The Heiress In His Bed. Tamara Lejeune

on>

      KISSING THE HEIRESS

      “Don’t you dare come near me!” she cried.

      “I have to come near you,” he said reasonably. “It’s a very small room.”

      “I have a toasting fork!” she said, fumbling for her leather reticule. “I will use it!”

      With shaking hands, she brought it out.

      Julian tried not to laugh. “I have nothing to say to you, madam, that your toasting fork cannot hear,” he assured her, wrapping her up in his arms.

      “What do you think you are doing?” she squeaked.

      He didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he kissed her on the mouth, leaning her so far back over the desk that she was afraid of falling. Startled, Viola grasped the desk to keep her balance, and the fork clattered to the desktop as his mouth moved freely over hers. His lips felt strange and warm as he tasted her. The sensation sent a shock of awareness through her entire body.

      “Brute!” she gasped in absolute disbelief.

      “I have been wanting to do that since the first moment I saw you,” he murmured. “And, just so you know, it was everything I imagined it would be….”

      Books by Tamara Lejeune

      SIMPLY SCANDALOUS

      SURRENDER TO SIN

      RULES FOR BEING A MISTRESS

      THE HEIRESS IN HIS BED

      Published by Zebra Books

      THEHEIRESS IN HISBED

      TAMARA LEJEUNE

       ZEBRA BOOKS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      The engagement between Lady Viola Gambol and the Marquis of Bamph was of long standing, having been arranged by their respective parents when the lady was cooing in her cradle and the gentleman was galloping to St Ives on his rocking horse. By the time Viola could walk and talk, the matter was so widely understood amongst her acquaintances that no one thought it necessary to tell her. Consequently, she learned of her good fortune no sooner than her twenty-first birthday, when all the provisions of her father’s will came fully into effect.

      Being of excessively gentle birth, she flew at once into a towering rage. Her elder half brother, the Duke of Fanshawe, remained at home to weather the storm, and was not, as everyone expected, called away on urgent business. When Viola entered the breakfast parlor the next morning, he was seated at the table engulfing his steak and eggs as usual, a motley assortment of dogs whining greedily at his feet.

      The duke—known to his friends as Dickon—was short in stature, but he wisely made up for it in bulk. Froglike, his bald head sat squarely on his shoulders without the assistance of a neck. His clothes, though not inexpensive, did little more than reflect his love of food and country life, being stuck all over with burrs and splashed with gravy. His mother had been married for her money, and it showed to a painful degree in the son’s cheerfully ugly face.

      Viola’s mother, on the other hand, had been married for her beauty, and that beauty had been passed on to her daughter with scarcely any interference from the father. Her skin was flawless, if a little too olive for a well-bred English girl. Her bold eyes were a very dark blue, and her black hair grew in natural ringlets. She had an arrogant little nose and a stubborn little chin. When she smiled, nothing could stand against her. She was not smiling now, her brother could not help but notice, but at least she was no longer shouting.

      “There you are,” he said brightly.

      “Here I am,” Viola agreed, sounding as if she wished it might be possible to deny it.

      As she went unsmiling to the sideboard, the palace dogs scrambled after the skirts of her expertly tailored riding costume. Viola dutifully tossed bacon to the dogs, but Dickon could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Her heart wasn’t in the chafing dishes, either; all she took for herself was a mean little slice of fish, hardly enough to keep body and soul together.

      “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked her anxiously. “You’ll need your strength for your wedding night. Men are beasts, you know.”

      Viola frowned at him, her dark brows drawn together in a straight line. When she frowned, she looked like a brooding young queen plotting wars and assassinations. “I’m not hungry,” she said coldly.

      “Not hungry?” he repeated in blank amazement. “No breakfast? And you didn’t eat your dinner last night, either. Too busy throwing it at my head, as I recall.”

      The soup tureen had missed its intended target, but the memory was still unpleasant.

      “It isn’t fair,” said Viola, pushing her plate away.

      “No, it isn’t fair,” the duke agreed. “I had nothing to do with this engagement, after all. You had no reason to throw your soup at me. If you must throw your soup, you should throw it at our father. He arranged the marriage, not I.”

      “I can’t,” said Viola. “He’s dead.”

      “And that should be enough for you, young Viola,” he scolded her. “You needn’t run about the place flinging soup just because you are engaged.”

      “I am not engaged!” she flashed. “I don’t want to be married. I’m perfectly happy living here with you and the dogs.”

      “You don’t look happy,” Dickon observed.

      “That’s because I’m miserable,” Viola explained. “I am not accustomed to the yoke of tyranny. Fathers should not be allowed to dictate to their children from beyond the grave.”

      “But he’s nabbed you a marquis!” Dickon exclaimed in astonishment.

      “Who asked him to?” she demanded in a rather surly tone.

      “But why not marry Bamph?” Dickon wanted to know. “You’ll have to marry somebody someday, young Viola. It might as well be a marquis.”

      “Why?” she demanded, her frown deepening.

      Dickon gaped at her. “Why? Be sensible! There ain’t any dukes out