Authors: Annette Blair
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Gothic, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #Romantic Comedy, #Historical Romance
Proper Scoundrel
Lust muddies a high-stakes battle only one can win. Marcus adores Jade the minute he sees her; she despises him as fast. Jade Smithfield’s late grandmother unwittingly sold a land option to the railroad before she died. Nevertheless, to keep a family secret and save the downtrodden women in her care, Jade is determined to stop the South Downs Railroad from laying track on her property.
To save his disabled brother’s railroad, and the families who will lose their living without it, Marcus Fitzalan applies for a job with Jade to conceal his investigation into the railroad accidents halting construction. While Jade wreaks havoc on the railroad, and leads Marcus a merry chase, her new man of affairs teaches her a lesson contrary to everything she has learned since birth: Not all men are created equal—some of them are good.
Note to Reader
Surprisingly, there seems to be several schools of thought as to the length of the Regency Period. Purists say it lasted from 1811 to 1820, at the time George IV ruled as Regent during the well known “madness” of his father. Others say that the Prince Regent’s influence lasted beyond 1820, and not until William IV came to the throne, in 1830, did the Regency period finally come to an end. And still others place the Regency at 1811 to 1837, when Queen Victoria succeeded William IV. For this series, I have chosen the broadest Regency timeframe.
I also did my British railroad research, and while there were spurs at this time, I am knowingly taking a bit of literary license and pre-dating the main lines.
Dedication
Celebrating the gang from the Island,
And all the plots we’ve shared.
You know who you are;
You can’t be compared.
I prize breakfasts on the deck,
Plots by the sea.
Spy time ferry rides.
Moonlight walks at three.
Drumming up a friendship
That can’t be beat.
I’ll love you all forever,
C.J., you’re a treat.
Newhaven, East Sussex Coast,
England,
Spring 1830
At first breathtaking sight, Marcus Fitzalan was willing to wager his membership in the Society of Scoundrels that the Lady Jade Smithfield was proud to be a scandal.
Black leather breeches embraced her long sleek legs. A matching waistcoat caressed her lush, ripe breasts and nipped at a waist smaller than the span of his hands. Her pirate’s blouse laced high enough for modesty, but low enough to tantalize.
She kept him standing in her study, as if on the auction block, circling him in a way meant to intimidate—like a buyer examining a stallion’s fine points—not entirely unaware that her perusal afforded him the same enticing opportunity.
Hair of rich sable silk fell in loose waves down her back, pointing to such a fine little bottom, Marcus itched to introduce it to the palm of his greedy hands.
If acquiring a position in her outrageous household were not so important, he’d match her shocking tactics, without a backward glance, and teach her a few tricks into the bargain.
As things stood, her proximity made him feel like that stallion, agitated and vigilant, as if something momentous were about to be granted. Her very scent stirred him, and though he dare not initiate an advance, neither would he disregard her slightest overture.
“Are you buying?” he asked, tongue in cheek.
The siren stiffened, all lucent cream porcelain in black leather, and when she raised her defiant chin and levelled him with her ebony gaze, Marcus became transfixed.
Her eyes gave her skewering power and that hint of a widow’s peak added sorcery to the blend. Even as she held him in her sight, Marcus wondered what demons compelled so young a woman to flaunt society’s rules as boldly as did this one.
Marcus smiled, cocked his head, and passed her the gauntlet, so to speak.
Jade raised her chin at the audacity of the unlikely man of affairs, examining her every bit as thoroughly as she did him, his blue eyes narrow, piercing in their cobalt intensity, as if he would draw her out and bare her soul ... clear to the panic she kept hidden there.
She straightened her shoulders and firmed her stance. He would not see what she did not want him to. “Please remember which of us holds the whip hand,” she said, as much to remind herself.
“At your service,” the bounder said, his cocked brow belying his words, his overt masculinity sounding a warning in her head.
Thick muscles. Wide-shoulders. Hands, big and ... capable of cold-hearted brutality. A thoroughly daunting scent, perilous and soothing at one and the same time—tobacco, leather, and spearmint —called to her like the dashing blade her imagination conjured late at night when she held no control over her mind and allowed, for a blink, that a good man might exist somewhere in this sorry world.
Dangerous. Seductive.
His skin shone bronze, his raven hair unshorn, a lazy lock falling over one eye. A scamp, a scoundrel ... heartless. His lips appeared sculpted by a master, and when the slight curve of them, one side up, as now, hinted at a smile, a chin dimple appeared, dead centre.
Impudent. Rude.
He stood annoyingly cocksure and secretly-amused, his gaze so brazen, she’d swear he could see through her clothes to her lace chemisette and revelled in the sight. Half her girls would swoon, if they saw him, the rest would run screaming from the room.
If the scoundrel all-out grinned, Jade feared she would lose her breath.
“I am yours to command,” he said with a bow.
Jade had lost her ability to blush at twelve, but when the ominous warmth threatened, she turned her back, went round her desk, and sat behind it, placing it square between them—placing herself, once more, in the position of authority. “Sit,” she said, “if you please.”
Fitzalan sat, as instructed.
“Not just any knave,” Jade said, “but a practiced one,” which only served to augment his aura of ambient potency, drat the blighter. “You won’t do.” She straightened. “You’re too young and too ... perfect, except that you need a shave.”
His bark of laughter baffled Jade. She’d been prepared for anger; he was a man, after all, but ’twas incredulity furrowed his brow. “Perfect?” he asked.
Odd that vanity did not march beside magnificence in this one. “No, not perfect,” she said. “No man is; you’re all rotten.”
He raised a shrewd brow. “You’ve met the wrong men.”
“Scores of them,” she said. “Since Ivy recommended you, I assume that he explained what I want in the man I hire. Did Ivy travel with you, by the way?”
“Actually I travelled with him.” Marcus grinned.
She hadn’t been wrong, Jade saw now. Marcus Fitzalan’s grin was deadly. But fortunately for her, breathing was still, more or less, an option.
“Ivy is setting up his puppet stage right now,” Marcus said. “He plans a performance within the hour.”
“Good,” Jade said. “Was this the first time you travelled in his old gypsy wagon?” she asked, back in control, satisfied the man before her understood as much.
“The first as an adult,” he said. “’Twas like stepping back in time, with children running alongside, calling Ivy’s puppets to come out and play. Difficult to believe I was that innocent once.”
“Impossible to believe,” Jade said acerbically, gaining perhaps a modicum of grudging respect, judging by the surprised approval in Fitzalan’s heated gaze.
“I remember how excited I used to get,” she said, “when his white wagon, trimmed in red and green, came rolling down the road, like Christmas in summer. I loved Ivy’s puppets. I loved Ivy. Still do.”
Marcus felt strangely relieved that the Lady Jade might not be as cold and formidable within as she appeared without. Sharing Ivy as a friend, as well as similar, though separate, childhood memories, made her seem ... human. “My lady, I—”
“You may call me Jade. Everyone does. The title is a throwback to a bygone era. No one in Peacehaven gives a flying fig about my father’s title. They care only that before he abandoned us, he gave new meaning to the word ‘wastrel.’”
Not haughty, either, Marcus thought, her abandonment revealing an additional breadth of common ground between them.
“Jade.” Marcus sat forward. “Ivy said you need a man of affairs to put your finances in order, and I’m the man who can.” Marcus wished he could tell her the true reason he wanted the job—that an inconspicuous resident of Newhaven could look into the accidents slowing local railroad construction, without raising suspicion. But to reveal his investigation at this juncture could cripple it.
“What experience do you have, Mr. Fitzalan?”
“You may call me Marcus. I’ve been running a sizeable estate in Seaford for the past year, and a smaller one before that, both with a great deal of success, I might add.” He removed a sealed missive from his waistcoat and handed it to her, but she made certain their fingers did not touch as she accepted it. Odd, considering her reputation for courting scandal.
“Inside, you will find a letter of introduction from the Earl of Attleboro, my ... former employer.”
She read the note, raised a brow, and folded her hands on her desk, appearing for a minute to fight some deep inner battle. “Ivy said that you have personal business in the area as well,” she said, and waited ... for him to elaborate, Marcus assumed.
When he merely nodded, she made a moue of disapproval, and caught Marcus’s fancy. He’d like to take his lazy time kissing those luscious lips into a smile.
“Did he tell you about The Benevolent Society for Downtrodden Women?” she asked, a bit on the loud side, snapping him back to their conversation, her chiding brow telling him she’d discerned the significance in his preoccupied gaze, if not his precise thoughts, praise be.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Ivy said you inherited Peacehaven Manor and the Downtrodden Society from your grandmother, that you run it here as she did.”
“The Society is not downtrodden,” she snapped. “The women are. The Society is benevolent.”