TAKE ME by Lucy Monroe

TAKE ME by Lucy Monroe

The Langley Family Trilogy Book Three

Jared, Viscount Ravenswood, has no choice but to honor the deathbed wish of his ailing servant. All she asks is that Jared introduce her soon-to-be orphaned daughter to the notorious and reclusive Calantha, Duchess of Clairborne. No ordinary request, for this is no ordinary child. She is, in fact, the key to the Duchess’s most private secrets, and to Jared’s own past—one that has branded him Lord Beast among the ton.

But when the Viscount meets the Duchess, he finds not the pitiless dowager he expected, but a lovely and wary angel—survivor of a brutal marriage left now with only her roses and the breathtaking mystery that is her life. 

For Jared, to solve it is to fall in love, to make her believe in the impossible, and to follow the promise that comes with the most intimate whisper of all... Take me...

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TAKE ME

© 2006 Lucy Monroe

Excerpt


CHAPTER ONE


Ashton Manor, Summer - 1825

Lord Beast.

Viscount Ravenswood.

A very dangerous man.

Calantha watched the huge man cross the small ballroom toward her with both anticipation and dread. His black and white evening clothes clung alarmingly well to his well-muscled, oversized body and he carried himself with an easy grace that belied his size. Watching him move demanded all of her attention. The play of muscles under his tight-fitting breeches fascinated her as did the way others hastened to move aside as he approached.

This inexplicable reaction to him had so startled her on the first night of Lady Ashton’s house party that Calantha had fled with the flimsy excuse of a headache as soon as the ladies left the gentlemen to their port after dinner. She had not returned since. Until tonight.

She had promised Lady Ashton that she would attend tonight’s ball and Calantha always kept her promises.

Besides, she liked the friendly Lady Ashton. So, she had come. And now she watched the man the ton referred to as Lord Beast with the same absorption she reserved for her studies, her painting and her gardening. Yet, none of those things made her tremble with pleasure-laced-dread at the thought of being in the same room with them. Nor did they make her pulse race.

In truth, nothing made her pulse race. For such a reaction was an emotional one and she had long ago learned that life was safer if lived without emotional excesses and turmoil. Her heart was a frozen ball of ice in a soul that shivered from the cold winds that howled across it...if she had a soul at all.

"Oh, no. He’s coming this way. He has not forgotten our dance. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" A young debutante standing directly in front of Calantha spoke.

Ah, so he was coming over to dance with the deb. A mixture of relief and disappointment flowed over Calantha. Of course he would not be desirous of making her acquaintance. She was beautiful, but boring. She had overheard herself referred to as such and thought it appropriate. A woman who hid her true self could not be interesting, but she could be safe.

Everyone knew that Lord Beast spoke only to people that interested him. It was rumored that he gave his own father, the Earl of Langley, the cut direct. And now he intended to dance with the simpering chit in front of Calantha.

She would not have to talk to him. She would not be required to refuse his offer of a dance, or even worse as she very much feared she might...accept.

"Calm yourself, Beatrice. ‘Tis only one dance. Lord Beast isn’t going to eat you on the ballroom floor," replied another young lady, sounding not in the least sympathetic to her friend’s plight.

"That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to dance with him. I’m at sixes and sevens at the thought of him touching me," complained the silly Beatrice, "I mean that awful scar. And he’s so big."

Calantha understood her own fear of Ravenswood, but why would the debutante fear him?

Could she not see that under the bluster and glaring demeanor, was a man who knew gentleness? Calantha had taught herself to watch others closely in order to assess their true natures after making the colossal mistake of marrying a Duke who had been well named after the devil.

It was not difficult. Not really. She was quiet. She remained in the background...another protective behavior she had learned during the years of her marriage. From her vantage point on the peripheral of any gathering, she gathered and analyzed information on the people around her.

The first night she had seen Ravenswood, she had been unable to focus on anyone else and her intent regard had revealed some unexpected facts.

He cared deeply for his sisters and respected the men they had married. In his own way, he was even quite patient. It did not seem so at first, but he had an incredible ability to ignore the rudeness of the many who responded to his scar rather than to his person or his position.

Rumor had it that Ravenswood had fought with a wolf as a very young man to save his sister’s life and that is how he had become scarred. Could not the foolish Beatrice and the rest of the ton see the beauty in that, the courage and selflessness that such an action would require?

Even the servants were very nervous around him. However, at one point during the previous dinner party, a maid had come close to spilling a tureen of soup on him. He had not yelled at her, or demanded her punishment as many of the ton would do. Instead, he had saved her and so very carefully that he had not added to her upset.

He was not infinitely patient however. She had also seen him send footmen running with a look and had heard him raise his voice in argument with a local squire she found particularly set in his outmoded opinions.

Beyond everything else she had noticed about him was the truth that he was a man of power...perhaps even enough power to melt the ice that encased Calantha's own heart. The thought sent chills of fear skating down her spine. If that were to happen, there would be pain, great rushing waves of it that would drown her once and for all.

Perhaps the debutante feared Ravenswood because she too could sense this power, though Calantha had difficulty crediting the chit with such insight. After all, her voiced complaints amounted to nothing more than window dressing. Like so many others, she was bothered by the scar. Foolish child.

Calantha could have told her that true evil lurked within and had nothing to do with physical imperfection. That sort of evil had the power to hurt beyond bearing. Her dead husband had taught Calantha that lesson very well.

Ravenswood stopped in front of Beatrice and put out his hand. "Come."

Beatrice’s companion’s eyes widened at the peremptory command. Gentlemen of the ton did not order their partners to the dance floor. They made suitably bland comments and requests to which a lady could easily respond in the negative.

Beatrice gasped and Calantha watched with interest as her face drained of all color. "I couldn’t possibly, my lord. I’ve… I’ve… I already promised this dance. My partner is over there." She waved her fan in the direction of the other side of the room. "He’s waiting for me."

Had Calantha seen hurt in his gaze before his eyes narrowed? Had the hastily made-up excuse pricked his pride or damaged his ego? For some reason she could not fathom, she could not bear the thought. She tried to ignore the stirrings of compassion she felt. Compassion toward a man that logic said would not be touched by such a silly girl’s foolishness.

Calantha had pushed away such reactions early in her marriage when she realized that allowing herself to care for others put them at risk. It gave her husband further opportunities to punish her many imperfections by hurting others. She tried, but failed, to suppress the memory of her one dear friend, Mary.

Calantha had befriended the girl in the first months of her marriage only to discover that when her husband’s anger burned brightly toward her, he was capable of all manner of evil toward those she held dear. She still believed her husband was responsible for Mary’s disappearance the second year they were married. For she did not believe her friend would have left without a word otherwise.

She still regretted her lack of vigilance on Mary’s behalf, just as she bitterly repented so many of the weaknesses that haunted her.

It was definitely a weakness of mind that made her feet move forward and caused her to say, "Excuse me, please," as she stepped around Beatrice to face Ravenswood directly.

"If you are not otherwise engaged, my lord, perhaps you would consent to escort me onto the floor. I am weary of stillness." Liar. Liar. Her brain screamed at her, but she could not pay it any heed. She danced rarely and never grew weary of motionlessness. It was a condition of excellence when one existed on the perimeters of life.

His eyes widened and once again the deb gasped, this time with clear surprise. Calantha waited in frozen silence for him to answer. She had learned not to shift nervously when confronted with a potentially explosive situation and that training came in to play now. She waited.

And waited.

Finally, convinced he would refuse, she began to step back toward the outskirts of the room, as embarrassed by her behavior as she was confused by it. She could feel heat stealing up her cheeks and she wanted to cover them with her gloved hands. This man of power would have no interest in dancing with a weakling like herself.

But he was willing to escort that brainless twit, Beatrice, her mind taunted her.

Calantha could not believe how that knowledge had the ability to hurt her. She forced away the pain and summoned a smile that meant nothing, just as she had done so many times in the past. She did not remember the last time she had smiled with any true feeling behind it. She opened her mouth to speak.

***

Jared watched the Angel’s face take on the quality of a porcelain doll, the little emotion that had been revealed, now wiped clean from her features. She was backing away, not because she feared him as so many others had, but because she believed he would refuse her invitation to dance. He had seen the knowledge in her eyes and it seared him because he instinctively knew it had caused her pain.

He hadn’t meant to stay silent, but he, who was used to shocking others, had been completely taken aback by the actions of the Angel. Ladies did not ask gentlemen to dance and yet she had asked him. She had opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing had yet emerged.

He forestalled her speech by bowing low toward her and said, "I would be delighted by the honor, your grace."

Blue eyes, the exact shade of an English summer sky, widened and she stopped edging away. Mary had had blue eyes, but even after what she had gone through with the duke, they had never shimmered with quite the wariness the Angel's did.

Beatrice, the simpering miss his sister had arranged for him to partner, stared at them with fascinated awe. She no doubt could not believe that any lady would willingly partner him. With her trumped up story of another partner, she’d made it clear she wouldn’t.

The Angel’s willingness to do so surprised him as well. As did the fierce urge to hold her, even if it was for something as fleeting as a country dance. He had not expected anything resembling this response to the woman when he made his promise to Mary.

He reached out and to take her arm, unsurprised but disappointed when she flinched from his touch before seeming to gather her courage and allowing him to pull her toward him. He led her to the other dancers as the musicians began to play. They joined a set and she went into the dance steps with polished style.

But then, that was no less than he expected of the Angel. She looked and acted like the epitome of feminine perfection, her beauty ethereal in its flawlessness. Tall for a woman, she still gave the appearance of fragility.

Her blonde hair had been dressed in a Grecian knot, accentuating the slender column of her neck and further encouraging the perception of her as an otherworldly creature. Along with her translucent skin and composed features, it gave the impression of a marble statue of a Greek goddess rather than a mere mortal woman.

Her blue silk gown matched the shade of her eyes perfectly and exposed the upper swell of her small breasts without being vulgar.

Perfection.

Why had she asked him to dance? It did not fit with his image of her, neither the cold-hearted bitch he had assumed she must be, nor the Angel the ton believed her to be. After all, an angel did not dance with a beast.

He knew what the ton called him and did not care. He was used to the reaction of others to his scars. As he’d grown older and bigger, much bigger than most gentlemen amidst the ton, that reaction had only intensified.

Hell, the only two men of his acquaintance that approached him for size were his sisters’ husbands and they were unique in other ways as well. Neither one had ever shown the slightest fear of him and they’d both been courageous enough to marry strong-willed women. His sisters had stubborn streaks that matched his own.

Why had the Angel asked him to dance?

He frowned in thought and the lady now facing him, forgot the complicated steps involved in this portion of the dance and tripped. Jared’s hand shot out to steady her. Her eyes flew to his and he read surprise in her gaze as he gently righted her and continued the pattern of the dance. When he once again faced the duchess, he did so with relief.

"You are not staying at Ashton Manor?" he asked her, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear the melodic voice that had asked him to dance once again.

"No. I live nearby and your sister graciously invited me to attend tonight."

He knew that Irisa had invited the Angel to come for all her planned entertainments, but the duchess had only shown up for two. She had come to dinner the first night of the house party and Jared had covertly studied her, making plans to corner her and talk to her after the gentlemen rejoined the ladies. However, he’d been disappointed to learn that she had left early with a headache.

He had waited for her to appear again, but she hadn’t and he’d resigned himself to seeking her out at her home. He wanted to discern what kind of person she was before he kept his promise to Mary. His original plan had been to attend the tail end of the Season and meet her then, but Hannah had an accident playing in the garden and had not been able to travel.

When he had learned his brother-in-law’s primary country estate was near the duchess’s home and his sister planned to invite her to the house party, Jared had shocked Irisa by accepting his own invitation. Although he had been happy to see both of his sisters and their families again, he preferred his own estates, as his sister was well aware.

He found the ton and its superficial ways irritating. It wasn’t just the way people reacted to his appearance, thinking him a beast because he didn’t fit the Beau Monde’sidea of a gentleman. He hated the way truth and honor often got shoved aside in order to maintain appearances. It had happened in his own family and he couldn’t stand the sight of his father because of it. He hated the fact that both of his sisters and the mother he had never been allowed to know had been hurt by his father’s cowardly actions.

The country dance ended and the Angel followed him off the floor.

"Would you like a glass of champagne or punch?" he asked her, wanting to prolong their encounter, needing some answers to the questions that continued to grow in his mind about her.

"A glass of champagne would be lovely." The musical quality of her voice washed over him and he wanted to keep her talking, but he had to find the footman with the champagne tray.

***

Calantha sat in the chair Ravenswood had escorted her to before seeking out refreshments, her back ramrod straight. She feared that if she let even one muscle relax, she would lose control completely. Dancing with Ravenswood had been more dangerous than she anticipated. Much more.

Human touch was something she had avoided as much as possible during her marriage and completely since her husband's death. Yet, there was no comparison between the revolted fear she used to experience whenever her husband so much as brushed against her and the reaction she had to Jared's nearness.

She found herself terribly jealous of the time he spent facing the other ladies in their set. She wanted him all to herself. At one point the gentlemen had been required to place their hands on the waist of their current lady partners. She had wanted to shove the woman next to Ravenswood aside and take her place.

It had taken every ounce of her considerable self-control to stifle that urge.

He did not engage in the inane chatter her other partners found necessary and had in fact only asked one question - if she were staying for the house party. She had been relieved he did not ask more, that he had not wanted her direction because she knew she must not see him again after tonight. She could not afford the risk to her hard won peace.

Looking around the room, she wondered at how bright the colors seemed. It was as if everything had become more vivid and that frightened her. It was so much safer in the shadows and away from the vitality of life. She was content with her studies, with her flowers and her painting. She could not allow herself to become enthralled with a man like Ravenswood.

And yet a part of her recognized she already was.

She wanted to get up and run. Her legs had actually tensed to do so, but he returned.

"Your champagne, your grace."

"Please, call me Calantha." She hated the title that reminded her of all she had failed to be and a marriage full of hellish memories. For some reason, she despised it all the more on Ravenswood’s lips.

"Very well, Calantha. I am Jared." He said it with the same authority one might announce royal bloodlines.

"I’m pleased to meet you, Jared."

"I knew who you were before we danced."

"Yes." She’d known who he was as well, but now they had met. There was something intimate in a meeting like this, without someone to introduce them and intrude, in the sharing of their first names. "You are Lady Ashton’s brother."

He nodded. "Calantha is Greek."

She liked the bluntness of his speech. She did not have to expend effort discerning subtle nuances and double meanings.

She did not smile, but she felt like it and that surprised her. "My father was a vicar who spent most of his spare hours doing translations of the Bible from Greek and Hebrew. My mother helped him."

They had both been shocked by the birth of a daughter so late in their lives.

"It means beautiful blossom. Did they know you would grow to such beauty, I wonder?"

"I suspect it was hopeful thinking on their part."

"Their hope was rewarded."

"They thought so," she admitted.

They had believed her beauty a blessing and gift from the Almighty. Having died of an outbreak of the flu the first year of her marriage, her parents had never discovered her husband’s true nature and the curse her physical beauty had actually wreaked in her life. For that, she was very grateful – even if their deaths had left her feeling more isolated than ever.

Jared took a sip of his champagne and she watched his throat move as he swallowed. Extremely masculine, even this small behavior on his part fascinated her. He did not wear the high-pointed collars popular among gentlemen of the ton and she was glad. She would never get to look into his eyes if he could not bend his head. He was too tall.

She liked his eyes. They were filled with life. Not necessarily joy, but life. Jared felt and Jared lived.

Calantha envied him his courage to do so.

"Why haven’t you come to more of the events my sister planned?" he asked.

"I’ve been busy. It’s a delicate time for the flowers in my conservatory. They require continuous care."

He nodded and she felt the most shocking desire to reach out and touch the black silkiness of his hair. Most men would have tied it back with a ribbon, but Jared let his hang free to brush his shoulders. It added to the wildness of his appearance, despite his gentleman’s garb.

She gripped her hands together tightly in case she found them doing something foolish as her mouth had done earlier when asking him to dance.

"I didn’t like leaving my rose garden, but I left strict instructions for its care," he said.

"You grow roses?" Her voice came out faint, but she could not help it. Everything about this man drew her further into his web and she felt like a butterfly fascinated by a spider.

"Yes. I specialize in gallicas and damasks."

Gallicas.

"Do you have an Apothecary’s Rose?" Her voice had risen above her usually well-modulated tones in her excitement.

The Apothecary’s Rose did not grow well in a conservatory and though she also kept an outdoor garden, she had not been able to acquire a good cutting. Several of the recipes her mother had left her called for the hips of this particular plant and Calantha was eager to try them out.

His face turned hard, his gaze shuttered, but not before she saw an inexplicable fury blaze to life in dark eyes. "Yes."

She wanted to shrink against the wall at the rage he had hidden so quickly. She didn’t. She knew from experience that to show weakness made one doubly vulnerable. She forced herself to sit straighter and face him squarely and reminded herself that she had done nothing wrong.

Even if he divined her purpose in asking for a cutting and did not wish to give one, he need only say no. And now, she would not venture to ask.

Nevertheless, anger did not require justification she could comprehend as she well knew. So, she chose to remain silent in the face of Jared’s. Taking a small sip of her champagne, she waited for him to speak again.

"I take it you are interested in roses?" He didn’t sound angry, but she could not trust his mild response.

Her husband had often gone from mild inquiry to blazing rage in the space of a heartbeat.

"Yes."

"Do you grow them in your conservatory?" he asked, his eyes filled with what appeared to be genuine interest.

Still, she took no chances. "Yes."

"And you are interested in my Apothecary's Rose?"

She inclined her head in answer, giving neither a confirmation nor a rebuttal. It seemed safest.

"You are aware they do not grow to their potential in a consistently warm environment or confined to a pot?"

"Yes."

"Damn it, Calantha, don’t talk to me in monosyllables. My sisters can tell you that is my domain. You are a woman. You are supposed to talk in sentences, in whole damn paragraphs even. They train you for it from birth, or so it seems." He glowered at her, sounding affronted.

Startled laughter erupted from her and she covered her mouth with her gloved hand, stifling the mirth almost immediately. The sound of her own amusement so surprised her that she did not respond for several seconds.

If dancing with him had been dangerous, conversing with him was lethal to her peace of mind. "I’m sorry. I will try to do better." She took a deep breath, wracking her mind for something of interest to add. "I grow small China roses in the conservatory and some tea roses as well. They’re quite lovely and terribly fragile. They make me feel needed."

She hadn’t meant to say that last bit. It had slipped out in her effort to talk in paragraphs. She wasn’t used to it. One word answers were safer and silence was safest. There was less chance of words being taken out of context that way, or her comments being misinterpreted by others.

"Will you dance with me again?"

His question caught her by surprise and she stared at him in stunned shock, much as he had reacted to her earlier.

His black brow rose in sardonic query. "Is the idea of repeating the experience so appalling?"

"No." It was much, much, too appealing.

He put his hand out in peremptory demand. "Then, come."

She stared at his hand and felt the seductive draw of his warmth and vitality. What could it hurt? She would not return to Lady Ashton’s during the house party. She would not see Jared again. Surely, she could withstand one more dance with him.

Reaching out, she placed her hand in his, her fingers trembling as his warmth enveloped them through the two layers of their gloves. He pulled her into his arms and onto the ballroom floor as the orchestra struck up a waltz. A waltz. She had been prepared for a country dance, but not this. This holding of her person, his large body so close to her own.

Her trembling increased.

He squeezed her hand. "An angel need not fear a mere mortal, even if he is a beast."

Her head snapped up and unaccustomed anger flared inside her. "I am not an angel and you are no beast. Please do not refer to yourself in such a fashion in my company."

His thumb moved in a strangely affecting caress against the indentation of her waist and she shivered. Did he have any idea the impact his nearness had on her? She felt that tiny movement of his thumb with every fiber of her being.

His lips quirked in mockery. "The rest of the ton sees me as such. Why are you so sure they are wrong?"

"I know a beast when I see one...now."

He did not ask how or even what she meant, for which she was grateful. He merely nodded. "But you fit the role of angel to perfection."

Despair washed over her. That hated word...perfection. She was not perfect as her husband and the rest of his family had made pains to point out. Others had paid the price for her inability to attain the ideal.

She hated the sight of herself in a looking glass. Her own outward beauty served as a mocking reminder of how far short of perfection she fell where it counted...inside. She was weak, a coward. She had let others be hurt because she had withdrawn behind her walls of icy reserve, her only defense against the slights and cruelties Clairborne had been so good at serving up.

She could have made stronger efforts to protect her servants from his wrath, but she had been terrified of standing up to him. The final price of her own cowardice had been too high, the lesson of her own fallibility too well learned. Because of her, a young girl – a sweet child full of vitality and joy - had died. She could never forgive herself or forget that she was more sinner than angel.

"Appearances are deceptive."

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TEMPT ME by Lucy Monroe

TEMPT ME by Lucy Monroe

The Langley Family Trilogy Book Two

Humiliated by his family’s indiscretions, Lucas, Lord Ashton—nicknamed “The Saint” — wants nothing more than to live a quiet life with the prim and proper bride of his choice. And if the innocent young lady in question gives him some decidedly devilish urges, he is determined to control himself—much to her dismay.

Lady Irisa Langley is at her wit’s end. Much as she loves her exasperatingly perfect fiancé, she’s starting to think it would be wrong of her to marry him. For Irisa has a secret that would shock even the world-weary denizens of the Ton, and someone—who doesn’t want her anywhere near Lucas—knows it.

Lucas never knew that he could desire more in a bride than impeccable manners and an unblemished pedigree. But even as scandal looms, a loyal little spitfire with heated kisses and silken skin is making him forget every rule of etiquette he’s ever known...

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TEMPT ME

© 2006 Lucy Monroe

Excerpt


CHAPTER ONE

Irisa faced Lucas across the small library. The fog-dampened night could not intrude on the warm coziness of the room.

Lucas’s mouth curved in a loving smile. "You came."

She nodded, her throat too clogged with emotion to speak.

He extended his hand. "Come here, my love."

She moved forward as if in a daze, drawn by the warmth in her lover’s eyes as much as the implied command in his stance. She wanted him.

Desperately.

And he wanted her.

As soon as she was close enough to touch, he reached out and pulled her to him. The feel of his warm skin on her bare arms sent shivers down her spine. He did not stop pulling her until her body was an inch from his own.

She knew he would kiss her now. Finally. She had waited so long, but instinctively knew the wait would be worth it. Lucas’s mouth settled on hers, his lips warm and vibrant against her own. She shuddered and he pulled his mouth a breath from hers.

"Are you all right, my love?"

"Yes. Please. Kiss me again."

He did so with alacrity while one arm moved around her waist. His other hand settled on her shoulder, his fingers sliding under the fabric of her gown. She blushed at the intimate touch, but did not pull away. He groaned low in his throat and tugged the tiny cap sleeves of her gown down until the swell of her breasts were exposed. Then he… Then he…

Oh,fustion! Irisa’s daydream came to an abrupt halt. What would happen next? Authors always stopped at the most interesting parts in the novels Irisa read. For instance, she assumed a gentleman placed his fingers under the fabric of a lady’s gown with the intention of baring her unmentionables, but she couldn’t be sure.

And she certainly had no idea what said gentleman would do once he had succeeded in pushing the bodice down. She thought the bit about shuddering and groaning had been well done, considering her lack of personal experience and knowledge in this area. Not that she would shun a bit more of both, particularly if Lucas offered the instruction.

Stifling a sigh, she reluctantly brought her attention back to the Bilkington’s elegantly appointed supper room and her partner’s monologue on hunting hounds. Lady Bilkington had an infatuation with green and gold, much in evidence in the room’s decor.

Irisa smiled and nodded at Mr. Wemby, during a short pause in his speech. Thus encouraged, he launched into an enthusiastic story about one of his favorite hounds. She went back to her pondering, assured once again her rejection of his suit the year before had been the right choice.

Mr. Wemby was kind, but he had far more interest in his hounds than any person of his acquaintance. And like the other suitors she had rejected over the past four years, he did not stir her passions...not like Lucas.

However, the chances of Lucas offering anything more than a polite greeting were slim indeed. Earl of Ashton, he was acutely aware of his responsibility to his title and an absolute paragon of gentlemanly virtue. There were even those amongst theton that went so far as to call him The Saint.

She’d heard it had something to do with his family, but she didn’t know what. Because of the unkind things said about her brother’s disfigurement and her sister’s unconventional upbringing, she abhorred gossip. Even if it meant learning less about a man as fascinating as Lucas.

What could she possibly learn from scandal mongers but half-truths and innuendo? One day, she would ask him about his nick-name...if they were ever on intimate enough terms to allow such a liberty. Until then, she would suffice with daydreams fueled by her belief that under his perfectly controlled exterior beat a heart as passionate as her own.

Others amongst the ton would laugh at such a conclusion, but she just knewshe was right about him. In all the novels she had read, gentlemen very much like Lucas seethed with hidden passions regardless of how cold their outward countenance. And on several occasions when he debated issues he felt strongly about, the quiet intensity in his voice had sent shivers down her spine and to other less mentionable regions of her body.

She had great hopes of engaging those passions on a more personal basis. Since their first meeting at a house party, he had been consistent, if not effusive in his attentions. Upon arriving in Town for the Season, he had begun to court her with all the polite restraint of a man nicknamed Saint.

One might even suspect he was on the verge of making an offer. Much to her parents’ relief. However, to her chagrin, he had not so much as held her hand while driving in the park. She wanted to know what Lucas’s lips tasted like. She wanted to know what happened when a man put his hand under a lady’s bodice and she wanted him to be the man to show her.

As much as his passion, she also craved more of his company. She didn’t want to dance with a string of boring partners only to have the monotony relieved the prescribed two times by Lucas. Tonight, he hadn’t even ensured he got the supper dance, thus the one-sided conversation with Mr. Wemby over the small supper table.

It was one of Lucas’s little habits - this giving up the supper dance with her occasionally. She assumed it was his way of not drawing unwanted attention to their association. At least he didn’t compound the frustration his conduct caused her by asking someone else. When Lucas didn’t partner her, he made himself scarce from the ballroom during the half-hour break in music.

"Lady Irisa. Mr. Wemby." The deep tones of Lucas’s voice pulled Irisa from her thoughts.

She raised a startled gaze to see him standing by their table as if her secret wishes had drawn him to her side. The prospect was a pleasing one, if fanciful.

Eyes the color of blue glass were fixed on her with a hint of amusement, his black brow raised with just a touch of mockery. His sedately tailored black evening clothes molded the body of a tall Corinthian.

"Hello," she replied, her voice husky from surprise.

What was he doing here? It was wholly out of character for him. Her heart took a sudden lift at the sign that Lucas’s behavior with her was not entirely predictable.

Mr. Wemby had stopped mid-sentence in his story and now blinked at Lucas as if unsure how the other man had appeared. "Good evening, Lord Ashton."

"I’ve just left a friend of yours in the card room, Wemby. He’s looking for advice on putting a new pack of hounds together for this year’s hunt."

Fairly quivering with excitement at the prospect of discussing a subject so close to his heart, Mr. Wemby stood, pushing back the spindly legged chair with enough force to cause Irisa a measure of alarm concerning its well being. "I’d better see if I can be of assistance then."

Lucas inclined his head. "I’ll escort Lady Irisa back to her mother for you."

Mr. Wemby’s head bobbed in agreement. "Kind of you. I’ll return the favor sometime." He left without another word to Irisa.

She stared after his retreating back, more amused than offended. "There is no question how conversation with me rates against the prospect of advising another gentleman on the purchase of a hound."

"With Wemby perhaps, but if you will notice, I am still here." The words washed over her with unexpected intensity and she found herself once again raising her gaze to look at him.

His mouth was still tipped in that amused way he had, but his eyes burned into her with undeniable force.

With, dared she hope, passion?

She smiled, feeling her heart race in her chest. "Yes, you are still here."

He extended his hand in a manner so like her daydream that for a moment, she hesitated between reality and fantasy. Gathering her wits about her, she took the proffered hand and rose from her chair. Lucas transferred her grip to his arm and led her from the supper room.

"Are you truly going to take me back to Mama?" The dancing would not resume for fifteen minutes or more.

"Perhaps you would care to join me for a stroll around the perimeter of the ballroom?"

She’d rather retreat to the privacy of the terrace. But no doubt, Lucas would consider such behavior shocking.

Stifling a sigh of regret, she forced her features to assume an expression of polite enthusiasm. After all, at least she would be with him. "With pleasure, my lord."

***

Irisa’s small hand gripped his forearm more tightly and Lucas stifled a smile at her show of enthusiasm to remain in his company. Her complete lack of subterfuge so often found in ladies among the ton had been one of the first things that drew his admiration.

Her sweet face and golden brown eyes expressed her emotions honestly. Just as they had made it obvious to him as he watched her from across the supper room that she found Wemby’s company a trial. The socially polite smiles she had bestowed upon her supper partner had not fooled Lucas for a minute. Her unfocused gaze had said it all.

Not that anyone else would notice. Much to his own pleasure and surprise, he had come to realize that what was obvious to him when dealing with Irisa was not so clear to others.

So, he had concocted a plan to rescue her. He realized that in doing so, he might draw attention to their relationship, but he was willing to take the courtship to the next level. He planned to call on the Earl of Langley in the morning and ask for permission to pay his addresses to Irisa. Lucas had no doubt she would accept him. Even if she did not show such blatant pleasure in his company, a woman of twenty was considered practically on the shelf. She would undoubtedly be grateful for an offer of marriage.

He still found it difficult to believe she had remained unmarried. Admittedly, her tiny, but curvaceous, figure was not the current rage. However, combined with her honey blonde hair and warm brown eyes, it made for an altogether lovely package. Remembering the erotic dream that had woken him in the middle of the previous night hard and aching, Lucas acknowledged that he found her more than lovely.

He found her bloody desirable.

"I must admit I am grateful to whichever of Mr. Wemby’s friends sent you in search of him. Since making his acquaintance last Season, I have become an expert on hounds. ‘Tis a pity I’m not at all interested in the hunt."

He knew Irisa did not mean to mock Wemby. She never indulged in that particular tonnish pastime. It was a mark of her sweet nature that she had indulged Wemby’s passion for hounds in conversation. Lucas would be pleased to have her indulge his passions as well, only he was certain were she to do so, boredom would not come into it for either of them.

"I hesitate to admit this, but I made it up," he said, quelling his lascivious thoughts with strict control. "I’m sure Wemby will find a friend more interested in his discussion of hounds than yourself, but none actually await him."

The sound of her laughter affected his already overactive libido and he had no choice but to steer her toward the terrace before she, or someone else, noticed the growing state of his arousal. Not that he expected a lady of Irisa’s sensibilities to let her gaze wander below his chin, but nevertheless, a gentleman’s evening clothes left very little to the imagination.

As they stepped from the brightly lit ballroom into the shadowed world of the deserted terrace, Irisa’s head snapped up and she stared at him, owl-eyed. "My lord?"

"It was getting a trifle warm in the ballroom. I thought you could use the air."

She nodded, sliding closer until their bodies almost touched. "Air. Yes, air would be very nice."

Her lips were parted as if about to say something, but she remained silent, gazing up at him.

She could have no idea just how delectable she looked at that very moment, how incredibly kissable. Her all too welcoming expression did nothing to aid his body in returning to less embarrassing proportions. He had to get himself under control and quickly or he was likely to shock the innocent right into a faint and compromise her into the bargain.

He needed a diversion.

"I’ve decided to invest in your brother-in-law’s most recent shipping venture." One of the things he enjoyed about Irisa was that she conversed intelligently on topics of import.

She did not pretend, as most ladies of the ton attempted to, that everything outside of the social sphere did not exist.

"Sh-shipping venture?"

"Yes. He told me you knew all about it. It’s a sound investment."

Her hand dropped from his arm and she moved a small distance away. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. Without her nearness, he could regain control. His reaction to her innocent provocation astounded him, but he would dwell on how best to master it and himself later. He could not allow marriage, or the prospect of it to undermine the self-discipline he had spent so many years perfecting.

"Yes. I know about it," she replied, her voice subdued all of a sudden, "I made a small outlay on the venture myself."

He would not have thought Langley the type of man to give his daughter any sort of financial independence. "Are you in the habit of investing in your brother-in-law’s ventures?"

Her creamy white shoulders rose and fell in a ladylike shrug. "Actually, in the past my investments have been mostly in Thea’s business dealings and the ‘Change. Up until now, Drake’s transactions have been too large or too risky for me to take part in them."

Lucas’s ardor completely dissipated on a wave of shocked disbelief. "You invest in the ‘Change?"

"Yes." She looked at him, her expression as innocent as always, except for a spark of something in her eyes he could not quite name.

If he did not know better, he would say it was defiance, but Irisa was too biddable a lady for such an emotion.

"How long has your father been allowing you to engage in such cork-brained behavior?"

She moved back another step, her posture becoming stiff.

"Papa has nothing to do with it," she replied in freezing accents, sounding for all the world as if she thought it was none of his business.

He strode two steps forward and grasped her shoulders, forcing her to face him. Even in his anger, his body registered the feel of her silken skin beneath his fingers. "Are you saying you have been investing your money without his permission?"

She lifted her head quickly, meeting his look squarely. "I spend my allowance as I see fit."

Her pin money? Either she had a very large allowance or she made very small investments. "I’m surprised you had the resources available to take part in Drake’s latest venture."

To Lucas’s knowledge, Drake required a minimum outlay from even his smallest investors and it would require a great deal more than pin money. Perhaps Drake had made an exception for his sister-in-law’s whim.

She bit her lip and shifted her gaze to a point beyond his shoulder, for all the world as if she intended some manner of subterfuge.

His grip on her arms tightened involuntarily. "Tell me."

Ignoring his command, she turned her attention to the point where his hands gripped the soft skin of her upper arms. He forced his fingers to relax somewhat, realizing his hold might very well be uncomfortable.

"If someone came out of the ballroom and found us here, they would assume we were in a passionate embrace," she said in a curiously wistful voice.

Bloody hell. She was right. He quickly released her completely, but did not step away. She would not distract him that easily.

"Explain to me how you were able to invest in the shipping expedition."

She adjusted first one, then the other of the white evening gloves she wore and then smoothed her skirt as if they had been engaged in an invigorating country dance rather than standing almost completely still for the past several minutes.

Snapping open her fan, she used it as a shield for the expression on her face. "You overstep yourself, sir. I do not owe you an explanation of my actions or my finances. We are not connected in any way."

Her fan might protect her face from his scrutiny, but the icy remoteness in her voice left him in no doubt as to her frame of mind.

Without another word, she stepped around him and returned to the ballroom before he could assimilate either her surprising stubbornness or the cool challenge in her voice. Didn’t the chit realize she belonged to him? They were as good as engaged. Of course she owed him an explanation.

He followed her with the intent of telling her just that, but a return to the bright candle glow in the ballroom brought back his reason.

What was he doing?

For the second time that evening, he had very nearly lost control. This time he would have made a spectacle of himself in a way he had vowed long ago never to do. He was one Ashton who would not follow in his mother and younger brother’s scandalous footsteps.

Watching Irisa join her current partner on the dance floor, he willed her to look at him. Their discussion was not finished. She refused to return his gaze, stubbornly keeping her head angled away from him and her focus entirely on the gentleman accompanying her.

He knew it was apurpose because she had once confided she did not care for Lord Yardley’s company. Lucas had learned the other man had courted Irisa two Seasons ago, but her father had denied his suit. He was certain that she only agreed to dance with the other man because she knew to refuse would cause comment and she was a lady in every sense. The perfect antithesis of his mother, in fact.

However, his lovely, biddable, beautiful, little paragon had sprouted a willful streak.

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TOUCH ME by Lucy Monroe

TOUCH ME by Lucy Monroe

The Langley Family Trilogy Book One

Thea might have been born a lady, but she's lived a life of freedom as a simple miss in the West Indies, unbound by the strictures of her title or straight-laced Regency England. She's unlike any woman Pierson Drake has ever met, but he finds her innocent sensuality irresistible. 

The illegitimate son of a duke with no claim on the title, Pierson Drake maintains a level of honor most in the ton only give lip-service to. He is determined to make a name for himself and will stop at nothing to keep what he claims for his own.

Thrown together on a voyage back to England, Drake finds Thea's innocent sensuality irresistible. She's unlike any woman he's ever known. Passion flares between them with enough heat to burn the best of intentions to ash, and once they share a bed for the first time, there's no going back.

But Thea's secrets are a heavy burden. With her life hanging in the balance after a devastating betrayal, Drake must take any risk to protect her, and the hope for their future. They have one chance to get it right. . .

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TOUCH ME

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

The skirts of Thea’s highwaisted gown swished around her ankles allowing welcome air to cool her legs as she strode through the warehouse. The tall ceilings and dark interior of the building did little to mute the oppressive Caribbean heat. Beads of sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. She itched to press the muslin of her gown against the moisture, but years of training by her proper English mother prevented her.

Mama, if you were here, you’d be tempted as well.

But, Anna Selwyn was not there, nor would she ever be. Thea’s heart constricted. Ten years and she still mourned the loss of the strong and determined woman who had given her birth.

"Afternoon, Miss Thea."

She stopped at the sound of Whiskey Jim’s voice. She looked up and smiled into the old man’s weather-wizened face. "Good afternoon, Captain."

His one good eye twinkled merrily at her while the patch that covered his other eye shifted as his face creased into a grin. "See you’re moving with the main sail at full mast like always."

She waved the air in front of her face. "Perhaps I should let down some sail and move more slowly. It’s so hot today."

"That it is. That it is." He pulled a large bandana from his pocket and wiped his forehead. "This old man should know better than to try to load his ship on a day like today."

Thea smiled. Old man indeed. He looked about a hundred, but he was still one of the fastest captains employed by Merewether Shipping. "When are you sailing?"

"She looks to be loaded by the day after tomorrow."

The timing could not be better. She needed to take action before Uncle Ashby became aware of the pilfering going on in the London office. He would insist on making the trip to England to investigate and his health would suffer for it.

She owed him more than she could ever repay. When her mother had died of the fever that killed so many Europeans in the West Indies, the Merewethers had insisted on caring for Thea, treating her like their own daughter.

"When do you expect to arrive in Liverpool?"

"Don’t."

Thea stopped fanning herself. "What do you mean?"

"I’m up to Charleston and then on to New York this trip."

"But I thought you were going to England."

He scratched the side of his head. "Nope."

They weren’t expecting another ship for weeks. "Sacré bleu."

The old man’s eye twinkled. "What did you say?"

Although the seamen and even Uncle Ashby could turn the air blue with their curses, she would have a peal rung over her for letting the French phrase slip from her lips. "Nothing."

There was no hope for it. She would have to sail on someone else’s ship.

The captain bid farewell and ambled toward the far end of the warehouse where his crew moved without regard to the heat, loading the heavy barrels of sugar and rum onto wagons for transport to his ship.

She turned and walked toward Uncle Ashby’s office, the problem of finding berth on a ship to England weighing heavily on her mind.
A droplet of perspiration trickled down her neck and the relative privacy afforded by the opening between two stacks of wooden crates became too strong a temptation to resist.

Slipping between them, she cast a furtive glance around her. No one was in sight. Reaching behind her back, she awkwardly patted the fabric against her damp skin. Oh, heavenly. She lifted the skirts of her gown just a few inches and flapped the edge to force more air against her legs. She closed her eyes in bliss. Wouldn’t it be lovely to go swimming right now? She could almost feel the refreshing water against her skin.

"Mademoiselle Thea. Mademoiselle Thea."

Her eyes flew open. The sight of Philippe, the warehouse manager, staring at her as if she’d been caught dancing naked on top of the crates, rather than fanning herself behind one of them momentarily froze her wits. The dark contours of his face were formed in lines of rigid disapproval. Well, drat. If she had to get caught couldn’t it have been by someone like Whiskey Jim, not her self-proclaimed duenna?

Thea straightened, tossing her skirts back to decorously cover her ankles. "Philippe, I didn’t see you."

"That would have been difficult, yes? With your eyes closed and cavorting in such a fashion?"

How could a mountain-size Black man sound so prissy? "I was not cavorting. I was fanning. There’s a difference."

Philippe frowned. "Not for a lady."

Everyone took for granted that she wanted to be a lady. Thea was not convinced. It certainly hadn’t done her mother any good and the title carried more restrictions than benefits as far as she could see.

She much preferred the persona of plain Miss Althea Selwyn, raised in the West Indies with a freedom no London debutante would ever know. Oh, she knew the important strictures of life as a lady. Aunt Ruth and her mother had seen to that, but she was rarely forced to adhere to them. Which did not mean she wasn’t taken to task for her behavior.

She was. Frequently. And she found it most annoying indeed.
How could she behave as if she’d been raised to grace a drawing room when in fact she’d spent her entire life around sailors, plantation workers and freed slaves? Despite Mama and Aunt Ruth’s efforts, she’d spent more time learning the shipping business and how to keep an accurate ledger than she had how to be a lady. And she certainly hadn’t learned life’s basic skills from a tutor or proper English nanny.

Philippe had taught her French. Whiskey Jim had taught her other things and she’d learned to swim the same way as all the other children on the island, naked in the lagoon. Her mother had about swooned when she’d found out, but the truth was, Thea was better suited and always had been to her life here than she ever would have been to life in England.

Deciding that ignoring Phillippe’s outrage was the best way of dealing with it, she asked, "Was there something you needed?"

"Mr. Drake is looking for Mr. Merewether."

Philippe stepped aside, revealing another man standing behind him. A man every bit as tall as the warehouse manager, but there the similarity ended. Drake. The privateer. The name fit. This man could very easily be a pirate. He did not look like a man that balked at danger.

Although he matched Philippe for height, he was built quite differently. Thea’s gaze snagged on the muscles that pressed against the gentleman’s long pants. Uncle Ashby and the other men of Thea’s acquaintance still wore the breeches popular in the last decade. She had never actually seen a gentleman wearing long pants. They should have hidden his well-developed legs, but they didn’t. His obviously well made clothes were worn in the understated fashion of the English.

She forced her gaze higher only to be sidetracked again by the fact that the gentleman’s upper torso was every bit as muscled as his legs. When her eyes finally reached his face, she sucked in her breath. He had noticed her perusal. How could he not? His mouth tipped in sardonic humor and brown eyes, the color of dark molasses, mocked her.

Realizing that her mouth had dropped open, Thea shut it with a snap. Her cheeks felt hotter than the Caribbean sun. "May I help you?"

"I’m looking for Mr. Merewether." His voice held all the authority that his posture implied.

"He’s not here." Wonderful. Not only had she gawked like a desperate spinster, but now she sounded like a bacon-brained idiot. Obviously Uncle Ashby wasn’t with her. "I mean to say, I don’t know where he is. Perhaps I can help you."

There that sounded better, much more appropriate.

"My business is with Mr. Merewether."

Thea stifled a retort. Many gentlemen had aversions to doing business with a lady. Evidently Drake was one of them. "Then I will not keep you."

"I am sorry to disturb you, Mademoiselle Thea. We will search for Mr. Merewether elsewhere." Philippe nodded his head in formal dismissal and turned to leave.

The Englishman did not follow. "First, we will escort the young lady to her destination."

Thea stiffened at his peremptory tone. "That will not be necessary."
He reached out to take her arm, his dark hair and even darker expression making him appear almost menacing, despite his excessive masculine appeal. "I insist."

She stepped back toward the high stack of barrels, to elude his grasp. "Thank you, but I will be fine."

His expression hardened. "Nevertheless, I would feel better if I saw you safely to your destination." His brown eyes narrowed in obvious censure. "A warehouse is no place for a lady." His tone of voice implied she might be anything but.

She wanted to give him a proper set down, but business must always come first. Uncle Ashby would not thank her for offending Drake. She pressed her lips together and imagined loading an entire wagon with storage barrels in her mind before she felt calm enough to speak.

By the time she imagined the wagon leaving for the dock, she was able to summon a formal smile. "I am quite at home in this warehouse, but as we are looking for the same person, perhaps it would not hurt to find him together. I was on my way to Mr. Merewether’s office."

She stepped forward, but apparently not quickly enough because the Englishman’s hands shot out and grabbed her waist.

She gasped. "Really there is no need—"

He yanked her against his chest, backing up as he did so. She had barely registered the strange phenomenon of being held by a man when she heard an unholy crash behind her. She started, her hands going around the neck of her captor involuntarily.

Drake continued to move with agile grace, carrying her several feet from the crash. She craned her neck, turning her head to see what had happened. Her hands convulsed on Drake’s neck and she shuddered against him at what she saw. Several small storage barrels rolled across the floor and a large storage crate had broken into splinters on the spot where she had stood. The broken contents looked like porcelain, although it was difficult to tell from the hundreds of tiny shards mixed with packing hay.

She turned back to face the snowy cravat of her rescuer. Taking a deep breath, she inhaled his uniquely masculine fragrance. Shattered cargo, her near miss, even Philippe’s presence receded in her consciousness as she became wholly occupied with the sensation of her breasts flattened against his waistcoat and her lower body pressed against the hardness of his thighs. She could not seem to lift her gaze from the patch of white cloth in front of her.

Her feet dangled several inches above the floor while feelings she had never before experienced coursed through her body. She felt safe in this man’s arms despite the stirrings that she did not wish to examine too closely. He had saved her from certain injury and possible death. Why, he was a knight-errant.

She raised her face, giving him a no doubt stunned smile. "Thank you."

His expression registered no emotion. "As I said, women do not belong in a warehouse."

It took all of two seconds for his words to register. The snake. Actually he had said ladies and it occurred to her that she should let go of him before he decided beyond doubt that she wasn’t one. She unlocked her hands from behind his neck and pushed against his chest.

He lowered her to the ground, allowing her body to slide in a most indecent manner along his. He held her for a timeless moment, her body still pressed to his, her hands against his chest. She waited, the air locked in her chest, not knowing what to expect. This man, this situation was completely out of her experience. Were all Englishmen this compelling?

He released her and she stumbled backward, beset with conflicting emotion. She wanted to run from the danger she sensed in him, but she also wanted to jump back into his arms and experience that delicious sensation just once more.

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