Drawn to the Marquess Read online

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

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2018 by Bronwen Evans

  Excerpt from Attracted to the Earl by Bronwen Evans copyright © 2018 by Bronwen Evans

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Attracted to the Earl by Bronwen Evans. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101969519

  Cover design: Carrie Devine/Seductive Designs

  Cover photographs: Period Images (man), Depositphotos (background)

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Bronwen Evans

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Attracted to the Earl

  Chapter 1

  LONDON: JUNE 1817 SOTHEBY’S AUCTION HOUSE

  There he was. Penelope’s mind raced at the audacity of her plan.

  Stephen Hornsby, the Marquess of Clevedon, looked as handsome as the devil. Her information source had not exaggerated.

  The words of Lady Diana, Clevedon’s latest mistress, echoed in her head. He is a sin to be indulged but a man never to bestow your heart upon.

  Well, she wasn’t looking to bestow her heart on any man ever again. She just needed him to help her defeat Lord Rotham.

  He was not wearing a hat. Apparently, he never did, and even as he moved into the auction gallery, his dark hair looked as if it was tousled from the wind outside, immediately making her think that perhaps he’d only recently gotten out of bed.

  Bed. She clapped gloved hands to her warm cheeks. “Bed” was most likely something a woman automatically associated with such a devastatingly handsome man. Or at least how to get him into one.

  His midnight blue jacket and high boots polished so they gleamed screamed wealth. He sauntered, yes, sauntered, toward his seat near the middle of the room. A seat only a few rows behind hers. Every move he made was calculated to show the type of man he was, rich, powerful, handsome, and self-assured. Even the sunlight from the main window at the front of the gallery, playing over his godlike features, seemed to want to be his lover, and the other women present were staring at him and drooling like teething babies.

  He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. And to her dismay her body stirred. Stirred with feelings she thought she’d long killed beneath her self-disgust.

  For the past two months she’d been learning all she could about this man, but seeing him in person was infinitely different than she imagined. Penelope imagined that she would be immune to his physical attributes because he was a known rake. But even she was not unmoved. Just looking at him sent waves of heat along every nerve ending. Perhaps this was not such a good idea.

  Penelope turned back to face the front of the auction room using the auction list to fan her face. She let past memories of the havoc a rake had created feed her resolve. Clevedon was merely a means to an end. A way to protect those she cared about.

  She heard Mr. Sotheby greet him, and Lord Clevedon’s reply. The sound of his deep, gravelly voice sent a shiver of foreboding over her skin. It lured her to the point where she almost turned around to stare at him again.

  This was not her plan.

  It was not her plan to fall under his spell.

  A bilious sensation churned in Penelope’s stomach. She’d learned his lordship wanted a painting coming up for sale in this auction. She had to buy the painting he wanted or else she would have nothing to barter with.

  Unfortunately, Lord Clevedon was extremely wealthy. He was a man who would not need money, so why else would he help her? The painting was the key.

  She would win it.

  She’d brought six hundred pounds with her. More than enough for a painting valued at only one hundred pounds. She hugged her reticule tightly. Being the Duke of Sandringham’s sister would help if she needed credit, but paying too much for a landscape from a relatively unknown painter would arouse curiosity. As would buying a painting Lord Clevedon wanted. The last thing she needed right now was the gossips announcing to everyone that she was in town and engaging in a bidding war with the Marquess of Clevedon.

  Just then Lady Charlotte retook her seat. Her friend was there for moral support. It was Charlotte who, because she always came to town for the season when Penelope didn’t, had ascertained the identity of Clevedon’s current mistress and allowed them to learn as much as possible about the rake. Luckily for them Lord Clevedon had recently ended his liaison with Lady Diana, and she was so heartbroken that she simply wanted to talk about the man all day. That is how Penelope learned about his obsession with the Wilson landscape.

  “I see Clevedon’s here. I perfectly understand how Lady Diana ended up in the man’s bed. I must admit I’m very tempted myself.” At Penelope’s alarmed look at her widowed friend, Charlotte added, “Of course not until he has helped you.”

  “You may play with him all you like as soon as I’m finished with him.”

  Penelope saw Charlotte take a second look. “I shall certainly look forward to that.” She giggled. “And not simply because with his help you’ll be safe. By the way, no woman is safe with that man. He’d tempt a nun.”

  “Stop looking at him. I don’t want to be noticed.”

  “When will you learn, darling, that a little flirtation gets women like us almost anything we want. You could have him twisted around your little finger with a smile.”

  Penelope pinched the bridge of her nose and wished she were at home as a headache began to pound behind her eyes.

  “If this plan doesn’t work,” her friend continued, “then you could always offer yourself.”

  Her head jerked up and her jaw tightened. “No. I will have to find another way. I will never allow a man power over me again.”

  “Oh, darling.” Charlotte turned to stare at Lord Clevedon once more. “I suspect you’ll actually enjoy his bed. But if you’re that certain then there is always your brother. He would help, surely?”

  She shook her head until her bonnet almost dislodged. She had her reasons for wanting Lord Clevedon. To pacify her friend s
he uttered, “If my brother gets involved…Sandringham would think he could control me too. I want to live my life my way. No men commanding me.”

  Charlotte sighed. “Then you best hope this man can save you, painting or no painting. With his reluctance for anything more permanent than a couple of nights of pleasure from his lovers, even if he does request you in his bed, it won’t likely be for long.”

  That did not make the idea of intimacies with the Marquess of Clevedon any more appealing.

  * * *

  —

  “The Richard Wilson landscape is up next, my lord.”

  Stephen Hornsby, the Marquess of Clevedon, did not move a muscle, not a twitch of his face, nor a curve of his lips, nor a jerk of his hand. No one must guess his interest in the Wilson landscape. Besides, he was too busy smiling at the woman who kept turning around and smiling at him. Her friend beside her had not looked his way since he’d walked in and that roused his curiosity while the smiling redhead with her aroused something else.

  The auctioneer announced the next piece, a landscape sunrise that could blind a sightless man. Lord Donning’s loss would be Stephen’s gain. The date of the auction had burned in his brain the minute he’d learned Donning had no choice but to sell. Stephen’s arm itched with the need to raise it and name the price he knew would secure him the exquisite sunrise, but good things came to those who planned.

  He would win it.

  Soon the painting would hang in his bedchamber. He yearned to wake up every morning, and go to bed every night, to the sunrise over the Denbighshire countryside, until the gloriousness of God’s fiery nature was burned into his memory. By seeing it every day, he hoped that even when the encroaching darkness came, the image would stay bright in his mind’s eye.

  Sotheby’s auction house was busier than usual, mostly because of a sculpture by Michelangelo that was in the catalog. Lord Donning’s gambling debts saw him having to part with some of his fine art. The Wilson landscape was one of them, along with the Italian statue.

  To Stephen’s consternation, he wasn’t the only one who was interested in the Wilson landscape. The murmurs in the crowd grew as the auctioneer’s helper lifted the piece onto the easel. He turned his attention to the auctioneer, the women forgotten.

  The Sotheby’s staff was watching him closely to see which item he was interested in purchasing. That would only push the price up. He knew how the auction house worked. They had spotters in the crowd making bogus bids to ensure the best price for the buyer and a bigger commission for them.

  Stephen smiled to himself. He had a strategy. He would make one bid and his bid would be the last.

  The bids began to fly thick and fast. He let the bids pass by like dust in the wind. As long as his was the final bid, that was all that mattered. He didn’t care how much the artwork cost him. He was going to have this painting. Finally, the flurry of bids slowed until there were only two other bidders left.

  Stephen took his time to assess his two opponents. One was a foreign gentleman most likely bidding on behalf of someone else. The other bidder, who persistently raised her auction paddle, was his redhead’s friend, a woman he was not familiar with. He could only see her side profile with the odd fair curl poking out from under her bonnet, but he swore he’d never seen her before. He couldn’t really tell how old she was, but the way she held herself, the way she confidently bid, and the fine midnight velvet she wore proclaimed a society upbringing and likely wealth.

  It did not take him long to realize that of the two bidders, she was the one he would have to worry about because she, too, seemed totally unconcerned as the price rose.

  Ten minutes later the price was way above what the painting was actually worth, and the fair-haired woman thought she had succeeded because the foreign gentleman ceased bidding. The auctioneer began the final countdown, going once, going twice…And then Stephen raised his paddle. “Five hundred pounds.”

  It was a significant jump in the bidding war and he hoped it signaled he would bid at any price. Before this bid, the auction had stalled at three hundred and twenty-one pounds, and now he waited to see what the woman would do.

  A hush fell over the room. He watched as the woman’s shoulders tensed, but she did not look back at him—interesting. “Five hundred and five pounds.”

  He smiled to himself. Five pounds told him all he needed to know. She did not want to go much higher.

  “Six hundred pounds.” He heard the collective gasp.

  That made her turn around, and this time it was he who almost gasped. The fine features of her face were perfectly symmetrical; she was Venus personified. Her eyes were set beautifully under finely shaped eyebrows. The ocean blue color made him want to swim in them. The cute button nose made her face look younger than the mid- to late-twenties he suspected she was. Her lips…pouty, luscious, sweet, popped into his head, along with the thought that he’d like to plunder them.

  His chest heaved and regret tore deep in his innards. Unfair. Life was so unfair…

  Darkness would soon become his prison. Shortly, he’d never feel this heat that erupted when looking at a lovely woman. That visceral flare of attraction, that instant hit of lust rushing through his body, the tightening in his groin, would become a stranger. To be devoid of beauty was a punishment worse than death and he drank in the beautiful, luscious woman before him as if he were dying of thirst.

  How would he experience lust in a world of darkness? Her soft scent drifted toward him and he closed his eyes. While the scent created images in his mind, there was no stirring in his groin. His eyes flew open. It wasn’t the same.

  Would never be the same.

  Stephen sucked in a breath, his teeth grinding, battling the roar he wished he could let escape.

  Instead, he looked at the beautiful woman bidding against him and swore he would see every inch of her before blindness took him.

  She stared at him, almost pleading with him not to keep bidding, before through gritted teeth she called, “Six hundred and one pounds.”

  Interesting. He had thought she’d have given up immediately. Almost lazily he signaled another bid.

  “Lord Clevedon bids another one hundred pounds. The bid is his at seven hundred and one pounds.”

  He watched her shoulders slump and she shook her head. His stunning beauty did not place another bid and he almost regretted that fact.

  Stephen sat up straight. Where was the normal euphoria of the win? Nothing surged through him. He almost hated to win. The painting was all but his, yet since spying the woman, the painting was now the second most beautiful object in the room.

  And Stephen collected beauty like a squirrel collected walnuts.

  As a young boy of four and ten, watching his father slowly go blind, and lately learning it was likely his fate too, seeing and experiencing beauty became his driving need. He viewed the world each day as if it was his last, drinking in the beauty around him, each experience creating a memory to cherish in the encroaching blindness.

  If this were to be his last day of sight, he’d rather have the flesh and blood woman who’d bid against him than the sunrise on canvas.

  Hell, it was only a painting, be it the best painting of a sunrise he had ever seen. He might even be tempted to gift it to her, and his imagination flew to what he might ask for in return.

  No. He’d give her the painting. He’d seduce what he really wanted from her. He wanted her in his bed, her body freely given, her beauty open to his viewing, her naked softness beneath his fingers and mouth. To soak in her nakedness and imprint it to his memory would be a prize he’d cherish.

  So lost in his fantasy of having her in his bed, he hardly noticed that the auctioneer’s gavel had sounded and he had won and the painting was now his.

  He got to his feet and casually strolled toward where the aisle ran down the center of the room. He watched
her walking toward him and she could not hide her disappointment. She stopped in front of him and his body stirred some more.

  “Congratulations, my lord. I hope you can appreciate such workmanship.”

  He looked her up and down slowly, and with a seductive smile uttered, “I appreciate all things of beauty.”

  She did not react to his double entendre but stood silently staring at his face as if learning every feature by heart so as not to forget him. He hoped she would not forget him for he would not forget her.

  “If you ever wish to sell the painting, please let me know.”

  Before he could ask her name, she sighed, gathered her skirts in one hand and swept past him, while her redheaded friend winked as she followed her.

  He turned to watch them depart. Why had she not told him her name? The woman intrigued him. There were not many women who resisted his charm, looks, or money. He wasn’t vain. He couldn’t take any credit for the attributes God had seen fit to bestow on him. He could, however, blame God. And he did every day. To the world it looked as if God had bestowed perfection upon him, but his outer shell hid the faults. The fact he had eyes that soon would not see was his own private hell. No one else knew, not even his mother.

  Soon he wouldn’t care about his looks, because he would not be able to see himself.

  Or see anything of beauty that the world offered.

  But not yet, God damn it. Not yet.

  He thought about the beautiful woman who had bid against him. She could have tried to flirt with him like her friend had. Her beauty would see many men give her anything she asked for. He was no exception. Why hadn’t she?

  He raised his hand and signaled his man of business. “Johnston, can you ascertain the name of the woman who bid against me?”