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LADY OF INTRIGUE
SABRINA DARBY
Released Nov 9th, 2015
Entangled Scandalous
London, 1814
Lady
Jane Langley values logic and reason over passion and emotion. Her intellect
has given her value in the eyes of both her father and society. Logic gives way
to terrible, icy fear when Jane finds herself in a devastating carriage
accident... an accident in which she is helpless to do anything but watch as
her aristocratic companion is murdered.
But
this was no mere accident. This was an assassination. Spy and grandson of Lord
Landsdowne, Gerard Badeau is methodic in his dark, shadowy work, knowing that
any display of emotion could get him killed. Something about the mysterious
woman and her cool blue eyes stays Gerard's lethal hand. Now he has both a
witness and a hostage.
And
if he doesn't kill Lady Jane Langley, he risks a fate that is far, far
worse...falling in love with her.
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“When I leave—”
“Jane, you know I cannot let you.”
“You say you love me. Then let me go and trust that I will not reveal you.”
He leaned over her, cradling her head, brought her mouth to his. The rough fabric of his shirt rubbed against her; she parted her legs to cradle him between them, against her, knew that she was tempting her own control, her own ability to make either of them stop.
Lady Jane Langley. She said her name in her head, repeated it again till the words began to hold some modicum of meaning. Langley. Jane. But his mouth was everything, a world of swirling colors and rich warmth, where she would never be cold, never be hurt, always be in the cradle of his hands.
She broke away, burying her face against his neck. “If you really love me, then would you not want my love in return?” She lifted her head again, challenged him to meet her gaze. “As your prisoner, any love I professed would be... false.”
Distorted.
She admired him and desired him.
“I cannot let go of you.” But this time he was not referring to her ability to identify him. She looked away from the tortured need of his gaze and stared at the now dark pile of ash. She understood that agony and confusion. Her world had upended and apparently his had as well. And though she had said she could not give him her love, her heart ached. Somehow, as different as they were, they had found something akin in each other, experienced some sort of communion of the souls. It was very like love. Perhaps it even was the seeds of such an emotion, but it didn’t matter. She pushed herself from him, reached down, buried her hand in soot. With her other hand, she pulled at his shirt, not caring when she heard the tear of fabric.
“Gentle, love.” His hand stilled hers but she slid her fingers around, took his wrist between her fingers, and brought it to her mouth. Lips pressed to that thin, sensitive skin where she could feel the pulse of his blood, she lifted her other hand.
“Here,” she whispered, palm flat against his chest. Then she lowered his hand from her mouth to her own breast, above where her heart beat. She met his eyes, still blinking away the wetness from her own. “In some way, you are right. I am yours. My heart, that ephemeral space the poets call a soul. Everything. But still, I will leave you.”
“When I leave—”
“Jane, you know I cannot let you.”
“You say you love me. Then let me go and trust that I will not reveal you.”
He leaned over her, cradling her head, brought her mouth to his. The rough fabric of his shirt rubbed against her; she parted her legs to cradle him between them, against her, knew that she was tempting her own control, her own ability to make either of them stop.
Lady Jane Langley. She said her name in her head, repeated it again till the words began to hold some modicum of meaning. Langley. Jane. But his mouth was everything, a world of swirling colors and rich warmth, where she would never be cold, never be hurt, always be in the cradle of his hands.
She broke away, burying her face against his neck. “If you really love me, then would you not want my love in return?” She lifted her head again, challenged him to meet her gaze. “As your prisoner, any love I professed would be... false.”
Distorted.
She admired him and desired him.
“I cannot let go of you.” But this time he was not referring to her ability to identify him. She looked away from the tortured need of his gaze and stared at the now dark pile of ash. She understood that agony and confusion. Her world had upended and apparently his had as well. And though she had said she could not give him her love, her heart ached. Somehow, as different as they were, they had found something akin in each other, experienced some sort of communion of the souls. It was very like love. Perhaps it even was the seeds of such an emotion, but it didn’t matter. She pushed herself from him, reached down, buried her hand in soot. With her other hand, she pulled at his shirt, not caring when she heard the tear of fabric.
“Gentle, love.” His hand stilled hers but she slid her fingers around, took his wrist between her fingers, and brought it to her mouth. Lips pressed to that thin, sensitive skin where she could feel the pulse of his blood, she lifted her other hand.
“Here,” she whispered, palm flat against his chest. Then she lowered his hand from her mouth to her own breast, above where her heart beat. She met his eyes, still blinking away the wetness from her own. “In some way, you are right. I am yours. My heart, that ephemeral space the poets call a soul. Everything. But still, I will leave you.”
Sabrina Darby has been
reading romance novels since the age of seven and learned her best vocabulary
(dulcet, diaphanous, and turgid) from them. She started writing romance the day
after her wedding when she woke up with an idea for a Regency. She resides in
Southern California with her husband and son.
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