Mad With Love

By Annabel Joseph

The Viscount Marlow’s got a reputation for wildness and wicked behavior. He’s earned the nickname “Mad Marlow” through years of determined vice, but now he’s in love with his friend’s sister, the glitteringly pure Lady Rosalind. She’s kind, polite, obedient, and well-respected—in short, everything he’ll never be. Whispered promises and a secret kiss lead to a marriage proposal, one her protective parents dismiss out of hand.

That should be the end of their provocative love affair, but instead, it’s the beginning of a journey fraught with deceit and danger, and passionate disciplinary sessions for a young woman Marlow fears he’ll never deserve...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annabel Joseph
• Release date: Sep 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005730796

Annabel Joseph

Annabel Joseph is a NYT and USA Today Bestselling BDSM romance author. She writes mainly contemporary romance, although she’s been known to dabble in the medieval and Regency eras. She is known for writing emotionally intense BDSM storylines, and strives to create characters that seem real—even flawed—so readers are better able to relate to them. Annabel also writes non-BDSM romance under the pen name Molly Joseph.You can follow Annabel on Twitter (@annabeljoseph) or Facebook (facebook.com/annabeljosephnovels), or sign up for her mailing list at annabeljoseph.com.She's always working on something new, so stay tuned!

Book preview

A Guide to the Properly Spanked Families

(and the characters you’ll meet in this story)

George Bernard, Viscount Marlow

(the hero of this book)

eldest son of

The Earl and Countess of Warren

aka Warren and Josephine from

To Tame A Countess

Due to his wild bachelor lifestyle, our hero is occasionally referred to by the hated moniker Mad Marlow

The Marquess of Townsend

eldest son of

The Duke and Duchess of Lockridge,

aka Hunter and Aurelia from

Training Lady Townsend

Townsend settled down with his naturalist wife Jane in the last book, A Proper Lord’s Wife. He is the oldest brother of Rosalind, heroine of this tale.

The Marquess of Wescott

eldest son of

The Duke and Duchess of Arlington,

aka Arlington and Gwen from

Under A Duke’s Hand

Wescott married Ophelia during the first book, Rival Desires. His youngest sister Elizabeth is best friends with Rosalind, the heroine of this book.

The Earl of Augustine

eldest son of

The Marquess and Marchioness of Barrymore

aka Minette and Augustine from

My Naughty Minette

Lord Augustine remains unattached with no love in sight, save his unrequited longing for Townsend’s oldest sister, Felicity, now married to an Italian prince.

Chapter One

A Rabbit Funeral

London, 1823

George Bernard, most commonly known as The Honorable Viscount Marlow, leaned against a tree in his friend’s town house garden, surveying the crowd of mourners from his vantage point near the back. At the garden’s edge, beside a small, white memorial, his friend the Marquess of Townsend delivered a eulogy for his wife’s deceased pet rabbit. A fully serious eulogy, spoken with great tenderness and not a hint of dry sarcasm.

Lord Townsend, the driest of dry at sarcasm. Lord Townsend, formerly rumored to be heartless.

This was the same Townsend who used to spank the courtesans at Pearl’s for looking at him the wrong way. Lofty, cynical, stick-up-his-arse Townsend, now lovingly eulogizing Bouncer the rabbit before dozens of guests because his wife had cared for the creature as a pet. What had come of the world? What had come of him and his friends’ raucous bachelorhoods? Why were all of them here in Townsend’s back garden paying tribute to a dead rabbit who, incidentally, had been consumed by Lady Townsend’s pet python?

He shook his head, then disguised the movement by jerking his long hair out of his eyes. He was here mourning the rabbit too in this unforeseen new existence. Reckless, dashing, you-mustn’t-marry-him Marlow was standing amongst all the others with his head bowed in respect.

To a rabbit.

Lately consumed by a snake.

He stifled a sigh and shifted his weight to his other foot. Could he leave yet? He liked both Townsend and his wife Jane very much, but if he had to withstand another moment of their cloying affection for one another at this damned rabbit funeral, he might well scale the tree he stood beside and fling himself from its highest bough.

He allowed himself to imagine, as an amusement, his own funeral following hot on the trail of this one, perhaps in this same garden for convenience. Would the ton mourn him more or less than Lady Townsend’s rabbit? Hard to say.

He was shaken from his dreaming by a half-hearted cheer offered up to Bouncer’s memory by his cousin Lord Augustine. Good old August. He could always be counted on to be artless at the most entertaining times. Now people would mingle and say what a good rabbit Bouncer had been, and eat some of the glorious repast set out for guests. They’d sit in the bright spring sun and speak of the Season’s highlights so far, the best balls, the most brilliant matches… If his mother could catch him, she would tell him which young ladies of the first water were still available, should he wish to pay his addresses.

He did not wish to pay his addresses. Ever.

Better to steal away, to seek a hiding place where he could be here but not really be here. Once everyone started mingling, this tree near the back would not be hidden enough. Even here, Rosalind, Townsend’s youngest sister, had found him. She’d caught his gaze three separate times, peering back at him from her spot near the front. Each time their eyes met he could tell she felt caught in a transgression. She’d drop her gaze and turn away, pretending to speak to her mother or her cousin.

Sweet Rosalind, his joy and agony, his flame and burn.

He wasn’t sure when he’d become aware that Rosalind loved him, whether it was before or after he’d developed feelings for her. Why did she idolize him? Who knew? Perhaps she’d been born with some predilection for men with blond hair, or his particular tall, rangy build. It wasn’t his character or anything he’d done for her. He had no redeeming qualities. Not like her.

Marlow had watched Rosalind grow from a honey-haired child to a quiet, shy teenager and now a demure young woman new on the marriage scene. He’d always felt protective of her; they all had, for she had a delicate way about her that inspired protective feelings.

But at some point, his protective instincts had reeled drunkenly sideways into something else, something she must never understand, something she wouldn’t be capable of understanding with her virginal glances and blushes. He could not admit the twisted fantasies he entertained because she was so bright, wholesome, and untouchable, and he so perverse.

He dreamed of stripping away her virginity, certainly, thrusting through her maidenhood and making her cry out in shock and wonder. That was not so awfully bad, but then he dreamed of trapping her in bondage, sometimes rope, sometimes leather, or even manacles and chains. He imagined her crying, begging for freedom as he did things to her body no delicately bred lady would consent to. He pictured her sobbing as he spanked or whipped her unmarked, virgin arse. He imagined the rasp of her breath as he choked her on his—

Mad Marlow. You utter, mad pervert. You’ve earned that name.

He pushed from the tree, turned on his heel and set off across Townsend’s gardens. He didn’t wish to be noticed or drawn back into the chattering group of friends and relatives. He didn’t deserve to be among these good people. While Townsend had been preparing himself to preside over this blasted rabbit funeral, Marlow had spent last night with three whores at Pearl’s, beating one of them and fucking the other two until Madame Pearl herself suggested he go home.

He hadn’t done anything against the rules, hadn’t done anything the girls resisted. He’d only done so much to them for so long, and for the fourth time that week. He and August generally visited Pearl’s on the weekends to enjoy some of the livelier girls together, but now he went on other days alone because he didn’t want his friend to see how far he’d fallen into profligacy and lechery.

Take your demons and go, Lord Marlow, Pearl had said to him, pocketing the tip he shamefacedly handed over. Come back in a day or two.

Cast out of Pearl’s like a demon from hell, mad Lord Marlow. He’d felt dirty before that ignominious episode, filthy, unfit. He felt even dirtier now, having locked eyes with Rosalind in a beautiful, sunlit garden. That one second of beauty brought dozens of dark fantasies to mind. Binding, crying, trapping, owning, defiling, hurting, wanting… At the bottom of all the filth, he simply wanted her, but he couldn’t have her. Never mind his title or that he cut a fine, tall figure. Never mind that his pale blue eyes marked him out as uniquely handsome among the ton’s eligible bachelors.

When debutantes asked their mamas and papas about dashing Viscount Marlow, they shook their heads. They knew him for what he was—an imposter and wastrel. He fought too much, seduced too many women, frequented too many taverns, and did everything too carelessly for anyone’s peace of mind. He was no more a fine aristocrat than the stray dogs fucking in London’s alleyways. He was as good a marriage prospect as the snake that had swallowed Jane’s pet rabbit whole.

He arrived at Townsend’s greenhouse and entered through the glass-paneled door, then leaned back against it, letting the sudden warmth soothe his tense muscles. The glass enclosure smelled of flowers and loam, of growing things. Of summer following spring. He turned and saw Townsend walk past with Jane and another gentleman, a Cambridge naturalist he’d met earlier. Someone interested in the rabbit-eating snake, no doubt. At least Jane looked happy again.

As they continued past, he saw Rosalind break away from the clusters of funeral guests and drift toward the refreshment tables. He should not stand behind the glass and stare, no, he shouldn’t. But he did. He loved the way she moved, so gracefully, but not in an affected way. Some women of the ton tried to float, tripping from toe to toe and wafting their arms in the air until they looked ridiculous. Rosalind floated without trying.

She wore soft lilac today, a gown nearly matched to the wisteria along the far garden wall. Her full, upswept hair was some shade between gold and mahogany, and her eyes, though he couldn’t see them now, were some shade between blue, silver, and gray. He knew these colors intimately, had committed them to memory for use in his many unwholesome fantasies.

He bit his lip as she trailed her fingers along the table, then skirted around it. Even that seemed sensual, the way she moved her hands and shifted her hips. But fantasies were as far as it could go. He would not, could not, act upon any impulses. She was meant for marriage to the Marquess of Brittingham, something he’d slowly become aware of as he’d heard the man around town, talking about Rosalind’s family as if he’d already married into it. When the Duke and Duchess of Lockridge invited Brittingham and his parents to a series of private dinners, his suspicions were confirmed, although Rosalind seemed oblivious to her impending engagement.

Something seized in his gut when he imagined Brittingham touching her. Safe, kind, boring Brittingham who spoke with calm intelligence and had probably never entertained a perverse urge in his life.

He turned away from Rosalind. Why torture himself? Better to hide in this glass house and…

What was there to do? Look at flowers? He felt viciously out of sorts, but he gently stroked the petals of the rosa damascenas blooming in profusion beside him, then made a slow progression down the line of flowers expertly cultivated by Townsend’s gardeners. He knew their names from his forays to London’s best perfumeries, buying gifts for whores. Rosa gallica, rosa moschata, jasmine, heliotrope… In the far corner a lemon tree held court, with deep green leaves and clusters of yellow fruit.

He reached to tap one of the firm, smooth lemons. You survived the lemonade massacre, he said to it. Your unlucky compatriots had to give their lives for the rabbit mourners outside.

Marlow?

Rosalind’s soft voice startled him. He’d been so engrossed in his horticultural inspections he hadn’t heard her come in. He turned, feeling the eternal push-pull as soon as their eyes met. You’re beautiful. I want to fuck you. You’re ethereal, magic.

I’m too filthy for words.

Rosalind, he said aloud. Care for a lemon?

She gave a small smile, languid, somewhat mournful. They were at a funeral, even though the tree’s cover and the sound-dampening glass walls made him feel very detached from the guests outside. He looked around, beyond her. Did this count as being alone together? Was being in a transparent glass house the same as being in a private room? He did not want to besmirch her sterling reputation.

Nor did he want her to leave.

What are you doing in here? she asked. I thought I heard you speaking to someone.

No, I was… Talking to some lemons like a madman. Talking to myself, mostly. It’s been an interesting afternoon.

I felt so bad for poor Jane, losing her bunny in such an awful way.

Yes.

How did this sweet, soft-spoken young woman reduce him to one-word utterances? How did she make his heart race like a jackrabbit in his chest?

Should she be standing so close to him? Should they be here alone? Anyone could look in at them, but no one was.

Are you sad too? she asked. I suppose Jane can get another rabbit, but to have it die in such a grisly manner… I can’t help thinking of the poor thing’s final moments, how it must have felt being overpowered and gulped, oh, gulped right down a snake’s dark gullet. It must have felt so frightened.

Dear God, she was about to cry. He held out his hand and she took it. Her gloved fingers were so light, so delicate. He wanted to overpower her, to gulp her down. And yes, she would be so frightened.

The natural world can be brutal. His voice sounded tight and crisp. It’s the way of things, unfortunately.

He ought to let go of her hand. Instead she moved closer, gazing at him with her dewy, blue-gray eyes.

It makes me think about life, you know? About how strange and ungovernable it is, and how any time it might be taken from us.

My dear, it was only a rabbit.

Marlow. Her voice had gone from gentle to frantic. Not loud-frantic, but whispery-frantic. Her eyes held his. "Don’t you see?"

He still held her hand down low, where someone passing by would not view it. See what?

Her gaze chided him. Don’t you see? Don’t you see I love you?

Rosalind. He let out a shaky breath. We should not be alone here.

Why? We’re very old friends.

Don’t you see? Don’t you?

Marlow, I wish you would… That you could… She bit her lip. Perhaps it is only the funeral and all the emotion…

It is, he said. Rosalind—

I love you, she said in the tone of a confession. You know that I do, that I have adored you for so long. And now I’m coming to feel that it needs to be said openly. I think, perhaps, you have feelings for me too? She let go of his hand to bring her palms to her face. Oh, I humiliate myself.

Rosalind.

He kept saying her name because he didn’t know what else to say, how to proceed. They’d never spoken of the feelings between them, never acknowledged them publicly or privately. He took her hands from her face because she shouldn’t feel humiliated. Why, she was brave. For all her demure shyness, she was the one who’d finally admitted to their secret bond. He stroked her smooth, pinkening cheeks. Soft as rosa damascenas, delicate as rosa gallica. I adore you. I do. Rosalind, you know this. But we can’t be with one another. It’s not possible.

Why?

Your brother. Your parents. Your future husband.

She gazed at him, undeterred. You could be my husband.

I don’t think your parents would accept a betrothal between us, he said, withdrawing his hands. No, she was not for him to marry. Not even to touch. Didn’t anyone care that she was here, so close to him, so close to ruin?

If I talked to them, if I told them how we felt about one another, they would understand.

Your parents know how we feel about each other. His voice was going sharp again. They just don’t acknowledge it. You must ask yourself why.

I suppose you have a bit of a wild reputation, but it’s nothing that can’t be worked out. Rehabilitated. My brother was an awful rake with no inclination to settle down and marry, and look at him now, how content he is with Jane. Everyone says what a fine man he’s become in marriage. She blinked at him, at his implacable frown. I believe we can make them see. Marlow, please. I love you so much. It’s not a passing whim, some girlish fantasy. There is something between us. A pull. A rightness. A destiny. You know it as well as I.

Every word of her impassioned speech tormented him. It was true, there was a pull, but there could be no match between them because of his wildness and poor conduct. He wasn’t good enough to be worthy of her and that was his own fault. It infuriated him, made him hate himself.

You must go, he said, avoiding her teary eyes. He stared at lemons instead. You shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be here alone together.

What if we ran away? What if we went to Gretna Green and eloped?

He took her arm, pulling a stern face. Don’t imagine such things. It would be a shame on both our families. Nothing must dishonor you. You are pure and upstanding, and you must remain so.

And I must lose you. She gave a very un-Rosalind-like cry of frustration. It is too high a price.

She moved toward him, her gaze tortured. He let her come close, meaning to comfort her, but then their lips were an inch away, a half inch, and they were kissing. He was quite sure, when he thought back later, that both of them had done it, had moved forward against fate and propriety and stolen the kiss they should not have. Her lips were intoxicating, soft and sweet, gentle, untutored. He grasped her, one hand on her face, the other around her waist, showing her how to kiss when you could only kiss once, a first and a last time.

He was probably too rough. She was too yielding. It took all of two seconds for sanity to return, for him to pull away. She took a couple seconds longer to remember herself, a couple seconds where she looked avid and discomposed and painfully kissable. She touched her lips as his mind raced. I’ve kissed her. I’ve kissed Rosalind.

He looked past her to the outside. No one looked in at them. Everyone was still clustered around the tables in the garden, unaware this monumental kiss had just taken place. It was the first and last. It had to be.

Their gazes met and locked. Ah, Rosalind. How could he explain to her, make her see how hopeless it was? She still stood too close to him.

Rosalind, I’m sorry. I should not have… Should not have touched you. Should not have besmirched you. Should not have allowed either of us this glance into certain madness. Will you forgive me?

For what? She was still in a dream state. Her first kiss, he was sure of it, saved for him. You’ll ask my parents now, won’t you? Now that you’ve kissed me? Her brimming eyes were hopeful, full of light. You’ll ask my parents if you can marry me? You must. Surely you see now, more than ever, that you must.

Are you trying to trap me into marriage? Is that why you kissed me? He pretended to tease though his heart cracked into splinters.

No, that’s not what I was doing. Her delicate expressions changed like quicksilver, from satisfaction to hesitation to worry. "Marlow, we have kissed now, and I can tell more than ever that we’re meant for one another. Aren’t we? She tried to read his grim features. Is it that you don’t…don’t want to marry me?"

It pained him that she could even ask the question, that she could feel uncertain of her desirability after what he’d just done to her, the passionate, fleeting kiss they’d just shared.

Of course I want to marry you, Rosalind. I ache to marry you. Damn it. The curse shot past his crumbling defenses. It doesn’t matter what I want. Your parents will refuse me. You’re meant for the Marquess of Brittingham. He’s a fine enough fellow. Much better than me for sure.

Rosalind made a face. The Marquess of Brittingham? Surely not. He’s too old.

He’s only a few years older than me. And he’s wealthy and powerful, the sort of man worthy to marry the daughter of a duke. Why else do you imagine your parents invite him to dinner so much?

She shrugged. I don’t know. He’s a friend of my father’s. Just a family friend, like you. I don’t have any intention of marrying him. Anyway, you are as wealthy as him.

But not as powerful or honorable. Marlow’s father, the Earl of Warren, was powerful indeed, active in the House of Lords, a politician and noted scion of English society. Daunted by the breadth of his father’s responsibilities—and encouraged by his profligate friends—Marlow had embarked on a notorious bachelorhood given to entertainment and pleasure instead. He’d imagined he could develop the needed couth and respect when his father was of a mind to retire, and then take over his many worthy activities. He’d never meant to marry, never imagined he’d feel such a pull to a woman, certainly not silly, young, pixie-shy Rosalind.

How dare she develop into this ravishing diamond when it was too late for him to redeem himself in time to marry her? His punishment was to watch her be given to someone else.

I know Brittingham fairly well, he said. He will make a worthy husband. Ladies find him handsome. He seems steady and kind.

He seems boring. Rosalind frowned. You forget I know him as well. I can’t believe they’re considering him for my marriage when they know I love you. They let my sisters marry for love.

Yes, because they fell in love with reasonable prospects.

You must ask them. She was near to tears again. "Have you