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Loving A Lost Lord. Mary Jo Putney
Читать онлайн.Название Loving A Lost Lord
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isbn 9781420131673
Автор произведения Mary Jo Putney
Серия Lost Lords
Издательство Ingram
IF ADAM WAS DOOMED TO BE A MAN WITHOUT A PAST, HE WAS HERS
She had met more than her share of men both eligible and ineligible, and Adam was the only one she wanted for herself. He was kind and funny and intelligent—just what she wanted in a husband. If he never recalled his identity…well, he could find a new one here.
Together they could run Hartley Manor in peace and prosperity—though she would arrange for a proper marriage ceremony. She would tell Adam that since he was in so many ways a new man, they needed to renew their vows.
Embarrassed once more by the deftness of her lying, she said, “The past shapes us, but what matters is the present and the future. You still have those, and they will be what you make of them.”
“You are as wise as you are beautiful.” His gaze holding hers, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, his lips yearning. She responded intensely, the near darkness making it easier to express her feelings. Her man from the sea was so dear, so kind and fascinating and male.
LOVING A LOST LORD
THE LOST LORDS
MARY JO PUTNEY
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2009 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3167-3
First Printing: July 2009
To all those teachers who helped me
learn to love books and education.
Thanks for your patience!
Acknowledgments
My special thanks to Shobhan Bantwal, author and expert on all things Hindu. Any mistakes are my own.
As always, thanks to the Cauldron members for the brainstorming and support. And a special thanks to Kate Duffy, an editor who knows how to make authors purr.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter One
Kent, 1812
Late-night visitors were never good news. Lady Agnes Westerfield woke to banging on the door of her private wing of sprawling Westerfield Manor. Since her servants slept two floors above and she wanted to stop the racket before it woke her students, she slid into her slippers and wrapped herself in a warm robe.
Her candle cast unsettling shadows as she made her way to the door. Soft, steady rain hissed against the windows, punctuated by two deep gongs from the hall clock.
Among the quiet hills of Kent, robbers were unlikely to knock on her front door, but she still called, “Who’s there?”
“Randall.” Recognizing the familiar voice, she swung the door open. Her heart sank when she saw the three tall young men on her front steps.
Randall, Kirkland, and Masterson had been part of her first class of students—her “lost lords” who needed special care and education. There had been six boys in that class, and they had become closer than brothers. One had been lost in the chaos of France; another was in Portugal. Having three of the others show up with anguish in their eyes did not bode well.
She gestured them inside. “Is it Ballard?” she asked, voicing a worry she’d had for months. “Portugal is a dangerous place with the French army running amok.”
“Not Ballard.” Alex Randall stepped inside and removed his rain-soaked cloak. He limped from a wound he’d received on the Peninsula, but he was still ridiculously handsome in his scarlet army uniform. “It’s…it’s Ashton.”
Ashton was the sixth of their class, the most enigmatic, and perhaps dearest of them all. She braced herself. “Dead?”
“Yes,” James Kirkland answered flatly. “We learned the news at our club and immediately rode down here to tell you.”
She closed her eyes, despairing. It wasn’t fair for the young to die when their elders lived on. But she had learned early that life wasn’t fair.
An arm went around her shoulders comfortingly. She opened her eyes and saw that it was Will Masterson, solid and quiet but always knowing the right thing to do. “Did you come together to support me if I went into shrieking hysterics?” she asked, trying to be the calm headmistress they had known for so many years.
Masterson smiled wryly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps we wanted comfort from you rather than vice versa.”
That was the underlying truth, she guessed. None of her young gentlemen had had decent mothers, so she’d taken that role in their lives.
A yawning maid appeared and Lady Agnes ordered food for her guests. Young males always needed feeding, especially after a long ride from London. When they’d hung their dripping cloaks, she led them to the salon. They all knew the way, for they had been frequent visitors even after finishing their schooling. “We all need some brandy, I think. Randall, will you pour?” Lady Agnes said.
Silently Randall opened the cabinet and drew out four glasses, the lamplight shining on his blond hair. He was taut to the point of shattering.