Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “YOU WANT TO KISS ME.”

  Her whispered words brushed by him, setting his pulse thrumming. Damn it, yes, he wanted to kiss her. Needed to…

  Giving in to a craving he couldn’t explain or fight any longer, he leaned forward. He moved closer, until only inches separated them. The scent of lilacs filled his head. “Have you ever been kissed?”

  “Of course. Thousands of times.”

  “I meant by a man.”

  “Oh. In that case… once.”

  Unexpected irritation rippled through him. “Indeed? And did you enjoy it?”

  “Actually, no. It was rather… dry.”

  “Ah. Then you were not properly kissed.”

  “And you wish to kiss me properly?”

  “No.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “I intend to kiss you most improperly.”

  He pulled her closer, until her long, lush body was pressed tightly against him.

  His common sense roused itself and demanded he stop, but he couldn’t. Damn it, he should have been appalled at himself for kissing her…. Instead, he was fascinated, aching, and aroused.

  Summoning his last ounce of self-control, he ended their kiss.

  Her eyes opened slowly. “Oh my.”

  Oh my, indeed. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated this woman unleashing the flood of lust clutching him in a stranglehold….

  PRAISE FOR ’S

  PREVIOUS NOVEL

  RED ROSES MEAN LOVE

  “A romance filled with warmth, charm, and a wonderful

  freshness that is sure to captivate readers.

  Ms. D’Alessandro brings new verve to the genre.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Ms. D’Alessandro has written one of the most

  humorous, heartwarming, loving books that it has been

  my pleasure to read. Every minute spent with this family

  is enjoyable. Well written characters and excellent

  plotting. Thus marks Ms. D’Alessandro’s writing debut.

  Her first outing is a triumph!”

  —Rendezvous

  “What lifts this book above the ordinary is the humor

  flowing throughout the story. Small scenes here and there

  will have readers laughing out loud…. The climax is as

  heart-tugging as any reader could wish. The sexual tension

  sizzles…. Nothing about Red Roses Mean Love suggests

  it’s a first novel. Witty, stylish, and endearing, it’s one of

  the best books I’ve read this year.”

  —The Romance Reader

  “Regency romance fans will simply love Red Roses Mean Love because the jocular story line smoothly blends an

  entertaining mystery within a warm romance…. A

  prediction: In the years to come

  will become a household name for lovers of

  the romance genre.”

  —Harriet Klausner

  Also by

  RED ROSES MEAN LOVE

  WHIRLWIND AFFAIR

  This book is dedicated with love and my heartfelt

  gratitude to Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Anne

  Bushyhead, and Ann Howard White for throwing me a

  lifeline when I was adrift at sea and sinking fast.

  And to my critique partners Donna Fejes, Susan Goggins,

  and Carina Rock for smoothing the rough waters and

  pulling me back onboard every time I was

  ready to jump ship.

  And, as always, to my incredible, wonderful, and

  supportive husband Joe—the Captain of my Heart; and

  my terrific, makes-me-so-proud son Christopher, aka

  Captain Junior.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to acknowledge the following people for their help and support.

  My editor, Maggie Crawford, for her encouragement and guidance.

  Editorial assistant Caroline Sincerbeaux, for her patience and help.

  My agent, Damaris Rowland, for her faith and wisdom.

  My mom and dad, Kay and Jim Johnson, for a lifetime of love and support—and for bragging about me.

  My sister, Kathy Guse, for all the laughs and good times— and for bragging about me.

  My in-laws, Lea and Art D’Alessandro, for the precious gift of their son—and for bragging about me.

  My uncle Bill and aunt Gwen Johnston, and my aunt Eve Johnson, for their cards and letters—and for bragging about me.

  (If you meet any of these “bragging’’ people—prepare yourself!)

  I would also like to thank all the wonderful people at Bantam/Dell, most especially Amy Farley, Kara Cesare, Marietta Anastassatos, and Adrian Wood.

  Thanks also to all the members of Georgia Romance Writers, especially Martha Kirkland, who is my best research resource.

  And a very special thank-you to Wendy Etherington, Jenni Grizzle, Shari Griffin, Deborah Dahlmann, Steve and Michelle Grossman, Jeannie and Ken Pierannunzi, Cherie Imam, Sheryl Brothers, Christine McGinty, and to all my wonderful friends and neighbors for their incredible support.

  Last, thank you to all the readers who have taken the time to write or e-mail me. I love hearing from you and your support means the world to me. Stop by and visit me at www.JacquieD.com

  or say “hi!’’ at

  JacquieD@MCIWorld.com.

  Chapter 1

  England, 1816

  Austin Randolph Jamison, ninth Duke of Bradford, stood in a shadowed alcove and surveyed his guests. Couples swirled on the dance floor, a colorful rainbow of expensively gowned and jeweled women escorted by perfectly turned out gentlemen. Hundreds of beeswax candles twinkled in the overhead chandeliers, casting a warm glow over the festivities. Over two hundred of Society’s elite had gathered in his home, and he had only to reach out his hand to touch any one of a dozen people.

  He’d never felt so alone in his life.

  Emerging from the shadows, he plucked a brandy from a passing footman’s silver tray and raised the snifter to his lips.

  “There you are, Bradford. Been looking for you everywhere.”

  Austin froze, smothering a vicious oath. He wasn’t sure who the speaker was, but it didn’t matter. He knew why whoever stood behind him had been looking for him, and his stomach tightened into a knot. Well, there was no escaping now. Tossing back half his brandy, he braced himself, then turned around.

  Lord Digby stood before him. “I just visited the gallery, Bradford,” Digby said. “The new portrait of William in his military uniform is magnificent. A fitting tribute.” His round face collapsed into a frown and he shook his head. “Deuced tragedy, passing on during his final mission.”

  Austin forced himself to nod politely. “I agree.”

  “Still, it’s an honor to die a war hero.”

  Pressure built in Austin’s chest. War hero. If only that were true. But the letter locked in his desk drawer confirmed his suspicions that it was not.

  A vivid picture of William flashed through his mind— that last gut-wrenching image that nothing could erase. Guilt and regret slammed into him, and his fist tightened around his brandy snifter.

  Air. He desperately needed air to clear his mind. Excusing himself, he headed toward the French windows.

  Caroline caught sight of him and smiled, and he forced himself to smile at his sister in response. As much as he dreaded social functions, he was pleased to see Caroline looking so happy. It had been too long since that gleam of carefree joy had lit her lovely face, and if hosting this damn ball was what was necessary to make her happy, then host it he would. Still, he wished Robert were here instead of traveling on the Continent. His jovial younger brother was m
uch more at ease in the role of host.

  Ignoring the curious gazes cast in his direction, Austin exited the ballroom and made his way to the gardens. Neither the sweet fragrant roses scenting the warm summer air nor the full moon casting a silvery luster over the landscape improved his mood or relaxed the tension clenching his muscles. Couples strolled together, talking quietly, but Austin ignored them, determined to find a few minutes of peace.

  But even as he struck out along a well-manicured path, he knew in his heart that peace was too much to ask for.

  Would anyone guess the truth? No, he decided. Everyone—Caroline, Robert, his mother, the entire bloody country—all believed William died a hero, and it was an illusion Austin would pay any price to maintain. Anything to keep his family and his brother’s memory safe from ruin.

  He soon arrived at his destination, a private area surrounded by tall hedges at the perimeter of the gardens. The unoccupied curved stone bench was the most welcome sight he’d beheld all evening. Sanctuary.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, he sat on the bench and stretched out his legs, ready to enjoy this peaceful haven. He reached into his pocket to extract his gold cigar case, but paused when he heard a rustling in the hedges.

  The bushes parted and a young woman attempted to scramble through them. Panting and muttering under her breath, she tried unsuccessfully to free herself from the branches tearing at her hair and pulling at her gown.

  Austin gritted his teeth and stifled an obscenity. He knew it was pointless to pray for her to go away. His prayers hadn’t been answered very often lately.

  The thrashing and muttering in the bushes continued. No doubt some chit sneaking about to indulge in a clandestine meeting with a lover. Or perhaps she was but yet another senseless female in search of a title and hoping to trap him into marriage. For all he knew, she might have followed him into the garden. Frustration shot through him and he arose to leave.

  “Damnation!”

  The exasperated cry exploded from the young woman’s lips. She tugged impatiently on her gown to free it from the thicket, but it refused to budge. Grabbing her skirt with both hands, she gave a mighty heave. The unmistakable sound of fabric tearing cut the air.

  Suddenly freed from the constraining hold of the bushes, she pitched forward, landing facedown in the damp grass. The air rushed from her lungs in a loud whoosh.

  “Blasted ball gowns,” she mumbled, shaking her head as if to clear her vision. “They’re going to be the absolute death of me.”

  Austin clenched his hands. His first instinct was to escape before she caught sight of him, but as she remained lying there, motionless, he hesitated. Perhaps she was injured. He couldn’t very well leave the foolish baggage here to rot, tempting though the idea was. If Caroline were injured, he’d want someone to help her—not that his sister would ever find herself in such a ridiculous situation.

  Cursing his inability to simply walk away, he asked, “Are you all right?”

  She gasped and jerked her head up. Her gaze locked on his black formal breeches for several seconds, then she lowered her head back onto the grass. “Why, oh why did someone have to see this?”

  “Are you all right?” he repeated, fighting his growing impatience.

  “Yes, of course I am. My health has always been of a most robust nature. Thank you for inquiring.”

  “May I offer you some assistance?”

  “No, thank you. Pride demands I extricate myself from this, my latest in an endless series of embarrassments.” She didn’t move. A heavy pause filled the air.

  “Are you going to get up?”

  “No, I don’t think I shall. But thank you again for asking.”

  Austin clenched his teeth until his jaw ached, and he wondered how much champagne the chit had swallowed. “Are you foxed?”

  She raised her head several inches. “I don’t know. I suppose it is possible. What does foxed mean?”

  Her distinctive accent pierced through his annoyance. Closing his eyes, he barely suppressed a groan. “American?”

  “Oh, for the love of heaven! I swear if one more person asks me that—” She broke off and glared at his knees. “Obviously I’m American. Everyone knows that an Englishwoman would never be caught dead sprawled on the grass in such an undignified fashion. Heaven forbid.”

  “Actually it wasn’t your present position on the lawn, but your accent that gave you away,” Austin said, staring down at the top of her head, surprise mingling with his annoyance. The chit was impertinent as hell. “For those unacquainted with English cant, foxed means to have overindulged in strong spirits.”

  “Overindulged?” she echoed, sounding outraged. Employing a series of unladylike but nonetheless effective movements, she scrambled to her feet. Planting her hands on her hips, she jutted out her chin at an unmistakably belligerent angle. “I have not indulged, over or otherwise, sir. I merely tripped.”

  Any response he may have considered making died on his lips as he took in her appearance.

  She was remarkably attractive.

  And an utter mess.

  Her coiffure, which he surmised had started out as a topknot, now listed precariously to the left. Leaves and twigs clung to the shiny auburn strands and several curls stuck up at odd angles. The entire affair resembled a lopsided bird’s nest.

  A slash of dirt marred her chin, and a blade of grass clung to her lower lip—a very lush lower lip, he noted. His gaze traveled slowly downward, observing that her pastel gown bore an unfortunate mass of wrinkles and grass stains, and was further decorated with clumps of dirt. The ruffled flounce around her hem drooped in the back, clearly the result of the tearing noise. And it appeared she was missing a shoe.

  He wasn’t sure if he was more shocked or amused by her appearance. Who on earth was this disheveled woman, and how had she come to be a guest in his home? Caroline and his mother had made up the guest list for the party, so clearly they knew her. Why didn’t he?

  And as she’d called him “sir,” it appeared she didn’t know him either, a fact that stunned him. It seemed as if every breathing female in England dogged his steps, intent upon gaining his favor.

  But apparently not this woman. She was spearing him with an expression that clearly stated I wish you’d go away, which both irritated him and piqued his interest.

  “Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you were lurking in the bushes, Miss… ?” he asked, still suspicious of her sudden arrival. Were her mother and a posse of outraged chaperones about to leap from the hedges and claim he’d ruined her?

  “Matthews. Elizabeth Matthews.” She performed an awkward curtsy that dislodged several clumps of dirt from her gown. “I wasn’t lurking. I was walking and heard a kitten meowing. The poor little fellow was caught in the bushes. I managed to rescue him, only to find myself entangled in the very same hedge.”

  “Where is your chaperone?”

  Her expression turned sheepish. “I, um, managed to escape while she was dancing.”

  “She isn’t lurking in the bushes?”

  She appeared so amazed by his question, Austin knew she was either alone or the finest actress he’d ever encountered. And he suspected she was a poor actress. Her eyes were too expressive.

  “Do you question if everyone lurks in the bushes? My aunt is a lady and does not lurk.” She squinted at him. “Oh, dear. I really must look a fright. You have a most peculiar expression on your face. As if you just tasted something sour.”

  “You look… fine.”

  She burst out laughing. “You, sir, are either incredibly gallant or extremely shortsighted. Perhaps a bit of both. While I appreciate your effort to spare my feelings, I assure you it’s not necessary. After spending three months on a wind-tossed ship sailing to England, I’m quite accustomed to looking frightful.”

  She leaned toward him, as if she were about to impart a great secret, and her scent assailed his senses. She smelled like lilacs, a fragrance he knew well for the gardens abounded with the purple flowe
rs. “An Englishwoman traveling on board the ship was fond of muttering about ‘Colonial Upstarts.’ Thank goodness she isn’t here to witness this debacle.” Sticking out her foot, she examined her one remaining grass-stained slipper and heaved a sigh. “Good heavens. I am indeed a spectacle. I—”

  A mewling sound cut off her words. Looking down, Austin watched a tiny gray kitten pounce from beneath the hedges and attack the flounce trailing from Miss Matthews’s gown.

  “There you are!” She scooped up the furry bundle and scratched behind its ears. The kitten immediately set up a loud purr. “Did you perhaps see my shoe in your travels, you little devil?” she murmured to the furball. “I believe it’s stuck somewhere in those bushes.” She turned to Austin. “Would you mind terribly taking a look?”

  He stared at her, trying to hide his astonishment. If anyone had told him that his quest for solitude would turn into a rescue mission for a madwoman’s slipper, he would not have believed it. A madwoman who had asked him to fetch her shoe as if he were a lowly footman. He should be outraged. And as soon as this inexplicable urge to laugh left him, he was sure he would be. Crouching down, he peered into the hedge from which Miss Matthews had sprung.

  Spying the missing shoe, he plucked it from the bushes, stood, then handed it to her. “Here you are.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Raising her skirts several inches, she slid her stockinged foot into the slipper. She had lovely, slim ankles and surprisingly small feet for a woman whom he judged stood about five feet seven. Taller than fashion dictated, but a very nice height, he decided. His gaze roamed upward to her face. Her head would nestle perfectly on his shoulder, and he’d have easy access to that incredibly lush mouth—