Elizabeth Boyle

Brazel Angel

Brazen Heiress

Brazen Temptress

Brazen Angel

Prologue
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Epilogue

Brazen Heiress

Prologue
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Chapter 23
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Chapter 24
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Chapter 25
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Epilogue

Brazen Temptress

Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
|
Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
|
Chapter 9
|
Chapter 10
|
Chapter 11
|
Chapter 12
|
Chapter 13
|
Chapter 14
|
Chapter 15
|
Chapter 16
|
Chapter 17
|
Chapter 18
|
Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Chapter 23
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Chapter 24
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Chapter 25
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Chapter 26
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Chapter 27
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Epilogue

Also by Elizabeth Boyle
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About Elizabeth Boyle

To my husband, Terry, who every day brings love and romance into my life. Thank you for giving me my island, my castle, my dreams.

O
swald Wentworth, the Earl of Lyle, crossed his arms over his portly stomach and looked at the enticing vision next to him in his carriage.

Amazing bit of luck it was, meeting such an eager lady at such a boring affair as Lady Chilton’s masquerade. With that damn Trahern and his constant interference, it had become impossible over the past few years to find a willing partner. Especially a noble one who shared his inclinations.

Well, tonight there was no one to whisper a warning in the lady’s ear. Not that she appeared the type to listen.

One thing for certain, Oswald knew he never would have stood a chance with Lord Trahern nearby. Women flocked to the man.

Undoubtedly because of all that mystery surrounding Trahern’s foreign travels and his newly inherited wealth.

“Is your house very far?” his companion purred in her throaty, accented voice. “I so hate waiting.” Her gloved hand grazed over his forearm.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine the feel of her fingers elsewhere. “Not much farther,” he told her. “Not much farther at all.”

Somewhere in the distance a church bell tolled the hour. It was well past midnight.

“I’m so glad you don’t mind going to your house,” she said, scooting across the seat, her voluminous skirts enveloping his legs. The trim curve of her ankle slid up and down his calf. “I’m forever looking for a place to spend the night.”

Despite the full moon outside, the dim light inside the carriage left her features obscured. Even in the Chiltons’ drawing room her face had been difficult to discern, artfully hidden as it was beneath her black and silver mask.

That was what had drawn him to her—her morbid costume. Only a lady with a true lack of morals would come to a formal masquerade dressed as Death. Her mask, grotesque and chilling, covered most of the upper half of her face. On her skirts, a morality play had been embroidered with images of the Devil and a wicked assortment of his tortured victims.

They were images after Oswald’s own black heart. He glanced at her again, trying to find a hint as to the identity of the lady beneath the costume. She would be blond beneath her towering black wig, he just knew it. He loved blondes.

And from the accent he guessed her to be French.

Probably another damned
émigré
from Paris. Newly arrived and in desperate straits. That would also explain why he hadn’t recognized her when he first spied her. How he was beginning to love those wretched revolutionaries and their guillotine. Not only had they opened up all kinds of new business opportunities to exploit, now it seemed they would end up providing him with a wealth of wonderful companions.

She leaned over him again. “Lord Lyle, may I call you Ossie? That is what your friend called you as we left, isn’t it?” Her hand brushed across the top of his knee. “You may call me Mignon.”

“Yes, of course, my dear Mignon,” he gasped. She was indeed French. He could imagine it now, her urgent cries for release in that passionate language. “I would call you Angel, my dear. For you remind me of one.”

“An angel in black? How odd, Ossie.”

“Angels come in many forms. Somehow I doubt you are the saving kind.”

“I’m sure you’d be surprised to find out which master I serve,” she said softly into his ear.

Despite the darkness he discerned the wicked slant of her smile.

“How is it we haven’t met before?” he wanted to know.

“Alas, I have a wicked step-
maman
who keeps me locked away.” She sighed dramatically, leaning back in her seat. “Though sometimes, when the moon is full, I steal the key and slip free. And you can’t imagine the mischief I find.” Her hand trailed up his knee to nearly his inner thigh before she slowly pulled it away.

“I can imagine quite a bit, my dear.” He turned to her and tugged her closer, hauling her into his arms. For a fleeting second he saw past the mask and into her eyes.

Behind the black velvet he spied something familiar.

Fear.

The lady feared him. And rightly she should.

But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she reached up and lazily ran her finger down his cheek. “I wouldn’t have gone with you like this unless I knew you were the type of man I wanted. I made inquiries and found out we have, shall we say, similar tastes.”

Women with his type of taste usually didn’t fall into his arms. Rather, they cost him a considerable amount of blunt at Madame Giselle’s private club.

All he wanted to do was to free himself of his breeches, toss her skirts over her head, and empty himself into her without another thought.

Games could be played later.

But just then the carriage came to a jolting stop and his new footman promptly opened the door.

Oswald made a note to dismiss the efficient bastard in the morning.

His dark angel exited with all the grace of a duchess, her head held high, her nose pointed upward in a royal tilt. When she gained the front door she glanced over her shoulder at him and ran her tongue over the half-opened pout of her lips before she continued inside.

He followed in stunned amazement.

“What a marvelous home you have, Ossie.”

Oswald waved away the footman and took her wrap from her. Tonight no one would touch her or her clothing but him. Breathing in the strange floral fragrance clinging to the fur-lined wrap, he found himself intoxicated to the point of obsession. He must have her and without any further delays.

She curled up to his side, her hand wrapping around the curve of his elbow. “Take me to the room where you spend the most time. I want to make sure you remember me often when we are not together.” Then she leaned over and whispered into his ear some suggestions of how he might remember her.

Oswald licked his suddenly dry lips. How did she know that he enjoyed such things?

Guiding her up to the second floor at nothing less than a dead run, he bellowed at the footman not to disturb them, not under any circumstances.

His angel laughed gaily at his order.

Blood pounding in his ears, he stopped before the door of his study and caught her with both hands, pinning her against the wall.

“I might be a little rough,” he warned, his lips grazing over her neck.

She shuddered in wanton response. “I hoped you would be. But be warned. I play rough in return.”

Oswald flung open the door to his study, and after she walked in he slammed it shut and twisted the key in the lock.

When he turned around he found her exactly as he wanted her—leaning over his cluttered desk, her hips swaying back and forth in invitation.

She glanced over her shoulder again, and in a maddening pout, her gaze downcast, she whispered, “Undo me, Ossie. I’ve been very bad.”

A strangled sound erupted from his throat as his rock-hard groin started to give way to a presaging shudder. He choked back the release.

He looked at her in wonder. She’d nearly unmanned him without even a touch. He must hurry or he would spill himself before he had the chance to see just what Mignon considered “being bad.”

She faced him now, easing her gown to her shoulders. The pale gleam of her full breasts pushing at the top of her bodice cast a soft glow, which beckoned for his touch.

“Please, Ossie. I shouldn’t be here. I couldn’t help myself. Punish me.”

Treading heavily on the thick rug, he started to cross the room. His breathing rasped in heavy, ragged sobs. He made it only halfway.

“That’s it, Ossie.” She kicked off her slippers, one of them falling at his feet. She propped her foot up on the desk, her skirts falling back, revealing her stocking-clad leg. The silk glimmered in the firelight as she rolled it down and tossed it next to the slipper. “Think of how bad I’ve been. A lady shouldn’t be here. Not like this,” she said, rolling her shoulders back so her breasts rose higher in her gown, threatening to spill out. “The last thing I want to be is a lady.”

He couldn’t move for fear of what would happen in his churning groin if he did. All he could do was watch in fascination as she peeled off her gloves.

Long-limbed, she reminded him of an expensive racing steed. And oh, so ready to be ridden.

Mignon held out one arm, her finger curling to induce him closer.

Oswald didn’t need any further prompting. Ripping off his collar and jacket, he cared little for the threads and buttons lost in his haste. His waistcoat came next, followed by his breeches. “Ah, my Mignon. Let Ossie show you how he punishes fallen angels.”

But Mignon was no longer waiting submissively at his desk. She’d darted toward the cart that held decanters of his favorite sherry and a particularly strong Scottish whiskey his Northern cousins had sent him. She poured a glass of the whiskey and pressed it toward his outstretched hands. “Drink it.”

“The vision of you is enough for me tonight,” he said, pushing her hands away.

She persisted, bringing the glass up between them. “You must. I want to taste it from your strong lips.”

Oswald took the glass and gulped down the proffered liquor. He coughed as the fiery liquid burned his mouth and throat. “You’ll taste more than my lips, you wicked creature, if you have been as bad as I think.” Strolling behind his desk, he ran his hand underneath the shelves lining the back wall. He pulled the latch free and the bookcase opened up. “This is where I keep all my favorite things, my dear Mignon.” Pulling out a riding crop, he snapped it on the desk.

She squealed, skittering around the room in wild abandon. “Oh, Ossie. How ever did you know?”

As he tried to catch her she darted out of reach, laughing and teasing him to follow her in dizzy circles.

Oswald came to a halting stop in the middle of the room. The floor started to pitch in a most haphazard fashion. As he blinked to clear his vision, the room spun even more wildly. Mignon’s image floated toward him, her movements strangely slow and jerky.

“What have you done to me?” he choked out as he reached toward her for support. His hands found nothing, only the floor as it rushed up to greet his rough descent.

Mignon knelt by his side, her features blurring for a second, then clearing.

He thought she was smiling.

“What have you done to me?” he repeated as he felt himself slipping into a dark sleep.

“Oh, Ossie. Now I’m going to be really bad.”

“O
h, bother, Giles. Look who’s arrived,” Montgomery, the Duke of Stanton whispered loudly.

Giles Corliss, the Marquess of Trahern, tipped up his confounded black mask and looked first to his friend, only to find the duke scrunching his short body behind a white marble statue in a vain attempt to go unnoticed. The stocky man’s bright yellow jacket and red waistcoat made him hard to miss.