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They called him the Demon Earl. They said he
could do anything. Son of a rogue and a Gypsy, Nicholas Davies was
a notorious rake until a shattering betrayal left him alone and
embittered in the Welsh countryside.
Desperation drives quiet schoolteacher Clare Morgan
to ask the Demon Earl to help save her village. Unwilling to
involve himself in the problems of others, Nicholas sets an impossible
price on his aid—only if Clare agrees to live with him for three
months, letting the world think the worst, will he intervene.
Furiously Clare accepts his outrageous challenge,
and the two are swept into an intoxicating Regency world of danger and
desire. As allies, Clare and Nicholas fight to save her community.
As adversaries, they explore the hazardous terrain of power and
sensuality And as lovers, they surrender to a passion that
threatens the very foundations of their lives.
Can two such different people build a relationship
that will last forever and beyond? Well, this is the vivid,
satisfying world of high romance, and Thunder and Roses is one of
my all-time most popular books. If you missed it the first time,
enjoy it now!
This excerpt is from the first chapter, when
Clare decides it’s time to convince the elusive earl to do his duty by
her village.
Clare had never been inside Aberdare before. It was as grand as
she had expected, but gloomy, with most of the furniture still concealed
under holland covers. Four years of emptiness had made the place
forlorn as well. The butler, Williams, was equally gloomy.
He hadn’t wanted to take Clare to the earl without first announcing
her, but he had grown up in the village, so she was able to persuade
him. He escorted her down a long corridor, then opened the door to
the library. “Miss Clare Morgan to see you, my lord. She
said her business is urgent.”
Taking a firm grip on her courage, Clare walked past Williams into the
library, not wanting to give the earl time to refuse her. If she
failed today, she wouldn’t get another chance.
The earl stood by a window, staring out across the valley. His
coat had been tossed over a chair, and his shirt-sleeved informality
gave him a rakish air. Odd that he had been known as Old Nick;
even now, he was scarcely thirty.
As the door closed behind Williams, the earl turned, his forbidding gaze
going right to Clare. Though no unusually tall, he radiated power.
She remember that even at the age when most lads were gawky, he had
moved with absolute physical mastery.
On the surface, he seemed much the same. If anything, he was even
more handsome than he had been four years ago. She would not have
thought that possible. But he had indeed changed; she saw it in
his eyes. Once they had brimmed with teasing laughter that invited
others to laugh with him. Now they were as impenetrable as
polished Welsh flint. The duels and flagrant affairs and public
scandals had left their mark.
As she hesitated, wondering if she should speak first, he asked, “Are
you related to Reverend Thomas Morgan?”
“His daughter. I’m the schoolmistress in Penreith.”
His bored gaze flicked over her. “That’s right, sometimes he
had a grubby brat in tow.”
Stung, she retorted, “I wasn’t half as grubby as you were.”
“Probably not,” he agreed, a faint smile in his eyes. “I was
a disgrace. During lessons, your father often referred to you as a
model of saintly decorum. I hated you sight unseen.”
It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Hoping to would irritate
him, Clare said sweetly, “And to me, he said you were the cleverest
boy he had ever taught, and that you had a good heart in spite of your
wildness.”
“Your father’s judgment leaves much to be desired,” the earl said,
his momentary levity vanishing. “As the preacher‘s daughter, I
assume you are seeking funds for some boring, worthy cause. Apply
to my steward in the future rather than bothering me. Good day,
Miss Morgan.”
He was starting to turn away when she said quickly, “What I wish to
discuss is not a matter for your steward.”
His mobile lips twisted. “But you want something, don’t you?
Everyone does.”
He strolled to a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled a glass that he
had been carrying. “Whatever it is, you won’t get it from me.
Noblesse oblige was my grandfather’s province. Kindly leave
while the atmosphere is still civil.”
She realized uneasily that he was well on his way to being drunk.
Well, she had dealt with drunks before. “Lord Aberdare, people
in Penreith are suffering, and you are the only man in a position to
make a difference. It will cost you very little in time or
money…”
“I don’t care how little is involved,” he said forcefully.
“I don’t want anything to do with the village, or the people who
live in it! Is that clear? Now get the hell out.”
Clare felt her stubbornness rising. “I am not asking for your
help, my lord, I am demanding it,” she snapped. “Shall I
explain now, or should I wait until you’re sober?”
He regarded her with amazement. “If anyone here is drunk, it
would appear to be you. If you think your sex will protect you
from physical force, you’re wrong. Will you go quietly, or am I
going to have to carry you out?” He moved toward her with
purposeful strides, his white, open-throated shirt emphasizing the
intimidating breadth of his shoulders.
Resisting the impulse to back away, Clare reached into the pocket of her
cloak and pulled out the small book that was her only hope.
Opening the volume to the handwritten inscription, she held it up for
him to see. “Do you remember this?”
The message was a simple one: Reverend Morgan—I hope that
some day I will be able to repay all you have done for me.
Affectionately, Nicholas Davies.
The schoolboy scrawl stopped the earl as if he had been struck.
His wintry gaze shifted from the book to Clare’s face. “You
play to win, don’t you? However, you’re holding the wrong
hand. Any obligation I might feel would be toward your father.
If he wants favors, he should ask for them in person.”
“He can’t,” she said baldly. “He died two years ago.”
After an awkward silence, the earl said, “I’m sorry, Miss Morgan.
Your father was probably the only truly good man I’ve ever known.”
“Your grandfather was also a good man. He did a great deal for
the people of Penreith. The poor fund, the chapel…”
Before Clare could list other examples of the late earl’s
charity, Nicholas interrupted her. “Spare me. I know that
my grandfather dearly loved setting a moral example for the lower
orders, but that holds no appeal for me.”
“At least he took his responsibilities seriously,” she retorted.
“You haven’t done a thing for the estate or the village since you
inherited.”
“A record I have every intention of maintaining.” He finished
his drink and set the glass down with a clink. “Neither your
father’s good example nor the old earl’s moralizing succeeded in
transforming me into a gentleman. I don’t give a damn about
anyone or anything, and I prefer it that way.”
She stared at him, shocked. “How can you say such a thing?
No one is that callous.”
“Ah, Miss Morgan, your innocence is touching.” He leaned
against the edge of the table and folded his arms across his broad
chest, looking as diabolical as his nickname. “You had better
leave before I shatter any more of your illusions.”
“Don’t you care that your neighbors are suffering?”
“In a word, no. The Bible says that the poor will always be with
us, and if Jesus couldn’t change that, I certainly can’t.”
He gave her a mocking smile. “With the possible exception of
your father, I’ve never met a man of conspicuous charity who didn’t
have base motives. Most who make a show of generosity do it
because they crave the gratitude of their inferiors and the
satisfactions of self-righteousness. At least I, in my honest
selfishness, am not a hypocrite.”
“A hypocrite can do good even if his motives are unworthy, which makes
him more valuable that someone with your brand of honesty,” she said
dryly. “But as you wish. Since you don’t believe in
charity, what do you care about? If money is what warms your
heart, there is profit to be made in Penreith.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t care much about money,
either. I already have more than I could spend in ten
lifetimes.”
“How nice for you,” she muttered under her breath. She wished
that she could turn and walk out, but to do so would be to admit defeat,
and she had never been good at that. Thinking that there had to be
some way to reach him, she asked, “What would it take to change your
mind?”
“My help is not available for any price you would be willing or able
to pay.”
“Try me.”
Attention caught, he scanned her from head to foot with insulting
frankness. “Is that an offer?”
He had meant to shock her, and he succeeded; she turned a hot humiliated
red. “But she did not avert her eyes. “If I said yes,
would that persuade you to help Penreith?”
He regarded her with astonishment. “My God, you would actually
let me ruin you if that would advance your schemes?”
“If I as sure it would work, yes,” she said recklessly. “My
virtue and a few minutes of suffering would be a small price to pay when
set against starving families and the lives that will be lost when the
Penreith mine explodes.”
A flicker of interest
showed in his eyes, and for a moment he seemed on the verge of asking
her to elaborate. Then his expression blanked again.
“Though it’s an interesting offer, bedding a female who would carry
on like Joan of Arc going to the stake doesn’t appeal to me.”
She arched her brows.
“I thought that rakes enjoyed seducing the innocent.”
“Personally, I’ve
always found innocence boring. Give me a woman of experience any
time.”
Ignoring his comment, she
said thoughtfully, “I can see that a plain woman would not tempt you,
but surely beauty would overcome your boredom. There are several
very lovely girls in the village. Shall I see if one of them would
be willing to sacrifice her virtue in a good cause?”
In one swift movement, he
stepped close and caught her face between his hands. There was
brandy on his breath and his hands seemed unnaturally warm, almost
scalding where they touched. She flinched, then forced herself to
stand utterly still as he scrutinized her face with eyes that seemed
capable of seeing the dark secrets of her soul. When she was
certain that she could bear his perusal no longer, he said slowly,
“You are nowhere near as plain as you pretend to be.”
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