to the two of you making such wanton promises to each other, you put me to the blush. You really did.”
Oh, no. The deep sardonic drawl made Selina drop the book and whirl around with a horrified gasp. Cold hands reached out of nowhere to wring her stomach with a painful mixture of embarrassment and fear.
What on earth? The room was empty.
Then her glance fell on the solid-backed settle she’d already noticed. “You should rather blush at being exposed as a sneak and an eavesdropper, Lord Bruard,” she said, too upset to guard her tongue.
Rather than the apology he owed her, the response was a soft chuckle that played forbidden music up and down her spine. “You recognize my voice. I’m flattered.”
“You’re the only Scotsman in the party,” she said coldly, bending to pick up the book. It was a first edition. It deserved better than her flinging it to the floor.
In fact, she was the one blushing. Because while it was true that a trace of the earl’s northern roots was audible in his speech, she didn’t recognize his voice because of his accent. She recognized his voice because ever since she’d arrived at this house, she’d dreamed of him. In her fantasies, that insolent baritone whispered wicked promises that turned her nights to fire.
“Oh, cruel beauty. I hoped you’d noticed me, yet now you depress my pretensions.”
“Of course I noticed you,” she said in an even icier tone. “You’re notorious.”
“I am indeed.” He didn’t sound like he considered that any cause for remorse. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Mrs. Martin? For fear my reputation might corrupt your upstanding morals?”
Oh, dear. She had been avoiding him. But there was something threatening in discovering that he’d noticed.
“There’s nothing wrong with my morals,” she said hotly, before she reminded herself that a silent and immediate departure from the library was surely the wisest path.
“More is the pity.”
It seemed she was in no mood to be wise. Still clutching the book, she marched around the settle to confront him. “Lord Bruard, you…”
“Yes?” He was stretched full-length against the cushions, as relaxed and dangerous as a big cat. Not a lion or a tiger. There was nothing golden about his saturnine beauty. A panther, perhaps.
“A gentleman would have made his presence known.” She hated how prim and stuffy she sounded.
A lazy smile curled his long, rather cruel mouth and set his dark eyes glittering. “Of course a gentleman would.”
He paused for her to make the connection that he wasn’t a gentleman. She didn’t need reminding, God help her.
As the smile deepened, a jolt of unwelcome attraction struck her like lightning. But how could she help it? He was almost sinfully beautiful, with his thick black hair and thin face, all cheekbones and jaw and long, aquiline nose. He looked like a fallen angel. He’d certainly sinned enough to merit damnation.
She told herself with no conviction at all that her response to his presence was no great matter. Any woman with blood in her veins would thrill to the way he looked. It was a natural reaction.
But the woeful truth was that she’d been responding for a week. She was a stand of dry timber – and Lord Bruard was a blazing torch, primed to send her up in roaring flames. She’d reminded herself over and over that too many other women felt exactly the same, and if she had any pride she’d stifle this unwilling fascination. Good heavens, even Lady Derwent’s eighty-year-old maiden aunt went all silly and giggly at the sight of this infamous rake.
But Selina’s existence had been grim and purposeful. The only happiness she’d ever known was founded in her love for her son. She’d never before fallen prey to an irresistible attraction. And to such an unworthy object, at that. She was disgusted with herself.
But no amount of disgust made any difference to the way the mere sound of the Scottish earl’s voice made her skin tighten in desire and her heart race with excitement.
He went on in a musing tone. “But if I had announced my presence, I’d have missed out on overhearing a very interesting conversation.”
Interesting? His definition of the word must differ from hers. “Your entertainment trumps good manners?”
“Naturally my entertainment is paramount.”
She shouldn’t find his complete lack of shame appealing. But she’d spent her life overburdened with rules and restrictions, and Bruard’s contempt for social niceties was alluring.
Devil take him, everything about him was alluring. She’d never met an out-and-out wrong ‘un before. She’d never wasted her time thinking about idle, dissipated and handsome men. If she had, she’d imagined that her overdeveloped sense of right and wrong would lead her to abominate them. She’d certainly had no patience for her late husband’s attempts to ape the excesses of the upper classes.
What an innocent she’d been. One dismissive glance from those fathomless dark green eyes under their sweep of thick lashes, and all she wanted to do was get closer.
Much closer.