Dangerous

Book 1: Outcasts

by Minerva Spencer

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Lady Euphemia Marlington hasn't been free in 17 years — since she was captured by Corsairs and sold into a harem. Now the sultan is dead and Mia is back in London facing relentless newspapermen, an insatiably curious public, and her first Season. Worst of all is her ashamed father's ultimatum: marry a man of his choosing or live out her life in seclusion. No doubt her potential groom is a demented octogenarian. Fortunately, Mia is no longer a girl, but a clever woman with a secret — and a plan of her own....

Adam de Courtney's first two wives died under mysterious circumstances. Now there isn't a peer in England willing to let his daughter marry the dangerously handsome man the ton calls The Murderous Marquess. Nobody except Mia's father, the desperate Duke of Carlisle. Clearly Mia must resemble an aging matron, or worse. However, in need of an heir, Adam will use the arrangement to his advantage....

But when the two outcasts finally meet, assumptions will be replaced by surprises, deceit by desire-and a meeting of minds between two schemers may lead to a meeting of hearts — if the secrets of their pasts don't tear them apart....

Contains mature themes.

Release date: June 26, 2018

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

London, 1811

Euphemia Marlington considered poisoning the Duke of Carlisle. After all, in the harem poison was a perfectly reasonable solution to one’s problems.

Unfortunately, poison was not the answer to this particular problem.

First, she had no poison, or any idea how one acquired such a thing in this cold, confusing country.

Second, and far more important, poisoning one’s father was considered bad ton.

The Duke of Carlisle could have no idea what was going through his daughter’s mind as he paced a circuit around his massive mahogany desk, his voice droning on in a now familiar lecture. Mia ensured her father’s ignorance by keeping her expression meek and mild, a skill she had perfected during the seventeen years she’d spent in Baba Hassan’s palace. Appearing serene while entertaining murderous thoughts made up a large part of days spent among sixty or so women, at least fifty of whom would have liked to see her dead.

Mia realized the duke’s cavernous study had gone silent. She looked up to find a pair of green eyes blazing down at her.

“Are you listening to me, Euphemia?” His bristly auburn eyebrows arched like angry red caterpillars.

Mia cursed her wandering attention. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but I did not fully comprehend.” It was a small lie, and one that had worked well several times in the past six weeks. While it was true she still thought in Arabic, Mia understood English perfectly well.

Unless her attention had wandered.

The duke’s suspicious glare told her claiming a language-related misunderstanding was no longer as compelling as it had been weeks before.

“I said, you must take care what you disclose to people. I have gone to great lengths to conceal the more lurid details of your past. Talk of beheadings, poisonings, and, er . . . eunuchs makes my task far more difficult.” Her father’s pale skin darkened at being forced to articulate the word eunuch.

Mia ducked her head to hide a smile.

The duke—apparently interpreting her bowed head as a sign of contrition—resumed pacing, the thick brown and gold Aubusson carpet muffling the sounds of his booted feet. He cleared his throat several times, as if to scour his mouth of the distasteful syllables he’d just been forced to utter, and continued.

“My efforts on your behalf have been promising, but that will change if you insist on disclosing every last sordid detail of your past.”

Not every detail, Mia thought as she eyed her father from beneath lowered lashes. How would the duke react if she told him about the existence of her seventeen-year-old son, Jibril? Or if she described—in sordid detail—some of Sultan Babba Hassan’s more exotic perversions? Was it better to appall him with the truth or to allow him to continue treating her as if she were a girl of fifteen, rather than a woman of almost three and thirty?

The answer to that question was obvious: the truth would serve nobody’s interest, least of all Mia’s.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she murmured.

The duke grunted and resumed his journey around the room. “Your cousin assures me you’ve worked hard to conduct yourself in a respectable manner. However, after this latest fiasco—” He shook his head, lines creasing his otherwise smooth brow.

Her father was referring to a dinner party at which she’d stated that beheading criminals was more humane than hanging them. How could Mia have known that such a simple statement would cause such consternation?

The duke stopped in front of her again. “I am concerned your cousin Rebecca is not firm enough with you. Perhaps you would benefit from a stricter hand—your aunt Philippa’s, for instance?”

Mia winced. A single week under her aunt Philippa’s gimlet eye had been more terrifying than seventeen years in a harem full of scheming women.

The duke nodded, an unpleasant expression taking possession of his handsome features. “Yes, I can see that in spite of the language barrier you understand how your life would change were I to send you to live at Burnewood Park with my sister.”

The horrid suggestion made Mia’s body twitch to prostrate itself—an action she’d employed with Babba Hassan whenever she’d faced his displeasure; displeasure that caused more than one woman to lose her head. Luckily, Mia restrained the impulse before she could act on it. The last time she’d employed the gesture of humble respect—the day she’d arrived in England—the duke had been mortified into speechlessness to find his daughter groveling at his well-shod feet.

She bowed her head, instead. “I should not care to live with Aunt Philippa, Your Grace.”

The duke’s sigh floated above her head like the distant rumble of thunder. “Look at me, Euphemia.” Mia looked up. Her father’s stern features were tinged with resignation. “I would have thought you would wish to forget your wretched past and begin a new life. You are no longer young, of course, but you are still attractive and within childbearing years. Your history is something of an ... obstacle.” He stopped, as if nonplussed by the inadequacy of the word. “But there are several respectable men who are quite willing to marry you. You must cultivate acceptance and learn to accept minor, er, shortcomings in your suitors.”

Shortcomings. The word caused an almost hysterical bubble of mirth to rise in her throat. What the duke really meant was the only men willing to take an older woman with a dubious past were senile, hideous, brainless, diseased, or some combination thereof.

She said, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I know these are not the handsome princes of girlish fantasies, but you are no longer a girl, Euphemia.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were speaking about the state of Carlisle House’s drains, rather than his only daughter’s happiness. “If you do not mend your ways soon, even these few choices will disappear and the only course open to you will be a quiet life at Burnewood Park, and we both know you don’t wish for that.” He let those words sit for a moment before continuing. “The Season is almost over and it is time you made a decision about your future. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Your Grace, I understand.” All too well. Her father wished to have Mia off his hands before she did something so scandalous she would be unmarriageable.

“Very good, then.” The duke’s forehead reverted to its smooth, unlined state. “This ball tonight will be an excellent opportunity to further your acquaintance with several of the men who have expressed an interest in you. You need merely behave with decorum and enjoy yourself—ah, within reason, of course.” He patted her on the shoulder, returned to his chair, and resumed examining his ledger.

The audience was at an end.

Outside the duke’s study a pair of towering footmen stood sentry. One of them broke from his frozen state long enough to close the door behind her.

“Thank you,” Mia said, even though she knew it was not done to thank servants.

The man’s eyes remained fixed on some point over her left shoulder but a dull flush climbed up the muscular column of his throat.

Mia had been back in England for weeks but she was still distracted by the presence of attractive men who weren’t eunuchs. That fascination often worked both ways and she could feel the weight of curious eyes on her back as she made her way toward the library.

It was the same no matter whether she went to a shop or a ball or her family’s dining room; people were desperate to learn more about the Duke of Carlisle’s mysterious daughter. Her father’s servants, the crowds of strangers who waited for hours outside Carlisle House every day just to catch a glimpse of her, and, most especially, the men who wrote for the various scandal sheets available on every street corner in London.

Newspapermen couldn’t generate stories about her fast enough to satisfy their hungry readers. The most intrepid men had tried to get those stories firsthand. They had climbed into Mia’s carriage—once while it was still moving; hidden in the boot of the duke’s town coach; and sneaked into the fitting room at her favorite modiste. One enterprising man had even masqueraded as a female and secured a scullery maid position at Carlisle House.

The entire country clamored to know more about Mia’s mysterious past. Everyone, that was, except the members of her own family, who lived in a state of perpetual terror that she would do or say something horrific to push their family name beyond the pale.

Mia opened the library door and stopped. Her younger brother sat at the massive desk that dominated the far side of the book-lined room. Only the top of his head was visible above the teetering piles of books and papers. She stifled a groan. Was there nowhere in this enormous house she could be alone and think? She met her brother’s startled green eyes.

“I’m sorry, Cian. I did not know you were working. I will leave you to your studies.” She began backing out of the room but Cian leapt to his feet.

“Please, stay. I’d love your company.” He gestured to the mountain of books. “I’m having a wretched time thinking today.”

Mia sighed and closed the library door behind her.

“You think too much, Cian.” She crossed the gleaming expanse of dark wood between them and lowered herself onto the oxblood leather sofa across from his desk.

“So Father says.”

Mia grimaced. “Ah, Father.” She pulled on the ribbons that held her thin kid slippers to her ankles and kicked them off before tucking her feet beneath her. She looked up to find Cian staring and held up a hand. “Please, Brother, I have just come from one scolding. Do not give me another.”

Cian shook his head, the action causing a lock of auburn hair to fall over his brow. “I don’t give a rap how you sit, Mia. But you know Father does. You’d better get used to rakings if you insist on sitting that way.” He shifted a stack of books to one side to see her better. “But enough of that. Tell me, are you excited about tonight?”

“No.”

Cian laughed.

“I am not jesting. Tonight is just another opportunity for me to do or say something mortifying and draw Father’s censure.”

“Oh come, Mia. I’ve read nothing about you in the betting book at my club.” He grinned. “Not in the past week, at any rate.”

“Ha. Very amusing. I should think my behavior at the Charrings’ ball provided enough to fill several books.” Mia propped an elbow on the back of the settee and dropped her chin into her palm.

Cian’s smile faded. “You must forget about that, er, incident, Mia. I’ve not heard it mentioned in ages.”

That incident was Mia’s disastrous first ball. Mia thought her brother’s reassurance was naïve and optimistic. Just because men were no longer putting wagers in betting books did not mean the matter had been forgotten.

“In any event,” he continued. “I understand there will be numerous swains in attendance this evening.”

Her brother appeared determined to put the best face on an event that was no better than a public auction.

Mia shrugged. “Yes, there will be no undesirables at tonight’s dinner, only the finest pedigrees. After Father caught me talking to the scion of a coal magnate at the Powells’ soiree, I now understand that wealth derived from coal or textiles is considered detrimental to the bloodline. Imbecility, decrepitude, and foppery are, however, quite acceptable.”

Cian glanced at the door, as if somebody—the duke?—might be listening at the keyhole.

“My dear sister, you must curb your tongue if you are to catch even such men as fit those descriptions.”

“So I’ve been told. Father also made it plain he would sequester me with Aunt Philippa for the remainder of my days if I did not marry by the end of the Season.”

Cian opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

Something about her brother’s forlorn expression pricked Mia’s conscience. “Don’t mind me, Cian, I’m still smarting from the scolding Father gave me.”

“Do you know whom he has assembled for your perusal tonight?”

“Oh yes. I have seen the guest list.” Mia struggled to keep her voice light, even though her blood hummed with fury at the men her father was offering for her consideration. “There will be placards on the table before each one: Lord Cranston—octogenarian, drools, mistakes me for one of his seven daughters and is in dire need of an heir and a new roof on his country house in Devon. Viscount Maugham, who is two and twenty, has skin as fair as a young girl’s and a decided partiality for young boys.”

“Mia!”

Cian started so violently he dislodged a stack of books and fumbled to catch them before they slid to the floor. “Who told you such a thing?”

“I am two and thirty, Cian.” She raised her brows. “Tell me, Brother, do I not speak the truth?” Cian remained mute but his bright red face made her smile. “Your countenance is most articulate.” Indeed, Mia could not recall the last time she’d worn such roses on her cheeks. The sultan had used up her blushes years ago.

“You may know such a thing, Mia, but you cannot speak of it in company, and never around Father.”

“I am not in company, Cian, I am with you. If I cannot speak openly with you, who else is there? Cousin Rebecca?”

“Good Lord, no!”

Mia heaved a sigh. “Oh, Cian, as if I would do such a foolish thing.”

“No, no, I don’t suppose you would.” His green eyes were dazed and he stared at the cluttered surface of his desk before looking up. “If you must speak of such matters, you might as well do so with me—provided we are alone. I want you to give me your word you will never do so if anyone else might hear.”

Mia gave him a look of disbelief, instead.

“I am serious, Mia—your word.” Cian’s stern mouth and piercing stare made his resemblance to their father more than a little marked, a comparison she doubted he would appreciate.

“Very well, Cian, I give you my word. Shall we spit on our palms and shake, as we used to do when we were young?”

Cian groaned and lowered his head into both hands.

“I was jesting,” she said, laughing. “I vow I will not speak of such matters unless we are very much alone. Will that serve?”

Rather than a look of relief, two lines of worry grew between his eyes. “Surely not all your suitors are terrible?”

Mia wanted to comfort her brother almost as much as she wanted it for herself. It wasn’t as if her marital requirements were stringent. She didn’t expect love or companionship—far from it. All she wanted was indifference. The less interest her husband showed in her, the easier it would be for her to make plans to escape back to Oran.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the kind of thing she could share with Cian. Especially given the public embarrassment he’d suffer when she deserted whatever man she did marry. If only she could just disappear without all the bother and fuss of marriages and husbands. But her father had made that impossible by refusing to release anything but pin money until she was wedded. And even if she had enough money to purchase passage back to Oran, the strict watch the duke kept on her made organizing such an escape impossible. The sad truth was she had to marry.

“Mia?”

Mia looked up and gave Cian a reassuring smile, the best she could offer under the circumstances. “In spite of all my complaining, I’m looking forward to tonight’s ball.” The relieved expression that spread across his face at her small lie was gratifying. She slipped her feet into her shoes, tied the ribbons, and stood.

“I will leave you to your studies.” She braved the mountain of books and papers to kiss him on the cheek before turning to leave.

“Save a dance for your little brother,” he called after her.

Mia closed the door and leaned against it. Should she tell Cian her plans? Was it possible she’d misjudged him? After all, he was not happy here, either. He spent most of his days buried in books to avoid the crushing expectations the duke laid upon him. Would he help her?

Mia pushed away from the door, shaking her head at such wishful thoughts. Cian might sympathize with her on matrimonial matters, but he would never understand her desire to return to Oran. Nor would he be happy to learn about the existence of her son. To any member of the Upper Ten Thousand—her own family included—her precious Jibril would be nothing but the half-caste bastard of a heathen savage.

No, finding her way back to her son was a task she must face alone. She could trust no one, not even her brother. The sooner she did as her father ordered and selected a husband, the sooner she could escape this horrible country and return to Jibril.

Mia would make her choice tonight, no matter how poor the options.

Sayer held out two waistcoats for Adam’s approval.

Adam was about to reject both and order something more suitable for an evening at his club when the Duke of Carlisle’s face flickered through his mind. The aloof peer had acted so happy to see him at White’s, Adam had been dazzled. After all, when was the last time anyone had been thrilled to see his face?

But if the duke’s warm welcome had bemused him, their odd conversation had left Adam intrigued. He was still intrigued a full four days later.

“Damn,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Adam sighed. “The one on the right, Sayer.”

His valet helped him into the white silk waistcoat while Adam engaged in the same internal argument he’d been having since his meeting with the duke on Tuesday. Should he, or should he not, go to the man’s wretched dinner and ball?

The Duke of Carlisle—an older, well-respected peer with whom he’d exchanged fewer than a dozen words in his life—had accosted him with all the bonhomie of a long-lost friend. He’d hardly waited for Adam to remove his hat and gloves before dragging him to a table.

“Ah, Exley, I’d hoped to find you here today. A moment of your time, if you do not mind?”

“It would be a pleasure, Your Grace,” Adam had replied after a second of stunned silence. His lips twitched even now as he recalled the faces of those who’d been lounging around the club that morning. Every eye in the place had been riveted on the fascinating sight of one of the ton’s proudest and most proper members supplicating one of its most notorious and disagreeable—two epithets Adam knew were often applied to him, although never to his face.

The duke had led him to a pair of chairs by the dormant fireplace and waved away a hovering waiter. “I say, Exley, did you receive an invitation to that affair we’re having this Saturday?”

“Affair?”

“Yes, a ball for my daughter.”

Adam blinked and shifted in his chair. “I did not.”

The duke flicked his hand. “No matter. I daresay my scatty cousin, the one who organized the damn thing, didn’t know you were in town.” To his credit, the duke’s pale skin tinted a pale pink at this blatant untruth. The older man would know, along with his “scatty cousin” and every other member of the ton, that Adam rarely left London, even after the Season’s end.

“In any event,” Carlisle had continued, undeterred, “I’m issuing you a personal invitation.”

“I am honored, Your Grace.” And bloody curious, he could have added. After all, few people, and none of them bearing the title “duke,” had been eager to associate with Adam for almost ten years, not since he’d been dubbed the “Murderous Marquess.” Yet another name used exclusively behind Adam’s back.

Carlisle had then leaned closer to Adam, as if he were about to embark on a confidential topic. “You must know Lady Euphemia has been away for some time, eh?”

Adam had been unable to do more than gape at the older man’s casual reference to his daughter’s seventeen-year absence—a subject that had so mesmerized the people of Britain that dozens of savvy newspapermen had made their fortunes feeding the public’s hunger on the subject. Euphemia Marlington had even pushed Boney from people’s minds. For almost six weeks now, one question had dominated the scandal sheets: Just what had the duke’s daughter been up to all these years?

Adam had looked across at one of the few men in England who surely knew the answer to that question and smiled. “I seem to recall hearing something about your daughter’s return.”

His irony had been too subtle for Carlisle. “You haven’t met her yet, eh?”

“We have not crossed paths, Your Grace.” Indeed, it would have been more than a little odd had they done so. Adam did not attend ton functions and he doubted Lady Euphemia frequented gaming hells, men’s clubs, or Adam’s mistress’s pied-à-terre, the places he could usually be found.

“You must make her acquaintance, Exley. She’s marriage-mad like all the rest of her sex, of course.” He’d chuckled, his color deepening. “Now that she’s returned home, she’s keen to be setting up her nursery.”

The duke could not have been more appallingly blatant had he provided Adam with a teasing chart. He’d half feared the older man would go on to offer details of his daughter’s estrus and when her next heat cycle began.

When Adam had failed to comment, the duke had added, “She will make some fortunate man an excellent wife.”

“I daresay the candidates for her hand are flatteringly numerous, Your Grace.”

Carlisle’s smile had faltered under Adam’s cool mockery. “And how is your family, Exley? You have three girls, don’t you?”

It hadn’t been the most subtle way of reminding Adam he had no heir, but it must have been persuasive enough. After all, here he was, dressing for his first ton event in almost a decade.

Adam paused in his ruminations while Sayer helped him into his newest coat, a rather strenuous ordeal that took several minutes and left both men breathing hard by the time they’d finished. He pushed his hair off his forehead and fastened the coat’s silver and onyx buttons while he considered the meaning behind the duke’s invitation.

Carlisle could not have made his intentions any clearer had he shown up at White’s with a stud book, auction block, and gavel. He wanted his daughter married and he wanted it to happen quickly. Adam could understand the man’s urgency; the woman was no spring pullet. But what he could not understand was why the duke wished to marry his only daughter to a man with Adam’s reputation.

Sayer approached him with a tray bearing fobs, pins, rings, watches, and quizzing glasses. Adam slipped on his rather gaudy signet ring—a large ruby in a heavy gold setting—selected the plainest of his silver quizzing glasses, and opted for a single fob bearing a sapphire cabochon. Once he was accoutered, he stood back and studied his reflection in the tri-fold dressing mirror. Three identical men in flawless evening attire looked back at him. All three appeared slightly puzzled and a little annoyed. He frowned. There was still time to change into something else and go to his club.

“Your carriage is ready, my lord,” Sayer informed him, holding out his cloak and hat.

Adam would have sworn his valet, a man who could have taught the Sphinx a thing or two about discretion, was pleased. It didn’t take a genius to imagine the talk flying around the servants’ quarters just now. No doubt they all—even the impassive Sayer—were thrilled by the notion their master was emerging from self-imposed exile and reentering society. After all, how pleasant could it be to work for a man most of London considered a cold-blooded murderer?

They would view this ball as the first step toward rehabilitation. Next he would take a wife and soon he would have a nursery full of children. Children he wouldn’t keep hidden away in the country, as he did his three daughters.

Adam took his hat and gloves from his valet’s hands. “Don’t wait up for me, Sayer.”

He strode through the silent corridor and down a semicircular set of marble stairs, his lips twisting. Tonight would be the social equivalent of death by a thousand cuts. He would spend the entire evening tolerating the calumny of his peers just to make the acquaintance of a woman he had no desire to meet and no intention of marrying—a woman who resembled either an aging matron or an opera dancer, depending on which set of gossips one gave credence to.

Or perhaps she was something even worse? After all, what must be wrong with her if her own father would seek a man like Adam for a son-in-law?

Mia stared at her reflection as LaValle fussed with her hair. The Frenchwoman was high in the instep, but she was skilled at her job. She’d tamed Mia’s unruly red curls and dressed them in a way that made her appear taller, if only by an inch or two.

If Mia could change one thing about her appearance it would be her height. At just five feet, she had to look up to anyone over the age of ten. She knew her diminutive size was the reason men felt entitled to order her around. She was childlike in size, so men treated her like a child.

She was not, however, dressed like a child. Her gown was a clinging jade-green silk masterpiece, with a single, almost insubstantial, petticoat. The dress would most likely scandalize her father, but Mia had ordered it from the dressmaker of his choosing, so how could he take issue with it? The full-length garment was quite tame when compared to what she’d worn at the sultan’s palace, where she’d spent a good deal of time either naked or near enough. The desert was hot, and cool stone walls only provided so much relief. Frequent dips in the bathing pools helped one stay sane during the sweltering summers.

LaValle fastened the famed Carlisle emeralds around her neck and stepped back. “Voila!”

Mia examined her reflection in the glass, tilting her head from side to side. She had endured endless taunting as a young woman in the sultan’s harem. Even after she’d established her authority, her red hair, small frame, and freckled skin had been subjects of amusement for the dark-eyed, lush-bodied beauties who’d vied for Babba Hassan’s attention. The attractive, polished woman who looked back at Mia in the mirror was a far different person from that terrified, gawky young girl; she looked ... regal.

Just then her cousin Rebecca entered her dressing room. She stopped in the doorway and lifted a gloved hand to her mouth. “Oh Mia, you look perfect—just like a doll.”

The older woman was dressed in a nondescript brownish gray, a color that did not suit any woman alive. Mia sighed. Her cousin was not beautiful, but she had a pretty face and soft gray eyes. In a gown of blue or lavender she would look quite attractive.

“Thank you, Cousin Rebecca. You look lovely, too,” she lied, standing on tiptoe to give her a peck on the cheek.

Rebecca turned pink and patted Mia awkwardly on the arm.

It saddened Mia that her family seemed unwilling—or unable—to express affection. Physical affection had helped her survive in the sultan’s palace. She’d cuddled her son constantly when he was a baby. They’d remained close as Jibril grew up, although he’d drawn the line on public embraces when his half brother Assad had teased him that hugs were for children.

Mia pushed away her longing for her son and offered Rebecca her arm. She smiled up at her tall cousin. “Are you ready?”

The large drawing room was crowded with auburn-haired relatives and a conspicuous number of single men. Mia was engaged in conversation with the buck-toothed son of a northern earl—a middle-aged man who could not keep his eyes from the bodice of her gown long enough to complete a sentence—when an odd hush fell over the assemblage. She followed the stunned gazes of those around her to a slim, dark-haired man standing beside her father. Mia nudged. . .