Beauty and the Baron. Deborah HaleЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      For Tracy Farrell, who has given me the most wonderful editorial support from the moment I joined Harlequin Mills & Boon^® Historicals. If I’m able to live up to her faith in me I know I’ll last long and go far in this business.

      And in memory of my adored grandfather, John MacDonald, who remains cherished in my heart and still speaks to me when I listen for his voice.

       Chapter One

       Northamptonshire, England, 1818

      “Who shut the curtains on such a lovely day?” Angela Lacewood darted into the drawing room at Netherstowe, her bonnet pulled back off her head and a pair of thick gloves in one hand. “It’s like a tomb in here!”

      She’d been working out in the garden, basking in the lavish sunshine of late May when the butler had summoned her to receive an unexpected visitor. Why anyone would be paying a call at Netherstowe when the family was traveling abroad, Angela could not guess. Nor did she much care, to be truthful.

      She would deal with them as quickly as possible, then reclaim her privacy.

      As she crossed the darkened room to open the curtains, her eyes not yet accustomed to the dimness of indoors, a deep masculine voice reached out of the shadows, like a foot to trip her up.

      “Leave the curtains be! I shut them and I wish them kept that way until I go.”

      Startled by the brusque order, Angela dropped her gloves and took a stumbling step too near her aunt’s favorite footstool. Her foot caught on the low hurdle and she pitched to the floor.

      Or would have done, had not a powerful pair of arms unfolded out of the darkness to catch her.

      “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The voice clearly belonged to the same person as the arms, for it wafted into her left ear from so intimate a distance it might almost have been a kiss. But could that voice—smooth, rich and beguiling—be the same gruff one that had frightened her into a humiliating stumble?

      Perhaps they did have one thing in common, after all, she decided. Both made her heart flutter and her breath hasten…for quite different reasons.

      “W-who are you, sir, and why have you come to Netherstowe?” The questions had scarcely tumbled from her lips when Angela guessed the answer to the first. Her pulse raced faster still, though from fright…or something else, she could not be certain.

      The visitor set her on her feet again, but not before she felt the moist caress of his breath against her bare throat. For an instant she sensed a hint of reluctance to let her go. Or was it her own reluctance to break from her first time being held in a man’s arms?

      Even if that man were the devil himself.

      “Lord Lucius Daventry, Miss Lacewood.” He executed a stiff bow over her hand. “At your service.”

      Not the devil perhaps, but as close as she was likely to encounter deep in the sleepy countryside of Northamptonshire. Even so isolated from London society, Angela knew her guest had been dubbed “Lord Lucifer” by wags of the ton. Lately, the village folk had begun to use that name—though never in his lordship’s hearing.

      “I beg pardon for startling you, and for taking liberties with your domestic arrangements.” He gestured toward the window. “My eye is sensitive to bright light.”

      Could that be the reason he seldom ventured abroad by day? Gossip ascribed far more sinister motives to his lordship’s nocturnal habits.

      Her own vision had adjusted to the room’s dimness enough for Angela to make out the sharp shadow of a curious demimask that gave Lucius Daventry a diabolical appearance to match his reputation. A large patch of black leather concealed half of his upper face, from cheekbone to temple, with a narrow slit to expose his left eye.

      Was it only his eye that could no longer abide the light? she wondered. Or was it his pride as well? Before Waterloo, his lordship had been hailed as the handsomest beau in Britain. Though she’d had little experience on which to base a comparison, Angela had thought that reputation scarcely did him justice.

      “To what do I owe the honor of your call, sir? Lord and Lady Bulwick and my cousins departed a fortnight ago for their tour of the Continent. I do not expect them back for some months.”

      Hard as she tried to purge the sweet ring of satisfaction from her voice, Angela could not. Weeks and weeks of lovely spring and summer with the whole house to herself and nobody to criticize or patronize her. That was as near heaven as she was apt to get for some years.