A Marquess for Christmas: Improper Desires, #1

By Vivienne Westlake

EROTIC HISTORICAL ROMANCE NOVEL

A gambler and pugilist, the Marquess of Kittrick loves his freedom and will protect it at any cost. When family pressure becomes unbearable, he storms off—only to find himself caught up in a daring rescue that nearly costs him his life and erases his memory.

Violet Laurens has faced war, bloodshed, and the loss of her husband, but she is unprepared for the intense longing stirred by the mysterious stranger who rescued her. She has no illusions that Kit will stay, but she cannot bear to lose the fragile love they share. Knowing that the past cannot stay buried forever, they cling to every moment together, never forgetting that each kiss might be their last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vivienne Westlake
• Release date: Feb 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524257651

Book preview

A Marquess for Christmas

By Vivienne Westlake

© 2012, 2014 Vivienne Westlake

A gambler and pugilist, the Marquess of Kittrick loves his freedom and will protect it at any cost. When family pressure becomes unbearable, he storms off—only to find himself caught up in a daring rescue that nearly costs him his life and erases his memory.

Violet Laurens has faced war, bloodshed, and the loss of her husband, but she is unprepared for the intense longing stirred by the mysterious stranger who rescued her. She has no illusions that Kit will stay, but she cannot bear to lose the fragile love they share. Knowing that the past cannot stay buried forever, they cling to every moment together, never forgetting that each kiss might be their last.

Other Titles

Wicked Liaisons Series

Lady Northam’s Wicked Surrender (Book 1)

The Lady’s Wicked Proposition (Book 1.5, short story)

Other books

A Marquess for Christmas

Tempting the Governess

To sign up for Vivienne’s newsletter and learn about upcoming releases, follow her online at:

http://www.viviennewestlake.com

http://www.facebook.com/viviennewestlakeromance

http://www.twitter.com/vivwestlake

Vivienne’s Fan Club on facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/1460761130849866/

Chapter One

England, November, 1815

A fist nearly rammed the side of his face, but Daniel, Marquess of Kittrick, managed to give it the slip with a swift turn of his torso. He could see the fraying strands of cotton from the strips of cloth taped around Freddy’s hand. An inch or two closer and he’d have a black eye. Kit shifted to resume his fighting stance, bracing his legs apart and raising his fists, watching for a tell-tale sign of his opponent’s next move. Freddy merely stared back, his blue eyes betraying nothing.

They were covered in perspiration, both shirtless to the waist, despite the drafty room and ominous clouds outside. Kit would’ve been happy to fight out in the cold, but Freddy had said he didn’t want to box in the rain. Not that there’d been a single drop as far as he could tell. But the duke insisted on fighting indoors.

Freddy had blamed foul weather, but Kit knew the truth. The duke was hiding from his wife, not the storm.

I could tell Isabella about this afternoon’s excursion, Kit warned. She’d given them leave to go riding and pursue their sports, but Bella would scream if she caught them boxing again. Though she’d find out sooner or later given the red patches forming on Freddy’s light skin. He’d be purple and blue tomorrow.

I should think the duchess would applaud me. You deserve a good thrashing. And you know she’s been wanting to give you one ever since you were a babe.

He grimaced. Of course she had. His sister couldn’t bear the thought of him thinking for himself—or worse, ruining the family name—so she’d taken every possible opportunity to correct him, which inevitably meant torturing him until he gave in to her demands.

She may have good reason, but you surely do not.

Freddy’s eyebrows waggled. Are you sure? He kept moving them until Kit couldn’t help but laugh, and then he threw a cross punch. Kit’s cheek stung with the burn of a hundred needles, but he shook it off. He should’ve seen that coming.

So what is your grievance against me?

Do I need one to defend my wife? He flexed his shoulders and rolled his head from side to side, but kept his fists at the ready. They hadn’t fought in six months, but obviously Freddy had been practicing.

Bella is the one haranguing me. What have I done to offend Her Grace?

The grin his brother-in-law gave would have convinced a nun to run off to Gretna Green. It made Kit want to jab him. You insulted Miss Hargrove. And you made improper suggestions to Miss Glenworth.

Freddy could care less if Kit insulted half the debutantes in town. This was merely an excuse to box him and avoid his wife’s punishment.

I told you both yesterday that I wouldn’t marry Miss Hargrove if she had diamonds coming out of her arse. The woman was a petite blond shrew with striking elven features who seduced men with her looks, then skewered them with her sharp tongue. If he took her to wife, Miss Hargrove would send him to Bedlam in a fortnight.

Behind his muffled hands, the duke’s grin widened. If I was not married to your sister, I’d jump at the chance to marry a chit with diamonds coming out of her arse.

Kit laughed and while his brother-in-law chuckled, he jabbed and cross punched him in the ribs. Unfortunately, the cross punch opened up Kit’s guard and Freddy undercut him in the side, beneath his armpits.

Damn it, Freddy.

The Golden Duke shrugged. You are slacking today. I have not seen you this piss poor since that day against the ugly Flemish kid back at Eton.

I would be doing much better if I hadn’t lost a thousand pounds to you at hazard. Though it was his own fault for drinking Scotch and throwing dice. Kit knew better, but he could only spend so much time with his sister before he was downing whiskey like a parched man in the desert.

Do not play what you can’t afford to lose, brother.

Of course Freddy would throw that back in his face. Kit had said that to him often enough, when the duke got too deep in his cups and gambled a little too freely. Since when had they switched roles?

Tomorrow, it’s picquet and I’ll double the bet.

Then I shall be two thousand richer. Maybe I’ll buy Bella a new coach and a team of horses.

Kit never took his eyes from his opponent, waiting for him to drop his hand or narrow his stance. Freddy could be quite chatty, especially when he thought he had the upper hand.

I think Bella would be happier if you bought me a new wife. Perhaps she should start offering a dowry for me instead of the other way around.

Ha! What should we sell you for? I do not think there is a high market for battered and bruised marquesses who care more about games of hazard—and breaking other men’s noses—than they do about Court and the manners of good society. What do you think? Five hundred? A thousand?

Kit raised his chin, throwing his nose in the air. Do you not mean a handsome, rich blueblood with five estates and a good bedside disposition? He grinned. What woman could resist that? You should ask for ten thousand.

Freddy laughed and took a swing. Kit dodged him this time, ducking low. They squared off a moment, each getting in a good punch, before they clinched arms around one another—preventing either from getting a good blow in.

Freddy loosened his hold and they resumed their fighting stances.

You know that you will end up giving in to Bella. So why do you resist? Pick a pretty marchioness, stick her in the country and be done with it.

They’d been over this countless times. Kit had no desire to marry. At least not now. He didn’t want some innocent, proper miss without the sense of a sow and he certainly didn’t want a nagging harpy like his sister.

He would never consider dropping his bride off in Essex or Dover and seeing her twice a year, when duty required him to. He’d seen the damage that could do. His aunt had spent her last years lonely and embittered because she’d loved a man who only cared enough for her to send a letter at Christmas and Easter. The infernal reprobate had not even visited her when she was on her deathbed.

To hell with a frosty, vacant marriage. He did not need the money and he could care less about gaining political connections. No. I like my life as it is.

He had his companions. Courtesans and actresses for the most part—or the occasional widow. His women never expected more than a few months of frolic and fun. When it was over, they kept their baubles and he kept his freedom.

If you wait too long, you’ll be so scarred and unsightly no decent woman will have you. By then your prick will be limp and stale and incapable of siring an heir.

He might as well be talking to Bella. If you had not used the word ‘prick’, I’d swear that you were my sister in disguise.

Freddy raised his eyebrows. But we are right. You are thirty-three for Christ’s sake. How long are you going to keep throwing your face in front of any fist that will have you?

Kit got the opening he wanted. "You wish you were me." He punched Freddy in the jaw so hard that the duke staggered back, blood running down his lip.

Do not feel guilty. He begged you to fight him. Kit said nothing, but grabbed a cloth from a table and handed it to Freddy. As he cleaned up, Kit went to the wooden bench, where their clothes were still strewn about, and sat down.

No, Kittrick. I wish no such thing.

When Kit gave him a pointed look, his brother said, You think marriage is such a trial and your sister the biggest trial of all. But I love Bella. Faults and everything. Freddy sat down at the table. Your problem is that you have little care for anyone but yourself.

Now hold on!

A warm hand rested on Kit’s shoulder and Freddy shook his head. I don’t doubt that you love me and Bella in your own way. But the first person on your mind is always you, Daniel. When was the last time you went out of your way for someone else?

It was not true. Had he not come to Oakfield Manor to spend the winter with his family? Because he could think of a hell of a lot more interesting things to do than spending six weeks in the country with Bella and Freddy. But Bella always had a hard time with the holidays. It reminded her too much of the death of their parents.

Mind your own bloody business, Frederick.

Take care of yours and I will.

* * * *

Violet glanced up at the amber and amethyst sky, knowing that time was not her friend. Frost covered the nearby trees and the ground was thick with snow. She needed to get back home before the next storm hit. She’d lingered too long at the Crofts’ farm.

Can you travel more speedily? she asked the driver.

My lady, the ground is slippery. It is not safe to travel any faster.

She bit her lip. It was her own fault, not Hinkley’s, but she had no wish to be out in the midst of a storm.

Crossing her arms, she bundled herself against the cold afternoon air. As she adjusted her pelisse, the curricle came to a halt and jerked her forward.

When she looked up, there was a man standing in the road, but his face was shielded by the shadows of his top hat. His clothes were well-made, but frayed at the edges, and obviously cut for a different frame.

My good lady, if ye wish to pass, ye’ll need to pay a toll.

This was no fine highwayman of legend, despite his polite words. She could see now that a few of his teeth had rotted and his face was scruffy and weathered.

Let us pass, sir. You have no cause to accost us and I have no intention of paying any fee.

Not very smart o’ ye, milady. He whistled. Another man came out from the trees, stepped up to the carriage and yanked Hinkley by his greatcoat and tossed him out of the carriage. He held a knife to her driver’s throat.

Hinkley was three-and-twenty and pretty strong for his size. If she could distract the footpads, would he be able to wiggle out of the man’s grasp? Hinkley gave her a hard look and tried to turn his head as if to say, no. The rusted blade must be dull because she saw no blood when he moved.

She turned back to the first man, who grinned. Now, what say ye? We don’t ask for much. Five guineas should make yer passage easy.

If Hinkley wasn’t afraid, then she would not be either. These were ruffians, not men of honor. Even if she gave them the money, it was no guarantee that the thieves would let them go. Twenty years ago, her grandfather had nearly died fending off robbers on a secluded road—and that was after giving them his purse.

She needed to distract the men, keep them occupied until she could think of something. Five guineas! You must be addled in the head if you think I will part with such a sum.

It was ridiculous. That was half a year’s wages for a scullery maid. Who would ask for that much money? They must be drunk or desperate. If he’d asked her for five shillings, she might have obliged him. A man merely down on his luck wouldn’t ask for an exorbitant sum. These men were the worst sort, which only affirmed her fear that they would not leave at the promise of a few coins.

She lifted her chin and feigned indifference. Take two shillings each and be gone.

The brigand pointed a pistol at her. How were they going to get out of this now? Oh, dear. She could take a chance and pay him the five guineas and hope the promise of the money would be enough to send them off. But what was to stop these foul men from killing them both and running off with her purse and carriage?

A shot rang out and the thief holding the pistol fell over, clutching his chest. Violet looked up. Down the road, she could see someone on a horse. How he’d managed the shot, she wasn’t sure for he was several yards away.

The second footpad leapt onto one of the horses in front, snatching the reins and driving the carriage forward, but this clumsy maneuver caused him to drop his knife. Violet was thrown back in her seat or she would have reached for him. Maybe she could climb forward and hit the thief over the head or shove him from the horse. Not bloody likely. However, she might be able to distract him long enough to give her rescuer time to get close.

The sound of hooves filled her ears as the carriage jostled. They were moving fast. She glanced down the lane. The gentleman dug into a satchel, presumably looking for buckshot and gunpowder. Violet needed to keep the assailant occupied until her rescuer could reload his pistol and come after them.

You should stop now and let me go before you are shot just like your friend, she said.

If he fires that pistol, he’d just as likely shoot ye, milady. So I will keep ye real close for a while.

The thief smelled worse than a wet dog and his long face was covered in blond stubble. He grabbed her waist with one arm. When he looked down at her chest and smiled, she shivered. His breath was almost as bad as the stench of his soiled clothes, and what teeth he had left were brown and yellow. The whiskey on his breath was not a good sign. I might be willing to settle for two crowns and a little sport. If ye behave yourself, neither you nor yer man will get hurt.

She had no intention of letting that odious piece of filth take advantage of her. Violet smacked him across the face. What she wouldn’t give for a weapon. She looked down for something useful. Her reticule did not look promising. There was nothing in it that could be used as a blunt object. She regretted her decision not to replace the pistol in the carriage after the hammer had broken. Highwaymen hadn’t been seen in these parts for the last three years, so she had not thought it necessary.

But now she was in danger and all she had to defend herself with was an empty basket, which she’d brought to the farmer’s cottage to deliver bread and cheese. Not her weapon of choice, but it was handy.

When he turned and lifted a hand to his face, she clobbered him with the basket. He still held the reigns with one hand. She didn’t wait for him to recover, but whacked him again, this time on the side of the face.

He tore off her bonnet and pulled hard on her chignon. Her arm flailed about, basket in hand, as she tried to get in another blow. But this time, the handle snapped off and she was left with a useless piece of twisted wood.

Unless she could manage to pop him in the eye. Desperate times required unseemly measures. So she jabbed the handle at his face, but he managed to tilt his head just in time. The wood grazed his cheek.

He gave her a hard backhanded slap. Her eyes lost focus.

What the devil? How the hell did he get here so fast?

She turned briefly and realized the gentleman was now along side of them, his pistol aimed and ready. But the damned thing was only good for one shot and if he missed, they were in trouble.

Though she tried to turn, the thief grabbed hold of the knotted scarf at her throat and held her in place, keeping her back between him and the other man on the horse.

She coughed and flailed her arms, trying to grab hold of anything that would keep her from falling out of the carriage. Her fingers found the dashboard and she gripped it as tightly as possible and used her foot to kick at his shin.

Bitch!

He let go of the rains and pulled on her scarf, squeezing her air passage.

Release your hold on the lady or I will put a hole in your face. The velvety voice spread over her like honey, thick and warm, but with just a touch of a rumble. It was the kind of voice you wanted to hear whispered low and very close.

She wondered about the face that went with that voice. Would she live to see it? Or would these be her last moments?

This lady be me insurance.

That is a fancy word for a mutton-headed buffoon. Let us see if it does you any good when all is said and done.

Violet would have laughed if she could have. The sound she made came out as the mangled chirp of a bird.

The ruffian quickly turned her about-face, his hand under her throat, and she could now see her knight close up. Ebony hair fell almost to his shoulders and his eyes were the color of dried cloves, dark and fierce. She noted the elegant cut of his jacket and his muscular thighs, which were visible under his open greatcoat. Definitely a wealthy gentleman from the looks of him.

Her gaze went from her savior to his gun. It was far too close for her taste, given the two feet that separated them. Violet did not know much about pistols, but the shiny silver barrel glistened, even in the dimming light of dusk.

Shoot me and the lady will surely die.

When she heard the click of the hammer on the pistol, Violet’s heart skipped. Good God, please let him be a crack shot.

I have always been a gambling man. I shall take my chances.

He was not serious. Would he shoot the other man and risk killing her? Violet looked into his eyes. No. If he were going to shoot the thief, he would have done so. The gentleman bluffed.

Violet decided to use the standoff to her advantage. She elbowed the assailant and kicked hard behind her. The man groaned, but before she could push past him, he’d grabbed a fist full of her hair. Ouch!

The carriage had slowed