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  Indigo Moon

  Dark Lords and Dangerous Ladies

  Patricia Rice

  Indigo Moon

  Patricia Rice

  Copyright © 1988, 2017 Patricia Rice

  First Publication: New American Library 1988

  Book View Cafe, 2017

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Rice Enterprises, Dana Point, CA

  Cover design: Kim Killion

  Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

  P.O. Box 1624, Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624

  http://bookviewcafe.com

  ISBN 978-1-61138-713-1

  Contents

  FREE Exclusive Novella

  Author’s Note

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  FREE Exclusive Novella

  About the Author

  Also By Patricia Rice

  Crossed in Love

  Excerpt - Crossed in Love

  About Book View Café

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  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers:

  I sold my first book in 1982, back in the days when all I had was an old Bic pen and a college-ruled notebook to scribble in while the kids played in the yard. I had to buy a used Underwood typewriter with a stuck S key to type up my proposals because we didn’t have money for anything more. Needless to say, those first books were typed once and not again. The editor would go through with red pencil, I’d make copies of the page, type up a new one, and clip them together. After I was making enough money to afford it, I graduated to cutting and pasting new sentences onto old pages and making a clean Xerox copy. Since books were cheap to print and readers loved big thick books, we didn’t do a lot of cutting or editing.

  It wasn’t until the 1990s that I had enough money to indulge in a new computer—one where I saved each chapter to a huge floppy disk.

  Most of the books I’ve labeled as the Dark Lords and Ladies series were written in my typewriter days. They have been edited of excess verbiage and perennial head-hopping. At the time, the author omniscient voice was popular and justified watching scenes through the heads of servants and doting family. I’m afraid the multiple head spinning would drive the modern reader into gales of laughter or angry book heaving. But I have left enough in to understand the voice in which it was written. To do otherwise would deprive the book of the lovely flavors I instilled at the time of writing. The story and the characters remain unchanged. We were fond of old-fashioned melodrama back then, and I’d be fascinated to know if you enjoy the Perils of Pauline style.

  I hope you’ll sink in and stay there and enjoy a good rousing tale of love lost and won again.

  Thank you so much for reading!

  BOOK ONE

  * * *

  . . .he that filches from me my good name

  Robs me of that which not enriches him,

  And makes me poor indeed.

  —Shakespeare, Othello

  Chapter 1

  “Since when does Holland House give entrance to wife-beaters?” the doddering viscount sniffed with disdain to an equally aged companion, whose head nodded in continual agreement.

  The subject of this attack strode past, head turning neither to the left nor to the right as he entered the throng in the reception room.

  “A scandal to do with his wife,” a voice whispered behind him.

  “. . .mysterious, but isn’t he dashing, Mona? Just look how dark he is, like some Corsair.”

  “Bessie, come away from there. What would Mr. Evans think if he heard you were taking after the likes of that one?”

  “But he’s a hero, mama, decorated in Corunna, they say. . .”

  “. . .rutting bounder, I say. All those medals represent is a propensity for violence, if you ask my opinion.”

  Austin Atwood, Earl of Heathmont, grimaced to himself but continued to ignore the whispers that followed him like a rustling breeze through the anteroom of Holland House. He had only one purpose here, and once it was served, he would remove himself from the hostile society he had avoided these past years.

  Though he walked with a pronounced limp, he held his shoulders proudly. His striking visage, though not handsome in the conventional mold, continued to draw stares as he waded through a tide of pastel debutantes, doting mamas, and bored gentlemen. Though born to this aristocratic society, he moved with a determined stride unfitting for this indolent crowd.

  Gaining the portals of the ballroom, the earl paused just within the archway. Crystal chandeliers glittered over an array of jewels and silk gowns, interspersed with the more sedate attire of gentlemen in black silk breeches and long-tailed frock coats. But even the gentlemen sported diamond stickpins and gold watch fobs and their black silk and polished leather gleamed subtly in the brilliant candlelight. This impressive array of wealth could scarcely be ignored so easily as the whispers behind him, particularly for one so sorely lacking in funds as he.

  Taking the time to orient himself before diving into the unknown, Heathmont glanced about, noting that friends and acquaintances from earlier days were few and far between. Most of them had outgrown the marriage mart and moved on to other, more sophisticated circles. The debutantes and their escorts here tonight were of a younger generation, and his only familiarity with them was through the identity of their watchful parents whose older daughters he had once escorted about this same room. If it were not for the political maneuverings conducted in the back rooms, he would never have entered this rarefied circle again.

  His bored glance fell upon a golden statue nearly hidden by a potted palm at his elbow. Ignoring the statue’s rather large companion in frilly pink, he allowed himself to be distracted. Blondes seldom interested him, but the still grace and unusual coloring of this particular piece of art gained his passing admiration. In this hothouse of gardenia petal complexions, the golden and rose hues of the young lovely’s cheeks glowed like dawn after a moonless night.

  Stepping back and lounging against the wall for a better view of this exotic creature, the earl noted with disappointment the girl’s extreme youth. It seemed a pity to waste all that extravagant loveliness on an empty-headed child, but it didn’t prevent his admiring the vision.

  Gowned in shimmering gossamer that must have cost its weight in spun gold, the girl seemed od
dly oblivious to the crowd of people jockeying for position around her. Flaxen curls had been neatly coiffed on top of her head and dangled fashionably about her oval face, and she carried the requisite fan to flirt and flutter, but she the provocative appurtenance hung lifelessly from her wrist. Instead, she seemed to be gazing with nearsighted intensity into the crowd of dancers.

  A familiar voice hailing him diverted the earl’s attention.

  “Heathmont! There you are. I’d about given up on you, though I’d scarcely blame you for avoiding this squeeze.” A slender man of about the earl’s own age pushed absently at the bridge of his nose, as if adjusting nonexistent spectacles.

  “If you want something, you have to work for it, Averill,” the earl replied, focusing his attention on this one friend who had not deserted him. “Have you found out anything yet?”

  The elder son of a younger son of a duke, Averill Beresford—commonly known as Emery for obscure reasons—held no lands of his own, but his position in society was secure and unquestioned. Enormously liked by all his acquaintances, he never had reason to question the company he kept on his own account, but his anxiety for his sardonic friend showed in his expression.

  “It’s the times, Heath.” Averill shrugged apologetically. “The duke is in the briars over this Regency business, being a Tory and all and not knowing when or if Prinny will change his mind about the cabinet. He has to be everywhere at once. My father will reach him sooner or later.”

  The earl frowned at this news and his attention drifted. Clad in a tailored coat of black suiting that had been purchased in his younger days, his shoulders shifted restlessly within its confines. Though he had lost a stone or so since those grain-fed days of his youth, he had gained an athletic strength that did not fit well in court dress.

  With the knowledge that the duke and his cronies would not attend this reception, the earl lost interest in the evening. Feeling the black mood coming upon him again, he slowed its arrival by returning his gaze to the golden child nearby.

  To his surprise, the girl’s charming features suddenly lit with a candle glow of expectation that captivated him. With an unexpected twinge of envy, Heathmont searched for the lucky man who merited such a smile.

  A young gentleman arrived in the entry with a self-important tread, his slender frame impeccably tailored, his immaculate lawn cravat expertly tied, and his quizzing glass discreetly hung on a silver chain. This young dandy would have only been a greenling when Heathmont last attempted London society, and his name escaped him. Still, the youth gave the appearance of a respectable young lord and the ideal candidate for a marriage-minded young miss.

  Bored with the commonplaceness of this tableau, the earl gave the girl one last glance, only to be caught by the sight of two tears sparkling in wide jade eyes. Long lashes quickly swept toward delicate cheekbones, but not in time to hide the telltale trace of a teardrop.

  Frowning, the earl sought the young lordling again, only to discover the cad bowing before the plump miss in pink and deliberately ignoring the golden girl at her side. Heath had been subject to enough cruel cuts himself to not recognize one when he saw it, and his long-buried anger asserted itself.

  With haughty aloofness he elbowed aside the simpering miss and her young lord, and with a gallant bow he smiled his pleasure at the young girl in gold.

  “My dance, at last, I believe?” he murmured with masculine warmth.

  Startled, Aubree looked upward into the deepest pair of blue eyes she had ever seen. They dominated a weathered face of arrogant sophistication and crinkled at the corners in lines of humor. With relief at this opportune intrusion, she rashly gave the stranger her gloved hand and bestowed a brilliant smile upon him.

  “I thought you would never arrive,” she announced with false gaiety, ignoring the stares from those who listened to their every word.

  He led her toward the dance floor but cursed under his breath as the musicians struck up a waltz. With a grim set to his lips, he circled her waist and began the tortuous steps.

  Sunk in her own thoughts, Aubree didn’t question her partner’s curses and thought little of the jerking gait that guided her around the room. The pain welling up inside her overwhelmed all else, and she struggled to overcome tears.

  “Smile,” her partner commanded between clenched teeth. “You’ll fool no one with that long face.”

  In the habit of dancing mindlessly, exchanging only meaningless pleasantries with young men whose features all blurred together, Aubree had dismissed her partner, as was her habit. Startled by his command, she woke up to the reality of this stranger who held her more tightly than was proper.

  “No man is worth tears,” he said tersely.

  “We were to be married,” she replied. Now that he had drawn her from her misery, Aubree studied her partner.

  He was nearly twice her age and obviously out of place among this crush of the Season’s most eligible candidates, unless he were some miss’s older brother. She frowned as she turned her considerable concentration on determining his identity.

  “You will have ugly lines upon your brow if you continue frowning in that manner. What do you mean, ‘were to be married’? Surely no man in his right mind breaks off an engagement with the Season’s loveliest maiden?”

  Aubree ignored his flattery, returning her mind to the subject at hand, the one cutting her insides to ribbons. “My father would not even speak with him. There was an exchange of letters, I believe, but Geoffrey has not spoken to me since. I had hoped. . .”

  “That the callow brute would go against your father’s wishes? You are naive, my dear.”

  She threw him an aggravated glance, but his mocking gaze did not swerve.

  “My father promised! He said I might have my choice, so long as I made it before my next birthday. I chose Geoffrey, and my father will not even consider him. He has broken his word!”

  Amused by this revelation and the complacency with which the chit accepted the fact that she could have any man of her choosing, Heath drew her out further. It relieved the boredom and he certainly could not complain of the company. She moved like a feather within his arms, almost making the torment of this dance bearable.

  “Then, if you love him, you must fight for him. He is being polite and obeying your father’s wishes. Make him realize the man you choose must be able to stand up against your father,” he stated lazily, humoring her.

  A sparkle of light lit her green eyes. “Do you think I might? How?” she demanded.

  Heath shrugged. “A gentleman’s pride is his weakest point. He cannot tolerate being ignored, nor jilted for another. You cannot capture his attention more effectively than to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

  A hint of mischief gleamed. “You speak from experience, sir?” she asked.

  With a sense of foreboding gained by many years of living on the thin edge of trouble, Heath studied her merry eyes. “Mountains,” he advised.

  She peeped up at him through lowered lashes. “Would you, by some chance, know a gentleman willing to help me convince Geoffrey he has been forgotten?”

  Black humor turned Heath’s lips up at one corner at this not so subtle question. He knew the gossip mill better than anyone, knew how clacking tongues could destroy lives and reputations, overthrow monarchies, and make heroes of villains. In a time when few could—or would—read, gossip took the place of news. But to use gossip to attain a goal rather than destroy one had a radically different twist to it that appealed to his satiric mood. To turn his scandalous reputation to good use would be an edifying experience, but a rather dangerous game to play, even if it would idle away the tedious hours of cooling his heels at the back doors of the powerful. He shook his head.

  “Do not look at me, my lady. Just my presence would be sufficient to ruin your reputation. We both will have a difficult time of it as it is explaining away this dance.”

  Wide eyes stared with open curiosity. “Are you so terrible a person as that?”

  A sard
onic curve tilted his lips. “In the minds of men, yes.”

  The shadow of wariness disappeared, replaced by decisiveness. “So long as you are no danger to me, I don’t give a fig for my reputation. Will you help me?”

  The earl frowned. “Your reputation is everything. Without it, you are alone in the world.”

  “Again, spoken from experience?” she replied. “But then, without Geoffrey, I shall truly be alone in the world. My father will disown me when I refuse to marry one of his hatchet-faced politicians.”

  Heath fought to keep from laughing out loud at this description of the gentlemen he had been pursuing. It might be enlightening to know this chit better. Just to look upon her would certainly relieve his black humor.

  “I will take great care to treat you with the utmost circumspection so no questions can be raised against you, but just the whisper of my name should flush out your young dandy if he has your interest at heart.”

  A hint of speculation danced in long-lashed eyes. “Might I ask what you have done to gain this reputation?”

  “You may not,” Heath replied sternly. “Suffice it to say that we shall have great difficulty finding anyone to properly introduce us. If we are to make your beau anxious, we will have to meet in public places.”