Lord Armadale's Iberian Lady

By Sharon Sobel

Will their secrets be the death of them?

Even her family's ball cannot distract Lady Cassandra Eastham from the very serious business of her life-- secretly translating highly confidential documents for agencies of the British and Portuguese governments. When an important message arrives on the night of the ball, Cassandra, eager to read it, escapes to the seclusion of a dark corner. There she is interrupted by Weston Barrington, the Earl of Armadale and a hero in the Peninsula War.

Although Lord Barrington appears eager to resume the life of an English gentleman, Cassandra instinctively distrusts him and refuses to be seduced by his dashing looks. Lord Armadale--West to his friends--believes there is a spy in the Eastman household, but is drawn to Lady Cassandra despite his determination to remain a bachelor. When a brutally injured young woman arrives at Eastham House and dies in the marble foyer, the incident unites him and Cassandra in a dangerous partnership.

The dead woman cannot be an accidental target for murder. Despite being dressed in rags, she looks enough like Lady Cassandra to be her twin sister. And Cassandra might be the murderer's next victim. As Cassandra and West work together to uncover the woman's identity, West comes to realize his responses to his beautiful partner have more to do with desire than detection and deceit. Will he unravel the mystery before he loses the lady with whom he is quickly falling in love?

Sharon Sobel is the author of ten historical and two contemporary romance novels, and served as Secretary and Chapter Liaison of Romance Writers of America. Her short story, The Jilt, has been selected for inclusion in the second RWA anthology of romance fiction. She has a PhD in English Language and Literature from Brandeis University and is an English professor at a Connecticut college, where she co-chaired the Connecticut Writers' Conference for five years. An eighteenth century New England farmhouse, where Sharon and her husband raised their three children, has provided inspiration for either the period or the setting for all of her books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Dec 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781610261043

Sharon Sobel

Sharon Sobel is the author of eight historical and two contemporary romance novels, and served as Secretary and Chapter Liaison of Romance Writers of America. She has a PhD in English Language and Literature from Brandeis University and is an English professor at a Connecticut college, where she co-chaired the Connecticut Writers' Conference for five years. An eighteenth-century New England farmhouse, where Sharon and her husband raised their three children, has provided inspiration for either the period or the setting for all of her books.

Book preview

Lord Armadale’s Iberian Lady

"This Beauty and the Beast themed novel entertains on all levels."

—RT Book Reviews on The Hermitage

Even her family’s ball cannot distract Lady Cassandra Eastham from the very serious business of her life—secretly translating highly confidential documents for agencies of the British and Portuguese governments. When an important message arrives on the night of the ball, Cassandra, eager to read it, escapes to the seclusion of a dark corner. There she is interrupted by Weston Barrington, the Earl of Armadale and a hero in the Peninsula War.

Although Lord Barrington appears eager to resume the life of an English gentleman, Cassandra instinctively distrusts him and refuses to be seduced by his dashing looks. Lord Armadale—West to his friends—believes there is a spy in the Eastman household, but is drawn to Lady Cassandra despite his determination to remain a bachelor. When a brutally injured young woman arrives at Eastham House and dies in the marble foyer, the incident unites him and Cassandra in a dangerous partnership.

The dead woman cannot be an accidental target for murder. Despite being dressed in rags, she looks enough like Lady Cassandra to be her twin sister. And Cassandra might be the murderer’s next victim. As Cassandra and West work together to uncover the woman’s identity, West comes to realize his responses to his beautiful partner have more to do with desire than detection and deceit. But will he unravel the mystery before he loses the lady with whom he is quickly falling in love.

Other Books by Sharon Sobel

The Hermitage

Novellas

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, My True Love

(A Regency Yuletide Anthology Book 1)

In the Season of Light and Love

(One Winter’s Night—A Regency Yuletide Anthology Book 2)

Baby’s First Christmas

(When a Child Is Born—A Regency Yuletide Anthology Book 3)

Miss Montague’s Mistletoe Match

(Mistletoe & Mayhem—A Regency Yuletide Anthology Book 4)

Lord Armadale’s Iberian Lady

by

Sharon Sobel

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-032-9

Print ISBN: 978-1-61026-103-6

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 by Sharon Sobel

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design: Deborah Smith

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Lady (manipulated) © Konradbak | Dreamstime.com

:Eali:01:

For

Sarah Leder Jaffe and Samuel Jaffe

Who came to the United States

Seeking a better life for themselves.

And, in finding it,

Bequeathed that hope and promise to future generations.

We are forever grateful.

Chapter One

CASSANDRA, THE ONLY daughter of the lord of Eastham House, quietly slipped away from the crush of cheerful guests who converged upon the laden tables in the banqueting hall, and sought sanctuary behind one of the sturdy Corinthian columns lining the Eastham ballroom. The lighting was dim, and the private respite would surely be brief. Nevertheless, Cassandra’s curiosity demanded some satisfaction on the matter of a folded letter furtively handed to her nearly an hour before.

The crisp paper crackled as she thrust her fingers into her bodice, trying to retrieve the missive from its secure place between her breasts. But her skin was moist from the exertion of dancing a reel and heated with the excitement of the moment, and the paper would not come easily. She bent from the waist and tugged impatiently.

You must instruct your lover to deliver his words directly to your ear, lady, or risk losing them altogether, said a deep voice, unmistakably mocking and amused. Cassandra slipped the moist paper into the palm of her hand. She hesitated to confront the speaker without some effort to rearrange the lace that had slipped down into her fashionably cut neckline, but the awkwardness of her position made the task almost impossible to accomplish gracefully. She preferred not to greet any of her parents’ guests in such a manner, and to meet someone for the first time thusly was simply inappropriate.

But there seemed no hope to make adjustments just now, and so she left her lace as it was.

I do not have a lover, sir, she said without the slightest bit of flirtatiousness and straightened, her hand still at her breast. She was not altogether surprised to meet the vivid blue gaze of Weston Barrington, the Fourth Earl of Armadale.

His obvious amusement faded, replaced by a rather serious, appraising air. His unrelenting gaze remained upon her flushed face for a few moments before shifting downward to her lips, her neck, and to her immodest décolletage. Cassandra cared nothing for what this rude and disconcerting man thought of her. And yet, absurdly, she hoped that her blushing skin and the poor illumination obscured the red Madeira mark that had stained her breast since her birth.

It is a pity, then, he said softly, and she knew he studied the cursed stain and, like most men, was repulsed by her imperfection.

She was all too well accustomed to such responses, for she’d heard them all her life. But somehow she had not the heart for it this evening, with this man she scarcely knew. She closed her eyes, too weary for his pity and too impatient for his false flattery, and turned away.

I wonder if there is a man worthy to correct such an unfortunate circumstance, he mused.

Cassandra’s eyes opened wide as she looked back, over her shoulder at his self-satisfied smile that now left her in no doubt what he meant.

Indignation replaced her weariness. That he should proposition her here, in her father’s house! Did he not realize whom he addressed so boldly? Or what her large brothers would do to him if they were to hear of his impudence?

And yet, as she lifted her chin and turned back to confront him, a small voice within her whispered that her birthmark, of which she felt continually aware, did not seem to matter to him at all.

She looked at him steadily for several moments, trying to repress her unaccustomed giddiness.

It is not so very unfortunate, my lord, she said rather primly. And, in any case, I do not see how it is any concern of yours. Although your offer of assistance may be well-intended, I am not usually receptive to strangers who accost me in dark places.

The gentleman looked around him, as if noticing for the first time their isolation from the throng of guests at her family’s ball.

I apologize, my lady. Would it help if I introduce myself?

Indeed, it would not. She was already fully aware of his identity, his lofty credentials, and his reputation as a hero of the war in Portugal. But even without those, or without recalling her brother’s promise to invite Weston Barrington, the Fourth Earl of Armadale, to the next Eastham affair, she nevertheless had noticed this man as soon as he came through the portals of their home.

He was an individual who would stand out in any company. His considerable height and breadth would have guaranteed it, but the extraordinary color of his hair seemed a beacon atop his tall figure. It was very red and very bright, untarnished by age or indifferent care, and was truly the first thing one noticed about him.

Thus had Cassandra guessed his identity an hour ago as he first stood flanked by his brother, James Barrington, and hers, Harold Eastham. But when the trio started to make its way towards her, the men were interrupted by the start of the first set. Since then, she had been dancing steadily for almost an hour, interrupted only by the strange, dark messenger who had handed her the mysterious letter. And now by Armadale, who prevented her from reading it.

Close to him at last, she admired other features of his handsome person not readily apparent from across the room. His brows, several shades darker than his hair, boldly punctuated his blue eyes and gave them a certain depth of expression. His nose was a bit long and lost any pretensions it might have had to perfection by the evidence of a break across its bridge. Whatever the cause of the injury, it could not have been recent, for the clear skin around it looked tanned and healthy. And his chin, close shaved, revealed an endearing cleft. Cassandra, for all her indignation, was sorely tempted to place her finger upon it.

I already know who you are, my lord. The only advantage of an introduction would be for you to know who I am, she whom you have addressed so presumptuously.

He smiled at her, causing her steady heart to beat erratically and her color to rise once again. But her reason intervened, reminding her she would respond nervously to anyone who interrupted her furtive act, regardless of how charming or handsome he might be.

You are, most surely, Lady Cassandra de Amoreira Eastham, the only daughter of my gracious host. I apologize for my boldness, but I have lived out of England for some time and have become unpracticed in the proprieties.

He bowed very low, and Cassandra caught the evocative scent of something familiar but elusive. For some reason, she thought of her old Portuguese nurse, and then realized Armadale spoke her own full name in the accents of an Iberian native. Instead, it appears, you have become practiced in the vernacular. There are few English gentlemen who would pronounce my name as faultlessly as you have, my lord.

But of course. He nodded and gave a little shrug as characteristic of the Portuguese manner as his accent. Your father, however, is another. We both embrace the Iberian culture with a passion.

Cassandra was momentarily shocked at his words, but then managed a smile. Perhaps Armadale did not realize the extent of his own cleverness.

You have made a very rude pun, my lord. Surely, as you already seem to know so much about me, you must be aware my mother was Portuguese.

Indeed I do, my lady. You and your brothers appear to be indebted to her for your rare and fine features. But for your height—and theirs—you could easily pass for a lady in the court of the House of Avis.

Armadale was not the first to suggest as much to her, and she was sure it had been noted of John and Harold as well. But through all the years of her life, living entirely in Windsor, it had been a sensitive point. After all, the great beauties of the age were flaxen haired, peach-fleshed angels. Cassandra, with her glossy jet hair and smooth ivory skin, had never fully been a part of their heavenly company. But now, absurdly, the casual words of an indifferent stranger somehow made her feel ever so much above the women she had envied all her life.

Your flattery is wasted on me, my lord, Cassandra lied. I have lived in England all my life and could no sooner be a part of that foreign court than I could be a sailor upon the seas.

Armadale studied her for several moments and then, surprisingly, held out his elbow for her to accept him. She rightly should have turned her back to him again and finally read the letter still nagging her for attention. But he proved even more compelling. Palming the letter in her left hand, Cassandra readjusted her lace with the right, before placing it on the fine worsted of his sleeve.

You have no interest, then, in visiting the land of your mother’s birth? he asked, as he led her back into the warmth of the room’s glowing candlelight.

Cassandra thought of the stories her father told about gardens in warmer and sunnier climates, of her nurse Maria Isabel’s poignant homesickness for her native Obidos, of her mother’s family, strangers to them all. She thought of the mysterious letter, still crushed in her hand, undoubtedly replete with information about the rebuilding of the Jeronimos Monastery in Lisbon.

I have a great deal of interest in seeing the places I have heard so much about, my lord. But it has long been impossible. My mother died when I was an infant, and her family, convinced the English air had something to do with it, has not been welcoming. But even if they were, I am far too busy to leave England just now.

Armadale drew her out onto the ballroom floor, nearly empty now since most of the dancers stood in the adjacent room at the buffet tables. In the well-dressed crowd, Cassandra could distinguish the handsome figures of her two older brothers and several of her previous dancing partners.

Of course, Armadale agreed, though something in his voice conspired to make the words oddly disparaging. A young lady such as yourself, concerned only with balls, and gaming, and eligible bachelors, could scarcely remove herself from the social scene in order to indulge in a voyage of discovery.

His sarcasm was unmistakable. Cassandra could only wonder why such a man, who would be refused by no lady here tonight, sought her out with the sole intention of being offensive.

You have endeavored to confound me, my lord, by demonstrating how very much you know about me and my family. And yet, these very words belie any comprehension of my character. I am concerned with a good many things besides sporting with men and am not a very active participant in activities designed for nothing else but flirtation. My vouchers to Almack’s often go unused, much to the consternation of my stepmother, who would have it otherwise. Cassandra paused to catch her breath. When I say I am busy, it is because I am very much involved in my father’s work, helping him with his correspondence and organizing his papers. Indeed, I am certain he could not manage without me.

Cassandra stopped, biting down on her lip. She had already said more than she had intended.

You must prove an invaluable helpmate, my lady. Do you . . .

West! Cassie! I knew you two would find each other! came a voice far too loud and certainly too cheerful.

Cassandra quickly slipped her hand from Armadale’s elbow and turned around to face John, her oldest brother and heir to the Eastham estate. He was followed now—as always, it seemed—by their brother Harold and Harold’s friend James Barrington. James, a dear sweet boy who could always be counted upon to rescue her when she lacked for a partner, was nothing like his arrogant, imposing older brother.

John, she said tersely and acknowledged the other two men with a nod. But you misunderstand the situation, for it is not like that at all. Indeed, Lord Armadale found me, just at the moment when I sought escape from the rest of the company. Cassandra turned to their friend and smiled sweetly. You have told us so much about your brother, James, but have never before brought him to Eastham House. At last, I understand why.

James Barrington slipped a finger between his collar and neck as if he were being strangled and looked uneasily at Armadale.

But John saved him the trouble of defending actions of which he certainly was unaware. Surely, Armadale, you are not boring my sister with tales of your war exploits? And at such a time? Lady Cassandra will have opportunity enough to hear about them in the weeks ahead.

Cassandra sucked in her breath and looked from one man to the other, wishing one did not appear so pleased while the other so smug. "What an unexpected delight. Do you intend to move in with us at Eastham House, Lord Armadale? My father’s collection of the finest vinhos verdes might be reason enough for a guest at a ball to decide to remain with us for an extended stay."

It must be a compelling reason for many, but I regret that in all my years of living in Portugal, I have never developed a palate for their green wine, said Armadale smoothly. But now it appears I will find other things to tempt me.

Though surely not away from your own home? James has often told me your town house is second to none in London. Have you not missed its comforts in all the while you were on the Continent? Cassandra countered coyly.

I found comforts enough in Portugal, Armadale said pointedly. But the Barrington Arms is undergoing a full restoration just now and shall be uninhabitable for several more weeks. It seems I neglected it by my absence.

Do you not recall I told you as much, Lady Cassandra? James said, sounding a little desperate.

Cassandra glared at him. Indeed, she did recall something of the matter. But it was one thing when James Barrington invited himself to stay at Eastham House and quite another when his brother did the same. It was so like her brothers to bring in every stray dog off the street, and so like dear Emma Grace, their stepmother, to encourage them all the way. Especially if the stray proved handsome, noble, clever, and did not stain the carpets.

But in truth, while they all wanted the best for her, none of them knew what it was she wanted herself.

Indeed, at the moment she was not so very sure what she wanted.

I could not be so ungracious to deny you temporary shelter, my lord, she said. But I must stipulate certain terms to the arrangement.

The two sets of brothers stared at her, their surprise very evident. They were certainly justified in being so, for as a young lady living in the house of her father, stepmother, and two older brothers, Cassandra could have very little say in the running of the household.

Yes, madam, Armadale said deferentially and bowed. Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra saw John and Harold smiling mischievously. She silently vowed to ask Cook to serve their least favorite foods on the morrow. I will do whatever you ask of me.

Cassandra thought of several things which would give her a good degree of satisfaction, but did not wish to shock her solicitous brothers.

I will not have you interfering with my father and his work, my lord. His library is his private sanctuary, and he is very easily distracted from papers requiring his attention. You must promise me you will not trespass.

Cassandra saw at once she had surprised him and wondered what he thought she would otherwise have demanded of him. Briefly, she espied the indecision, the slightest hesitancy in his manner, and she felt the irrational tug of suspicion. But what could possibly interest the Earl of Armadale among Lord Eastham’s books and papers?

I do so promise, my lady. Though I will confess I am dismayed by the prospect. I am considered a bookish person, and the deprivation of your father’s collection will be keenly felt.

Cassandra looked at their audience, expecting one of them to dispute Armadale’s point. When they did not, she plunged into her rebuttal with nothing more than the strength of her intuition.

A bookish person, my lord? Surely that is a description far removed from the reputation you enjoy.

Reports of my exploits are greatly exaggerated. You need only look at the library at Barrington Arms or at my Derbyshire estate to be convinced of my more intellectual pursuits.

I do not expect to ever avail myself of the opportunity. But if such is the case, you may surely transport as many of your volumes as you wish to be temporarily housed here. We shall respect your privacy in such matters as you respect our father’s.

John began to utter some protest, but Armadale cut him off. You are a very strict mistress, my lady, but I will comply in all you ask, he said in a very sincere voice. In fact, he sounded so honorable Cassandra at once decided she would have to watch him very closely. But there is one favor I would ask of you in return.

Cassandra raised her brows, surprised at the temerity of the man. Those who are supplicants usually know when to stop asking for more, she said loftily.

This time John managed to get in some words, but only just. I say, Cassie, if you think . . .

Cassandra stopped him with nothing more than putting her hand upon his sleeve. I think nothing, John. But I am curious to hear what Lord Armadale has to say.

Armadale grinned cheerfully, as if the last fifteen minutes had not occurred.

What I request is surely the most important of all I have to say. Indeed, I intended to ask it when first I met the beautiful Lady Cassandra. Armadale paused and bent slightly from the waist. In the language of her mother, he continued. Would you grant me your favor for the next dance?

It was not at all what Cassandra expected, to be charmed into compliance. She would have accepted him, against her best judgment. But propriety made other demands upon her.

I have already promised it to another, she said, truthfully, and looked around her. She was sure Mr. Peters, the young vicar, was around somewhere.

And yet he has not come to claim you, Armadale answered smoothly. Even though the music has already started.

Indeed, the first strains of a waltz were already being played, and many couples waited expectantly on the dance floor. Mr. Peters, the traitor, should have remembered his promise, but he was nowhere in sight. Cassandra looked up at Armadale and guessed he had scared away any rivals on the very strength of his presence.

Do they waltz in Portugal, my lord? she asked calmly, trying to ease the erratic beating of her heart. Or should I expect you to step on my toes and lead me into a marble column?

He reached for her right hand and grasped it a bit too firmly, as if expecting her to suddenly bolt. If he had reached for her other hand, still concealing the folded letter, she might very well have done so. But instead, she smiled as he nodded to her brothers and James and pulled her out into the center of the floor.

They do not waltz in Portugal, he said, his lips very close to her ear. But I believe you will find me a very respectable partner. I will not step on your toes, whatever I do. And I would be delighted to lead you to some very excellent things, though a marble column in Eastham House is not one of them. What do you say to that, my lady?

For once, Cassandra Eastham said nothing at all.

WESTON BARRINGTON, Lord Armadale, pressed his body against the wood paneling in the first floor hallway of Eastham House and held his breath while he waited for the footsteps to pass. They seemed to be coming from above him, perhaps from some restless sleeper, or from an adventurous lover stealthily seeking entrance to his lady’s chambers. There were several guests who, like himself, were invited to spend the night. He wondered how many would be likely to stay longer. He also wondered if Lady Cassandra favored any one of them.

He had not counted on the younger sister of John and Harold to be such a temptress. When they, or his brother James, deigned to mention her, it was always to describe her as one of their companions, a helpmate rather than a desirable little beauty. Well, he did not have sisters, but he supposed their reaction was natural enough. And James, who had spent so much of his time here in the years his older brother was out of the country, had probably known her since she was a little girl. Only now did Armadale recall some story about Cassandra besting James in an archery contest and how his brother retaliated by pushing her out into a lake in a rowboat without oars. James had thought it riotously funny that the chit had shed several layers of clothing and managed to swim to shore without incident.

West thought his own reaction would have been something very different. In fact, he would very much have liked to have been standing at the shore of that lake.

He let out his breath, certain there was no one else afoot. The night walker had settled in somewhere, finding comfort in the hours before dawn.

West hoped to find something else.

He edged along the wall, guided by his well-honed instincts, until he felt the hard metal of a latch in his back. He did not believe he had already reached his destination, but lifted it anyway, hoping to fill in the blanks of his mental map of Eastham House.

The room he entered was dark, though not as relentlessly so as the hallway. The faint glow of coals still lit the fireplace and cast a warm, eerie light on some of the furnishings. West made out the distinct shape of a harp and briefly wondered if it belonged to Cassandra. Somehow he could not see her bent over its strings and preferred to imagine it the province of her stepmother, Lady Emma Grace Eastham.

Without warning, he stumbled over the leg of a small bench and tensed his muscles as it crashed to the floor. Curse Lady Cassandra for distracting him so! He would not have made such a mistake in a million years but for her enticing hold on his imagination. He bent low, blindly felt for the offending legs, and endeavored to put it upright next to the pianoforte.

Managing to right it without additional mishap, he patted the cushioned seat as he eyed the pianoforte. Here was an instrument he could better associate with the young lady, her long fingers pressing against the ivory keys with the same sort of assurance they exhibited when they had played against his own palm when he danced with her several hours earlier. She was too delicately bred to understand what she had done to him then.

West dismissed her from his thoughts even as he dismissed the elegant music room from this night’s agenda. As the lady had not forbidden him entry here, he was sure to return in the future. And possibly gratify some of his curiosity.

But not tonight.

He found his way back to the hallway without mishap, and by the pink light of the coming sunrise suddenly filtering in through the rotunda, knew he’d spent too much time blundering around in the music room. He regretted not changing from his evening dress, for his white shirt looked like a beacon in the dawning light. What must be done must therefore be done quickly.

He passed over the next door, knowing it to be a servant’s closet. And then the next, remembering the small drawing room where Lady Eastham had held court while her guests wore through their dancing slippers. Lord Eastham had remained beside her throughout the evening, smiling a little stupidly at one comment or another, and resembling nothing so much as a punished schoolboy.

West reached the last door and, even as he reached into his breast pocket for the slim metal instruments he intended to use to open the lock, realized the door stood slightly ajar.

Some fortuitous oversight on the part of a weary servant had given him this gift, and he could scarcely believe his excellent luck. With time so scarce, he could take advantage of circumstances and accomplish his mission with a fair degree of efficiency. Once done, he would not need to gratify the young lady of the house with any display of curiosity about the place strictly forbidden to him.

He stepped into the library, and the heady scent of leather, polish, and yellowing paper assailed him like old, familiar friends. West enjoyed nothing so much as the scents of a fine book collection.

Well, that was not entirely accurate. But he did like such places very much indeed.

He glanced up at the shelves lining the perimeter of the octagonal room and saw his own dark reflection in the glass protecting them. Closer at hand were three long tables, one a good deal wider than the others. West crossed the floor to see what huge books lay upon it and smacked his lips in satisfaction when he realized they were atlases. One remained open, a small scrap of lace marking someone’s place.

An odd bookmark for Lord Eastham, West thought as he explored a sort of vertical file in which individual maps were suspended by thin dowels. He lifted one and then another, but the light was still too scarce for him to do anything more than make out the general shapes of continents and waterways. He would return to them, perhaps on a day when the whole family was away from Eastham House, and he managed to feign some illness to avoid accompanying them. Even if these maps were not pertinent to his investigation, he would still like very much to study them.

He sighed, wondering if the lady somehow knew how much he desired the one thing she would not allow him. He did not recall saying anything that might have given his plan away, nor did he make any appeal to John or Harold that might have gotten back to their younger sister. But the only other explanation was that some instinct had warned her, had insisted he stay away from this, his avowed destination, her father’s sanctuary.

He heard the sound of a second sigh in the still night, and it was several moments before he realized it did not come from his own soul.

West ducked down beneath the shelter of one of the tables and wondered if his imagination was prompting him into recklessness. It might have been the wind on the terrace, though he recalled the night was calm. It might have been the satisfied slumber of a pet dog, though surely a beast would not be allowed admittance into this chamber.

Leaning with one elbow on the polished wood of the table, he squinted into the darkness.

And caught her sweet, elusive scent even before he actually saw her at the large desk.

Lady Cassandra’s dark curls tumbled out onto a sheath of white papers, which pillowed her shoulders and bent arms. She wore a lacy shawl, which would have afforded better protection against the chill if she had managed to keep it properly around her. But it had slipped under her and partially onto the floor, and her creamy skin was exposed to the air. And to West’s view.

She sighed again and moved in her sleep. He wondered what might have been so compelling to cause a young lady to escape to a dark and lonely library, still dressed in the elegant gown worn to her parents’ ball, until exhaustion made her drop her head upon the table. Indeed, it could have been no ordinary quest. Nor was Lady Cassandra an ordinary lady.

West, no stranger to risk and danger, nevertheless emboldened himself to approach her. If she found him here, she would undoubtedly oust him forever from Eastham House, and his mission would be a failure. And if she wished to punish him further, she could very well claim he had compromised her. Given the hour and the place, it would be ungentlemanly to dispute her.

Perhaps then, he mused, he should have to marry her. It carried the scheme a little to the extreme, but the end result might be just as satisfactory. Given her beauty and sharp wit, such an alliance would be more than satisfactory, he thought, avoiding the temptation to draw her shawl around her shoulders.

At last he stood just behind her, blocking the light from the largest of the library windows. He could make out the handwriting on the papers pressed against her breast and thought it looked familiar. Next to her, tucked under a weighted glass, was a sketch of a tower, its stones tightly integrated. And in her hand was a crumbled piece of paper.

Here, surely, was the letter she had received this very night, cupped in the hand that rested casually on his shoulder as he danced with her and enjoyed some vantage point over several parts of her anatomy. Whatever its contents, it had compelled her to respond this very night. And, therefore, he desired it very much.

Bending carefully over her body, West reached out, grasped the edge of the paper and tugged at it. But Lady Cassandra, it seemed, was on guard even in her sleep. Her fingers held the paper and would not give even an inch.

West grunted in frustration and tried again. This time, her thumb wadded the paper into a little ball

Reviews for Lord Armadale's Iberian Lady

[eyes92c · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

…an atlas ‘remained open, a small scrap of lace marking someone’s place.’This is not just your run of the mill regency historical romance.Intrigue, murder and politics hide around corners and in places no sane lady would tread. Caught in the middle of secrets, the Napoleonic wars, Portugal and the Iberian peninsular as the centre pieces, Lady Cassandra has a hard time knowing who to trust. Lord Armadale, (Weston Barrington, or rather West) with all he has to hide may pursue her secrets but can he be trusted with her heartThe storyline provides more than just the 'rake meets daughter of the house' canon and is an entertaining read A NetGalley ARC