A Promise of More (39 page)

She closed her eyes and let the truth of that sink home.

Sebastian listened as Beatrice’s breathing softened, slowed, and sleep claimed her. He hugged her close, feeling her warmth filling his arms.

He offered a silent prayer of thanks. Thanks that he was still alive, that his family was together, but most of all he thanked his enemy for giving him Beatrice. With her love and support he knew he could conquer anything—after all, he’d conquered, embraced, and won the ultimate prize—love.

As he slipped into sleep, with the woman he loved in his arms, everything felt well with the world, and he’d let nothing change that.

Epilogue

She paced the large drawing room, anger feeding her strides. A curse on Beatrice Hennessey. Because of the girl’s interference, Sebastian Hawkestone, Marquis of Coldhurst, and the other Libertine Scholars knew more than she cared for them to know. Worse, she knew Christian Trent wasn’t dead. She hated being fooled.

These men deserved far worse than death.

Their fathers had escaped punishment for what they did to her twelve long years ago. She’d raged over the ensuing years, carefully planning how she’d extract her revenge on the fruit of their loins.

She’d planned her retribution meticulously. She could feel victory. Scent it. Taste it.

Why had their wives proved the making of these men? Not a surprise, really. A strong, intelligent woman could outwit, outplay, and outfox any man. She knew that. Perhaps these men were more worthy than their fathers.

Both women were rumored to be with child. She could not kill them, or their husbands, and leave them widowed now. It was funny how the thought of children, of her daughter, stopped her bloodlust and quenched her thirst for vengeance. She might not kill Christian or Sebastian, but she could still ruin them or make their lives miserable. One dead Libertine Scholar would haunt them all …

However, Serena was the more dangerous of the two.

What had Serena seen and heard all those years ago? Did she even understand why a young girl had been brought to her family home, or what those men did to her?

She pressed her palms into her eye sockets, trying to force the horrid memories from her mind.

How much had Serena told the Libertine Scholars? Did Serena know who she was? Had Serena realized who would want the men destroyed?

She took deep breaths to calm herself. Serena obviously had no idea who she was, because the men were no closer to uncovering her identity.

She wanted to see her abductors’ sons and their family’s reputations torn into tatters. Have them ostracized from society and financially ruined. Let them have to
live as she had lived for many years. In the gutter, with the world’s filth. Would they have had the fortitude to rise up to the dizzying heights she had?

She finally stopped pacing and lay on the daybed before the fire; her corgi, Vindicta, sprang up to join her. She smoothed her hand over his coat. “Well, my little namesake, revenge is proving not as sweet. I have missed with the first two. Lord Markham wasn’t dead nor ruined. Neither was Lord Coldhurst. But I am succeeding with Lord Blackwood.”

Blackwood … Where he’d gone, Egypt, made it easy enough for her to ensure he would never be able to show his face in England again. She felt a small spasm of conscience flitter over her. She’d had to sacrifice a young woman of quality to instigate her revenge on Blackwood. Why was it that women always ended up pawns—playthings in a man’s world? She’d learned that to fight the male of the species you had to sometimes lower yourself to their level, like a rat in the sewer.

She sighed and pulled Vindicta into her arms, squeezing so tightly he barked.

Why should she care about Serena, Beatrice or now, Portia Flagstaff? No one had cared about
her
when
she’d
needed help. She did, however, hope the young woman would not suffer. She’d heard about the Arab harems. Why did she care?

She lifted a rose from the nearby vase and sniffed, the light fragrance cleaning her mind of horrid memories. She’d survived the brothels of London. No one saved her. Just as she’d ensure Lord Blackwood would not save Portia.

The only people she wanted suffering were the Libertine Scholars but if it meant sacrificing others along the way—so be it.

And if she had her way, if God was indeed merciful, these men would suffer for eternity …

Six weeks earlier …

“They’ll come for you soon.”

Grayson’s quiet words sent terror and hope coursing through her body in equal measure.

Portia Flagstaff pressed her fingers through the wire mesh, hooking them
around Grayson’s as if her life depended on it. She gave a choked cry. It did depend on it.

Grayson stood on the other side of the wall, dressed in the flowing robes of an Arab. He was already inside the palace, but there was one of him against hundreds of the Prince’s men.

“When they come, you’re to submit. Submit and live. I’ll find you, and I will rescue you. But you must survive. Promise me.” His voice was low and urgent, and her anchor in this strange and dangerous world.

“I promise,” she whispered through the small ventilation mesh. If Grayson Devlin, Viscount Blackwood, promised he’d save her, then he would. She did not doubt him.

“Good girl. You’re strong.”

She heard footsteps approaching her cell. A key turning in the lock.

“Submit. Survive. For me—please …” His voice held a desperate edge and she knew the time for facing her nemesis had arrived.

The Arab who entered her cell didn’t speak. He merely gestured for her to precede him out into the corridor.

She walked with her head held high, Grayson’s words—
submit, survive—
echoing in her head.

For Grayson, for a chance to spend the rest of her life with Grayson Devlin, Portia swore she would face anything … even the devil himself.

Acknowledgments

I love writing stories. Someone asked me if I’d keep writing even if I won the lottery, and I laughed. Most writers don’t write for the money. They write because they have to. My head would be very crowded if I couldn’t let my characters tell their stories. I hope I’m writing for many years to come.

But writing is also stressful. Knowing people will buy my book, I need to ensure it’s the best story I can write. I literally sweat over every chapter, every scene, and every word.

So, I’d like to acknowledge my family, friends, and my editor, Sue Grimshaw, who have to deal with my panic attacks as deadline dates draw ever closer. Thanks to everyone for being my rock and my link to reality.

About the Author

Bronwen Evans is a proud romance writer. Her works have been published in both print and eBook formats. She loves storytelling and her head is always filled with characters and stories, particularly those featuring lovers in angst. Evans is a two-time winner of the RomCon Readers’ Crown and has been nominated for an
RT
Reviewers’ Choice Award. She lives in Wellington, New Zealand. She loves hearing from readers. You can visit her at
www.bronwenevans.com
.

The Editor’s Corner

Welcome to Loveswept!

April might bring showers, but over at Loveswept, we’re more than happy to fill your days with sunshine and romance with this month’s irresistible original stories.

If you’re looking for a new small-town contemporary romance, look no further than Laura Drewry’s
Plain Jayne
, a funny, heartfelt story about best friends who reunite—only to realize that being “just friends” isn’t good enough anymore. Juliet Rosetti keeps readers swooning—and laughing—with Mazie Maguire and her hot boy toy, Ben Labeck, in the delightful
Tangled Thing Called Love
. And Bronwen Evans delivers another scorcher in
A Promise of More
, the second Disgraced Lords book where a marriage of convenience and revenge turns into something so much more.

Sure to brighten any gloomy days are classic romances like Sandra Chastain’s sensuous tales from the Wild West:
The Outlaw Bride, The Mail Order Groom
, and
Shotgun Groom
. Also deeply satisfying is Iris Johansen’s unforgettable
Man from Half Moon Bay
and Karen Leabo’s sexy thriller
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
. Linda Cajio’s
Me and Mrs. Jones
is a passionate tale you don’t want to miss. And you can never go wrong with Andrienne Staff and Sally Goldenbaum: Check out the beautifully rendered
Banjo Man
by these two superstars.

~Happy Romance!

Gina Wachtel

Associate Publisher

Read on for an excerpt from Bronwen Evans’s

A Kiss of Lies

Chapter One

London, England, November 1815

“Get up!”

If not for the fact that the rage-filled voice bellowing in his ear was speaking English, Christian Trent, the Earl of Markham, might have thought he was back in France.

Certainly the press of cold steel at his throat flooded his brain with memories of the war: nightmarish memories, pain-filled memories. Memories he fervently tried, but hopelessly failed, to forget.

Experience had taught him that when one was in such a precarious position, with a sword at one’s windpipe, with the identity and reasoning of the attacker unknown, one was wise to act cautiously.

Without moving a muscle he pried an eye open and tried to focus on the person who was holding the deadly weapon at his neck. The slight movement of his eyeball sent pain stabbing through his head. His mouth tasted like sawdust. Christ, he must have drunk more than he thought last night.

“I repeat,
get up
!”

To emphasize his request, the attacker’s sword point pierced Christian’s skin. A small trail of warmth trickled down his neck.

In a ghostlike voice, so as not to disturb the pounding in his head, Christian answered, “How can I get up with that sword at my neck? I might still be half foxed, but I have enough wits about me not to push myself upon your weapon,” and with his hand he batted away the blade.

The sword immediately swung back into place.

As lethal as the sword itself, the voice uttered, “That would save me the bother of killing you.”

For a split second Christian welcomed the idea of death before he doused it with an exhaled breath.

He ignored the cannonballs rioting in his head as he twisted and turned, desperate to untangle his limbs from the satin sheets wrapped around his naked body.
He did his best to ignore the dizzying weakness his movements evoked. The headache had him willing the contents of his stomach to stay down.

Where was he? The brothel? He recalled he’d paid for a woman. He knew she’d shared his bed. He could smell her lingering scent.

He drew a deep breath and calmed his mind. He had always prided himself on his ability to use his brain more effectively than any weapon to get himself out of predicaments.