Melting Ice

By Stephanie Laurens

Originally published in the anthologies ROUGH AROUND THE EDGES and SCANDALOUS BRIDES (both no longer in print)

1822. After years of adventuring in exotic India, wealthy rakehell Lord Dyan St. Laurent Dare has been forced to return to England and assume the title of the 4th Duke of Darke, along with the attendant responsibilities, chief of which is to marry and produce an heir.

Seeking to escape familial pressure, Dyan drops in on old friends whose house parties are a scandalous secret among society's elite, but, along with his hosts, Dyan is astonished when his childhood sweetheart, Lady Fiona Winton-Ryder, nicknamed Lady Arctic, unexpectedly arrives. Fiona had scornfully dismissed him fifteen years before, and Dyan had left not just her but England, yet their long-ago, simmering attraction has only intensified...now it sizzles.

Fiona has come to save a friend from a compromising situation, but the shock of encountering masterful, arrogant, senses-stealing Dyan after so many years takes her breath away and leaves her emotionally teetering. Nevertheless, coolly assured and every bit the earl's daughter, she remains determined to rescue her friend, but will she be able to ignore her lifetime fascination and evade Dyan?

Dyan knows this party is no place for a lady like Fiona, but, by using the heat of the moment, could he - just possibly - melt Lady Arctic's ice, and, at last, capture her heart?

A classic Regency-era historical romance novella, includes explicit love scenes.

Praise for the works of Stephanie Laurens

“Stephanie Laurens’ heroines are marvelous tributes to Georgette Heyer: feisty and strong.” Cathy Kelly

“Stephanie Laurens never fails to entertain and charm her readers with vibrant plots, snappy dialogue, and unforgettable characters.” Historical Romance Reviews.

“Stephanie Laurens plays into readers’ fantasies like a master and claims their hearts time and again.” Romantic Times Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: NYLA
• Release date: Oct 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9780992278991

Stephanie Laurens

#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world's most beloved and popular authors.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1822

If you believe the family will continue to countenance such profligate hedonism now that you’ve stepped into your poor brother’s shoes, you are fair and far out, sir! You—will—marry! Soon. And well!

With his great-aunt Augusta’s words ringing in his ears, to the tune of emphatic raps from her cane, Dyan St. Laurent Dare, most reluctant fourth Duke of Darke, sent his gray hunter pounding along the woodland track. An outlier of the New Forest, the wood was thick enough to hide him. The pace he set was reckless, a measure of his mood; the demon within him wanted out.

The gray’s hooves thundered on the beaten track; Dyan tried to lose himself in the driving rhythm. After an entire afternoon listening to his relatives’ complaints, he felt wild, his underlying restlessness setting a dangerous edge to his temper.

Damn Robert! Why had he had to die? Of a mere inflammation of the lungs, of all things. Dyan suppressed a disgusted snort, feeling slightly guilty. He’d been truly fond of his older brother; although only two years had separated them, Robert had seemed like forty from the time he was twenty. Robert’s staid, conservative personality had shielded his own more robust and vigorous—not to say profligate—character from their exceedingly straitlaced family.

Now Robert was dead—and he was in the firing line.

Which was why he was fleeing Darke Abbey, his ancestral home, leaving his long-suffering relatives behind. He had to get out—get some air—before he committed a felony. Like strangling his great-aunt.

Tolerance was not one of his virtues; he’d always been described as impatient and hot-at-hand. Even more critical, he had never, ever, tolerated interference in his life, a point he was going to have to find some polite way to make plain to his aunts, uncles—and his great-aunt Augusta. Naturally, they still saw him as his younger self. They had descended on the Abbey, intent on impressing on him the error of his rakehell ways. They all believed marriage would be his salvation; presumably they thought securing the succession would be a goal in keeping with his talents. They had made it plain they thought marriage to some sweet, biddable gentlewoman would cure him of his recklessness.

They didn’t know him. Few did.

Jaw setting, Dyan swung the gray into a long glade and loosened the reins; the heavy horse plunged down the long slope.

He’d only just arrived back at the Abbey—for the past ten years, India had been his home. A decade ago, he’d left London intent on carving out a new life—that, or dying in the attempt; even now, he wasn’t sure which of those two goals had, at the time, been his primary aim. His family had been relieved to see him go; the subcontinent was reassuringly distant, half the globe a comforting buffer against his scandalous propensities. Under India’s unrelenting sun, his recklessness had found ample scope for danger, intrigue, and more danger. He’d survived, and succeeded; he was now a wealthy man.

On being informed of Robert’s death and his own ascension to the title, his initial reaction had been to decline to be found. Instead, a nagging, deeply buried sense of responsibility had goaded him into liquidating his assets, realizing his investments—and disengaging from the clinging embrace of the Rani of Barrashnapur.

By the time he’d reached London, Robert had been dead for well-nigh a year; there had seemed no need to rush into the country. Dyan had dallied in town, expecting to slide into the indolent life he’d enjoyed a decade before. Instead, he’d discovered himself a misfit. The predictable round of balls, select parties, and the pursuits of tonnish gentlemen had engendered nothing more than acute boredom, something he was constitutionally incapable of tolerating.

Worse, the perfumed bodies of discreetly willing ladies, as ever, at his beck and call, had completely failed to stir his jaded senses. For one who, for the past ten years, had had his every sexual whim instantly and expertly gratified, abstinence for any measurable time was the definition of pure torture.

And self-imposed abstinence was the definition of hell.

Reluctantly, knowing his family was lying in wait for him, he’d returned to the Abbey, his childhood home. Only to be met by the family’s demands that he marry and ensure the succession without delay.

It was enough to send him straight back to India.

And the Rani of Barrashnapur.

Memories of golden limbs, all silk and satin, wrapped around his senses; gritting his teeth, Dyan shook them aside. The end of the glade was rapidly approaching, the gray all but flying over the thick grass; Dyan hauled on the reins. Slowing the huge hunter to a canter, he turned into the bridle path that led from the glade.

He was searching, still searching, as he had been for years. Searching for something—an elusive entity—that would fill the void in his soul and anchor his restless passions. His failure to discover that something, to fulfill his inner need, left him not just restless but with his wildness—that demon that had always been a part of him—champing at the bit.

His predator’s instinct was to focus on his target—and then seize it. To be unable to define what his target was left him directionless. Like a rudderless ship in a storm.

Drawing rein in the clearing that marked the next bend, he sat still, breathing deeply, letting the gray do the same.

Through the trees, lights twinkled. Shifting to get a better view, Dyan saw that the entire ground floor of Brooke Hall was ablaze. His childhood friend Henry, now Lord Brooke, and his wife, Harriet, were obviously entertaining. From the extent of the lights, a house party was in progress.

Hands relaxed on the pommel, Dyan stared across the fields. Wisps of conversations caught during his stay in London wafted through his brain. Allusions to the Brookes, and the house parties they gave. A vision of his relatives’ faces, particularly his great-aunt Augusta’s, if he failed to show for dinner—failed, indeed, to return at all that night—rose in his mind. His lips lifted, then curved.

He hadn’t seen Henry and Harriet in ten years; it was time to renew old friendships. Twitching the reins, Dyan swung his hunter toward Brooke Hall.

I realize it’s inconvenient, but I would like to speak to Lady Brooke, please, Sherwood. Her bag at her feet, Lady Fiona Winton-Ryder tugged off her gloves and ignored Sherwood’s scandalized expression.

Ah...indeed, Lady Fiona. His calling coming to the fore, Sherwood relocated his butlerishly impassive mask and turned.

The drawing room door opened; Henry, Lord Brooke, looked out. What is it, Sher— Henry broke off, his gaze sweeping Fiona, taking in her travelling bag and her pelisse. He stepped into the hall, firmly closing the drawing room door. Fiona! Plastering a smile over his transparent surprise, he advanced. Is there some problem at Coldstream House?

Indeed. Lips thinning, Fiona lifted her head. Edmund and I have had a falling out—the most acrimonious disagreement! I have sworn I will not stay at Coldstream another hour—not until he apologizes. So I’ve come to beg houseroom until he does.

Henry’s jaw slackened.

Fiona swept on, I realize the timing’s inconvenient. A regal wave indicated the drawing room and the sounds of the gathering therein; in reality, she’d planned her arrival to the minute, for just before dinner, so that Henry, with guests waiting, would be hard-pressed to argue. But I know you’ve plenty of room. She smiled confidently; Henry couldn’t contradict her—she’d known this house from her earliest years, and knew very well how many beds it held. More than enough.

Ah, yes. Henry lifted a finger, easing the folds of his