Deb Marlowe - An Improper Aristocrat

Trey bent low over the girl, shielding her

from their gaze with his body.

“Laugh,” he said, his face perilously close to hers.

“What?” Her eyes were wide with alarm.

“Laugh.” He whispered the harsh command. “Like the sort of woman who should be out alone with a man at this time of night.”

Still she did not comprehend. Speechless, she just stared at him, her pupils dark with surprise and, if he was any judge, with sudden want.

So Trey did what he must. What some part of him had burned to do since he’d first laid eyes on her. He pulled her hard against him and seared her with his kiss.

An Improper Aristocrat

Harlequin ®Historical

Author Note

I came to romance as a reader long before I even conceived of being a writer. Broken marriages were common in my experience as I was growing up. Looking back now, I realize how lucky I was to discover romance as a teenager, and to find so many wonderful examples of strong women and the men who value them. Every time I picked up a romance novel I learned a lesson about characters struggling with difficulties in life and fighting their own personal demons. I struggled and fought along with them, and rejoiced as they truly earned their Happily Ever Afters. I think I picked up a few valuable lessons along the way.

An Improper Aristocrat is my second novel for Harlequin Historical. I hope you enjoy riding along with Trey and Chione on their journey to a happy ending.

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To Irene. Her lessons were innumerable and invaluable. She introduced me to the romance genre and she showed me every day in a hundred ways the sort of person I would like to be. She was a true-life heroine in every sense of the word.

Prologue

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

The Valley of the Kings, Egypt

1820

From the shadowed walls of the desert wadi, the Frenchwoman watched. Truly it was him—and from her hidden vantage point he lived up to every whispered tale making its way along the Nile. Her heart quickened.

He sat alone in his tent, scratching out notes by the weak light of his lamp. Narrowing her gaze, she studied him. Ah, yes. The light might be dim, but it illuminated a feast for the discerning female eye: a strong, chiselled profile, impossibly broad shoulders, rugged muscles straining the fine linen of his shirt.

He set down his pen and indulged himself in a lengthy, catlike stretch. Even in so unwary a pose she could sense his power, feel the pull of unwavering confidence and absolute masculinity. Inwardly, she smiled. This assignment, which she had objected to with such vehemence, was going to be no hardship at all.

She crept closer, moving carefully in the mix of rock and sand that littered the valley floor, mentally reviewing all that she knew of this renegade. The Englishman was a legend. He had discovered valuable antiquities in India, Persia and throughout the Orient. In the short time since his arrival in Egypt, he had already made some remarkable finds.

A great man, yes. But here, alone in the cool, dark hours of the desert night, just a man. And one who looked simply weary, and oddly content. Her lips curled wryly. Soon she would fix that.

Her quarry closed his ledger and rose. Stepping lightly, she approached the open tent flap. In one lithe movement she released the catch and stepped inside. Both the canvas and her cloak swirled satisfactorily at her feet.

The Earl of Treyford paused, caught in the act of peeling off his shirt. Fixing his unexpected visitor with an impassive stare, he reached for a name to go with the lovely face. ‘Madame Fornier, is it not?’ he asked, shrugging back into his shirt.

Her smile appeared to be one of genuine pleasure. ‘Indeed. How flattering it is that you remember me, my lord.’

‘I make it a point to know my rivals, madame.’ Deliberately he did not return the smile.

‘Rivals?’ She pursed her lips. ‘An ugly word, and one I’m not at all sure applies to our present situation.’

Trey didn’t reply. The less he said, long experience told him, the quicker she would get to the crux of this late-night visit.

‘My husband—you met him as well at le docteur Valsomaki’s?’

At his nod, she continued. ‘Fornier, he would be happy with your choice of words. Nothing more would he like than to be considered your rival. He tells himself and anyone who will listen that he is Monsieur Drovetti’s foremost agent. But your accomplishments?’ She raised a brow. ‘He belittles them and says you have only been lucky in Egypt.’

She gave a sad shake of her head and reached up to loosen the fastenings of her cloak. ‘Jealousy steals the sting of his words. He has done nothing to equal your feats. I myself saw those figures of Sekhmet you shipped back to England. Very impressive, my lord.’

He inclined his head and watched as the last tie came undone. One lift of her shoulders and the cloak fell away. She stood proudly, her magnificent body skimmed by a shimmering, transparent shift. The effect was infinitely more arousing than even her bare skin would have been.

Trey merely nodded again. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

She advanced until she stood pressed up against him. ‘There are other reasons that my husband envies you.’ Her voice dropped to a husky tone that set his pulse to jumping. ‘All of Egypt talks of your many lovers. They whisper of your ability to take a woman beyond herself and into a world of passion that few ever know.’

Against his chest he could feel the softness of her incredible gown and all the abundance it showed to advantage. Their gazes locked, then with a coy smile she snaked a hand inside his shirt, running her palm up and over the muscles of his chest. Moving slowly, she stepped all the way around him, trailing soft fingers across his arm and the breadth of his back as she went.