Nicole Jordan (40 page)

He was her heart, her passion, her joy. He was her destiny; he had always been so. Yet this moment had been so long in coming.

Rapt desire filled her as she bent over him. She ran her hands up his body, her fingers splaying along his muscles, supple and rippling beneath his feverish skin. She heard his ragged moan as her lips met his in a lingering kiss….

But Dare apparently wasn’t willing to allow her control this time. Impatiently he shifted their positions, so that she lay beneath him, at his mercy.

His touch was exquisite and scorchingly sensual, his eyes bright and burning as he caressed her with his long, skillful fingers. He made love to her just as he had all those years ago, tenderly but impossibly demanding. He cherished her with his mouth and hands and body, arousing her to the burning point.

When he at last entered her, Julienne sighed with utter bliss at the sleek power and hardness of him.

Wrapping her legs around him, she moved with Dare in perfect unison, arching against him, crying his name as he claimed her, filled her, possessed her. And when the shattering explosion came, they melded together, two hearts coming home at last, forged into one by endless caresses of fire.

Afterward they lay together dreamily, breaths mingling, relishing the blissful sense of entwinement. Holding Julienne close, Dare felt a contentment so rich it vibrated deep into his soul.

This
was pleasure, he thought. The kind of heartfelt pleasure that came from true love. This was joy. The kind of precious joy that made his heart sing.

Almost as if she could read his mind, Julienne nuzzled his shoulder with her lips, her voice weak when she whispered, “I can well see how you earned your nickname, the Prince of Pleasure…. But I confess I don’t mind disappointing your legion of fans…all the countless damsels who will be heartbroken because you are retiring from the lists.”

Summoning his strength, Dare raised himself up on one elbow so that he could see her beautiful face.

“I’m not retiring,” he contradicted, offering her his bone-melting smile. “Merely concentrating all my effort on one particular damsel.” Bending, he touched his lips to hers as his voice lowered to a rough whisper. “I want to pleasure you all the way down to your soul, my beloved Jewel.”

Julienne reached up to bring his beguiling mouth down to hers. “You always do,” she murmured, giving herself up again to his enchanting caresses.

By Nicole Jordan
Published by Ivy Books

THE SEDUCTION

THE PASSION

DESIRE

ECSTASY

Please read on for a delicious taste
of the next exciting tale of love

M
ASTER
T
EMPTATION

by Nicole Jordan

London, September 1814

Partially shielded from view by a potted palm, Max Leighton leaned against a marble column and surveyed the crowded ballroom without enthusiasm. After enduring so many years of war, he had returned to England determined to lose himself in the mundane pleasures of civilian life.

But this was not what he had in mind: being pursued by countless matchmaking mamas and their nubile young daughters, eager to ensnare him in their nets. In the current craze of victory celebrations, a wealthy, decorated war veteran made an extremely eligible matrimonial prize, Max had learned to his chagrin.

His mouth curled in a wry grimace. He had little appetite for fighting on the battlefield of love, especially when he had no interest in settling down in marriage just yet. But even the more seasoned beauties of the ton were vying for his attention now. Needing a respite from his popularity, he’d escaped the ballroom floor moments ago and sought refuge behind a palm.

What had happened to him? Before his army days, he hadn’t considered balls and soirees and garden parties so trivial. But perhaps the genteel challenges of the Beau Monde simply couldn’t match the satisfaction of saving Europe from the bloody machinations of a despot.

Or perhaps it was the women themselves who aroused his dissatisfaction. None of them had the honest charms of one particular woman he’d found impossible to forget.

His gaze narrowing, Max let his mind drift back as it had countless times since his mission of mercy more than a year ago.

He had never expected to discover a Mediterranean island paradise, or experience an enchanting night of passion with an innocent temptress. He hadn’t been able to forget that night on Cyrene or the bewitching woman who had offered him solace.

He was inclined to return to the island and seek out Caro Evers, simply to see if the magic he’d felt with her was real or the result of the extraordinary circumstances, if, during the long months of war, he had built her up in his memory into an impossible ideal.

“Don’t tell me you are in hiding!” an amused male voice broke into his reflections. “Don’t you realize how many belles you are disappointing?”

Lord Christopher Thorne stood before him, surveying him with wry understanding. They had met the previous year during Max’s brief visit to Cyrene, and in recent months had become friends.

“Here, perhaps this will help,” Thorne said, offering him a snifter of what looked to be brandy. “I thought you would prefer this to my aunt’s insipid punch.”

It was Thorne who had introduced him to some of the more notorious pleasures London had to offer. And Thorne who had coerced him into attending the ball this evening.

Max raised his glass of brandy. “This helps,” he said, “but you are still bloody well indebted to me.”

Thorne flashed a grin. “I am indeed.” He was primarily in London for the fall Little Season because he’d reluctantly promised his aunt, Lady Hennessy, that he would squire around his young debutante cousin, who was trying to acquire some social polish in preparation for her coming-out next spring. He had asked Max to attend tonight so he didn’t have to endure Lady Hennessy’s ball all alone.

He gave Max a friendly cuff on the back. “It must be a severe plague, being hounded so mercilessly by so many women who love you.”

“It isn’t my person they love. It’s the size of my income and my prospective title that draws them.” As the only living male relative of an elderly uncle, Max was the heir presumptive to a viscountcy.

“Along with your charm and looks,” Thorne interjected. “And the fact that you’re a celebrated war hero. Have you any notion how many men would kill to be in your shoes?”

Max returned a pained smile. “I would rather be anywhere else than here. Back on your island, for example.”

Thorne shook his head. “I’m not certain that would be an improvement. Cyrene has more than its share of marriage-minded debs. There are some two dozen British families who lead society there. They have their own little ton and can be quite as ruthless as London’s Upper Ten Thousand.”

“I would be willing to risk it just for a little peace.”

Thorne gave him a scrutinizing glance. “Ah, I fancy I know what your problem is. You were infected.”

“Infected?”

“By Cyrene’s spell. It gets in your blood.”

Taking another swallow of brandy, Max shook his head. “I heard something about a mythical spell, but I don’t believe such things.”

“Even so, the island affects some people strangely. It has seductive qualities that can be downright dangerous.”

That much was true, Max agreed silently. He had found it enchanting, seductive, beguiling….

“Is that why you settled there?” he asked his friend. “You were seduced by the island?”

To his surprise, Thorne gave an enigmatic smile. “In part. But Cyrene has other appealing traits that aren’t apparent at first glance.” Thorne paused. “Perhaps you should visit there after all. The tranquility might do you good.”

“I certainly haven’t found tranquility here,” Max muttered, eying a blond-haired widow who was scanning the ballroom, doubtless in search of him.

“Then come home with me at Christmas,” Thorne said. “I have obligations that will keep me in London until then, but I plan to spend the holiday on Cyrene and would be delighted to have you join me.”

“I could easily be persuaded. I’m eager to see for myself that Yates has recovered.” And to meet a certain ministering angel again…

He knew better than to bring up the subject, but the question seemed to be dragged out of him. “What do you hear about Miss Evers?”

“Caro?” Thorne’s eyebrow rose with curiosity. “Ah, I recall you met her when she nursed Yates.” He smiled slowly as if recalling a fond memory. “Why, she’s as singular as ever. Caro tends to set the blue-blooded denizens of Cyrene on their ears with regularity.”

“She did strike me as rather unconventional.”

“She is that indeed,” Thorne said with a low laugh that suddenly faltered. “What in blazes…?” His eyes narrowed. “Speak of the devil.”

Following his gaze through the palm fronds, Max glanced past the throngs of dancers toward the main entrance to the ballroom. A woman stood there, looking starkly out of place among the begowned, bejewelled, befeathered ladies. She wore plain, dark traveling clothes, and she was searching the crowd impatiently.

Max felt every muscle in his body tense. He recognized her from his dreams. The proud carriage of her slender body. The delicate strength in the set of her jaw. The compassion in her healing touch…

Wondering if he was dreaming, Max blinked rapidly, just as Thorne said in a suddenly terse tone, “Excuse me. Caro may be looking for me. I need to discover what brought her here.”

As his friend strode away, Max remained where he stood, feeling slightly stunned. Like Thorne, he had no idea what had brought Caro Evers here to London, specifically to Lady Hennessy’s ballroom.

Yet he had no doubt whatsoever why his life had suddenly brightened.

Relief flooded Caro when she spied Thorne approaching. At least she wouldn’t have to search further for him.

When he reached her, she forced herself to return his smile of welcome, knowing that she was the object of countless curious stares. The notoriety didn’t bother her—she was fully accustomed to it by now. But no one needed to suspect that she and Lord Christopher Thorne were anything more than longtime acquaintances and neighbors, or that she had come here to fetch him for an urgent mission.

“Did you just arrive in London?” he murmured as he bent gallantly over her hand.

“Yes. I called at your house but was told I could find you here. Thorne, it is Isabella. She has been taken captive.”

His pleasant smile never wavered, although a spark of dark emotion flared in his eyes. “I am delighted to see you again, Miss Evers. Come, you can give me all the news from home.”

Tucking her arm in his, he ushered her from the ballroom and along the elegant corridor to a large library.

Caro shivered as he closed the door behind them. A fire had been lit in the grate, but it was still far colder here than home on her beautiful island.

“So tell me what happened,” Thorne said brusquely, all business now that the need for pretense was over.

“Isabella was returning home three weeks ago when her ship was overrun by pirates. Thorne, it’s almost certain she has been enslaved.”

“Sit down and start from the beginning,” he suggested as she began to pace.

“I couldn’t possibly sit. I have been doing nothing but sitting on board a schooner for two weeks now. I wish it didn’t take so blasted long to reach London!”

“Well, you won’t do Isabella any good by wearing out my aunt’s carpet,” Thorne retorted. “Would you care for some sherry?”

His pragmatic tone had a calming effect. Taking a deep breath, Caro moved over to the hearth and held out her gloved hands while Thorne went to a table and poured her a glass of sherry.

Memories rushed through her mind as she stared at the flames. Lady Isabella Wilde was her dearest friend—a beautiful Spanish widow who frequently traveled the globe, living life as she pleased. The adventuresome Isabella had been like a mother to her, ever since Caro’s own mother died when she was a girl. Isabella was also a role model of independent thinking and had encouraged her in countless ways to pursue her dreams.

Caro was fiercely determined to free her friend from captivity—and so were all the other Guardians. There was no question they would mount a rescue. Caro had come directly to London to give Thorne his orders.

He handed her a full wineglass, then settled himself on a sofa while she explained the facts they had pieced together after Isabella was taken captive by Barbary corsairs.

“The only solid information we have is that her ship was taken to Tripoli, where she disappeared. Presumably she was sold as a slave, but those are only rumors. There was another English gentleman on the same voyage, however, who was taken prisoner with her. We know he was allowed to ransom himself and return to England. And we think he might have some clues as to Isabella’s whereabouts.”

“And Sir Gawain wants me to track down this Englishman?”

“Yes. He is a wealthy merchant by the name of Tarquin Jones, who hails from Manchester. Are you acquainted with him?”

“I’ve heard of him. He owns a dozen factories in the north.”

“Which is how he could afford the exorbitant price of his ransom.”

Her sherry remaining untouched, Caro set her glass on the mantle to reach into her reticule. Drawing out a thin sheaf of folded papers, she handed them to Thorne.

“All the particulars are here,” she said. “Everything we know about Jones. The most likely place to begin looking for him is perhaps Manchester.”

Thorne perused the details quickly. “I am to question Jones,” he verified, “then proceed to Tripoli and link up with Hawk to continue the search?”

“Exactly. And I don’t need to tell you how imperative it is that you proceed quickly.”

He nodded. “I will leave for Manchester tomorrow morning, as soon as I amke certain Jones isn’t here in London somewhere. That will also give me time to arrange a few details to put my current assignment on hold.”