Kissed; Christian
Christian
Kissed
Redeemable Rogues
by Tanya Anne Crosby
Published by
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No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
Dedication
To my sweet children, in whose eyes I first knew unconditional love.
Praise for Kissed
RT Book Reviews Best All-Around Historical Romance of the Year Nominee
4 ½ Gold and Top Pick!
Compelling tale ablaze with heartfelt characters who walk off the pages and into your heart. KISSED is a story to make your heart sing. – RT Book Reviews
“Unusual tale with ingenious plot twists, exquisite sexual tension and engaging characters. Readers are drawn in and taken through an emotional wringer with this powerful tale of love.” – Rendezvous
“Only a writer of incomparable skill could turn such an endeavor into a brilliant triumph ... fast-paced, superbly written. - Genie ROMex Reviews
Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby
“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…” – Publishers Weekly
“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.” – The Oakland Press
“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue …” – Affaire de Coeur
“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic, tantalizing!” – Rendezvous
“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.” – Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author
“A first class author.” –RT Book Reviews
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Praise
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part 2
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Introducing Jack...Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Books By Tanya Anne Crosby
Part One
"What sweet thoughts, what longing led them to this woeful pass?" —Dante
Chapter One
England, Rose Park, April 1763
What sort of man paid to have his sister’s heart broken?
Lord Christian Haukinge tossed the parchment aside, and reclined deeper into the leather desk chair, contemplating the inconceivable notion.
He didn’t bother considering the issue it raised: What sort of man accepted such a proposal? He already knew the answer to that one.
The scribbled letter before him bore no salutation—a deliberate rudeness, a flagrant omission of his title—courtesy though it may be—and his demeanor, as he retrieved the parchment, shifted from indifference to keen irritation. His gaze skimmed the page once more, settling upon the last paragraphs.
... as she seems to have convinced herself no other beau will do, save you, fatuous as it seems, and she has set her face against the new contract I have put before her, clinging to your annulled betrothal simply to defy my wishes, I am forced to offer this proposal. Please consider the above remuneration for your services; the amount is more than adequate for your brief employ, and, indeed, should prove quite useful in the refurbishment of your newly purchased estate. As to that, please accept my condolences.
I am certain you shall wish to begin with all due haste, and look forward to your timely response in this matter. The sooner she has been suitably disillusioned, the sooner you might be compensated for your troubles. For the greater good, I do hope we might overlook the nature of our past relationship, and endeavor to assist each other in persuading my dear, misguided sister in choosing the right-minded course. The advance will assure you see it my way. Accept it in good faith. I shall enlighten you further when we are face-to-face.
Signed simply, Westmoor.
For the greater good?
Bloody bastard.
Christian’s lip curved with contempt—and then a thought occurred to him: If Westmoor knew he’d purchased Rose Park, doubtless his own brother had gotten wind of the fact, as well. Philip was likely choleric with rage, having to discover something of that nature second-or even third-hand. Damn… Christian might have given much to glimpse the expression on his brother’s face when he’d been informed of the fact.
Gazing out from his office window, at the unkept garden, a rueful smile touched his lips. What a family he had; the elder a greedy thief, the younger a contrebandier.
With a sigh he reached back to rip out the satin tie that bound his hair, and then thrust his long fingers through the unpowdered length of it, muttering sourly beneath his breath.
Hell, at least he had no qualms over admitting the fact. Though it might seem appropriate to bear some measure of guilt… too bad he couldn’t muster the sentiment. In fact, he’d burn in hell before he’d regret a damned thing. And that in itself should have disturbed him, he supposed. But it didn’t. Not in the least. He was what he was, and he felt absolutely no remorse for his... enterprising. Supplies were needed in the colonies, and he simply transported those goods. Nor had he any falsely noble incentives to declare. His motives were quite simply self-indulgent.
He wanted money.
Aye, and he wanted respect.
He wanted land.
He wanted more than anything for the sons he intended to sire to all have equal shares of the empire he would build for them. Damned if he’d leave one alone to fend for himself in a world such as this. And nay, it was not so much the lack of title he abhorred, for he might truly have been happy in most any situation—save the one in which he found himself. Youngest son, nonentity.
All that disdain without anyone having known of his greatest social flaw, even. His wry smile deepened. What a field day the gentry would have if they were to discover his bastardy.
All those years he’d settled for what little his father had cared to give him. Which was nothing, not even a momentary-lapse pat on the head, a “good show, son.” Nothing. The only one thing he’d counted on, was his bequest of Hakewell, his mother’s dower land. It was to be hers, until her death, and then it was to go to Christian. And God’s truth, he’d been perfectly content to bide his time, however long that should be, for he cherished his mother and would have her live an eternity were it possible. But he had counted upon that estate someday. And then he’d been offered a betrothal with Westmoor’s young daughter, and he’d found himself with such great expectations, such dreams. Security for his heirs.
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Shattered, all of it shattered upon his father’s death. The old man hadn’t been gone more than a single month when Philip had set in motion Christian’s disinheritance. All very discreetly done, of course. He’d finagled possession of Hakewell through legal loopholes and treachery.
Certainly Christian knew he could contest it, for Hakewell was his mother’s to give, but Philip—the son of a bitch—had resorted to extortion, knowing Christian would never sully his mother’s good name. And then he had run to Westmoor to inform him of the transfer of property, and with his bequeathal gone, Westmoor had annulled the betrothal at once; as the sole reason for the contract to begin with was Hakewell. Without that parcel of land, Christian was worth no more than a brass farthing.
In the blink of an eye, everything had been stripped away, and like a man caught in the throes of a riptide, he’d been helpless to do anything but let it bear him away.
No more.
He was helpless no more.
And never again.
His gaze returned to the letter in his hand, and his fingers closed about the parchment, crumpling it. He slammed his fist down against the hardwood desk.
By damn, he wanted revenge.
The certainty of it struck him full of force.
Despite that he’d sworn himself against it—even after what had happened before—he wanted it, with a bloodlust that was almost palpable. Cold fury seized him and he determined, instead, to give the cocky young duke his due. The idiot had offered him a ridiculously low sum for this insulting task, as though he were a green boy fresh out of Eton with a bulge in his breeches and little in his purse. But that was not what rankled most. Rather it was the snobbery and contempt at the heart of the insult offered.
One too many from the almighty Westmoor.
Not good enough to wed the man’s sister, was he? But good enough to—what? bed her?
So he would have his sister disillusioned… for the greater good?
Christian wondered what, precisely, that entailed.
From the letter, he’d gotten the distinct impression that Lady Jessamine Stone was not too receptive to her brother’s choice of husband. He supposed it was her bastard brother’s intent that once her little heart was duly crushed, she would more easily bend to his will. But to what end was Westmoor willing to go?
And why choose him, save to rub salt into his wounds?
Christian’s eyes narrowed. God’s truth, he had no wish to do Westmoor any favors, but there was some sense of justice in that he would be paid now to avail himself of what should have already been his.
Poetic justice.
Aye, he’d do it, all right, but if Westmoor thought he meant to honor the letter of the agreement, he was more fool than Christian supposed. His cobalt blue eyes glinted with ruthless determination. The truth was that Christian had already ruined the father... He now fully intended to finish the business—and he didn’t give a bleedin’ damn who was brought down along the way, the virginal little sister included.
He didn’t bother to scribble a return note; it wasn’t worth the effort to attempt to put words together. He peered up at the figure standing quietly in the doorway, awaiting his return message, and said with barely suppressed virulence, “Tell him my answer is yes.”
And then tell him to go straight to hell, he added silently, and rose from his desk.
God help him, right or wrong, he was about to court Lady Jessamine Stone.
For the greater good.
Chapter Two
England, Westmoor May 1763
Jessie sat upon the small embankment, peering dreamily over the rim of an open book, scarcely able to keep her mind upon the text within. She’d chosen the much-loved volume, thinking to pass the time reading outdoors, but who could concentrate with so many delicious thoughts cavorting within her head?
He’d come; Lord Christian had come!
Her brother had been expecting him this morn.
All this time, she’d never dared dream he would come to her rescue. And yet she’d so wished that he would! He was her very last hope!
The awful truth was that at twenty-two, Jessamine was a prime candidate for spinsterhood, and her dowry sadly lacking, as well. Silently she cursed her father for that. It seemed ludicrous that she should be angry with a man for simply dying. But his untimely death, followed by the ugly rumors that surfaced afterward, had forced Westmoor into a monetary pinch, and thus had rendered her virtually unmarriageable. Amazing how swiftly one’s acquaintances withdrew when there was the scarcest nuance of scandal.
It thrilled her that Lord Christian might yet desire her—if not her, precisely, then what little remained of her dowry. Though perhaps it should trouble her that he might desire her for her money alone, it didn’t. God’s truth, she would do anything—anything—to escape the fate her brother would mete her!
Including swear to a love she didn’t feel.
She’d shamefully lied to Amos, and yes it did bother her just a little, but she would have done most anything to persuade him to agree to a betrothal with Lord Christian—anyone, in truth, to be free of Lord St. John.
But Lord Christian had no grand title to consider. Nor had he any money to his name—evidenced by the fact that he’d purchased such a tumbledown estate as Rose Park. In fact, he would be marrying up did he choose to accept Amos’ paltry offer. And with that conclusion, her spirits lifted considerably.
And if he didn’t want her?
Well, then... still she might find a way to prevail upon him to assist her in finding safe passage to her father’s brother in the colonies. She had her mother’s jewels to persuade him, after all. And they had once been affianced. He owed her something for that, did he not?
Yes, indeed, she determined, and refused to be disheartened. One way or the other, her greatest chance to escape Lord St. John lay with Lord Christian—and he had come at last.
Her mood lighter than it had been in ages, she set the age-blackened volume down upon the grass to peer at the brook below. An old stone packhorse bridge spanned its shallow width. It had been there as long as Jessie could recall—put there by druids, her mother had claimed. Bathed in misty sunlight beneath the lush oaks and elms, this had always been her favorite place to come, whether to brood or shout huzzahs.
This instant she felt like dancing wildly.
The water seemed so cool and tempting...
Surely no one would spy her if she removed her slippers and stockings to soak her feet…
How long had it been since she’d risked such a thing? It seemed a lifetime ago she’d dared be so carefree.
Closing her eyes, she called to mind the day so long ago when her mother had caught her wading in nothing more than her pristine white shift. If she remembered very hard... she could still see it... almost hear her mother’s sweet voice...
“Jessie love! ’Tis no place for a young lady to cavort by her lonesome!”
She’d caught sight of Jessie’s gown cast away upon the grass. “Good heavens!” she’d exclaimed. “What would your papa say!”
Bursting into fits of giggles, Jessie had flopped upon her belly in the water, splashing everywhere.
“Whatever shall I do with you?” her mother had asked, but Jessie had spied the smile she tried so hard to conceal.
“Watch, Mother!” Sucking in a mouthful of water, Jessie held it dammed within her mouth as she watched her mother remove her silk shoes and wade in after her. When her mother stood before her at last, she popped her cheeks with her palms, spewing water all over her mother’s fine gown.
Her mother had peered down incredulously at her ruined gown, and seeing the flustered expression upon her face, Jessie feared to have angered her at last, but suddenly her mother had lunged after her, a peal of raucous laughter bursting from her lovely lips.
Looking back upon it now, Jessie thought it might have been the disheartened expression on her face, for she couldn’t begin to imagine what could be so funny about an impish child and a ru
ined gown. And yet, how they’d laughed and frolicked that day.
Tilting her head back, she sighed, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun upon her face. She was six years old that day... the year before her mother had died. More than a lifetime had passed since then.
Her brother ruled like a dreary little monarch. As her father would, he’d turn choleric with rage to spy her at such merrymaking. And truth to tell, she couldn’t help but giggle at the expression she imagined he’d wear. A spark of mischief ignited. The birds twittered nervously in the treetops. What could he say, after all? He couldn’t possibly be more callous toward her than he already was. What harm could come of it?
Impulsively she tossed off her slippers and stood, flinging up her skirts. Rolling down her stockings, she removed them, and cast them away with an impish giggle. And then drawing up her skirts, she knotted them firmly to keep from soaking the lacy hem, more than pleased with herself for forsaking her petticoat this morn. She’d had to sneak to get out of the house, but the freedom it now gave her was well worth the undignified duck behind the server.
She wasn’t fool enough to run about in her shift at her advanced age, but she could see nothing wrong with wetting her feet—to blazes with Amos!
She started down the incline, humming cheerily.
Christian found himself reluctant to intrude upon her delightful diversions and so he sat, admiring her unheeded as she whirled and frolicked like a doe in the fields. Kicking up a slim leg, she showered water into the air, laughing huskily when it rained down upon her face.
He smiled despite himself.