‘Somewhere for a woman like me, Mr Evernden?’ The cool tone from behind him held the slightest trace of a French accent.
Hell. Apparently the impertinent Mademoiselle Boisette had no qualms about eavesdropping. So be it. Beating around the bush only led to disappointed expectations, as he well knew from his business dealings. Christopher swung around to face her.
His breath hooked in his throat. She had the face of an angel. By God, he’d seen many lovely women in the salons of London, but beautiful did not begin to describe this vision.
As if she read his thoughts, her mouth curved in a smile. She was no seraph. Pure devilment gleamed in the cerulean gaze locked with his.
Placing her gloved fingertip between her teeth, she glanced at him. Her lashes lowered and then swept up again. A lingering question lurked in her eyes.
Eve biting the apple.
He enjoyed the warmth of a willing woman, but had no need of a professional courtesan. And, no matter how beautiful or sensual, he had no interest in a woman who had brought scandal to the name of Evernden.
Author Note
I adored Christopher the moment he walked onto the page, because I knew only a strong, determined woman like Sylvia could lead him on a merry chase. The story is set in places dear to my heart: Dover, where my father was born; Tunbridge Wells, where I downed a few pints with my husband in our courting years; and France, which brought back memories of crossing the channel by ferry one summer. And then, of course, there is Regency London. I love poking around in St James and Mayfair, where you can find traces of the Regency in the buildings if you look very carefully.
I had so much fun writing Sylvia and Christopher’s story. I do hope you enjoy it. I love to hear from readers, so please visit me at my website, www.annlethbridge.com, where you can find all my latest news and where you can reach me directly.
Ann Lethbridge has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent many memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN is the first novel by Ann Lethbridge for Mills & Boon® Historical Romance
THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN
Ann Lethbridge
I dedicate this first book for Harlequin Mills & Boon to my two beautiful daughters, Angela and Fiona. Their support of my writing means the world to me.
Chapter One
Dover, Kent—1816
Safe behind her black veil, Sylvia Boisette steeled herself to confront those who, because of her birth, were a part of her world, but who would never accept her as part of theirs.
Dusty fingers of gold streamed through the bank of windows along the library’s west wall, highlighting the room’s comfortable shabbiness. On the threshold behind her, the eager servants murmured in anticipation of the reading of the will.
‘I believe Mr Tripp wishes you to sit there, mademoiselle,’ the butler muttered over her shoulder. He gestured to the far end of the room.
In front of the bewigged, craggy-faced lawyer, ranged the backs of three seated figures, a black-clad bastion of stiff respectability, and beside them, one empty chair.
‘Who are they?’ Sylvia whispered to the butler. Isolated in painful solitude at the funeral, she could only guess the identity of the strangers in attendance and the servants always knew everything.
‘Imogene Molesby, the master’s sister, to the right,’ Burbridge murmured. A large-boned woman, she wore an outdated black bonnet and sat closest to the windows. ‘Her husband, George.’ Molesby’s bulk seemed to overflow his straight-backed chair.
Beside him sat the handsome young man whose height and breadth had overshadowed the pitifully small group of mourners at the graveside, his aloof, patrician countenance full of disapproval. She nodded towards him. ‘And the other?’
‘Mr Christopher Evernden, Lord Stanford’s younger brother.’
A buzz of anger in her veins chased off the numbness that had held her in thrall all morning. Lord Stanford, the head of the Evernden family, hadn’t even bothered to come to his uncle’s funeral. And Monsieur Jean had always spoken so well of his nephew.
Pauvre Monsieur Jean. How she would miss reading to him in this very room, his smiling face lit by the glow of a fireplace now as cold and empty as her heart. Sometimes, moisture glinting in his tired eyes, he had told her how much she resembled her beloved mother. Icy fingers clenched in her stomach. She might carry the burden of her mother’s beauty, but she would not follow her path to ruin.
A deep breath steadied the beat of her heart. With a solemn swish of black silk skirts, she trod the bars of light and shade on the faded Axminster rug as if they formed the rungs of a ladder to her future, or an escape from her past.
Mr Tripp acknowledged her presence with a nod.
Fighting the sudden trembling in her knees, she sank on to the empty chair beside Mr Evernden. His sharp, sideways glance projected his distaste with the sureness of an arrow, while a chill disapproval emanated from his companions. She forced her spine straight. From this moment on, she would forge her own destiny.
Behind the ancient walnut desk, the lawyer glanced down at his papers. ‘That is everyone, I presume?’
The straight-backed chair beside her issued an impatient creak and, from behind her veil, she risked a glance at its occupant. Polished Hessian boots planted flat on the floor, his muscular thighs extended well beyond the chair seat. Gold glinted in his dark-honey, wind-tousled hair. Fair skinned, with a chiseled jaw and high forehead, he bore the stamp of English nobility. His expressive mouth, set in a straight line, spoke of firmness of purpose.
Her
