The Wicked Baron

Carlotta froze. She had known this moment would come, had rehearsed it a thousand times, but still she was not prepared for the stomach-wrenching spasm that threatened to render her senseless when she heard his name. Gathering all her strength, she turned and dragged her eyes up to his face. The gentleman standing before her was achingly familiar. As he bowed over her hand, she looked at his brown hair and remembered the silky feel of it beneath her fingers, the touch of his lips, not on her glove but on her own mouth, caressing, demanding. She thrust such thoughts away. They had no place in her life now.
He
had no place in her life now.

She forced herself to look at him. His glance told her he knew her, but there was no sign of uncertainty in his hazel eyes as he smiled. He was so sure of his welcome. Her training had been very good: she buried her feelings and presented him with a bland, polite mask. She withdrew her hand from his grasp, saying coolly, “My lord.”

“Your aunt tells me you are not engaged for the next dance. I would be honored if you would allow me to partner you…?”

His assurance made her seethe. He was laughing at her.

The Wicked Baron
Harlequin
^®
Historical

Ask writers where they find the ideas for their stories, and many will tell you it starts with a little question:
what if?
I am no exception.

A few years ago I visited West Wycombe Park, the eighteenth-century home of Sir Francis Dashwood, founder of the infamous Hellfire Club. I have no doubt that many of the rakes featured in historical romances are in some part based upon Sir Francis and his friends, but when I visited West Wycombe Park I was taken with the beautiful paintings that adorn the house, and this was when that little question popped into my head.
What if
my heroine was an artist? What if she painted beautiful frescoes like the ones that decorate the house?

This is how Luke first sees Carlotta—dressed in breeches and a paint-stained shirt, climbing down from the scaffolding at Malberry Court. He is immediately enchanted with this waiflike creature: she is different from all the other young ladies of his acquaintance. But Luke is the Wicked Baron of the title: he is not used to behaving chivalrously, and when he decides to make a noble sacrifice, Carlotta is not at all grateful for his actions. In fact, in true Italian style, she is determined to punish him!

I hope you will follow Luke and Carlotta as their battle of wits takes them from the ballrooms of Regency London to the Italianate elegance of Malberry Court, where they must face well-meaning relatives, intrigue and danger before they can find their happy ending. Enjoy the journey!

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‘H
ell and confound it, Darvell, will you stop flirting with that lightskirt and give your mind to the cards!’

Luke Ainslowe, fifth Baron Darvell, gently disentangled himself from the lady’s scented embrace and begged pardon. There were few amusements for the Army of Occupation in Paris, following the stunning victory at Waterloo: women and cards were two of the most popular and Luke was currently enjoying both. He looked at the eager, wine-flushed faces of the gentlemen around him and smiled. They all envied him, he knew, for he was sitting beside the most fashionable courtesan in Paris, the improbably named Angelique Pompadour. She leaned against him, her powdered head on his shoulder while he studied the cards in his hand.

Across the table, the officer of the Light Dragoons who had berated Luke made his discard and glanced up, his silver epaulettes glinting in the candlelight.

‘I hear von Laage’s wife is increasing again—she holds that you are the father, Darvell.’

Luke shrugged. ‘Lady Sophia is air-dreaming, Denby.
There are at least half a dozen men more eligible than I for that role.’

‘Why, then, is the lady naming you?’ demanded another of the players.

A red-faced gentlemen in grey satin laughed.

‘Because Darvell is the only one von Laage would not dare to call out! Well known to be lethal with swords or pistols. Never beaten in a duel, eh, Luke?’

‘Not yet, Clayman, not yet.’

‘So you are telling me you were never one of Lady Sophia’s lovers?’ cried Major Denby.

Luke shook his head. ‘We had a few preliminary skirmishes, but I never breached that particular citadel. I discovered the lady was far too free with her favours.’

Sir Neville Clayman chuckled. ‘A man needs to be very rich to keep an exclusive mistress, and that is not you, eh, Darvell?’

Luke grinned. ‘Devil a bit!’

There was a pause while Sir Neville considered his hand. ‘But you have a title, and that is certainly an advantage. I believe le Brun’s widow is hoping to become the next Lady Darvell.’

Angelique raised her head.
‘Mon cher…’
she pouted and placed one white hand upon Luke’s velvet sleeve ‘
…c’est vrai?
’

Sir Neville nodded. ‘Had it from the lady herself two nights’ since.’

‘But you have not had it from
me
,’ said Luke gently. He picked up Angelique’s hand and planted a kiss in the palm before releasing it. ‘The woman is an upstart. Her beauty dazzled le Brun, but there is no breeding behind that pretty face.’

‘If it’s breeding you want, the Tregennick chit has it through several generations,’ remarked the major, ‘yet you cut her dead last night. She was mad as fire.’

Luke flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘Her mama insisted upon throwing her in my way at Lady Gressingham’s rout. I obliged her with an evening’s flirtation, that is all.’

‘And you could not even recall her name the very next night.’ Major Denby shook his head at him. ‘By Gad, you are devil, man! No woman is safe from you.’

‘Nonsense. Virtuous maidens bore me, so they have nothing to fear. And you will never find me chasing innocent little
ingénues
. But a man must have a diversion now the war is over. Mine is beautiful women.’

‘Yet you’ll offer none of them your heart and your hand.’

‘There is no room for sentiment in marriage, Denby. When I take a wife, it will be a business contract. My father gambled away the Darvell fortune; it is up to me to restore it by marrying a well-bred heiress. But not yet.’ He stared at the cards Sir Neville laid on the table and muttered a laughing curse under his breath. ‘Two kings! Damnation, Clayman, your luck is running high tonight. I am out.’

Angelique smiled at him. ‘Well, my lord, it was agreed if you lost at cards you would worship at my feet.’ She spoke in English, a charming, provocative lilt to her words. With the light of mischief in his eyes Luke reached down, curled his fingers around one slim ankle and lifted her foot on to his knee. A murmur of anticipation ran around the room, while the lady herself leaned back on her chair and smiled.

‘Well, milor’? What do you propose? What will the wicked Baron Darvell do?’

He grinned. ‘I will keep my word.’

His hand moved over the pink silk stocking and she
shivered delightfully when he reached the ribbon-and-lace garter at her knee. He hesitated, then his long fingers moved back to her ankle. He began to untie the strings of her pink satin slipper, calling to the waiter to bring another bottle of champagne.

‘Now what are you about, Darvell?’ cried Major Denby gaily. ‘Do you propose to undress the lady in public?’

‘Not at all, my friend. Patience and you shall see.’ He pulled the little shoe free and held it aloft, the ribbons dangling over his wrist. When the waiter returned with the champagne he took the bottle from the tray. ‘I wish to drink a toast to you, Angel.’ He poured a little of the wine into the shoe and quickly raised it to his lips.

‘You fool, Darvell, the satin won’t hold it!’ laughed Sir Neville.

But Luke was not listening; he had swallowed some of the champagne, the rest was seeping through the slipper and running over his hand, soaking the white ruffle around his wrist.

‘It held enough,’ he said. ‘And witness, Angel, that none of the bubbles escaped—I drank them all.’

Angelique sat up and clapped her hands. ‘Bravo, milor’, I am enchanted. But we should use glasses for the rest.’ She looked at him, an invitation in her dark eyes. ‘Per’aps you would like to drink with me privately?’

‘I regret not, Angel. I am obliged to leave you very soon.’ He filled two glasses with champagne and handed one to the lady. ‘I am off to England tomorrow.’

‘England!’ cried Major Denby, signalling for a fresh pack of cards. ‘Never tell me you are going home.’

‘I am indeed. Peacetime soldiering is not in my line. I have spent one winter in Paris and that is enough.’

‘He’s going back to Darvell Manor to become a gentleman farmer,’ declared Sir Neville, smoothing the wrinkles from the sleeve of his grey silk coat.

Luke grimaced. ‘Devil a bit! I plan to enjoy myself for a few more years yet. But I have a fancy to see England again. Besides, I have a commission from my brother. You may recall he was in Paris last month. He is touring Europe with his bride until the summer and wants me to make sure his new house at Malberry is ready for his return.’

‘Ah, the fortunate James,’ nodded Sir Nicholas. ‘He married his heiress.’

‘Fortunate indeed,’ agreed Luke. ‘Not only is she rich, but pretty and agreeable, too.’

‘Perhaps you should try marriage, Darvell,’ suggested the major.

‘I think not, my friend. It would take a paragon indeed to make me give up my freedom.’

Angelique drew a finger gently along his cheek. ‘Milor’, it is not necessary that you should give up
everything
.’

For a moment he looked serious. ‘Oh, yes, it is. Only a deep, long-lasting devotion could tempt me into matrimony.’

‘And what would tempt the lady, his prowess in the bedroom, perhaps?’ quipped an officer in scarlet regimentals.

‘That and his title,’ responded another.

Luke joined in the general laughter. ‘Aye, that would have to do it, gentlemen, since there’s no fortune to speak of.’

Angelique held up her glass. ‘Then you will come back to Paris,
mon cher
?’

‘Perhaps.’ He handed her the wet satin slipper. ‘It is past midnight: I must take my leave.’