The Lady Chosen
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Stephanie Laurens' hot-blooded romances, including her New York Times best-selling Bar Cynster series, have earned her legions of loyal devotees. The beginning of an exciting new saga, The Lady Chosen introduces the distinguished war veterans of the Bastion Club, single gentlemen not entirely committed to staying that way.
still, then she lifted her arms, weak though they were, and beckoned him to her. He stirred. His eyes locked on hers, he shrugged out of his coat, stripped off his cravat, opened his shirt, baring the muscled contours of his chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. Recollected sensation, of feeling that hair rasp against her sensitized skin as he moved within her, had her breasts swelling to aching fullness, her nipples puckering tight. He saw. Reached for his waistband. Flicked the buttons undone,
“She looks so peaceful.” A moment passed, then she straightened and heaved a huge sigh. Brushed down her skirts and looked around. “So—a thief broke in and searched this room. Miss Timmins heard him and got out of bed to investigate. When the thief returned to the hall, she saw him, fainted, and fell…and died.” When he said nothing, she turned to him. Searched his eyes. Frowned. “What’s wrong with that as deduction? It’s perfectly logical.” “Indeed.” He took her hand, turned to the door. “I
eight. If you arrive a little after, you can accompany us there, in Mildred’s carriage.” He humphed, but nodded curtly. He didn’t take orders well, but in this sphere…that was one reason he needed her. He cared very little for society, knew both enough and too little of its tortuous ways to feel totally comfortable in its glare. While he had every intention of spending as little time in it as possible, given his title, his position, if a quiet life was his aim, it would never do to thumb his
anything. Don’t. Go. Into. Danger. There were three of them ahead of her; what danger could there be? She hurried down the front steps and ran quickly down the front path. They were, she assumed, going to pluck Mountford from his hole—she was curious, after all this time, to see what he was really like, what sort of man he was. Jonathon’s description was ambivalent; yes, Mountford—Duke—was a violent bully, but not a murderous one. He’d been violent enough where she was concerned…. She
an urge to hold on to them for longer. She wasn’t married after all. “Good afternoon, Miss Carling. And your uncle is?” “Sir Humphrey Carling.” “And your brother?” A frown started to grow in her eyes. “Jeremy Carling.” His smile remained, all reassurance. “And have you lived here long? Is it as peaceful a neighborhood as it seems at first glance?” Her narrowing eyes told him she hadn’t been deceived; she answered only his second question. “Entirely peaceful.” Until recently. Leonora held