Boundless

Book 3: Shaws

by Lynne Connolly

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

She’s the unlikely wallflower of the extraordinary Shaw family.  A woman who will never marry, but not for the reasons you might think . . . Attacked on the streets of London, Lady Livia Shaw is relieved when a gentleman comes to her aid—and startled to discover her rescuer is Adrian, the Duke of Preston, a notorious rogue. But their association—and instant attraction—does not end there, much to the Shaws’ distress. For Livia was robbed of a memento—one that is both her most precious possession and a reminder of a shameful secret. It is a secret she knows will cause her to lose Adrian forever, yet he is determined to track down the thief . . . Adrian never wanted to be anyone’s hero, but now he’s finding the prospect as pleasing as he does Livia’s company, and her beauty. Certainly he wants her in his bed, but what surprises him is how much she comes to mean to him. Which is why the revelation of her scandalous past is nearly his undoing. Arrogantly, he had assumed only he had the power to shock. But it is too late to turn back, and now Adrian may have to risk everything for Livia, even his heart . . . “Lynne Connolly writes Georgian romances with a deft touch. Her characters amuse, entertain and reach into your heart.” — USA Today bestselling author Desiree Holt “With plots, deviousness and passion galore, Temptation Has Green Eyes by Lynne Connolly is a truly enjoyable read.” —Fresh Fiction

Release date: December 4, 2018

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 235

Sample

Chapter 1

Adrian slumped against the squabs of the hackney cab as it set off from his house in King Street. Correction—Ophelia’s King Street house. He’d already had the deeds put in her name, but she’d generously given him another day to quit the premises.

In the shadows of the vehicle, he grinned. A house was a small price to pay to rid himself of the exquisite, grasping, tediously mundane person Ophelia d’Arblay had turned out to be. Every man in London wanted Ophelia for his mistress. Well, she was back on the market and they were all welcome to her.

With a groan, he stretched his limbs. After a tough all-night session in the House of Lords, he’d repaired here to find Ophelia entertaining one of the few peers not in Parliament that evening. Truly, he should have guessed she was seeing someone on the sly. But what had surprised him the most was his inability to care. Her subsequent spectacular tantrum merely bored him. It did not move him. She had broken his one and only rule, and she must suffer the consequences.

Exhausted, he looked forward to falling into his own bed and leaving the day behind.

A movement ahead caught his attention. A woman stood at the edge of the road, her gown a flash of bright blue, while children scurried like rats around her. One skinny youth had his mouth open, laughing, catching her attention while the other––Adrian spied trouble. And where trouble lurked, so did he.

Grabbing his cane, he rapped the roof of the carriage. “Stop! Stop now!”

Before the driver had managed to haul the nag to a halt, Adrian had opened the door and leaped into the street. Turning only to toss a shilling to the driver, who caught it deftly, pocketed it and gave his horse the office to continue in one smooth move, Adrian faced the trouble.

That blue silk belonged to a lady, although the gown had become sadly smeared with mud and torn in her efforts to escape her tormentors. Her face was obscured by the broad brim of her bergère hat, its pink ribbons askew and the jaunty bow on top crushed. For all that, this was a lady. The gown was good, the skirts too wide for this part of London, and her linen fine, the nearly sheer veil over her tantalizing bosom hinting at the pink flesh beneath. Despite his recent disappointment, Adrian’s mouth watered.

All this he absorbed as he headed at speed for the unfortunate woman beset by street urchins. He kept his attention on her while he struck out with his cane, lashing right and left, ignoring the ensuing yelps and protests.

The woman whirled right into him, and Adrian found himself with an armful of warmth and silk. That made wielding his cane trickier. Rolling the woman to the left, he looped his arm around her waist and used his right hand to advantage. Battle heated his veins, sending a fire coursing around his body and rousing him from his ennui. He had not felt this alive for a long time. Although he was only one man against six urchins who had learned to fight on the streets, he made a good account of himself. The trouble was, they kept coming at him from different directions. Catching one importunate boy a crack across his shoulders appeared to deter them. All but one, who darted around the other side of the female before shrieking. A wordless yell meant to deflect, if Adrian knew anything about it.

The one in front crashed into her and a sickening crack rent the air. Not from him, but he couldn’t stop to check her. He tightened his hold and dealt the boy a telling blow to the side of his head with his cane. The responding yelp warmed his heart.

“Let me go! You can’t fight like this.”

She was right. Her voluminous skirts and the cloak around her shoulders hampered him. He snapped, “Don’t go out of my sight,” before releasing her. He settled in to the rhythm of the fight. Fully awake now, all trace of tiredness gone, Adrian swung his cane, wielding it more like a club than a delicate fashion accessory. Sooner or later it would break, and then he’d have to resort to his fists.

He looked forward to it.

“Come on then, you cowards!” he yelled as one of the assailants ran off, screaming. Crouching into a fighting stance, he stood ready, his cane held before him, waiting for the next attack.

His maiden stood where he’d told her to, the bright blue of her gown a flag of fresh color in this grimy London street. She leaned to one side. Had that crack he’d heard a moment ago been one of her bones? And yet she didn’t move and when she bade him release her, she’d sounded steady enough.

As if someone had waved a gun, the boys turned tail and ran, scattering into the alleys feeding the street, like the rats they were.

Adrian straightened up and shook his coat free of dust.

He flicked his gaze over the woman, scanning her disheveled appearance. Clearly she needed help. With the blood of war still thrumming through his veins, he drew a deep breath, savoring the sheer joy of being here, alive and healthy. Why would he not? His relentless pursuit of life led to that wonderful feeling, better than a case of wine, better than the finest French brandy. And for sure better than a night’s gambling.

Better than spending a night in his mistress’s bed? Perhaps. Not the one he had just discarded, but this one…he might have found his new interest. A well-dressed young woman in this part of London would hardly be the kind he’d meet in the ballrooms of Mayfair.

“They got my purse,” she said then. Although her voice was soft, it still trembled. She was more shaken than she cared to tell him.

“Did they take much?”

She shrugged a delicate shoulder. “A few guineas, an ivory comb, a fine linen handkerchief––no, not much.”

Aha. Any woman who considered that haul “not much” had recourse to more.

Gallantly, he offered his arm. “You are shaken, madam. May I offer you the hospitality of my house?” At least, it was his house until the morning when the new deeds came into effect. “You may tidy yourself up and recover from your ordeal.”

From beneath the broken brim of her hat, she peered at him warily. “You speak like a gentleman.”

“And you sound like a lady.”

Without warning, she sagged, dipping forward, threatening to fall. Adrian caught her, curving his arm around her waist at the front and tilting her gently back to lean against his shoulder. “Can you walk?” he murmured, his mouth so close to her ear that her curls tickled his skin. She had blonde hair with a hint of red. He’d seen that shade before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where.

She nodded, lowering her head to rest on his shoulder. If he had to, he’d carry her.

To his relief, when he took a small, slow pace, she came with him. Although her feet dragged, he detected no sign of a stumble, or anything that would indicate she was seriously hurt. If they took it at a snail’s pace, they could manage the distance. “The house isn’t far, at the end of King Street.”

His hackney had almost reached Covent Garden. King Street abutted it. Since his mistress worked as an actress at Drury Lane, in fact was a star of the stage there, she liked the proximity. No doubt she would continue to do so.

“I should not,” she murmured.

Shock, he assumed. Tilting up her chin, anticipating the credit his good deed would accomplish, he gazed into her face.

Damn and blast it. He recognized her. He would not be making this woman his mistress, sadly.

But what was Lady Livia Shaw doing in this part of London, and on her own too?

* * * *

She had not wanted to tell her savior, but Livia had suffered a wallop on the head before the man had appeared on the scene. She’d assumed her attacker meant to knock her out, but she had moved aside. Besides, her hat was new, and the stiffening in the straw hard. But he’d still caught her. The blow had made her ears ring and her head spin. Otherwise, she would not have gone anywhere with this stranger.

But he smelled good and he had a gentle touch that soothed her while it interested her. His body was as hard as any of her brothers’, comforting to lean on, providing the reliable support she needed. More used to closeness with men than most young, single women, she did not find him inappropriate. She would deal with all that business later. When her head stopped spinning.

But coming here? Lord, what was she thinking?

He had taken her a short distance to a fine house fronting King Street. Respectable people lived here, but not her sort. Perhaps he was married, and he could have servants to help her. Servants gossiped.

Until he closed the door behind them and led her into a front parlor, full awareness had eluded her. However now, as she shook her head and lifted her hands to loosen the bow under her chin, the odd sensation of not-quite-there cleared, and appalled realization sliced through her.

“I cannot thank you enough for your help, sir,” she said, trying to quell the tremor in her voice, “but if you would find me a hackney cab or a chair, I’ll be on my way.”

He stepped closer, taking her hat from her. The brim flopped over his dark hands, the sharp line of the break indicating its uselessness. Gently, he placed it on a nearby chair. He flicked open the clasp that fastened her cloak and let it fall where it would.

Livia turned her head to one side, strangely unwilling to meet his eyes. “Goodness!”

“I’m afraid these walls haven’t seen much of that lately,” he confessed. “But yes, it is—spectacular.”

“You chose this scheme?” If that was the best way to describe her surroundings. Wallpaper red and gold silk vied with mahogany furnishings, their surfaces covered with porcelain figures, decorative plates and glittering candelabra.

“The lady who will own this house chose it. I considered the gift fair exchange for my peace of mind.” He touched his lips, drawing her unwilling attention to their inviting fullness. “She has a larger reception room above this one, but I would not advise that you see it. Yesterday it rivalled this room, but now you need sturdy shoes to crunch across the floor.”

“Oh! Was there an accident?”

“Only one caused by her fair hands after I presented her with her congé. I did not intend to drive her to cause such destruction. Perhaps the world can use fewer figurines.” He picked up a porcelain monkey and turned it, handling the delicate piece so carefully. Livia could feel those fingers drifting across her skin, stroking her into doing his will. Heat spread over her, nothing to do with her recent altercation.

What on earth was she thinking? Her innate good manners came to her rescue. She must keep talking. She could not risk that enforced closeness again. Because she did not have the same response to this man as she did with her brothers. What had he said? Oh yes. “So you had to break bad news to the lady? Pray, where is she?”

“She is gone to the playhouse. She performs there tonight.”

Livia’s gasp bounced off the walls. “An actress?”

“The actress, as she would no doubt insist. Yes, my lady, Ophelia d’Arblay owns this house. Or will, after I have quit it.” He gave Livia a broad smile. “And I could not be happier. By the way, her real name is Fanny Smethurst, but I presume she did not consider it good enough for the stage. I never asked.”

The room spun, and she momentarily lost her footing, her knees sagging. He tucked a hand under her elbow, his touch sure, and helped her to a green upholstered chair, lowering her gently into it. Very fine, and also comfortable, but Livia would not have placed it in this room. That was none of her concern. She only needed to recover and leave with as much dignity as she could.

At least the giddiness had stopped, and the brim of her hat no longer drooped in her eyes. Livia tilted her head, surveying the mountain of a man standing before her. His sober clothes and easy demeanor had fooled her. He wasn’t even wearing lace at his wrists or around his neck, just plain linen.

Her second gasp sounded just as loud as the last one. “You’re the Duke of Preston.”

She was eye to eye with the most scandalous peer in London. Olive-skinned, black-eyed, with gleaming black hair tied ruthlessly back from his sensually handsome face, there he was in person. Unmistakable now she could see him properly. He stared back boldly. According to rumor, he avoided respectable women like the plague and ran with the less respectable ones. That explained this house, and why she had not immediately recognized him. He rarely inhabited her part of society.

He bowed mockingly. “The last time I looked, yes. And you are Lady Livia Shaw. Since no one is here to do the honors, we must shift to manage the introductions for ourselves.” He grinned.

That smile would make stronger women than Livia faint. It was reported to have done so, but she had always doubted the stories. Until now, that was. Perhaps the smile hadn’t caused the hot wash of attraction that swept over her. The attack may have had more serious effects than she had first thought.

So here she was, sitting in the parlor of an actress with the woman’s keeper. So scandalous that only a Shaw could survive it. Except Livia wasn’t that kind of Shaw. “How did you know I wasn’t my twin sister?”

“The possibility never crossed my mind,” he said. “Why, are you Lady St. Just? Do I have to meet your husband at dawn?”

“No, though you might have to meet one of my brothers.” She grimaced. “Although they should learn to mind their own concerns.”

That grin returned. “Ah. I sense irritation.”

Turning away, he crossed the room, his tread surprisingly soft for such a large man. Of course, the rugs under his feet would help to cushion the sound. Was there any part of this room not covered in decoration of some kind?

Without asking, he poured two tumblers of brandy and brought them back, placing one for her on the side table at her elbow. “Drink it,” he advised. “It will help you to recover from the shock. Were you hurt at all?”

“A small knock to the side of my head,” she confessed, still stunned by her discovery of his identity.

Immediately he was by her side, touching her head. “Hold still,” he ordered. “And get rid of that linen cap.”

She’d kept her clothing plain today, knowing where she was going, so her cap was the kind maids wore, enveloping most of her hair and with pin-tucking rather than expensive lace. The ribbon under her chin had tightened into a thin string, and the bow was no more. “It’s in a knot. It needs cutting.”

With a curse, he dived a hand into his pocket and came out with a small, but wicked-looking knife. “Hold still.” His teeth flashed in a feral grin, but perhaps he meant it as reassuring. Letting a man she barely knew hold a knife anywhere near her throat was a new experience and not one she was keen to allow. But she had no choice.

Coming around to the front, he went down on one knee, a graceful gesture. Purely for practical purposes, of course. Livia swallowed. His eyes really were the most liquid she’d ever seen, such a dark brown they were close to black, but with little specks of gold near the center. That must be why they looked as if they were flashing when he turned his head. He had full lips, their coral pink a delightful contrast against his bronzed skin, which was so soft and velvety she wanted to touch it, to discover if the sheen on his skin was real or if she was imagining it. The brandy he’d just drunk added sweetness and a tang to his breath.

Lowering his heavily-lashed eyelids, he concentrated on his self-imposed task, as if his life depended on getting it exactly right. His chest moved with his breathing, regular and deep. Something glittered when he moved, a diamond pin stuck deep in the folds of his neckcloth. Not so plainly dressed, then.

The tiny snick when he slit the cord sounded loud in the quiet room. Despite the constant sounds of passing traffic and the tread and chat of passers-by outside, they seemed to be in a space of their own, untouchable and disregarded.

“There.” He lifted his eyes and met her gaze.

Staring so deeply into the eyes of this meltingly attractive man was probably a bad idea, but Livia didn’t care. When would she get the opportunity again? Despite his appalling reputation and the scorn he evinced for society and everyone in it, she caught sight of a vulnerability in the depths of his eyes. Not many people had ever seen that. He strode through ballrooms, on the few times he deigned to appear, with supreme arrogance and superior amusement. So many people wanted to bring him down that bets were laid in the coffeehouses on when it would happen.

His lids lowered again and he got to his feet. When he turned back to her, that vulnerability had gone. Perhaps she had imagined it. Well no, she hadn’t, but he obviously didn’t want her to mention it, so she wouldn’t. Livia had spent much of her life watching, warily waiting for the wrong approach or criticism, and she had grown adept at discovering changes of mood or hidden emotions in people.

The seductive expression was firmly back in place. A suspicion crossed Livia’s mind. Did he use that to frighten people off? Obviously it wouldn’t work with most men, but perhaps he used something else on them. Although she should not, a powerful urge to hunt out this man’s secrets hit Livia. Usually content to let people live their own lives, in this case she wanted to know more.

He returned to her side in a couple of quick steps. “I must touch your head. Is that permitted?”

Too late, he already had, and her skin still bore the imprint of his soft touch. For a rake, he certainly had respect. Because of that, she nodded. “By all means. I don’t want to bleed to death because you are too squeamish to look.”

Gently he probed her scalp where she’d received the blow. “It’s hot.”

She flinched and let out a sharp expression of dismay when he hit a tender spot.

“Ah, I see it.” He separated her hair at the place. Her neat hair arrangement must be a complete shambles by now. “I won’t touch it again. It’s a cut and a lump, fairly small, but you will bruise there. If you get a particularly bad headache, or you feel drowsy, let me know. Or anyone who happens to be with you.”

Once her older brother Val had tumbled out of a tree in the grounds of their family home. The blow he’d received hadn’t knocked him unconscious, but he was not himself again until the next day. Their mother had sat with him until she’d been certain the damage wasn’t more serious. She would take heed of his strictures. “I will, I promise.”

“Be sure you do. There is a little blood, but it’s hardening now. Better leave it until you get home.” He smoothed her hair back over the sore patch. The touch calmed her, but he left a trail of interest in his wake, as if her body was reluctant to let him go. “Drink your brandy.”

The firm order had her reaching for her glass and swallowing some of the fiery liquid. She’d drunk enough brandy to know a good one when she tasted it. This glowed down her throat, heating and sliding. She took another sip. “Do you enjoy giving orders?”

“In certain circumstances.” He walked behind her this time, closer because there was no table on this side. “Your hair is like silk.” He said the last words as if giving her the time of day, or some other mundane comment. “It is the most glorious color. You should never hide it away.” He took a seat opposite her, closer than she felt comfortable with. To be honest, if he’d sat in another room he’d probably be too close for her liking. Considering her scarecrow appearance, he should not be looking at her as if she were a delectable morsel for him to consume.

He’d probably gobble her up and walk away, hardly noticing the snack.

“I don’t usually, but the color brands me.” For some reason his offhand compliment affected Livia far more than the more fulsome praise of society beaux. “I needed the cap and the hat in this area.”

He frowned, his black eyebrows almost coming together. “What were you doing on your own in the street? Where is your maid, where are the footmen you no doubt have?”

She glanced away, not willing to tell him or anybody else why she’d shot out into the street. “I intended to stay at the orphanage, but I wanted some air, so I left early. Mama is sending the carriage for me.”

“What orphanage?”

“The one on Brownlow Street.”

“Wait here.” He got to his feet and left the room. A moment later a door slammed somewhere below, and voices carried to her, one male, one female. The door banged again, and the sound of feet on stone stairs reached her. He returned. “I’ve sent the maid to let them know where you are. Otherwise I daresay they’ll set up a hue and cry for you.” Smiling grimly, he added, “Let’s pray your servants are discreet.”

“They’ll tell my mother.”

“Not your father?”

“Him as well.” When she got home, there’d be hell to pay. Here she was, in the house of a mistress of a notorious rake. That was enough to have her denied access to every ballroom in London.

Retaking his seat, he propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his cheek on his hand, regarding her closely. Livia felt like a specimen in a jar, thoroughly inspected and found wanting. “Better they know where you are than they set up a search for you.”

She shuddered, clutching her upper arms. “Yes indeed.” As it was, she’d have to bribe the coachman heavily. Her maid she could trust. Finch had much to lose if Livia dismissed her, far more than the money a piece of gossip could acquire.

“What were you doing at the orphanage?”

She curled her fingers around her chair as she gave him a partial answer. “Trying to help. Since I’m destined to become an old maid, I might as well be a useful one.” Last year she had faced that reality. He could accept that, surely. A spinster turned philanthropist. London contained many of those.

To her shock, he burst into laughter. “You? Why would you think that? Your dowry must be substantial, and your physical attractions are obvious.” Lazily he let his gaze wander over her, not at all constrained by societal expectations.

Or hers. Nevertheless, warmth at his evident appreciation spread through her body, heightening her awareness of the parts of her she rarely considered, except to clean them and ensure they were well tucked away from view. She should be offended, affronted, but although she waited for it to happen, the emotion refused to arrive.

With his shot of laughter rocketing off the walls, she lifted her chin and lowered her eyelids, in a way guaranteed to quell the most importunate of her suitors. But he was a duke, and he was not a suitor. He met her expression with amusement. “You’re rallying. Good. A perfectly scandalous situation is averted.”

Her sharp laugh made him sit up, and his eyes widen. “You think my family members are strangers to scandal? Do you know nothing about the Shaws?”

Livia braced herself, ready for the prying questions. People always asked them things they wanted confirming. The truth about the Shaws was scandalous enough, and she had sketched the bare facts to him, but people loved to embroider on it, and invent even more outrageous stories. They generally ignored them loftily.

He shrugged. “Tell me. Let me see if I can overtop it.”

A person could find affinity in the strangest of places. “Since you insist, I’ll tell you. Scandal has followed my family like an unwanted guest. My brother Marcus married the daughter of our land steward. My brother Val was on the town for years. He fought duels, gambled a fortune away and won several more back. His twin, Darius, well, you probably know about him, although society has chosen to turn a blind eye to his passions.” Notably the lawyer Andrew Graham, who Darius was sharing a house with. And a bed, although they tried to be discreet.

“My twin sister, Claudia, met her husband in a brothel that she owned. My other sister Drusilla wrote a book that lampooned most of the prominent members of society. Do you want more? My cousin Max, who married a woman from the City? My cousin Julius who is married to a lady who was once a governess and the daughter of a village vicar? Or my cousin Alex, who married a woman he met in one of the most notorious brothels in Covent Garden?” She glared at him, daring him to comment.

A chu. . .