Maisey Yates - The Prince's Stolen Virgin

Title Page The Prince’s Stolen Virgin Maisey Yates www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author MAISEY YATES is a New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty romance novels. She has a coffee habit she has no interest in kicking, and a slight Pinterest addiction. She lives with her husband and children in the Pacific Northwest. When Maisey isn’t writing she can be found singing in the grocery store, shopping for shoes online and probably not doing dishes. Check out her website: maiseyyates.com . Books by Maisey Yates Mills & Boon Modern Romance Carides’s Forgotten Wife Bound to the Warrior King His Diamond of Convenience To Defy a Sheikh One Night to Risk It All Once Upon a Seduction... The Prince’s Captive Virgin The Billionaire’s Legacy The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize Heirs Before Vows The Spaniard’s Pregnant Bride The Prince’s Pregnant Mistress The Italian’s Pregnant Virgin One Night With Consequences The Greek’s Nine-Month Redemption Married for Amari’s Heir Princes of Petras A Christmas Vow of Seduction The Queen’s New Year Secret Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Dedication For my mom and dad, who read to me always, and made me fall in love with books—most especially fairy tales—from the beginning. My favorite stories always ended with “they lived happily ever after.” And they still do.

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

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Once upon a time...

BRIAR HARCOURT MOVED quickly down the street, wrapping her long wool coat more tightly around her as the autumn breeze blew down Madison Avenue and seemed to whip straight on through to her bones.

It was an unseasonably cold fall, not that she minded. She loved the city this time of year. But there was always a strange sense of loss and nostalgia that mixed with the crisp air, and it was difficult for her to figure out what it was.

It would hover there, on the edges of her consciousness, for just a moment. Then it would slip away, like a leaf on the wind.

It was something to do with her life before she’d come to New York; she knew that. But she’d only been three when she’d been adopted by her parents, and she didn’t remember her life before them. Not really. It was all impressions. Smells. Feelings. And a strange ache that settled low in her stomach.

Strange, because she loved her parents. And she loved her city. There shouldn’t be an ache. You couldn’t miss something you didn’t even remember.

And yet, sometimes, she did.

Briar paused for a moment, a strange prickling sensation crawling up the back of her neck. It wasn’t the cold. She was wearing a scarf. And anyway, it felt different. Different than anything she had ever experienced before.

She paused then turned around. The crowd behind her parted for a moment and she saw a man standing there. She knew, immediately, that he was the reason for the prickling sensation. He was looking at her. And when he saw that she was looking back, a slow smile spread over his face.

And it was like the sun had come out from behind the clouds.

He was beautiful. She could see that from here. Dark hair pushed back from his forehead, making him look carelessly windswept. There was dark stubble on his jaw, and something in his expression, in his eyes, that suggested he was privy to a host of secrets she could never hope to uncover.

He was... Well, he was a man. Nothing like the boys that she had been exposed to either at school or at various functions put on by her parents. Christmas parties at their town house, summer gatherings in the Hamptons.

He wouldn’t stumble around, bragging about conquests or his beer pong score. No, never. Of course, she also wouldn’t be allowed to talk to him.

To say that Dr. Robert Harcourt and his wife, Nell, were old-fashioned was an understatement. But then, she was their only child, and she had come to them late in life. Not only were they part of a different generation than many of her friends’ parents, they had always made it very clear that she was precious to them. An unexpected gift they had never hoped to receive.

That always made her smile. It made the ache go away.

It didn’t feel like a chore to do the best she could for them. To do her best to be a testament to all they’d put into raising her. She had always done her very best to make sure they were happy they’d made that decision. She’d tried—so very hard—to be the best she could be. To be perfect.

She had done her deportment lessons and her etiquette. Had done the debutante balls—even though it hadn’t appealed to her at all. She had gone to school close to home, had spent every weekend back with her parents so they wouldn’t worry. She’d never even considered rebelling. How could you rebel against people who had chosen you?

Except, right now, she felt a little bit like disregarding their concern. Like moving toward that man, who was still looking at her with those wicked eyes.

She blinked, and just as suddenly as he had appeared he was gone. Melted back into the crowd of black and gray coats. She felt an unaccountable sense of loss. A feeling that she had just missed something important. Something extraordinary.

You wouldn’t know if it could have been extraordinary. You’ve never even kissed a man.

No. A side effect of that overprotectiveness. But then, she had no desire to kiss Tommy Beer Pong or his league of idiot friends.

Tall, sophisticated-looking men on bustling streets were another matter. Apparently.

She blinked then turned back around, heading back in the direction she had originally been going. Not that she was in a hurry. She was on break from school, and spending the days wandering her parents’ town house wasn’t terribly appealing. So she had decided she was going to go to the Met today, because she never got tired of wandering those halls.

But suddenly, the Met, and all the art inside, seemed lackluster. At least, in view of the man she had just seen.

Ridiculous.

She shook her head and pressed on.

“Are you running away from me?”

She stopped, her heart slamming against her breastbone. Then she whirled around and nearly ran into the object of her thwarted feelings. “No,” she said, the word coming out on a breath.

“You seemed to be walking quickly, and with great purpose.”

Oh, his voice. He had an accent. Spanish, or something. Sexy and like the sort of thing her brain would weave out of thin air late at night when she was trying to sleep, concocting herself the perfect mystery dream date that she would likely never find.

He was even better-looking up close. Stunning, even. He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. And then, he relaxed his mouth. There was something even more compelling about that. About being able to examine the shape of his lips.

“I wasn’t,” she said. “I just...” Somebody bumped into her as they walked by quickly. “Well, I didn’t want to be in the way,” she said, gesturing after the person, as if to prove her point.

“Because you had stopped,” he pressed. “To look at me?”

“You were looking at me.”

“Surely you must be used to that.”

Hardly. At least, not in the way that he meant. Nobody likes to be different, and she was different in a great many ways. She was tall, first of all. Which was one refreshing thing about him. He was at least five inches taller than her height of five eleven, which was a rare and difficult thing to come across.