Patricia Rowell - A Scandalous Situation

“Don’t ever let me hear you say that again!”

At the thunder in his voice, Iantha jumped and stepped hastily back. His lordship did not move, but his voice softened. “Forgive me. I did not mean to shout. But I am serious, Iantha. Do not allow them the victory of seeing yourself that way. Do not allow anyone to do that to you.”

Iantha stared down at her shoes. He was right, of course. “I try not to, but it is very hard.”

“I’m sure it is.” She sensed him reaching for her, then dropping his hand to his side. She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that he hadn’t touched her. Perhaps he didn’t want to. She lifted her gaze to his. The expression in his eyes surprised her.

There was a wanting in them.

Could he possibly really want her?

A Dangerous Seduction

“Rowell creates a wonderful Gothic atmosphere,

using beautiful Cornwall and its history of smuggling

and shipwrecks to enhance her story.”

—Romantic Times

A Perilous Attraction

“…promising Regency-era debut

…a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing

the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning

likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”

—Romantic Times

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for my talented sons—

Andrew Nathaniel, James Houghton and

John Adam Annand. We grew up together, didn’t we, guys?

And for grandchildren Amber Niccole

(because I spelled her name wrong the last time) and

Aidan Thomas (because we didn’t have him the last time).

And for Johnny—always my hero.

My thanks to Paul D. Ware, M.D., and Jean Cason, MSW,

who taught me how people recover from trauma,

and many other important life lessons.

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

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Just North of London, 1801

I must be dying.

She could no longer feel the pain.

Then again, perhaps the agony had simply increased to the point of numbness as she lay on the frozen ground, drifting in and out of the blackness.

Death would be better.

They were still there. She heard them moving about.

And she smelled them. A strange smoke. The odor of nervous and excited men.

She fought to control a shudder.

She must not move, not even breathe.

Perhaps they would believe she was dead. Oh, God, please let them believe that! Let it be so. Then surely they would not do it again.

Against the background of her closed eyes distorted images swirled. Heads swathed in crimson masks. Eyes glittering through the eyeholes. Hot breath pouring through the mouth openings. Gleaming blades.

Pain. Pain everywhere.

Mask after mask after mask.

The blackness sought her. She reached for it, welcoming it. Suddenly a loud, braying laugh, the sound of a hand striking flesh and an angry, hissed whisper snatched it away.

“Quiet, fool!”

She held her breath. The creak of leather. Horses galloping away. Empty silence.

The smell of blood. The cold.

And blackness.

Cumberland, England, 1807

C areful not to move, he sat astride his bay stallion with his hands in the air and concentrated on the pistol pointed at his heart. A pistol held in the steady, gloved hands of a lady. Not a large lady, true. Dainty, rather, and delicate. But a lady wearing a very determined expression.

He could probably disarm her. Probably. A sudden charge. A quick grab. It would work. Probably. Of course, he always stood the chance of getting either himself or his horse shot. Robert Armstrong was not a man who liked probably. Not with a pistol leveled at his chest. No, for the moment discretion definitely appeared to be the better part of valor. He did his best to sound soothing.

“Ma’am, I assure you I mean you no harm. If you do not allow me to get down and help you free your horse, the next mass of snow that slides down that mountain will bury not only your gig, but you and the horse as well.”

As if to punctuate his words, a small cascade of frozen chunks tumbled down the hill and landed at the feet of the very determined pistol-pointing lady. She flung a quick glance upward, then steadied the pistol. “I fear you are correct. Your assistance would be most welcome. You may dismount.”

Rob raised one sardonic eyebrow. “Much obliged to you.”

Feeling not at all welcome, he swung himself down from his mount and waded through the deep snow to the overturned conveyance. The woman stepped away cautiously, keeping the pistol trained on his back. A spot between his shoulder blades began to itch. He shrugged uneasily. Surely she wouldn’t shoot him in the back while he was extricating her from her predicament.

Would she?

Murmuring softly to the frantic cob, still harnessed to the gig trying desperately to keep his feet, Rob took hold of its bridle and surveyed the situation. The small snowslide had knocked the carriage into the drifts on the far side of the road, turning it half on its side and all but engulfing it. The very determined lady could count herself fortunate indeed to have been thrown clear. The far shaft had broken free of the body of the gig, and the off-balance horse had stepped over it with a hind leg, thus jamming itself firmly between the splintered stub and the near shaft.

“Got yourself into the very devil of a scrape, haven’t you, old fellow? We’d best get you out before you’re much older, or I’m likely to find myself in the same case.”

Rob studied the hillside above him with narrowed eyes. Not very high, but very steep and almost devoid of vegetation, the escarpment was crowned by a long, sheer rock precipice. The surprisingly mild day had softened the snow, causing the slide, but soon it would freeze solid once more. He could feel the temperature dropping. The rising wind blew sparkling flurries from the crest against a mounting backdrop of blue-gray clouds. Another storm. Matters were going from bad to worse.

At any moment the wind might trigger another small avalanche. Rob pulled the knife out of the top of his boot. At a sharp hiss of indrawn breath behind him, he looked over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” The lady’s already pale face had gone deathly white. The previously steady hands that held the pistol now trembled. Not a good sign.

Rob straightened and frowned. “Ma’am, please. Lower your weapon. I have no wish to end this misadventure with a bullet lodged in me. I must cut the straps loose from the shafts, and I have no time to waste dealing with frozen buckles.”

“I…” She took a deep breath and stilled her shaking. The pistol wavered, finally pointed at the ground. “Yes, of course. Please proceed.”

Rolling his eyes skyward, Rob went back to his task. What ailed the woman? Fear was writ in every tense line of her slender body, her clenched hands, her taut face. Surely he had done nothing to inspire it? Except… Yes, he had drawn his knife. Until that moment she had been merely wary, but now she looked terrified. Why?