The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere Read online

  TOUCHED BY A ROGUE

  This time when Benedict reached for her, he knew precisely what he was going to do, where he was going to touch her. Softly, gentle as a whisper, he dragged the back of his gloved fingers down her cheek.

  Georgiana sucked in a quick breath. “But…how will I know one when I see him? A rogue, I mean.”

  Benedict stared at her, heat flooding through him, all the desire he hadn’t felt for Lady Wylde—for anyone—gathering in his lower belly and burning.

  He wanted her mouth open under his, wanted it with such visceral hunger he could already taste her, sweet and warm on his tongue, quince preserves and something else, something unexpected, a hint of tartness, just enough to drive him mad.

  But if he took her mouth now, he’d never let her go. So, instead he caught her fingers in his, lifted them to his lips, and met her gaze over their clasped hands.

  Her black pupils had swallowed the warm hazel irises of her eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, the space between them crackling with tension. “What…what will a rogue do?”

  “A rogue won’t be satisfied with kissing your glove.” His voice was deep and husky, his fingers shaking as he turned her palm up, and with a gentle tug, peeled her glove back to bare her wrist. “He’ll kiss you here . . .”

  Books by Anna Bradley

  LADY ELEANOR’S SEVENTH SUITOR

  LADY CHARLOTTE’S FIRST LOVE

  TWELFTH NIGHT WITH THE EARL

  MORE OR LESS A MARCHIONESS

  MORE OR LESS A COUNTESS

  MORE OR LESS A TEMPTRESS

  THE WAYWARD BRIDE

  TO WED A WILD SCOT

  FOR THE SAKE OF A SCOTTISH RAKE

  THE VIRGIN WHO RUINED LORD GRAY

  THE VIRGIN WHO VINDICATED LORD DARLINGTON

  THE VIRGIN WHO HUMBLED LORD HASLEMERE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere

  Anna Bradley

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Anna Bradley

  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.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: June 2021

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-1039-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-1039-0 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: June 2021

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-1043-8

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-1043-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Books by Anna Bradley

  The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere

  Copyright

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  Prologue

  Oxendon Street, London

  July 1780

  Georgiana Harley was the third.

  Lady Amanda Clifford heard the girl’s name before she ever saw her face. Just rumors at first, a whisper here and there about a ragged orphan who spent her nights in Covent Garden, fleecing the pockets of every drunken rake in London.

  Gossip had it the girl had the devil’s own luck.

  Luck. A destitute street urchin, lucky? Lucky in the way of chimney sweeps, hunchbacks, and hangman’s nooses, perhaps.

  Which is to say, not lucky at all.

  Lady Amanda believed in a great many things—fate and chance, destiny and intuition—but luck wasn’t one of them. If a street urchin was warming her palms with coins plucked from London’s hardened gamesters, she possessed something more valuable than luck.

  Guile, perhaps. Cunning. A talent for treachery.

  Lady Amanda didn’t make a habit of scouring London’s streets for stray waifs, but when the rumors swelled to a fever pitch, she and her servant Daniel Brixton made their way to Oxendon Street to see the girl for themselves. It was, Lady Clifford would later recall, one of the few occasions on which she acted contrary to her habit.

  It wouldn’t be the last. Not where Georgiana Harley was concerned.

  She was perched on the street outside The Crimson, a low gaming hell named for the crimson-colored door, the one bright object in a neighborhood of soot-blackened buildings and shadowy streets.

  Lady Amanda didn’t emerge from her carriage, but directed her coachman to wait. She lingered far longer than she’d intended, watching the girl through the carriage window in silent fascination.

  She wasn’t a cheat. Not in the strictest sense of the word.

  But neither was she simply lucky.

  She had a piece of rough board balanced on her lap, her eyes darting back and forth as she slapped the cards down with a deftness born of practice. One deck, two, half a dozen. The number of cards didn’t seem to matter.

  Back and forth, back and forth…

  Counting, and calculating.

  She didn’t lack for culls. Men of all sorts, high born and low, penniless or flush, drunken or sober, paused for a game on their way past The Crimson. The meaner among them saw an easy mark, and were eager to strip the girl of her winnings. Others, those with the guineas to spare, were merely taken with the novelty of the thing.

  Regardless, the pile of coins in the girl’s lap continued to grow. When the weight became burdensome, or the dull glint of copper became too tempting to pickpockets, she’d scoop them up and secret them away in some hidden p
ouch, secure from thieving fingers.

  She wasn’t greedy. She might have fleeced her victims for every last miserable shilling, but she was restrained, judicious. This more than anything else intrigued Lady Amanda, as an existence scraped from the grimy London streets was more apt to drive one to avarice than subtlety.

  Luck? No. Lady Amanda hadn’t expected the girl’s gift would turn out to be divine good fortune. But neither had she expected to find a ragged little waif spinning survival into an art with every twitch of her agile fingers.

  An artist, in Covent Garden, crouched on the filthy street outside a gaming hell.

  Then again, there was nothing remarkable in finding art at a museum, was there?

  The real genius was in recognizing brilliance, even if one stumbled across it in the last place on earth they’d ever think to look for it.

  Chapter One

  Covent Garden, London

  January 1795

  “Five guineas, Haslemere. Put ’em into Perry’s hat, and he’ll see your rider mounted.”

  Benedict Harcourt, Lord Haslemere, tossed the handful of gold coins in his fist into Lord Peregrine’s hat, then fell to one knee in the street and peered over his shoulder. “Right then, Perry. I’m ready. Get her up. There’s a good fellow.”

  “Ready, love?” Perry plucked up the girl waiting on the pavement and settled her on Benedict’s back. “Hold on tight, now. Don’t want a cracked skull, eh?”

  The girl took hold of Benedict’s hair with a grip that made his eyes water, and kicked her heels into his flanks, squealing with delight when he pawed at the ground and snorted. “Look at mine, Susannah! He’s like a real horse!”

  “More like an ass.” Lord Harrington steadied his own rider and smirked at Benedict. “He’s got the face of one, if you ask me.”

  “No one did ask you, Harrington. Now, be quiet, if you please, while I confer with my jockey regarding our strategy.” Benedict craned his neck to wink at the little red-headed chit on his back, then caught her legs to still her before she could unman him with her frenzied kicking.

  Harrington snorted. “What bloody strategy? Run down to the bottom of the lane and back, and don’t lose your rider. Whoever makes it back first wins the lot.”

  “Only the worst sort of blackguard curses in front of a young lady, Harrington.” Benedict shot his friend a disgusted look. “Mind your manners.”

  Harrington rolled his eyes at Benedict, but he tipped his hat to the girls with a charming smile. “Beg pardon, ladies. I forgot myself.”

  Both girls giggled madly at this, and Benedict’s rider, still overcome with excitement, gave his hair another vicious tug. He winced and reached up to disentangle her fingers. “Hands on my head, Sarah, but not in my hair, or you’ll snatch me bald. Lock your legs around my waist, so you don’t take a tumble. Yes, there we are. That’s how a proper jockey does it.”

  The coins clinked together as Perry took up the hat for safekeeping. “Right, then. On your marks, gentlemen.”

  “Damn,” Harrington said, already forgetting his pledge not to curse. “If only we had a pistol, to set the thing off properly.”

  “Clever idea, Harrington, shooting a pistol into the air at midnight in the middle of Covent Garden. What could go wrong?”

  Harrington frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  No, he wouldn’t have, but Benedict hadn’t invited Harrington along because he was a deep thinker. He was amusing enough, as far as London rogues went, but he had one of the thickest heads in England.

  Perry waved Benedict over to the right side of the street and Harrington to the left, then took his place between them. “On my count, then, gentlemen, and, er…young ladies. On your marks, get set…go!”

  A footrace had seemed like a harmless enough diversion at first, but like many of Benedict’s antics, it proved to be trickier than he’d anticipated. The lane was narrow, the cobbles slick and uneven, and both he and Harrington were a trifle sotted. They careened forward, their boots slipping from underneath them, and just missed slamming into each other and toppling their jockeys to the ground.

  “Go on, faster!” Sarah jabbed her heels into Benedict’s stomach, squealing with glee as he raced down the lane. His heart shot into his throat when Harrington stumbled against him at the turn, visions of blood and twisted, childish limbs racing through his head, but they’d come too far to put a stop to it now, so he dug in and shot past Harrington to clear a safe pathway for himself and Sarah, his legs shaking and lungs burning.

  “They’re coming into the final stretch,” Perry shouted as they drew closer. “And it’s…Haslemere and Sarah, by a nose! That big beak of yours finally came in handy, eh Haslemere? Too bad, Harrington!”

  Harrington came to a halt beside Benedict, still panting. “Blast! Susannah and I had it up until that last bit. Damn you and your long legs, Haslemere. Shall we go again? A ten guinea wager this time?”

  “Yes, yes, let’s go again!” Sarah clapped her hands. “That were such good fun!”

  “Ten guineas?” Susannah breathed. “Cor, guv. That’s a lot of blunt, that is.”

  “You’re quite right, Susannah. It is a lot of blunt. Such high stakes demand a more adventurous race. What say you, Haslemere?”

  Benedict recognized the gleam in Harrington’s eyes, and his own eyes narrowed. “Determined to break a bone tonight, Harrington?”

  Harrington, who’d had a great deal more port than Benedict, shrugged off his concerns. “Nonsense, it’s safe enough. Ten guineas, but this time our jockeys ride on our shoulders, not our backs.”

  “Are you mad?” Benedict peeled a squirming, clinging Sarah off his back. “I nearly dropped her as it was.”

  “Oh, come now, Haslemere. It’s fine. Look, I’ll show you.” Harrington crouched down, and Susannah slid off his back. “That’s right, love. Now, lift her onto my shoulders, will you, Perry?”

  Perry looked doubtful, but he grasped Susannah around her waist and lifted her onto Harrington’s shoulders. “Hold on to her, now, Harrington. Get a good grip on her legs, and don’t drop her.”

  “What do you take me for, Perry? A proper stallion never loses his rider.” Harrington eased to a standing position with Susannah balanced on his shoulders, and turned to Benedict with a triumphant smile. “Now, stop grumbling, and get your rider mounted. Up you go, Sarah. Kneel down, Haslemere.”

  Benedict didn’t move. “No. Not a chance, Harrington.”

  “For God’s sake, Haslemere, what’s the trouble?” Harrington’s lips curled in the wicked grin that had wreaked untold havoc on London’s belles. “She wants to ride again, don’t you, Sarah?”

  “Of course, she wants to ride. She’s a child, and doesn’t know any better, but you do, Harrington. These are little girls, not china dolls. If you drop her, you can’t patch her back together with twine and paste.”

  Harrington huffed out a breath, but after a bit of sulking he gave in, and reached up to lift Susannah down from his shoulders. “You’re a dreadful bore, Haslemere.”

  Benedict slapped him on the back. “I’ll think of some other amusement to entertain you.”

  “You’d better,” Harrington grumbled. “Not White’s either, or any of the gaming hells, or I’ll be quite cross with you. I want something new.”

  “I’ve never failed you before, have I? Now, Perry. The hat, if you please.” Benedict held out his hand, and Perry handed over the hat. “My dear young ladies, we thank you for your delightful company this evening.” Benedict turned to the two girls and offered each of them an extravagant bow. “You’re both admirable jockeys, and you’ve earned your guineas.”

  Susannah snatched up the coin Benedict offered her quicker than a frog with a juicy fly on its tongue, but Sarah made no move to take hers. She stared up at Benedict, her chin wobbling, and then…

  Disaster struck. Sarah�
�s eye twitched, her face screwed up, her mouth opened, and a deafening howl broke loose from her lips.

  Harrington slapped his hands over his ears. “Good Lord. What’s the matter with her? What’s she doing?”

  Perry peered down at the little girl. “Erm, she seems to be crying.”

  Harrington leaned down to get a closer look at her, then straightened with a wise nod. “I do believe you’re right, Perry. My sisters cry on occasion, and it looks just like that.”

  Benedict stared down at Sarah, horrified. “For God’s sakes, of course she’s crying, you half-wits. But why?”

  Susannah had been studying her guinea, as suspicious as any moneylender, but now she turned to Benedict with a shrug. “She wants to go for another horse ride.”

  “I want to go again!” Sarah stamped her foot, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That cove there said we might.”

  “But it isn’t safe, sweetheart,” Benedict protested. “Lord Harrington here is sure to drop you, and you’ll end up with a cracked skull.”

  “Me? You’re the one who’d have dropped her, Haslemere.”

  “She doesn’t care about a cracked skull.” Susannah balanced her guinea in her palm, as if weighing it, then shoved it into her skirt pocket. “Oh, quit yer fussing Sarah, and take yer guinea before these coves shove off.”

  But Sarah didn’t stop fussing, not even when Benedict offered her the coin. He’d seen females weep before, but kisses and flattery—or jewels in the direst of cases—usually quieted them quickly enough. Little girls were not, it seemed, as easily soothed. “What do we do?”

  “I’ve no idea, but I wish you luck with it, Haslemere.” Harrington pounded him on the back, then turned away. “We’ll see you at Gentleman Jackson’s tomorrow, eh?”

  Benedict grabbed his coat sleeve. “Tomorrow! You’re leaving me here?”

  Harrington shrugged him off. “You’re the one who made her cry. I would have taken them for another ride.”

  “Damn it, Harrington.”

  Benedict made another grab for him, but Harrington stepped neatly out of his way, and shot him an infuriating grin over his shoulder. “Good luck, Haslemere.”