Sweet Deception
PRAISE FOR
SWEET ENEMY
“Historical intrigue and heart-pounding passion make
Sweet Enemy
a great read. Romance fans will love it.”
—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Julie Garwood
“Heather Snow combines sizzling tension, witty dialogue, and achingly raw emotions for a passionate love story you’ll remember long after the last page.”
—
USA Today
bestselling author Kathryn Smith
“Newcomer Snow makes a mark on the genre…. The plot, with its tinge of mystery, matchmaking, and a bit of mayhem, will warm readers’ hearts.”
—
RT Book Reviews
“
Sweet Enemy
combines romance, history, and intrigue into one excellent read. Readers won’t be able to put
Sweet Enemy
down. A fast-paced plot and captivating characters make [this] a must read for all historical romance fans. Well deserving of the Perfect 10 rating, readers, myself included, will be eagerly anticipating another novel by this delightful author.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Unlike so many other Regencies, almost everything from the setting to the characters to the suspense comes with a twist and never feels cliched…a wonderful, emotional, and intellectually satisfying read.”
—All About Romance
“Amusing, delightful, and charming…. The characters are well developed and the writing is highly engaging. I was vested in the characters and their goals from the start.”
—Manic Readers
“A solid plot, well-developed characters, and deftly drawn setting…an excellent first novel. Readers will be delighted to add Ms. Snow to their list of must-read authors.”
—
BookPage
“Liliana was a wonderful heroine and was so vastly different than the other historic heroines that I have read before…a fantastic book and I still can’t stop thinking about it. Looking forward to reading
Sweet Deception
later this year, and Heather Snow is definitely an author to watch.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“[A] refreshing romance…. Heather Snow has done a phenomenal job of writing characters a reader can connect with.
Sweet Enemy
is a must read for any historical romance fan!”
—Fresh Fiction
Sweet
Deception
A V
EILED
S
EDUCTION
N
OVEL
H
EATHER
S
NOW
A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Heather Snow, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN: 978-1-101-59299-1
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
AcknowledgmentsThis book is dedicated to my parents, Tom and Sarah Fry. I can’t thank you enough for all the extra time you spent spoiling…er, I mean…loving on your grandsons as my deadline approached. I’m forever grateful to be part of such a supportive and giving family. The example of love you’ve always set is one Jason and I strive to pass on to our sons.
I’d always heard second books were tough, and even then, I underestimated just how tough it would be—at least for me. There are many people who helped me through this process, who held my hand and assured me that yes, I could do this—even with a new baby and a toddler and a husband gone on business much of the year and sleep deprived within an inch of my sanity. People who read along and made me believe that I was a good writer, that I had more than one book in me. People who talked me off my ledge when I needed it. I am grateful for you: Karen King, Leigh Stites, Keri Smith, Christie Novak, Tatiana Henley, Gretchen Jones, Cindy Renshaw, Lisa Lovelace, Georgina Green, Carolyn Reece, Erin Knightley, Erica O’Rourke, Eliza Evans, Jennifer McAndrews, Ashley March, Angi Morgan, Jillian Stone and Carla Cassidy. Please, please forgive me if I’ve forgotten someone—I’m still sleep deprived, you know!
Also, to my editor, Danielle Perez, and my agent, Barbara Poelle—you both showed tremendous faith in me as a writer and as a person, and I appreciate you.
Finally, my sincerest thanks to Cathy, Steve and the rest of the staff at the Laclede County Library in Lebanon, Missouri, for going out of your way to welcome me, encourage me and make me feel at home away from home.
Derbyshire, June 1817
T
he medieval tower rose high and proud above the bilberry heath covering the castle’s grounds, its vibrant red bricks proclaiming it a foreigner amongst a plateau of white limestone. Derick Aveline, Viscount Scarsdale, exhaled with a snort—he certainly knew what
that
felt like.
If there was one place on earth he’d hoped never to set eyes upon again, his northernmost family estate was certainly it. He supposed that would surprise most people, given the dangerous and often unpleasant spots he’d been in over the years. But these lush rolling hills and deep, narrow valleys of his childhood loomed ominous and more treacherous to his well-being than even the filthiest of French prisons that had once held him.
With a sharp tap of his heel, Derick directed his steed down the knoll and onto the lane, as a wealth of memories he’d thought long locked away assailed him. The restless boy he’d been, roaming the hills and dales of White Peak with endless summer days stretching out before him. His mother’s red-rimmed eyes, looking at him
with alternating sadness and indifference. The last day he’d seen this patch of England, the day his identity had crumbled away like the ancient limestone the area was named for.
Gravel crunched beneath his stallion’s hooves as they entered the stable yard, shaking Derick from his thoughts. He’d been a fool to come back. If not for this last mission for the Crown, he would never have returned. But he always did what must be done for love of country.
Even when it wasn’t his country to love.
“Boy!” Derick called out, throwing his leg over his saddle and dismounting. He rolled his shoulders, stretching knotted muscles. He’d had to race to stay ahead of the weather and felt every rough mile bone deep. If God were merciful, a hot meal, a warm fire and a clean bed waited within. He scanned the yard for a stable hand.
The lane leading up to Aveline Castle was in clear view of both the stables and the main hall. It was inexcusable that no one waited to greet him, particularly as he’d sent word well ahead to expect him.
Several moments passed, yet no one appeared.
“Damnation,” Derick grumbled, turning his collar up against the chilly wind. The clime this far north had yet to recover from last summer’s unimaginable cold, and with dusk fast on Derick’s heels there was little sun left for warmth. He’d managed to beat the coming storm by only minutes, he’d guess. He led his horse to the deserted stable, secured the mount and promised the animal that he would send a groom straightaway to brush him down.
Derick strode along the north side of the fifteenth-century castle, his gait far from the languid, leisurely manner of walking that he usually affected. He would slip into his ne’er-do-well persona once there was someone about who might observe him.
He climbed the front steps two at a time. When he reached the stoop, he found the massive door half open.
Had the staff lost all discipline since his mother had died? The place was drafty enough without carelessly leaving the door unlatched. He pushed it wide, the ancient carved English oak giving way with a groan.
No candlelight greeted him. Indeed, it was as if the place were deserted. Derick frowned, his steps echoing as he walked into the stone foyer. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. His trunks, which had been sent ahead and should have long since been unpacked, sat stacked at the base of the grand staircase. No fire burned in the grate. No lamps had been lit.
Where the devil was everyone?
“—take this area, from the bend in the creek to the waterfall—”
A feminine voice, full of authority, drifted to him from the back of the house.
Curious, Derick started in that direction.
“—and Thomas, you and John Coachman take from here to Felman’s Hill.”
Derick furrowed his brow. There was something eerily familiar about that voice, which was ridiculous given that the only woman he’d known in Derbyshire was his mother, and she had been dead two months now. As he turned into the long hallway leading toward the kitchens, light spilled from the dining hall and a low murmuring of voices reached his ears.
He slipped unnoticed into the room, melting into the shadows along the far wall. It wasn’t even a challenge, as no one paid him a bit of mind. His eyes took in the whole room at once, a skill honed through years in the espionage game.