Midnight My Love
Authors: Anne Marie Novark
Tags: #betrayal, #historical romance, #regency, #regency romp, #alpha male, #traditional regency, #reunion story, #second chance at love, #friends to lovers, #secondary love story
Midnight My Love
by
Anne Marie Novark
***
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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The rakish Viscount Rochdale, Damien Avenall,
loved Alexandra Turlington like a little sister; or so he thought
until Alex grew into a lovely and desirable young lady. In a moment
of madness, he kissed her and everything changed between them.
Harboring a lifelong distrust of beautiful women, he believed they
could no longer be friends.
Ten years pass and Damien finds himself
escorting Alexandra's critically-wounded brother home to
Willowmede, where he must face the only woman he's ever truly
wanted; the one woman he can never have. He is determined to
exorcise Alex from his heart once and for all, even if it means he
must kiss her again . . . one last time.
Alex often wonders why Damien betrayed their
special friendship. His kiss awakened her to passion, but she knows
better than to give her heart to a libertine. Or does she? When the
viscount offers to stay and help nurse her brother back to health,
Alexandra discovers her heart has always belonged to Damien. But
this time, she wants more than his friendship. This time, she wants
it all.
***
Midnight My Love
Copyright 2010 by Anne Marie Novark
This is a work of fiction. Names, places,
businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or
locales is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion
thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author or publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or
reviews.
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***
Dedication
To my sister, Linda.
Thanks for encouraging me to think outside
the box.
This one's for you.
***
TABLE OF CONTENTS
***
Midnight My Love
by Anne Marie Novark
London--1811
"My game, I believe," announced Damien
Avenall, Fifth Viscount Rochdale. He methodically gathered the
vouchers before him, glancing indifferently at his latest
victim.
The young Earl of Chadburn sat stunned, his
head down, fingers clutching his black hair. He had just lost a
fortune. Pale and trembling, he faced the viscount. "You have my
IOUs, Demon. I'll need a couple of days to consult my bankers."
Damien nodded and rose from the table. "Now
if you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe I shall call it an
evening."
The men around him protested loudly.
"It's only two of the clock. Still quite
early. You must allow Chadburn a chance to recoup his losses,"
complained the fat dandy seated on the opposite side of the gaming
table.
Demon Avenall smiled his satanic smile. He
allowed his gaze to flicker contemptuously over the earl. "I think
not. Unless there is something else Chadburn should care to wager?"
The taunting question hung in the air.
The earl shook his head slowly. "You've won
it all, Demon."
"Then I bid you gentlemen goodnight."
Without a backward glance, he left the exclusive gaming hell,
heading west on Pall Mall.
Early morning mist hung heavy over the dark
cobbled streets as Damien made his way toward his town house in
Cavendish Square. The walkways were deserted. He crossed Piccadilly
and turned on Bond Street. A large man in a dirty frieze coat
emerged from the shadows, like a ghost rising out of the fog.
"Easy now, guv'nor," the ruffian growled.
"Don't want no one to get hurt. Just empty yer pockets, if you
please." He wielded a knife in one beefy fist, extending the other
to collect the spoils.
"But it doesn't please me at all," Damien
replied. It had been a long night and he was ready for bed. He was
in no mood for this. Lifting his ebony cane, he deftly twisted the
knob. A short-sword at the end of the stick glittered dangerously
in the lamplight.
"Oh ho!" the thief said, a nasty glimmer in
his rheumy eye. "If it's a fight yer want, it's a fight yer'll
get." He charged forward, knife held high, a growl low in his
throat.
Damien stood his ground and waited for the
assault. He lunged at the thief racing toward him, stabbing flesh
with the deadly blade. Blood spewed everywhere, and the thief
dropped to the pavement in a crumpled heap, his knife clattering on
the cobblestones.
Damien bent to wipe his bloody weapon on the
dead man's coat, then retracted the sleek blade into the cane.
After straightening his cravat, he continued on his way home.
When he turned off Oxford and into Cavendish
Square, he paused in mid-stride. A mud-splattered traveling coach
with four steaming horses stood before his town house.
"What the devil?" he muttered and quickened
his step. As he neared the coach, he recognized his friend, the
Right Honorable Mr. Garrett Fleming. He was busy issuing
instructions to three footmen who were carefully removing an
unconscious man from the carriage.
Spying the viscount coming toward him,
Garrett rushed to greet him. "B'gad, I'm happy you're home, Demon!
Quinters didn't know where you were or when you'd return. We've
just this instant arrived from Dover." He shook Damien's hand and
they hurried back to the carriage. "I brought old Rob home from
Spain as fast as I could. Lost an arm, been in hospital, you know.
And if that ain't enough, now the poor fellow's gone off in a dead
faint. Can't say that I blame him. Devilish trip. Exhausted, poor
chap."
Stopping near the carriage, Damien stared at
the pale face of Captain Lord Robert Turlington, the only man
besides Garr Fleming whom he truly counted his friend. They had all
attended Eton together, then Cambridge. Damien clenched his jaw
when he saw the bandaged stump where Rob's arm should have
been.
"What happened?" Damien asked. "I've had no
letter, no message. Nothing."
"There wasn't time," Garrett said. "Let's
get Rob into bed, then I'll explain everything."
Above them, the butler held open the massive
doors as the footmen carried the wounded man into the town house. A
servant dressed in funereal black followed them, carrying a valise
in one hand, a pillow in another. Robert's valet, no doubt. "I've
taken the liberty of preparing the green bedchamber, my lord," the
butler informed Damien with a bow.
"Excellent. Send someone to fetch the doctor
at once," Damien said. "And Quinters, send a groom with a carriage
to the corner of Piccadilly and Bond. I believe there may be a
corpse lying about. Send Webb. Have him deliver the body to the
magistrate with my compliments." Damien started up the main
staircase after the footmen, with Garrett close on his heels.
"What bloody corpse?" his friend demanded in
outrage. "You've killed someone again, haven't you? Can't leave
bodies on street corners, you know. Bad ton, old man, bad ton."
"My dear Garrett, when have I ever been
considered good ton?" Damien said over his shoulder.
"You were born good ton,"
Garrett said, after mulling over Damien's remark. "Your father was
a viscount. Rich as a nabob. You went to the best schools.
I'm
good ton.
Rob's
good ton. Why
ain't you good ton, Demon?"
The viscount grinned. "I don't care to be
good ton. It would bore me exceedingly, I assure you."
"But what about the corpse?"
"Forget the corpse," Damien said as they
reached the bedchamber. "I did society a favor by disposing of the
wretch. Enough. Now, tell me about Robert."
The footmen laid the unconscious Lord
Turlington on the bed, and the valet began to settle his lordship
comfortably in the large four-poster.
"Poor old Rob," Garrett said, sighing
mournfully.
"When did it happen? Where? How?" Damien
stared at his friend lying helpless on the bed, so still and
pale.
"It was the Battle of Barrosa, the fifth of
March," replied Garrett. "The French took hold of Barrosa ridge;
Graham was determined to win it back. Rob was delivering orders
when he fell." Garrett shook his head, as if trying to dispel the
thoughts. "I didn't know he was missing until hours after the
battle. I found him beneath his horse. Arm was crushed. Doctors
tried to save it, but no use. Rob's taking the loss hard. Can't
blame him, really. Would myself, if it were me."
The valet removed his master's boots, his
attention focused on the task. Robert remained unconscious all the
while. Obviously, his strength had been tested to the limits by the
ordeal of losing his arm and the trip from Dover.
"Your colonel let you bring him home?"
Damien asked.
Garrett nodded. "I've been granted emergency
leave. M'father's in a bad way, so I had to come home. I offered to
escort Rob to Willowmede. He didn't want to go, wanted to come here
instead. Had to see Demon, he said."
Standing at the foot of
the bed, Garrett looked at his friend. "I thought everything was
fine, but the crossing to Dover was rough. Rob suffered from
mal de mer
. We stayed
two days in Dover. He wasn't getting better, so brought him on to
London. Moon was full. Decided to travel all night."
"Must've been a hell of a trip," Damien
said.
"Devilish, like I said. But that's not all."
Garrett fumbled in his pockets until he found his snuff box. He
flipped open the lid and took a delicate pinch. "Rob's worried
about his fiancée. Says he won't go through with the wedding, not
being whole and all. Worried about his sister, too. He thought you
might help." He eyed Damien expectantly.
"I'll help any way I can.
You know that. Although, I don't know what I can do." Damien drew
in a long breath. Robert and Garrett had always depended on him in
moments of crisis. Well, he certainly didn't plan to let them down
now. What had the dons dubbed them at Cambridge?
The Unholy Trinity
.
Idiotic to think of that now. They'd been inseparable in their
youth.
A knock on the door interrupted his
thoughts.
"If I may, my lord," said the valet, moving
toward the door.
The doctor entered the bedchamber. "Good
evening. I understand I have a patient to tend to?" He handed his
hat and cane to the valet and made his way to the bed.
"Do you think he'll be all right?" Damien
asked, noting the frown on the doctor's face.
"I'll be able to tell you his exact
condition after I've examined him, my lord."
Damien nodded. "Fair enough. Come along,
Garr."
Once downstairs, Damien escorted his friend
to his study. "I could use a brandy. How about you?"
"A brandy would be most welcome." Garrett
yawned and headed for one of the winged-back chairs near the
fireplace.
Damien handed Garrett a glass, then sat
across from him. They both gazed at the flames in the grate and
sipped their drinks.
Life was always throwing surprises. Some
bad, some good. Hell, he knew that better than anyone. But to lose
an arm in the prime of life . . .