An Independent Woman. Candace Camp

      

      Praise for the novels of Candace Camp

      “…entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”

      —The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure

      “This one has it all: smooth writing, an intelligent story, engaging characters, and sexual tension that positively sizzles.”

      —All About Romance on Swept Away

      “Camp brings the dark Victorian world to life. Her strong characters and perfect pacing keep you turning the pages of this chilling mystery.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKclub on Winterset

      “From its delicious beginning to its satisfying ending, [Mesmerized] offers a double helping of romance.”

      —Booklist

      “Camp shows the ability of love to help people overcome something out of the ordinary.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKclub on Mesmerized

      “A smart, fun-filled romp.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

      “One of Camp’s best.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Indiscreet

      “Candace Camp is renowned as a storyteller who touches the hearts of her readers time and time again.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKclub on Impulse

      “…will leave you breathless with laughter and eagerly anticipating the next mishap.”

      —Affair de Coeur on Suddenly

      An Independent Woman

      Candace Camp

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

       Before you start reading, why not sign up?

      Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

       SIGN ME UP!

      Or simply visit

      signup.millsandboon.co.uk

      Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

      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 ONE

      JULIANA HAD NOT EXPECTED to see him again.

      She had heard that Nicholas had come into the title and returned to England, which had surprised her. All her life, she had thought that it was Nicholas’s uncle who was the heir, not him. Certainly, no one had ever treated him like the future earl. She had assumed that their paths would never cross. After all, he was an earl now, and wealthy, and she was a paid companion to a woman who moved only on the edges of that rarefied circle of society to which he belonged.

      There had been an instant, when she had first heard the murmurs of Nicholas’s return from America and his sudden elevation into the inner sanctum of polite society, that she had thought with an upsurge of an almost painful excitement that she would see him once more. Time, and an application of reason, had led her to realize that was unlikely.

      Even though they had once been close, it had been many years ago. If he even thought of her, it would be only as a dim memory from his past, a person from a time and place he doubtless recalled with little fondness. Her time at Lychwood Hall had been unhappy, but his had been even bleaker. Juliana suspected that he had done his best to put the past behind him. He would not seek her out. Only a foolish romantic would hope that he would.

      And there was little chance that they would accidentally run into each other. Her employer, Mrs. Thrall, however much she might like to think she was a member of the upper echelon of London society, was in reality a very small fish swimming in the outer, eddying rings of that pond. The family was at best acceptable country gentry come to the city, and it was only the undeniable beauty of Clementine, Mrs. Thrall’s daughter, that got them any sort of notice.

      Tonight, however, the Thralls had received an invitation to Lady Sherbourne’s ball, a huge crush of an affair, so large that it pulled in many lesser members of Society. Juliana understood that it was only the sheer numbers of invitees that had made it possible for them to be here. Mrs. Thrall, of course, did not. She had been crowing for the past week about Lady Sherbourne having taken them under her wing.

      Because of the size of the party, Juliana had harbored a small flicker of hope, barely acknowledged, that Lord Barre would appear. But she had not really believed it, deep down. After all, from the gossip she had managed to glean, sitting quietly listening to Clementine and her giggling friends, Nicholas rarely attended any party. His reclusive-ness, of course, simply added to his mystique.

      But there he was. Juliana looked up from her perusal of Clementine sweeping around the floor in the arms of one of her many admirers, and there, standing at the top of the wide staircase leading down into the ballroom, was Nicholas Barre.

      Her heart skittered in her chest, and for an instant, she felt as if she could not breathe. He was handsome, more handsome even than she remembered—filled out now into a man, with broad shoulders that needed no extra padding from his tailor, and long, muscled legs. He stood, looking out coolly over the mass of people below him, confidence, even a certain arrogance, stamped on his features. His hair was thick and a trifle shaggy, jet-black in color and falling carelessly beside his face. His eyes appeared as black as his hair, accented by the straight slashes of his black brows.

      He did not look like other men. Not even the black formal coat and snowy white shirt could camouflage the hint of wildness that clung to him. Wherever he went, Juliana thought, he must immediately be the center of attention. She wondered if he was aware of that.

      Perhaps he had become accustomed to it. He had always been one set apart. Dangerous, they had called him. And wicked. Juliana suspected that the same appellations were still directed at him.

      She realized suddenly that she was staring, and she glanced quickly away. What was she to do? She swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists in her lap.

      She remembered the last time she had seen him—the planes and angles of his face stark white in the moonlight, his eyes great pools of darkness. He had been only sixteen then, leanly muscular in a way that suggested the powerful male body he would grow into. His hair had been longer and unkempt, tousled by the wind and his impatient fingers. There had been a hardness to his face even then, a certain wariness that bespoke much