LITMIR.BIZ

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      Cover Copy

      Hoping to live down her family’s connections to the traitorous Jacobite cause, Imogen wants nothing more than a quiet life in the country. When she stumbles upon a wounded man, the white cockade in his coat tells her he’s a Jacobite, and a danger to the crown. Yet there’s something about him she can’t resist . . .

      In search of a document on behalf of his powerful family, Tony is shot and left for dead. Secreted away to a hidden chamber, he finds himself both a guest and prisoner of a beautiful but mysterious woman. What she wants and who she serves, he cannot know. But what he does understand is the desire burning strongly between them. And that neither of them will be spared until their lust is sated.

      When the action moves to London, suddenly it’s Tony who has to act to save Imogen. Forced to become a lady in waiting to Princess Amelia, she is in peril from the Jacobites, who are convinced she is their salvation. Only the strength of Tony and Imogen’s love can save them now.

      Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Books by Lynne Connolly

      Emperors of London Series

      Rogue In Red Velvet

      Temptation Has Green Eyes

      Danger Wears White

      Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

      Danger Wears White

      Emperors of London Series

      Lynne Connolly

      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Copyright

      Lyrical Press books are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2015 by Lynne Connolly

      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.

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      Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

      First Electronic Edition: July 2015

      eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-571-4

      eISBN-10: 1-61650-571-0

      First Print Edition: July 2015

      ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-595-0

      ISBN-10: 1-61650-609-1

      Printed in the United States of America

      Chapter 1

      Imogen hunched her shoulders against the drizzly rain and patted her horse’s neck, but he was far too used to the inclement weather for it to make any difference to him. The white stone of the boundary marker stood starkly against the green of the hedge, in its rightful place. She breathed a sigh of relief.

      Sir Toby had left them alone. He’d become so persistent, insisting the lush Lower Meadow belonged to him, that she’d taken him to court, but they’d conducted the case in as cordial a spirit as possible, and now Sir Toby appeared content. He was probably off harassing another neighbor.

      Satisfied with her discoveries, Imogen turned to head for home. A stumble from her horse gave her pause. Had Blackie picked up a stone, or just skidded on the slick grass?

      She’d had the gelding since he was a foal, hence the childish name the poor animal still bore. Imogen would rather have a stone in her own shoe than cause him pain. He was retired from most duties these days, but he’d stamped around his stall this morning, clearly restless, so she’d taken him on the relatively easy task she assigned herself today. That was before it had started raining.

      A hut stood at the bottom of the field. Or rather, it teetered. It had suffered from the recent dispute, neither party wanting to go to the expense of repairing it until the courts decided on the boundaries. The roof was held on by a promise and let in more than it kept out. Any creature with nowhere else to stay might find a modicum of protection there. It would have to be a small creature, though.

      Imogen climbed down from her saddle and led Blackie to the hut. Her cocked riding hat protected her head from the drizzle, but this kind of persistent rain tended to penetrate after a time, and she’d been out an hour already. Her practical close-woven brown wool riding habit kept out the rest, but it wouldn’t have passed muster in the more fashionable areas of Lancashire. Not that she cared.

      Blackie seemed steadier now she’d climbed down, but when she walked him, she spotted that slight stumble again.

      When she reached the hut, she sighed. Usually she tried to ignore this tumbledown structure. Maybe she should get Young George to pull it down completely. Some aristocrats built ruins on purpose to make their estates appear more picturesque; they were welcome to this one.

      Fumbling in her pocket, she found the hooked piece of metal she used to help scrape hooves. Blackie bent his head and started cropping the grass, hardly noticing when she tapped his hock for him to lift his foot.

      Ah yes, there it was. A couple of scrapes and she had it. A small, though sharp, piece of stone. It hadn’t done any significant damage, but if she’d ignored it, it would probably have eased his shoe loose by the time they got home and dug into him painfully.

      Worth getting wet for. Her leather gloves were soaked and now grimy from the dirt Blackie had picked up—probably ruined.

      Still, this was the north boundary, and the house was only a mile or so away. Her mother would murder her if she wasn’t in the drawing room at half past three, ready to greet whatever guests she’d invited for dinner. Mother had mentioned guests at breakfast, but Imogen hadn’t listened properly, so she wasn’t sure who they would be.

      Imogen tucked the hook back in her pocket and urged Blackie to lift his head. “I’ll give you oats with your feed,” she promised him, giving him a pat. “You’ve been a good boy.”

      About to lead him to a nearby tree stump so she could mount, she heard a groan. Was it her imagination, or perhaps some creature lurking nearby? Rabbits and foxes could make the oddest sounds.

      The groan came again—low, soft, and…male.

      She glanced around but saw nothing. Hearing another sound, she spun around and stared into the dimness of the rickety hut. She stepped closer, caution ruling her. A miasma of rotting vegetation and something else she couldn’t identify rose to give her pause. Wrinkling her nose, she pressed on.

      It had no door, and grass grew sparsely inside. A pile of forgotten hay lay in one corner, sodden and useless. That would account for the stink.

      As her eyes became used to the gloom, a glint in the corner of the hut caught her attention. A large shape—hulking, the smell of old

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