“I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
“Were it in my power, I’d go to the ends of the earth to grant you your heart’s desire.” He smiled, his face lightening. “Now what, I wonder, would such a calm and quiet lady desire most in the world?”
Freedom from fear. The thought flashed into her head on a stab of longing. “M-my needs are few, my lord. I’m quite content.”
The earl chuckled. “A lady with no demands? What an extraordinary creature!”
“Not at all. Alas, I’m entirely ordinary.”
The wryness of her rejoinder faded, replaced by a curious mingling of alarm and anticipation as the earl stepped closer. She stood motionless, breath suspended. She could not make herself look away.
“No, my lady,” he said after a long moment. “Though you may be many things, ‘ordinary’ is certainly not one of them…!”
Praise for Julia Justiss’s previous works
The Proper Wife
“Justiss is a promising new talent and readers will devour her tantalizing tale with gusto.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Wedding Gamble
“A scintillating, thoroughly engaging, love story!”
—Romantic Times Magazine
“This is a fast-paced story that will leave you wanting more…you won’t want to put it down!”
—Newandusedbooks.com
A Scandalous Proposal
“Ms. Justiss’s writing style makes it impossible to put this delightful tale down.”
—Rendezvous
“Ms. Justiss captures the essence of the Regency period….A compelling, satisfying read.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
#592 CALL OF THE WHITE WOLF
Carol Finch
#593 DRAGON’S DOWER
Catherine Archer
#594 GOLD RUSH BRIDE
Debra Lee Brown
My Lady’s Trust
Julia Justiss
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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Available from Harlequin Historicals and
JULIA JUSTISS
The Wedding Gamble #464
A Scandalous Proposal #532
The Proper Wife #567
My Lady’s Trust #591
In memory of fellow writer
Nancy Richards-Akers
shot to death by her estranged husband
June 1999
and to all women caught in domestic abuse.
Get help. Get out.
Your children need you.
Prologue Prologue Soundlessly Laura crept through the dark hall. Having rehearsed—and used—the route before, she knew every carpet, chair and cupboard in the passageway, each twist of the twenty-nine steps down the servants’ stair to the back door. Even were their old butler Hobbins and his wife not snoring in their room just off the corridor, the winter storm howling through the chimneys and rattling the shutters would cover the slight rustle of her movements. Just once she halted in her stealthy passage, outside the silent nursery. Leaning toward the door, she could almost catch a whiff of baby skin, feel the softness of flannel bunting, see the bright eyes and small waving hands. A bitter bleakness pierced her heart, beside whose chill the icy needles being hurled against the windows were mild as summer rain, and her step staggered. She bent over, gripping for support the handle of the room where a baby’s gurgle no longer sounded. Nor ever would again—not flesh of her flesh. I promise you that, Jennie, she vowed. Making good on that vow could not ease the burden of guilt she carried, but it was the last thing she would do in this house. The only thing, now, she could do. Marshaling her strength, she straightened and made her way down the stairs, halting once more to catch her breath before attempting to work the heavy lock of the kitchen door. She was stronger now. For the past month she’d practiced walking, at first quietly in her room, more openly this past week since most of the household had departed with its master for London. She could do this. Cautiously she unlatched the lock, then fastened her heavy cloak and drew on her warmest gloves. At her firm push the door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Ignoring the sleet that pelted her face and the shrieking wind that tore the hood from her hair, she walked into the night.
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 Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Soundlessly Laura crept through the dark hall. Having rehearsed—and used—the route before, she knew every carpet, chair and cupboard in the passageway, each twist of the twenty-nine steps down the servants’ stair to the back door. Even were their old butler Hobbins and his wife not snoring in their room just off the corridor, the winter storm howling through the chimneys and rattling the shutters would cover the slight rustle of her movements.
Just once she halted in her stealthy passage, outside the silent nursery. Leaning toward the door, she could almost catch a whiff of baby skin, feel the softness of flannel bunting, see the bright eyes and small waving hands. A bitter bleakness pierced her heart, beside whose chill the icy needles being hurled against the windows were mild as summer rain, and her step staggered.
She bent over, gripping for support the handle of the room where a baby’s gurgle no longer sounded. Nor ever would again—not flesh of her flesh.
I promise you that, Jennie, she vowed. Making good on that vow could not ease the burden of guilt she carried, but it was the last thing she would do in this house. The only thing, now, she could do.
Marshaling her strength, she straightened and made her way down the stairs, halting once more to catch her breath before attempting to work the heavy lock of the kitchen door. She was stronger now. For the past month she’d practiced walking, at first quietly in her room, more openly this past week since most of the household had departed with its master for London. She could do this.
Cautiously she unlatched the lock, then fastened her heavy cloak and drew on her warmest gloves. At her firm push the door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Ignoring the sleet that pelted her face and the shrieking wind that tore the hood from her hair, she walked into the night.
The crisp fall breeze, mingling the scents of falling leaves and the sharp tang of herbs, brought to Laura Martin’s ear the faint sound of barking interspersed with the crack of rifle shot. The party which had galloped by her cottage earlier this morning, the squire’s son throwing her a jaunty wave as they passed, must be hunting duck in the marsh nearby, she surmised.
Having cut the supply of tansy she needed for drying, Laura turned to leave the herb bed. Misfit, the squire’s failure of a rabbit hound who’d refused to leave her after she healed the leg he’d caught in a poacher’s trap, bumped his head against her hand, demanding attention.
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