In Love
with a Wicked Man
Liz
Carlyle
Genre: Historical Romance
Publisher: Avon Books
Date of Publication: 10/29/2013
ISBN: 9780062100290
Book Description:
New York Times bestselling author Liz
Carlyle has created a breathtaking new romance about a man without scruples and
the lady who brings him to his knees.
What does it matter if Kate, Lady
d'Allenay, has absolutely no marriage prospects?
She has a castle to tend, an estate to
run, and a sister to watch over, which means she is never, ever reckless. Until
an accident brings a handsome, virile stranger to Bellecombe Castle, and Kate
finds herself tempted to surrender to her houseguest's wicked kisses.
Disowned by his aristocratic family, Lord
Edward Quartermaine has turned his gifted mind to ruthless survival. Feared and
vilified as proprietor of London's most notorious gaming salon, he now
struggles to regain his memory, certain of only one thing: he wants all Kate is
offering—and more.
But when Edward's memory returns, he and
Kate realize how much they have wagered on a scandalous passion that could be
her ruin, but perhaps his salvation.
Excerpt: Ned Quartermaine was in a dark and pensive mood. With his
coat and cravat long ago cast aside, he sprawled by a dying fire in his finely
appointed suite, his knees splayed wide and his shoulders thrown back against
the buttery leather of his armchair. Only the faint chink! of his brandy
glass striking the marble tabletop broke the quiet as Quartermaine stared out
into his garden; a garden that would have been awash in moonlight had this not
been London, and the night sky not choked with damp and coal smoke.
But Quartermaine was a creature of the darkness—and, truth
be told, more comfortable in it. And on this night, he was embracing that
darkness with a bottle of eighteen-year-old Armagnac and a strand of small but
perfect pearls adorned with one teardrop sapphire.
They lay heavy in the palm of his hand—and heavy in his heart,
too. But that organ so rarely troubled him, the ache in it tonight might have
been mistaken for dyspepsia. Best to wash it back down again, he’d decided.
Still, from time to time, between sips of the burnt, ashy spirit, he gave the pearls
a pensive little toss, just to feel them settle back into his hand, clicking
against one another before stilling again; cooler, yet ever heavier, it seemed.
Just then, as if to punctuate the regret, the gilt clock on
his mantelpiece struck the hour.
Three chimes. Three o’clock.
An hour at which there was good money to be made from the
vanity and desperation of others. Above Quartermaine’s head, the night’s work
continued on as little more than a soothing rumble of voices; one that was
occasionally broken by the faint scrape of a chair leg across his marble
floors.
He gave the brandy another sip.
The pearls another toss.
His heart another hard wrench. As if he might, just this once,
manage to wring from it the will to do the right thing. But before he could steel
himself to the duty, there came a faint knock at the door.
Peters. No one else had permission to disturb Quartermaine once
he had stepped from his office into his private domain.
“Come!” he ordered.
His club manager entered with a perfunctory bow. “You might
wish to come upstairs, sir.”
Quartermaine tipped the Armagnac bottle over his glass. “Why?”
“It’s Lord Reginald Hoke,” said Peters. “I turned him off as
you’d ordered but it didn’t sit well. Apparently the damned fool feels lucky
tonight.”
After refilling his glass, Quartermaine lifted his lazy gaze
back to Peters’s, his eyebrows rising faintly. “Lucky enough to settle his
accounts?” he murmured. “For if he does not, Lord Reggie shan’t put so much as
one manicured toe across the threshold of this establishment, lest I chop the
thing off and use it for a bloody paperweight.”
“A paperweight, sir?”
“To hold down that stack of worthless notes he’s given us,”
said Quartermaine without humor.
Suddenly, from behind Quartermaine, the sound of hinges creaking
intruded, followed by the rustle of fabric. He twisted in his chair.
“Ned—?”
Her voice edged with irritation and her wild curls tumbling
down, Maggie Sloan stood bracketed against the lamplight of his bedroom,
Quartermaine’s silk robe gathered around her in voluminous folds.
“I’ve business to attend,” he said coolly. “Go back to bed, Maggie.”
He sensed rather than saw the disdain flick over her face. “No,
I think I’m off.” Lip sneering, she slammed the door.
Emotionlessly, he turned back to Peters. “Where’s Hoke now?”
“Pinkie stopped him in the entrance hall, sir.”
“Alas, poor Reggie,” said Quartermaine, setting his bottle down.
“Shall I set loose the hounds, old chap? Or is there a bit of blood yet to be
wrung from the Hoke turnip?”
Peters laughed. “Oh, there’s blood,” he said. “That’s why you
should come upstairs.”
That elevated Quartermaine’s brows another notch. “Indeed?”
he said. “You shock me, Peters. I thought old Reggie entirely done in.”
“He implies he’s to
meet some of his cronies here in half an hour for something deep,” Peters
suggested. “But he needs cash to stake at the card table, and he’s in a mood to
bargain.”
Quartermaine sipped musingly at his brandy. “Well, I’ve never
been known to sneer at a bargain,” he said, rising. “But bring him down here.
I’d rather not put my coat back on.”
Peters bowed. “Certainly, sir.”
Quartermaine followed Peters back through the suite and into
the adjacent study where the heart of the club was centered. No bacchanalia or
whoring went on within these walls; the Quartermaine Club was simply a
circumspect, high-stakes gaming salon where many a noble scion had sent ten
generations of wealth shooting down a rat hole beneath Ned Quartermaine’s
watchful eye.
But it was wealth, not blood, that determined whether a man—or
a woman—could gain entrĂ©e to Quartermaine’s world. Blue blood alone was next to
worthless in his estimation—and he had enough of it in him to know.
Suddenly Quartermaine realized he still held the pearls in
his hand. On a pinprick of irritation, he jerked open the drawer of his desk
and let them slither into it, a cascade of creamy perfection. Then he took a
cigar and went to the French windows that opened onto his garden.
The ash soon glowed orange in the dark. He could hear the
rattle of a carriage coming up fast from the direction of St. James’s Palace.
The cry of a newspaper hawker in the street. And then the silence fell again.
What the devil was keeping Lord Reginald?
Perhaps the craven bastard had turned tail and run back up
St. James’s Place to cower in one of his posh clubs. It little concerned him.
Quartermaine always got his money—one way or another. He puffed again at the
cigar and pondered at his leisure how best that might be done, for patience,
he’d learnt, was truly a virtue.
About the
Author:
A lifelong Anglophile, Liz Carlyle
started reading Gothic novels under the bed covers by flashlight. She is the
author of sixteen historical romances, including several New York Times
bestsellers. Liz travels incessantly, ever in search of the perfect setting for
her next book. Along with her genuine romance-hero husband and four very fine
felines, she makes her home in North Carolina.
Website: http://www.lizcarlyle.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/liz.carlyle
Twitter: @lizcarlyle
1 comments:
I do love this author!!! I really enjoyed the excerpt! Thanks for sharing! Hope you are well.
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