The Wicked Baron. Sarah Mallory

      

       ‘Carlotta, do allow me to present Lord Darvell to you.’

      Carlotta froze. She had known this moment would come, had rehearsed it a thousand times, but still she was not prepared for the stomach-wrenching spasm that threatened to render her senseless when she heard his name. Gathering all her strength, she turned and dragged her eyes up to his face. The gentleman standing before her was achingly familiar. As he bowed over her hand she looked at his brown hair and remembered the silky feel of it beneath her fingers, the touch of his lips, not on her glove but on her own mouth, caressing, demanding—She thrust such thoughts away. They had no place in her life now. He had no place in her life now.

      She forced herself to look at him. His glance told her he knew her, but there was no sign of uncertainty in his hazel eyes as he smiled. He was so sure of his welcome. Her training had been very good: she buried her feelings and presented him with a bland, polite mask. She withdrew her hand from his grasp, saying coolly, ‘My lord.’

      ‘Your aunt tells me you are not engaged for the next dance. I would be honoured if you would allow me to partner you…?’

      His assurance made her seethe. He was laughing at her.

      Author Note

      Ask writers where they find the ideas for their stories and many will tell you it starts with a little question: what if? I am no exception.

      A few years ago I visited West Wycombe Park, the eighteenth-century home of Sir Francis Dashwood, founder of the infamous Hellfire Club. I have no doubt that many of the rakes featured in historical romances are in some part based upon Sir Francis and his friends, but when I visited West Wycombe Park I was taken with the beautiful paintings that adorn the house—and that is when that little question popped into my head. What if my heroine was an artist? What if she painted beautiful frescoes like the ones that decorate the house?

      This is how Luke first sees Carlotta, dressed in breeches and a paint-stained shirt, climbing down from the scaffolding at Malberry Court. He is immediately enchanted with this waif-like creature: she is different from all the other young ladies of his acquaintance. But Luke is the Wicked Baron of the title: he is not used to behaving chivalrously, and when he decides to make a noble sacrifice Carlotta is not at all grateful for his actions. In fact, in true Italian style, she is determined to punish him!

      I hope you will follow Luke and Carlotta as their battle of wits takes them from the ballrooms of Regency London to the Italianate elegance of Malberry Court, where they must face well-meaning relatives, intrigue and danger before they can find their happy ending. Enjoy the journey!

      Sarah Mallory was born in Bristol, and now lives in an old farmhouse on the edge of the Pennines with her husband and family. She left grammar school at sixteen, to work in companies as varied as stockbrokers, marine engineers, insurance brokers, biscuit manufacturers and even a quarrying company. Her first book was published shortly after the birth of her daughter. She has published more than a dozen books under the pen-name of Melinda Hammond, winning the Reviewers’ Choice Award in 2005 from Singletitles.com for Dance for a Diamond and the Historical Novel Society’s Editors’ Choice in November 2006 for Gentlemen in Question.

       A recent novel by the same author:

      MORE THAN A GOVERNESS

      THE WICKED

      BARON

      Sarah Mallory

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       To Jay Dixon, with thanks for all your support and encouragement

       Prologue

      ‘Hell and confound it, Darvell, will you stop flirting with that lightskirt and give your mind to the cards!’

      Luke Ainslowe, fifth Baron Darvell, gently disentangled himself from the lady’s scented embrace and begged pardon. There were few amusements for the Army of Occupation in Paris, following the stunning victory at Waterloo: women and cards were two of the most popular and Luke was currently enjoying both. He looked at the eager, wine-flushed faces of the gentlemen around him and smiled. They all envied him, he knew, for he was sitting beside the most fashionable courtesan in Paris, the improbably named Angelique Pompadour. She leaned against him, her powdered head on his shoulder while he studied the cards in his hand.

      Across the table, the officer of the Light Dragoons who had berated Luke made his discard and glanced up, his silver epaulettes glinting in the candlelight.

      ‘I hear von Laage’s wife is increasing again—she holds that you are the father, Darvell.’

      Luke shrugged. ‘Lady Sophia is air-dreaming, Denby. There are at least half a dozen men more eligible than I for that role.’

      ‘Why, then, is the lady naming you?’ demanded another of the players.

      A red-faced gentlemen in grey satin laughed.

      ‘Because Darvell is the only one von Laage would not dare to call out! Well known to be lethal with swords or pistols. Never beaten in a duel, eh, Luke?’

      ‘Not yet, Clayman, not yet.’

      ‘So you are telling me you were never one of Lady Sophia’s lovers?’ cried Major Denby.

      Luke shook his head. ‘We had a few preliminary skirmishes, but I never breached that particular citadel. I discovered the lady was far too free with her favours.’

      Sir Neville Clayman chuckled. ‘A man needs to be very rich to keep an exclusive mistress, and that is not you, eh, Darvell?’

      Luke grinned. ‘Devil a bit!’

      There was a pause while Sir Neville considered his hand. ‘But you have a title, and that is certainly an advantage. I believe le Brun’s widow is hoping to become the next Lady Darvell.’

      Angelique raised her head. ‘Mon cher…’ she pouted and placed one white hand upon Luke’s velvet sleeve ‘…c’est vrai?’

      Sir Neville nodded. ‘Had it from the lady herself two nights’ since.’

      ‘But you have not had it from me,’ said Luke gently. He picked up Angelique’s hand and planted a kiss in the palm before releasing it. ‘The woman is an upstart. Her beauty dazzled le Brun, but there is no breeding behind that pretty face.’

      ‘If it’s breeding you want, the Tregennick chit has it through several generations,’ remarked the major, ‘yet you cut her dead last night. She was mad as fire.’

      Luke flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘Her mama insisted upon throwing her in my way at Lady Gressingham’s rout. I obliged her with an evening’s flirtation, that is all.’

      ‘And you could not even recall her