Sophia James: One Illicit Night

Praise for Sophia James

HIGH SEAS TO HIGH SOCIETY

‘James weaves her spell, captivating readers with wit and wisdom, and cleverly combining humour and poignancy with a master’s touch in this feel-good love story.’

—RT Book Reviews

MASQUERADING MISTRESS

‘Bold and tantalising, plotted like a mystery and slowly exposing each layer of the multi-dimensional plot and every character’s motivations, James’ novel is a page-turner.’

—RT Book Reviews

KNIGHT OF GRACE

‘With its engaging, complex characters and complicated situations, James’ latest is a powerfully emotional story centring on a physically scarred heroine, an emotionally wounded hero and an unexpected love.’

—RT Book Reviews

ASHBLANE’S LADY

‘An excellent tale of love, this book is more than a romance; it pulls at the heartstrings and makes you wish the story wouldn’t end.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Touch me and tell me that there is nothing at all left between us.’

Eleanor held her fists tight against her skirt. ‘The pull of flesh is only a fleeting thing. Honour and trust and duty are the tenets that a sensible woman lives by.’

‘And you are sensible?’

‘Very.’ The word was as forceful as she could make it, moulded by her depth of fear.

Unexpectedly Cristo smiled and took three steps back. ‘Logic and reason run a poor second to the heat of passion. Should you relax your guard for a moment, the truth of all you deny might be a revelation to you.’

Pursing her lips, she allowed him no leeway. ‘My life has changed completely since Paris, and I am a woman who learns well from her mistakes.’

‘Mistakes?’ He echoed the word, turning it on his tongue as if trying to understand the very nature of its meaning before finding a retort. ‘I have relegated our night together to neither blunder nor error. Indeed, I might have chanced something entirely different.’

The Wellingham brothers rule Society with their wealth, titles and intellect.

You met Asher, the Duke of Carisbrook, in HIGH SEAS TO HIGH SOCIETY, and Lord Taris Wellingham in ONE UNASHAMED NIGHT.

Now it’s Cristo’s turn—the youngest brother and the most mysterious.

Returning to London after many lonely years in Paris, Cristo Wellingham, the Comte de Caviglione, meets the one woman he never expected to see again—a woman ruined by the dark secrets in his past.

SOPHIA JAMESlives in Chelsea Bay on Auckland New Zealand’s North Shore, with her husband, who is an artist, and her three children. She spends her morning teaching adults English at the local Migrant School, and writes in the afternoon. Sophia has a degree in English and History from Auckland University, and believes her love of writing was formed reading Georgette Heyer with her twin sister at her grandmother’s house.

Previous novels by the same author:

FALLEN ANGEL

ASHBLANE’S LADY

HIGH SEAS TO HIGH SOCIETY

MASQUERADING MISTRESS

KNIGHT OF GRACE

(published as THE BORDER LORD

in North America)

MISTLETOE MAGIC

(part of Christmas Betrothals) ONE UNASHAMED NIGHT

ONE ILLICIT NIGHT

features characters you will have met in

HIGH SEAS TO HIGH SOCIETY and

ONE UNASHAMED NIGHT.

ONE ILLICIT NIGHT

Sophia James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to Frances Housden and Barbara Clendon for their help with my writing.

Château Giraudon, Montmarte, Paris—early November 1825

Lady Eleanor Jane Bracewell-Lowen could not quite focus on the form of the man who carried her, could not through the dizzy grey fog of lethargy see the expressions on his face or hear the cadence of his words. With a growing dread she tried to shift her weight so that he might let her down, let her escape, but even that was impossible. Nothing on her body worked and the tight mesh of the heavy wig she wore brought a strange dislocation.

She was naked! She knew that, for she had felt his hands on the curve of her breasts and in the warmth beneath her legs. Rough. Lewd. She could not even turn away in protection. Nay, sheer apathy held her caught against breath that smelt of hard liquor and bad teeth.

‘You’re too beautiful for une pute. When you finish here we’ll treat you well below.’

Une pute? A whore? Two words that did make sense. Eleanor closed her eyes against the horror of truth, this small movement all she could muster as shock made the hairs on her arms stand out straight against the chill of the night.

‘I … am … not a … whore.’ The sounds came out as only nonsense, no meaning in them as she failed to form the letters on her lips, just gibberish, fear making her feel sick.

A door opened and warmth beckoned. Beyond the darkness in a circle of light, a solitary figure sat at his desk writing.

‘Monsieur Beraud sends you a gift, Comte de Caviglione.’

She stiffened. The man she had come to see! Perhaps he would help her. If only she could speak clearly …

Silence was the only response.

‘He said that she was new to the game.’

At this the man in the shadows stood. Tall and blond, the expression on his face matched exactly the wariness of his words. His eyes were the deepest of brown.

‘Did you search her for weapons?’

‘I did much more than that, oui.’

In one movement the blanket was gone and Eleanor was set down on to a bed.

‘Merde!’ The tall man’s curse was rough. ‘You stripped her?’

‘In readiness, you understand. It’s rumoured to have been a while since you last had a woman and it’s my master’s view that the bile of celibacy can make any man cantankerous.’

Dark eyes wandered across her own and Eleanor failed to summon the energy to protest.

‘A whore who even now readies herself for your use, mon Comte, though if you do not want the gift, I could take her below …’

‘No, leave her.’ The blond man raised his hand, a flash of heavy gold rings caught in the light, the expression on his face guarded.

She tried to blink, tried to warn him, tried in the singular and only way that she could to alert him to the wrongness in all of this, but the second was gone as he looked away, his hair falling across his face as he turned.

Beautiful. At least he was that. Closing her eyes, she was lost into the ether of nothingness.

Cristo Wellingham waited until the minion of Beraud had gone before crossing the room to slide the heavy slats of oak into place.

He had never trusted locks, for a soul well versed in the art of picking them could take but a moment to force his way through any door. Neither did he trust the fact that Etienne Beraud had sent this whore to him as a gift. The man was a scoundrel and a cheat working for the French police in a way that was blatantly illicit and this ‘offering’ was undoubtedly another of his attempts to gain favour and benefit from the world surrounding the Château Giraudon.