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Oh, yeah.
So she is out again, LADY VARNEY.
Yes, if you read her before, she is still the same, except for a few lines here and there and a new spectacular cover!
A nibble?
Of course!
Copyright 2014, Cerise DeLand. All rights reserved.
Kitty stiffened
her backbone, but felt no stronger than a floundering mackerel. How she took
the circular staircase down to her drawing room was a mystery, given her knees
of jelly.
“Buck up,
Puss,” she chastised herself. She pulled open the double doors herself rather
than call her butler and crowd the occasion with unnecessary others. She needed
to look upon Justin Belmont at this particular moment alone.
And oh, my. Yes. To
realize that the newly dubbed Viscount Belmont, American-born, Englishman by
blood, nobleman now by adoption and the entail, was even more devastatingly
handsome than a decade ago when the world seemed fresh and full of positive
possibilities.
“My Lord
Belmont.” Kitty sailed toward him where he stood before her fireplace, her
expression, she hoped, one of civility. My
lord, how can you shake my sanity so easily with that harsh look? That painful
curiosity in your hazel eyes?
Here before her
stood the man who had saved her from lascivious Frenchmen more than a decade
ago. Huge and imposing as Satan then, he was now more muscular, his face more
angular, his hair more raven against skin more pale. In clothes that were
better tailored and more form-fitting than the loose linen shirts that once had
flowed to his fingertips, he was now the epitome of a titled English gentleman.
He gave no hint of the American privateer who had captured her body with his
boldness, her mind with his intellect and her heart with his artless charm.
She walked
forward, her gaze up at his imperial height, her hand out for him to take.
He touched her
fingertips, his own cold as the grave. “Lady Varney. Kind of you to receive
me.”
You don’t sound as though you think me kind. You
sound…dismayed, appalled, even—dear god—disgusted that you are here.
“Please, my
lord, do sit with me.” She nodded to one settee, and as he complied, she took
the one facing him. His eyes, such a myriad of earthen colors, faceted in the
lamplight of late afternoon. They flowed over her hair, her lips, her breasts,
her fingers. Everywhere his gaze touched, her body pulsed, remembering how once
he had looked at her with desire. Not this…this indifference. That sparked her
to lie with her next words, “I am delighted you have come to see me.”
He did not even
breathe as he said, “Are you now?”
“Of course,”
she countered his challenge, but stayed true to her manners by adding, “I have
heard of your recent good fortune.”
He cocked a
long black brow. “When the news is published in the scandal sheets as well as
the social notes, nothing in London is a secret.”
She licked her
lower lip. “Very little.”
“But this
service of yours,” he said with measured tone as he circled a hand in the air
to denote her business, “this is a
tidbit only the men of the ton share
with each other.”
She hastened to
agree. “Those who need help have found my—”
“Assistance?
That is what you call your match-making, am I correct?” One corner of his mouth
tipped up and she could not say if the move denoted humor or ruefulness.
“Whatever your services, I need them.”
His directness
had her fighting for a response.
“I hear you
pride yourself on your knowledge of human nature,” he prodded her.
She lifted her
chin. “Or to be exact, the nature of men.”
He barked in
laughter. “If you knew that, dearest woman, you and I would not be sitting
here.”
Should she show him the door? She bristled
and sought to hold her ground, reprimand him, if she could. “You asked for this
appointment, my lord.”
“It seemed the
only way to see you,” he shot back.
“Perhaps I am
mistaken, but I was under the impression that you requested a Sunday afternoon
appointment because—”
“Because since
my newfound status as a peer of the realm was announced in September, you have
not invited me to any of your dinner parties.”
“Forgive me,
but you really wished an invitation to dinner?”
Incredulous at that conclusion, she felt a thrill sweep up her spine that he
might indeed not seek a wife. “I—I am only recently out of my year of mourning
for my husband, Justin, and those who may dine at my table with me do not
include bachelors.”
“Especially
bachelors whom you once knew? Ah, the rules of this blasted society!” He leaned
forward, his gaze at once tender and yearning. “Kitty—”
“Please, sir, I
am still Lady Varney to you.”
“You never were
that to me. Besides, you just called me Justin.” His eyes twinkled.
“I did not!”
“Of course, you
did.” He sat back, crossed one long leg over the other and seemed too well
satisfied with himself to soothe her ruffled senses.
“We are here to
discuss business,” she insisted with a hauteur that had him narrowing his gaze
on her.
It was not a
kindly glance, either, but the fierce glare he’d worn so long ago as he climbed
over the sides of the French Cyr to rescue her from those bastards.
He blinked.
Drew back and appraised her.
Good. At least we are now on firm footing. Two equals
about to do business. Not two older people who had cared passionately for each
other in their youth.
She tipped her
head when he remained silent. “Please tell me what you wish.”
He set his jaw,
never having cared for anyone to give him orders. “As you know, I am to inherit
the Earl of Belmont’s titles and estates. He is ailing. Sadly, I might add. I
have come to care for my uncle deeply in the past six years. When I first set
foot in England eleven years ago, I must say I had no idea he and I would ever
get on. But we did. Do. Save for one issue.”
Kitty nodded,
knowing precisely the matter that divided them. Touchy subject though it was,
she went on boldly, because that was her wont, because it was her business to
be forthright and because she knew this man very well. Or once had. “He wants
you to marry.”
Justin seemed
to retreat even further into himself. His jaw firmed. His lips thinned. His
large eyes turned to glittering stones. “He wishes me to marry an heiress with
title, high social standing and a suitable dowry. To put a fine point on it, he
wants the perfect woman.”
“The earl
thinks appropriately. His titles are six hundred years old and his estates are
numerous and bring in a sizeable sum each year.”
Justin snorted.
“My uncle was right about you.”
Kitty felt what
would come next would not be a compliment. “How so?”
“He declares
there is not much you do not know about the peers of the realm, their income or
their need for propriety.”
“To learn the
genealogies of the famous one hundred families was a favorite pastime for a
lonely little girl.”
His features
softened to a genuine compassion that made her heart ache. “You were alone as a
child?”
She swallowed,
not wishing to remember her youth. “I do have one sister, younger by ten years.
But our parents were preoccupied with society. Hence, the house was often cold
and dark. But the library was a wonderful room, warm and full of enchanting
tales. Not all of them were fiction.”
His mouth
spread wide in a grin and her memory of how those lips felt on her own was one
she told herself could not be so fresh after more than a decade. Yet, it was.
She tipped her
head, unable to suppress a smile. “Please tell me about the kind of woman you
wish me to seek for you.”
“Ah. Yes.” He
scowled, his glittering eyes hard as glass. “First, she must be lovely.”
“Of course.” No
less for such a striking man. Besides, a plain woman would be intimidated by a
husband who was so damned handsome.
“Blonde.”
“Blonde?” Hair
color was often listed by a man, but not usually this early in the discussion.
“Golden-haired.”
She shifted. That specific? “I see.”
“She must be a
peer in her own right.”
Kitty knit her
brows, recalling how her own barony of writ
had been the lure to Henry. “Why is this important?”
“Her own blue-blood
complements my lack. Since I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, a lady
in deed secures my own legitimacy.”
Kitty’s mind
was racing. How many single golden-haired ladies who were titled in their own
right could she count? Four? Five?
“It also enhances
the reputation of any of my offspring.”
“True. I had
not thought of that.”
Looking
innocent as a cherub, he lifted a palm. “You see my logic.”
“Certainly.” Dear god, a taskmaster. “What else might
I add to her qualifications?” A huge
dowry? That’s what the ton says the
old Earl demands of you.
“She must be
shorter than I. Talented at the piano forte. A good conversationalist.”
“Really, how
interesting.” Her gaze wandered to her own French piano. She frowned and noted,
“Most men would have asked that she be a wizard at cards.”
He chuckled.
“Most bachelors,” she ventured, “want to
ensure they keep their money in the family.”
“Oh, never
doubt, my dear Kitty, that I have other requirements perhaps more astonishing
than not caring about my future wife’s ability at the card table.”
Oh, my. This was the point at which many men
told her they wanted peculiar qualities in their spouse. She hadn’t expected
any oddities from Justin. Would she be disillusioned as well as surprised? And
even more jealous? “Do tell me
what they are.”
“I want someone
versed in the art of conjugal bliss.”
Was she gaping
at him? “I’m sorry. I supposed, I mean, I presumed—”
“You thought I
wanted a virgin?”
“I did. Most
men do.”
“Not I.”
“Why ever not?” Was that her own shrill
voice?
A grin flashed
over his features. “I also want someone who has had a child.”
“A—?” Kitty
blinked, clearing her impression of this man who now seemed suddenly so
calculating. “Pardon me?”
“I need an
heir. I need to be assured that the woman I marry can conceive and carry a
child to term, birth him well and rear him. This means she must be of good
constitution. After all, I will need not one child but at least two. Preferably
three.”
“Three.”
“Children.”
Kitty could not
believe her ears at his extraordinary list, but nodded and went on with the
topic. “Raised by her, of course.”
“I want no
fainting lily. No frail Bess. And no parade of nurses and governesses.”
“But surely,
you need one,” she babbled, “ of
each.”
“Of course. One
governess. One nurse. And one loving mother.”
“I see.” Kitty
began to have a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach that signaled either
rage or a headache. Stress like this reminded her of verbal sparing with Henry
who thankfully had gone to his Maker. The cure for that had been for her to run
to her garden. Prune her roses. Trim her yews. At the moment, she could do
neither, but deal with Justin and his demands. “You are being very specific.”
“I am.”
“Almost too
much so.”
“Why do you say
that?”
She rose to her
feet, the sensation of standing so quickly made her head light. Airy. Euphoria
had her swaying. So unexpected was this feeling that she walked toward the
fireplace and put a steadying hand to the mantel. “Let me recount your
requirements.”
He nodded as he
sat in his chair, looking so infernally regal and congenial that she wanted to
gather the fine lapels of his frockcoat in her fists and shake him. “Proceed.”
“You want a
young woman, an heiress with wealth—”
He raised a
hand to make her pause. “She need not be young. Too young and she is not useful
to me as a wife who can bear children.”
“Quite. Shall
we say that you want a seasoned woman? Yes?”
He nodded. “Go
on.”
“Blonde.
Golden-haired, specifically. Shorter than you, so then she must be five-feet-four or five
inches tall. Good at the piano, in the assembly hall and the ballroom. Versed
in the bedroom. A woman who has already borne a child and who wishes to bear
more. She must also enjoy the process of raising them. Anything I have missed?”
He let his gaze
drift up to her cap of golden curls, then down to lock on her eyes. “That is an
excellent summary.”
She braced
herself for what she was now about to say. “I have made matches for men for a
long time.”
“Ever since you
began to emerge from mourning for your husband.”
She gave Justin
a small smile. Realizing he knew this about her was a delight. “Yes, and I have
created some very fine marriages. Though not all of my couples have yet taken
vows, those five who did, are very happy.”
Justin brushed
imaginary lint from his trousers. “So I have heard.”
“But these
requirements you list are unusual.”
“I am a very
exacting man.”
“You are. Your
friends declare it. I hear your tailor does, too. Your butler.”
“I shall have
to reprimand my man for engaging in gossip,” he told her but his eyes and his
lips quirked in amusement.
She tipped her
head, unable to resist grinning at him and learning more. “Your butler is a
good friend of my cook. They talk often.”
“To you as
well, it seems.”
“My sources are
legion. They help me with the work I do.” She raised her brows. “You must
realize to match-make I need to
know many facts about people.”
“A necessity of
your occupation.” He winked at her, sending her back to days on his ship when
she’d been so entranced by his charm.
She cleared her
throat and returned to the subject of his visit. “Your list limits me
severely.”
“I am aware of
that.”
“There are few
women who possess all the qualifications.”
He rose and
came to stand before her.
So close now,
she breathed his cologne. Smelled the mint on his breath. Admired the dimple in
his left cheek and the facets of green and brown in his large heavy-lidded eyes.
“In fact, there are only three women who meet all of your requirements.”
“Ah. But wait,
you have not heard them all.”
“No?
Preposterous! There is a very small pool of possible candidates, Justin. To add
more requirements would be burdensome—”
“But my fortune
will be very large. My homes, here and in the country, are grand estates. I
will be married to this woman for many decades, and I need the best companion
possible.” He frowned, very determined looking. “I have the right to declare to
whom I shall be joined!”
“Precisely so,
my lord, but we must be prudent.”
“You be
prudent! I shall be as I am!”
His virulence
shocked her.
“Your fees are
high. I shall have whom I want! Who is best suited to me.” He strode closer and
seized her arms, his powerful body dwarfing hers. Once his might had been
comforting, but now, full of fury, his size made her wince. She had been
intimidated by her husband far too often and she would not be by any man ever
again.
She stiffened
her spine. “Tell me your other requirements.”
“She must spend
twenty-four hours with me at Belmont Manor.”
“Oh, I see.”
She let out a breath, relieved. “You want her to visit.”
“No, I want her
in my bed.”
Kitty blinked.
“I...I’m sorry. You want her—?”
“Naked. I want
to learn if she likes men. Me, to be exact.”
WHO IS CERISE DELAND?
An author acclaimed for her eloquence and
scintillating tales of romance and suspense, Cerise DeLand writes historical
and contemporary novels with spice and charm.
Facebook Cerise DeLand
Twitter: @CeriseDeLand
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