Release Date: August 12, 2014
Genre: Historical Romance
Publisher: Random House Loveswept
What a Lady Craves
What a Lady Craves
The Eton Boys Trilogy #1
Henrietta Upperton is about to marry Alexander Sanford when he rushes off to India to salvage his family’s fortune. Then comes the devastating news that he has wed another. Eight agonizing years later, a storm washes Alexander ashore—injured, widowed, and hunted—and one glimpse of his ruggedly handsome face reawakens the desire Henrietta thought she had buried deep inside. Her body still yearns for his touch, but she’s determined not let him wound her again . . . not this time.
For Alexander, honor always comes first. But only now does he realize that when given the choice between two virtuous deeds, he picked the wrong one. On the run with his life in tatters and a pair of daughters in tow, Alexander burns for Henrietta. He knows he does not deserve forgiveness. And yet he longs to wrap his arms around her warm body once again. What’s more, he is sure the lady craves the same.
What a Lady Craves
“Good heavens.” Lady Epperley placed a bony hand to her bosom. “Good
heavens. If he’s returned from India, he’s left no word, sent no note. Why, we
had no idea.”
“Please, memsahib. He is in a bad way. I cannot
drag his body—”
“Body?”
Lady Epperley’s doughy cheeks paled beneath their generous layer of rouge.
Henrietta suspected her own cheeks had taken on the same ashen tones. Whatever
had passed between her and Alexander, she certainly did not wish the man dead.
“Forgive me.” The stranger repeated his reverent bow. “I mean no
upset. Our ship, you see, sank in the storm. I saw Mr. Sanford to shore, but
the ordeal took too much out of me. I was forced to leave him on the beach.”
It wasn’t her place to speak, but Henrietta could no more hold back
than she could stop her heart from beating out of control. “Your pardon, Mr. .
. .”
“Satya.”
“Mr. Satya—”
“No, simply Satya.”
She clamped her back teeth. If this man could not get to the point,
and soon, she might forget her manners and voice her impatience. “Is Mr.
Sanford still of this world?”
“Oh, yes, he is quite well, considering the circumstances. He has
merely fainted, and—”
“Fainted?” Her pulse slowed, but only somewhat.
“Yes, memsahib. That is why I came for help.
I cannot carry his dead weight alone.”
Dead weight. Body. Why did this man insist on such phrasing?
Henrietta waved the thoughts away. Surely English was not his native language.
He could not know the import of his words.
“Hirsch!” Lady Epperley barked the name, even though the butler had
not left the room. “Summon several footmen, and have Mr. Satya show them to my
nephew. And tell the housekeeper to prepare his usual chamber. At once!”
“My . . . my lady . . .” Henrietta forced the words past a constriction
in her throat. “If you won’t be needing me for the rest of the evening . . .”
If she could escape to her quarters, she wouldn’t even have to see him. At the
same time, she might hide this blasted agitation from her employer. She’d only
have to wonder if he’d changed in the years since she’d bid him Godspeed.
Surely India had altered him.
“Nonsense, George.” Lady Epperley heaved herself to her feet,
leaning heavily on the arm of the settee for balance. In the process, she
overturned Albemarle’s cushion. The cat hit the floor with a dull thud
and stalked off, flicking her bushy tail indignantly.
“I shall certainly need you,” the dowager went on. “Good heavens, a
shock like this at my age. My own nephew shipwrecked.” For emphasis, she
clenched a hand about the fabric of her bodice. “My heart.”
Henrietta wasn’t fooled for an instant. The old woman’s voice was
far too strong for her to be experiencing any true malaise. “Yes, my lady.”
In what seemed like no time at all, the footmen returned, easing a
limp body up the stairs from the foyer. Lady Epperley still wrung her hands at
the front of her gown, as if she thought to keep her heart from breaking free
of her chest by mere pressure. Henrietta couldn’t help but watch the
processional that trailed a slow drizzle of water on the polished parquet that
lined the corridor. Drip, drip, drip, the even cadence of
a black-plumed horse at the head of a funeral procession.
Her mind conjured the image of a robust, serious man in the glow of
health. Tall, lean, yet his presence overwhelmed. In direct contrast to her
memory, the form before her lay inert. The sharp angles of his cheekbones
shadowed chalky flesh peppered with light brown stubble. Sodden hair fell in
hanks over his forehead, and his garments were shredded beyond repair . . .
offering glimpses of skin she’d only ever seen in her dreams.
Henrietta pressed her lips into a line, deliberately tamping down
the unexpected—and unwelcome—flutter low in her belly. Her knees wobbled. More
inappropriate words jumbled in her mouth and clamored for release. She could
not risk her position by giving them voice, no matter how great the temptation.
In this state, Lady Epperley had no choice but to take in her nephew; the
history between him and Henrietta be damned.
“Good heavens.” Lady Epperley placed a bony hand to her bosom. “Good
heavens. If he’s returned from India, he’s left no word, sent no note. Why, we
had no idea.”
“Please, memsahib. He is in a bad way. I cannot
drag his body—”
“Body?”
Lady Epperley’s doughy cheeks paled beneath their generous layer of rouge.
Henrietta suspected her own cheeks had taken on the same ashen tones. Whatever
had passed between her and Alexander, she certainly did not wish the man dead.
“Forgive me.” The stranger repeated his reverent bow. “I mean no
upset. Our ship, you see, sank in the storm. I saw Mr. Sanford to shore, but
the ordeal took too much out of me. I was forced to leave him on the beach.”
It wasn’t her place to speak, but Henrietta could no more hold back
than she could stop her heart from beating out of control. “Your pardon, Mr. .
. .”
“Satya.”
“Mr. Satya—”
“No, simply Satya.”
She clamped her back teeth. If this man could not get to the point,
and soon, she might forget her manners and voice her impatience. “Is Mr.
Sanford still of this world?”
“Oh, yes, he is quite well, considering the circumstances. He has
merely fainted, and—”
“Fainted?” Her pulse slowed, but only somewhat.
“Yes, memsahib. That is why I came for help.
I cannot carry his dead weight alone.”
Dead weight. Body. Why did this man insist on such phrasing?
Henrietta waved the thoughts away. Surely English was not his native language.
He could not know the import of his words.
“Hirsch!” Lady Epperley barked the name, even though the butler had
not left the room. “Summon several footmen, and have Mr. Satya show them to my
nephew. And tell the housekeeper to prepare his usual chamber. At once!”
“My . . . my lady . . .” Henrietta forced the words past a constriction
in her throat. “If you won’t be needing me for the rest of the evening . . .”
If she could escape to her quarters, she wouldn’t even have to see him. At the
same time, she might hide this blasted agitation from her employer. She’d only
have to wonder if he’d changed in the years since she’d bid him Godspeed.
Surely India had altered him.
“Nonsense, George.” Lady Epperley heaved herself to her feet,
leaning heavily on the arm of the settee for balance. In the process, she
overturned Albemarle’s cushion. The cat hit the floor with a dull thud
and stalked off, flicking her bushy tail indignantly.
“I shall certainly need you,” the dowager went on. “Good heavens, a
shock like this at my age. My own nephew shipwrecked.” For emphasis, she
clenched a hand about the fabric of her bodice. “My heart.”
Henrietta wasn’t fooled for an instant. The old woman’s voice was
far too strong for her to be experiencing any true malaise. “Yes, my lady.”
In what seemed like no time at all, the footmen returned, easing a
limp body up the stairs from the foyer. Lady Epperley still wrung her hands at
the front of her gown, as if she thought to keep her heart from breaking free
of her chest by mere pressure. Henrietta couldn’t help but watch the
processional that trailed a slow drizzle of water on the polished parquet that
lined the corridor. Drip, drip, drip, the even cadence of
a black-plumed horse at the head of a funeral procession.
Her mind conjured the image of a robust, serious man in the glow of
health. Tall, lean, yet his presence overwhelmed. In direct contrast to her
memory, the form before her lay inert. The sharp angles of his cheekbones
shadowed chalky flesh peppered with light brown stubble. Sodden hair fell in
hanks over his forehead, and his garments were shredded beyond repair . . .
offering glimpses of skin she’d only ever seen in her dreams.
Henrietta pressed her lips into a line, deliberately tamping down
the unexpected—and unwelcome—flutter low in her belly. Her knees wobbled. More
inappropriate words jumbled in her mouth and clamored for release. She could
not risk her position by giving them voice, no matter how great the temptation.
In this state, Lady Epperley had no choice but to take in her nephew; the
history between him and Henrietta be damned.
Author Bio
Ashlyn
Macnamara is the
author of A Most Scandalous Proposal. She lives in the wilds of suburbia
outside of Montreal with her husband and two teenage daughters. When not
writing, she looks for other excuses to neglect the housework, among them
knitting, reading, and wasting time on the Internet in the guise of doing
research.
No comments:
Post a Comment