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Synopsis
The award-winning, bestselling author of Pure Sin and Outlaw entices us once more into a world of sensual fantasy.
Countess Angela de Grae seemed to have everything a woman could want: wealth, position, and an exquisite beauty that had once bewitched even the Prince of Wales. But from the moment the dashing American playboy and adventurer Kit Braddock laid eyes on the legendary Countess Angel, he knew she was unlike any of the other rich, jaded blue bloods he’d ever met. For beneath the polish and glitter of her privileged life, he glimpsed a courageous woman tormented by a secret heartache.
Determined to uncover the real Angela de Grae, what Kit found was a passionate soul mate trapped in a dangerous situation by a desperate man. And in one moment of reckless, stolen pleasure, Kit would pledge his very life to rescue her and give her the one thing she’d forbidden herself: the ecstasy of true love.
Release date: May 26, 2010
Publisher: Fanfare
Print pages: 464
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Brazen
Susan Johnson
1
Cowes, England
August 1896
“No, darling,” Kit Braddock murmured. “I have to sleep—”
A heated kiss silenced his dissent, and for a lengthy interval only the faint sound of lapping waves floating in through the open portholes broke the stillness. Then, sighing, he gently pushed the seductive woman away. Setting her at a safe distance, he dropped back into a sprawl amid the tangle of bed-sheets, his tall, lean body dark against the white linen. “The race starts early,” he said, gazing up at the siren kneeling at his side, his smile pale in the moonlight. “Be sensible,” he cajoled.
“Wales’s crew does all the work,” she countered, her voice minutely fretful, her tumbled golden hair framing a pouty face.
“Not tomorrow. They’re going to need help sailing against the Meteor. I also have to be polite to royalty all day,” he added, stretching his large frame, the fluid ripple of muscle vivid in the gilded light of moonbeams. “And that’s damned tiring.”
“This won’t take long.”
Kit smiled broadly. “We all know the measure of your orgasmic speed, Saskia—but, sweetheart, it’s really getting late.”
At that precise moment, however, Cleo’s warm mouth began tracing a slow gliding progress over the tanned firmness of his thigh with the ultimate focus of that journey reacting in a predictable way.
Noting his instant response, Saskia triumphantly smirked.
A wet tongue languidly slid up his rising erection, and he softly groaned as exquisite pleasure inundated his senses. Glancing down at the dark-haired woman resting between his legs, then up at the clock on the teak-paneled wall, he swiftly debated carnal urgency against the practicalities of time.
“Just once more … Saskia softly purred, her eyes half-lidded, anticipation stirring her blood, her gaze on the rigid length of Kit’s penis slipping in and out of Cleo’s mouth.
A third woman rolled closer on the large bed, her plump breasts swelling against Kit’s shoulder. She was small and lithe, and when she raised herself slightly to touch her lips to his ear, the silken heat of her body slid up his arm. Her voice was no more than a seductive resonance in his ear, her tantalizing words reminding him of the night they’d outraced the pasha’s yacht near Cyprus.
Lust flared through his body at the memory.
“Just a few minutes more …,” the Ceylonese beauty whispered.
His shadowed eyes swept the lush trio, their scented flesh fragrant in his nostrils, their naked charms incarnate womanhood.
He’d raced more than once without sleep, he thought. And, he decided, royalty would just have to be content with a less energetic guest … three hours from now.
Shutting his eyes, he shifted slightly to absorb the fierce jolt of pleasure convulsing his body, Cleo’s training in the pasha’s harem cultivated to excite every sensitive nerve … and obliterate cerebral concerns.
The race vanished from his thoughts.
Even the sound of waves faded from his ears.
Until sometime later when Cleo lifted her head.
Kit’s eyes opened, and surveying his lovely companions, he said with a grin, “Now, then, darlings … who’s going to be first?”
2
The ball at the Royal Yacht Club was raucous and heated—more so than usual, for the Prince of Wales’s three-hundred-ton racing cutter Britannia had won against the kaiser’s radically designed yacht Meteor that afternoon. Even had the prince not loathed his posturing nephew, the win would have been cause for celebration. But defeating what was reputedly the priciest yacht in the world was the sweetest of victories.
His Royal Highness had been celebrating since the finish line had heaved into view and the decibel levels at the Royal Yacht Club indicated England’s pride and elation.
But two people escaping the din and tumult had taken refuge on the starlit terrace.
The Countess de Grae was struggling to maintain her composure against the pressure of tears welling in her throat and eyes. She never should have come to Cowes, despite the Prince of Wales’s invitation; Cowes always reminded her of Joe. How many summers had she sailed with Joe Manton? Too many to forget all the memories. And while she understood Joe’s need to marry now that he’d inherited his title, his marriage to Georgiana last month had left her feeling adrift, bereft of a dear friend.
Leaning against the stone balustrade, Kit Brad-dock was contemplating the distant tranquillity of his yacht moored far out in the harbor. After having sailed with the Prince of Wales on the Britannia that day—and after having drunk more than his share of celebratory toasts the last several hours—the peaceful hermitage of the Desiree lured his weary spirits. Inhaling deeply, he drew in the cool night air, the sharp tang of the sea breeze, refreshing after the cloying heat of the ballroom. He could see his stateroom lights twinkling across the water. Would it be possible to slip away unnoticed?
Tomorrow he raced against the Italians and French. His American-built ocean racer was expected to win. He smiled. Of course he’d win; his yacht could outrun anything on the seas. But some sleep wouldn’t be out of order….
When he first heard the muffled sobs, his immediate reaction was to ignore them.
It was late.
He was tired.
And weeping women invariably meant trouble.
But the closeness of the sound surprised him; he wondered that he’d overlooked her presence. That’s what came of living the idle life of leisure during the London season, he noted. One lost one’s fine edge playing the gentleman.
Angela de Grae preferred not to embarrass herself before the man who had been paying court to her best friend’s daughter the past fortnight. Kit Braddock would have been distinguishable by his formidable size alone even had the moonlight not disclosed his distinctive features. Charlotte had glowingly described the rich, handsome American yachtsman who’d charmed his way into her young daughter’s heart. Angela was to have been formally introduced to Priscilla’s beau tonight—if she’d been able to withstand the brittle gaiety inside. How damnably awkward. Maybe the man would pretend not to have heard and go away. The countess dearly hoped he would.
The woman’s scent struck Kit as a swirl of night air eddied across the secluded corner—an intense attar of rose—separate from the Asian lilies and climbing rugosas cascading over the terrace wall. The fragrance struck a vaguely familiar chord somewhere in the indecipherable recesses of his mind.
Then he heard a small sniffle.
And silently swearing, he debated his limited options. Would it be ignominious to cut and run? Had he been recognized? How could he possibly offer solace to some unknown woman? Lord, he disliked crying females. But ultimately good manners and an inherent courtesy prevailed, and when, with a suppressed sigh, he turned and moved toward the sound, his polite smile was in place.
The figure of a seated woman materialized from the mottled shadows of the turreted wall, very near indeed to where he’d been standing. “Could I be of some assistance?” he quietly said.
When the countess lifted her head, a streak of moonlight caught and shimmered on the pale tips of her fashionably curled coiffeur, framing the perfection of her face in a platinum halo.
For very good reason Angela de Grae had reigned as a recognized beauty for so long, Kit thought with a sudden stabbing clarity. She was undeniably breathtaking. Even with that sadness in her eyes.
When she gently shook her head, the renowned Lawton diamonds swung from her earlobes. “It’s just a touch of melancholy,” Angela murmured. “Fatigue, no doubt, after a very busy season. And the noise inside …” She shivered in delicate revulsion.
“Would you like an escort home?” Kit queried. Gossip was rife concerning Major Joe Manton’s sudden marriage and the consequences to his long-term love affair with the countess. Her need for privacy was understandable. And then he suddenly recalled why the attar of roses had nudged his memory. The countess had been wearing the same perfume when he’d briefly met her years ago at Biarritz, where she’d been on holiday with the Prince of Wales.
“How can we leave? Bertie’s still here,” she replied with a small sigh. No one could precede a royal guest.
Kit’s eyes shone with mischief. “I could lower you over the balustrade, and we could both escape.”
Her mouth quirked faintly in a tentative smile. “How tempting. Are the festivities wearing thin for you, too, Mr. Braddock? We were supposed to meet formally tonight,” she graciously added. “I’m Angela de Grae, a good friend of Priscilla’s mother.”
“I thought so,” he neutrally replied, thinking her gracious not to flaunt her celebrity as a professional beauty. Her photos sold in enormous numbers in England. “And, yes, worn thin’ is a very polite expression for my current mood. I’m racing early tomorrow, and I’d rather sleep tonight than watch everyone become increasingly drunk.”
“Champagne is flowing in torrents, but Bertie is pleased with his victory. Especially after losing to his nephew last year.”
“Willie deserved his trouncing today. He should have been disqualified for almost shearing off our bow on the turn. But at the moment I’m concerned only with escaping from the party. If I’m going to have my crew in shape in the morning, we’re all going to need some rest.”
“Do they wait for your return?” The countess’s voice held the smallest hint of huskiness, an unconsciously flirtatious voice. “Priscilla doesn’t know, of course.” Although Kit Braddock referred to his female companions as “crew,” reportedly he kept a small harem on board his yacht to entertain him on his journeys around the world.
Cowes, England
August 1896
“No, darling,” Kit Braddock murmured. “I have to sleep—”
A heated kiss silenced his dissent, and for a lengthy interval only the faint sound of lapping waves floating in through the open portholes broke the stillness. Then, sighing, he gently pushed the seductive woman away. Setting her at a safe distance, he dropped back into a sprawl amid the tangle of bed-sheets, his tall, lean body dark against the white linen. “The race starts early,” he said, gazing up at the siren kneeling at his side, his smile pale in the moonlight. “Be sensible,” he cajoled.
“Wales’s crew does all the work,” she countered, her voice minutely fretful, her tumbled golden hair framing a pouty face.
“Not tomorrow. They’re going to need help sailing against the Meteor. I also have to be polite to royalty all day,” he added, stretching his large frame, the fluid ripple of muscle vivid in the gilded light of moonbeams. “And that’s damned tiring.”
“This won’t take long.”
Kit smiled broadly. “We all know the measure of your orgasmic speed, Saskia—but, sweetheart, it’s really getting late.”
At that precise moment, however, Cleo’s warm mouth began tracing a slow gliding progress over the tanned firmness of his thigh with the ultimate focus of that journey reacting in a predictable way.
Noting his instant response, Saskia triumphantly smirked.
A wet tongue languidly slid up his rising erection, and he softly groaned as exquisite pleasure inundated his senses. Glancing down at the dark-haired woman resting between his legs, then up at the clock on the teak-paneled wall, he swiftly debated carnal urgency against the practicalities of time.
“Just once more … Saskia softly purred, her eyes half-lidded, anticipation stirring her blood, her gaze on the rigid length of Kit’s penis slipping in and out of Cleo’s mouth.
A third woman rolled closer on the large bed, her plump breasts swelling against Kit’s shoulder. She was small and lithe, and when she raised herself slightly to touch her lips to his ear, the silken heat of her body slid up his arm. Her voice was no more than a seductive resonance in his ear, her tantalizing words reminding him of the night they’d outraced the pasha’s yacht near Cyprus.
Lust flared through his body at the memory.
“Just a few minutes more …,” the Ceylonese beauty whispered.
His shadowed eyes swept the lush trio, their scented flesh fragrant in his nostrils, their naked charms incarnate womanhood.
He’d raced more than once without sleep, he thought. And, he decided, royalty would just have to be content with a less energetic guest … three hours from now.
Shutting his eyes, he shifted slightly to absorb the fierce jolt of pleasure convulsing his body, Cleo’s training in the pasha’s harem cultivated to excite every sensitive nerve … and obliterate cerebral concerns.
The race vanished from his thoughts.
Even the sound of waves faded from his ears.
Until sometime later when Cleo lifted her head.
Kit’s eyes opened, and surveying his lovely companions, he said with a grin, “Now, then, darlings … who’s going to be first?”
2
The ball at the Royal Yacht Club was raucous and heated—more so than usual, for the Prince of Wales’s three-hundred-ton racing cutter Britannia had won against the kaiser’s radically designed yacht Meteor that afternoon. Even had the prince not loathed his posturing nephew, the win would have been cause for celebration. But defeating what was reputedly the priciest yacht in the world was the sweetest of victories.
His Royal Highness had been celebrating since the finish line had heaved into view and the decibel levels at the Royal Yacht Club indicated England’s pride and elation.
But two people escaping the din and tumult had taken refuge on the starlit terrace.
The Countess de Grae was struggling to maintain her composure against the pressure of tears welling in her throat and eyes. She never should have come to Cowes, despite the Prince of Wales’s invitation; Cowes always reminded her of Joe. How many summers had she sailed with Joe Manton? Too many to forget all the memories. And while she understood Joe’s need to marry now that he’d inherited his title, his marriage to Georgiana last month had left her feeling adrift, bereft of a dear friend.
Leaning against the stone balustrade, Kit Brad-dock was contemplating the distant tranquillity of his yacht moored far out in the harbor. After having sailed with the Prince of Wales on the Britannia that day—and after having drunk more than his share of celebratory toasts the last several hours—the peaceful hermitage of the Desiree lured his weary spirits. Inhaling deeply, he drew in the cool night air, the sharp tang of the sea breeze, refreshing after the cloying heat of the ballroom. He could see his stateroom lights twinkling across the water. Would it be possible to slip away unnoticed?
Tomorrow he raced against the Italians and French. His American-built ocean racer was expected to win. He smiled. Of course he’d win; his yacht could outrun anything on the seas. But some sleep wouldn’t be out of order….
When he first heard the muffled sobs, his immediate reaction was to ignore them.
It was late.
He was tired.
And weeping women invariably meant trouble.
But the closeness of the sound surprised him; he wondered that he’d overlooked her presence. That’s what came of living the idle life of leisure during the London season, he noted. One lost one’s fine edge playing the gentleman.
Angela de Grae preferred not to embarrass herself before the man who had been paying court to her best friend’s daughter the past fortnight. Kit Braddock would have been distinguishable by his formidable size alone even had the moonlight not disclosed his distinctive features. Charlotte had glowingly described the rich, handsome American yachtsman who’d charmed his way into her young daughter’s heart. Angela was to have been formally introduced to Priscilla’s beau tonight—if she’d been able to withstand the brittle gaiety inside. How damnably awkward. Maybe the man would pretend not to have heard and go away. The countess dearly hoped he would.
The woman’s scent struck Kit as a swirl of night air eddied across the secluded corner—an intense attar of rose—separate from the Asian lilies and climbing rugosas cascading over the terrace wall. The fragrance struck a vaguely familiar chord somewhere in the indecipherable recesses of his mind.
Then he heard a small sniffle.
And silently swearing, he debated his limited options. Would it be ignominious to cut and run? Had he been recognized? How could he possibly offer solace to some unknown woman? Lord, he disliked crying females. But ultimately good manners and an inherent courtesy prevailed, and when, with a suppressed sigh, he turned and moved toward the sound, his polite smile was in place.
The figure of a seated woman materialized from the mottled shadows of the turreted wall, very near indeed to where he’d been standing. “Could I be of some assistance?” he quietly said.
When the countess lifted her head, a streak of moonlight caught and shimmered on the pale tips of her fashionably curled coiffeur, framing the perfection of her face in a platinum halo.
For very good reason Angela de Grae had reigned as a recognized beauty for so long, Kit thought with a sudden stabbing clarity. She was undeniably breathtaking. Even with that sadness in her eyes.
When she gently shook her head, the renowned Lawton diamonds swung from her earlobes. “It’s just a touch of melancholy,” Angela murmured. “Fatigue, no doubt, after a very busy season. And the noise inside …” She shivered in delicate revulsion.
“Would you like an escort home?” Kit queried. Gossip was rife concerning Major Joe Manton’s sudden marriage and the consequences to his long-term love affair with the countess. Her need for privacy was understandable. And then he suddenly recalled why the attar of roses had nudged his memory. The countess had been wearing the same perfume when he’d briefly met her years ago at Biarritz, where she’d been on holiday with the Prince of Wales.
“How can we leave? Bertie’s still here,” she replied with a small sigh. No one could precede a royal guest.
Kit’s eyes shone with mischief. “I could lower you over the balustrade, and we could both escape.”
Her mouth quirked faintly in a tentative smile. “How tempting. Are the festivities wearing thin for you, too, Mr. Braddock? We were supposed to meet formally tonight,” she graciously added. “I’m Angela de Grae, a good friend of Priscilla’s mother.”
“I thought so,” he neutrally replied, thinking her gracious not to flaunt her celebrity as a professional beauty. Her photos sold in enormous numbers in England. “And, yes, worn thin’ is a very polite expression for my current mood. I’m racing early tomorrow, and I’d rather sleep tonight than watch everyone become increasingly drunk.”
“Champagne is flowing in torrents, but Bertie is pleased with his victory. Especially after losing to his nephew last year.”
“Willie deserved his trouncing today. He should have been disqualified for almost shearing off our bow on the turn. But at the moment I’m concerned only with escaping from the party. If I’m going to have my crew in shape in the morning, we’re all going to need some rest.”
“Do they wait for your return?” The countess’s voice held the smallest hint of huskiness, an unconsciously flirtatious voice. “Priscilla doesn’t know, of course.” Although Kit Braddock referred to his female companions as “crew,” reportedly he kept a small harem on board his yacht to entertain him on his journeys around the world.
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