Forever changed by his capture at the hands of the French, Viscount Carlisle is no longer the naive, carefree idiot who left the shores of England. He has spent eight years trying to find the man who betrayed him, but his plans are thwarted by the t...
Sylvia Heartwood hated Raphael St. Alexander with every ounce of her soul. The useless, lecherous, drunk scapegrace! Promise-breaking, sex-starved.....lecher!
Hadn't he promised her that he would waltz with her when they had seen each other in Carlisle last summer? Hadn't he promised he would look out for her in the shark-infested waters of London? But where had he been at her come-out ball? On the arm of the luscious Widow Hemming! Whose bust, might Sylvie add, had been practically falling out of her bodice?! And then, when the first waltz began, where was he? In the arms of Lady Carroway, who had wetted her skirts so that they would stick to her legs. He had not led her to dinner. He had not talked with her, save to exchange a few pleasantries. And then, once dinner had been concluded, he disappeared before the second waltz could be called.
Oh, if she never saw him again, she would be so very pleased!
He had broken her stupid, idiot heart and he didn't even know it!
Ugh! She snarled as she launched an assault on her pillow, imagining it was his stupid, gorgeous face with his idiot, sleek hair and disgustingly pretty green eyes. Her fist met the soft pillow with a muffled thud.
I hate you!
What had she expected? That he would see her in her pretty white dress, her hair done up with pearls, and fall deeply in love with her?
More fool her.
She was just a country bumpkin, unsophisticated and unpolished. The necklines of her gowns were high, her curves were nonexistent, and she was only allowed to wear pale colors like white, unlike the older women whose company Raphael enjoyed. They wore scandalously swooping necked gowns, in vibrant colors and jewelry that caught a person's eye.
All Sylvie had were the few pieces of jewelry her mother had left her, a simple gold necklace, and two sets of earrings.
Of course, he would not look at her when all those-
Plink.
Huh?
What was that?
Plink.
It was coming from the window.
Plink.
Someone was throwing small projectiles against her window. She threw the panes open and hissed, "Go away!"
"Aww, come on, Sylvie, don't be like that!"
"I said, GO AWAY!" And with that, she slammed her window shut so hard that the panes rattled.
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Raphael St. Alexander suppressed a groan as he aimed another pebble at Sylvia's window hoping to coax her to open it once again. He had messed up. And not an ordinary sort of mess up, it was the royal sort of mess up; he had gone back on his word. His word to Sylvie, one of his first friends in England. More to the point, his motives for doing it were foolish and cowardly.
