Far Too Tempted (38 page)

Smiling, she pushed open the door. “Alex?”

“Over here, Jess.” He stood by one of the stalls, a thoughtful expression on his face. At the sound of his name he’d turned, his expression switching to surprise as she ran forward and flung herself into his arms. “Is everything all right?”

She looked up into his eyes, slipping her arms around his neck. “Yes, yes, it’s fine. I came out to tell you it’s almost time for dinner to be served. Higgins would have sent one of the footmen, but I wanted to see the new mares.” She laughed. “And then I started thinking how glad I am that you aren’t St. George.”

“I beg your pardon?” His brows drew together in a puzzled frown.

“Nothing. Just kiss me.”

His eyes, so blue, narrowed slightly. “You’re in an odd mood this evening, Mrs. Ramsey. Maybe it’s because you’re breeding?”

Her pregnancy had produced a myriad of emotional up and downs, but she reveled in it. There was nothing more wonderful than the idea of having his child.

Jessica lifted her mouth suggestively. “Never mind my mood, just kiss me.”

He laughed. “The lady is impatient. I like that. It’ll be my pleasure.”

His mouth was warm and firm and infinitely arousing. Jessica melted into the kiss, her body molding to his, her fingers in the softness of his hair. They were both breathless when he lifted his head. She whispered, “My pleasure, as well. I love you, Alex.”

His fingers trailed across her cheek and his voice was husky. “I think I am possibly the luckiest man on earth. Speaking of pleasure…” Jessica let out a small gasp as she suddenly found herself swept off her feet. His expression was dark and a little dangerous, his hair rakishly disheveled. He carried her with long strides toward the back of the barn into the shadows, and a moment later Jessica found herself lying on a mound of soft, fragrant hay.

Laughing, she demanded, “What are you doing?”

“We’re quite alone.”

“Alex,” she said in outraged reproof, but the teasing light in his eyes held her prisoner.

“Haven’t you ever made love in a barn, Jess?”

There was a strand of hay tickling her ear, and she brushed it away. “No, of course not, you of all people know that. I’ve only made love with you. Alex, really…I…”

His smile was devastatingly tender and darkly sensual at the same time. A promise of the moment, a promise of the future. “Then I think it’s high time you did, my love. You are going to enjoy this.”

Though she would never admit it and fuel his arrogance, she found out he was absolutely right.

In languid aftermath, she had to admit he was simply far too tempting to resist.

About the Author

Award-winning author Emma Wildes has garnered an Eppie, a Lories Best Published, and a WisRWA Reader’s Choice Award. She has been a #1 bestselling author at Fictionwise, Capa nominee, and received several gold star awards from JERR. Emma was born in Minnesota and she lives in the Midwest, though she grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She attended Illinois State University where she majored in geology, and there she met her husband, Chris. They have three children, a temperamental cat named Poot, and are lucky enough to live on a beautiful lake. On warm days, she does enjoy a glass of wine on the dock now and then, and always loves to sit at her desk, winter or summer, and tap at her keyboard.

Look for these titles by Emma Wildes

Now Available:

Riding West

Lawless

Face of the Maiden

Gone (writing as Annabel Wolfe)

Her arrival stirs something deep and dark. Perhaps even
deadly
…

Face of the Maiden

© 2008 Emma Wildes

Celia Fairmont’s new home on the wild coast of Cornwall is a sprawling ancient mansion steeped in history and deep, dark secrets. From the first night her dreams are plagued by images of clandestine meetings with a handsome, reckless lover. The man in her visions looks disturbingly like the oldest son of her new guardian, the Earl of Ashbourne, but there the resemblance stops. Phillip Leighton is practical to a fault and too preoccupied with estate business to even notice her presence.

Phillip Leighton does not have time for illogical romantic fantasies about his father’s young ward. The very lovely Miss Fairmont is unsophisticated and innocent—not at all suited to be the next Countess of Ashbourne. And besides, he is practically engaged to a titled widow. But erotic dreams disturb his nights, and by day she preoccupies his thoughts, and he finds himself fascinated against his will.

Phillip can’t seem to keep Celia out of his head—or out of his arms. When a series of puzzling accidents begins to happen, he knows with chilling certainty that their future is on a collision course with the past…

Warning: This title contains explicit sensual love scenes, sexy ghosts, violence, some bad language in a polite Regency way, and a devilish wayward rake or two.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Face of the Maiden:

The mist sent long tendrils like ghostly fingers out of the darkness to cross the path. It hung in gray banks over the trees, shrouding the surroundings and making everything seem still and dead. As she ran along, something moved in the black shadows to her right, snapping twigs and rustling leaves. She paused, her heart beginning to pound the blood through her body in a rush, panic rising on a knife-edge of control, when some creature shot out of the bushes and streaked into the night. Her breath went out in an audible whistle of relief and she caught up her heavy skirts in her hands, hurrying forward.

She was late. Again.

Excitement and anticipation grew, overcoming some of her fear over the solitary walk in the eerie fog. Ahead she could see vague shapes begin to take form, squares suggestive of human mortality, and she swallowed down a quick shiver.

She should have insisted on a different meeting place, she thought, weaving her way through the headstones. Discretion was one thing…this flair for the dramatic was another.

Almost there.

A dark figure detached itself from the swirling gray.

The materialization was unnerving, startling, and even though she had expected him…a cold ache of fear twisted in her stomach. The black edge of his cloak flapped in the wind as he stood still.

He outstretched his hand slowly in unspoken command and invitation. She ran into his arms and he wrapped the cloak around them both as she buried her face in his chest and clung to him.

“For a moment,” she whispered breathlessly, “I…I wasn’t sure it was you.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, my love.”

She snuggled deeper into his embrace, her heart still jerking erratically in her chest. He lifted his hand to stroke her hair and she felt the ripple of muscle under her cheek, relishing his strength, the strong clasp of his arms around her.

Reproachfully, she said, “Meeting in a graveyard sets the mood for a good fright, would you not say?”

His laugh stirred her hair. “I didn’t order the mist, my sweet. It was a gift from the gods themselves. And as for our meeting place…think of us as ghosts, as would anyone who might see us here.”

She was silent. He was only too right. It was an unfortunate reality; this necessary secret that sent them creeping to each other among the sleeping dead.

His heartbeat had quickened already under her ear. So impatient, she thought with a small smile, always so ready and impatient…

“Come.” He released her and took her hand, picking his way through the headstones.

This time it was past the silent church, toward the sea. A squat shape loomed through the trees and she remembered it. The old sexton’s shed, abandoned for years. He opened the door and it swung outward with a protesting keen of rusted hinges.

A scrape and a flare. A wavering light played about the tiny room. The floor was bare but recently swept, and there was a pile of soft new blankets and a shaded lamp which he knelt to light. The soft glow sprang forth, revealing the sheen of moisture on his dark hair, hollows under his high cheekbones, and the slow sensual curve of his mouth. He stood in a smooth, fluid movement, with that controlled grace that was so much a part of him—part skilled swordsman, part dancer, part muscular animal.

“What do you think, lady mine?” His sweeping hand indicated the interior of sagging roof and rough walls. Reaching to his throat, he unfastened his cape and tossed it aside.

“Elegant, sir. With every luxury at the ready. You spoil me.” She arched a brow and let her own cape slide free, shaking out the dampness from her skirts.

She was instantly sorry for the jest. His long fingers stopped in the act of removing his neck cloth, his dark brows snapping together. He said tersely, “Would that I could spoil you, madame, and be rid of this accursed secrecy.”

In remorse, she moved forward and touched his arm, looking into his sapphire eyes. “Floor or bed, with you it matters not.”

His hand came upward, cupping her cheek and he said huskily, “I want you.”

“And I you.”

“Loosen your hair.” It was a command.

Obediently, she lifted trembling hands to pluck the pins from her long hair and let the golden strands tumble down her shoulders and back.

“Perfect,” he muttered in approval, tangling his fingers in her loose tresses and tugging her head backwards.

His mouth came down, hot and hungry, to cover hers. She kissed him back fiercely, possessively, and offered no protest when he unfastened her dress and pushed it from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet in a heap of lace and satin. He lifted his head and his breath went outward in an audible hiss.

She wore absolutely nothing underneath. Blushing slightly under his heated gaze, she said shakily, “We have so little time. I hate to waste any fumbling with corsets and my chemise and…”

“I’ve never agreed with you more.” A low laugh escaped him. Then he scooped her up in his arms, moving a few feet to lower her to the makeshift bed. His gaze locked with hers as he removed his clothing and boots.

It always shook her. The depth of his desire to have her. His cock stood erect already against the taut plane of his stomach, the tip beaded with semen, the prominent veins pulsing slightly with the beat of his heart.

Then, naked and aroused, he lowered himself over her. His hands roamed freely over her skin and he sought her right breast, taking the nipple deeply into his mouth. Desire shot through her whole body and she moaned, threading her fingers through his hair, feeling the faint abrasion of his beard on her tender flesh. He suckled, swirling his tongue, his hand sliding at the same time between her legs. She parted for him, eager for the pleasure he gave her so generously, for the slick penetration of his skillful fingers. His thumb brushed her clitoris in a persuasive motion and she arched into the caress, a bolt of rapturous sensation making her quiver.

A marriage of convenience…full of inconvenient secrets.

Mistress of Merrivale

© 2014 Shelley Munro

Jocelyn Townsend’s life as a courtesan bears no resemblance to the life she envisioned in girlish dreams. But it allows her and her eccentric mother to live in relative security—until her protector marries and no longer requires her services.

Desperate to find a new benefactor, one kind enough to accept her mother’s increasingly mad flights of fancy, Jocelyn is nearly overwhelmed with uncertainty when a lifeline comes from an unexpected source.

Leo Sherbourne’s requirements for a wife are few. She must mother his young daughter, run his household, and warm his bed. All in a calm, dignified manner with a full measure of common sense. After his late wife’s histrionics and infidelity, he craves a simpler, quieter life.

As they embark on their arrangement, Leo and Jocelyn discover an attraction that heats their bedroom and a mutual admiration that warms their days. But it isn’t long before gossip regarding the fate of Leo’s first wife, and his frequent, unexplained absences, make Jocelyn wonder if the secrets of Merrivale Manor are rooted in murder…

Warning: Contains mysterious incidents, a mad mother who screeches without provocation, scheming relatives, and a captivating husband who blows scorching hot and suspiciously cold. All is not as it seems…and isn’t that delicious?

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Mistress of Merrivale:

At precisely the stroke of eleven, a sharp rap of the door knocker announced a visitor. Jocelyn set her needlework aside and rose. A flutter of nerves stirred as she smoothed her blue skirts and contrasting pale blue petticoats. It made her realize she’d already half-decided to agree to the proposition. She’d always thought she’d marry like her sisters, but fate and her father had set her on a different path. Under normal circumstances, her intuition would propel her to act with vigilance.

This wasn’t a typical situation.

Her instincts were shouting “yes” because Mr. Sherbourne was Melburn’s cousin. She trusted the earl, and marriage would solve several of her problems.