Текст книги "I Married the Duke "
Автор книги: Katharine Ashe
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Her hand stole beneath his shirt, and her breaths deepened upon a sigh. He had never known such a beautiful sound. It filled him with longing and profound satisfaction at once. She stroked him, her palms smoothing across his skin. She wound her leg around his back, digging her heel into his buttock. Her scent was everywhere, her body perfect beneath his. He pressed her into the mattress and she arched to him with a soft moan.
“Many more lessons,” he said huskily.
“Then, my lord,” she whispered in his ear and nibbled on it, “I am the right teacher for the job.”
IT TURNED OUT that her husband did indeed require many more lessons. There were textures that he demanded to be allowed to spend time memorizing, and then memorizing again to be certain he knew them by heart. Then there were hands and legs and other parts of her that had to be traced with fingers and often his tongue; so he could create a mental map of the landscape, he insisted. At times, especially the occasions involving his tongue, Arabella felt that she became the student rather than the instructor.
She gave herself up completely to education.
He repeated lessons. She protested, saying it was not necessary for him to do so if he did not wish, that really he had already been an exemplary student from the start, that he had not actually needed any instruction. But her protests were remarkably weak, and he would not hear of it. He applied himself diligently.
She slept in his arms.
When he climbed from her bed shortly before dawn, he kissed her lips and her brow, and she invited him to visit her schoolroom again that evening. With a handsome smile and a gallant bow, he said he would be happy to return for further instruction.
Then he grasped the bedpost, tilted his brow to it, and quietly requested her assistance to navigate the treacherous strait between their bedchambers.
As she fell into sleep she wept, though she did not know if her tears were of grief or joy.
LUC STEPPED ONTO the bridge in the freezing drizzle and knew he was the greatest fool alive.
If so, he was a happy fool. A happy fool whose wife deserved much better than a blind lover and a defunct duke.
Clutching the rail, he went slowly forward. Chill mist whisked beneath the brim of his hat. But Fletcher had demanded this location and time.
Luc wondered if his old guardian was an imbecile or if he truly believed that he was one. A man did not bring a blind man to a bridge over the Thames before dawn unless he intended to deposit him in said Thames.
Clearly the bishop did not want another near miss. This time he would see to the deed himself.
Behind the muffling patter of rain, Luc could hear a heavy cart and draft horse clopping down an alley close by, the slurps of the river against the hulls of fishing boats moored on the bank, and the complaints of hungry gulls awaiting the daylight. The rain was icy, the footing slick, but he knew the sounds and scents and texture of river and sea like he knew his name and that he loved Arabella. He made his way carefully, by feel, upright, struggling to recall the lay and breadth of this bridge. He’d only seen it once or twice before.
“Are you unarmed?” Fletcher’s hushed voice came out of the darkness ahead.
Luc halted. “As required. But I’d have no use of a weapon now. Not even a blade, unfortunately. Unless of course you stood quite close and I could slide it across your throat.”
“Tsk tsk, Lucien. Murder is a sin.”
“Then I am damned already. What’s another soul gone to his maker at my hands for me to fear the consequences, hm?”
“Send your servant away with the horses.”
“You and I both know he is not going away until that ring is in his hand.”
There was a long silence while the rain turned to mist and Luc waited, his muscles tensed.
A whiff of stale tobacco smoke and the tang of hair oil approached before he heard the heavy breaths before him.
“You’re a good swimmer, milord,” Fletcher’s coachman said closer than he’d expected. “But I don’t think you’ll be swimming away this time.”
Luc extended his hand, palm up. The man pressed the ring into it, then grabbed Luc’s hand and with a burst of tobacco-scented breath whispered at his shoulder, “I’d kill you myself for making a fool of me, but his excellency wants to do it.”
“I am honored by the both of you.” Luc pulled free. “Now back up fifteen paces.”
“What—”
“Do it,” Fletcher said.
“Have you come as I required, Fletcher?” Luc said.
“A hood conceals my face and my servant’s. Your servant will not know us unless you have told him who we are.”
“Among the two of us here, only one man is without honor, and it isn’t me.”
“How noble of you, Lucien.” Fletcher spoke with no sarcasm, as though he were only the bishop, only the priest, mildly commenting on a truth. Even in the midst of his villainy he did not know he was a villain.
Luc lifted his hand with the ring above his head. Footsteps splashed on the bridge behind him, approaching at a jog.
“Cap’n,” Claude said as he came beside him.
Luc passed the ring to him. “Is it as I described it to you?”
“Yessir.”
“The markings and color?”
“Exactly, Cap’n. It don’t look like a fake, sir.”
There was no way to know for certain except when Arabella saw it. He could only hope that Fletcher hadn’t had sufficient time to commission a paste copy in the few hours since he’d contacted him.
“Can you see these men’s faces?”
“No, sir.”
“Where are they?”
“Three yards and another three yards farther.” Claude’s voice grinned. “Would you like me to take care of them, Cap’n?”
“No, thank you.” God bless the loyalty of sailors to their captains. “I want you to walk to the horses so that you do not lose sight of these men, but watch about you as well.”
“So they can’t jump me and take the ring while you’re standing here.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Cap’n,” he said. “I don’t like to—”
“Then I want you to mount and with the other horse in tow call to me as you leave. Ride directly to the house and give that ring to Mr. Miles, but do not tell him how you acquired it. Do you understand?”
“Yessir.” The sailor’s voice was no longer amused, instead grim.
“Go now.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
His footsteps smacked along the bridge, receding. A moment passed, then another. Hooves clacked on the cobbles.
“I’m off, Cap’n!”
The rain had become a fine mist, cold on Luc’s cheeks.
“You have your trinket again, Lucien. I trust you are satisfied.”
“Adina’s child is not Theodore’s.”
“Come now,” Fletcher chuckled. “You cannot hope to play these games now, when you are beaten. Look at you, blind, ruined. What sort of duke would you be?”
“I seek only the good of my family. That child is not my family, and neither are you.”
“My sister is a virtuous woman.”
“Your sister is easily led by you. If you tell her to make a public confession, if you insist that it is for the good of her soul, she will do it.”
“I have no such interest.” Fletcher’s voice was flat. To Luc it sounded like the Devil’s.
“There are dozens of people who will testify that the old Duke and Duchess of Lycombe did not once meet during the fourteen months prior to his death.”
“Half the titled nobles in English history have been bastards. Your claim will be laughed out of Lords.” A hint of bravado marked the bishop’s tone. Unusual. He never wavered from serene confidence.
Discomfort built behind Luc’s eyes, deep. The scar ached, but the left eye sizzled with pain. He wanted to close it. He could not. Fletcher would see it as weakness, even with his blindness.
“I don’t make the claim for myself,” he said.
“Then for whom? For your poor, feeble-minded brother?”
“For the people whom you have hurt and seek to hurt more gravely through this child who is not the rightful lord of Combe. I will—” The pain spiked. A pinpoint of golden light darted across the blackness. His throat constricted.
It was his imagination. It had to be. His hand tightened on the rail. The palest smudge of gray floated before him.
“What will you do? Claim the duchy? Come now, Lucien—”
“I will petition Parliament.” The golden dart came again, like a hummingbird, there for an instant then gone. “I will make my claim to the title, and if you fight me I will tell them everything. About the extortion. About the innocents. About my brother if I must.” The gray smudge widened, deepened. The gold star sparkled. Dizziness. He gulped in breaths and closed his eye. The gold star vanished with the gray.
“You are as mad as him,” he heard as though from a distance.
The rain had stopped and the air off the river was frigid. Luc opened his eye and the star flickered before him again in the smudge of gray. His heart pounded.
He stepped forward.
“Remain where you are.”
“I am blind, Fletcher.” Not forever. Dear God. “What do you imagine I can do to you at such a distance without a weapon?”
Fletcher laughed, but it was not an easy sound. Luc blinked. The smudge of gray was a patch the color of early dawn marked by a dot of pale cream. Fletcher’s face? Below it, the flickering star. The pectoral cross.
“You are angry, nephew. Anger discolors judgment. It is a sin for a rational man to succumb to anger, and inconvenient. If you do something rash now, you will harm yourself.”
“You are afraid,” he said. “Even of a blind man. You are so afraid you will burn in eternity for your many sins that you fear death beyond reason. Even now you fear me because of what I would do to you if I could see.” With each moment he spoke, his world expanded, shadows, shapes in the dimness, the bridge’s railing, the silhouette of the man.
“You have never sought to harm me before,” Fletcher said. “You ran from me. You should run now.”
“I’m finished running.”
“Not yet.” His voice had changed again, like silk cut through with slashes made by a knife. “I will make certain Christos is given the credit for your murder.”
Luc jerked forward.
“Stand back,” Fletcher barked. “Or this will be more painful than necessary.”
Now Luc saw a glimmer of silver beneath the pale oval face and the sparkle of gold. He dropped his eyelid halfway and fought to focus on the bishop’s henchman farther away. A darker shadow in the dark dawn, he stood three yards away. Far enough.
“You cannot hurt me again,” he said, and it was the truth.
“I have the confession letter ready,” Fletcher said. “He will kill you and the infant and be so remorseful that he will lose his mind entirely.”
“He is stronger than you know.” Continue talking. Talk until the shadows were clearer, the glinting rail of the bridge and shimmering puddles and golden cross no longer distractions from the pistol’s dully shining muzzle. “He will not oblige you by going mad. He is a good man and he will be a good lord.”
“Let’s see about that, shall we?” The pistol cock clicked. Luc threw himself forward. A crack sounded then a burst of smoke.
No pain.
Luc slammed his fist into Fletcher’s face. The bishop fell against the rail. He grappled in his cloak. Luc hit him again. The henchman would be upon him in moments. He could not win this fight with only shadows and sparkles to guide him. But he’d take Fletcher with him if he could.
Footfalls pounded behind him. He pivoted, swinging his arm, catching the man’s chin. With a grunt the henchman jerked back. Silver flashed in his hand. Luc grabbed for his wrist and kicked him in the groin. With a groan the brute doubled over. The knife clinked to the bridge.
Pain sliced through the back of Luc’s arm. He roared and spun.
Fletcher leaped back, the knife glittering in his hand stretched toward Luc.
“Now, Lucien.” He took another retreating step. “You mustn’t fight m—” He stumbled. His arms windmilled. He fell back, tumbling into shadow. Luc lunged forward. His foot dropped into nothing. He jerked away from the hole.
A dull splash sounded below.
He advanced with his hands first, finding the railing, grabbing it, bending his head over to peer down. He saw nothing, only the blackness of the river until he thought he was blind again.
Footsteps thumped on the bridge. Luc swung around. The bishop’s coachman was running away. He disappeared in the fog of Luc’s imperfect sight.
Luc sank to his knees and breathed deeply. Then again. A glimmer on the ground caught his eye: the golden cross, its chain broken, lying on the rain-washed stone.
He pushed to his feet, the chill dawn settling around him in stripes of pearl. Below him the river rested, quiet, no fishermen about yet, nothing to disturb the tranquility but the cries of a few impatient gulls.
He found the pistol in a puddle and tossed it into the Thames. Then he walked away.
Chapter 19
The Lovers
As early as she dared, Arabella knocked on Adina’s door. The new mother slept at all hours now, enamored of her tiny son, insisting on nursing him despite the advisements of Mrs. Baxter, the housekeeper, and a dozen of her friends.
After returning from Richmond, Arabella had delayed speaking privately with Adina. The birth had been quick but Adina had not recovered from it immediately. But Arabella could delay no longer. Luc would never claim what he deserved. Not now. His pride was too strong. So she must claim it for him.
She stifled a yawn as she waited for the door to open. She had slept very little.
A smile crept over her lips. She closed her eyes and bounced a bit on the balls of her toes.
A sleepy maid finally opened the door. Adina greeted her sleepily as well, though with a happy countenance. She was thin and pale, but a breakfast tray beside the bed bore the remnants of chocolate, toast, and a lemon custard. The sight of it made Arabella’s stomach turn. Nothing tasted good to her now. But she ate anyway. Her baby needed it.
She could not hide the news from Luc any longer. The fear that had kept her from telling him before—the fear that, assured his goal of an heir, he would never seek her out again—was now gone. And with his new attention to the details of her body, he would discover the changes in her soon enough. Perhaps she would tell him and show him tonight at the same time.
A delicious little shiver scampered through her.
“Darling Arabella, how happy I am to see you with smudges beneath your eyes. It is lovely not to be the only woman in the house that looks so wretched.” Adina said it so sweetly that Arabella had to chuckle. “But your sleeplessness, I suspect, is caused by another sort of activity than mine.” She cast a besotted glance at the cradle in which her infant slept.
“Adina.” Arabella sat on the end of the bed. “I need to tell you a story. I hope you will listen to it carefully before you make a decision.”
Her pretty gold lashes spread wide. “A decision about what?”
“About whether you will confess publicly that your son is not your husband’s and allow Luc to take his rightful place as the Duke of Lycombe.”
Adina’s face crumpled.
But she listened.
When Arabella finished speaking, Adina dipped her head.
“My brother said he would never do it again.” Her voice was thin. “After I found him that time with my page boy—” She closed her eyes. “He promised.”
“He lied.”
“Not only about that.” She met Arabella’s gaze. “He told my dear Theodore that I was unfaithful to him. After that, my husband would not allow me at Combe. Then Christos came to visit me here. He had been to see Theodore. He brought a friend with him.” She plucked Arabella’s hand from her lap and squeezed it. “I did not intend it, Arabella darling! You must know: I adored my Theodore. But I was so lonely and he was so far away, and Michel comforted me.” She made a sad little shrug.
“Adina, will you write this and sign the document before witnesses? Will you stand before Parliament and the king if you must and declare the truth?”
Her pretty brow creased. But she nodded. “My baby . . .”
“Luc will care for him. He will be a member of this family even if he does not bear the Westfall name. We will never abandon him.”
Adina’s lashes flickered with uncertainty. “Michel wishes to wed me. Even if it means our son will not be a duke, he wants to claim him as his own. Men are sometimes very contrary, aren’t they?”
ARABELLA DESCENDED THE stairs, heart and step light, and went to the library. Luc had spent the past several days there. She would tell him her news in private and watch his face. Then she would tell him everything.
He was not in the library.
She looked in the parlor, the drawing room, and the dining chamber. The garden was gray and damp and empty.
She climbed the stairs to his bedchamber and knocked. Her stomach fluttered with impatience. Silly. But imagining seeing him was always so much easier than actually seeing him. He was large and a little bit dangerous and still gorgeously confident despite all, and he made her so wretchedly weak with pure longing she was furious with him for it. Then he would kiss her and wrap her in his arms and she felt as powerful as a goddess.
She was utterly hopeless.
Miles opened the door. He stared at her, his face pale and eyes wide. He said nothing.
A tickle of cold nerves stirred in her. “Is his lordship within?”
“No, my lady.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
The valet’s face seemed to turn paler. “Not precisely, my lady.”
“When does he intend to return?”
His mouth opened then closed.
“Mr. Miles, where is my husband?”
He widened the door. Heart speeding now, she walked inside the chamber. Luc was not within. She pivoted to his valet.
Mr. Miles stood with his palm extended, her family’s ring upon it.
She couldn’t breathe.
“Where is he?”
“Claude and he rode to the East End this morning, my lady.” His voice was clipped. “His lordship met with the bishop.”
“No.” Her lungs were folding in upon themselves. “No.” Her head snapped up. “When? And where exactly?”
WAITING FOR THE carriage was a torture Arabella had never imagined. When it came around, she flung herself inside and called to the driver.
The avenues of Mayfair disappeared swiftly, but as they neared the City, the streets grew crowded with carts, carriages, and horsemen. She gripped the seat with frozen hands. He would not be there now, still. But she could not believe that. She would scour the dockside taverns and sailor’s haunts to find him as she had in Plymouth. She would find someone who had seen him, a fisherman or river warden, anybody. Someone must have noticed him. Blind lords did not go wandering about the banks of the Thames alone on foot every dawn, after all.
The carriage was not moving. She snapped open the window and poked her head out to call up to the coachman. They were jammed in a row of traffic. The street was filled with people, on foot and horseback, all watching a parade—a circus parade, it seemed, with stilt walkers and boys in shining waistcoats and women riding beribboned ponies and gay music from flute and cymbals and brightly painted carts. A pair of performers passed by, juggling sticks of fire like the performers in Saint-Nazaire the night she had first given herself to an arrogant ship captain, despite her dream of wedding a prince, because even then she loved him.
“No.” Her heart twisted. “No.” She pressed her palms to her eyes and tears soaked them.
The parade passed and the crowd began to move from the street into shops and down alleyways. Her driver shrugged the carriage along. She pulled in breaths, willing away the despair, and peered out the window.
From out of the thinning crowd, Luc appeared, walking.
Choking on a sob she threw open the door and tumbled out of the carriage into a run.
He walked straight toward her. It seemed he smiled at her.
She flew at him. She threw her arms around him and he tucked her into his embrace. He was cold all over, his clothing and hair, and shaking lightly. She reached up and pulled his face to her and kissed him, then kissed him again. “You can see,” she uttered. “You can see.” She kissed his cheeks and his jaw and his brow and pushed the black kerchief aside and kissed his scar.
“Duchess, you will unman me,” he said quietly, roughly, but smiling, his hands tight on her waist. Stragglers in the crowd watched curiously.
She tugged the kerchief into place and kissed it, then his whole eye and his cheeks and mouth again. “You could never be less than a great man.”
His hand came around her chin and he looked down at her soberly. “Arabella, he is dead.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No. I would have. But it was an accident.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Yes, I did.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “But with you, Arabella Anne Westfall, I have done everything wrong, from the moment we met, at nearly every turn. I have been arrogant and overly confident and short-tempered and deeply, insatiably lustful”—a bystander gasped—“and afraid of this between us. I was everything that must have been abhorrent to you when all you wished was to find your prince charming. Instead you ended up with a blind, surly, autocratic fool. If I could turn back time, if I could do what I should have done—”
“Before I fell in love with you?”
“—b-before I stole your virtue.” His brow cut down. “By God, woman, you will always say what I least expect, won’t you?”
“I tried again and again not to love you.” She tucked her hands inside his coat. “I failed.”
“You failed.” He smiled.
“But I did not fail in all matters. Adina has written a confession of her affair with a Frenchman who is eager to claim their son as his own. You are now the duke, your grace.”
He laughed and shook his head. Then his gaze took on that intensity that made her knees weak.
“I am lost without you, duchess.”
“Then you are found. Because you will not be without me ever again.” She dipped her brow to his chest. “I will never leave you.”
“This declaration is because I am no longer entirely blind, isn’t it?” he said a bit unsteadily. “You feared having to instruct me every night, but now you needn’t worry about that.”
She arched her brows. “Of course not. The reason I will not leave you is because you are a duke.”
“I see.”
“I always wanted to marry high.”
“Did you?”
“And I want my baby to be a duke. Or perhaps the sister of a duke.”
He blinked. “Your baby?”
She offered him a small smile. “Your baby.”
“My . . .” His throat jerked. His hands tightened on her waist. “We need to go home.” His voice was hoarse. “Now.”
“Now? All right. But—”
“I want you.”
“You—”
“I want you now. Always. Everywhere and as my everything—my lover, my friend, my sharp-tongued beauty, my drinking companion, my children’s mother, my courage in the face of certain defeat. My sanctuary.” He captured her lips. “My duchess.”
He kissed her. She returned his kiss with great enthusiasm.
“But at this specific moment,” he said between kisses, “I just really want you in my bed.”
With eager compliance, she accepted his kisses on her throat. “I can oblige you in that, your grace.”
“Or your bed. Whichever we come to first.”
“You are all that is wise and efficient.”
“Or the carriage.”
She grabbed his hand. “Let’s be off then, shall we?” Laughter bubbling from her, she dragged him toward the carriage.
He snatched her back to him and with his hands around her face said, “Arabella, I love you.”
“Luc?”
“Yes?”
“Will you marry me?”
Epilogue
The Fairy Tale
Frothy skirts of snow white silk glittering with tiny diamonds and cascading down the long train spilled over the arms of the chair upon which the Duchess of Lycombe perched in her dressing chamber. A diamond tiara sparkled in her hair falling like spun copper about her shoulders and the puffed cap sleeves of her wedding gown.
Her sisters sat across from her. On the table between them a lone object glimmered gold and crimson.
“I do not expect it of either of you.” Arabella’s gaze darted back and forth between them, radiant joy in her eyes. “I have all I wish—your well-being and Luc’s.” She placed her palm on her belly. “And I will do what I can now to search for our parents.”
“But you don’t really believe guineas will suffice to make that search successful,” Eleanor said. “One of us must wed a prince.”
“Now you believe in the Gypsy fortune too?” Laughter lit Ravenna’s dark eyes.
“I have never not believed in it,” Eleanor said. “I am merely skeptical that any one man can be the answer to anything.”
“Faith is not like scholarship, Ellie. You either believe or you don’t.”
“Like you don’t.”
Ravenna stroked her dog’s brow. “I believe in friendship. And I am perfectly content to leave happily-ever-afters to princesses like Bella.”
“You needn’t adopt my quest.” Arabella took up the ring and carried it to her dressing table, to a box of gold and enamel. She nestled the ring in the velvet within. “But if either of you do, you can find it here.”
A knock came on the dressing room door. The Duke of Lycombe entered, resplendent in wedding finery, the black kerchief across his brow dashing and a bit dangerous. Arabella’s heart danced. He was wonderful and he was hers.
She tried not to smile too foolishly. But he already knew she was weak for him. Always. Forever. His gaze upon her shone with confidence.
“Wife,” he said, conveying in the single word his pleasure and affection.
“Husband,” she said, as deeply happy as he.
“Our guests expect us downstairs.” He bowed to Ravenna and Eleanor. “You too, ladies.”
Eleanor offered him a soft smile and left the room. Ravenna went onto her tiptoes, pecked him on the cheek, and skipped out after Beast.
He extended his hand to Arabella. “Duchess?”
She reached for him and he drew her into his arms. He bent to nuzzle behind her ear as she slipped her palms over his shoulders.
“Luc?”
“Mm?”
“Now that I am truly your duchess, what will you call me?”
He brought his lips to hers. “My love.”
Author’s Note
Serious debate rages today over the terminology used for the people often known as Gypsies, more properly referred to as Romani. And for good reason: words have power. Derogatory names for any group or individual can divide and destroy if used intentionally or in ignorance. For this book I have chosen to use the terms common to the places and period in which my story is set. The English of the early nineteenth century typically referred to Romani as Gypsies.
For their generosity in sharing their expertise, I thank Dr. Marie-Claude Dubois, Professor Leslie Moch, Dr. Christine E. Lee, Professor Molly A. Warsh (for her timely intervention concerning pearls, which provides you, gentle reader, with an example of how an insane author can write one descriptive line—“lips satiny as [fill in blank] pearls”—and subsequently spend days researching the appropriate descriptor), and Samantha Kane. Thanks also to Carol Strickland and the ladies of the Heart of Carolina Romance Writers BiaW group for inspiration and fun, and to The Chambermaids: Anne Alexander, Nita Eyster, Carrie Gwaltney, and Christy Krupa.
Fulsome thanks go to Marcia Abercrombie, Georgie Brophy, Mary Brophy Marcus, and Marquita Valentine for their thoughtful reading and recommendations. Big thanks and hugs also to Kieran Kramer, Caroline Linden, Sarah MacLean, Miranda Neville, and Maya Rodale, without whose affection and wisdom I would have been bereft while writing this book. Myron Lawrence and Georgann Brophy came to my aid more times than I can count, and for their infinite patience and understanding I am deeply grateful.
Special double thanks to Georgie Brophy, Nita Eyster, and Miranda Neville who rescued me at the last minute, and to Laurie LaBean for saving me and this book.
Many say I am blessed by the cover gods, but I know who should really get the credit. I offer a hearty Huzzah! to the art department at Avon for yet another beautiful cover.
My agent, Kimberly Whalen, deserves thanks for every book I publish not to mention for my continued sanity. To my editor, Lucia Macro, whose direction on this story was both spot-on and offered with compassion and unflagging confidence in this humble author, I send up a mighty thanks.
For my husband for his loving support, and for my wonderful son and my sweet Idaho, who every day help me feel the joy and adventure of love that makes it possible for me to write stories, I thank heaven.
Don’t miss the next two books in
The Prince Catchers
by KATHARINE ASHE
Available from
AVON BOOKS
Summer 2014 and Winter 2015!
About the Author
With the publication of her debut novel in 2010, KATHARINE ASHE earned a spot among the American Library Association’s “New Stars of Historical Romance.” In 2011 she won the coveted Reviewers’ Choice Award, and Amazon named How to Be a Proper Lady among the ten Best Romances of 2012.
Katharine lives in the wonderfully warm Southeast with her beloved husband, son, dog, and a garden she likes to call romantic rather than unkempt. A professor of European history, she has made her home in California, Italy, France, and the northern U.S.
Please visit her at PO Box 51702, Durham, NC 27717-1702 or www.katharineashe.com.
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Praise for the Work of Katharine Ashe
HOW TO BE A PROPER LADY
Amazon Top 10 Best Book of 2012
HOW A LADY WEDS A ROGUE
“The characters are textured, deep and believable. The writing is strong and lyrical, easily supporting agile, polished dialogue . . . an intriguing, engaging plot and healthy doses of both humor and emotion . . . a delightful Regency jaunt.”
Kirkus Reviews
Recommended by
Woman’s World Magazine
WHEN A SCOT LOVES A LADY
“Lushly intense romance . . . radiant prose.”
Library Journal (*Starred Review*)
“Sensationally intelligent writing, and a true, weak-in-the-knees love story.”
Barnes & Noble “Heart to Heart” Recommended Read!
IN THE ARMS OF A MARQUESS
“Every woman who ever dreamed of having a titled lord at her feet will love this novel.”
Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author
“Another gem of a love story. . . . Immersive and lush. . . . Ashe is that rare author who chooses to risk unexpected elements within an established genre, and whose skill and magic with the pen lift her tales above the rest.”
Fresh Fiction
CAPTURED BY A ROGUE LORD
Reviewers’ Choice Award 2011
“Best Historical Romantic Adventure”
SWEPT AWAY BY A KISS
Nominee Reviewers’ Choice Award 2010
“Best First Historical Romance”
“Swept Away by a Kiss is a breathtaking romance filled with sensuality and driven by a brisk and thrilling plot.”
