The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE RAKE’S IRISH LADY

  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

  Epilogue

  THE RAKE’S IRISH LADY

  Scandalous Kisses Book II

  BARBARA MONAJEM

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  THE RAKE’S IRISH LADY

  Copyright©2015

  BARBARA MONAJEM

  Cover Design by Anna Lena-Spies

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

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  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-61935-997-0

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Chapter 1

  Spring, 1804

  A village near the west coast of Lancashire

  “My dear, sweet darling,” said the man Bridget O’Shaughnessy Black had once loved. “You leave me no choice.”

  At last, thought Bridget, daring to hope he finally understood the word no. “That’s correct. You have no choice but to leave.”

  Martin Fallow went down on one knee with a sigh, his gaze on the worn Axminster carpet as if in contemplation or perhaps even prayer. Judging by the last two weeks, it was actually the prelude to more blather.

  A fortnight ago, he had appeared in the Lancashire village she called home, reminded her of their love of years earlier, sworn that he worshipped her still, and asked her to marry him.

  She’d declined politely. She’d thought herself in love with him at sixteen. Later, she’d married Johnny Black, adored him with all her heart, and lost him to an inflammation of the lungs. She now knew about love, and it wasn’t what she’d felt for Martin.

  So, with kindness and a vague sense of regret—for Martin was a distant cousin and an old friend, and she still cared for him—she’d sent him on his way.

  But instead of returning to his estate in Ireland, he’d revealed to the entire village that Bridget had borne a child out of wedlock—and worse, he claimed five-year-old Sylvie was his child. That he’d consoled Bridget following the death of both her husband and father, and that the consolation had got out of hand. Now his wife was dead, and he’d come to make an honest woman of her.

  By telling a lie and turning everyone against her.

  “Get up, Martin,” she said now. “I refuse to listen to any more of your nonsense.” In her more furious moments, Bridget wanted to kill him. Mostly, though, she just wanted him to go away so she could start her life over again. Now that her reputation was ruined, she had to leave Lancashire for both her own sake and Sylvie’s future.

  Martin raised his eyes and grabbed her hand, and when she tried to tug it away, he didn’t let go. “Think of your dear father,” he cajoled. “Our union was his greatest wish. He wrote during the final days of his illness, asking me to take care of you.”

  This was most likely true. On his deathbed, her father had waited desperately for a response to a letter he’d sent Martin. “Perhaps, but you never answered it.”

  “Darling Bridget.” As he’d done several times over the past fortnight, Martin protested that his reply must have been lost in the post. “Your father suspected your pregnancy. He feared the consequences. He pleaded with me to protect you.”

  This was possible. She’d conceived about three months after Johnny’s death; if she’d stayed in Lancashire to give birth, everyone would have known she’d bedded another man. Her father, in spite of his illness, might have noticed her queasiness, remembered the night she’d stayed elsewhere, and drawn that conclusion. Martin could have helped her take refuge with relatives in Ireland.

  “He trusted me to ensure your safety and comfort, but it was always his wish that we marry.”

  Unfortunately, this also was true, but Martin’s parents had instead chosen for him an Irish lady with a large estate, who had died several months ago.

  “Now that I am free, there is no impediment.” He pressed a fervent kiss on her palm.

  She wrenched her hand away. “Except the fact that I don’t love you.”

  “You will learn to love me again,” he said with a passion that didn’t quite ring true. His attempts to take her in his arms and kiss her hadn’t convinced her, either. “Deep in your heart, love never goes away.”

  True, but infatuation dwindles to nothing but a memory—as she now knew.

  “Doesn’t little Sylvie deserve a father?” he asked mournfully. Again, Bridget didn’t quite believe that he cared…and yet she didn’t exactly disbelieve him. “Sylvie loves me,” he added.

  Yes, sweets were as much an inducement at five years of age as kisses at sixteen, but that had nothing to do with love.

  Why must he go over this again and again? Regardless of his reasons, she wasn’t going to change her mind. Surely he had realized that by now. She was beginning to wonder if he’d gone the slightest bit mad.

  And yet, he’d always been a passionate sort of man—passionate about principles, about loyalty, about Ireland, just like her father. She couldn’t help but appreciate that. Perhaps he truly believed marrying her was his sacred duty. Perhaps he even believed he loved her.

  “Darling Bridget, I know what’s best for you. You don’t wish to remain an outcast.”

  She hadn’t been an outcast until Martin appeared. She stood, shaking off what little doubt and confusion remained. “Go away, Martin, and don’t come back.”

  He rose as well, sighing again. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

  “Come to what?” she huffed. “When will you stop blathering and just leave?”

  He assumed a stern expression. “Bridget, you leave me no choice. I cannot allow my daughter to be brought up by an abandoned woman.”

  “What?” Her heartbeat sped up. “Sylvie is not your daughter, and you know it!”

  “But everyone believes she is, and that is all that matters. Your father would have agreed with me, that she cannot be raised in a household of l
ax moral values.”

  She gaped at him, fury rising in her gorge.

  “I wish I needn’t resort to this, but…” For an instant she thought she glimpsed regret in his answering gaze. “If you refuse to marry me, I shall have no choice but to take Sylvie away from you.”

  Her heart pounded furiously. Mother Mary and all the saints, what was she going to do?

  “I want what’s best for her—what your father would have wanted, too.”

  She muttered an Irish curse and watched him flinch. Bridget was only half Irish and had spent most of her life in England, but she would never, ever give in. Her blood wouldn’t allow it.

  Unfortunately, he was stubborn Irish as well. The regret in his eyes was gone, replaced by implacable determination. “I don’t want to harm you, darling. I want you to be happy.”

  “Happy on your terms,” she retorted.

  He nodded, saying heavily, “Yes, on my terms indeed, for there is truly no choice. I will remove Sylvie if I must.”

  It was bitterly unjust and cruel. If he chose to take Sylvie away from her, citing moral reasons, no one would lift a finger to stop him.

  Somehow she would keep Sylvie out of Martin’s clutches. She would flee with her daughter to the ends of the earth if she had to. She dreaded such a course of action, but . . .

  A better idea, the perfect solution, descended upon her like a benediction. She turned away, hoping Martin hadn’t seen the dawning of hope in her eyes.

  “You have until tomorrow at noon to make up your mind,” he said.

  She faced him again, head high. “Very well, tomorrow you shall have my answer. Now get out of my house.”

  London, a few weeks later

  Bridget crept past the mews in the murky London darkness and into the tiny garden. She’d planned it all ahead of time, so she knew exactly where to go. She knotted her skirts front and back, climbed onto the rain barrel, shinned up the drainpipe, and pulled herself onto the roof of the bump-out behind Colin Warren’s lodging house.

  The bump-out housed the landlady; conveniently for Bridget, Colin occupied rooms on the first floor at the back. His windows could be accessed from its roof.

  It wouldn’t have come to this if Colin Warren wasn’t a lazy, good-for-nothing rake.

  Well, perhaps not good-for-nothing at all. He’d been incredibly exciting in bed years ago. What a pity that one wild night was the cause of so much trouble now.

  She crept slowly across the roof, keeping low. There were two windows; when she reached the one behind which a light showed, she raised herself slowly until her eyes cleared the sill. She peered through a gap in the curtains.

  There he was, the good-looking devil, slouched on the sofa, running his hands through his thick, wavy, annoyingly gorgeous hair. The fireplace glowed with fading coals; a wine bottle and a chipped cup sat on the table beside a pile of newspapers.

  The very papers in which she’d advertised! She would gladly strangle him if she didn’t need his help. She sneaked to the next window, which she knew from the previous evening’s reconnaissance was Colin’s bedchamber. He slept with it open, impervious to the smoke and grime. She would never understand why anyone chose to live in this filthy city. Colin had a perfectly good estate in Lancashire a few hours’ ride from her own house, in the brisk, clean countryside.

  Gently, she pushed on the window sash. She eased it up, four, eight, twelve, sixteen inches. Listened—no sound from within. She glanced about—no one. Now or never.

  She rose, shoved the window up hard, and climbed through, one leg, then her body, then the other leg. The bunched-up skirts of her gown caught on the sill, ripping as she yanked it through. She lost her balance and tumbled to the floor.

  “What the bloody hell?”

  Ah, well. She’d hoped for a more dignified meeting, but this would have to do. She stood and began calmly untying her skirts. Calmly in appearance, at least; her heart thudded chaotically and her fingers fumbled with the knots.

  Colin Warren appeared in the doorway of his bedchamber, a branch of candles in one hand.

  Her breath caught, just as it had the first time she’d seen him, several years ago. What was it about him? Certainly, he was a handsome fellow. He had enough charm for ten men and knew his way around the bedchamber. But otherwise he was useless. She shouldn’t be so profoundly affected by him. He stared, bemused and not particularly disturbed, as she got the knots undone and her skirts fell to her ankles where they belonged.

  “You’ve got lovely legs, darling,” he drawled, “and it’s kind of you to offer, but I’m not going to take you up on it.”

  Conceited ass, thought Bridget, although he doubtless had reason. She smoothed her gown. “I’m not making that sort of offer, Mr. Warren.”

  “No?” he said, his eyes going from her to the open window. “Why else would you climb into my bedchamber?”

  “Because I have tried every other way I could think of to talk to you, to no avail. My name is Bridget O’Shaughnessy Black.”

  “And . . .?”

  “I wrote to you a few weeks ago.” All that got her was a blank stare. “At your estate in Lancashire as well as here.” No response. “About my daughter.”

  Finally, a dawning of comprehension. “Ah, yes. You’re claiming I fathered your child.” He cast his eyes heavenward. “I burned your letters. I’m too old to be caught by such a trick.”

  “I don’t want your money, Mr. Warren. I said so in my letter.”

  “Come now, darling. Every trollop wants money.”

  “I am not a trollop,” she said, “and I am willing to recompense you for your trouble, as you would know if you had paid heed to my advertisements in The Times.”

  He propped himself against the doorjamb, making the candles flicker. “Which advertisements?”

  He’d read the letters but not the newspapers? “In the agony column, to C.W. from Medusa. You can’t possibly have missed them.”

  For a long moment he said nothing. His eyes narrowed. At last a half smile curled his lips. “Oh. So that’s who you are.”

  At least he remembered her. Being ignored was bad enough, but she’d felt almost ashamed that that one experience had meant so much to her and so little to him.

  He flipped a stray lock—he needed a haircut—off his brow. His hair was what had attracted her to him in the first place, all those years ago—a rich, dense brown, unlike her unmanageable, whisper-fine black. And then he’d smiled.

  Dimples. What idiot fell for a man because of his dimples? Especially when that smile was for some other woman, and not a respectable one at that. But she’d done it, then and there.

  And plotted to get into his bed for just one night. She’d been a widow for months, and she’d missed being bedded. She still missed it, but couldn’t afford any more stupid risks.

  “And you’re not here to do it again?” His dimples peeked out. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “I’m here to talk.” She whirled and shut the window, banging it down hard.

  “You can’t stay here,” he said. “Women aren’t allowed. If my landlady learns of this, she will toss me out, which would be a dashed nuisance.”

  “I shall be happy to leave once we’ve had our discussion,” Bridget said.

  He pushed away from the doorjamb and shrugged, a fluid, elegant, utterly indifferent motion. “You’re wasting your time, but if that’s what it’ll take to get rid of you, come in and have your say—but keep your voice down. My man’s asleep in the next room, and the walls to the next lodging aren’t as thick as one might like.”

  He led her into the parlor, swept a coat and hat off the sofa, and motioned her to sit. He raised a half-empty decanter. “Wine?”

  “Yes, thank you.” There they were, two pages of The Times from last wee
k, containing the columns where she’d advertised. Yesterday’s paper hadn’t been opened yet. Maybe he hadn’t seen that one. She hoped not; she’d stooped, appallingly, to offering him another wild night. She’d come to the point of risking almost anything to foil Martin Fallow.

  She glared at the papers. “If you read the advertisements but didn’t intend to reply, why did you keep them?”

  He took a glass from a cabinet, dusted it with his shirtsleeve, and poured her some wine. And grinned.

  Those dimples—Mother Mary and all the saints, they made her ache. “My man collects them,” he said.

  “You mean—many women advertise?”

  He smirked. “Oh, yes.”

  She wrinkled her nose and took the glass of wine, her mind’s eye conjuring a vision of herself among crowds of women bowing down to this God of Dimples.

  “Although they usually ask me to tryst with them in rather more select locations than a tavern in Grub Street.” He sat at the other end of the sofa, shoved the newspapers onto the floor, and propped his stocking feet in their place. “All right then, love. If you’re not here to have your wicked way with me, and you don’t want money, what do you want?”

  The last time Colin had seen her, she’d worn a mask, as well as a bizarre costume composed of layers of filmy gauze over her lush curves and a headdress that reminded him of a nest of snakes.

  She might be the same woman. She had the curves and the intense blue eyes and black hair, and her lips were as kissable. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t going to bed her. He yawned.

  “As I told you in the letter, I want you to acknowledge publicly that you’re the father of my daughter,” she said.

  “Why the devil would I do that? I don’t know whether she really is my daughter, or if you’re even the same woman as, what, three or four years ago?”