Why should I provide my email address?

Start saving money today with our FREE daily newsletter packed with the best FREE and bargain Kindle book deals. We will never share your email address!
Sign Up Now!

Like a little romance? Or a lot? Enjoy This Free Excerpt From KND Romance of The Week: Jackie Barbosa’s Steamy New Regency Romance Hot Under the Collar (Lords of Lancashire) … Now Just $1.97 on Kindle!

Last week we announced that Jackie Barbosa’s  Hot Under the Collar (Lords of Lancashire) is our Romance of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the Romance category: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Romance excerpt, and if you aren’t among those who have downloaded Hot Under the Collar (Lords of Lancashire), you’re in for a treat!

3 Rave Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

HOT UNDER THE COLLAR is a 37,500 word novella (approximately 110 printed pages). In addition, this ebook includes excerpts from THE LESSON PLAN, the first Lords of Lancashire novella, and INCARNATE, an Edwardian-set urban fantasy novel set for release in fall 2012.

Despite the old saw about third sons being destined for the church, no one ever expected the rakish, irresponsible Walter Langston to take up the collar, least of all himself. After an accident renders him unfit for military service, however, he has few other options. When he’s given the post of vicar at a parish church in a sleepy, coastal village, he’s convinced he’ll molder in obscurity. Instead, his arrival brings a sudden resurgence in church attendance…or at least, the attendance of female parishioners. As word of the eligible young vicar spreads, every well-heeled family for miles with a marriageable daughter fills his pews, aiming to catch his eye. Unfortunately for these hopeful members of his flock, Walter’s eye has already been caught—by the one woman who doesn’t come to church on Sundays.

Artemisia Finch left a lucrative career as a celebrated member of London’s demimondaine to care for her ailing father. Returning home hasn’t been easy, though, as her past isn’t even a well-kept secret in the village. When the new vicar arrives on her doorstep, Artemisia is determined to send him on his merry, pious way. But Walter Langston is nothing like any man of the cloth she’s ever known—he’s funny, irreverent, handsome, and tempting as sin. Falling in love with a vicar would be a very bad idea for a former courtesan. Why does this one have to be so hot under the collar?

 

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

 

Chapter One

Cumbria, England—May, 1803

The good Lord had a devilish sense of humor. That was the only possible explanation for the series of events that had led, inexorably, toward Walter Langston’s current predicament.

To be fair, there was nothing amusing in the accident that had brought an abrupt end to his nascent—albeit not terribly promising—military career. If he had been shot in the arse or even the foot, the story would at least have made good fodder for post-prandial gatherings, but when the errant bullet struck one’s collarbone and left one with less than full use of the adjoining arm, there wasn’t a great deal to laugh about.

He could, of course, have continued in the army despite his disability, but the truth was, he hadn’t wanted to. Having been successfully shot at once by mistake, Walter had little inclination to put himself in a position where he was guaranteed to be shot at on purpose. A single encounter with a projectile was enough to last a lifetime. It had certainly come close enough to ending that lifetime.

Unfortunately, he had been equally disinclined upon his recovery to return to the life he’d led prior to purchasing his commission. It was one thing to live off the largesse of an older, titled sibling at twenty three or twenty four and quite another at nearly thirty. Walter had required a profession. The military option was now closed and murdering both his older brothers—not to mention two small nephews of whom he was rather fond—in order to come into the viscountcy was quite out of the question. That left only one remotely acceptable option. The one to which he, as the third son of an aristocrat, had purportedly been born, but which he had misspent the majority of his youth proving himself unfit for.

Walter Langston, who had never in his life been a model of either piety or propriety, was now a vicar.

He had, however, reconciled himself to this particular anomaly some time ago. His real problem stemmed not from his vocation—if it could even be called that—but from the fact that every week since his arrival, the size of his congregation had multiplied by leaps and bounds, until the pews of St. Mary’s were filled to bursting. This Sunday, his eleventh, he had gazed from the pulpit upon an audience that far exceeded the entire population of the tiny coastal village of Grange-Over-Sands.

This might be an enviable feat for many a clergyman, but Walter was well aware that the growth in church attendance had little to do with his powers of oratory or ministry and everything to do with his marital status.

An unmarried vicar, it seemed, must be in want of a wife.

And that was precisely his dilemma. Every Sunday after the service, he must run a growing gauntlet of dewy-eyed, dough-faced young ladies and their hopeful mamas and papas, who inevitably pressed him to come to their homes for tea; for dinner; for a lawn party; for no reason at all save the pleasure of his delightful company. By the time he reached the parish house, he was always horrified by the realization that once again, in an effort to appear polite and avoid offense, he had accepted every single invitation. This placed him in the unfortunate position of appearing to have a possible romantic interest in nearly every marriageable female in the surrounding countryside when, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Not to mention that the whirlwind of social activity during the week inevitably left him no time to write his sermon, which in turn meant he stayed up well into the early hours of Sunday morning to finish it.

This Sunday, he had determined, would be different. He would not succumb to his naturally accommodating disposition, but would resolutely rebuff all overtures on the grounds that to do otherwise would be to neglect his duty to the church.

As he exited the double doors from the vestibule and into the throng that awaited him on the front steps, he reminded himself that just because he would prefer to have dinner anywhere but in the vicarage—Mrs. Graham, whose services had come with the post at St. Mary’s, was a more-than-competent housekeeper, but only barely tolerable as a cook—was no excuse to forego his course of action. Never mind that she would undoubtedly feed him something that would somehow achieve the feat of being simultaneously soggy and dry, and that she would press a second and third helping on him which he would be forced to choke down rather than hurt the poor woman’s feelings.

He made his way through the crowd, rejecting each proposed gathering with what he hoped was perceived as gracious regret, each time wincing internally as he recalled exactly how delicious the last meal he had consumed in that particular home had been. Resisting temptation was, however, good for the soul, not to mention excellent fodder for next Sunday’s sermon.

Walter had got to the bottom step and was conveying his apologies to the last disappointed family when he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye.

She had been there every Sunday since he’d first arrived in Grange-Over-Sands, but she never entered the church…or even the church grounds. Instead, she parked the simple, one-horse cart she drove outside the gate and waited for Horace Finch, an elderly gentleman who attended each service alone, to make his slow, painstaking way across the churchyard. When he reached the cart, she got down from her seat, took his cane and helped him up, and then the two of them drove away.

From the first week, she had intrigued him. He told himself it wasn’t simply because she was beautiful. In all honesty, since he had never seen her at a distance of less than fifty feet, it would be difficult to say that she was beautiful. All he could say with certainty was that she was slim, tall for a woman, and blond, but she carried herself like a beautiful woman—erect, elegant, and at ease.

Who was she? And why didn’t she attend the service with the devout Mr. Finch? Walter had speculated at first that she might be an employee, perhaps a nurse or some other caregiver, but after watching the two of them interact for several weeks, he had concluded that was unlikely. There was a tenderness between them that belied a paid relationship, which left only a familial one. But that answer only deepened the mystery, because surely a daughter or granddaughter or niece would come to services.

And then there was that niggling sensation at the base of his skull. Familiarity. Even at fifty feet, he felt certain he recognized her. Though he could not fathom how that was possible.

“Wednesday, then?” Mrs. Thursby asked.

Walter blinked, jerking his attention back to the middle-aged woman who apparently thought his rejection of her initial invitation had been due to the proposed day of the week rather than, as he had clearly stated, a determination to attend to church business over social calls.

“I’ll have Mrs. Jenkins make her roast duck and french beans,” she added hopefully, casting a sidelong glance at Miss Thursby.

The saucer-eyed, dark-ringleted girl couldn’t be past seventeen and wouldn’t have appealed to Walter’s taste even when he’d been seventeen. Mrs. Jenkins’ roast duck and french beans, however, were entirely to his taste.

“Yes, Wednesday will do nicely,” Walter heard himself say.

Damn and blast, he’d done it again. But at least he’d only done it once. And it meant he would get at least one decent meal this week.

Mrs. Thursby smiled broadly, looking more like a giddy adolescent than her daughter. In fact, Miss Thursby appeared less enthusiastic about his acceptance than her mother. Perhaps, Walter thought, he was no more to her taste than she was to his. It seemed he had chosen, by happy accident, precisely the right invitation to accept.

He said his goodbyes and turned away in time to see the cart carrying Horace Finch and his female companion pull away. As if she felt his regard, the woman cast a glance over her shoulder and their eyes met across the churchyard. His breath snagged in his lungs. This time it was more than familiarity that caught him off-guard.

It was desire. Hot, thick, and heavy.

He wanted her, whoever she was. And by one means or another, he meant to have her. In the most unholy ways imaginable.

Mrs. Graham set Walter’s Sunday luncheon—a day-old meat pasty and a cup of coffee—on the table in front of him. “Can I get you anything else, vicar?”

Walter crushed the urge to turn around and look for the vicar in question. He knew, of course, that he was a vicar, but he still hadn’t quite accustomed himself to being addressed as one.

“No, Mrs. Graham, this will be more than sufficient,” he said. This was not an understatement. He would be lucky to choke down half of it before his appetite was thoroughly quashed.

“I’ll be off to see to the evening meal, then.”

Walter held up his hand. “Before you go, I have a question for you.”

“By all means, vicar.”

He wished she would stop addressing him that way. Especially since the purpose of his question was utterly unvicarly.

“Who is the woman who drives Mr. Finch home from church every Sunday? And why she does not attend the service herself?”

The housekeeper, whose complexion ran to the ruddy, blanched as pale as a turnip. “Oh, that’s a right sordid story, it is. I’m sure it’s not at all fit for the ears of a man of the cloth.”

Walter arched an eyebrow. “I was not a saint before becoming a member of the clergy, nor did I become one thereafter. I assure you my collar will remain firmly in place after the hearing of the tale, no matter how shocking the details.”

Mrs. Graham pursed her lips. “Very well, then. That would be Miss Artemisia Finch, Mr. Finch’s daughter, and she does not come to church because women of her ilk are not welcome among the respectable folk of this town, not even on a cool Sunday in hell.”

Ilk, eh? Walter got the broad outlines of the picture, even if he didn’t quite fathom the details. “I see. Might I ask how she came to be…well, of that ilk?”

Some of the starch seemed to go out of the housekeeper’s posture. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“No, not at all,” Walter assured her, pulling out the chair around the corner of the small table at which he took his meals. Everything in the vicarage was small compared to what he’d been accustomed to back at Barrowcreek Park.

The round-faced woman plopped into the chair and smoothed her apron as she spoke. “You must ken, the Finches have always been a very well-respected family in the Grange. So when Miss Finch came up in the family way when she was but fifteen, no one was more surprised than I. She’d always seemed a nice, well-behaved girl despite Mr. Finch having to raise her on his own after his wife died birthing their second child, a boy who sadly didn’t survive, either.”

Mrs. Graham had begun to warm to her story and now leaned forward conspiratorially. “Now I see that not having a mother led Miss Finch to run wild. It seems she’d been having…” Here, the woman coughed delicately, her cheeks reddening again, “…relations with a number of young men, including the Earl of Sandhurst’s son. She claimed he was the babe’s father, but of course, no one could believe it when so many came forward to claim knowledge of her. Naturally, everyone expected her to do the decent thing and leave town to give birth, but instead, she was brazen enough to stay. When the babe was reported stillborn, there were plenty of folk who thought she probably smothered it so she could go on with her whoring ways without being saddled with a child.”

Walter took a sip of his coffee to cover his rising indignation. He did find the story most sordid, but probably not in the way Mrs. Graham expected. Whatever one might infer about Miss Finch’s morals or lack of thereof, she’d hardly managed to conceive a child without assistance. He was quite certain that the Earl of Sandhurst’s son had not been expected to slink away in shame at the revelation that he might have impregnated a girl who was barely more than a child, while she was considered beyond the pale for refusing to leave her home.

The housekeeper carried on blithely with her tale. “About a year after the babe was born, she finally had the sense to leave. We heard tell she went to London and became…well, not a woman of unblemished character. About two years past, after Mr. Finch had his first apoplexy, she come back home, but at least she doesn’t try to mingle with the respectable folk anymore.”

Walter set his cup back on the table as the pieces of the puzzle he’d been trying to solve since that first Sunday he’d seen Artemisia Finch clicked into place.

London, five years ago. If there had been a “Diamond of Season” designation for the demimondaine, it would have fallen to her that year. Tall, blonde and elegant, she exuded a cool reserve that was a thousand times more alluring than the more transparent tactics employed by her counterparts. She had recently parted company with the newly wed Duke of Stratton—her first and, as far as anyone knew, only lover—and every male in Town with a full purse and an empty bed hoped to be her next protector.

Walter had attended a few events at which she had been present and admired her from afar. Pursuing her for himself had not been an option. As the third son of a viscount who had just spent the vast majority of his income on the purchase of his ill-fated commission, he had nothing to offer her. He was a crow to her swan. A mortal to her goddess.

A goddess who had gone by a single name. Artemisia.


Chapter Two

 

“The post, Miss Finch.”

Artemisia set her stitchery on the side table and took the envelopes from the footman’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Hodgson,” she said, smiling inwardly at the young man’s pinkening complexion.

He had been employed in the Finch household less than a month and had apparently developed a something of a tendre for her in the ensuing weeks. Although she hated to admit it, she was flattered and even a little touched by his open—and to all appearances innocent—adoration. It had been a very long time since anyone other than her father and the servants who’d known her since childhood had gazed at her with anything but scorn and condemnation. She wondered how much longer Hodgson would cling to his infatuation before someone told him who and what she really was.

After giving the boy a nod to dismiss him, she sorted through the letters, setting aside one from her banker in London to read later and two for her father before lighting on one addressed in a familiar, flowery script and scented with a similarly florid perfume.

In the two years since Artemisia had returned to Grange-Over-Sands, she had received exactly three letters from Georgiana Sares, her best friend from her days in the demimondaine. Georgie was, by her own admission, an indifferent letter-writer, and the few missives she managed to pen were invariably brief and consisted primarily of the latest London gossip. Like Georgie herself, however, the letters were inevitably lively and engaging, and Artemisia delighted in catching up on the on dit about her former friends and rivals.

Breaking the seal on the letter, she opened it and began to read.

My dearest Artie,

You will never believe it. I know you are thinking that I exaggerate, like I always do, but this time, I know I am right. This is the most shocking news yet, and I cannot help but want to delay the revelation simply because I want to imagine for just a bit longer the look on your face when you finally read it. So, here it is…

I am to be married.

You see? I am right, am I not? You are shaking your head and clucking your tongue and thinking dear old Georgie has gone right round the bend. But I assure you, I have not. By the time you receive this letter, I shall likely be happily married and on my way to Italy with my lovely, beloved conte.

Yes, conte. Which means I am a contessa. The Contessa de Benino, in fact.

There was more, but Artemisia set the letter down in her lap, unable to read more until she collected her emotions.

Georgie married? To an Italian count? It was—or should have been—unbelievable. After all, gentlemen married respectable young ladies of unquestionable virtue, not the disreputable women of low morals who permitted themselves to be bedded without first being wedded.

And yet, if there was any courtesan in the world who could convince a nobleman to toss respectability to the wind, it would be Georgie. Georgie, who was full of life and fun, who laughed easily and never had an unkind word to say of anyone, even when she probably should have. Georgie, who gave her heart to every lover she took as completely and unselfishly as she gave her body. It was only right and fair that one of those lovers had at last seen fit to return the favor.

Artemisia blinked back the prickle of tears. If she were as unselfish as her friend, those tears would be motivated purely by joy. But she knew better. Because as delighted as she was for Georgie, Artemisia could not deny the raw envy that burned her throat or the ache of loneliness that hollowed her chest.

When she’d come home on the news of her father’s illness, she hadn’t expected to stay. The truth was, she hadn’t expected him to survive, especially during those first few days when he hadn’t even been able to swallow properly. His physician had given him a few days, perhaps a week. Horace Finch was nothing if not tenacious, however, and he’d clawed his way back from death’s doors. If it weren’t for his shuffling gait and limp right arm, one would almost never know he’d had an apoplexy at all, let alone that it had nearly killed him.

But Artemisia knew. She couldn’t go through it again. She couldn’t bear the thought of rushing home again, filled with the fear that she wouldn’t make it to his side in time. She couldn’t take that risk again. And since her father would never leave his beloved  Finch House, she would remain here with him until the end, no matter how difficult or lonely her life became. It was the least she could do.

Even if it meant she would never have friends. Even if it meant she would never experience the comfort of a lover’s embrace or the passion of his kiss. Lord, how she missed the hair-coarsened feel of a man’s skin beneath her palm, the heated glide of his body over and inside of hers, and the powerful thud of his heartbeat where she rested her head upon his chest.

Blast it, what sort of friend wallowed in self-pity when she should be taking pleasure in her dearest friend’s good fortune? With a grimace of disgust, Artemisia forced herself to pick up the letter and continue reading.

It seemed Georgie’s new husband was named Pietro, and they had been introduced shortly after she had parted ways with her last protector, the Earl of Montrose, several months past. Instead of rushing her into an arrangement, as most gentlemen did, Pietro had taken the time to court her as though she were a lady and then, to her utter amazement, had proposed not to make her his mistress, but to take her as his wife.

I protested, of course, that I was no fit wife for a gentleman of his position, but Pietro wouldn’t hear of it. He said he would make an honest woman of me or return to Italy with a broken heart.

Well, what could I do after that? I had to accept, didn’t I? And anyway, I was by then every bit as devoted to him as he to me.

Despite her foul mood, a smile tugged at Artemisia’s lips. Georgie’s breathless optimism and boundless enthusiasm positively radiated from the page. With a little imagination, Artemisia could hear her friend’s bubbly voice…as well as her own voice urging caution. Perhaps it was for the best that she hadn’t been in London to warn that a gentleman who claimed to be an Italian count might be anything but.

Ah, she was doing it again. When had she become such a stick in the mud?

She was about to read more of the letter—and there seemed to be quite a bit more—when she heard an unfamiliar knocking sound coming from the general direction of the front door. With a frown of irritation, she set the pages on the table beside her needlework and got up from her chair. No one ever made social calls on the Finches, not anymore, anyway.

Someone must be having a hard time finding the delivery door round back, although how that was possible when everyone who ever brought supplies to Finch House had been to its kitchen at least a hundred times was beyond her. Perhaps Mr. Farley, the fishmonger, had finally got round to delegating the task of deliveries to his son. The boy was just thirteen or fourteen and, having grown up in a small cottage in the village, he mightn’t realize that large houses like theirs even had kitchen doors. He would undoubtedly be horrified when he learned of his mistake. Not to mention scandalized at having been forced to exchange words with Grange-Over-Sands very own Jezebel, Miss Artemisia Finch.

By the time she reached the entry hall, she was more amused by the prospect of shocking her young visitor than annoyed by the interruption. Smiling, she pulled open the front door, prepared to find a scrawny, spotty-faced adolescent on the other side.

Her smile collapsed. Her amusement shriveled. Her skin tingled with heated, feminine awareness.

The man who stood on the doorstep was anything but scrawny or spotty faced. He was, in fact, as fine a specimen of manhood as Artemisia had ever encountered…and she had certainly encountered her fair share. Including this one, although in the past, fifty or more feet of a churchyard in which she could never again set foot had separated them, insulating her from her own unattainable desires.

For there had never been a man more unattainable than Mr. Walter Langston, Grange-Over-Sands new vicar.

“Good afternoon, Miss Finch,” he said, making an amiable half-bow as he spoke. His shoulders were quite broad, and his black coat pulled just enough over his back for her to imagine the lean, corded musculature that must lie beneath. He wore his hair longer than was currently fashionable, past his shoulders and pulled back into a queue with a black ribbon. When he straightened again, she could not prevent herself from thinking that he had the least vicarly face she had ever seen, possessed of neither a weak chin nor bushy eyebrows nor sunken cheeks and eyes. In fact, were it not for his black coat and white necktie, she would not for a moment have believed he was a man of the cloth.

He most certainly should not be a man in clothes.

With that utterly inappropriate thought, she realized to her humiliation that she was gawping like a virgin on her wedding night.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Langston,” she returned, though she decided to pass on dipping an answering curtsey. That was far too proper and demure a gesture for Grange-Over-Sands’ reigning trollop. “You must be here to see my father. I’ll just go and fetch him.”

Horace Finch spoke highly of the new vicar, describing him as intelligent, friendly, and an excellent orator. Her father attributed the recent surge in church attendance to these qualities, though Artemisia suspected that phenomenon owed more to Mr. Langston’s youth and marital status than to his ministerial qualifications. Notwithstanding, it was kind—and perhaps a little foolhardy—of him to call on her father, whose few remaining friends had stopped coming to see him as soon as it became apparent that Artemisia had no intention of leaving.

“Ah, but you’re mistaken, Miss Finch. I came to see you.”

Although she could detect not the remotest trace of censure in his tone, the knot pulling tight in the pit of her belly knew it was coming. The new vicar, having been informed of the unrepentant harlot sullying his virtuous little parish, was undoubtedly here to instill her with a proper sense of shame for her transgressions. Of course, he would couch his moral vitriol in feigned concern for the state of her immortal soul, assuring her that Christ would forgive her if only she would admit to the error of her ways.

But if she was going to be forced to admit to the error of her ways, then as a matter of fairness, Robert Beaumont and his cronies should be made to do the same. Unfortunately, there was no vicar on earth—not even one as heavenly to behold as this one—nor anyone else who would be foolhardy enough to risk the wrath of the Earl of Sandhurst.

“Then I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Mr. Langston, for I’m not taking callers this afternoon.”

She started to swing the door closed, quite rudely, in his face. She was unprepared for him to—equally rudely—flatten his palm against the beveled oak panel and press back to prevent her from achieving her goal.

“If you are not taking callers, you ought not to answer the door,” he observed.

“I thought you were someone else.”

“Then you are taking callers.” As if he had proved his point, he proceeded to put one foot across the threshold despite the fact that the door was only half open.

“I didn’t think you were a caller,” she snapped. “I am sure you are well aware that we do not have callers at Finch House.”

“You have one now,” he said.

And then he smiled.

Oh, mercy. No man should be permitted to have a smile like that. A smile that said they were co-conspirators who shared some delicious secret to be protected from the world. Against a smile like that, no woman had a fighting chance. Least of all her.

She pulled the door open again. “Please, Mr. Langston, do come in.”


Chapter Three

 

Walter followed Artemisia Finch into the parlor, a bit uncertain as to how to proceed with her. When he had decided to call on her this afternoon, he had given little thought to his strategy once he got past her initial defenses. He had, in fact, been expecting a siege of Trojan proportions, and as he was fresh out of horses, the notion of getting through the gates on his first attempt hadn’t crossed his mind. She had ample cause, after all, to be prickly and unwelcoming, and none whatsoever to believe his intentions were honorable. Especially when, viewed objectively, they were not.

Certainly, there was nothing honorable about the way his eyes were drawn to the sway of her hips as she preceded him into the small, sunny sitting room. Well, small by the standards of Barrowcreek Park, he amended mentally. In comparison to the front parlor of the vicarage, the dimensions of this room were nearly palatial.

Artemisia—Miss Finch, he corrected—gestured toward a somewhat threadbare but serviceable-looking settee facing the large bay window that provided most of the room’s lighting.  “Please, have a seat, Mr. Langston.”

As he settled himself, she took up a chair nearer the fireplace and retrieved a piece of stitchery from the table beside it. When she turned it over in her hands, Walter could see that her needlework was exceptionally fine, certainly a cut well above his sister’s—which was hardly saying much, since to his knowledge, Freddie couldn’t sew a stitch—or even his sister-in-law’s. That Artemisia Finch should have such a clever way with a needle confounded him. It was so…domestic.

But then, everything about her was unaccountably, unsettlingly domestic. Oh, she was every bit as lovely as he recalled—all smooth ivory-tinted skin and shimmering blond hair and plush pink lips set in a face that might have been sculpted by a Greek master attempting to render the perfection of a goddess. Beyond that, however, there was little about either her appearance or her manner that put him in mind of the sensual, sophisticated courtesan he’d admired from afar in London.

While that Artemisia Finch had worn her hair in cunningly arranged Grecian ringlets, this one’s hung in an artless tumble around her face and shoulders. Although neither woman required cosmetics to camouflage her flaws—Walter could find none—the London version had been painstakingly painted and rouged to accentuate her best features. And where that woman had been swathed in a form-fitting, nearly transparent gown made of gold-shot silk, this one was garbed in a modest, unremarkable peach-tinged muslin day dress that would not have been in the least out of place on a vicar’s wife.

A vicar’s wife? What on earth had prompted that unholy thought? Marriage was the furthest thing from his mind. Wasn’t it?

“So, tell me, vicar,” she said conversationally, though she stabbed her needle rather viciously into the fabric as she spoke, “which sermon did you plan on delivering this afternoon? Will it be the one in which you warn me of the hellfire and damnation that awaits fallen women such as myself, or the one in which you assure me that the Lord will forgive me and take me into heaven if only I repent my sins?”

Walter raised his eyebrows. “If you are hoping for a sermon, Miss Finch, I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you. I am, after all, only paid to sermonize on Sundays, and I hold rather strictly to the notion that a chap oughtn’t give away the milk when he can sell the cow.”

Her eyes—a shade of blue so dark, he’d imagined from a distance they must be brown—flicked from her needlework to his face then back again. “I am reasonably certain that the milk and cow analogy does not apply to sermons and vicars.”

“No?” he asked, feigning shock at the notion.

She shook her head, her lips pressed together in a thin line that suggested she was suppressing either a frown or a smile.

“Ah, perhaps it is eggs and hens, then. Or no, I imagine it must be wool and sheep. What with all the flock references, you know.”

Now she was smiling, although she was also doing her best to hide it by continuing to ply her needle in swift, even stitches through the fabric on her hoop.

“In any event,” he went on, “even if I were inclined to deliver a sermon on my day off, it would not likely be on the subjects of damnation or repentance. I have, you see, a rather uncertain relationship with those concepts myself, having failed to repent of any number of sins I have committed in the past and, frankly, am likely to commit again in the future. It is difficult, after all, to repent what one does not regret, and I fear the vast majority of my transgressions evoke no regret in me whatsoever.”

Miss Finch’s needle came to a halt, and she gave him an assessing look. “That is a most peculiar thing for a vicar to say, Mr. Langston. Is it not your responsibility to ensure that your flock does not stray from the path of righteousness?”

“The flock always strays, Miss Finch. It is the nature of sheep—and people—to wander. It is the job of the shepherd—or the vicar—to see that they are welcomed back when they do, not to prevent them from doing so.”

“But is that not the purpose of repentance? To ensure the sinner sees the error of his ways and does not repeat the offense?”

“Those who wander are not necessarily lost. And those who are lost often do not realize they have strayed. Often, the greatest sins are committed by those who believe they are the most righteous.” Like the people of this village who had a decade ago condemned a young girl without so much as a second thought.

“You speak in riddles, Mr. Langston.”

Walter grinned. “I’ve heard tell that clergy often do. Although in the scheme of things, I believe allegories are preferred.”

She tilted her head and studied him again with those marvelous, indigo eyes. “Well, if you have not come to lecture me on the error of my ways, then why did you come to see me?”

“Because, Miss Finch, I wanted to. Because I wanted you.”

She must have misheard him. Or mistaken his meaning.

Artemisia stared at the dreadfully handsome, frightfully alluring vicar for several seconds, waiting for him to add something to his statement that would change its meaning. But he did not. Instead, he regarded her with a charged intensity that put paid to any notion she might have misunderstood him.

She ought to be insulted by his presumption. Just because she had once been a courtesan did not mean she would fall into bed with any man who asked. Back then, in fact, she’d been quite particular about exactly which men she fell into bed with. She had taken just two lovers in seven years—and when the first had broken one of her cardinal rules and got married, she had broken off with him straightaway despite the fact that he was a duke and had offered to double her allowance. There were some sins she just wouldn’t commit, however, and enabling a man to commit marital infidelity was one of them. She was a fornicator, after all, not an adulteress.

Of course, there would be no adultery if she took Walter Langston to her bed. She knew of a certainty he was not married. He was also more than passably attractive and obviously of better-than-average intelligence. If this were London and he were a wealthy gentleman, she would undoubtedly take him under consideration as a potential protector.

But this was not London, and he was not a wealthy gentleman. This was Grange-Over-Sands—so far from London it might as well be on the moon—and though he was clearly a gentleman, by both birth and upbringing, he was also clearly not a wealthy one. If he were, he would not be a vicar.

So why, instead of being offended, was she flattered and worse, tempted? Why did she find her gaze lingering on his full, sensual lips and those large, capable hands with their long, graceful fingers? Why did the full weight of her isolation have to fall upon her now, making her uncomfortably aware of how long it had been since she had felt the full weight of a man’s body covering hers, filling hers?

She set her needlework carefully in her lap, her hands trembling. “I beg your pardon, vicar, but are you—” She hesitated, for suddenly, she felt rather foolish for even considering the possibility that a clergyman might make such an advance. “Are you asking me to be your mistress?”

His eyes widened, and he blinked several times as though taken aback. “My dear Miss Finch, you wound me. I wouldn’t dream of proposing such a thing.” He paused and shook his head, and then the smile that had melted her resolve to keep him on her doorstep reappeared. “Well, to be fair, perhaps I might dream of it. Did dream of it, in fact, five years ago.”

Artemisia took a sharp breath. “You knew me in London?”

“Knew of you would be more accurate. We were never introduced, but we were at several social events at the same time just after you broke off with Stratton. I found you…entrancing.”

“But you never pursued me.”

His smile turned self-deprecating. “As you might have guessed from my current circumstances, I was hardly in a financial position to do so. Not only that, but I wasn’t expecting to be in London long. I’d just purchased my commission.”

“You were in the army?” Mr. Langston was, without a doubt, the most curious vicar she had ever encountered. When he nodded, she asked, “Why did you leave it?”

“Took a stray bullet in the right shoulder during training exercises. The resulting fever nearly killed me. I decided after that I wasn’t particularly keen on being shot again, so I sold out and joined the church. Thought it would be safer.” With a shake of his head, he chuckled. “I didn’t take into account the military precision of the parents of marriageable daughters. God help us, but I believe the mothers, in particular, may be more ruthless than Frenchmen.” He punctuated this last observation with an exaggerated shudder.

“Well,” Artemisia observed drily, “you must admit you are an excellent catch.”

“I admit no such thing. I assure you that once upon a time, I was the last man to have his name etched on any respectable young lady’s dance card. And in any event, I have no interest in being caught on anyone’s hook just yet.”

“In my experience, men never want to be caught, but they do tend to be attracted to bright, shiny objects, which often leads to that result.” She tilted to her head to one side, recalling the original question that had led them down the path of this conversation. And that it had not been answered. “Is that why you’re here, Mr. Langston? Because I’m a bright, shiny object that doesn’t have a hook hiding underneath?”

He placed his palms flat on his legs, just above the knees, and leaned forward, his expression earnest. “To be quite honest, Miss Finch, I’m not entirely sure why I am here except that I felt compelled to meet you. And to offer you my friendship, for what it might be worth. I can’t imagine it’s easy for you, living here, given everything that’s happened.”

Artemisia stood abruptly, sending her needlework to the floor with a clatter. She met his gaze to find his rich, brown eyes filled with sympathy and kindness, and wanted to slap him. “I don’t need your pity, vicar, any more than I needed a sermon on repentance.” Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to my father’s afternoon tea and biscuits.”

Her skirts swirled about her feet as she turned to leave. It was rude in the extreme, but she meant it to be. She didn’t regret her choices, and she didn’t want anyone else regretting them on her behalf. The bed she’d made was perfectly comfortable—if a bit empty—and she was more than willing to lie in it.

She had taken precisely two steps when strong, capable fingers wrapped around her upper arm and whirled her back to face him. His eyes were no longer soft with sympathy, but hard as the famous rocky cliffs of Dover.

“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Miss Finch. I do not pity you.” He yanked her against his chest, which she tried not to notice was broad and warm and solid and very, very male. “Does this feel like pity?”

It didn’t, but she couldn’t say so, because he was kissing her, and under no circumstances did she want him to stop.

 

Continued….

Click here to download the entire book: Jackie Barbosa’s  Hot Under the Collar (Lords of Lancashire) >>>


Like a little romance? Or a lot? KND Brand New Romance of The Week is Jackie Barbosa‘s Steamy New Regency Romance Hot Under the Collar (Lords of Lancashire) … Now Just $1.97 on Kindle!

Like a little romance?

Then you’ll love our magical Kindle book search tools that will help you find these great bargains in the Romance category: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

PLEASE NOTE: Occasionally a title will continue to appear on these lists for a short time after its price changes on Kindle. ALWAYS check the price on Amazon before making a purchase, please! If a book is free, you should see the following: Kindle Price: $0.00

But first, a word from … Today’s Sponsor

3 Rave Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

HOT UNDER THE COLLAR is a 37,500 word novella (approximately 110 printed pages). In addition, this ebook includes excerpts from THE LESSON PLAN, the first Lords of Lancashire novella, and INCARNATE, an Edwardian-set urban fantasy novel set for release in fall 2012.

Despite the old saw about third sons being destined for the church, no one ever expected the rakish, irresponsible Walter Langston to take up the collar, least of all himself. After an accident renders him unfit for military service, however, he has few other options. When he’s given the post of vicar at a parish church in a sleepy, coastal village, he’s convinced he’ll molder in obscurity. Instead, his arrival brings a sudden resurgence in church attendance…or at least, the attendance of female parishioners. As word of the eligible young vicar spreads, every well-heeled family for miles with a marriageable daughter fills his pews, aiming to catch his eye. Unfortunately for these hopeful members of his flock, Walter’s eye has already been caught—by the one woman who doesn’t come to church on Sundays.

Artemisia Finch left a lucrative career as a celebrated member of London’s demimondaine to care for her ailing father. Returning home hasn’t been easy, though, as her past isn’t even a well-kept secret in the village. When the new vicar arrives on her doorstep, Artemisia is determined to send him on his merry, pious way. But Walter Langston is nothing like any man of the cloth she’s ever known—he’s funny, irreverent, handsome, and tempting as sin. Falling in love with a vicar would be a very bad idea for a former courtesan. Why does this one have to be so hot under the collar?

About The Author

can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a writer when I grew up, but there were plenty of times when I wasn’t sure I ever would be. As it turns out, it just took me about twenty years longer to grow up than I expected!On the road to publication, I took a few detours, including a stint in academia (I hold an MA in Classics from the University of Chicago and was a recipient of a Mellon Fellowship in the Humanities) and many years as a technical writer/instructional designer for a data processing company. I still hold my day job in instructional design, but my true passion is writing steamy romances-both historical and contemporary.

I learned to believe in love at first sight when I met the man of my dreams twenty years ago and to believe in happily ever after when I married him. I live in Southern California with my husband, our three children, and an ever-changing menagerie of pets.

You can learn more about me and my books at my website, www.jackiebarbosa.com.

 

Free Contemporary Titles in the Kindle Store

Welcome to Kindle Nation’s magical and revolutionary Free Book Search Tool — automatically updated and refreshed in real time, now with Category Search! Use the drop-down menu (in red caps next to the menu bar near the top of the page) to search for free Kindle books by genre or category, then sort the list just the way you want it — by date added, bestselling, or review rating! But there’s no need to sort by price — because they’re all free!

Loading
Sorry, but demand was too high to complete your request. Please try again.

Like a little romance? Or a lot? Then we think you’ll love this free excerpt from our Kindle Nation Daily Romance of the Week, Jackie Barbosa’s THE LESSON PLAN (LORDS OF LANCASHIRE) – 4.5 stars and just $1.96 on Kindle!

Over the weekend we announced that Jackie Barbosa’s THE LESSON PLAN (LORDS OF LANCASHIRE) was our new Romance of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the Romance category: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Romance excerpt, and if you aren’t among those who have downloaded this one already, you’re in for a treat!

4.5 stars – 6 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Sometimes, love is the hardest lesson of all…

Despite her imminent debut, Miss Winifred Langston has no interest in trying on expensive ball gowns, learning intricate dance steps, or perfecting the one piece she can play on the pianoforte. Freddie would rather don a pair of breeches and go target shooting, fishing, or horseback riding—astride—than be anywhere near a ballroom or high tea. Rather than waste the last few days of her freedom on such pursuits, she invites her two closest friends to join her in one final caper.

When Conrad Pearce learns of Freddie’s plans, he decides it’s past time to teach his younger brother’s partner-in-crime a well-deserved lesson. But when he intercepts her, disguised as a highwayman, to demonstrate how dangerous and ill-advised her stunts are, he can’t resist the sensual beauty hidden beneath the maddening tomboy’s exterior. What began as one sort of lesson becomes quite another, as Conrad embarks on a comprehensive erotic tutorial of his surprisingly enthusiastic and adept student.

Now, he only has to convince the irrepressible Freddie to trade her breeches and madcap ways for the gowns and domesticity she despises.

 

Reader Comments

I loved this book. This was my first taste of Jackie Barbosa and I loved it. This book led me to quite a few more reads by this author and I was not disappointed, far from it. Freddie is a precocious tom-boy who likes her independence and Con is the older gentleman who wants to take it away. Into the story comes a sexy highwayman who doesn’t disguise himself very well, and a steamy night in an abandoned shack. This book puts out, but leaves you wanting more. In this case that’s a good thing.

D. Castro, Amazon Reviewer, 5 Stars

A young heroine who is daring, irrepressible and beautiful. A British lord who is staid and responsible. They have secretly been eyeing each other for years. And now these perfect opposites are about to mate and set off fireworks. Perfect pacing for a novella, fun naughty sexual encounters…what more could one want to pass an hour or two? Highly recommended.

Amazon Reviewer, 5 Stars

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Chapter One

Lancashire, September 1794

The Honorable Miss Winifred Langston had achieved, through a combination of blind luck and careful contrivance, the prodigious age of twenty-one without ever having suffered the indignity of a London Season. Her luck came in the form of a doting, distractible father who seemed not to notice that his only daughter had long since reached an age past which gallivanting about the countryside dressed as a boy could be considered an excusable, childish prank. The contrivance came in convincing her brothers that, should she have her debut, it would be their duty to chaperon her to endless Society events at which they would be every bit as much “on the market” as she. As every one of them still possessed a good many wild oats yet to be sown, they were more than happy to help persuade her father that Freddie’s debut could surely wait until next Season.

And the next. And the next.

But now, neither providence nor machination could forestall the inevitable. In a mere two weeks’ time, the Langstons would complete their prescribed year of mourning for that doting, distractible father, and the new viscount, Freddie’s brother Nash, had come to the stark realization that if he did not marry off his little sister, he would be stuck with her for the rest of his born days.

There was nothing to be done for it, of course. Nash had always been the most imperious of her three brothers, no doubt the result of being the heir, and Freddie knew he would not yield now that his decision was made. That did not mean, however, that she had any intention of being happy about it.

Dressed as usual in her twin brother’s outgrown breeches, shirt, and waistcoat, Freddie sat cross-legged beside the river that separated the Langston estate from the neighboring, much larger property belonging to the Earl of Ormondy, dangling her fishing line in the icy water as she bemoaned her predicament.

“I shall have to wear gowns all the time and dance and take tea. And be ladylike.” The last word came out on a groan.

Thomas Pearce, who happened to be not only Ormondy’s spare but Freddie’s friend since both were in leading strings, sat on her left. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “If it would help, I’d marry you, Fred old girl. We could just carry on like always, then.”

Freddie’s twin and perpetual partner-in-crime, Walter, emitted a peal of laughter from her right. “Are you mad, Tommy? You’re not even three-and-twenty. You can’t get married yet. Puts too much pressure on the rest of us chaps. Besides, you and Freddie as man and wife…?” He shuddered indelicately. “I’d rather contemplate the vicar and Miss Stanley engaging in intimacies than that.”

Thomas’s cheeks turned a hot shade of red, though whether at the thought of the elderly vicar and the stern headmistress of the girls’ school in a torrid embrace or of himself and Freddie as a married couple, she couldn’t be sure. Either one was rather alarming to contemplate.

“Well,” he said staunchly, “if that’s what it takes to keep your brother from forcing Freddie to marry some withered-up husk, I’m willing to make the sacrifice. Least you could do is support me.”

So, marrying her would be a sacrifice for him, would it? That was certainly flattering. Although strictly speaking, she felt much the same. If she were to imagine marrying a Pearce, it would most certainly not be Thomas.

No, it was Conrad Pearce, seven years Thomas’s senior and heir to their father’s earldom, who moved Freddie’s otherwise romantically disinclined heart, not to mention other considerably more unmentionable parts of her anatomy. Other young ladies might have waxed eloquent upon any number of his attributes. handsomeness—exceptional; his height—prodigious; the breadth of his shoulders—impressive; or the remarkable color of his thick-lashed eyes—silver and just as opaque as the real thing. But, though Freddie appreciated these qualities as much as any other female, these attributes were not the primary source of his appeal.

Quite simply, Conrad fascinated her by virtue of being everything she wasn’t—levelheaded, self-contained, urbane, reserved—and that air of perfect, impenetrable composure seemed both a careful façade and a deliberate challenge. Unsettle me, it dared her. Muss my never-out-of-place hair, put my impeccably knotted cravat askew, overset me with passion and recklessness. She found it impossible to believe he was as imperturbable, as detached, as he appeared. Beneath that cool, polished exterior, she believed there lurked a kindred soul, and she ached to set him free from his prison of decorous self-restraint.

Unfortunately, despite years of trying, she had absolutely no hard evidence to support her suspicion. Conrad was about as likely to part with his good sense and marry her as he was to fly to the moon and back. He knew her far too well for that.

In point of fact, everyone in Winmarleigh knew Winifred Langston was not marriage material, which was undoubtedly the reason Nash wanted to remove her to London. There he could foist her off upon unsuspecting gentlemen who might be kept from knowing, until too late, that the object of their affections could shoot the cherry off a cheroot at thirty paces whilst merrily puffing on one herself.

But certainly not if Freddie could prevent it.

She returned her attention to Thomas. “That’s quite all right,” she assured him, giving his arm a sympathetic pat. “No-one needs to make any sacrifices on my behalf. Nash can make me go to London, but he can’t make me marry anyone, and he certainly can’t make anyone want to marry me.”

Far from appearing relieved, however, Thomas looked even more morose. “If the men in London have eyes, you’ll have suitors by the dozen. Once you go, you won’t be back. You’ll see.”

Freddie stared at him. Was he suggesting she was…pretty? Because, truly, nothing could be more ludicrous. Not that she was ugly, of course; she didn’t think that. But she was boyish, sturdy, solid. Certainly nothing so frilly or feminine as pretty.

But now she couldn’t help seeing Thomas through slightly different eyes. Did he see something about her that she herself did not? Did he perhaps actually want to marry her? That was a considerably more unthinkable possibility than that he would consider doing so a sacrifice.

“Oh, don’t be maudlin,” Walter interjected. “She’ll be back come the end of the Season, right as rain, and we’ll all just pick up where we left off.”

Ah, that was more like it. Leave it to her sunny, never-malcontent brother to keep things in perspective. Of course, he would think that nothing would change, because as far as Walter was concerned, the world and everyone in it existed entirely to suit him, because, quite simply, most of the time, they did. He’d gone away to Eton and then Oxford and returned to find everyone and everything at Barrowcreek Park utterly unchanged, including himself. No doubt, he expected the same outcome from Freddie’s impending excursion to London.

But what if, against all odds, London did change her? What if, inconceivable as it sounded, she discovered she actually liked wearing gowns and dancing and taking tea? What if she wanted to marry and behave like a lady?

Most of all, what if this was her last chance to be the outrageous and irrepressible Freddie Langston? What if, a tiny, traitorous voice whispered, this was her last opportunity to get Conrad to notice her—really notice her—before she lost him for good?

She pulled her line abruptly from the water and got to her feet. “Well, if we’re going to pick up where we left off when I return, we ought to be doing something more interesting with these last few weeks than fishing.”

Walter gave her a sly glance. “What did you have in mind?”

Freddie grinned back at him. “A plan only a brother could love…”

Thomas was twitchy all throughout dinner. Oblivious as always, neither the earl nor countess seemed to notice their younger son’s disturbance, but Conrad found it impossible not to notice.

Thomas had dropped his fork. Twice. He spilt wine on his cravat and choked on a bite of pheasant. Most of all, he looked miserable, his eye sunken, his color ashen. And as always, it fell to Conrad to sort out whatever scrape his brother had got—or was about to get—himself into. No one else would do it, least of all Thomas himself.

So, after the earl excused himself from the men’s after-dinner port to sneak off to visit the mistress he kept in a tidy cottage in the village he thought no one knew of, least of all his wife and sons, Conrad seized the opportunity to ferret out the cause of his brother’s distress. “So, what are Walter and Winifred up to now?”

“Freddie,” Thomas correct reflexively, but not before a guilty expression crossed his face. “You know she hates to be called Winifred.”

“So they are up to something, then.”

But really, when were they not? The residents of Winmarleigh referred to the Langston twins not as Walter and Winifred, but as Salt and Pepper, for they seemed to have taken it upon themselves to provide all the spice to village life. Thomas, alas, was usually relegated to the role of butter, there to smooth things over after they’d gone badly wrong.

“I didn’t say that,” Thomas ground out irritably.

“You didn’t have to. So, what is it this time? Dressing up in sheets to haunt the girls’ school? Putting frogs in the baptismal font? Releasing a plague of locusts?” He was only half-kidding about the latter two.

Although if he were honest, Conrad would be forced to admit that Winifred Langston didn’t have to release either frogs or locusts to plague him. All she had to do was saunter by in a close-fitting pair of breeches, her heavy raven tresses escaping from beneath the cap she jammed on her head in a completely useless effort to camouflage her gender. As if any male with operational vision could mistake the owner of that slender waist and gloriously rounded arse for a boy. He certainly hadn’t been able to since the summer he’d returned from Cambridge to discover that the tomboyish urchin who’d played with his younger brother was no longer a leggy, boisterous child, but a leggy, boisterous young woman with a figure that would have been right at home in Miss May’s Pleasure Parlor.

Conrad shifted uncomfortably. If he was going to gather wool, he would prefer not to have it binding him in anatomically delicate locations.

His brother only proceeded to look more vexed. “This isn’t funny at all, Con.” He let out a slow, anguished sigh. “He’s taking her away. To London.”

Conrad raised an eyebrow. “Not much of a prank, that. I’d have thought Walter more cunning.”

“Not Walter, Nash—er, the viscount. He insists it’s time for Freddie to have her debut and…you know, get married.”

“About time,” Conrad muttered, ignoring the corkscrew of pain burrowing into his chest. It was only surprise that Nash was finally taking the girl in hand. “The sooner she’s married off, the sooner Winmarleigh will be safe from her antics.” Albeit considerably less entertaining.

Thomas’s mouth hardened into a frown. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

Conrad stared at his brother with a growing sense of disorientation. “Wait. You’re not saying you are…sweet on her?” Thomas looked away, but not before Conrad read the truth. “Bloody hell…you are.”

“Damn it, Con, you wouldn’t understand. She’s just…she’s Freddie, blast it all, and I don’t want to lose her.”

So Thomas wasn’t in love with her? Well, that made the gnawing discomfort of his own inexplicable attraction to the chit seem less lecherous, if only barely. What would his brother—not to mention her brothers—think if he knew how many times Conrad had stripped her bare in his mind and proceeded to have his lascivious way with her?

“What makes you think you will lose her? It’s only a Season. Plenty of ladies don’t find husbands in their first Seasons.” Or second or third. Especially not those who preferred to wear breeches, ride astride, bait their own hooks, and shoot targets from horseback. Likely, it was only Conrad who had a carnal fascination with that sort of female.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You must be blind if you can’t see she’ll be the toast of London. I may not be sweet on her, as you put it, but I know a beautiful woman when I see one. Just because we grew up together does not mean I can’t see her clearly. Apparently, I’m the only one around here who can.”

This was hardly the time for Conrad to admit that his eyesight was perfectly functional when it came to Miss Langston.

“We all have to grow up some day, you know. Even you and Miss Langston. Although, I suppose, hoping that Walter Langston will join the two of you in achieving adulthood would be too much to hope for.”

“You’re making light. The three of us have been friends for our entire lives, but now that we’re grown up, one of us will be forced to move away, simply because she happens to be female. I hardly call that just or fair.”

Fair or not, it was the way of the world. What did Thomas think Conrad could do about it?

“Marry her yourself, then.”

No sooner had the words passed Conrad’s lips than he wished them back. God, the only thing that would be worse than living in the same town with Freddie Langston while not being able to touch her would be living in the same household with her. Just the thought of his brother in bed with her sent an icy shard of rage through his gut.

“I suggested that. She turned me down flat. Doesn’t think any of the London gents will want her, but I know better.”

“Maybe she’ll turn them all down flat, too.”

“I’m sure that’s what she thinks she’ll do. But you know Freddie. She’s too passionate by half, and she doesn’t do anything by mere doubles, or even triples. When she gets to London, she’ll throw herself into the balls and routs the way she throws herself into everything, and then she’ll fall headlong in love.” Thomas sighed. “And then she won’t be back.”

The icy shard that had penetrated Conrad’s gut when he thought of his brother with Freddie twisted sharply as he envisioned the scene Thomas painted so vividly for him. Because Thomas was undoubtedly right. That was exactly how it would be when Freddie Langston arrived in London. She would take it by storm, and it would never be the same again.

“So, she is going to let Nash take her to London without a fuss, then?”

Thomas chuckled. “Oh, hardly. In fact, I think she rather hopes to do something so outrageous, the news will make it all the way to London and Nash won’t be able to take her at all.”

And that was how, a few seconds later, Conrad discovered that the Honorable Miss Winifred Langston intended to visit Miss May’s Pleasure Palace just two nights hence. The reason in order to learn “what all the fuss is about.”

Conrad had a mind to show her. In the interest of not being called out for pistols at dawn by Nash Langston, however, he went upstairs and showed his hand instead.

Chapter Two

“You want me to kidnap your sister?” Conrad sputtered. He thumped his chest twice with his fist in an effort to coax the sherry he’d made the mistake of sipping at precisely the wrong moment down the proper pipe. He didn’t wish to expire before he ascertained whether Nash Langston still retained full possession of his wits or had instead been sent round the proverbial bend by the pressures of becoming the head of his notoriously wild family.

The aforementioned gentleman leaned forward eagerly in his chair and nodded, giving Conrad even greater reason to doubt his friend’s sanity. “Just so. She needs an object lesson in the dangers of her antics, and a good kidnapping by a highwayman is just the thing to do the trick.”

“But…why not simply forbid her from going to Miss May’s or, indeed, from going anywhere with Walter and Thomas until you leave for London?”

The young viscount rolled his eyes heavenward. “If you think forbidding my sister from doing anything is an effective means to prevent her from doing it, you don’t know her nearly as well as I would expect after almost twenty years of acquaintance. Obedience has never been Freddie’s forte.”

Whether obedience would be Freddie’s forte or not was somewhat difficult to say, since to Conrad’s knowledge, she had rarely in her life been ordered to do or not do anything. He’d often thought what she needed more than anything else was a solid spanking and a clear injunction to behave herself. Her father and brothers had been too indulgent by half, and Freddie, more than anyone else, was paying the price.

Notwithstanding, he didn’t think it wise to disagree with his friend’s assessment of the young lady’s character, particularly in light of the fact that he’d fancied himself delivering that spanking—and a bit more—one too many times for comfort. “Point taken, but don’t you think this…remedy…is rather extreme?”

“Extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. And you must admit, Freddie is never anything but extreme.”

Indeed she was, Conrad thought with a grim smile. Extremely lush. Extremely vibrant. Extremely beddable. Although Conrad doubted that was what her brother had in mind when he used the word.

“Surely you can find someone else to play the part of the highwayman,” he suggested hopefully. “One of the servants or tenants, perhaps?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Even if one of them could carry off the masquerade without shooting himself in the foot or falling off his horse, she would browbeat him to the truth inside of five minutes. They’re all more terrified of her than they are of me.” The young viscount shook his head ruefully. “Besides, there are few men I’d trust with my sister’s virtue. You probably haven’t noticed, being as you’ve rarely seen her in a proper dress, but when she allows herself to look like a lady, she’s really rather fetching.”

Conrad suppressed a groan. If Nash knew exactly how fetching Conrad already found his sister, he’d find himself called out for pistols at dawn.

Fortunately, his friend failed to notice his discomfort and continued blithely, “All you need do is keep her in an out-of-the-way place for the night. Blindfold her and tie her up, give her reason to worry what may become of her, until I ransom her back. After such an ordeal, I warrant she should be chastened into behaving in a more appropriate fashion.”

Blindfold her and tie her up? An image so frank and carnal that it shocked even Conrad flashed through his mind—Freddie Langston, naked and blindfolded, her wrists bound and secured above her head, her legs spread wide and tied to the bed frame, her glorious black hair fanned out around her like a thundercloud.

Heat suffused him, and he drained his sherry in one swift gulp.

Nash raised an eyebrow and gestured toward Conrad’s empty glass. “Would you care for another?”

And another and another. At least if this conversation continued on its present course.

While Nash poured them both more sherry at the sideboard, Conrad tried to regain his composure. He’d come to the Langston estate this afternoon intending only to inform his friend of his sister’s planned escapade so he could put a stop to it before the girl managed to ruin herself and her family so thoroughly neither could recover. The last thing he had anticipated was to be enlisted into a counter-escapade that was even dafter than the original.

No good deed goes unpunished.

Worse yet, he could see no means by which to escape his conscription. He could hardly admit that he was absolutely not to be trusted with Miss Winifred Langston’s virtue; that he had, in point of fact, been lusting after her for years. And not in the polite, proper way a gentleman desires a lady he hopes to marry, either, but in the coarse, vulgar way he wants a woman of loose morals.

“So, what do you say, Con?” Nash asked as he handed Conrad his refilled glass. “I’ll see to it they have to take the coach instead of going by horseback and warn the driver that there’ve been reports of a ruthless highwayman preying on the road between Winmarleigh and Garstang. He’ll pull over for you in a trice, and from there, you’ll be in and out with Freddie in no time.”

Wincing internally at the phrase in and out with Freddie, Conrad considered his options, conceded he had none, and accepted his fate. He nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Nash beamed. “Excellent.” He raised his goblet in salute. “To putting my troublesome little sister in her place.”

“Indeed,” Conrad murmured, meeting his friend’s toast despite the certainty that he and Nash had entirely different visions of where, exactly, that troublesome young lady’s place was.

Freddie grimaced as the carriage hit yet another rut in the road and her backside was once again separated from, and then forcibly reacquainted with, the thinly padded seat. Here, at least, was one good argument for skirts and petticoats; they offered one considerably more protection from the brutal beating of travel by coach than breeches. Even then, she was bound to be bloodied and bruised by the time she reached London, since it was highly unlikely that Nash would permit her to ride into Town on horseback.

“You haven’t changed your mind about this, have you, Fred?” Walter asked, apparently noting her sour expression. “We can always turn back, you know.”

In truth, she had begun to think better of this excursion within minutes of proposing it, but she wasn’t about to admit that to her twin, who thought it a marvelous lark to sneak his sister into a house of ill repute. The problem was, as tantalizing as the idea was in theory, it had quickly dawned on her that it was likely to be rather boring in practice. What, after all, was she going to do in a house of ill repute? Certainly not what men did when they went to one.

In for a penny, in for a pound, that was Freddie’s motto. She wasn’t going to back out now despite her misgivings.

“That’s not it. I’d just much rather be going on horseback than by coach.” She wrinkled her nose as they hit yet another bump, dislodging a cloud of dust from the faded curtains that covered the windows. “Don’t you think it’s odd that Hermes should have thrown a shoe on the very same day that Mercury got the colic?”

Like Freddie and Walter, Hermes and Mercury were twins, a pair of Arabian bays their father had purchased several years before his death with his son and daughter in mind. They were also, aside from Nash’s gray stallion—the grandiosely named Thor—the only riding mounts in the stable, which was why Walter, Thomas, and Freddie had been forced to take the coach this evening rather than traveling, as they normally did, on horseback.

Walter shrugged. “Just a coincidence, I’m sure. Hermes is forever throwing shoes and Mercury has a penchant for eating things that don’t agree with him.”

Both were true, but Freddie couldn’t shake the intuition that their mode of conveyance had been determined by contrivance rather than coincidence, although she could not fathom what anyone would gain by such machinations other than her annoyance. Perhaps that was enough for her older brother, however, who seemed of late to be wholly focused on being as irritating to her as possible, no doubt because he hoped she would decide to behave herself in London and get down to the business of selecting a husband if only as a means of escaping his needling.

She was forced to admit that he might be onto something. The idea of spending the rest of her days under his roof had become a less-than-attractive proposition over the past several months.

The carriage jolted to an abrupt halt, almost pitching her from the narrow seat and knocking her knees painfully into Thomas’s.

“What the devil?” Walter muttered. He rapped his knuckles against the roof. “I say, Potts,” he hollered to the driver, “what’s the trouble?”

No answer was forthcoming, but the reason for the sudden halt in their progress became clear when the door to the carriage jerked open just a few seconds later. The person doing the jerking was not the driver, Potts, but a masked man clothed entirely in black and holding a pistol of impressive size.

A highwayman.

Freddie’s brow furrowed. When had highwayman begun to prey on the stretch of road between Winmarleigh and Garstang? It wasn’t exactly Hounslow Heath in terms of either traffic or fat purses.

While she contemplated this anomaly, Thomas raised one hand in surrender and patted the coin pouch in the pocket of his coat with the other, raising a weak clank of metal. “We haven’t much coin with us this eve, but we’ll gladly give you every ha’penny if you will but permit us to be on our way.”

Walter gave Thomas an angry scowl, no doubt irritated by the latter’s hasty capitulation, but there really was no arguing with a pistol, and Walter knew it. He reached up under his coat to untie the strings of his own purse, but the highwayman cleared his throat and shook his head.

“I don’t want yer coin,” he growled in a broad Lancashire dialect. “What I want…” He stretched out a finger and pointed it straight at Freddie’s chest. “…is ’er.”

Chapter Three

Conrad steeled himself to hold both the pistol and his index finger steady. Although everything had gone swimmingly thus far, with the coachman just as intimidated as Nash had promised he would be, it could all go terribly wrong in a heartbeat. If he had to resort to actual violence to accomplish his goal, the masquerade would be over before it had really begun, since he was hardly about to shoot Walter or Freddie Langston, let alone his own brother.

Not that he could, even if he wanted to; as a precaution, he hadn’t loaded the pistol, which meant it would be useless if any of his victims actually resisted.

Naturally, it was his brother who resisted first. “You can’t have he—” Thomas began, then broke off, his eyebrows pulling together in a scowl as he fixed Conrad with a suspicious stare. “I say, how did you know he’s a she?”

Conrad’s blood chilled; he hadn’t intended to reveal that he was aware of Freddie’s gender. The word her had simply slipped out, no doubt because he was always aware of her femininity no matter how she was garbed. But now that he had let it out, he’d no choice but to go with it.

“Sure ye don’t think everyone hereabouts don’t know Viscount Langston ’as a sister what gallivants the countryside dressed like a boy?”

“So you know this is the Honorable Miss Winifred Langston?” Walter asked.

“Course I do,” Conrad responded, settling into his role with a bit more ease as the familiar accents of his tenants began to roll more comfortably off his tongue. “Why d’ye think I’m taking ’er for ransom? Wouldn’t do no good if she wasn’t Quality.”

“Well, you can’t have her,” Thomas declared stoutly, shifting his body so that, within the tight confines of the coach, his torso was positioned between Conrad’s useless pistol and Freddie. He folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t let you.”

“What do you mean, I?” Walter bristled. “She’s my sister. If anyone’s going to protect her virtue, it ought to be me.”

Conrad didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. Leave it to his brother and Walter Langston to argue over who should be shot first in a futile demonstration of heroism. The fact that neither of them could possibly know the pistol was unloaded made their idiocy all the more poignant. God help them if they were ever waylaid by an actual highwayman.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t be a pair of ninnyhammers,” Freddie huffed, clearly as exasperated with her companions’ bravado as Conrad was. “The man’s got a pistol, or did you think that was a cucumber?”

“But, Fred, you’ll be ruined,” Walter protested.

As if he had ever worried about his sister’s reputation before…

Over Thomas’s shoulder, Conrad saw Freddie wave her hand dismissively. “Nonsense. Nash will pay the ransom straightaway and then sweep the entire incident under the rug. No one but us will even know it happened.”

“And how do you know he means only to ransom you?” Thomas fixed a baleful eye on Conrad. “He could just as easily ravish you first and then ransom you, you know.”

“That’s a risk I shall just have to take, because I am certainly not going to allow him to put a bullet in one or both of you and then kidnap me anyway. Now,” she continued, giving Thomas a shove on the back, “do sit down and let me get out of the coach.”

Thomas pitched forward, catching himself just before bumping his head on the opposite side of the carriage.

“You can’t mean to go with him, Fred!” Walter grabbed her arm. “He might not just ravish you. He could kill you.” His tone was no longer blustering, but pleading.

Uneasiness slithered up Conrad’s throat as it dawned on him that Thomas and Walter weren’t just putting on a show; they were genuinely concerned for Freddie’s safety. And why shouldn’t they be? As far as they knew, Conrad really was a highwayman, and while highwaymen might have a certain romantic reputation among the lower classes, aristocrats rightly regarded them with a healthy dose of fear.

Why had neither he nor Nash spared a single thought when planning this escapade to the anguish they would be inflicting on their respective brothers? They had both been so intent on ensuring that Freddie would be suitably chastened by her experience that the potential effect on her companions simply hadn’t crossed their minds.

Come to think of it, the one person who seemed not the least bit troubled by the current turn of events was the one person who was supposed to be. Surely a well-bred young lady on the brink of being kidnapped by a brigand should be a trifle more…alarmed?

Instead, the lady in question was in the process of freeing her arm from her brother’s grasp with a businesslike composure entirely at odds with the gravity of the situation.

“He could kill me, but he won’t,” she said with such complete, calm assurance that Conrad knew at once she had figured out that this was all for show, although he didn’t think she’d yet recognized him. She’d simply concluded, correctly, that Nash had orchestrated the entire thing and that she was therefore in no real danger whatsoever.

For two heartbeats, Conrad considered pulling off his mask and confessing the whole scheme. And he might well have done it had Freddie not stretched out her hand—bare and slender and elegantly pale—toward him and said, “Do pretend to be a gentleman and help me down.”

He couldn’t have said whether it was her impudent suggestion that he feign being a gentleman or the tantalizing provocation of her naked hand so near his own, but some thread of control inside him snapped. Freddie Langston had always had the power to shake his composure, but as of this moment, she had torn his vaunted equanimity to shreds.

She was toying with them—him, Walter, Thomas, even the poor coachman. She knew what was afoot, and yet she kept it to herself, preferring to watch them all make fools of themselves. Conrad imagined she must be quite enjoying the show as they all danced to her merry little tune.

Which, in point of fact, was what she had done all her life. Every male in Winifred Langston’s life—from her father to her brothers to Conrad’s own brother—did as she wished, when she wished, for she had long ago mastered the art of making them believe that what she wanted was what they wanted. Well, no more. What he wanted was certainly not what she wanted, and it was well past time she learned that men were not playthings to be manipulated like marionettes on the strings of her whims.

Especially not this man.

He wrapped his black-gloved fingers around her slim wrist and pulled. Her chestnut-brown eyes widened as she tumbled out of the carriage and onto his waiting chest. She gasped at the same moment he released the air from his lungs on an involuntary oomph and their breath mingled, sweet and humid. Her parted pink lips hovered scant inches above his, and a flare of lust singed his veins as he registered how close he was to kissing her. All he would need to do was to slide his fingers around the base of her skull and draw her head down to his until their mouths met.

Except, of course, that this would require him to drop his pistol to free his hand, and that would not exactly lend itself to the completion of his task. Not to mention that he’d be kissing her in full view their brothers, both of whom stared balefully at him out the open door of the coach. Hardly the setting he had in mind.

Not that he had any sort of setting in mind for kissing her. He wasn’t supposed to be kissing her at all. Anywhere. At any time.

With a muttered oath and a renewed focus on his mission, Conrad tightened his grip on his captive’s wrist while continuing to point the pistol menacingly in Walter and Thomas’s direction. “The sooner ye ’urry back to Barrowcreek and deliver my ransom demand, the sooner this little lady’ll be free,” he told them, careful to continue disguising his voice behind accent. “If ye dally, I might forget to pretend to be a gentleman.”

Freddie stiffened at his mocking repetition of her words. Perhaps she sensed she had pushed her kidnapper rather further than was wise, even if she did believe it was all just a sham.

Walter crossed his arms over his chest. “How much do you want?”

Conrad quoted the sum he and Nash had agreed upon. “Two ’undred pounds. Not an ’a’penny less. I’ll meet ’im ’ere for the exchange at dawn. Tell ’him to come alone.”

Walter blanched. “Alone? You could kill him, take the money, and keep m’sister.”

“And even if you don’t, how are we to know you’ll return Freddie safe and, er…” Thomas cleared his throat, blushing furiously as he completed his thought, “…intact after an entire night with her?”

For the first time since he’d donned the scratchy black highwayman’s mask, Conrad was glad he was wearing it because he could feel his face go as hot and red as his brother’s. Freddie’s lithe yet lush frame so close to his was more than enough temptation. He could already imagine all too easily what he could accomplish in one night with her; he didn’t need any help, least of all from Thomas.

Forcing himself to remain in character despite the riot of lascivious images tumbling through his head, Conrad shrugged. “Ye’ll just have to trust me.”

“Trust a highwayman? How stupid do you think we are?”

Freddie twisted in Conrad’s grasp in order to glare at her brother. “Oh, for pity’s sake, if he meant me any harm, he’d have shot the both of you by now and got on with it. Just do as he asks. Please.

For several long seconds, Walter stared at his twin, and Conrad had the eerie sensation that the two of them were speaking without saying a word.

At last, Walter set his mouth in a grim line and nodded. “Very well, we’ll go.” He gestured to the driver, who had watched the entire ordeal in silence, to resume his seat and the man, obviously eager to escape the scene, hastened to do so.

When the coach finally rolled away in search of a wider stretch of road to execute a turnaround, Conrad closed his eyes with relief. The hard part was over. Now all he had to do was convince Freddie that he really was a dangerous highwayman and she wasn’t at all safe with him. Given his current state of frustrated arousal, that shouldn’t be much of a challenge. He bloody well felt dangerous.

With the golden-orange tinge of sunset fading into the blue glow of dusk, however, his first order of business was not to frighten her, but to get them both to the shelter of the abandoned woodcutter’s cottage they’d be occupying for the night. Conrad was debating the relative merits of dragging her there on foot or hoisting her over his shoulder and carrying her when she sighed gustily. He opened his eyes to find her smiling up at him, a thoroughly disconcerting and unexpected reaction given the circumstances.

“Good heavens, I thought they’d never leave,” she said.

Then, to his horrified delight, she snaked her free arm around his neck, pulled his head down to hers, and kissed him. Soundly. Ardently. And to be quite honest, very, very badly. And he had never been more thoroughly aroused by a mere kiss in his life.

Bloody well dangerous was right.

Continued….

Click here to download the entire book: The Lesson Plan by Jackie Barbosa >>