>
‘I know what it is you want
‘Something you’ve never been offered, something deep inside you waiting to be used. It’s called passion.
‘I heard it in your voice when you sang,’ Sir Chase Boston continued, ‘and I can see it in your eyes. I felt it as we drove together, wildly. You were breathless with it, and guilty with it, too. You are angry with men, your father, your brother, those pathetic creatures who offered for you, and me in particular, because you’re interested, for once, and you dare not say so because you’re insulted by the urgency of it all.’
His arm lay along the back of the couch. One forefinger touched the bare skin of her upper arm just below the petalled sleeve, sending a shock through Caterina’s body that instantly washed away the snub she would have liked to deliver. The finger bent, caressed, and withdrew, leaving its memory behind to linger upon her arm.
Juliet Landon’s keen interest in art and history, both of which she used to teach, combined with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favourite occupation. She is particularly interested in researching the early medieval period and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Her heart’s home is in her native North Yorkshire, but now she lives happily in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.
Dishonour and Desire is a sequel to A Scandalous Mistress. They feature descendants of characters you will have met in One Night in Paradise.
Recent novels by the same author:
A SCANDALOUS MISTRESS
THE WARLORD’S MISTRESS HIS DUTY, HER DESTINY THE BOUGHT BRIDE THE WIDOW’S BARGAIN ONE NIGHT IN PARADISE
Look for Seton’s story. Coming soon.
DISHONOUR AND DESIRE
Juliet Landon
Chapter One
1812—Richmond, Surrey
Still smiling at some absurdity, Miss Caterina Chester and her sister rode into the stable yard behind Number 18 Paradise Road, patting the damp glossy necks before them and fully expecting the usual smiles of welcome from the grooms eager to help them dismount. This sunny morning, with steam rising from the tiled rooftops, the stable yard was busy with lads sluicing mud off the wheels of a coffee-and-cream-coloured crane-neck phaeton while another groom in an unfamiliar green livery held the bridle of a large grey hunter in the shade of the covered walkway. No one came running to meet them.
‘Father has a visitor,’ said Sara.
‘That’s Aunt Amelie’s phaeton,’ said Caterina, coming to a halt. ‘Why is it covered in mud? Joseph,’ she called, ‘what’s all this?’
Joseph lowered his dripping broom and turned, shading his eyes. ‘Sorry, Miss Chester. I didn’t hear you coming,’ he said, wiping his hands down his apron.
He came forward to take the bridles, but Caterina threw one leg over the pommel and slid to the ground before he could reach her. ‘Help Miss Sara,’ she told him. ‘I can manage. Who’s been out in the phaeton?’
‘Master Harry,’ said Joseph, leading Sara’s horse. ‘He borrowed it last evening and—’
‘Borrowed it? Without asking?’ Angrily, she looked up at her sister. ‘Did you know of this, Sara?’
‘Certainly not. Aunt Amelie lent it to you, not to Harry.’
‘So why didn’t you mention this to me when you brought the horses round this morning, Joseph?’
The groom stared apologetically at the grimy phaeton, blinking in surprise at the sudden deep waters. ‘Well, because I thought you knew, Miss Chester. Master Harry told me he’d had permission to use it, and to be quick and get it ready.’
‘Ready for what?’
‘He didn’t say for what, miss. But whatever it was, I don’t think Lady Elyot would’ve liked it much. Just look at it, caked with mud and splashed all over. We’re having to scrub every last inch of it.’ He scowled at the shining areas of panelling just showing through runnels of water. ‘It only came back a half hour ago.’
Pretty Sara did not intend to dismount by herself as long as there was an attractive groom to help. Bouncing lightly onto the cobbles, she removed her hands from Joseph’s shoulders but, even then, was not able to get her question in before her sister’s. ‘Back from where?’
The stable yard grew quiet at Caterina’s razorsharp tone.
Joseph let out a breath. ‘It’s been over at Mortlake all night, Miss Chester. In Sir Chase Boston’s stables. That’s Sir Chase’s groom over there. They brought it back this morning. Shall I ask him…?’
‘No, I’ll find out the rest for myself.’ The hem of Caterina’s dove-grey riding habit skimmed over the wet cobbles as she strode away to the steps that led up to the house, her slender back curved like a bow, both hands raised to unpin her veiled hat. Before her sister had reached her level, a mass of dark copper curls came loose with the net, tumbling onto her shoulders like a fox-fur cape, glinting with red highlights in the sun. Her slender figure appeared to pour through the door with a fluidity that typified all her movements.
‘So that’s her,’ said Sir Chase Boston’s groom, smirking.
‘Aye, that’s her,’ said Joseph, leading the two horses away. ‘Now for some fireworks.’
The man grinned. ‘Should be interesting, then.’
Joseph glanced at the big grey. ‘I shouldn’t bother unsaddling him. Your master’ll be out in five minutes with his ears afire.’
‘Want a bet?’ the man said, settling himself onto the mounting-block.
In the elegant white-and-gold hallway, Caterina paused only long enough to glance at the table where a beaver hat, a pair of pale leather gloves and a silverbanded riding whip lay where the butler had placed them. A row of calling-cards marked the exact centre of the silver tray, and the reflection in the ormolu mirror above received not even a cursory acknowledgement in passing. From the upper landing came the slam of doors, a woman’s faintly commanding voice, the sirenwail of infants, nurses cooing and strains of a distant lullaby. Wincing at the cacophany, Caterina just failed to hide the grimace before she opened the study door.
Not usually minding her interruptions, her father stopped his conversation abruptly, sensing the arrival of a minor whirlwind. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘You received my message?’ Middle-aged and lean with the look of a harassed greyhound, Stephen Chester did his best to smile, though it did not come naturally to him.
‘No, Father. There appears to be a breakdown in the system
