Louise Allen - No Place For a Lady

“I do not have one!” Honestly, he was as bad as her brother. “Not that sort of reputation. I am not in Society. I am not in the Marriage Mart. I am in trade, my lord. Besides, what alternative do I have, other than to wait for the next stage back and be jolted for another five sleepless hours? I have, I regret to say, no convenient maiden aunt in Newbury.”

His mouth twitched. She could not tell, in this light, whether he was annoyed that she was arguing with him, or amused by the maiden aunt. “I was going to take a private parlor for you to rest in for a while, and I will hire a chaise to take us back to London.”

“A chaise? A closed carriage? For the two of us? All the way back to London? And just what will that do for my reputation, pray?”

“Ruin it, I imagine,” Max said amiably.

No Place for a Lady

Harlequin ®Historical #892—April 2008

A Most Unconventional Courtship

“Allen combines touches of humor with finely drawn characters in this lively, captivating and very well-written story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Moonlight and Mistletoe

“An adorably romantic read.”

—Rakehell

“Sweet romance…charming tale.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Earl’s Intended Wife

“Well-developed characters…an appealing, sensual and emotionally rich love story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“A sweet romance and an engaging story…the sort of book to get lost in on a lazy afternoon.”

—All About Romance

“If you’ve a yen for an enjoyable Regency-set romance that takes place somewhere other than London, pick up The Earl’s Intended Wife. Louise Allen has a treat in store for you, and a hero and heroine you’ll take to your heart.”

—The Romance Reader

The Earl’s Intended Wife #793

The Society Catch #809

Moonlight and Mistletoe #830

A Most Unconventional Courtship #849

Virgin Slave, Barbarian King #877

No Place for a Lady #892

and also from Harlequin

Hot Desert Nights

“Desert Rake”

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

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Almost 1:00 a.m. on the Bath Road outside Hounslow—September 1814

We are going to crash. The thought went through Max’s brain with almost fatalistic calm. There was not enough room, even if the stage pulled over, even if it were broad daylight—even if he were driving and not his young cousin.

‘Rein in, damn it, it’s too narrow here!’ He had to shout over the wind whipping past them and the thunder of hooves. The stage held the crown of the road, as well it might. At this time of night it was the safest place to be—unless you had a private drag bearing down upon you, driven at full gallop by an over-excited eighteen-year-old racing for a wager.

The coach was lit with side lanterns, as they were, and the moon was high and full, bathing the road and the surrounding heath in silver light, but Max did not need it to judge the road—he knew it like the back of his hand.

‘I can make it!’ Nevill looped the off-lead rein and the team, obedient to the lightest touch, moved out to the right ready to overtake, and they were committed.

Snatching the reins would not help; they were going too fast—the big Hanoverian bays, full of oats and more than a match for any stagecoach team, especially night-run horses, were too powerful to stop in this distance. And somewhere behind them, moving just as fast, was Brice Latymer, out for blood, and behind him, Viscount Lansdowne.

Max raised the yard-long horn to his lips and blew, more in hope than expectation. If they were lucky, if the driver of the stage was alert, strong and experienced, they might get away with a sideways collision and at least the horses would not plough straight into the back of the stage. Unlucky, and there would be a four-coach pile-up and carnage.

And the miracle happened. The stage, scarcely checking its speed, drew tight to the left, the whipping branches of the hedgerow trees lashing the side, forcing the rooftop passengers to throw themselves to the right. It was lurching, its nearside wheels riding the rim of the ditch, but if Nevill could keep his head they might just make it through.

‘Go, damn it!’ he thundered. Nevill dropped his hands and the bays went through the gap like a cavalry charge. The drag tilted to the right, bounced, branches scored down the length of the black lacquer sides and then they were neck and neck with the stage.

Now he had created the space the other driver was slowing, fighting his team to keep the vehicle steady and out of the ditch it was teetering on. Max looked across, wanting to send a silent message of apology, and found himself looking into an oval face, white in the moonlight, the eyes huge, dark and furious, the mouth lush. A woman’s face?

Then they were past. Max shook himself—he was mistaken, or in the confusion of the moment he had seen the face of one of the rooftop passengers, not the driver.

He glanced to the side. Nevill was visibly shaken now the crisis had passed, his hand lax on the reins. ‘Here, take them. I’m going to be sick.’ He thrust the reins towards Max, making the bays jib at the confusing signals.

‘No, you are not—drive! This is your bet, your responsibility, and I just hope to hell the others were far enough back to miss that.’

The Bell was perhaps three minutes ahead. The end of the race. If the stage didn’t come through in five minutes it would be in the ditch and he would have to go back and see what he could do to help.

Who is she? The glimpse of that exquisite face seemed burned into his mind. Just a hallucination caused by fear, excitement, the relief of finding we were through after all? Or a flesh-and-blood woman? His blood stirred. He realised, with shock, that he was aroused. I want her.

‘We’re here,’ Nevill said with a gasp. ‘The Bell.’

Two and a half hours earlier

‘Have you heard a word I said?’

‘Probably not.’ Max Dysart looked up from his contemplation of the firelight reflected in the toes of his highly polished boots and grinned unrepentantly at his young cousin.

Despite the fact that the clocks on the high mantel had just struck half past ten, and the darkness outside was pierced by countless points of flickering light, he and all the men in the noisy, convivial company were dressed in buckskin breeches, riding boots and carelessly open coats. Only the elegance with which they wore their casual dress and the pristine, uncreased whiteness of their Waterfall cravats hinted that these were members of the Nonesuch Club and not denizens of some sporting tavern.

‘What were you thinking about?’ Nevill demanded, folding himself down on to the buttoned-leather top of the high fender and holding out one hand to the fire.