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Nothing ruffled her feathers. In every fathomable social situation, from dancing to dining and everything in between, she remained impeccably poised. Gliding effortlessly through the water like a regal swan while everyone floundered and splashed around her.
But nowshewas the one floundering.
Because of him.
Lord Ezra Washington, the Earl of Whitmore.
Highwayman Extraordinaire, Adonis Incarnate, and the Best Kisser in London.
Which title of the four, she wondered, suited him best?
“…come to our holiday dinner on Christmas Eve,” Lenora was saying. “There’s always room for more, and given how many sisters he now has, my husband prefers the male to female ratio to be slightly more in his favor at–”
“What are you doing?” Annabel interrupted.
“I am inviting Lord Whitmore to our gathering.”
“Yes, that much is apparent.” She flicked a lightning quick glance at Ezra, wet her lips with a tiny dart of her tongue, and dashed her stare away. “But why?Whyare you doing it?”
The muscles in the middle of Lenora’s forehead tightened a notch. “Because I want to, and because Lord Whitmore happens to be a neighbor of ours.”
“No, he’s not.” She looked at him again. At his dimple. At the lock of hair hanging low over his brow. At the amusement dancing in his eyes. He thought this wasfunny, damn him. “No, you’re not.”
“Actually,” he drawled with a smirk that made Annabel want to punch him in the face and plaster herself against him in equal measure, “it seems that I am. Last week, in a game of cards, I won a modest estate on some 200-acres that abuts the edge of Clarenmore Park.”
“Broadwin House,” said Lenora, nodding. “The previous owners, Lord and Lady Broadwin, passed away. I’d heard that their son inherited, but it’s sat vacant for years. I am glad that it has a new steward to bring it back to life. You’ve certainly a challenge ahead of you, Lord Whitmore.”
The earl’s eyes took on a distinctive devilish glint as he met Annabel’s gaze. “Never let it be said that I don’t enjoy a good challenge.”
6
Revelations at the White Rose
How did thiskeep happening?
After a dinner with his parents that had ended in disaster (“What do youmeanyou’re not engaged yet?” and “When are you going to mature, Ezra?” among other, equally pleasant questions that sought to jab holes in his character), he’d abandoned his plans to spend Christmas with his family and had, instead, sought refuge and blessed silence at the run-down estate that he’d won off a poor sap in a lucky hand of whist.
No one would find him here, amidst the dust and the mice and the cobwebs. He wouldn’t even findhimselfhere, if he weren’t desperate for a bit of blessed silence and a break from being the black sheep.
Baa, baa, he thought the fuck not.
Why was he constantly chastised for not finding a wife, when his sister, Margaret, would be celebrating her second wedding anniversary next month and had never been more bloody miserable? She was already bored to tears of her husband, a staid old chap she’d married for money and title and not much else. If she didn’t have a lover on the side by the end of the year, Ezra would propose to the first wallflower he saw. But he was no more in danger of committing holy matrimony than Margaret was of living a happy, contended life with look-at-my-button-collection Gerald. And yethewas the shunned son for embracing hobbies that would bring him joy and satisfaction instead of shackling himself to a chit he had nothing in common with for the sake of “honor” and “duty” and “the family lineage”.
Bah humbug.
Which brought him back to the sheep, Broadwin House, and–incredibly–his siren.
Lady Annabel Rosewood.
Who would have ever guessed, when he set out to explore the local village and find the best spot for a pint, that he’d quite literally run into the object of his secret desires? Secret because if he ever admitted to the lascivious acts that he’d done to her in his dreams, he’d almost certainly reserve himself a place in hell (if he wasn’t destined for that pit of torment already), and because he couldn’t come right out and admit that he was attracted to a fine, respectablelady. The exact sort that his well-meaning but incredibly irritating family wouldlovefor him to marry.
He wasn’t a masochist, after all. Just a scoundrel who wanted to be left alone to enjoy his vices in private Aye, he thought bitterly, a right proper degenerate who had just cheerfully accepted an invitation to aChristmas dinner party.
“What’s wrong with you,” he muttered to himself, hunching his shoulders against the cold as he stalked away from Annabel and her sister, who just so happened to be the Duchess of Monmouth.
Who was her brother?
