Scars of Betrayal. Sophia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
Lord Nathaniel Lindsay, heir to the earldom of St Auburn.
She could not believe it—could not quite take in that her dangerous rescuer in Nay with his scarred body and quick reflexes was now a dandified Lord, known across all of England for his wealth and his power, his family lineage stretching back across the centuries.
Away from the stares she was feeling a lot better. His coat was warm, and her shivers were lessened by the touch of wool. She could smell him too, here in the carriage, the depth of him and the strength, and if her sister had not been right there beside her she might have breathed in further, allowing the colours of his beauty to explode inside, tantalising and teasing.
The scent of a man who could ruin her.
AUTHOR NOTE
SCARS OF BETRAYAL is the third book in a series about three friends: Nathaniel Lindsay, Lucas Clairmont and Stephen Hawkhurst.
The themes of family, protection and betrayal have been features of all three stories: SCARS OF BETRAYAL, MISTLETOE MAGIC and MISTRESS AT MIDNIGHT.
I hope you enjoy Cassandra and Nathaniel’s story.
Scars of Betrayal
Sophia James
SOPHIA JAMES lives in Chelsea Bay, on Auckland, New Zealand’s North Shore, with her husband who is an artist. She has a degree in English and History from Auckland University and believes her love of writing was formed by reading Georgette Heyer in the holidays at her grandmother’s house.
Sophia enjoys getting feedback at www.sophiajames.net
Previous novels by the same author:
FALLEN ANGEL
ASHBLANE’S LADY
HIGH SEAS TO HIGH SOCIETY
MASQUERADING MISTRESS
KNIGHT OF GRACE
(published as THE BORDER LORD in North America)
MISTLETOE MAGIC
(part of Christmas Betrothals)
ONE UNASHAMED NIGHT
ONE ILLICIT NIGHT
CHRISTMAS AT BELHAVEN CASTLE
(part of Gift-Wrapped Governesses)
LADY WITH THE DEVIL’S SCAR
THE DISSOLUTE DUKE
MISTRESS AT MIDNIGHT
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Contents
Chapter One
London—June 1851
It was Nathanael Colbert walking down the wide staircase of the de Clare ballroom.
Cassandra Northrup knew it was him.
Knew it from the bottom of a rising horror and an unmitigated relief.
The same strength and height, the same dark hair, shorter now but every bit as black. She could barely take a breath, the guilt and the anger that had been stored inside and hidden for so long seeping out, winding her with its intensity.
Lord Hawkhurst, the heir to the Atherton fortune, descended beside Colbert, laughing at something Colbert had said. Disbelief made Cassie dizzy. Why would he be here in such company and dressed like an English lord? Nothing quite made sense, the wrongness of it all inviting disarray.
Shaky fingers closed around the small pottery shard that she always wore around her neck, the heavy beat of blood in her ears making her feel sick. What could this mean for her?
Carefully, Cassie opened her fan so that it covered most of her face and turned from the trajectory the pair were taking. She had to leave before he saw her. She had to escape, but that was becoming harder as shock numbed reality. Maureen clasped her hand and she was grateful for the anchor.
‘You look pale, Cassandra. Are you feeling sound?’
‘Perfectly.’ Even her sister did not know the exact details of what had happened in the south of France all those years ago, for she had never told another soul. A private torment, the details locked in shame.
‘Well, you do not look it.’
The will to survive was flowing back, the initial jolt of shock receding under reason. She doubted Colbert would recognise her at a quick glance and resolved to leave as soon as she was able to without inciting future question.
Future. The very word made her stiffen. Could she have a future if he saw her? She felt as if she stood in the ballroom in nothing but the clothes he had once found her in, the events from almost four years ago searing into memory, all anger and fear and regret.
No. She was stronger than this. In a moment she would walk farther away, into the throng of people, carefully and quietly so as to draw no attention towards herself. She had become adept at the art of camouflage within society, the skill of obscurity in a crowd almost second nature to her now. It was how she had survived, washed back into the world she had not thought to be part of again, with its strict observance of manner and rule.
Cassie’s gown mirrored her anonymity, the plain dove-grey unremarkable. All around the well-heeled young ladies bloomed like flowers, in yellows and pinks and light blue, tucks, ruffs, frills and flounces adorning their bodices, sleeves and hems. Her widow’s weeds were another way to hide in full view from the notice of others.
As five seconds went past, and then ten, she started to feel safer, beguiled by the noise and movement of the very large crowd.
Everything is all right...it is still all right.