His Lady Mistress. Elizabeth Rolls

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      “Why do you want me as your mistress?” And why am I even asking? Verity wondered.

      Max blinked. “Isn’t that obvious?”

      “No.” She couldn’t imagine why he would want her. According to her aunt and cousins she had nothing to recommend her. Oh, she knew why Godfrey wanted her. Because she was defenceless and he was a swaggering bully.

      But Max—Lord Blakehurst—was not of that ilk. She had not the least idea why a man with a reputation for taking beautiful women as his mistresses would want her.

      “Because I desire you, of course….”

      His Lady Mistress

      Harlequin Historical #772

      Praise for Elizabeth Rolls

      The Dutiful Rake

      “With poignancy and sensuality, Rolls pens a story of a woman who hides her love for fear of being rejected and a man who is afraid that love and happiness will be taken away from him if he cares too much.”

      —Romantic Times

      The Unexpected Bride

      “A delightful Regency romance, filled with tender emotions, deceit and intrigue. This captivating read is brought to a stunningly exciting conclusion, eliciting tears of joy and happiness.”

      —Romantic Times

      DON‘T MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

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      #773 THE RANGER AND THE REDHEAD

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      Sarah Elliott

      Elizabeth Rolls

      His Lady Mistress

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      Available from Harlequin Historical and ELIZABETH ROLLS

      The Dutiful Rake #712

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      His Lady Mistress #772

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      Elizabeth Rolls’s

      “The Prodigal Bride”

       in

       A Regency Invitation

       to the House Party of the Season

      Contents

      Prologue

      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

      Prologue

      Autumn 1817

      Verity huddled into the murk by the chimney stack, watching through the shifting veil of rain as the two men, little more than dense shadows in the pouring blackness, carried their grisly burden from the cottage to the cart. The horse between the shafts tucked his tail in and stamped restlessly, snorting as the stench of death reached him. The boy at his head murmured in shaking tones and held his lantern higher.

      ‘One, two, three…’ A thud followed as the men swung the body on to the back of the cart.

      Her heart tightened. Oh, God! Please be gentle.

      ‘Right. Got everything, Jake?’

      ‘Aye…oh, hang on, where’s the…?’ Jake vaulted into the cart and scrabbled around. ‘No. Here ’tis, Bill.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Thought we’d damn near forgot the stake. Won’t do to forget that an’ all. Rector be really put out, he would.’

      A snort greeted this. ‘’Taint him as has to drive it in. Is it? Well, come on. Best get it over with.’

      ‘Aye. Here, lad, hand over that glim. You get on back to bed. And don’t be thinkin’ on this. ’Tis a cryin’ shame. But there ain’t nothin’ to do ’cept obey orders.’

      Orders. Her gut roiled as the lantern changed hands and the cart lumbered off. Slipping from the shadows, she followed, just close enough not to lose the sickly light in the blinding rain.

      At the end of the village street a swift rattle of hooves sent her scurrying for cover in the lych gate of the churchyard. All that she could see of the approaching rider was that he was tall, and wore a heavy cloak. Clenching her teeth against their betraying chatter, Verity strained to hear what the rider said to the men. The words were muffled in the curtain of driving rain, but the deep accents were unfamiliar. It must be the fashionable stranger who had put up at the inn earlier in the day.

      She bit back a sob of fury as the horseman rode out at the same slow pace as the cart. It was none of his business! Did he just want a sensational story to tell his friends? Her fists balled in impotent rage. She must not reveal herself. Surely he would not stay long. She could still do what must be done. Blinking rain out of her eyes, she followed the cart and rider out of the village.

      The rain swiftly penetrated her threadbare cloak, chilling her to the bone. She shivered uncontrollably, fiercely pretending that it was just the cold, that there was nothing to fear.

      Doggedly she repeated the litany over and over in her mind. There is nothing to fear. No bears or wolves. Ghosts don’t exist. There is nothing to fear…

      Except the dark and fear itself. She had never been out this late at all, let alone by herself… You aren’t alone. The cart is ahead…no one else will be out on a night like this anyway… A shudder racked her at the thought and she forced her mind away…nothing to fear…except her own self-loathing.

      Finally the cart reached the crossroads. Trembling with exhaustion and cold, Verity shrank into the hedgerow, crouched on the wet turf, scarcely noticing the branches clawing at her and