LITMIR.BIZ

      ZEBRA BOOKS

       KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To my mother, Eleanor Congdon Putney,

       from whom I inherited my love of travel, language,

       and a good read

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Epilogue

      Author’s Note

      Prologue

      Charlton Abbey, Spring 1812

      The fourth Earl of Cromarty was buried with all the pomp and dignity due his rank. The village church bell tolled solemnly as he was laid to rest in a misty rain, all of the male members of his household dressed in black and suitably somber. The late earl had been a handsome, forceful man, fair of mind and quick to laugh. His dependents had all been vastly proud of him.

      Chief mourner was the earl’s only child, Lady Jocelyn Kendal. At the postfuneral gathering, she performed her duties with impeccable grace, her pale, perfect features still as a marble angel under her sheer black mourning veil. She and her father had been very close.

      This would be Lady Jocelyn’s last official act at Charlton Abbey, since her Uncle Willoughby was now the owner. If she resented the fact that she had been transformed from mistress to guest in her childhood home, she concealed her feelings.

      Though a few elderly ladies might think her independent streak would be considered headstrong in a less well-bred girl, none of the men minded. At twenty-one she possessed more than her share of beauty and charm, and as she moved about the great hall men looked after her, and briefly dreamed.

      The last ritual of the long day was the reading of the will. The family lawyer, Mr. Crandall, had come down from London to perform the duty. It was a lengthy task, with numerous bequests for honored servants and special charities.

      Lady Jocelyn sat immobile in the crowd of listeners. A mere daughter could not succeed to her father’s honors, but she would still inherit a substantial part of her father’s fortune, enough to be one of England’s greatest heiresses.

      The new earl, a solemn-faced man without a tithe of his late brother’s dash, listened gravely. Once it had been assumed that the fourth earl would remarry and get himself a male heir, but his experience of matrimony appeared to have soured him on that state. He had been content with his only daughter, and Willoughby was the beneficiary of that choice. Though the new earl sincerely mourned his brother, he was human enough to be glad for his elevation to the title.

      The will presented no surprises—until the end. Mr. Crandall cleared his throat and glanced nervously at the statuesque beauty in the front row before starting to read the final provisions. “And for my beloved daughter, Jocelyn, I hereby bequeath and ordain …”

      The lawyer’s sonorous voice filled the room, riveting the listeners. When he finished, there was a murmur of startled voices and inhaled breath as heads turned to Lady Jocelyn.

      She sat utterly still for an endless moment. Then she leaped to her feet, sweeping her black veil from her face to reveal blazing rage in her fine hazel eyes. “He did what?”

      Chapter 1

      London, July 1815

      In his dream, Major David Lancaster was galloping across the Spanish hills on his horse, Aquilo, who ran with the grace of his namesake eagle. Between his thighs, the horse’s muscles were powerful and responsive to the slightest pressure. David laughed aloud, his hair whipped by the wind, feeling as if the two of them could run like this forever, rejoicing in the exuberance of youth and strength.

      A distant scream of agony jerked him awake. Years of war had trained him to leap to his feet and grab his rifle while he scrambled from his tent to ward off attack. But instead of movement, he felt only savage pain as his half-dead body failed to respond. From the waist down, nothing moved, his lifeless legs anchoring him to the bed.

      He opened his eyes to the ugly reality of the Duke of York Hospital. Aquilo had died at Waterloo, and so had David, though his body stubbornly insisted on clinging to the last embers of life. The soldier’s luck that had carried him through years of war without serious injury had deserted him at the end. A direct artillery hit would have been swifter and kinder than this lingering demise.

      But it wouldn’t be much longer now. He clamped his jaw as the waves of pain ebbed to a bearable level. Though the dingy

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