A Woman Scorned (Sonnet Books)
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From its opening scene to its breath-catching climax, Liz Carlyle's newest novel is a vividly etched portrait of passion and intrigue. When a woman consumed by sinister secrets opens the door to a strikingly handsome stranger, a powerful desire rushes in -- and a love she could not have imagined.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Jonet Rowland is surely that. But she is also lovely, rich, and -- it is rumored -- an unrepentant adulteress. When her philandering husband, the marquis of Mercer, is murdered in his own bed, it's whispered that Jonet is a femme fatale in more ways than one. Shunned by society, the daring widow steels herself to fight for what truly matters -- her children.
When his scheming uncle begs him to investigate the death of his brother, Lord Mercer, Captain Cole Amherst refuses. But it is soon apparent that treachery stalks two innocent boys, and Cole plunges into the viper's pit that is Jonet Rowland's life. Nothing could have prepared Cole for the lust Jonet inspires. But as danger swirls about them, he is tortured by doubt. Can an honorable soldier open his shuttered heart and let a wicked widow teach him how to truly love?
Rivals, so to speak. What will that be like, do you think?” When Cole made no reply other than to glare at him, the viscount turned his gaze to Jonet. “You know, my dear, that you are expected to dine at Delacourt House tonight? I trust you will not be late.” “Yes, of course I remember,” she answered a little defensively, shifting uncomfortably on the blanket. “I very much look forward to it.” Cole turned his back on the pair. “If you mean to play, Delacourt,” he said, swinging his bat over
and placed Moseby on a cot in their dressing room. The man was a notoriously light sleeper, and his quick response had sent more than one careless French scout on to his great reward rather sooner than expected. Yes, the children would be safe with Moseby. And as he had told Jonet over dinner, tomorrow he would send someone to speak discreetly with Donaldson to find out what, if anything, was known about the outbreak of illness at Mercer House. Then, as soon as it could be safely done, Ellen or
that she was naked beneath. In one hand, she cradled two glasses, and dangling from her fingertips, she carried a loosely corked bottle of wine. A wicked smile curved her lips. “I pilfered your cellar,” she blithely confessed, sauntering toward the edge of his bed. Peering at her over his spectacles, Cole sighed, then closed his book and laid it to one side. “Why does that not surprise me, Jonet?” With another faint smile, she leaned provocatively forward to put down her burdens on his night
to do. But Jonet was glaring at him as if he’d said he ate puppies for breakfast. “Oh, for pity’s sake!” he hissed. “Don’t look at me like that! You’re safe in your own home! Really, Jonet, I sometimes think you are just a bit too melodramatic.” Cole never saw the blow coming. Jonet’s hand cracked across his jaw and snapped his head halfway around. Eyes watering, face stinging, he stared at her, open-mouthed. Jonet’s face was tight with emotion, her bottom lip trembled, and her eyes welled with
suffering through another miserable dinner with Jonet, Ellen, and Delacourt, Cole had accepted with alacrity Donaldson’s invitation to resume their discussion over a “wee dram of whisky.” The wee dram had quickly become the better part of a bottle, and Donaldson’s hospitality showed no sign of abating. “Will ye have anither, Cap’n?” asked Donaldson, his voice cutting through the haze of Cole’s thoughts. The butler tipped the bottle unsteadily forward. Smoothly, Cole shoved his glass in place