If anyone were to guess that sweet, shy Lady Esme had been secretly penning scandalous stories, she would never be able to show her face in London again! Fortunately, her good friend, bestselling author Jennifer Haymore, can reveal her passionate tale of obsession and seduction . . . THE DEVIL'S PEARL Sir Devlin Vaughn will never forget the sweet, sensual pleasures of his beloved "Jewel." Charmingly naive in the ways of love, she had blossomed under his guidance to become the most skilled lover a man could ever desire. And desire her he did-especially after she disappeared, leaving him alone and longing for her touch. Now, Devlin will do anything to get her back. Even kidnap her . . . Julia Beaumont will never forget the man who unlocked her deepest desires and made her crave things no decent woman should. Fearing she would never be more than his mistress, she left, vowing never to see him again-until one reckless night, when a stranger in black appears from the shadows and sweeps her away to his bedroom chamber. Now, she will be his courtesan, his captive, his slave. Can she free herself from Devlin's thrall, or will their passion be her ultimate undoing?
Release date:
May 7, 2013
Publisher:
Forever Yours
Print pages:
111
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You cannot imagine my surprise when Lady Esme Hawkins walked into my office a few months ago. I hadn’t been expecting anyone that day, much less a young lady of her esteemed rank. After all, she was the only sister of Simon Hawkins, the Duke of Trent, one of the richest, most upstanding and influential (and eligible) bachelors in England.
I seated her and offered her some tea. When we were both settled, I folded my hands on my desk and waited expectantly for her to state the nature of her business.
But she just sat there, gazing down into her lap until I cleared my throat. “My lady?”
Her gaze shot up to mine. I smiled at her, because her dark eyes were filled with something resembling panic, and I much prefer for people to feel comfortable and welcome in my office.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I asked her gently.
She stared at me for a long time. Then, her bosom rose and fell as she blew out a deep breath. Then she blinked. And then, finally, she spoke, her voice a near whisper. “I…I am a lady novelist, too. At least, I dream of being one someday.”
Pleasure suffused me, for I always enjoy meeting other writers. “Oh, how wonderful!” I exclaimed. “What kinds of stories do you write?”
She glanced downward again, and I thought I’d lost her to embarrassment. I could see the flush had expanded to the tops of her ears beneath her extremely stylish black velvet hat.
But she swallowed hard and said, “I write romances. Quite…scandalous ones, I’m afraid.”
My lips twitched but I kept my voice sober. “Scandalous romances are my absolute favorites,” I told her.
She blinked and looked up at me. “I daresay my brother wouldn’t agree.”
Hm, that was probably true. The Duke of Trent was known far and wide for being a paragon of virtue and morality. His family, to his great frustration, was known for being neither virtuous nor moral, and he’d spent much of his life attempting to wipe the family name clean of its tarnished reputation.
Before I could say anything else, she shuddered. “My brother would never forgive me for publishing something as improper as the stories I’ve written. And Sarah…” She shook her head, her voice dwindling.
“Who’s Sarah?” I asked.
Lady Esme’s dark eyes softened. “Sarah is the head housemaid, but she’s also—well, I know it is quite unorthodox, but she is like a sister to me. And she’s so sweet and kind and pure—if she found out about my stories she’d be absolutely scandalized!”
“What about the rest of your household?” I asked. “What would they think?”
Lady Esme thought for a long moment, then she gave me a slight smile. “My other brothers probably wouldn’t care.”
I recalled she had several brothers—five in all, I think.
“Although,” she added, “I believe my mother, the duchess, would think it’s marvelous.”
“Well, that’s good. You have some support, then.”
“But I would never tell her!” she proclaimed, a note of horror in her voice. “Not in a million years!”
“Why ever not?”
Esme’s eyes went round, and she wrapped her arms around her body as she shuddered. “Because she’s my mother.”
My own eyes widened. “They’re that scandalous, eh?”
“Yes! You have no idea, Mrs. Haymore. They are so scandalous, I sometimes cannot even believe that my very own pen created such…er…events.”
I chuckled, but I was growing more intrigued by the second. “I’d love to read one of them.”
Lady Esme bit her lower lip. Then she looked down and reached into the satchel she’d brought with her. She slid the notebook across my desk, and it came to a stop right in front of my hands. “I have them right here.”
I opened the notebook and read the first story, entitled The Devil’s Pearl. It was so sexy my heart was racing by the time I finished it, and I was feeling the indelicate desire to go home and seek out my husband. Instead, I closed the notebook slowly and looked up at Lady Esme, who’d been watching me read the whole time, wringing her hands with nervous anticipation.
“I’d like to help you with this, my lady.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really? Oh, I would be ever so grateful!”
From that day forward, Lady Esme and I have been partners in preparing her spicy novellas for publication. I’ve grown to know the lady well, and we have become friends. She’s told me all about her family—the upstanding and (dare I say it) snobbish-sounding Duke of Trent, her other brothers, and her mother—and her friend Sarah, the housemaid. She’s talked to me about her secret dreams of the duke and Sarah marrying someday. (When she shared that wish with me, I smiled and nodded, but between you and me, I doubt that will ever happen. Aristocrats like the Duke of Trent never marry their housemaids….)
So, dear reader, I present to you Lady Esme’s sexy, sinful, and scandalous The Devil’s Pearl, the first of the Lady Esme novellas.
Enjoy!
Sincerely,
Jennifer Haymore
Chapter One
He had her. After twelve long months of searching, he finally had her in his sights.
Sir Devlin Vaughn sank deeper into the smoky shadows of the ostentatious drawing room. He studied her as she flicked her cards open and smiled prettily at the man sitting opposite her. The dark tresses framing her face bounced to her shoulders, and her small hand curled suggestively around the cards.
He shook off the memory of that hand curling around him, caressing him, bringing him to fulfillment with a silky touch. He’d taught her that particular skill, but no other woman he’d known had such a talented hand. And he’d known many.
Devlin’s fist crushed the black velvet curtain that hid most of his body from her sight, crumpling the delicate fabric. She’d left him brutally, nearly bringing him to his knees before hundreds of people. She’d shattered his heart then carelessly tossed the pieces to the crowd. She’d turned away from him to step into another man’s carriage. Then she’d escaped to the Continent and become a high-priced courtesan, so pretentious that even the deep-pocketed Viscount Clayton hadn’t been able to satisfy her expensive tastes.
Now men surrounded her, vying for her attention. She knew it and played it up, teasing and coy. A thin, blond-haired fop whispered to her and she gazed at him from beneath sooty lashes, her laugh like a delicate splash of sunlight that turned other men’s heads. Oh, she knew what she was doing, all right—she’d once played these very same games with Devlin.
She’d played him for a fool.
Bitter resentment welled up in his gut, and he dragged in a lungful of air. He couldn’t watch any more of this, or he’d do something foolish, like blacken the eyes of every single man who had dared cast a lustful glance at her—a dozen of them, at least—then toss her over his shoulder and haul her out of here with a score of witnesses gaping after them.
Dropping the now-rumpled curtain, he escaped the salon, stomped down the corridor, escaped through the back door, and circled to the front of the building to lie in wait.
He had loved her. Completely. Desperately. He would have given her anything. In those long, lazy afternoons they’d spent together, she’d made him believe she loved him too. She’d made him believe she was his, and, stupidly, he’d believed her.
She’d been playacting, though—he knew now that for her it had all been about the blunt. The small gifts he’d given her—gifts he’d thought of as tokens of his affection for her, as symbols of the bond he’d felt between them—hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough.
Coldness pierced Dev’s many woolen layers. He paced the dark street with his hands gripped together behind his back and gazed up at the star-speckled sky. Ice crunched under his feet.
She would come out with one of the men. He knew it, and he could not contain the rage that truth incited in him. The man would take her to some elegant townhouse and take her to bed. Eventually she would leave her sated customer, and Dev would snatch her away. Then he would keep her with him. Away from this life, from all these men he couldn’t bear to witness looking at her with lust in their greedy eyes.
When he’d first heard she’d returned to London a little over a month ago, the plan had sprouted in his mind and grown there like a rampant weed, and he’d poured all of his furious energy, born of jealousy and anger and other emotions he didn’t want to name, into his preparations.
He’d planned only to watch tonight, to observe her in action so he could go home and make the finishing touches to his plan. But then he’d seen her in that dark room, the shining light in the midst of all those lecherous men, so beautiful she hurt his eyes. He’d watched her sip her champagne and laugh and flirt. He’d watched her distractedly brush away that one wayward curl that always fell into her face. She was real. Just as stunningly beautiful as ever.
He couldn’t allow this to continue. This had to end. Tonight.
He paced along the sidewalk, trying to avoid thinking of her inside that warm salon that smelled of tobacco and spice, trying not to picture the way the bodice of her skirt hugged her sweet curves, trying not to remember her fluttering lashes or her coy laughter.
But he didn’t succeed. He remembered, and with every moment that passed, the burn in his chest increased. By the time she finally exited the party, Devlin had forgotten the cold.
She was on the arm of not one, but two men.
Boiling inside, raw and jagged and almost out of his mind with pain and fury, he lunged after them.
* * *
“Miss Beaumont, I fear you’ve had a bit too much of the bubbly.”
Julia grinned at the teasing tone in her cousin’s voice. “I daresay you’re right, Algie,” she said, “but Lud, it feels marvelous to be a touch addled.”
She rose up on her tiptoes, leaned in and kis. . .
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