& Moira Bianchi: Lord of Scoundrels

sexta-feira, 18 de dezembro de 2015

Lord of Scoundrels

One day I found myself with time to kill and surprisingly found an interesting movie on TV. It was Beauty and Beast 2014 with Vincent Cassel and I was enraptured! It's not my fave fairy tale (I love Cinderella) but I got so enchanted with the movie that I searched the original tale. Didn't find it, found old ones but not the one, and in my search I found countless books inspired by Belle and Beast.

I read several and now I post one of my fave:

Loretta Chase
page 40

In all the years since his father had packed him off to Eton, no woman had ever done anything to or for him until he’d put money in her hand. Or—as in the case of the one respectable female he’d been so misguided as to pursue nearly eight years ago—unless he signed papers putting his body, soul, and fortune into said hands.

Miss Jessica Trent was holding on to him as though her life depended upon it and kissing him as though the world would come to an end if she stopped, and there was no “unless” or “until” about it.

Bewildered and heated at once, he moved his big hands unsteadily over her back and shaped his trembling fingers to her deliciously dainty waist. He had never before held anything like her—so sweetly slim and supple and curved to delicate perfection. His chest tightened and ached and he wanted to weep.

Sognavo di te.
I’ve dreamed of you.
Ti desideravo nelle mia braccia dal primo momento che ti
I’ve wanted you in my arms since the moment I met you.

He stood, helpless in the driving rain, unable to rule his needy mouth, his restless hands, while, within, his heart beat out the mortifying truth.

Ho bisogno di te.
I need you.

As though that last were an outrage so monstrous that even the generally negligent Almighty could not let it pass, a blast of light rent the darkness, followed immediately by a violent crash that shook the pavement.
She jerked away and stumbled back, her hand clapped to her mouth.

“Jess,” he said, reaching out to bring her back. Cara, I—”

“No. Oh, God.” She shoved her wet hair out of her face. “Damn you, Dain.” Then she turned and fled.

Jessica Trent was a young woman who faced facts, and as she mounted, dripping, the stairs to her brother’s appartement, she faced them.

First, she had leapt at the first excuse to hunt down Lord Dain.

Second, she had sunk into a profound depression, succeeded almost instantly by jealous rage, because she’d found two women sitting in his lap.

Third, she had very nearly wept when he’d spoken slightingly of her attractions and called her “a ha’pennyworth of a chit.”

Fourth, she had goaded him into assaulting her.

Fifth, she had very nearly choked him to death, demanding the assault continue.

Sixth, it had taken a bolt of lightning to knock her loose.

By the time she came to the appartement door, she was strongly tempted to dash her brains out against it.
“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” she muttered, pounding on the portal. Withers opened it. His mouth fell open. “Withers,” she said, “I have failed you.” She marched into the apartment. “Where is Flora?”

“Oh, dear.” Withers looked helplessly about him.

“Ah, then she hasn’t returned. Not that I am the least surprised.”

Jessica headed for her grandmother’s room. “In fact, if my poor maid makes the driver take her direct to Calais and row her across the Channel, I should not blame her a whit.” She rapped at Genevieve’s door.
Her grandmother opened it, gazed at her for a long moment, then turned to Withers. “Miss Trent
requires a hot bath,” she said. “Have someone see to it—quickly—if you please.”

Then she took Jessica’s arm, tugged her inside, sat her down, and pulled off her sodden boots.

“I will go to that party,” said Jessica, fumbling with her pelisse buckles. “Dain can make a fool of me if he likes, but he will not ruin my evening. I don’t care if all of Paris saw.

He’s the one who ought to be embarrassed—running halfnaked down the street. And when I reminded him that he was half-naked, what do you think he did?”

“My dear, I cannot imagine.” Genevieve quickly worked the silk stockings off.

Jessica told her about the leisurely trouser unbuttoning. Genevieve went into whoops of laughter.

Jessica frowned at her. “It was very difficult to keep a straight face—but that wasn’t the hardest part. The hardest part was—” She let out a sigh. “Oh, Genevieve. He was so adorable. I wanted to kiss him. Right on his big, beautiful nose. And then everywhere else. It was so frustrating. I had made up my mind not to lose my temper, but I did. And so I beat him and beat him until he kissed me. And then I kept on beating him until he did it properly. And I had better tell you, mortifying as it is to admit, that if we had not been
struck by lightning—or very nearly—I should be utterly ruined. Against a lamppost. On the Rue de Provence. And the horrible part is”—she groaned—“I wish I had been.”

“I know,” Genevieve said soothingly. “Believe me, dear, I know.” She stripped off the rest of the garments—Jessica being incapable of doing much besides babbling and staring stupidly at the furniture—wrapped her in a dressing gown, planted her in a chair by the fire, and ordered brandy.

About half an hour after Jessica Trent had fled him, Lord Dain, drenched to the skin and clutching a mangled bonnet, stalked through the door a trembling Herbert opened for him. Ignoring the footman, the marquess marched down the hall and up the stairs and down another hall to his bedroom.


Disclaimer: 40 pages 40 was my way to celebrate my 40th birthday. Now I continue it with 4 more although i'm turning 42.
It's not easy to accept that 'young' no longer describes me...
By promoting 44 awesome books I like in no way I intend to dupe the original authors. If you, as me, like what you read, buy them! (specially mine)
All 44 books can be found on the right side bar. ►
All images found on Google. Kudos to the original poster.

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