Books and Bonbons: A Hint of Wicked by Jennifer Haymore

CAUGHT BETWEEN DUTY AND DESIRE . . .
Sophie, the Duchess of Calton, has finally moved on. After seven years mourning the loss of her husband, Garrett, at Waterloo, she has married his best friend and heir, Tristan. Sophie gives herself to him body and soul. . . until the day Garrett returns from the Continent, demanding his title, his lands—and his wife.

TORN BETWEEN TWO HUSBANDS . . .
Now Sophie must choose between her first love and her new love, knowing that no matter what, her choice will destroy one of the men she adores. Will it be Garrett, her childhood sweetheart, whose loss nearly destroyed her once already? Or will it be Tristan, beloved friend turned lover, who supported her through the last, dark years and introduced her to a passion she had never known? As her two husbands battle for her heart, Sophie finds herself immersed in a dangerous game—where the stakes are not only love . . . but life and death.

Chapter One London, April 1823

Sophie slowed her chestnut mare to a walk. Beside her, tall and handsome in the saddle of his dapple gray, Tristan mimicked her command, and their horses fell in step side by side. Holding the reins in one hand, Sophie flattened her gloved palm against her mount’s warm neck and took a deep, refreshing breath of the crisp morning air. The tree-lined track was quiet and serene this morning, likely due to the impending foul weather. The atmosphere was cool and heavy with the promise of rain, so she and Tristan had left home early hoping for a brisk outing before the heavens opened. A heavy frost glistened on the branches. Drops coalesced beneath the budding leaves and slipped to the ground, shimmering like tiny diamonds.

She slid a glance at Tristan, smiling at the way the dampness made his satiny black hair curl beneath the rim of his hat. “Are you ready for tonight?”

It was to be their first dinner party in London since they’d arrived in February for the opening of Parliament.

Their first dinner party as husband and wife. They’d wed last July, but they’d spent the short nine months of their married life in the relative quiet of Calton House in Yorkshire. Tonight was to be the first of many parties to come—in a few weeks’ time, Garrett’s young sister would be joining them for her first London Season.

Tristan gave Sophie a cocky, boyish grin that reached all the way to his sparkling chocolate-colored eyes.

“I’m more than ready for tonight. What about you?”

She urged her horse into a gallop, and before he could respond, she threw a smile over her shoulder. “Of course I am,” she called back.

Tristan’s eyes narrowed, and he flicked the reins. Giddy with the prospect of a little competition, Sophie turned forward, tightened her knee around the pommel, and leaned close to the horse’s sleek neck, whispering encouragement for more speed.

Hooves churned the earth, splattering wet clumps of dirt in their wake. Cold wind whipped through Sophie’s hair as she crouched low, the rhythm of the gallop singing through her body. The skirts of her riding habit whipped against the mare’s flanks, and she squealed in glee. They were winning.

She saw the patch of ice a moment too late. The horse slid on the white surface, her legs thrashing with the effort to stay upright. Sophie struggled to stay balanced. She hauled backward on the reins to keep the mare’s head up, but the poor animal’s body flailed beneath her. They were going down. The horse was going to fall on her.

Sophie wrenched her right leg from the sidesaddle pommel and kicked her left foot free of the stirrup. She launched herself from the horse just as the animal’s legs buckled.

Sophie slammed to the ground in a puddle of icy water. The jolt speared pain from her hip through her body. With a thud that seemed to shake the earth, the horse hit the ground, her girth missing Sophie’s legs by mere inches.

Sweet relief coursed through her, only to be replaced by renewed panic as the struggling mare scrambled for footing and jerked Sophie through soft mud toward her kicking legs.

Oh, no. Oh, Lord. The train of her riding habit had caught on one of the pommels.

As the mare heaved her body upright, Sophie grabbed handfuls of dark wool and yanked on her skirts with all her might.

The fabric came free with a screeching tear just as the horse found her feet, a flailing hoof pummeling Sophie on the thigh.

She lay there in the frigid puddle, stunned, straining for air, her skirts tangled around her legs and heavy with mud. Her leg throbbed. Her lungs had closed. She couldn’t breathe.
Tristan came to a sliding stop on his knees in the mud beside her. He gathered her into his arms, combing the hair out of her face with his fingers. She dimly registered that she must’ve lost her hat.

“Sophie! Are you all right? Are you all right, love?”

Her lungs opened slightly and she gasped in a deep breath. “Yes. I—I think so.”

Tristan’s dark eyes glimmered. His body was like steel, strong all around her, but the slightest tremble in his movements betrayed his fear.

Clutching her husband’s arms and taking great gulps of air, Sophie assessed herself. Her thigh throbbed, but she could move her leg, so it was probably only badly bruised. She was wet, bogged down with water and muck. It was quite embarrassing, really. “I-I’m all right, Tristan.”

He gripped her closer and pressed his lips to her hair. She held on to him for several minutes, sitting on his lap with his large body curled around her smaller one. Buried within the cocoon of his warmth and comfort, she began to breathe normally again.

The sound of scuffing dirt made her pull her face away from Tristan. She raised her head to see a man had taken hold of her horse’s reins and was leading her back to them. The animal walked normally and seemed fine. Thank goodness she hadn’t been hurt.

Conscious of her disheveled appearance, Sophie tensed. Tristan tucked the skirt of her riding habit down so it covered her calves, and adjusting her to a comfort¬able position against him, he rose, easily lifting her.

“Oh goodness, Tristan. I can walk. I can ride, too.”

He looked down at her, his brow creased. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

Gently, he eased her to her feet. Pain radiated down her leg, and she tightened her hand over his arm. He held on to her, his strength keeping her steady. “All right?”

Sophie grimaced. The fall itself was humiliating, and she had no wish to make a dramatic production of it. She’d been kicked in the leg, but that was a minor injury, and she didn’t need coddling. She smiled reassuringly at him. “Absolutely all right.”

He released his hold and gave her a quick, jerky nod before striding over to thank the man who’d returned with her horse. She saw that he was just as disheveled as she—maybe even more so. Tristan was usually fastidious in the extreme, but he didn’t pay any attention to the mud drenching him from the waist down.

After exchanging a few polite words with the Good Samaritan, Tristan took his leave and led the mare over to her.

“How is she?” Sophie tried not to limp as she stepped toward them. She stroked the horse’s silky brown muzzle, murmuring apologies. Her pocket had remained miraculously dry, and scooping out a crushed lump of sugar, she offered it to the mare.

“Uninjured and surprisingly calm.” Tristan’s big, warm hand curled over her upper arm and squeezed. “Can you ride, love?”

“Of course.” She smiled up at him. “It is my own fault— a foolish mistake. I should have paid more attention.”

Tristan nodded grimly, but he didn’t argue with her. “We’re going straight home.” Without asking her if she needed help—he knew she did—he lifted her and set her upon the saddle. He held on to her longer than necessary as she slid her muddy foot into the stirrup and adjusted the torn and muddy skirts modestly around her. When he did let her go, it was with hesitation. “Straight home,” he repeated firmly, meeting her eyes with an expression that brooked no argument.

She watched his lithe, muscular body move with grace as he mounted his horse and rode beside her. His dark gaze bore into her. “Ready?”

His eyes glimmered with worry. His shoulders were tight with frustration, and she knew he had wanted to hold her longer, to comfort her, to carry her home rather than let her risk riding. But he’d respected her wishes and let her show her independence and save her pride.

She could hardly tear her eyes from him. Even half drenched in mud, he was so magnificent, it made her blood heat and her pulse quicken just to look at him.

With a secret inner smile, she turned her horse toward Mayfair. “Yes, I’m ready, Tristan. Let’s go home.”

The patterned red silk of Sophie’s dressing robe whispered over her skin, light and cool after the warm, heavy brocade she had worn to the party. She’d gone to check on the children, and finding them fast asleep, had kissed them goodnight, returned to her dressing room, and called her maid to undress her. Now she sat, finally alone at her table, drawing the pins from her coiffure one by one, watching in the oval gilded mirror as the tendrils of honey-brown hair fell away from her tight chignon.

She paused in mediation as a sudden memory assailed her. Garrett standing behind her, removing her hairpins in the same methodical order, using his fingers to fan her hair over her shoulders. He watched her in the mirror with that stormy look in his blue eyes. The look that reminded her of crashing ocean waves in a storm. The look that said he wanted her.

Sophie curled her toes into the lush ivory strands of the carpet. Dropping the final hairpin on the glossy surface of the mahogany table, she clutched its edge and stared into the mirror, taking deep breaths to regain her composure.

The unbidden memories came less frequently now. She supposed that was natural after so many years.

She didn’t want to forget Garrett. At times, she welcomed the memories, coveted them. But not tonight. Tonight she wished to think only of Tristan, of his long, lean body, his disarming smile, his caresses. The way he’d slid into the mud today to hold her body against his, tight and comforting. The sheer desperation in his expression be¬fore he’d realized she was all right.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, the door sepa¬rating her dressing room from their bedchamber swung open. Swiping the back of her hand over her damp eyes, Sophie reached for her hairbrush. She watched in the mirror as Tristan closed the distance between them, sharp as ever in his snug gray trousers and embroidered waistcoat, the gold thread matching the color of his cravat. He’d un¬tied the cravat, and it hung loose about his neck.

“That didn’t take long,” she murmured, smiling at him.

“I came as quickly as I could, love.” He grinned at her, revealing straight white teeth and the single dimple that always had the ability to melt her heart. “Got rid of Billingsly. Even tales of his Egyptian travels can’t entice me when I know you’re in our bedchamber . . .” a hint of wickedness quirked his lips and sparkled in his eyes in an expression he reserved for her alone, “. . . waiting.”

As she dragged the brush through her hair, Tristan rested his hands on her shoulders. Long-fingered and elegant, with blunt, clean fingernails, his hands weren’t the only part of him that hinted at his position in society. His face was aristocratic, with clean lines, sharp angles, and shrewd, dark eyes. But his refined mannerisms and famed control proved he was of the higher orders. Though he may not have coveted Garrett’s legacy, he suited his new role as the Duke of Calton.

“How’s your leg?”

She forced a smile. A nasty bruise had bloomed on her thigh, but she was thankful. It could have been so much worse. “It’s all right. I scarcely feel it anymore.”

His smile faded as they locked gazes in the mirror. “Ah, Soph . . .” His voice trailed off, and he must have seen the residual grief in her expression, because the pain in his eyes suddenly reflected her own.
He squeezed her shoulders. “I miss him, too, love. Every day.”

Tilting her head to glance up at him, she smiled sadly. Tristan was the one person in the world who understood her loss. He, too, had lost a spouse. Nancy had died giving birth to their son two years after Waterloo. Though Sophie knew he’d loved her, Tristan rarely spoke of Nancy.

Yet the loss of Garrett was different. Garrett had been gone longer, but he remained a solid presence in their lives— perhaps because they had retained hope for so long.

Tristan was patient with her melancholy. Most men would have despised her for continuing to love a dead man. Most men would have been jealous of her unwillingness to let go of her affection for Garrett. But not Tristan. He knew how much she had loved Garrett, and he never tried to take that away from her.

“It’s just—nights like tonight—” Struggling to order her thoughts, she shrugged helplessly.

She never intended to make Tristan feel inferior, be¬cause he wasn’t. He was simply different. When she fell in love with Tristan, it seemed her heart swelled to twice its previous capacity to make room for him.

Still, more than anything, she feared hurting Tristan by clinging so desperately to her feelings for Garrett. If she lost him as she had lost Garrett . . . The thought was intolerable. If that happened, she wouldn’t be able to endure it.

“I know,” he murmured, as if reading her mind. His lips brushed against her hair. “I understand. I do.”

“I’m sorry.”

He rose to his full height. “Don’t be sorry, Soph.”

She set the brush on the table and stood, twining her arms around his neck. The linen of his cravat brushed against her skin as she pressed her cheek to his solid chest. He smelled like exotic spice, like the Eastern countries he was so fond of. “I adore you,” she said. “You mean everything to me.”
His fingers sifted through her hair as he tilted her head to face him. He laughed, but the sound was ragged. “I can’t force you to forget him, Sophie. Hell, I can’t for¬get him. You know how strongly I cared for him. He was more than a brother to me.”

“Yes.” She tightened her arms around him. “Thank you.”

He nuzzled his face in her hair, his breath hot against her scalp. “We’ve come far, wouldn’t you say?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes.”

They’d come much farther than she ever would have imagined. Their wedding night had been difficult. She’d been shy and awkward, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was betraying Garrett’s memory. It was the first time for her since the day Garrett left with his regiment to fight at Waterloo.

But Garrett was gone. Tristan was her husband now, and in the past months, he’d earned her complete trust. In his arms, she’d exposed everything to him, from her life’s desires to her deepest and darkest fantasies. They shared a level of openness and communication she’d never thought to have with anyone.

“There was no need to rush up,” she said in order to change the subject, her voice muffled against his chest. “I would not have begrudged your talking with Mr. Billingsly. I know how you crave news of Egypt.”

“Not as much as I used to. I find myself perfectly con¬tent wherever you and the children are. Egypt seems more of a youthful fancy these days.”

His admission stole the breath from her lungs. Tristan was an adventurer, a traveler. His wanderlust had always been a mystery to her. She felt most comfortable at home, either here in Mayfair or at Calton House in the north. While she’d waited patiently for Garrett’s infrequent trips home, Tristan had explored half the globe. China, India, Madagascar. Jamaica, Ireland, Italy, and America. When he married Nancy, he didn’t stop. Nancy always said good-naturedly that it was a miracle he’d managed to get her with child, he was gone so often.

He’d never visited Egypt, though. When they were children, an Egyptian adventure had been his dream.

She rubbed her cheek against his chest and sighed. “Perhaps I have domesticated you after all.”

A soft murmur of contentment was his only response. His body pressed against her in all the right places, hint¬ing at the pleasure he could give. She slipped her hands from his neck to his shoulders. Muscles rippled beneath her fingertips, and keeping her fingers light, she skimmed lower, down his back to curve over his behind.

He stroked the slippery fabric of her robe and pulled her tight against him so his erection prodded her belly. When he spoke, his voice was husky in her ear. “Billingsly’s travels couldn’t hold my attention tonight. I kept thinking of you alone up here. Everything pales beside the promise of having you, love. Seeing you, touching you . . . taking you . . .”

The way he spoke to her, the way he felt against her . . . there was nothing like it in the world. The blood ran heavy and slow through Sophie’s veins, warming her, making her muscles languid. Her breaths came in shallow little pants. As hard as pebbles, her nipples pushed against the silk of her dressing gown. She sensed the change inside her body as it heated and opened, eager for his invasion.

Sophie reached between them and untied the belt of her robe. The silk slipped off her shoulders and pooled on the floor, leaving her bare. Cool air brushed over her sensitive skin, raising gooseflesh on her legs and arms.

She ran her lips along his jaw, speaking softly. “Make love to me, Tristan.”

Cupping her face in his hands, he brought his lips down over hers. “You taste so good, Sophie,” he murmured against her mouth. “I can’t get enough of you.”

He knelt lower, his lips drifting over her shoulder. “I thought I might lose you this morning.” His hands dropped to her waist and tugged her even closer, pressing her against him from top to bottom, and a deep shudder resonated through his body.

Sophie reached up to caress the masculine planes of his face. “I was scared, too,” she admitted. She slid the cravat from his neck and kissed him. She loved his lips. So soft and firm at the same time. Delicious.

The wool of his trousers was in the way, and she fum¬bled at the buttons of his falls, but he stopped her by cap¬turing her wrists in his hand.

She pulled away from their kiss. “No?”

“No, love. Not yet.”

Soft material slid over her skin and she glanced down¬ward to see he’d caught his cravat and looped it around her wrists.

Her heart pounding, she looked up at him, running her tongue nervously over her bottom lip.

His expression was serious when he met her gaze. But she knew him well enough to see the glint of anticipation lurking in the depths of his eyes.

“I’m going to tie you to the bed.”

Her lips parted as she stared at him. It was a secret desire of hers to be bound while he ravished her. She had told him of it once, late in the night when they had shared their most intimate fantasies, but he had remained silent. Later, she dismissed it, thinking her easygoing husband would never desire such a thing.

Then again, in the past months she had learned that his nighttime personality differed from his daytime façade. With the shift between his public and private existence, Tristan transformed from respectable and personable to dark and mysterious.

Her throat was so dry, she could scarcely speak. “Why?”

He held her wrists loosely in his hand, unmoving, studying her with eyes that bored into her soul. “It will please me.”

She released a shallow breath.

“I want you tied down. Helplessly bound.” His voice grew rough. “I want you focused on me alone.”

Sophie closed her eyes. In her daily life, she was a mother, a leader, a duchess. An upright model of society. She made important decisions quickly and with aplomb. She avoided showing weakness.

At night, though, Tristan relished exposing the secret fragile part of her. For whatever the reason, she gloried in it. When he exercised his power over her, it made her feel feminine and beautiful, cherished and protected. It was the ultimate release.

Nonetheless, if she told him no, he would stop. Instantly.

With her heart pounding against her breastbone, she looked up at him and made a small movement of her head. A nod.

The corners of his lips quirked upward, then he tugged her hands. “Hold them out for me.”

Biting her lower lip, she did as he instructed. She felt so vulnerable like this, with him still fully clothed and her naked and standing before him, offering herself to him to do with as he pleased. Yet it felt right.

She shivered from heat rather than cold as he wrapped the neck cloth around her wrists, twisted and looped, deftly creating an intricate knot.

“It’s a French bowline. Should keep you nicely bound,” he murmured with one final tug. “Now go lie on the bed and wait for me there.”

She walked through the door into their bedchamber and to their high, ornately carved antique bed, feeling his gaze on her bottom as she mounted the step and crawled between the rust damask bed curtains. The gold tassel brushed against her hip as she climbed onto the mattress. A chambermaid had turned down the heavy counterpane earlier, and the bed linens cooled Sophie’s heated skin as she settled over them. Her cheeks burned, whether with embar¬rassment or arousal, she wasn’t certain.

Probably both.

On her knees with her hands clasped together in front of her, she paused to look over her shoulder. Tristan stood at the threshold between the rooms, watching.

“Good. I’ll be right back.” Turning away, he vanished into her dressing room.

She wondered why he had left her, but she knew he wouldn’t keep her alone for long. Relishing each scrape of the sheets on her sensitive skin, she settled onto her back. A puff of warm air washed over her as the fi re hissed and crackled. By the time she’d situated herself, Tristan had reentered the bedroom with a pair of her silk stockings dangling from his fingertips.

“For your ankles.” He arched a questioning brow at her.

Pressing her lips together, her heart beating wild with anticipation, she nodded again. She would do anything he asked—anything for him to touch her, satisfy her. Fo¬cused solely on the man she loved, she had nearly forgotten her melancholy. How had Tristan known how much she wanted this—needed it—tonight?

Silently and with exquisite slowness, he bound her hands to a bedpost, then followed suit with her ankles, using a stocking to tie each one to an opposing post. He paused to brush soothing fingers near the lurid bruise on her thigh, his face darkening at the memory of her fall.

Finally he stepped back to survey his handiwork. The ties dug into the flesh of her wrists and ankles enough to make her very aware of them but not enough to cut off the flow of blood. She lay with her arms overhead and her hands clasped, her legs spread and her center pulsing hot. Her breasts were heavy and tender, her nipples flushed dark. From her toes to her fingertips, her skin prickled with sensitivity and ached for his soothing touch.

He walked around the high bed, scrutinizing her body.

He cupped her mound in his palm and pressed gently. She fought against the urge to wiggle, to beg him for more. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?” He said in a low voice. “To be bound to my bed, subjected to my will?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

His dark gaze snapped to her mouth. “What was that?”

“Yes, Tristan. It’s what I need. What I want.”

His lips curled into a predatory smile.

Never breaking his focus from her body, he removed his waistcoat, taking time with each cloth-covered button, and finally pulled off his shirt, exposing his lean torso. If she’d been free, nothing could have stopped Sophie from touching him, from running her hands up and down his body, over the smooth, taut skin of his chest.

He doused the two lamps—one on a round table by the hearth and the other near the doorway. Now, the fire and a single burning candle on the bedside table provided the faint, flickering light in the room.

He climbed onto the step. She turned her head toward him, at eye level with his falls, watching as he slid the buttons through their holes and pushed the trousers down his narrow hips.

Just then, a crashing noise sounded from below. From the entry hall, perhaps. Sophie froze, and Tristan did as well, but he relaxed when there was no further sound. “The servants must’ve dropped something.”

“I should make sure everything is all right.”

He frowned, and his eyes sparked. “Now?”

“Well . . .” She hesitated, unsure, her desire to please him warring with her need for control in her household.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re mine now, you know that.”

He paused. “You’re not to worry about anything else, not until morning. Do you understand?”

His words sent a thrill of pleasure through her, and any lingering desire for control fled. She shuddered, warm and wet and wanting. His fingers tightened over her jaw, hard enough to leave pink imprints on her cheek. She didn’t care about the crash downstairs. She needed only him.

“I understand.”
His fingers loosened, and he ran them down her cheek, light as a feather. He skimmed her jaw line, then moved downward. She arched her neck to welcome his touch as he found her pulse point and murmured, “Your heart beats so fast, Soph.”

He focused intently on the path of his hand as it traced her collarbone and then smoothed down the center of her chest before curling around the breast closest to him, squeezing gently. Sophie strained toward him. A muscle moved in his jaw. His lips, even pressed together in concentration, were full and soft. If she were free, she would pull his head down to her so she could kiss him. She would tug his body over hers and feel him everywhere she could, reveling in the contact of their skin in all the possible places it could touch. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t kiss him, couldn’t touch him. She could only be patient and wait for him to give her more.

He rubbed his thumb over her nipple, and Sophie drew in a sharp breath. She was so needy, so sensitive. Light flickered over his torso, capturing her focus as shades of bronze spattered across his olive-toned skin. Tristan was not a bulky man, but he was an active one, and taut muscles enhanced the shape of his body from his wide shoulders to his flat stomach and narrow hips. His chest expanded as he took a deep breath and stroked her nipple again.

“Tristan . . .” Her eyes fluttered shut as his touch rebounded through her. When she opened them, she let her gaze roam lower.

His waist tapered into his hips, the edges of his buttocks hollowed. Rising from its nest of dark curls, his erection strained upward. Gooseflesh broke out on her arms and legs. She was hot and cold and achy . . . and she wanted him.

He squeezed her breast, and she squirmed against the resulting vibration between her legs. “Don’t do that again, Sophie.”

“Don’t . . . what?”

“Scare me like you did this morning.” His eyes narrowed at her, his jaw tight, his posture stiff. He was dead serious.

“I’ll . . . try,” she breathed as he palmed her breast.

“I can’t lose you,” he said from between gritted teeth. “Do you understand?”

“Yes . . . Tristan . . . I need . . .” But she couldn’t finish the thought, because his hand left her breast and slipped between her parted legs.

“I know what you need, love.” He groaned as he slid two fingers deep inside her. “You’re so wet for me.”

She tilted her hips, angling for him to press his fingers deeper.
He pulled out until his fingertips feathered over her sensitive folds. “Do you want me, Sophie?”

“Yes.”

He rewarded her with a thrust of his fingers so deep it made her toes curl.
“Over you?”

“Yes.”

Another thrust. She moaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Do you want me inside you?”

“Yes, Tristan. Yes, please.”

In seconds, he was looming over her, his muscles flex¬ing as he supported himself on his arms. Spread and trussed as she was, she couldn’t wrap her legs around him—she could only take whatever he chose to give. But she didn’t care. Tristan on top was her favorite position. She loved watching the raw, intense need on his face as he moved inside her.

She looked into his eyes as he arranged himself at her entrance. He didn’t need to say he loved her. Words were unnecessary. Love poured from his expression, from his actions, from his pores. Her love for him, she knew, was equally evident. In every movement, every blink, every gasp she made for him, she loved him. How he made her feel, the sublime intensity of his caresses, could only be explained by the depth of their affection for each another.

He inched into her, making her whimper with every slight movement that pushed his sex deeper inside. Her channel was slick and tight around him, and so sensitive.

Finally he was fully seated. They throbbed together, their bodies held immobile by the sensation. Whose heart¬beat was beating so deeply between her legs? Hers or his? Both, perhaps, joined as they themselves were joined, in body, heart, and spirit.

Holding his hips still, he bent to flick his tongue over her nipples. When she was reduced to gasping and squirming with need, impatient for him to let go, he rose to face her. Bracing his elbows on either side of her head, he slanted his lips over hers as he moved inside her, deep enough to make her pant uncontrollably at the end of each thrust as the tip of his shaft nudged against her womb.

His lips slid softly against hers, gentle in contrast to the hot, slick hardness between her legs. She sucked his bottom lip between her teeth and nipped. He deepened the kiss, strengthening his penetration, exploring her mouth with his tongue until the thrusts of his tongue matched the thrusts of his body.
He pushed into her again and again, brushing her in¬side, stroking her most sensitive spot. The pleasure spread through her, hot and piercing, building until her every muscle tightened and trembled from the tension.

Until, all at once, she shattered.

Her eyes squeezed shut, she gasped as waves of plea¬sure crashed through her body, making it undulate so fiercely, the silk and linen binding her strained against the bedposts. Some part of her pleasure-drenched consciousness heard a second crash and registered that it was much closer than the first.

And then Tristan shouted, but it was a cry of surprise rather than fulfillment. His body was ripped away from hers. Cold air washed over her skin, and with her limbs still shuddering from the aftereffects of the orgasm, she opened her eyes, squinting against a harsh light.

A shadowy male figure held her naked husband by the neck. The man’s fists flew, pummeling Tristan as he cursed at him in a low, hate-filled, growling voice, calling him a bastard, a perverse bloody rapist.

Light came from the doorway and haloed both men, making them appear as black figures silhouetted by the stark brightness behind them.

One big fist clipped Tristan in the jaw, snapping his head back. Tristan grunted in surprise, and Sophie yanked against her bonds with all her might. “No!” she cried. “Stop! Stop at once!”

She had to break free, save Tristan, separate him from the intruder, the lunatic was trying to kill him . . .    A crack resonated through the room as another fist smashed against bone.
Not Tristan. Please . . . She writhed, her skin burning where the twisted fabric dug into it, the knots unforgiving.

More muffled curses and the thump of connecting blows made her struggle harder—she had to get loose, if it meant tearing the bed apart, ripping the fabric . . . But Tristan had bound her expertly, and no matter how desperately she fought, she couldn’t free herself.
A group of figures huddled at the threshold beyond the fighting men. The servants, she realized, most of them holding lanterns. Watching the scene, mouths agape—her naked and tied to the bed, the stranger attempting to kill their master.

Oh, Lord, no. This couldn’t be happening. Her shouts faded, the fight in her body drained away. With effort, she focused on Tristan. He had wrenched himself free from the man and was defending himself, now striking at the man’s ribs . . . his head.

His face.

Sophie froze. His face swam in her vision as her eyes adjusted to the light, blurring and then snapping into focus.

She knew that man. She knew the way he moved, knew the shape of him. She knew the broad cheekbones and the stormy look in his blue eyes.

It was her dead husband.

It was Garrett.

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As a child, Jennifer Haymore traveled the South Pacific with her family on their homebuilt sailboat. The months spent on the sometimes-quiet, sometimes-raging seas sparked her love of adventure and grand romance. Since then, she’s earned degrees in Computer Science and Education and held various jobs from bookselling to teaching inner-city children to acting, but she’s never stopped writing.

You can find Jennifer in Southern California trying to talk her husband into yet another trip to England, helping her three children with homework while brainstorming a new five-minute dinner menu, or crouched in a corner of the local bookstore writing her next novel.

You can learn more at her website: www.jenniferhaymore.com
A Touch of Scandal copyright © 2009 by Jennifer Haymore All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Excerpt reprinted with the permission of Grand Central Publishing.