The Dark Lady
Authors: Maire Claremont
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
The Dark Lady
Máire Claremont
Copyright © 2013 Máire Creegan
Excerpt from
Lady in Red
Copyright © by Máire Creegan
The right of Máire Creegan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in this Ebook edition in 2013
by Eternal Romance,
an imprint of Headline Publishing Group
Published by arrangement with NAL Signet,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 0476 9
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2011 Golden Heart winner Máire Claremont first fell in love with Mr Rochester, not Mr Darcy. Drawn to his darkness, she longed to find a tortured hero of her own . . . until she realised the ramifications of Rochester locking his first wife up in his attic. Discovering the error of her ways, Máire now looks for a real-life Darcy and creates deliciously dark heroes on the page. Oh, and she wants everyone to know her name is pronounced
Moira.
Her parents just had to give her an Irish Gaelic name.
Praise for Máire Claremont:
‘The Dark Lady
has as much romance, adventure, passion, torment, and triumph as any one love story could deliver’ Grace Burrowes,
New York Times
bestselling author
‘Real, intelligent, and gritty but above all deeply romantic. In my opinion Máire Claremont is the stunning reincarnation of the Brontë sisters’ Delilah Marvelle, award-winning author of
Forever a Lady
‘Will keep you hooked to the very last page’ Anna Campbell, award-winning author of
Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed
‘Intense, bold, gripping, and passionate’ Leanne Renee Hieber, bestselling author of
The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker
Lord Ian Blake has returned from India a broken man. Years ago, he pledged to Lady Eva Carin – his childhood companion and first love – that he would bring her husband back alive. His failure haunts him. But even his jaded soul can’t anticipate the shocking sight of beautiful, independent Eva confined in a madhouse . . .
Locked in an asylum, forgotten by society, Eva is adrift in both body and mind. For Ian to break her free, they must cross a powerful enemy – and prove her sanity to England’s unforgiving aristocracy. But the biggest danger of all may come when the secrets of Eva’s tragic past are finally unlocked . . .
For my father.
You gave me my love of reading by spending hours every day on the sofa reading massive novels and World War II books.
When I longed for the stars, you gave me a ladder.
I miss you, Dad, and I know you’re proud.
This novel would never have happened without some absolutely amazing women. Delilah Marvelle drove me hard and never let me give up my dreams. Helen Breitweiser, my agent extraordinaire, took a chance on me and gave
The Dark Lady
her blood and passion, I swear. Jesse Feldman, my dear, dear editor, offered darling Eva and all my other characters a home, for which I will be eternally grateful. I must also give my deepest thanks to my friends who encouraged me to follow this passionately mad story: Lacey Kaye, Erica Ridley, Lenore Bell. And last but not least, thank you, Katrina, for holding my hand and loving me when things were dark. This book never would have found its way to the light without all these incredible and inspiring women.
England
1865
T
he road stretched on like a line of corrupting filth in the pristine snow. Lord Ian Blake clutched the folds of his thick wool greatcoat against his frigid frame as he stared at it.
If he chose, he could simply keep on.
The coach had left him at the edge of Carridan Hall a quarter of an hour past, but if he took to the muddy and ice-filled road, he would be in the village by dark and on the first mail back to London. Back to India.
Back to anywhere but here.
For perhaps the tenth time, he faced the untouched wide drive that led up to the great house. Snow lay fluffed and cold, crystal pure upon the ground. It dragged the limbs of the fingerlike branches toward the blanketed earth. And after almost three years in the baked heat and blazing colors of India, this punishing winter landscape was sheer hell.
Despite the ache, he drew in a long, icy breath and trudged forward, his booted feet crunching as he went.
Eva hated him.
Hated him enough to not return his letters. Not even the letter begging her forgiveness for her husband’s
death. But then again, Ian had failed her. He had promised her that he wouldn’t let Hamilton die in India. But he had. He’d made so many promises that he’d been unable to keep.
Now he would go before his friend’s widow, the woman he had held in his heart since childhood. To make amends for his failures, he would do whatever she might command. His soul yearned for the ease she might give him. For, even as he walked up the drive, following the curve to the spot where the trees suddenly stopped and the towering four-story Palladian mansion loomed, he didn’t walk alone.
The unrelenting memory of Hamilton’s brutal death was with him.
He paused before the intimidating limestone edifice that had been built by Hamilton’s grandfather. The windows, even under the pregnant gray sky, heavy with unshed snow, glistened like diamonds, beckoning him to his boyhood home.
The very thought of standing before Eva filled him with dread, but he kept his pace swift and steady. Each step merely a continuation on the long journey he’d set upon months before.
Even though the cold bit through his thick garments and whipped against his dark hair, sweat slipped down his back. Winter silence pounded in his ears, blending with his boot steps as he mounted the brushed stairs before the house, and as he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open. Charles, his black suit pressed to perfection, stood in the frame.
That now greatly wrinkled face slackened with shock. “Master Ian.” He paused. “Pardon. Of course, I mean, my lord.”
Ian’s gut twisted. It had been years since he had seen the man who had chided him, Hamilton, and Eva time
and again for tracking mud from the lake upon the vast marble floors of the house. “Hello, Charles.”
The butler continued to linger in the doorway, his soft brown eyes wide, his usually unreadable face perfectly astonished.
Ian smiled tightly. “Might I be allowed entrance?”
Charles jerked to attention and instantly backed away from the door. “I am so sorry, my lord. Do forgive me. It has been—”
Ian nodded and stepped into the massive foyer, shaking the wisps of snow from his person. He couldn’t blame the old man for his strange behavior. After all, the last time Ian had seen the servant had been when he’d been invested as Viscount Blake, just before he’d left for India. The title should have prevented his traveling so far and risking his life. But life didn’t always unfold according to the dictates of tradition.
Three years had passed since his departure with Hamilton. Now, Hamilton would not join his return. “I should have informed you of my visit.”
As the door closed behind them, it seemed to close in on his heart, filling his chest with a leaden weight. Not even the beauty of the soft blue and gold-leafed walls of his childhood home could alleviate it.
Charles reached out for his coat and took the wet mass into his white-gloved hands. “It is so good to see you, my lord.”
The words hung between them. The words that said it would have been preferable if he had not returned alone.
He pulled off his top hat and passed it to the butler. “I should like to speak to Lady Carin.”
Charles’s mouth opened slightly as he maneuvered the coat into one hand and stretched out the other to take the last item. “But . . .”
Ian glanced about as if she might suddenly appear out
of one of the mazelike hallways. “Is she not in residence?”
Charles’s gaze darted to the broad, ornately carved stairs and then back. “Perhaps you should speak to his lordship.”
Ian shook his head, a laugh upon his lips, but something stopped him. “His lordship? Adam is not three. Does he rule the house?”
A sheen cooled Charles’s eyes. “Master Adam has passed, my lord.”
The unbelievable words, barely audible in the vast foyer of silk walls and marble floor, whispered about them.
“Passed?” Ian echoed.
“Was not Lord Thomas’s letter delivered to you in India?”
The world spun with more force than his ship had done rounding the Cape of Good Hope. “No. No, it was never delivered.”
He had never met the boy. Nor had Hamilton. They had both only heard tales of him from Eva’s detailed and delightful letters. In his mind, Ian had always imagined the child to be an exact replica of Eva. Only . . . he was gone. He shifted on his booted feet, trying to fathom this new information. “What happened? I don’t understand.”
Charles drew in a long breath and stared at Ian for a few moments, then quickly jerked his gaze away. “I shall leave it to Thomas, the new Lord Carin, to inform you.”
What the devil was going on? Charles had never avoided his eyes in all the years he’d known him, and now . . . ’Twas as if the old man was ashamed or fearful. “Then take me to him at once.”
Charles nodded, his head bobbing up and down with renewed humbleness. “Of course.”
They spoke no more as they turned to the winding
staircase that twisted and split into two wings like a double-headed serpent.
They followed the wide set of stairs that led to the east wing. Their footsteps thudded against the red-and-blue woven runner. Ian blinked when they reached the hallway. Hideous red velvet wallpaper covered the walls and massive portraits and mirrors seemed to hang upon every surface. “Lady Carin has redecorated?”