Devil's Run
Scandalous Miss Brightwell series
By Beverley
Oakley
Beverley is
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BLURB:
A rigged horse race - and a marriage offer
riding on the outcome. When Miss Eliza Montrose unexpectedly becomes legal
owner of the horse tipped to win the East Anglia Cup, her future is finally in
her hands – but at what cost?
George Bramley,
nephew to the Earl of Quamby, will wager anything. Even his future bride.
Miss Eliza
Montrose will accept any wager to be reunited with the child she was forced to
relinquish after an indiscretion — even if it means marrying a man she does not
love.
But when the
handsome and charming Rufus Patmore buys a horse from her betrothed, George
Bramley, whose household her son visits from the foundling home, her heart is
captured and the outcome of the wager is suddenly fraught with peril.
**This is book 3
in the Scandalous Miss Brightwell series, though it can be read as a
stand-alone.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Excerpt:
Chapter One
“And there’s
nothing else you’d like, my dear? No?” Straightening after receiving a polite
rebuff, George Bramley found it an effort to keep the syrup in his tone. His
bride-to-be had not even looked at him as she’d declined the piece of marchpane
he’d been certain would win him at least a smile.
Hovering at her
side, he weighed up the advantages of a gentle rebuke, then decided against it.
Until yesterday, he’d thought her quiet demeanour suggested a charmingly pliant
nature. Now he was not so sure. In fact, suddenly, he was not sure of anything.
“A glass of
lemonade, perhaps, my angel? Or a gentle stroll?”
“I would prefer
to be left alone.” Miss Montrose waved a languid hand in his general direction,
while she continued to gaze at the still lake beside which their picnic party
had situated itself.
The languid
arm-wave had not even been accompanied by a demure thank you as subtle acknowledgement of her gratitude that not only
had Mr Bramley, heir to a viscountcy, stepped in to rescue Miss Eliza Montrose from
impoverishment, he was prepared to treat her publicly as if she were as fine a
catch as he could have made.
A soft titter
brought his head round sharply, but the ladies behind him, bent over the latest
Ackerman’s Repository, appeared
occupied with their own gossip as they lounged on cushions beneath the canopy
that had been erected to protect them from the sun.
Awkwardly, he
looked for occupation as he continued to eye his intended with a mixture of
irritation and desire—both lustful desire, and the desire to put her in her
place.
The idea of the
latter made him harden. She was beautiful, this quiet, apparently retiring,
young woman who said so little, but whose eyes spoke such volumes. The
afternoon sun glinted on her honey-gold hair and imbued her porcelain skin with
a warm glow. The skin that he could see, at any rate.
He pushed back
his shoulders. On their wedding night in six weeks, when he’d at last take
possession of her, he’d rip that modesty to shreds. The skin she was so at
pains to hide would be his, not only to see, but to caress and taste. When she
was his wife, the beautiful, distant Miss Eliza Montrose would no longer get
away with paying George Bramley so little attention. No, he’d have her
screaming and writhing at his command. He would make her like the things he did
to her; or at least, show him she did if she enjoyed harmony as much as she
appeared to. None of this languid reclining like a half-drugged princess in his
presence. He’d keep her on her toes, ready to leap to his bidding at the sound
of his footstep. She’d learn to be grateful.
Feeling ignored
and superfluous, he turned to his uncle’s detestable wife, Lady Quamby, and
said with a smile, “Perhaps you and Miss Montrose would like to accompany me to
the turret. Since you appear to have enjoyed this new novel, Northanger Abbey, so much, you might be
interested to know there is an excellent view of the ruined monastery not far
from here.”
He was just
priding himself on being so attuned to the feminine inclination for pleasure,
when Lady Quamby half turned and sent him a desultory smile. “Oh, I think Miss
Eliza looks perfectly comfortable, and Fanny and I are having such a lovely
little coze.” As if imitating Miss Montrose, she waved a languid hand in his
general direction. “Why don’t you take Mr Patmore off to see it? The two of you
can tell us all about it when you return.”
The fact that
Miss Montrose didn’t deign to even speak for herself, much less glance in his
direction, sent the blood surging to Bramley’s brain. By God, when he was
married to Eliza Montrose, the limpid look of love so lacking now would be
pasted onto her face every time he crossed her line of vision. She’d soon learn
what was good for her.
He inclined his
head, hiding his fury, and was on the point of leaving when Lady Quamby’s
sister, Fanny —for he’d be damned if he’d accord the little strumpet the title
of Lady Fenton—leapt up from her chair. She’d been poring over the latest
fashions, but now she smiled brightly up at him.
“I’ll come with
you, Cousin George. We’ll have an excellent view of the children learning to row from the
battlements. I told Nanny Brown she could take them in the two boats if they’d
been good.”
Bramley stared
down her liveliness. In fact, he was about to give up the idea of going up to
the battlements altogether when his other guest, Rufus Patmore, suddenly rose
and joined Fanny’s side with a late and unexpected show of enthusiasm.
“Capital idea!”
declared Rufus.
George flashed
them both a dispassionate look. He'd chosen to invite his betrothed, Miss
Montrose—whose chaperone was currently tucked up in the green bed chamber
nursing a head cold—to be his guest at his uncle’s estate, Quamby House, after
receiving intelligence that Ladies Quamby and Fenton would be safely in London
with their husbands and children. Instead, the brazen Brightwell sisters—as
they’d infamously been called when he’d first made their acquaintance—had
altered their plans, and were now in dogged attendance, reminding him as they
always had, of some awful tenacious climbing plant, determined to find a
foothold wherever they could in order to rise in the world.
Rufus, a
last-minute addition and acquaintance from his club, Boodles, was here because
he’d just purchased a horse from Bramley the night before. Now, Rufus was
gazing at Lady Fenton, with the same dewy-eyed fondness George was used to
seeing reflected in the eye of his uncle, the Earl of Quamby, who called the
Brightwell sisters his precious rose-buds. To George, they were common
dandelions! And now they had overridden Quamby House, the rambling Queen Anne
manor house and estate that would have passed to George the moment his uncle
quit this mortal coil, were it not for the snotty-nosed infant Lady Quamby had
borne far too early in her marriage to George's uncle.
George shook his
head. He’d changed his mind. Only, there was Rufus striding across the lawn,
skirting the lake with Fanny at his side, and George didn’t want to be seen as
petulant for having offered the suggestion in the first place. Or have his
snubbed and ignored status so much on parade, since the two remaining
ladies—Miss Montrose and Lady Quamby—had their heads bent together in deep
discussion, with no apparent interest in seeking his company.
By God, he
thought, clenching his fists as he set off after them at a brisk trot, they'd
all rue the day they showed George Bramley so little respect.
Other Books in the Series:
~*~*~*~*~*~
Author Info:
Beverley Oakley
was seventeen when she bundled up her first her 500+ page romance and sent it
to a publisher. Unfortunately drowning her heroine on the last page was
apparently not in line with the expectations of romance readers so Beverley
became a journalist.
Twenty-six years
later Beverley was delighted to receive her first publishing contract from
Robert Hale (UK) for a romance in which she ensured her heroine was saved from drowning in the icy North
Sea.
Since 2009
Beverley has written more than thirteen historical romances, mostly set in
England during the early nineteenth century. Mystery, intrigue and adventure
spill from their pages and if she can pull off a thrilling race to save
someone’s honour – or a worthy damsel from the noose – it’s time to celebrate
with a good single malt Scotch.
Beverley lives
with her husband, two daughters and a Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy the size of a
pony opposite a picturesque nineteenth century lunatic asylum. She also writes
Africa-set adventure-filled romances tarring handsome bush pilot heroes, and
historical romances with less steam and more sexual tension, as Beverley Eikli.
You can get in contact with Beverley at:
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