Terri Brisbin
Mary Wine
ISBN 978-0-7582-0943-6
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From the elegant halls of London to the rugged castles of distant Scotland, historical romance has never been hotter! New York Times bestselling author Susan Johnson, with Terri Brisbin and Mary Wine…
When A Lady Is Willing, There Will Always Be A Way…
“As You Wish” by Susan Johnson
Felicity Belvoir is a charmer indeed—and still a virgin. But not for long. The dashing earl of Albion has vowed to be her first lover…and he is known throughout London as the gold standard in female pleasure…
“A Storm Of Love” by Terri Brisbin
The wild lands of Argyll hold no promise for a woman cast away—until a younger lover draws Agnes of Mull into his strong embrace. Breac’s tender touch erases all sorrow…and his compelling sensuality brings her to ecstasy…
“Stealing The Bride” by Mary Wine
Brawny and brave, Hayden Monroe is a laird in need of a wife and the beautiful Elspeth Leask shall be his. But he must bed her to wed her—and fully satisfy her deepest desires…
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Chapter One
London, March 1785
The young Earl of Albion’s heavy-lidded gaze came up slowly when the door of the breakfast room opened. “Keep your voice down, Kit. I’ve a hellish headache.”
“And a sore cock I don’t doubt,” the Duke of Richland’s youngest son cheerfully said as he walked toward the breakfast table. “You outdid yourself last night at Sally’s.”
Albion put down his coffee cup and smiled. “Someone had to destroy that ass Harvey’s record.” “You surely did.” Kit’s sandy brows rose. “By five wenches no less.”
“Sally’s ladies are damned fine,” the earl said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. He met his friend’s gaze, his own amused. “As for our swaggering Harvey, let him try and best that tally.”
“You know he’ll try.” Moving Albion’s discarded coat and waistcoat from one chair to another, Kit took the seat beside the earl and pointed to the covered dishes on the sideboard before turning back to Albion. “He’s hated you ever since Eaton when you took pity on the underclassmen he was bullying and beat him to a bloody pulp. Not to mention various intervening rivalries in which he fared equally poorly.”
Albion shrugged. “Some people never learn. He’s still a bully and a hypocrite. His poor wife has been embarrassed for years by his fucking everything in sight. Not that other men don’t stray from time to time, but”—the earl paused at Kit’s snort; aristocratic husbands were not as a rule faithful. “Very well—men often stray,” he amended. “But unlike Harvey, they don’t flaunt their orgies and still pretend to be a pious rector of the church. Believe me, hell is made for people like Harvey.”
“You and I might have a place reserved there as well.”
“Not, however, for hypocrisy,” Albion said flatly. “I live my life openly.”
Kit grinned. “Much to your parents’ chagrin.”
“Not Maman’s. She understands my wild ways. And the père’s not chagrined so much as annoyed at having to deal with all the sly innuendo apropos his scapegrace son. He only reminds me to take care that some irrate husband, father, or brother doesn’t have me horsewhipped.”
“Because they don’t dare face your pistols.”
“So he and I understand. I’ve promised to be more discreet.”
Kit laughed so long that the earl had time to empty his coffee cup and signal for a refill from one of the several footmen attending him.
As one flunkey poured brandy into his cup and another added a dash of coffee, Alexander Maccabe Montrose, heir to the Marquess of Pembroke, known to his friends as Mac, to his acquaintances as Albion, to the ladies in his life as darling Alex, leaned back in his chair and waited for his friend’s mirth to fade. “We live to amuse you,” he drawled when Kit’s laughter finally subsided.
“I’m sorry, Mac, but you and discretion don’t even have a nodding acquaintance.” He smiled his thanks as a footman served him a plate of food.
“I beg to differ. Did I not accept Amelia Rancourt’s blatantly false denial of our friendship when her husband confronted us at Cecily’s soiree two nights ago? I was the soul of discretion.”
“You were saving your own ass,” Kit said, scooping up a spoonful of mushrooms and eggs.
“And Amy’s as well. As a matter of fact, I was very convincing.” He grinned. “For which she thanked me later quite prettily.”
“So that’s where you went,” Kit said through a mouthful of food. “I thought you’d gone home.”
Albion’s brows rose. “At midnight? Hardly. Cecily had no end of empty bedchambers. As for my supposed lack of discretion, I think you’ll agree no one missed us and we were back downstairs before anyone noticed.”
“So you’re capable of the occasional discretion,” the Honorable Christopher Talmadge noted, spearing a kipper. “I stand corrected.”
The earl smiled faintly. “You admit then I’m not a complete rake.”
“That remains to be seen.” Kipper in hand, Kit sent a rare, irksome glance at his friend who looked very much the rake. He was pale, his eyes were tired, his lethargy marked. “You do recall the wager you agreed to last night.”
Lounging back in his chair, his brandy cup on the armrest, the earl contemplated his friend’s displeasure with gentle forbearance. “No doubt you will refresh my memory or why else have you arrived on my doorstep at the crack of dawn.”
“Noon for those who lead less hectic lives,” Kit said, shoving the kipper into his mouth.
Albion softly sighed. “You’re intent on needling me today. Have I offended you somehow?”
Kit quickly swallowed. “I just don’t think you should do this, Mac. It’s not decent.”
“Please clarify this.” The earl’s voice was very soft.
“You don’t remember. I thought you wouldn’t. You were nine parts drunk.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t remember. I just don’t recall the wager being particularly indecent.”
“So you do remember. Do you remember as well that she’s a virgin?”
Surprise at his friend’s novel morality registered fleetingly in the earl’s eyes. “They’re all virgins at one time or another,” he mildly said, the twitch of one shoulder visible beneath the fine linen of his shirt. “Not that virgins interest me particularly,” he casually noted. “But a wager’s a wager as you well know. And even if my reputation weren’t at stake, twenty thousand guineas is.”
“What about Felicity Belvoir’s reputation?” Kit charged, his breakfast forgotten.
“She can refuse me. That’s what this wager is all about, isn’t it? Whether or not I can successfully storm the citadel and gain the prize.”
“As if any woman has ever refused you,” Kit muttered.
“She very likely might.”
“She’ll be ruined and you know it.”
“I have no intention of discussing the episode afterward,” Albion explained in response to Kit’s dogged opposition. “She’ll be returned to her boudoir unhurt.”
“Unhurt? Ruined you mean. Your wager will be the talk of the ton.”
“Good God, Kit,” the earl finally exclaimed, “do you hold some tendre for this young lady?”
“No. But she’s a friend of my sister Jane. I’ve met her on several occasions at family dinners—that sort of thing—and I’ve gone by the Belvoirs to pick up Jane from time to time—all of which makes this enterprise far less abstract. Felicity’s a damned fine little charmer if you must know.”
“What the hell does that mean? Do you have some personal stake in this venture.”
Kit’s face flushed.
“I mean other than the five thousand you bet on me,” the earl sardonically noted.
“No. As for my bet, I was drunk.”
“Everyone was drunk. Everyone’s drunk most of the time.” Albion pushed himself upright in his chair, drained his cup, set it down, shoved aside his plate, and rested his forearms on the table. “Now that we’ve cleared up the fact that I’m not poaching on your territory,” the earl quietly said, having dispensed with the single factor that could hinder his undertaking, “tell me what this chit looks like.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“I’ll find out soon enough anyway. You might as well tell me.”
“She’s not blond.” Mac preferred blonds.
“Not exactly a definitive description,” Albion drily said.
“She has red hair.” At the earl’s grimace, Kit added, “Not the kind you think. It’s rather nice. Golden highlights, strawberry pinkish at times. Nor does she have freckles like so many redheads do. And she has the most gorgeous violet eyes.”
“You do have a tendre for her,” the earl alleged, frowning slightly.
“I might if I wasn’t head over heels for Emma who has allowed me unprecedented access to her lovely person,” Kit said with obvious gratification.
“Ah—finally. Are the banns about to be posted then?”
“Maybe. Probably. I haven’t exactly asked her yet.”
“But she’ll accept when you do.” With a smile, Albion lounged back in his chair, his lean, rangy form once again disposed in a lazy sprawl. “Congratulations. Emma will bring you a damned good stable in her dowry.” Her family was one of the best thoroughbred breeders in the country.
Kit grinned. “Not to be discounted.”
“Indeed. Ask for one of Endemion’s foals. Then we’ll see whether your horse or mine wins the Derby in a few years.” Albion’s stud was celebrated, his record of wins at the track testimony to its excellence.
“Back to more relevant matters, however,” he said, aware of his time constraints. “Is my illusive prize tall, short, middling? Not that it matters I suppose once she’s in bed.” The earl’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not a bluestocking, is she? No, you said she was a little charmer, which eliminates bluestockings,” he murmured, answering his own question. “A shame she’s a virgin, although I may be surprised.” He shot a sportive glance at his friend from under a fall of black hair escaped from the ribbon at the nape of his neck. “Perhaps a latent nymphomaniac lies beneath her maidenly facade.”
“If so,” Kit acidly returned, “you would have found your perfect match.”
“It certainly would add more pleasure to the transaction,” the earl negligently allowed, shoving the errant tress behind his ear.
“Damn it all, Mac! It ain’t right.” Rebuke was writ large in his expression. “Can’t I dissuade you from this odious business?”
Having lived under a cloud of scandal his entire young life, Albion was unlikely to succumb to censure or reproach. “You didn’t actually think you could, did you?” he asked with a conciliatory smile. “Consider—the wager is already written in the betting book at Brooks. Not to mention, I’ve twenty thousand at stake, you have five which your père will resent paying if you lose since you don’t have five thousand. If it helps, I promise the lady will enjoy herself. Does that assuage your newly emergent conscience?” The dispute logically resolved to his satisfaction, the earl signaled to have his cup refilled. “Hair of the dog, Kit?” he queried, glancing at his scowling friend. “Liquor invariably blurs moral ambiguities.”
“You should know,” Kit grumbled. But he raised his cup to a hovering footman.
“I do indeed,” Albion said sliding lower in his chair and stretching out his boot-clad feet as a flunkey handed him his brandy. “This will all be quickly over and soon forgotten,” the earl offered in mollifying accents. “I simply have to find my way into her bedchamber, seduce the sweet thing, kiss her good-bye, and bring back the required confirmation. As for her virginity, it’s not necessarily a requirement for a brilliant marriage. Your Emma’s a case in point, along with other young ladies we know.”
“Felicity’s père is a damned stickler though. Honorable, sensible, that sort of thing.”
“But then he’s not marrying her, is he? If she’s half as pretty as you say, she’ll do well enough in the marriage mart without her virginity. Who knows, she might learn something useful for her husband.”
“Christ, Mac. You almost make it sound as if you’re doing her a favor.”
His eyes crinkled. “We’ll leave that appraisal up to her.”
“You’re shameless,” Kit muttered.
“But good at what I do,” Albion pleasantly observed.
Kit exhaled in resignation. “When will you be doing her this favor?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight!”
“The spring meets begin at Newmarket day after tomorrow. My horses are already there. Time is of the essence. Now, tell me what you know about the layout of her house.”
