Desire, Curves, and Dishevelled Cravats

Betrayal tore them apart. Blackmail brought them together. Only love can save them.

Nine years ago, Henry Beaumont broke Louisa Picard’s heart. Now another man’s rich widow, she will do anything to protect her independence. But she harbours a secret that could destroy her reputation, and when a blackmailer threatens to expose her, who should overhear but her former flame and the man she vows to hate?

Henry is haunted by the mistakes of his past. Still hopelessly in love but knowing she will never forgive him, he does his best to make amends by offering his help with her current predicament. But he has problems of his own: a family destined for financial ruin and the expectation that he will marry to save them.

As they work together to thwart her blackmailer, it becomes increasingly difficult to deny their mutual attraction. But although Henry claims that his help—and his feelings—have nothing to do with her fortune, Louisa knows how deep his duty towards his family runs.

His restraint in tatters, Henry would do anything to convince Louisa that he adores her, fortune or no fortune. But some hurts are too great to overcome, and unless she can learn to trust him again, he will lose her—this time forever.

 how many of his vows will Henry sacrifice for the woman he loves? And can she learn to trust him again, or will she lose him once more—this time forever?

She tugged him along the small path until they came to the brick hothouse, glass inserted into the walls and sloping roof and the door ajar. Inside, perfumed heat washed over her, and she laughed, giddy at the exotic beauty. A particularly bold red flower dangled provocatively over the gravel walkway, and she trailed her fingers along its velvet petals. When she glanced at him, he was watching her with singular focus, as though debating whether or not to run.

“Why are we here?” he asked her, the caution in his tone helplessly endearing.

“Afraid I’ll attempt to seduce you?” she asked, trailing a finger down his chest.

His blue eyes held hers and his hand wrapped around her wrist, stilling her. “Sometimes,” he said hoarsely, the air between them heating and crackling, “I wonder if there is ever a world where I hold out against you.”

“I hope there is not.” She licked her lips, and his gaze dropped to her mouth for a heartbeat. “And if there is, I pray it is not this one.”

“Why did you bring me here, Louisa?”

There was a pressure in her chest, a sense that she dangled on the very edge of a precipice. This was the point of no return. “Because I love the flowers,” she said. “And because I love the way you look at me when you think there is no one else to see.”

He swallowed, and she was transfixed by the bobbing in his throat. They were close, so close, his hand still fastened around her wrist, her fingers still pressed against his waistcoat. She could almost deceive herself that she felt the pounding of his heart. “How do I look at you?”

“The way the sun gazes at the moon.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up, and a dimple pressed in his cheek, two points of softness in a stern face she had come to adore. “Very pretty. I might almost have thought you’d read some of Comerford’s poetry.”

“You look at me as though you are starving,” she whispered. Her breath caught in her lungs; her heart hammered. “And I feel it too. The hunger.”