Kasey Michaels: Lords of Scandal: The Beleaguered Lord Bourne / The Enterprising Lord Edward

“Using wit and romance with a master’s skill,

Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”

—Bestselling author Nora Roberts

The Butler Did It

“Witty dialogue peppers a plot full of delectable details

exposing the foibles and follies of the age…

The heroine is appealingly independent minded;

the hero is refreshingly free of any mean-spirited

machismo; and supporting characters have charm to

spare…[a] playfully perfect Regency-era romp.”

—Publishers Weekly

A Reckless Beauty

“With her Beckets of Romney Marsh series,

Michaels has created a soap opera with wonderful

characters, dark family secrets, exciting historical

events and passion.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Return of the Prodigal

“Only a mistress of the genre could hook you,

and hold you in her net, eagerly anticipating

her next move.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Kasey Michaelis a New York Times bestselling author of both historical and contemporary novels. She is also the winner of a number of prestigious awards.

Available from Kasey Michaels andMills & Boon® Mills & Boon Historical

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Joan Hohl, Rita Clay Estrada,

and remembrances of “Margarita”

…and they wonder why we write fiction…

SNAP!

The loud, discordant sound sent a flock of nesting birds, who had just moments before been chirping merrily in the branches overhead, soaring into the sky as one, calling anxiously to each other as they flapped their wings in agitation.

The girl, on the contrary, made no move to flee from the unmistakable sound of an animal trap’s heavy metal jaws snapping shut, locking its unwary prey in a grip of iron. It wasn’t that she hadn’t felt the impulse to flee. Indeed, her heart was pounding nineteen to the dozen with fright and her muscles were quite painfully tense, silently screaming the message “Run!”

But while her spirit and flesh were willing, they could not travel anywhere as long as one decidedly heavy, extremely cumbersome animal trap had its jagged-toothed mouth stuffed full of last year’s yellow sprigged muslin.

The power of speech, momentarily lost, returned just in time to give vent to the overwhelming anger that set the trapped female to trembling as the violence of that emotion rocketed through her system. “A trap in the Home Wood!” she announced incredulously to the air, pointing out the obvious to the world at large. “Never— never —has there been trap nor snare in the Home Wood. Only a monster would choose to do murder to a two-pound rabbit with a five-pound trap. It’s like…it’s like…like hunting down field mice with field cannon, that’s what it is.’

Bending from the waist, she attempted to free her skirts from the offending device, but to no avail. The skirt of her gown now rent in several places (long, jagged tears that would bring tears to the eyes of the most clever needlewoman), she had no recourse left to her but to drop to her knees and scrabble about in the damp undergrowth for the stake that held the trap in place.

It took a dozen mighty tugs and a good deal of digging in the soft black soil with her bare fingers to separate the metal stake at the end of the chain from its snug home a full foot deep in the ground; a hot, sweaty business that strained her gown, dirtied her cheeks, and succeeded in enraging her to the point that the thought of her rather bizarre appearance did not deter her for so much as an instant as she set off hotfoot for Bourne Manor, dragging the heavy trap, chain, and iron post along behind her willy-nilly.

THE LARGE, MULTIPANED glass doors in the morning room provided a pleasant view of the rear prospect of Bourne Manor, and Lord Bourne, wineglass in hand, debated the merits of having his luncheon served on the flagstone terrace accessible through these same doors.

After only five days in his new home, Christopher Wilde, known to his intimates as Kit and now the Eighth Earl of Bourne, felt completely at ease in his new surroundings. Renfrew, the late earl’s longtime majordomo, had already proved himself to be a pearl beyond price by anticipating his new master’s every need, deftly guiding his lordship until he became familiar with the layout of the large manor, and presenting him with a deceptively offhand yet amazingly thorough accounting of just what responsibilities went hand in glove with his new title.

The household servants, their company numbering in Kit’s estimation just slightly less than that of Wellington’s largest division, all seemed to know just what they were about. The manor being a model of organization, they took pride in considering the care and comfort of their master to have priority over polishing, straightening, and the like. Unpleasant memories of broom-wielding housemaids invading his chamber while he was still abed and important papers misplaced by overzealous servants in pursuit of domestic order reinforced his high opinion of his late uncle’s staff.

Leon, Kit’s valet of six years’ standing, had seconded his master’s vote of approval, stating unequivocally that, save for the shabby state of the Home Wood—a problem already discussed, and with corrective steps having been initiated immediately as per his lordship’s directive designating his trusted valet to be in full charge of the project—Bourne Manor was “as near to perfect as a body could expect to get without first croaking and sprouting wings like.”

The peaceful scene spread before him now, with rich, golden sunlight lending an added brightness to the gently rolling carpet of soft greenery and the seemingly randomly placed neat groupings of several varieties of flowers, ornamental shrubs, and small trees, made it somewhat less than difficult for Kit to convince himself that he had indeed somehow stumbled into paradise.

Reluctantly Lord Bourne restrained the urge to congratulate himself yet again for having had the good fortune to recover from the wounds he sustained in battle, thereby living to enjoy this truly magnificent day (not to mention having displaced the memory of his very ordinary leave-taking of Dame England as a mere major by means of his returning to her bosom a full-fledged earl), and was about to summon Renfrew when a movement in the extreme distance caught his eye.

Stepping closer to the window, he leaned his head forward and peered intently at the vague yellow blot that was even then advancing up the slight incline with all the grace of a knick-kneed pachyderm afflicted with a bad case of annoying heat rash.

As the blot slowly gained ground, the masses of yellow separated themselves into a large expanse of some patterned material that obviously was a woman’s morning gown (and sadly lacking in style, if he was any judge), and a smaller mass of wavy golden hair that surrounded the female’s head like some misshapen halo and reached considerably below her shoulders, the desired effect possibly an illusion of informality that fell sadly short, appearing instead as merely unkempt.

But what’s this? Kit asked himself, his attention caught by the curious sideways slant of the female’s skirts and the occasional glimpse of what seemed to be a jumble of dark, heavy-looking objects attached to those same skirts. Fumbling with the latch on the glass door, Kit stepped out onto the terrace and cupped his hands around his eyes as he inspected this oddity in earnest. What he saw caused him to issue a short, pithy curse, bound down the broad stone stairs two at a time, and pelt headlong down the grassy slope only to skid to a halt before the advancing female.