“On Monday I will go to Doctor’s Commons and obtain a special license, and on Tuesday we will marry,” he said firmly.
No waiting for banns, no announcements, they would just do it. The Illingtons would take the union as a personal insult, he had no doubt. He would not look to the duchess to sponsor the girls into society. Wasn’t there another name? Lady Comyn? He would make inquiries. Already he knew society was not one great, homogeneous whole, but consisted of several factions, some of them at each others’ throats. With a little careful maneuvering, he could use that to his advantage, and that of his lovely wife.
His wife! The words thrilled him. He tried them aloud. “My wife. My love.” He gazed into her beautiful face, alight with love and vitality. Here was his match; here was his life.
“Well, one thing is for sure and certain.” She smiled broadly. “Life is going to be very interesting, is it not?”
END
MY DEAR MR. FORRESTER Eliza Lloyd
Joshua Forrester is a man of the world, returning to London after receiving a wound in a Parisian duel. He's done it again - out to save all womankind. When will he ever learn not all women want to be saved? In London, he is reacquainted with a family friend and now widow, Char Dunlevee. He is charmed - and appalled. He knows her secret and is furious his friend, Char’s now dead husband, could have left her in such circumstances. He can save her, if she will only say yes to his proposal.
Char has other plans. Joshua would make a perfect husband—for one of her sisters. She doesn’t need to be saved. Seduced perhaps…? With one kiss, Char forgets her plans as she is drawn closer to the enigmatic and dear Mr. Forrester.
My Dear Mr. Forrester
Book Two, The Infamous Forresters Copyright 2016
All rights reserved
CHAPTER ONE
THE SALON ON SOUTH AUDLEY STREET was closed to the usual art patrons in favor of a more select clientele, connoisseurs who were interested in the finer aspects of canvas and color, the delicacy and sensuality reserved for artists who painted nudes.
Joshua Forrester had been dragged along by his erstwhile friend, Ward Sutherland, and had paid a tidy sum to be one of those few to receive an invitation. He had not seen Ward since the last time he was home, and Ward had always been easy company. And it was a good distraction from the stabbing pain in his side.
As he drank the glass of Bourgogne wine, which came from an old cask recently discovered in a smuggler’s basement, he reflected on the joys of his life and once again thanked the gods that he was not his brother’s immediate heir.
The salon was unusual in that it was held during the middle of the day. Something about light and shadows, he thought he’d heard.
“Gentlemen, we ask you not interfere with the artist or his subject.” The host bowed politely to the room of gentlemen, then backed out and eased the double doors shut.
In other words, don’t touch.
The general hum of conversation died down and all eyes turned toward the side of the room where a robed, masked woman entered. Her feet were bare, and he stared at her dainty appendages until she turned her back to the small group and lowered her covering.
Viewing a naked woman was never an opportunity to miss.
His mouth went dry, and there might have been a collective gasp from the group. The reaction in his body was ill-proportioned to the sight. He had seen naked women before, as had everyone in the room. This one was thinner than he liked but…nudity.
His gaze was first drawn to her ass, the most perfect white peach. Her limbs were long and slim. His assessment was interrupted by a glass crashing against the floor and when he glanced up again, she had taken a place on the plush velvet couch, unperturbed by the stir in the audience. Reclining, she faced the far wall. He could still see her ass, but he’d missed the display of her breasts.
One leg was straight, the other drawn up so that her upper foot rested against her ankle. She lay in a languid pose, her head resting against her arm. Her hair? He could not determine if it was a wig or her natural look.
She was clean, without scars, and refined. A lady then.
His brow winged. Was his conclusion farfetched? Had the others in the room deduced something similar? But who was she?
A lady posing nude for a preeminent artist? Was she destitute? Bored? Curious?
He sipped at his wine. Thinking was a decided waste, at this time especially. Such a moment was meant to be enjoyed.
Except that he was bothered by his inability to do something.
He supposed there were many ways for a lady, in financial straits, to earn a modest sum to run her household. Most of them honorable but not all of them.
From time to time she would move in subtle ways to relieve the tension of inactivity. Her toes flexed. Her legs shifted, the bottom clenching, the upper stretching.
He assumed the painter was busy doing whatever it was painters did. Quiet conversations had started amongst the seated gentlemen. He braced his forearms against his thighs.