Three stories in one book. How can you go wrong with that? You can’t. Especially because of the way Leigh Michaels has written her characters, including the house that brings them all together one way or another.
An earl buys a house next door to his own home for the convenience of his trysts, which are plentiful. Little does he know how fortuitous that purchase will become.
Here’s the summary:
The rules are made to be broken…
When the handsome, rakish Earl of Hawthorne buys the charming house across the back garden from his town home, he never expects the lovely lady he installs there to ensnare him completely…
Again…
After Lady Keighley marries the earl, it seems a shame to leave the house empty, so she offers it to her childhood friend Felicity Mercer, who discovers that the earl’s gorgeous cousin is precisely the man she’s been waiting for…
and again…
Finally, feisty Georgiana Baxter moves into the house to escape an arranged marriage, and encounters the earl’s friend Major Julian Hampton late one night in the back garden. The handsome soldier is more than willing to give her the lessons she asks for…
There is plenty of gossip, scandal, and torrid speculations surrounding the “mistress’ house”, but behind closed doors, passions blaze…
Now meet the Earl of Hawthorne:
One
The Earl Buys a HouseThe Earl of Hawthorne looked wistfully past his man of business. At the far end of the library, French doors stood open to a glorious autumn day, and in the distance he could hear the bark of a hunting dog. It was a perfect day to take a gun and a dog and go for a long tramp across the parkland and into the woods of his Surrey estate. But here he was instead, sitting at his desk and listening to Perkins prose on for hours about the benefits of investing in a canal somewhere in the far end of England.
Except, now that Thorne had actually pulled his attention back to the library, it appeared that Perkins had finished with the canal and moved on to the benefits of buying a house in London.
“Perkins,” Thorne said gently. “I already have a house in London. A big house—right on Portman Square. You can’t have overlooked that.”
“No, my lord.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting I sell the house I already have and buy a different one?”
“No, my lord.”
“And surely you’re not suggesting that I need more space in London.”
“No, my lord.” With each repetition, Perkins’s voice grew more wooden.
“Then you’re suggesting I buy another house and lease it out?”
“Not exactly, my lord.”
“But if I’m not going to live in it or rent it, then what on earth would I do with another house in…” Thorne paused. “Perkins, exactly where is this house?”
“At number five, Upper Seymour Street, my lord. It’s…”
“I know where it is. Right around the corner from Portman Square.”
“The garden of number five backs on your own, my lord. It is not a large house—only six bedrooms, four main reception rooms, and all the usual arrangements for servants. But the location and the situation are quite salubrious. Unlike the other houses in the row, there are windows all along one side, as well as in front and back, because it lies next to the mews entrance.”
“With horses coming and going all day,” Thorne observed. “Not every tenant would like that.”
“Since they are mostly your own horses, my lord,” Perkins observed, “I felt it likely this would not disturb you. The location alongside the mews, plus the large number of windows and the consequently high window tax, does mean that the house isn’t in quite as much demand as it might otherwise be, and that has kept the price reasonable. And it is a very convenient situation, should my lord wish to come and go without being observed.”
Thorne leaned back in his chair, tapping his index finger against his jaw. “You make me sound like some kind of spy, Perkins,” he said dryly. “Surely you’re not laboring under the illusion that I’m part of an espionage ring.”
Perkins coughed. “Certainly not, my lord.”
Perkins’s tone, Thorne thought wryly, was unnecessarily acerbic. It wasn’t, after all, that Thorne didn’t have the right talents to be a spy. He’d just never been called on to use them in that particular way.
“I merely meant,” Perkins went on, “that your lordship is a figure of interest in London society, and therefore your… actions… are noticed and often remarked on.”
“Actions? Why, Perkins, you old dog. You’re actually volunteering to help me to keep my affaires under wraps? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were blushing.”
Perkins shuffled his feet and looked down at the carpet.
He hadn’t been mistaken; Perkins was blushing. Thorne had never seen anything of the sort before.
He considered the idea. There was certainly merit to the notion of buying a house just off Portman Square. If he could tuck a mistress into a hideaway just a step from his own back door, he could avoid a long list of inconveniences. Kicking his heels for hours while messages were delivered and answers returned… Riding halfway across London for an assignation… Finding new, safe, and very secluded meeting places… Wandering around the halls of a country house trying to locate a particular lady’s bedchamber… Keeping his horses, and the grooms who cared for them, waiting outside a private house on a cold day…
“Very well,” he said and stood up. “Buy the house. I’ll look it over when I come up to town for the Season.”
“Yes, my lord. I shall put the transaction in motion immediately.”
“I have the utmost faith in your judgment, Perkins.” Thorne clapped his man of business on the shoulder and escaped to the gun room before Perkins could wax poetic about his canal once more.
Of course, there was one drawback to the scheme, he thought as he started off across the lawn, a shotgun on his shoulder and his favorite hound rollicking at his heels. Once a mistress was actually in residence in a house right around the corner from his own, it might be a bit of a tangle to move her out again when he tired of her. But he could deal with that when the problem arose.
Or, he thought with a twinge of humor, Perkins could.
Two
My Lady WildeThe Earl of Hawthorne paused in the hallway of Lady Stone’s London town house, feigning interest in the portrait of a long-dead Stone ancestor which had been painted in muddy shades of brown, until a footman had passed. As the footman opened the doors of the ballroom at the far end of the hall, the strains of a waltz swelled out.
Thorne waited a moment longer, until the doors had closed again and the music dropped to a murmur. Then he slipped through an anteroom at the back of the house and on into the small morning room that was never used during Lady Stone’s parties.
At least, it was never used for organized portions of Lucinda’s parties, he thought as Charlotte surged forward and threw her arms around him. “You took forever, Thorne,” she whined. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
Forget Charlotte Barnsley? Hardly, especially when her very generous breasts were pressed so firmly against his chest that the diamond stickpin in his cravat might actually wound her. Then she moved even closer, slipping her thigh between his legs, and dragged his head down to kiss him. Her mouth was hot and wet and hungry, and her fingers roamed over his hair, over the shoulders of his coat and down his back.
He captured her hands and pulled them away—and was startled at the strength and suddenness of his antipathy. What kind of a rake was he, anyway? With a woman in his arms who was not only willing but eager, what was stopping him? Perhaps it was just the fact that she seemed to be in such a rush. Out in the ballroom, the dancers were still going round in circles, and the supper break was an hour off. What was Charlotte’s hurry?
“Thorne,” she whimpered, and wriggled up against him again.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d put Lucinda Stone’s morning room to a use her ladyship didn’t intend—though never before with Charlotte, for she wasn’t his usual type. Even a rake, he thought, ought to show some discrimination—and he much preferred to be the hunter, rather than the prey. Obviously Charlotte hadn’t noticed that—or else she’d opted to ignore it. She’d actually hiked up her skirt in order to get a trifle closer to him.
Why had he agreed to meet her here at all? Sheer boredom? The fact that she’d been pursuing him for weeks and seemed likely to continue ad nauseum? The lack of anyone else who had drawn his attention lately?
Was Charlotte in such a hurry because she sensed that as a distraction for him, she wasn’t apt to last long?
Thorne took a breath to tell her that she was wasting her efforts, and she slid her tongue into his mouth.
From the corner of his eye, he could see the door into the anteroom. Because Charlotte had thrown herself against him the instant he walked in, he hadn’t had a chance to firmly close it. And just beyond that slightly-open door, he thought he saw a glimpse of movement.
Thorne’s instinct for self-preservation reared up like a cobra on the attack. Was someone just outside, about to burst in and embarrass them?
Not that he was easily embarrassed. A rake wasn’t much of a rake if he gave thought to what others believed about him. And the ton clearly knew it, too—for no society miss or scheming mama had made an attempt to compromise the notorious Lord Hawthorne into offering marriage for… oh, several months now, if he remembered correctly.
Charlotte’s teeth nipped at his lower lip, in a harder-than-playful bite.
He didn’t think Charlotte would be all that embarrassed to be discovered either, especially considering the way she was kissing him. Unless it happened to be her husband out there. But it was unlikely that the elderly Lord Barnsley would come rummaging around Lady Stone’s Grosvenor Square mansion in the middle of a ball in search of his wife. He might, on the other hand, have simply made a wrong turn on his way to the card room—and if he had, the results would be just as untidy.
Her hands had slid down to the fastenings of his breeches. Thorne captured her fingers and pulled them away.
There was one more possibility. Had Charlotte been just a shade too enthusiastic in her greeting because she knew someone was out there? Because she’d planned it, and was hurrying things along? Though why, he had no idea…
Without a conscious decision, he found himself standing three feet from Charlotte. She was looking up at him in puzzlement, her eyes wide, barely able to keep her balance. “What’s wrong, Thorne?” she whimpered. “Don’t you want me anymore?”
All right, he conceded. Maybe she didn’t know about whoever was watching from the anteroom. Still, what little interest he’d felt in her was long gone.
“Not the best place,” he said. “Lady Stone’s a friend.”
“That’s why it’s perfect,” she whined. She cupped a hand around each breast, pushing them up and out at him. “My little girls are lonely, Thorne. Won’t your big boy come and play with them?”
Charlotte had a lot to learn when it came to enticing a lover, but that kind of inane comment made one thing absolutely certain—she wouldn’t be learning it from him. “Not just now.” Thorne caught another flash of movement outside the door, in the shadowed anteroom. Definitely not his imagination.
“Tomorrow, then? Barnsley will be at his club. It has to be soon, Thorne, for in a few days, I’ll be going to the Winchesters for a house party. Though I’m sure Arabella will invite you too, if I ask her.”
“She already has,” Thorne said absently.
Charlotte’s face brightened. “Then we’ll have a whole week together! She’s got the most magnificent little folly in her garden. So very private… Oh, Thorne, you naughty boy, teasing me, when you had this set up already!”
“Off with you now.” He considered telling her the truth—that he’d rather be roasted on a kitchen spit than attend Arabella Winchester’s house party—but that would only start her off again. He’d write her a note or something, later.
“One more kiss first?” she pouted, and stretched a hand out as if to caress him.
He held her off. “Anticipation is half the fun.” He was looking past her, barely hearing what he said. Would the woman never move?
She did, finally—but toward the anteroom. “Not that way,” he said hastily, and put both hands on her shoulders to turn her toward the other exit.
She shrugged, managing to brush her breast against his hand.
Thorne hastily pulled away, before she could get a head of steam up again. “Go through the music room and back to the hall. I’ll wait here a couple of minutes before I follow you.”
There was no movement in the anteroom now. But perhaps the loiterer would stand still and wait, expecting Thorne to use the other door as Charlotte had, rather than take the chance of making noise.
“So even if someone sees one of us, they won’t know we were together? You’re so clever,” Charlotte simpered. “I never would have thought of that.”
Because you’re so inexperienced at this? Hardly. It was clear to Thorne that this wasn’t Charlotte’s first experience with dalliance, no matter what she’d like him to think.
And it wasn’t cleverness that made him so cautious, either. It was experience. A man didn’t remain unattached for long in London society unless he kept his wits about him and his eyes wide open. Now if the woman would just go away, so he could see what—and who—stood behind that door…
Charlotte paused to give him a sultry little wave. “I’ll be waiting,” she whispered.
The instant she was out of sight, he breathed a sigh of relief and wheeled toward the anteroom, crossing the fine plush carpet in two large and silent steps. Common sense said the watcher would be gone by now. Whether she’d been shocked or titillated, the woman—and he was certain it had been a woman, because the flicker of movement he’d spotted had been light-colored and low to the ground, like the edge of a skirt—would have fled as soon as she realized there would be nothing more to see. But Thorne hadn’t made it to thirty unwed by being careless, so he sprang across the room and flung the door wide.
Halfway across the anteroom, lit only by the dying fire, stood a woman in a white dress. Her face—in the dimness—was nothing more than a pale oval under a smear of dark hair.
No, not a woman. A mere girl—for her dress looked like the sort of ball gown worn by the newest members of the London ton, the young women in their first introduction to society. White, trimmed with bright ribbons and lace.
She made no protest, no move to escape. She didn’t move at all. But why? She’d had plenty of time to retreat. If she’d simply wandered down the hall from the ballroom by mistake, why had she stayed, especially after she must have heard him urging Charlotte to go? Was she hoping to satisfy a maiden’s curiosity about what men and women did in the dark-shadowed corners?
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked ironically.
She took a step forward. “You’re Hawthorne.” Her voice was low and throaty, almost as if she hadn’t used it in a while. “We have not been introduced.”
“And we’re not likely to be,” he pointed out.
She didn’t seem to hear. “I was looking for you. Because…” She paused and then went on, in a matter-of-fact tone, “Because I want you to ruin me.”
***
It hadn’t been the smoothest of approaches, Anne scolded herself. I want you to ruin me—surely she could have done better than that. Still, there was no reason for the Earl of Hawthorne to look at her as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. She hadn’t insulted him; he was the one who’d built a reputation as a roué, and nothing Anne Keighley could do, or say, would change that a whit for either better or worse.
He was still looking at her. As if he was inspecting merchandise, she supposed—and finding plenty of flaws. With her pride stinging a little, Anne snapped, “Am I that much of an antidote, my lord?”
His gaze traveled slowly over her, one eyebrow arching in haughty disdain. “You’ve a tongue like a fishing gaff.”
Wonderful, Anne, she told herself. Why not just lame your wheelers at the starting line? She stood up a little straighter. “Your pardon, my lord. I should not have said that. A too-quick tongue has always been my greatest failing.”
“Yes, I wager your mama has scolded you about that—too.”
“What do you mean, too?”
“I expect if you make a habit of asking gentlemen to ruin you, she must have a few things to say about your behavior, as well as your quick tongue.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t. Ask to be ruined, I mean.”
“I should hope not. So why am I the recipient of this… honor?”
Anne shrugged. “Who better? You’re the best-known rake in all of London.”
“I am humbled by your regard.” He moved to the hallway and looked out; then he checked out the morning room again. “Your witness seems to have been delayed,” he observed.
“Witness?”
“Yes. Mama, big sister, chaperone. Whoever was supposed to observe us in a compromising position, shriek in horror, bring down all the society matrons upon us, and force me into marrying you. I grant it’s a nice trick, useless though it would be in the end.”
The sheer arrogance of the man—though it didn’t surprise her in the least—made Anne’s teeth ache from gritting them. Did he truly think he was irresistible? If only she didn’t need him so badly, she’d walk straight back to the ballroom and take her pick from the rest of London’s rakes.
On second thought, that was exactly what she would do. “It is no trick,” she said over her shoulder. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I made the mistake of thinking there might still be a gentleman lurking underneath your reputation. I was mistaken.”
He moved very quickly, stepping between her and the door. Anne was suddenly breathless, cursing the quick tongue that her mother had always said would get her into trouble. To tell a peer of the realm that he wasn’t a gentleman… Men ended up fighting duels over insults like that. What might he do to a defenseless woman, alone in a shadowed room?
“If your definition of being a gentleman includes agreeing to ruin you, I must admit to being intrigued.” His hand came to rest on her shoulder, turning her around to face him once more. “Let me take a better look.” He drew her closer to the fire, turning her so the light fell across her face.
Anne didn’t resist. Her breath seemed to stick in her throat. He was so big. He towered over her, and there was a hint of brandy on the warm breath which brushed her cheek. She looked past him, trying not to take in the scent. But her gaze skittered back to his face.
She hadn’t expected him to be quite so handsome. She’d anticipated that he’d be attractive—how could a man be a rake if he wasn’t?—but she’d thought his appeal to women would probably lie in an aura of hard-edged masculine danger, rather than in sheer looks.
His deep brown hair was fashionably short, the color of his eyes difficult to identify in the firelight. They were dark—she knew that much. Though he was well-dressed, in a midnight-blue coat with snowy linen and a quite remarkable diamond stickpin in his cravat, she thought he was too much of an athlete to be a dandy. There was no mistaking the air of power about him. She could no more have broken free of his hold than she could have ripped the mantel from the wall. Yet he was not forcing her; it was just that when he urged her to move closer to the light, she found herself wanting to cooperate.
“My, you are a beauty, aren’t you?” he said.
“I am generally accounted to be passable, though of course not in the first stare of fashion.”
“Well, it would be a shame to waste all your effort.”
“My effort?” She looked directly at him.
“It must have taken some planning to elude your chaperone and leave the ballroom unnoticed. Such industry should be rewarded.” Slowly, his arms slipped around her, drawing her close.
She looked up, into eyes that seemed very dark, very large… very near. His lips brushed her cheek, softly, and then settled firmly onto her mouth.
Every muscle in her body tensed.
He didn’t seem to notice. But then he wouldn’t, Anne told herself. Because men didn’t.
He lifted his head a fraction. “Oh, you can do better than that. If you really want to be ruined, my dear, you’ll have to cooperate a bit.”
She took hold of her courage and concentrated on relaxing her lips.
He kissed her again, tasting, caressing, teasing. “That’s more like it,” he whispered, and only then did she realize she had opened her mouth for him. His tongue gently invaded, doing terrifying things to her pulse, to her knees—how was it that a kiss could make her knees go weak?
He set her aside, patted her shoulder, and said, “There. You’re ruined. Just do be careful who you tell about it, for most of your acquaintances won’t believe you. Now go back to the ball and stop being such a silly little girl.”
And before Anne could so much as stamp her foot—much less find her voice—he was gone.
