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From the bestselling, award-winning author of Vanity and Violet comes a lush adventure as darkly sensual as velvet. Clad in black velvet and posing as a widowed French comtesse, Gabrielle de Beaucaire had returned to England for one purpose only—to ruin the man responsible for her young lover’s death. But convincing the forbidding Nathaniel Praed, England’s greatest spymaster, that she would make the perfect agent for his secret service would not be easy. And even after Gabrielle had lured the devastatingly attractive lord to her bed, she would have to contend with his distrust—and with the unexpected hunger that his merest touch aroused. From the moment he met her, Nathaniel Praed knew that the alluring Gabrielle de Beaucaire spelled trouble. But though he fought her outrageously bold advances, he could not stem the turbulent hunger that swept through him when the tall, titian-haired vixen pressed her lips to his. Now, against his better judgment, she is in his employ. And as Europe trembles at a tyrant’s war and sinister minds plot against them, Nathaniel and Gabrielle find themselves at the mercy of an exquisite passion . . . and a love that could save—or destroy—both of their lives.
Popular Victorian-era author Mary Elizabeth Braddon rose to literary fame on the popularity of her so-called sensation novels, which were tales packed with intrigue, plot twists, and suspense. This novel takes a look at the life of a woman who, faced with circumstances beyond her control, flouts a number of sacrosanct social conventions.
From the Diary of Leonie Noirot: The perfect corset should invite its undoing . . . Lethally charming Simon Blair, Marquess of Lisburne, has reluctantly returned to London for one reason only: a family obligation. Still, he might make time for the seduction of a certain redheaded dressmaker—but Leonie Noirot hasn't time for him. She's obsessed with transforming his cousin, the dowdy Lady Gladys, into a swan. Leonie's skills can coax curves—and profits—from thin air, but his criminally handsome lordship is too busy trying to seduce her to appreciate her genius. He badly needs to learn a lesson, and the wager she provokes ought to teach him, once and for all. A great plan, in theory—but Lisburne's become a serious distraction and Leonie's usual logic is in danger of slipping away as easily as a silk chemise. Could the Season's greatest transformation be her own?
Victoria Rawlings is the daughter of an English aristocrat whose fortunes have dwindled so badly that she was about to be "sold" into a marriage to a portly, elderly widower of great wealth. Fiery and principled, Tori devised a plan that would release her. On her wedding day, she changes indentities with a tavern wench who closely resembles her. Suddenly, Tori finds herself in league with a band of brigands headed by a man known only as Scarblade. Tori becomes a virtual captive of the legendary highwayman, and experiences excitement and passion unlike any she's ever known.
ÊWho could resist those little soft hands in doeskin? Certainly not Rorie. He resigned himself to the endurance of his mother's anger in the future as a price to be paid for the indulgence of his inclination in the present, gave Vixen his arm, and turned his face towards the Abbey House. They walked through shrubberies that would have seemed a pathless wilderness to a stranger, but every turn in which was familiar to these two. The ground was undulating, and vast thickets of rhododendron and azalea rose high above them, or sank in green valleys below their path. Here and there a group of tall firs towered skyward above the dark entanglement of shrubs, or a great beech spread its wide limbs over the hollows; here and there a pool of water reflected the pale moonshine. The house lay low, sheltered and shut in by those rhododendron thickets, a long, rambling pile of building, which had been added to, and altered, and taken away from, and added to again, like that well-known puzzle in mental arithmetic which used to amuse us in our childhood. It was all gables, and chimney-stacks, and odd angles, and ivy-mantled wall, and richly-mullioned windows, or quaint little diamond-paned lattices, peeping like a watchful eye from under the shadow of a jutting cornice. The stables had been added in Queen Elizabeth's time, after the monks had been routed from their snug quarters, and the Abbey had been bestowed upon one of the Tudor favourites. These Elizabethan stables formed the four sides of a quadrangle, stone-paved, with an old marble basin in the centreÑa basin which the Vicar pronounced to be an early Saxon font, but which Squire Tempest refused to have removed from the place it had occupied ever since the stables were built. There were curious carvings upon the six sides, but so covered with mosses and lichens that nobody could tell what they meant; and the Squire forbade any scraping process by officious antiquarians, which might lead to somebody's forcible appropriation of the ancient basin. The Squire was not so modern in his ideas as to set up his own gasometer, so the stables were lighted by lanterns, with an oil-lamp fixed here and there against the wall. Into this dim uncertain light came Roderick and Vixen, through the deep stone archway which opened from the shrubbery into the stable-yard, and which was solid enough for the gate of a fortified town. Titmouse's stable was lighted better then the rest. The door stood open, and there was Titmouse, with the neat little quilted doeskin saddle still on his back, waiting to be fed and petted by his young mistress. It was a pretty picture, the old low-ceiled stable, with its wide stalls and roomy loose-boxes and carpet of plaited straw, golden against the deep brown of the woodwork.