The Accidental Abduction

P
RAISE
F
OR

Lord of the Rakes

“Wilde's strong and spicy debut reveals the vulnerability of the Regency era's women . . . The allure of their sensual encounters is enhanced by the great depth of emotions revealed by these expertly crafted and unforgettable characters.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A lively, original, and highly sensual love story. Wilde introduces readers to unforgettable characters who move through the plot perfectly, and yet it is not just their passion but their angst that takes hold . . . Wilde has a bright future.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A well-written, very spicy, hot historical romance.”

—
The Season for Romance

“Will keep you enthralled from start to finish! If you're looking for a historical romance with a twist and a bit of dominance in it,
Lord of the Rakes
is for you!”

—
My Book Addiction Reviews

“A very sensual and passionate read.”

—
Delighted Reader

“There are secrets, lies, and betrayal, all told with a beautiful London backdrop . . . Just a pure fun, steamy read.”

—
Book Jems

Berkley Sensation titles by Darcie Wilde

LORD OF THE RAKES

THE ACCIDE
NTAL ABDUCTION

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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THE ACCIDENTAL ABDUCTION

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Zettel.

Excerpt from
Lord of the Rakes
by Darcie Wilde copyright © 2014 by Sarah Zettel.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61282-8

P
UBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2014

Cover photograph by Claudio Marinesco.

Cover design by George Long.

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.

To Tim, who is my happily ever after.

“G
ood evening, Mr. Rayburn.” Sir Ignatius Featherington held out his thin, dry hand. “And a warm welcome for this chill evening.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harry Rayburn took the hand Sir Ignatius extended carefully. He was always afraid he might break the small, smiling man. Sir Ignatius, like the rest of his family, lived up to his name—being from a clan of small, slight, soft-spoken people. In Agnes, their oldest daughter, and the reason for Harry's visit this evening, that slight frame translated into a perfect, pale delicacy of the sort generally compared to all manner of flowers.

“Nancy, go and tell Miss Featherington that Mr. Rayburn is here to see her.” The stooped, gray-haired baronet was still beaming as he gave his instructions to the parlor maid, and still attempting to give Harry's hand a hearty shake. “Now, Mrs. Featherington and I will be taking a bit of a drive. I'm sure our absence won't discommode either of you young people.” He let one eyelid droop in an attempt at a wink.

“I sincerely hope not, sir.” The jewel box made a reassuring weight in Harry's right pocket. He himself felt as light as a Featherington. His heart alternately brimmed with happiness and beat out of control from an emotion uncomfortably close to terror. Which in and of itself was as it should be, he decided. It made the moment real. Tonight, he would propose. After tonight Agnes—lovely, perfect Agnes—would be his flower, his jewel, forever.

The maid returned and curtsied. “Miss Featherington says she will be glad to meet Mr. Rayburn in the front parlor.”

“Oh, no need, Nancy, Mr. Rayburn can go to her in the sitting room.” Mr. Featherington patted Harry's back. “And let me say again, we are happy, very happy, to have you here, Mr. Rayburn.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry seriously. He tried to fish out some words about doing his utmost to make her happy, but none came. It didn't seem to matter. Sir Ignatius gave his hand another squeeze, blinked his watery eyes, and smiled with encouragement. Harry turned, squared his shoulders, and started up the hall.

When he reached the door, Harry put his hand in his pocket and touched the box as if for luck. Not that he needed luck. Everything was exactly as it should be. He had been courting Agnes Featherington for the best part of the season, ever since he'd come back from that last, disastrous trip to Calais, in fact. He'd spent the entire winter navigating balls and dinners and concerts, and doing absolutely everything required to make himself into a desirable beau. Sir and Lady Ignatius made no secret of the fact that they considered him highly eligible as a suitor for their beautiful daughter, which was a relief. Harry was a merchant's son. This meant there were plenty of matrons who considered him second-class goods, despite the fortune he brought with him. The senior Featheringtons, however, possessed no such scruples, and from the beginning had welcomed his presence. Harry's parents had seemed quietly content to let the matter take its own course. Indeed, the only hitch in the entire affair had been his sister Fiona's habit of calling the object of his intentions “Agnes Featherhead.”

But now was not the time to worry about Fiona. Harry ran his hand over his hair (ruthlessly slicked back), and down his side whiskers (freshly trimmed). He straightened the cravat he'd spent hours tying in the new “Grecian waterfall” style, and brushed down the sleeves of his coffee brown coat. He checked the location of the ring box once more—right pocket, just where it had been all the other times he'd checked. Only then did Harry take a deep breath, and knock on the door.

“Come in,” answered the sweet, entirely feminine voice from the other side.

Harry pushed open the door, and there she was, just as he had pictured her. Agnes Featherington sat on the chintz sofa. The rich evening sunlight streamed through the bow windows and glimmered on the golden ringlets that trailed across her swanlike neck. She wore a white evening frock with delicate primrose trim. Dainty primrose slippers peeped out from under her hems, and her fair head was bent over a piece of embroidery, also primroses.

Harry's heart swelled with a flood of fresh affection. Agnes was slender, pale, and lovely; the perfect girl, in every way.

From his basket by the fire, Percival, Agnes's unfortunately overfed Maltese dog, lifted his head and growled.

For once, Harry was able to ignore the beast. All his attention was fastened on Agnes. She was like a fairy-tale princess seated in her bower. Agnes was everything that was pure and true and lovely. She would do credit to the home of any man, and she would bring him everything he needed to make a good, settled life.

She was no fool, either, no matter what Fi thought. There was a great stack of books on the table at her elbow—poetry and novels and histories. They'd have plenty to talk about in the evenings when he came home from his work, on those occasions when they felt like talking. Harry rather expected there was a whole host of far more energetic activities that would be filling their evenings after the wedding.

Agnes lifted her heart-shaped face, and her blue eyes widened. There was the tiniest hint of maidenly hesitation before her tiny pink mouth bent into a smile. “Oh, Mr. Rayburn! I wasn't expecting
you
this evening.”

Which was perhaps a little odd, considering he'd just been announced. Harry decided she was joking, and smiled as he made his bow. “I hope I'm not inconveniencing you by calling?”

“Not in the least.” Agnes laid her embroidery aside. “Won't you sit down? Shall I ring for tea?”

“No, no thank you. I don't want anything.”
Except you.
But of course he couldn't say that. Agnes was dainty and innocent. He could not shock her with such a blunt statement. That was also exactly as it should be.

Harry sat on the edge of the slick velveteen chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. The furniture had been chosen to suit a family of Featheringtons, meaning it was delicate and spindly, and perhaps a bit overgenerous in the matter of curlicues and gilt trim.

He did not let himself touch his pocket again. “Miss Featherington . . .” he began.

Agnes clasped her pale hands in her lap and blinked her china blue eyes. “Yes, Mr. Rayburn?”

His mouth had gone dry. He shifted his weight. The chair creaked. Percival barked once in sharp warning. “Miss Featherington, Agnes, I'm here for a very particular purpose.”

“Yes, Mr. Rayburn?” She blinked again. For a moment he thought she looked perplexed. Could it be he was her first suitor? Her first love? That was perfect, too. He would have to be very gentle with her. Indulgent. She'd have little whims and small worries. That was all right. He'd make a home that was just as perfect as she was; a beautiful, peaceful setting for this priceless gem.

He felt too big for this delicate room, for this perfect, tiny golden girl. He realized he was trembling a little as he moved from the chair, down onto one knee. He took her doll-like hand between both of his.

“Agnes, it is my wish, my very great hope, that you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

He brought out the box and opened it to reveal the ring. He'd spent days agonizing over the purchase. It had to be rich, but not ostentatious. He'd settled on a blue diamond, to match the shade of her eyes, and double-cut for the shine. He held it out now and watched those blue eyes widen. His heart swelled. This was so right, so perfect. The rough life he had known was behind him. He could settle down for good now, and forget everything but being a husband worthy of Agnes. She, in return, would make his home an oasis of calm and beauty.

Agnes lifted her eyes from the ring. Those eyes were bright with wonder, and she pressed her free hand to her lips in utter surprise.

*   *   *

“And then she says, ‘You must be joking, Mr. Rayburn!'”

“Oh, Harry, I'm sorry.”

Harry didn't even bother to look at Fiona. Instead, he stared at the small, red box in his hands. He knew coming back home was a bad idea, but he'd been unable to think of where else to go. After all, he'd fully expected to be spending the evening happily ensconced in the Featherington's home with his new fiancée, receiving congratulations and discussing wedding plans.

Instead, here he was on the sofa with his sister—his married sister—staring at the little velvet box with its half-carat, double-cut blue diamond on a band of eighteen-karat gold. It would be perfect for “the young gentleman's purpose,” or so the jeweler had assured him as he wrote out the bill. Harry turned it over in his fingers again.

“I did everything,” said Harry to the ring and the memory. “I waltzed. I quadrilled. I had to beat off at least six other fellows at every ball to get onto her dance card. I fetched more cups of punch than I can count. And those endless poseys.” Harry closed his eyes against the fresh pain of remembering how many hours he'd wasted in the flower shops, thumbing through that ridiculous little pamphlet on the “language of flowers” and debating the exact right combination of white, pink, yellow roses, forget-me-nots, pansies, and Lord knew what else to send Agnes. She'd even worn some of them. “Her parents were all for it. Anxious for it, in fact.”

That, he supposed glumly, should have been some sort of clue; not that he had been looking for clues. He hadn't been looking for anything, except Agnes's little hand on his arm.

“I walked her blasted dog, for God's sake. I've got the scars to prove it!”

“Don't swear at me, Harry,” said Fi tartly. “I just told you it wasn't your fault.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry.”

Fiona, now the Honorable Mrs. James Westbrook, was not long back from her own wedding trip. Married life, a trek across the Continent, and a new, grand home in the Lake District, all seemed to agree with her. Fi might look the part of the quintessential English rose, but she'd always been too clever by half. Her seasons in London had been marked by all sorts of interesting adventures, until James Westbrook arrived to take her in hand. Since she'd been back, though, it seemed to Harry his sister's cleverness had mellowed. She seemed both more contented and more, well, grown-up than he'd ever known her to be. She was staying with their parents because James was off in Cornwall on business and she hadn't wanted to be in London alone. From the way Mother was humming as she moved around the house, Harry suspected there might be something in the wind involving a new branch on the Westbrook family tree.

“It's really not your fault.” Fi reached out and squeezed his hand. “You're a nice man, Harry. Steady. Solid. That's not what a girl like Agnes Featherhead wants.”

“Featherington.”

Fi did not bother to acknowledge the correction. “She wants a poet or, better still, a highwayman who will come riding in off the moors with a bunch of lace at his throat and a pistol at his side.”

“In short, she doesn't want me because I'm boring.” He shouldn't have come home. The last person a man disappointed in love wanted to pour his heart out to was his happily married sister. He could only thank his lucky stars that his parents weren't home. They'd of course been aware of his errand. Probably Father had taken Mother out somewhere to distract her until Harry returned with the presumably happy news.

“You are not boring, Harry,” Fi was saying. “You're . . .”

“A perfectly nice man. Solid. Steady.”
So solid I live with my parents in their town house rather than in rooms like a proper bachelor about the town. So steady I hold down a job in a warehouse rather than spend my days swanning about the moors with lace and a pistol.

He was actually quite a good shot. Perhaps if he'd demonstrated that to Agnes, he'd have taken on some of the romantic bronze she seemed to want. No. Harry pushed his hair back from his forehead. If he'd had a pistol to hand, he would have been far too tempted to shoot that vicious little dog.

No. He wouldn't have, either. Because he was nice, solid, steady, Harold Syverson Rayburn. But even as he thought this, an image flashed through his mind, unbidden and entirely unwelcome—of the cobbled alley, the shouts, the last shove, and the man sprawled at his feet . . .

No. He snapped the ring box shut. That wasn't him. That was someone else. He'd left that other man behind in Calais when he came home. He really was steady Harry Rayburn, and he didn't want any other sort of life. The problem, it appeared, was that Agnes did.

“There are far worse things to be than steady,” Fiona was saying. “One day . . .”

“Yes, yes, yes, all right.” Harry got to his feet and started for the door before he had to listen to Fiona parroting their mother's words about how he would one day find a girl who could appreciate all his good qualities.

“Harry?” said Fi behind him. “Agnes Featherhead is an idiot, and she could never be the sort of woman you need.”

She did not say, “As I told you,” and she did not say, “What were you thinking?” Harry, for his part, did not demand to know how his sister could possibly understand what sort of woman he needed.