A Treacherous Proposition. Patricia Frances Rowell
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“I feel so frightened and alone. I don’t know whom to trust, which way to turn.”
Pain shot through Vincent’s heart. He knew Diana had no reason to trust him. Every reason not to. Still… He reached over and turned her face toward his. “I’m sorry you feel alone. Perhaps one day you will learn to trust me. I will do my utmost not to fail you.”
She gazed at him soberly, searching his eyes, not speaking. Her face was too close. Her eyes too deep. Her mouth… Before he realized he would do it, he covered it with his own. She tasted salty from her tears, soft and sweet. Her breath checked. For a moment she leaned into him.
And then she pulled away.
He touched the wound on her cheek, and reality intruded. This must go no further….
Praise for Patricia Frances Rowell
A Scandalous Situation
“The admirable hero and brave heroine are bound to win all but the stoniest heart.”
—Romantic Times
A Dangerous Seduction
“Rowell creates a wonderful Gothic atmosphere, using beautiful Cornwall and its history of smuggling and shipwrecks to enhance her story.”
—Romantic Times
A Perilous Attraction
“Promising Regency-era debut…a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”
—Romantic Times
A Treacherous Proposition
Patricia Frances Rowell
MILLS & BOON
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This book is for my auxiliary kids—
my stepchildren, John Parker and Cindy Lynn Rowell,
George Richmond and Shelia Rowell,
William Dean and Pamela Darlene Rowell,
Darlene Rowell and James Michael Hussmann,
and my daughters-in-law, Renee Marie
and Leigh Elizabeth Annand.
Thank you all for so enriching my life.
And, of course, every time, for Johnny.
A Word of Thanks
To all those who fought wars that seemed to make no
difference in the long run. The outcome changes nothing.
You did what you did. You gave what you gave.
You risked what you risked, and you did it with honor.
And we thank you.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Prologue
Yorkshire, England, April 1796
“But, Papa! Timothy is my friend!” The little boy’s lips quivered in spite of his determination to forbid them.
His father glared at the older boy standing beside him. “Your friend, do you think? Now what would a great boy of thirteen years want with a lad not quite eight? What have you given him?”
The younger boy’s gaze dropped, then slid sideways toward his friend, guilt in every muscle of his small body as he stared at the straw on the stable floor.
“Ah!” His father folded his arms.
The boy lifted his chin. “I only gave him my soldiers, Papa. Tim doesn’t have any.”
His father’s eyes narrowed as he studied the ragged Timothy. “And a boy your age likes to play with toy soldiers?” Suddenly he barked, “Let me see what is in your pockets.”
The older boy made a break for it, sprinting for the stable door, only to be captured by an under groom and hauled back before he had made good his escape.
The boy’s father grasped him by the collar and shook him. “Your pockets.”
Reluctantly, Timothy turned his pockets outward and two gold coins fell into the straw. The man stooped and retrieved them, his icy stare never leaving Timothy’s angry face. “So you steal from your friends?”
Timothy lifted his chin defiantly. “He’s not my friend!” He kicked straw at the younger boy. “You aren’t my friend. You’re just a baby.”
He turned and ran for the door again, and the boy’s father let him go. After the boy had disappeared from sight, the man knelt beside his son and looked into his tear-filled eyes. “I’m sorry, Vincent, but there is a hard lesson you must learn. When one has the power and wealth that will someday be yours, one must always be on guard. Always. The world is filled with people who will let you think they like you, but who, in fact, only want what you have. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded, his mouth firming into a hard line.
“Yes, Papa. I understand.”
Chapter One
London, England, April 1814
Vincent Ingleton, Earl of Lonsdale, leaned his shoulders against the stained wall, arms folded across his chest, and studied the lady’s face where she sat by the bed. Tired. Tired and sad. He narrowed his eyes and looked more closely. No, not sad exactly. In truth, she showed very little grief. Just an abysmal weariness. Little wonder in that. The man dying in the bed had not made her life easy.
Hardly even bearable for a lady of her breeding.
Vincent