Patrica Rice (39 page)

“I put her to bed hours ago. The madcap’s learned to crawl the stairs. She’ll be down here when she wakes, no doubt,” Fiona murmured, as she carried a now quiet bundle of blankets to the bedside. “Would you like to meet your son?”

“What are you doing in here?” Michael asked with irritation as he gingerly accepted the bundle. “An unmarried maiden has no right in a birthing room. Your damned uncle can’t keep an eye on you for a minute.”

“Don’t argue,” Blanche whispered from the bed.

“You’re a fine one to talk.” Michael gazed tenderly on the tiny form in his arms. A rosebud mouth puckered and sucked. Perfect little fingers waved in the air, landing with a thud on a pug nose. For a moment, nearly lashless eyes blinked and stared up at him. Then the fist found the mouth, and the infant settled down once more. Awe struck Michael speechless.

“His hair looks red to me,” Fiona said with a defiant air.

“Let me see.” Blanche’s voice was faint, but imperious.

Michael laid the bundle on his wife’s abdomen and climbed up on the bed behind her. Settling his legs on either side, he pulled her into his arms so she could sit without need of moving herself. He lifted the infant so she might cuddle their son. “We’ve made a miracle,” he murmured.

Neither of them took notice when a duke and a marquess barged into the room, scowling. Taking one look at the couple huddled together on the bed, Gavin stalked across the room, grabbed Dillian, and kissed her. Left alone in the doorway, Neville scowled a second more, glanced at Fiona’s mocking expression, and turning on his heels, stalked out, muttering about Irish imps from hell.

The couple on the bed noticed nothing but each other.

With several million books in print and
New York Times
and
USA Today's
bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance's hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the
RT Book Reviews
Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.

A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.

For further information, visit Patricia’s network:

http://www.bookviewcafe.com/

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www.patriciarice.com

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https://twitter.com/Patricia_Rice

http://patriciarice.blogspot.com/

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www.wordwenches.com

Although
The English Heiress
was written and purchased by a major publisher shortly after the release of
The Marquess
, for various business reasons, Michael’s book was never printed. For years I had requests for Michael’s story, but I was caught up in new contracts, the historical romance market changed, and I knew the once sprawling tome would need severe editing. The story languished on floppy disks and in various paper drafts in my basement.

Then technology offered new opportunities, and I finally saw a chance to resurrect those disks and scan those drafts. I pieced together lost chapters, edited and cut, but after so much work, I still only had raw copy.

That’s where Book View Café stepped in. I had two marvelous editors, Jennifer Stevenson and Sherwood Smith. They whacked at plot holes and all the old-fashioned verbiage that once adorned my Regencies and successfully pulled it into shape for modern readers. The story remains the same, but it’s 20,000 words lighter and immensely more readable. I couldn’t have done it without them. I owe you guys major big time!

And blessings on everyone else in the BVC co-op who made this book finally happen. No matter what anyone says, books do not mysteriously appear without a lot of hard work.

The cover was designed by the talented Kim Killion of Hot Damn Design, who always knows what I need better than I do.

Finally, I thank the many, many readers who have asked me for Michael’s story so I never gave up on him. This book’s for you!

The English Heiress

Patricia Rice

Book View Café Edition July 10, 2012

Copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice

ISBN: 978-1-61138-153-5

Cover by Kimberly Killion

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The Marquess

A Sample Chapter

Patricia Rice

Book View Café Edition
June 12, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-61138-173-3
Copyright © 1997 Patricia Rice
www.bookviewcafe.com

May 1817

Flames shot through the lower windows and licked at the eaves. Smoke billowed in thick black clouds blending with the night sky. Women garbed only in cotton nightclothes hugged each other in horror and screamed hysterically from the lawn as a beam crashed in the interior.

All eyes turned with despair and helplessness to the slender female materializing in the upper-story window. Fire ate at the old wood just below her. Smoke nearly concealed her as she lowered another bundle of valued possessions to the ground.

“The woman’s mad as a hatter,” an auburn-haired footman exclaimed in disbelief as the servants dived to sort through the rescued valuables.

Dillian ignored the new servant’s comment as the falling blanket gave her an idea. Even as someone handed her the rescued bag of coins representing all her worldly goods—outside her father’s useless papers—her mind returned to the blanket.

Blanche played the role of martyred heroine well, but Dillian had no intention of allowing her best friend, cousin, and employer to die a heroine’s death. She had no intention of allowing her to die at all.

“Grab a corner of that blanket!” she yelled to the footman and the burly butler. “Hold it out flat so Lady Blanche can jump!”

A wail of joy replaced cries of distress as people grasped Dillian’s idea. When the lady next appeared in the upper-story window, they had the sturdy blanket spread between the fingers of a dozen servants yelling, “Jump!”

Dillian’s stomach knotted in fear as Lady Blanche hesitated. Fire had already destroyed the old wooden stairs, trapping Blanche in the upper stories. Flames had charred all the downstairs windows and worked its way through the centuries-old floorboards.

Only Blanche’s quickness had seen the household roused and sent to safety, but she hadn’t been quick enough to save herself. Blanche had always been too good for this world, seeing to others before she saw to herself. Selfishness was not a concept Blanche understood. Sometimes, it made Dillian want to scream. Right now she could scale that wall and wring her cousin’s neck.

“Jump, Blanche! Now!” she shouted over the roar of fire and hysteria.

For a brief instant through the swirl of smoke, Dillian saw Blanche turn despairing eyes in her direction. Then the wind caught the flame and sent it flying upward.

Screams pierced the night air as the figure in long blond tresses disappeared behind the inferno.

The blazing figure leaping from the upper window was barely recognizable when it finally soared in the direction of the blanket. Shaking hands lowered the net to the ground.

Tears rolled down the cheeks of the liveried footman as he smothered flaming night-clothes with the blanket. Auburn hair gleaming like the fire behind him, he lifted Blanche gently, and a path opened through the crowd.

Hysterical shrieks died to quiet sobs.

Refusing to resign herself to the inevitable, Dillian fought her way through the crowd to follow him.

Blanche couldn’t die. Dillian would slit her own throat and stake herself in a lion’s den before she would let Blanche die.

And if Dillian discovered Neville had been responsible for that fire, she would throw the grand and glorious young duke into the lion’s mouth ahead of her.

* * *

Clinging to the rear postilion of the gleaming black barouche in which the footman was stealing Blanche from the physician’s care, Dillian shivered in equal parts fear and cold. The vehicle swayed through the darkness concealing a rutted, overgrown drive.

Was the footman in the duke’s employ? Where was he taking Blanche? She had hoped to a better physician, but that dream crashed with their race into the empty countryside.

Taking a curve at a reckless rate, the carriage tilted, and she grasped the rail in white-knuckled terror, not seeing the edifice looming ahead until the vehicle rumbled straight for it.

She widened her eyes in disbelief at the gothic monstrosity silhouetted against the starlit sky, like some fable from a storybook. Nothing else was visible. Not a single light glowed in the whole of that black sprawling monolith. Where in the devil was the madman taking them?

Already so terrified she could scarcely unbend her fingers from the rail, Dillian felt the carriage roll to a stop at this unwelcoming edifice. As the driver leapt down and pounded on a massive oak door, she glanced around for a hiding place.