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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Excerpt from Savage Nights

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  London, 1907

  There are nights when a crowded ballroom can be the loneliest place on earth, when every happy face belongs to a stranger and every smile is meant for another, and love is as fleeting as the latest waltz.

  I had not made the long voyage from New York to London to be lonely like that. Yet, that was exactly how I felt as the Honorable Eustace Smithson led me through the dance, his feet only slightly less plodding than his conversation.

  “I trust you find our weather agreeable, Mrs. Hart?” he said, the words barely making their way past his thick bristle of a mustache. “To be sure, London must seem quite different from America, where you are accustomed to tropical climes and palm trees and such.”

  “Palm trees, Mr. Smithson?” I repeated, perplexed. I was trying to make the best of this evening, I truly was. “Perhaps to the south, in Florida, but I am from New York, and we New Yorkers know nothing of palm trees and tropics. Our weather is much the same as yours here, except that it doesn’t rain nearly as often, and we’ve never much fog to speak of.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Smithson scowled and puckered his mouth beneath his mustache, clearly at a loss. “No fog and little rain. Well, well.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Smithson, it is so.” I concentrated on keeping my smile bright and without the disappointment and dismay growing within me. “No fog at all.”

  I hadn’t come to London to speak of the weather, either. Only a few weeks before, I’d at last put aside my dreary mourning for my husband and sailed to London with dozens of letters of introduction to the grandest ladies of English society. By New York standards, I’d traveled modestly: I was armed with only forty trunks of my most fashionable gowns and jewels, three maids, a private chef, and a secretary. The city’s society pages had breathlessly (and a bit disapprovingly) reported all the details of my trip, but only I had known the true purpose for my escape.

  An escape was exactly what it was, too, my long-overdue escape from the solitude that had been my too-constant companion. Here in England I hoped to find all the things my stultifying marriage had denied me: adventure, freedom, excitement, independence, and intrigue.

  Especially intrigue.

  Tonight was my first grand ball in Belgravia, at the home of the Viscount and Viscountess Carleigh, and I’d scarcely slept the night before from anticipation. Though the elegant company was brilliant with jewels and thick with titles, I had found myself trapped on the dance floor with one dull partner after another, a parade of gentlemen who saw me not as a woman but only as a prize.

  “I say, Mrs. Hart,” Mr. Smithson said, his pale eyes popping as if struck with sudden inspiration. “I’d venture you’ve seen those palm trees yourself, haven’t you? I’d venture you’ve seen a great deal of that enormous America of yours, what with your father’s trains and all.”

  I smiled, even as the sting of his predictable words jabbed at me. Of course he’d mention Father’s railroads. Everyone did, and they usually mentioned my late husband, Arthur, too. Arthur and Father together had created a vast fortune from iron and steel and other men’s sweat, an empire proudly documented by the maps in Father’s library in our Fifth Avenue mansion.

  But to me the railroads represented only the impenetrable isolation of our family’s great wealth, of being the solitary passenger in a private train car muffled in red plush and mahogany. Too well I remembered my life as an only child, with neither brothers nor sisters for company, and even Mama had died so long ago that I’d no memory of her for consolation, nothing beyond the stiff and formal portrait that hung in the drawing room of our Fifth Avenue house.

  Father had spoken of the railroads as if they were his true family, his face lighting up in a way it never did for me. The intricacies of his ever-spreading empire were what had mattered most to him. If it hadn’t been for the railroads, then Father wouldn’t have forced me to marry his partner when I was seventeen and Arthur Hart forty years my senior. I hated the railroads and always had. Because of them, I’d never had a chance at being happy—until now.

  “Railroads are the future,” Mr. Smithson was saying, blissfully unaware of my thoughts. “You must be proud of your father’s achievements for the betterment of your country.”

  “What you mean to say, Mr. Smithson, is that I should be proud of my father’s money,” I said, my voice tart though I smiled still. “That is your real reason for dancing with me, is it not? Not because I myself am of any true interest to you, but because of the dollars I represent.”

  Mr. Smithson’s mouth fell open with astonishment. “Not at all, Mrs. Hart!” he protested. “You are most charming, ma’am, and such delightful company that I am honored to have this dance.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Smithson,” I said. “But what a pity it is that I cannot say the same of you. Now if you will please excuse me.”

  I turned and left him, slipping gracefully between the other dancers. Some turned to look, surprised and curious, but I didn’t care. I was twenty-five, and at last I was my own woman. I was done with pretending to be meek and obliging, and as I walked through the crowd I kept my head high and my expression serene. I’d no wish to return to the acquaintances who’d brought me to the ball, and instead I stepped through the tall open doors to the gallery that overlooked the garden. The shadowy figures of other guests were visible at the far end of the gallery, but they weren’t looking for company, nor was I.

  With a sigh of frustration, I rested my gloved hands on the stone balustrade and stared out into the moonlit formal garden.

  Where were the handsome and worldly gentlemen whom I’d come to London to find? Where were the charming, seductive rogues whom I’d read of in novels, the dashing noblemen with generations of hauteur and breeding to give them the confidence not to be intimidated by the power of my wealth?

  I’d hoped to find men who possessed the strength to match my own spirit, or even surpass it. Yet so far all I’d found were the same sorry breed of males that I’d left behind in New York, an uninspiring lot of self-centered dolts and impoverished younger sons who were attracted only to my fortune, not to me. Where was the adventure, the intrigue, the men, and (most daring of all!) the love that I’d so desperately hoped to find?

  One man, that was all I wished for, but it was the single thing that all the money left by my father and husband couldn’t buy. One man who’d be drawn to me for who I was as a woman, not as an heiress. One man who would become my friend, my partner, my lover, in every way that mattered.

  I sighed again, slowly opening my ostrich-plume fan. I knew I should return to the ball. There was nothing to be gained by remaining here, alone in the dark.

  Then suddenly I realized I wasn’t alone. There was a rustling in the bushes in the garden below, the breathy little cries of a woman and the deeper voice of a man. Frowning, I shifted a few steps along the balustrade to see if I could discover the source of the sounds.
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  As soon as I saw the pair, I knew I should look away, and yet I didn’t. I couldn’t. I had never observed anyone else … coupling like this, and I was shocked and fascinated and oddly excited, all at the same time.

  The gentleman—for from his impeccably tailored evening clothes, he surely was a gentleman—held his partner by her bare hips, her lace-trimmed petticoats thrown over her body and head. Her silk drawers were puddled around her ankles, and the jeweled buckles on her garters sparkled above her blue silk stockings. A lady, then, and likely a beauty, confident enough to be so daringly engaged. Bent over the back of a garden bench, her buttocks gleamed pearly white in the moonlight, and with her legs parted for the gentleman’s convenience, the rosy petals of her most private self blossomed like a midnight rose. Her cries were soft and mewling, muffled beneath her skirts as well as by the strains of the waltz drifting through the open windows.

  The lady’s face was hidden and her identity with it, but I didn’t care. All that mattered to me—all that I saw, really—was the gentleman. His face was hidden by the garden’s shadowy branches, leaving me with only his back and arms to consider, well muscled and powerful even though shrouded by the civility of his evening coat.

  I could hear him better now, too, not his exact words, but his voice, a low, deep rumble of desire and seduction to the woman beneath him. I didn’t have to know the words to feel them, and the masculine mixture of coaxing praise and command that made me shiver.

  He had remained clothed, only unfastening his trousers to free the magnificence of his cock. The moonlight spilled upon that, too, thick and strong as it drove hard into the lady, and glistening wetly with her juices. He fucked—for that vulgar word seemed so much more apt than the mealy lovemaking—her purposefully, masterfully, with an unyielding rhythm, nearly withdrawing the full length of his cock, teasing her with the thick, blunt tip before driving deep again, making her cry out and arch with undeniable pleasure. He paused, buried deep, to let her feel his presence, and with obvious appreciation swept his hands from the swell of her hips to the narrowness of her corseted waist and back, his thumbs tracing along her spine. He began to move again, thrusting hard, and impatiently he tossed his hair back from his forehead: black hair in the moonlight, as sleek as a raven’s wing over the white collar of his shirt.

  My lips parted as I watched, my quickening breath betraying my own growing arousal. This was the kind of man I had imagined finding here in England, the kind of man who would think first of passion, not railroads.

  My nipples tightened above the top of my corset, my breasts aching to be caressed as they pressed against the delicate silk of my gown. The gentleman’s cock fascinated me, so ruddy and pulsing with virility. Restlessly I pressed my thighs together, feeling the heat growing in my own empty passage in sympathy, even envy.

  The gentleman quickened his movements, not bothering to hide his groans of rising passion as he pounded against the woman. Arthur had always insisted on complete silence and tedious decorum in our bedroom, but this gentleman was shameless both in how completely he used and possessed his partner and in how he clearly did not give a damn if anyone saw or heard them together.

  No wonder I leaned farther over the balustrade, desperately wishing I were the one he desired, the one bent over that bench, feeling his fingers holding tightly to my hips, bracing myself against the pounding thrust of that cock as he—

  “Ah, here you are, Mrs. Hart,” said the Viscountess Carleigh as she appeared through the tall doors to join me on the gallery. “I rather wondered where you had vanished to, but one of the footmen said he’d seen you go outside. Are you not enjoying your evening?”

  Swiftly I left the balustrade, hoping the other woman would not realize that I’d been such an eager and shameless voyeur. Although as an American I wasn’t required to defer to English nobility, I still sank into a graceful curtsey to the viscountess to be polite, and also to give myself another few seconds to collect myself.

  “My lady,” I murmured, keeping my head bowed until the viscountess motioned for me to rise, and to reply. “On the contrary, Lady Carleigh, I have been enjoying the evening immensely. But the company has been so brilliant that I became a bit overwhelmed, and required a fresh breath of night air to recover.”

  Lady Carleigh smiled, benignly accepting my social fib for what it was. Considered the epitome of aristocratic beauty, the viscountess had a flawless complexion and masses of auburn hair, but what most men noticed first was her voluptuous figure, which not even the strictest of corsets could fully subdue. She was a particular favorite of King Edward, and I’d heard rumors that she’d shared his majesty’s royal bed. The viscountess was definitely part of the fast, fashionable set around the king, a lady who clearly did whatever she pleased, and exactly the kind of person that I had wished most to meet here in London.

  “I did not believe New Yorkers were overwhelmed by anything,” Lady Carleigh said, bemused. Lightly she fingered the thick dog collar of pearls around her throat. “Unless, perhaps, it was the number of eager young bucks you had surrounding you in the ballroom.”

  I smiled, too, one beautiful woman speaking nonsense to another.

  “There was a crush of them, yes,” I admitted. “Doubtless I am the novelty of the evening, the poor widow lady fresh from America.”

  Lady Carleigh chuckled, her gaze taking in my silk evening gown by Worth and the diamonds around my throat and wrists and pinned into my dark hair.

  “You are too modest, my dear Mrs. Hart,” she said. “There is nothing poor about you, as everyone knows perfectly well. You are the enchanting merry widow who has sailed among us on a wave of gold. True, you have youth and beauty to recommend you as well, but money is always most alluring to eager bachelors. You need only look at the success of the former Misses Astor and Vanderbilt. I’ve no doubt you’ll be engaged to some dashing peer of your own by the end of the season.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but you misunderstand,” I said, determined not to leave such a grievous misconception hanging between us. “I have neither wish nor need of another husband, even one with a title.”

  “None?” Lady Carleigh asked archly, not believing me.

  I shook my head. “My first marriage was not a love match, but an alliance for trade, contrived by my father to cement his business assets. My late husband was a distant, dispassionate gentleman, and I shed no tears at his death. Now that I have at last earned my independence, I refuse to be shackled to another tyrant in trousers. I wish for—for something more.”

  “Heavens, such a speech,” said Lady Carleigh, more than a little condescending in the way that the English often were. She raised her brows as she openly appraised me. “You American women are so very frank.”

  “Indeed I am, Lady Carleigh.” I wouldn’t apologize for what I’d said. I’d only spoken the truth. I had been forced to sacrifice my youth and innocence to a much older man who’d no use for either quality, and I was determined to make up for the time I had lost in my loveless marriage. Once again I thought of the gentleman in the garden below, the man who was as tempting to me as the Devil himself.

  “Your fortune-hunting bachelors are quite safe from me, my lady,” I continued. “I have spent my first twenty-five years pleasing others. Now I am determined to please only myself.”

  Before the viscountess answered, the gentleman in the garden suddenly roared with his release, a deep, guttural sound of such purely male satisfaction that it made me gasp, more with longing than surprise. Lady Carleigh hurried across the stone flags of the gallery to lean over the balustrade in the place that I had discovered earlier.

  “Oh, that must be Savage,” the viscountess declared, peering into the shadows. “I would recognize his triumphant war cry anywhere.”

  “‘Savage’?” I repeated, unable to keep from joining Lady Carleigh at the balustrade. Clearly I needn’t have feared that she would find offense or mortification in the sight of the two lovers. Instead, the viscountess appeared as
eager as I had been to glimpse the couple below. “‘Savage’? He is dressed quite like a gentleman, so I assumed that—”

  “Hush, hush, there he is,” the viscountess said eagerly, lowering her voice to a whisper and motioning for me to do the same. “That is the Earl of Savage, my dear, Savage by name, and likewise by inclination. There is such an air of danger about him that makes him quite irresistible, as any woman who has been possessed by him will attest. Ah, what a splendidly male beast!”

  She spoke with such authority that I wondered if Lady Carleigh herself had been one of the women possessed by this same lord. In New York, such an appraisal would have been unspeakably shocking, but here it seemed only one more worldly observation. I had been presented to the viscountess only a few hours before, and now here I was being her confidante in a most intimate—and most fascinating—conversation.

  I craned my neck to see over Lady Carleigh’s shoulder. To my disappointment, Lord Savage had already tucked his member back into his trousers, and was standing to one side while his partner sat on the bench and attempted to put her disordered dress back to rights.

  Finally the lady rose, still patting her hair. But no matter how many small repairs she made to her appearance, she wouldn’t be able to change the expression of wanton satisfaction on her face, her eyes heavy-lidded and her mouth swollen with it. If she returned to the ballroom now, there wouldn’t be a man or a woman who wouldn’t guess immediately what she’d been doing in the garden. From the adoring way she was gazing at the gentleman, she didn’t seem to care if all of London knew it.

  He reached out and brushed back a stray lock of her hair, tucking it back into place. He said something that made her laugh, and then bent to kiss her quickly. She tucked her hand into his arm, and together they vanished into the shadows.

  Lady Carleigh straightened, and nodded briskly.

  “Lady Cynthia Telford, used and discarded once again,” she said with obvious relish. “A sorry creature who grovels for male attention—completely unworthy of Savage. He knows it, too. Contempt mixed with carnality never makes for a pretty dish, nor one to be savored at length.”