Heart's Desire

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MEET THE AUTHOR

New York Times
and
USA Today
Bestselling author Jacquie D’Alessandro has written more than thirty books spanning the historical, contemporary romantic comedy and women’s fiction genres. She is a four-time RITA finalist, four-time Maggie Award of Excellence finalist, two-time Daphne du Maurier Award finalist, and both a PRISM Award and National Readers’ Choice Award finalist. She’s the recipient of three Orange Rose Awards, two Golden Quill Awards as well as a Booksellers’ Best Award, a Barclay Gold Award, and a Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award for “Best Historical Love and Laughter.” Her books have been published in over 21 languages. Jacquie grew up on Long Island, New York, graduated from Hofstra University and now lives in Georgia with her husband and son.

Jacquie loves to hear from readers! You can contact her through her website at
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No matter what genre she’s writing in, all of Jacquie’s books are filled with two of her favorite things--love and laughter.

H
EART’S
D
ESIRE

CHAPTER ONE

Halstead, Kent

June
,
1838

William Lawton swore under his breath as the bell above the shop door jangled, announcing the arrival of a customer.
He pulled his attention from the dusty crate he’d just opened and glanced at the mantle clock.
Twenty-three minutes past closing time.
Damn it all.
He should have turned the lock and flipped the carved wooden sign propped in the window to “closed” when he
was
in the front of the shop a half hour ago, but as neither his grandfather nor his father had ever closed Lawton’s Antiques and Curiosities so much as one minute before six p.m., William had been loath to break with tradition.

Unfortunately, as often happened when the anticipation of discovering a new treasure had him firmly in its grasp, he’d become completely engrossed in removing the stubborn wooden top of the crate in the back room and forgotten the time.
And now, just when he’d finally managed to pry open the damn
ed
crate, his curiosity well and truly whetted to examine the contents, he’d have to abandon the project.

Bloody hell.
Everyone in Halstead knew the shop closed at precisely six, which meant this
late-arriving
customer was no doubt a visitor.
Probably one who wanted nothing more than to browse, pump him for information about the village’s history, then depart without making a purchase. Not only would William be forced to make idle conversation when he’d rather be working, but he’d also be late for dinner.
As if on cue, his stomach growled, reminding him that he
hadn’t
eaten since breakfast.

Bloody double hell.

“That will teach me to lose all sense of time,” he muttered.
With impatience scraping at him to return to his task, he brushed the dust off his hands as best he could and strode toward the front of the store.
He’d simply tell whoever had entered that they’d have to return the next day, a decision he mentally
seconded
when a whiff of the meal Mrs. Worthington had prepared for his dinner wafted down from his rooms above the shop.
He lifted his chin and took an appreciative sniff.
Lamb stew.
He could almost taste the savory concoction of meat, potatoes, and vegetables.
No one prepared a lamb stew like his long-standing housekeeper, and he’d be damned if he’d allow the meal she’d left him to turn cold while he listened to a bunch of palaver from a tardy stranger.

Bristling with impatience, not to mention his newly recalled hunger, he crossed the threshold into the front section of
the
store, pausing in the archway when his gaze fell upon the figure of a woman.
She stood in profile to him, her features obscured by both the peacock feather curving around the wide
,
semicircular brim of her dark blue bonnet and the golden shaft of early evening sunlight spilling through the window panes.
A single glance at her fine
,
cream-colored gown, the fabric printed with small bouquets of flowers, its long sleeves fashionably shirred and puffed
,
as well as the delicate lace draped over her shoulders marked her as a woman of means.
No doubt passing through on her way from London to rusticate at a country estate or one of the resort towns popular with the Quality.

She leaned over the glass counter
,
and William heard her quick intake of breath.
He barely suppressed the groan that rose in his throat.
Something had obviously caught her fancy, the price of which she’d probably wish to haggle over
endlessly
.
Damn it, he really wasn’t fond of cold lamb stew.

He moistened his lips to voice a greeting, one he hoped wouldn’t sound overly insincere, and stepped forward.
The floorboard beneath his boot creaked.
The woman quickly straightened and turned toward him.
Their gazes met.

And everything in William froze.
His limbs.
His breath.
His heart.
Recognition slammed him like a battering ram to his gut.
He hadn’t seen her in two years.
Two years, three weeks
,
and seventeen days
,
his inner voice whispered.
Not that he kept account of the time.
Certainly not.
He’d known she would someday visit Halstead again, but he hadn’t dreamed that today would be the day.
A bolt of panic struck him.
He wasn’t prepared for this.
For her.

Yet really, there was no preparation that could adequately shore up his defenses against her.
God kn
ew
he’d been trying for the last decade.
One would think that ten years
was
enough time to exorcise her from his mind.
He’d
tried
valiantly.
And
failed
utterly.

He blinked to see if she was just a figment of his vivid imagination, but she remained, her eyes, the unforgettable shade of aquamarines, riveted on him.
Still, he wasn’t truly certain she was real until her lips parted and she said, “Hello, William.”

Hello, William.
Two words.
That’s all it took to damn near knock him off his feet.
The sound of her voice swamped him with memories, recollections that
both
haunted his days and invaded his dreams.
Thoughts that no amount of work or alcohol or travel could fade.
A tremor rippled through him
—part
desire, part dread.
For as much as he desperately wanted Callie Albright here, he just as strongly didn’t want her anywhere near him.

Bloody hell, how many times had he imagined seeing her again?
More than he could count.
Yet not even one of those fantasies had included hi
s
being caught so unaware.
Or looking as if he’
d been dragged behind a carriage—str
eaked with dust, his shirt sleeves rolled back, his trousers wrinkled.
No, in all his imaginings
,
he’d been calm and suave, cool and controlled.
The very opposite of how he felt right now.
Which only proved that life tended not to go the way one planned.
Which, of course, he’d discovered long ago.
A lesson learned the hard way.
At the hands of the woman standing before him.