When Violet Laurens is rescued from highwaymen, the furthest thing from her mind is that her heart might tumble next. She loves her independent life, no matter her lonely bed. The handsome stranger reawakens the passion she thought buried along with her husband, pushing her to new heights of desire. But she knows it’s only a matter of time before he remembers his name and leaves her.
The dissolute Marquess of Kittrick has vowed never to marry, causing a rift in his family that sets him on the road just in time to do battle with ruffians intent on stealing a lady’s coins—and more. Discovering the fiery wanton beneath the widow’s oh-so-proper demeanor makes him want nothing more than to forget who he is for just a bit longer. Maybe forever.
When Kit is forced to acknowledge who he is, will the truth trump their shared passion, and the love they can’t quite admit to? Or will Violet overcome her fear—and Kit his dissolute ways--and be able to lay claim to A Marquess for Christmas?
About
the Author:
Vivienne Westlake has been reading and writing romance since the age of fifteen. She has a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature and when she’s not plotting stories about sexy heroes and sassy heroines, she’s buying a book on British history, watching the latest teen vampire show, doing an art project or singing karaoke with friends. Vivienne is an active member of Romance Writers of America, Romance Divas, and Indie Romance Ink.
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Excerpt:
“He still sleeps
fitfully, my lady.” Avery put his hand to the man’s head. “A little
warm. We should get some ice and keep his temperature down.”
“And
you have checked his bandages?” The bleeding had stopped, but the
chance of infection was high. She stood by the four poster bed, looking
down at her savior, who lay still and quiet, despite the people in the
room.
“Yes,
the wound is not healed, but neither is it as gruesome as it was yesterday.”
“And
he has not awoken?”
“He
tosses and murmurs and has managed the chamber pot a couple of times,
but he does not speak and his eyes are glazed and unfocused.”
It
had been two days since the incident. She prayed it was the laudanum
keeping him so dazed and not his injury. But they could not be sure
yet.
“If
he does not awaken in the next day or two, we shall have to fetch Doctor
Littleton. For now, let us keep him cool and make sure that someone
checks on him every hour.”
Violet
went to the window and opened it. The sky was cloudy and the ground
covered with a thin layer of snow. “The fresh, cool air should do
him good.” She rang the bell then went back to the bed and sat down.
The man’s hands felt hot under hers, but she raised them to her cheek
to be sure. Definitely too warm.
“My
lady?” Miriam entered the room.
“Go
and fetch some ice please. If there’s no ice, send a footman outside
and gather snow. We need to keep him cool until his fever breaks.”
She
leaned over to the small bedside table, dipped a cloth into a
small ceramic basin, and wrung it out. “I will see to him for a while,
Avery.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you.”
Gently,
she took the cloth and wiped the man’s face, always conscious of the
bandage. She hummed as she worked. It was a very old song that she’d
learned as a girl. Sometimes her mother would sing it as she stitched.
“Come live with me
and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove. The hill and valley,
dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield.”
She
washed his arms, noting each twist and turn of muscle. She even tested
it with her finger to see if it was as firm as it appeared. Nothing
about him was soft-- except for his lips and the silky threads of his
hair.
She
brushed the towel over his neck and down to the exposed skin at the
opening of his tunic. The hair there was thin and fine. She couldn’t
help but stare as she swept over his chest. His nipples were wide, but
tightened into little nubs when she touched them.
What
would it feel like to run her palms over them? Would they react to her
as they did to the damp cloth? What about her mouth?
Violet
turned away and blushed. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember
him fighting off the thief and the moment when he’d taken the fateful
blow. She needed to focus on her task and not on the yearnings she felt
for a man she barely knew.
She
might be fantasizing about a man of base morals or a man with a wife
and four children. Or, what if he was a clergyman? That she doubted
considering his skill with weapons and his readiness to fight, but what
gentleman would watch an innocent woman get attacked by thieves and
not come to her rescue?
A man does what needs
must. Even a man of the cloth will take up a pistol if his life
or his country demanded it. She had seen boys barely old enough to carry
a gun with gaping holes in their chest and villages ravaged and burned
in the war.
And
this man would die like the rest, if she did not do her duty to him.
He’d saved her and now she must do the same for him.
With
such thoughts distracting her, she didn’t realize she’d paused her
singing until she heard a low, gravelly voice.
“Sing.”
She
looked down to see dark eyes watching her.
“You
are awake!”
“Sing,”
he repeated, but he’d barely finished the word when a ragged cough
took over his body.
“A belt of straw and
ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs, and if these pictures may
thee move, come live with me and—”
“Be
my love.” His voice was hoarse, even more than she expected for someone
who’d slept for two days. She lifted from the bed to pour water from
the pitcher into a cup.
When
she lifted the cup to his lips, he coughed and it dribbled down his
chin. “Easy.” They tried again, but still, most of the water ended
up down his chest. His tunic absorbed the excess liquid and clung tightly
to his body, so she could see every line and curve. His nipples hardened
again.
“Let me try
this another way,” she said. This time, she dipped her fingers into
the cup and let the water drip into his mouth.
He opened wide
for more. She leaned closer, her bosom near his face, and poured more
water from her fingers.
After
the third time, he put her two fingers to his lips and sucked them.
A flash of heat shot through her limbs. If she’d been standing, she
would have faltered and lost her balance.
His
mouth was hot and she suspected it had little to do with his fever.
“More,”
he whispered. He stared at her and she could not move, could not speak.
There
was a knock behind them and that jolted her out of her frozen state.
Miriam stood in the doorway with ice and more water. The man groaned.
She
motioned for the maid to come in. As soon as the girl was close, Violet
took a tiny chip of ice and put it in the man’s mouth.
The
ice would help his thirst, but she also was afraid for him to speak.
The need in his eyes was too real, too close to the desire that she
felt. But he was a stranger. A beautiful, dark, bewitching stranger
who had risked his life for her, yet she knew almost nothing about him.
A fact
that she could remedy. No. What was she thinking? He was wounded, disoriented,
and who knows if he mistook her for his wife or some mistress. A sharp
pang twisted in her gut. Did he have a mistress? She’d already considered
that he could be married, but she hadn’t thought about the possibility
of a mistress.
He
was a virile, handsome man with a body any sculptor would worship and
carve into stone. She’d seen it all, every wicked inch of him. The
thought of that body being pleasured by some other woman made her ill.
“Do
you or the gentleman need anything else, my lady?”
“Perhaps
the cook has some broth. But please make sure it is tepid, not hot.”
Miriam
set down the tray of ice and curtsied before exiting the room.
He
rubbed his temples, then when Miriam was gone, he turned back to her.
Though he whispered the word, “Water,” his eyes said something else.
She
plopped another ice sliver into his mouth. He sucked on it, watching
her still. She felt a flush run down from her ears to her belly. If
she didn’t know better, she’d have thought his fever was catching.
A foolish
part of her longed to demand if he had a mistress, but she bit her lip.
That was not the first question she should ask him. And, he was so weak,
it was better if he didn’t speak at all.
She
put her hand to his mouth. “Do not try to speak, sir. You are weary
and hoarse.”
He
opened his mouth and before he could argue, she fed him another ice
chip.
“You
have a fever and you need to rest.”
His
forehead was still warm. It could be a long night if his fever didn’t
break. But he was at least alert for now, which was a good sign.
She
stood up, intending to move aside the blankets and leave him with the
sheet, but he reached for her arm.
“Don’t.”
Under his stare, she froze again. “Do not. Leave.” Though the words
were gravelly and low, it was a command, not a plea.
“Very
well.”
She
pulled aside the blankets, careful not to touch his thighs, and moved
a chair close to the bed. The mere foot of space between her seat and
the bed seemed much farther. Every little movement made her aware of
the hard chair beneath her and the cool air brushing over her skin.
She missed the heat of his body next to hers.
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