TEMPLE
Whitefawn
Abbey, Devonshire
November
1819
He
woke with a splitting head and a hard cock.
The situation was not uncommon. He
had, after all, woken each day for more than half a decade with one
of the items in question, and on more mornings than he could count
with both.
William Harrow, Marquess of Chapin
and heir to the dukedom of Lamont was wealthy, titled, privileged
and` handsome—and a young man blessed with those traits rarely
wanted for anything relating to wine or women.
So it was that on this morning, he
did not fret. Knowing (as skilled drinkers do) that the splitting
head would dissipate by midday, he moved to cure the other affliction
and, without opening his eyes, reached for the female no doubt
nearby.
Except, she wasn’t.
Instead of a handful of warm,
willing flesh, William came up with a handful of unsatisfying pillow.
He opened his eyes, the bright light
of the Devonshire sun assaulting his senses and emphasizing the
thundering in his head.
He
cursed. He draped one forearm over his closed eyes, sunlight burning
red behind the lids, and took a deep breath.
Daylight
was the fastest way to ruin a morning.
Likely, it was for the best that the
woman from the previous evening had disappeared, though the memory of
lovely lush breasts, a mane of auburn curls and a mouth made for sin
did bring with it a wave of regret.
She had been gorgeous.
And in bed—
In bed she’d been—
He stilled.
He
couldn’t remember.
Surely he hadn’t had that much
drink. Had he? She’d been tall and full of curves, made just the
way he liked his women, a match for the height and breadth that was
too often his curse when it came to women. He did not like feeling
like he might crush a girl.
And
she’d had smile that made him think of innocence and sin all at
once. She’d refused to tell him her name . . . refused to hear his
. . .
Utter perfection.
And her eyes—he’d never seen
eyes like hers, one the blue of the summer sea, and one just on the
edge of green. He’d spent too long looking at those eyes,
fascinated by them, wide and welcoming.
They’d crept through the kitchens
and up the servants’ stairs to his room, she’d poured him a
scotch . . .
And that was all he remembered.
Good Lord. He had to stop drinking.
Just as soon as today was over. He
would need drink to survive his father’s wedding day—the day
William gained his fourth stepmother. Younger than all the others.
Younger than him.
And very very rich.
Not that he’d met her, this
paragon of brideliness. He’d meet her at the ceremony and not
before, just as he’d done the other three. And then, once the
familial coffers had been once again filled, he would leave. Back to
Oxford, having done his duty and played the role of doting son. Back
to the glorious, libidinal life that belonged to the heir to the
dukedom, filled with drink and dice and women and not a worry in the
world.
Back to the life he adored.
But tonight, he would honor his
father and greet his new mother and pretend that he cared for the
sake of propriety. And perhaps, after he was done playing the role of
heir, he’d seek out the playful young thing from the gardens and do
his best to recall the events of the night before.
Thank Heaven for country estates and
well-attended nuptials. There wasn’t a female in creation who could
resist the sexual lure of a wedding, and because of that, William had
a great affinity for holy matrimony.
How lucky that his father had such a
knack for it.
He grinned and stretched wide in the
bed, throwing one arm wide across the cool linen sheets.
Cold linen sheets.
Cold wet linen sheets.
What in hell?
His eyes flew open.
It was only then that he realized it
wasn’t his room.
It wasn’t his bed.
And the red wash across the
bedsheets, dampening his fingers with its sticky residue, was not his
blood.
Before he could speak, or move, or
understand, the door to the strange bedchamber opened and a maid
appeared, fresh-faced and eager.
There were a dozen different things
that could have gone through his mind at that moment . . . a hundred
of them. And yet, in the fleeting seconds between the young maid’s
entrance and her notice of him, William thought of only one
thing—that he was about to ruin the poor girl’s life.
He knew, without doubt, that she
would never again casually open a door, or spread sheets across a
bed, or bask in the rare, bright sunlight of a Devonshire winter
morning without remembering this moment.
A moment he could not change.
He did
not speak when she noticed him, nor when she froze in place, nor when
she went deathly pale and her brown eyes—funny that he noticed
their color—went wide with first recognition and then horror.
Nor
did he speak when she opened her mouth and screamed. No doubt he
would have done the same, had he been in her position.
It was
only when she was through with that first, ear-shattering shriek—the
one that brought footmen and maids and wedding guests and his father
running—that he spoke, taking the quiet moment before the coming
storm to ask, “Where am I?”
The
maid simply stared, dumbstruck.
He
made to move from the bed, the sheets falling to his waist, stopping
short as he realized his clothes were nowhere in sight.
He was
naked. In a bed that was not his own.
And he
was covered in blood.
He met
the maid’s horrified gaze again, and when he spoke, the words came
out young and full of something he would later identify as fear.
“Whose bed is this?”
Remarkably,
she found her answer without stuttering. “Miss Lowe.”
Miss
Mara Lowe, daughter of a wealthy financier, with a dowry large enough
to catch a duke.
Miss
Mara Lowe, soon-to-be the Duchess of Lamont.
His
future stepmother.
From Goodreads.com 
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