Jane Lark - The Secret Love of a Gentleman

JANE LARK

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Harper Impulse an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper Impulse 2015

Copyright © Jane Lark 2015

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover design by Zoe Jackson

Jane Lark asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780008135362

Version 2015-09-11

'Jane Lark has an incredible talent to draw the reader in from the first page onwards'

Cosmochicklitan

'Jane Lark writes soulful romance'

Big Little Sister Blog

'Every single book in this series is wonderful'

Literati Literature Lovers

'The book swings from truly swoon-worthy, tense and heart wrenching, highly erotic and everything else in between'

BestChickLit.com

'Beautifully descriptive, emotional and can I say, just plain delicious reading?'

Devastating Reads BlogSpot

'Any description that I give you would not only spoil the story but could not give this book a tenth of the justice that it deserves. Wonderful!'

Candy Coated Book Blog

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Jane Lark

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Epilogue

Author Note

Also by Jane Lark …

Jane Lark

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Life is cruel .

A piercing pain struck Caroline’s jaw as the sharp edge of Albert’s signet ring cut her skin. Her head snapped back and her gaze left the blue of her husband’s eyes. He was a villain, this man she loved.

Her hand lifted to protect her face from another blow while she grasped the back of a chair to stop herself from falling. “Please. No. I did nothing wrong.”

“Nothing…” He growled at her through teeth gritted in bitter anger.

His hand lifted again.

She covered her face with both hands, to avoid the next strike. It hit her across the side of her head, a hard slap. Tears flooded her eyes as she fell.

“What have I done?” Caro cried, her hands gripping her head and her body curling on the wooden floor into a position that sought to protect, and yet it was childlike. She longed for comfort, for kindness

“Lived, while my son died!” The accusation rang about her bedchamber. A curse. She was cursed. She could not carry a child, could not give him the heir he needed. He leaned over her, every muscle in his body taut with accusation.

She loved him, regardless.

He hated her.

“Your doctor spoke to me today. He believes you may never bear a child. He believes your womb is damaged.”

Caro swallowed back the tears catching in her throat. She knew. She had been told. Yet did it justify such brutality and bitter hatred? He hates me, and I have always loved him…

There was nothing to say in her defence. She had lost another child, his child, and she might never be able to carry an infant full-term. Tears flooded her eyes. How many times? How many children? How long could she endure this?

“I need a son! Give me a son, Caro! That is all I ask . You are capable of conceiving, you must be capable of giving birth!”

She lifted a hand so she could look at him. His gaze softened.

His eyes were like azure stones, an entrancing blue. Even in his vicious moods, when he was cold and callous, she still saw the man she’d married, the man who’d given her months of happiness and hope.

But each time he behaved like this, a little more of her hope died.

He turned away and walked across the room.

How could she love and hate the same man? How could she love a man who terrified her?

She struggled to her feet. “I am trying to give you a son.” Yet she no longer believed she could. She had lost five children.

He stopped and turned, his eyes expressing pain, pity and disappointment.

Long ago, once upon a time, Caro had believed him in love and her marriage a happy-ever-after, like a fairytale. There had been gifts and balls, and their gazes holding across rooms, and gentle touches on her waist and her back as they walked together, which said, silently, I love you . But it was damned—doomed.

“Trying is not enough. I need a son. You will do your duty.” He turned again and walked away.

She stared at the door when it shut behind him.

Before their marriage, and after it, throughout the first year, Albert had seemed love-struck. He’d begged the Marquis of Framlington for her hand, and the marriage had been arranged swiftly so he could be rid of his wife’s illegitimate daughter.

Albert had been attentive, walking and standing close to her wherever they went, and devouring her body at night, but it had not been love, it had been obsession, and when she’d become pregnant and sickly, his interest had waned. He’d found a mistress and ceased to come to her bed. It had broken her heart. Especially when he continued to touch her and look at her as though love hung between them in the day and at balls. Then she’d lost the child.

That was when the beatings and the hatred had begun. He would not forgive her for the loss of their first child and now when she was with child he was so used to beating her he would not even think of her condition.

Yet the old Albert still shone through: the handsome, powerful man who’d entranced her in the beginning. Every night she had an unbearable reminder of how things should be between them, of how they had been. Even when he was angry with her, when he came to her bed he still joined with her as though he cared. That sense of being loved was still there—when in her childhood she had known so little love. She’d clung to the moments of intimacy and affection for years.