Her Reluctant Viscount (Rakes and Rogues) Read online

  Table of Contents

  HER RELUCTANT VISCOUNT

  Copyright Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  HER RELUCTANT VISCOUNT

  ALIYAH BURKE

  Passion in Print Press

  www.passioninprint.com

  Copyright Acknowledgement

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

  Copyright 2013 by Aliyah Burke

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by

  Passion in Print Press, LLC

  3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

  Albion, NY 14411

  Visit Passion in Print Press, LLC on the Internet:

  www.passioninprint.com

  Cover Art by MMJ Design

  Editing by Lawan Williams

  Issued 2013

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  To my readers who’ve been asking for Tryst’s story. I hope you enjoy his adventures with Jo. Thanks for the support! To my hubby, thank you for the unwavering encouragement you never fail to show me. You are my greatest champion. Last but never least, to all those who risk their own life in defense of this amazing country—God Bless You and thank you and your families for all of your selfless sacrifices!

  Prologue

  1810

  He tossed back the whisky relishing the burn. The four men with him had long since succumbed to their cups. They deserved it, after all it was, a celebration. One only he seemed to have difficulty in participating.

  “Sir,” the proprietor said, materializing beside him.

  “Yes?” Trystan Wilkes glanced askew at the man.

  “I was told to deliver this to you.” He offered a note.

  Instinct had him immediately scanning the establishment. No one new popped out at him. “Thank you.” His senses screamed at him, but he still lowered his gaze to the folded note and opened it.

  So close.

  Two words. Words which shot him out of his seat and to the door. He paused and glanced back to his comrades. No, they would be of no use to him in their condition. Shoving through the tavern door, his gaze darted right and left, desperate for the deliverer of the note.

  A chilling whinny yanked his attention toward the lane leading to the building. The night, while frigid, had nary a cloud in the sky and the moon offered enough light for him to make out the man’s face who rode upon the horse.

  It cannot be!

  Nevertheless, it was. There was no mistaking that figure. That face.

  He grabbed the nearest horse, swung up, and set off after him. Maniacal laughter drifted back to him as his steed thundered up the road after the other rider. Rounding a bend, he screamed in agony as a blade tore across his jaw line, barely missing his neck in what would have been instant death.

  Withdrawing his own saber, he wheeled his mount around to meet the next charge head-on. The battle was short and intense but he prevailed. After hefting the wiry body on the back of a horse, he mounted and headed back to the tavern.

  An eerie silence surrounded the building and he hopped off ignoring his own bleeding face to head for the door. No noise greeted him upon entering either. Saber drawn, he hurried in to find…Oh dear, Lord. Bodies lay strewn everywhere. Hastening to his friends, he found them dead as well, still warm to the touch and the blood pools around them growing larger by the second.

  A clatter to his left had him spinning, weapon drawn. A tavern wench cowered there in the corner, bleeding, hand over her mouth, and tears in her eyes. His fingers flexed on the handle of his weapon as he strode toward her.

  “Who did this?”

  She shook her head. He paused before her then jerked her unceremoniously to her feet.

  “Who?” he growled.

  “He…he said his name was The Alchemist.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “No way.” That was whom he followed. Whom he had fought. More importantly, whom he killed. Right? “Get out of here. Go get the constable.”

  She bolted without any further prodding. Whether or not she would send anyone well, time would tell. He grabbed a cloth and pressed it to his still bleeding face. Moving to his friends’ side, he worked swiftly, checking them over. Three had throats slit from ear to ear. Gilbert gave him pause. He could find nothing to cause death.

  A thought occurred to him and he tipped Gilbert’s head forward and checked the back of his neck. Dread filled him as he spied the hole with a thin line of blood trailing from it.

  How could this be? They had delivered The Alchemist to the gaol five days ago. Two days ago, they had watched him dangle from the hangman’s noose after the trapdoor fell from beneath his feet. Or so he had thought. That’s why they had been celebrating. Then he saw him again tonight, fighting and killing him. So how could he have survived? Moreover, who helped him escape?

  Trystan’s hand had grown tacky with his own blood and he headed for a chair as the sound of horses thundering up reached him. The next few hours passed in a whirl as they tried to sort out the mess.

  Mess? Hell, massacre would be a more apt word for what had occurred here.

  He left immediately after his face was sewn up; he had a report to file and answers to seek. Each step that carried him closer to the Home Office pumped anger through him. He was pissed. Mad his friends had died. Mad he had survived. But most of all he was livid this had been allowed to happen.

  The body of the man he fought had vanished while he had been in the tavern. He was furious over his own failures. Moreover, it fed his growing rage.

  Another chilly blast blew around him. “I will find you, Alchemist. Never will I cease hunting you down.”

  He turned up his collar and asked his mount to go even faster. “Until I breathe no more will I ever stop seeking you out.” A shift in the saddle before he fell into the easy gait of his stallion.

  Chapter One

  I am a caged bird. Having lost the warm sun and fresh air. I live in darkness and sorrow. My heart and soul yearn to again be free. Will I ever again sit high in a mangrove tree? Hear the screech of monkeys? Shiver from the raw and pure power of the leopards roar? Or am I destined to remain in the gilded cage? Until I am no more.

  ~From the private journal of Josephine Adrys

  1817

  “He is watching you again.”

  Josephine Adrys, more commonly known as Jo, sighed with boredom even as she followed the not-so-subtle nod of her friend, Clara Field, to where Ian Crane, Earl of Stanton stood staring at her.

  “
Great.” She looked away and wished she were anywhere else but where she was.

  Ian had been an earl since he was a little boy. Although for some, early responsibility created an impressive man. It was not so in his case. For in Ian, Lord Stanton, it had created nothing more than a spoiled and whiny individual.

  His wife had passed going on two years now and he had decided it was time to marry again and get an heir. Unfortunately, he had set his sights on her.

  “I do not understand his persistence,” she muttered. “How many different ways and times can I—must I—refuse him?”

  Clara gave an understanding smile. “At least you still have prospects. I am considered firmly on the shelf.”

  Immediately contrite, Jo reached out and squeezed her hand. She had met Clara when she first returned from Africa and the two had become fast friends. Clara was heavier than the others who had come out for their first season. Ridiculed by her so-called friends the poor child had yet to receive any proposals.

  “You just have to find the right man.”

  “I should become a nun. No one wants a fat, long in the tooth bride.”

  Jo scowled then smacked her friend on the arm with her fan. “Enough of that talk. You are not fat. Nor are you long in the tooth.”

  “I just want to dance a waltz one time with someone other than my brother.”

  The wistfulness in her friend’s voice tore at her. “I would dance with you, Clara. I have a feeling it would, however, cause a scandal of its own though. But I am willing.”

  As she had wished, Clara broke into a large smile and laugh. Her entire face lit up and showed off how beautiful she truly was.

  “I am so glad we became friends, Jo.”

  “As am I.”

  “Miss Adrys.”

  Her heart dropped at the familiar tone of Ian Crane. Rolling her eyes—which almost set Clara off into another round of laughter—Jo composed her features and faced him with a practiced smile and curtsey.

  “Lord Stanton.”

  “I wondered if you had a partner for the final waltz.” He paused and sent her a lecherous grin. “Or might I sign your card?”

  Drat. How am I supposed to get out of this one? She was not asked to dance much and he knew it.

  “Actually—”

  “The final waltz is mine, Stanton.” Another broke in.

  Unlike Lord Stanton, this newcomer did not make her skin crawl. No, he had this way of setting it on fire. Even now, she could feel her pulse quicken as she faced him.

  Trystan Wilkes.

  Tall and powerful, he stood there as if not a single care in the world. A rakish gleam burned in his blue eyes and she suddenly had the urge to fan herself. His brown-blond hair hung longer than fashion dictated but on him, it worked. He wore black, which in her mind seemed to amplify the broad width of his shoulders and the strength she knew firsthand he possessed. The flickering light from the chandeliers above gave him a dangerous air, especially how it made his facial scar appear. Her throat had fallen dry and she swallowed to rectify the situation.

  “Hello, Trystan,” she said with a smile.

  “Trystan?” Lord Stanton echoed in disbelief.

  Shite! She had forgotten the proper way to address him. He never failed to throw her for a loop. Ever since that…Oh no, not thinking about that!

  Trystan never missed a beat. “I am a family friend, Stanton,” he replied smoothly, even as his eyes began to heat. “If you will excuse us, the waltz is about to begin and we would like to collect our partners.”

  She tuned out Ian’s response. Trystan had said “we.” So discombobulated by his appearance, she had totally missed the man beside him. She recognized him as well. Major McCutcheon.

  Trystan gave her a wink and swept her out onto the dance floor. Past him, she caught a glimpse of Clara in the major’s arms.

  “Thank you for getting me away from him.” She licked her lips and tried to concentrate beyond the feel of his touch on her sensitive body. “And for having Major McCutcheon dance with Clara.”

  “I did not have him do that. He wanted to. Now, tell me what you are doing with Stanton.”

  “I was not with him,” she snapped.

  His decadent chuckle skated up her spin and increased the fire in her blood.

  “There is my little hellcat. And here I was worried when I saw you looking so bored that you had become like everyone else.”

  “I am not yours, nor am I a hellcat.” She gave him a brittle smile.

  His fingers flexed along her waist and she felt claimed. A simple movement and she reacted with such thoughts. How pathetic was she?

  “If not, why have you not married?”

  “How is my personal life any of your business?” she demanded.

  “You have had offers. Yet, here you are in my arms,” he paused, “again.”

  Ignoring the flush of heat his implication gave her, she had to fight to keep her smile hidden. Trystan was unlike any other she had met. He pushed the bounds of propriety without a care. She enjoyed their verbal spars; it made her feel more alive. The heated way he looked at her did not hurt either.

  He had become Viscount Wilkes two years ago and that had been the last time she had seen him. At the funeral. The Wilkes name had been fodder for the ton until Trystan inherited the title. With his money, he had paid off all the debt and had plenty of his own to spare. Of course, it helped, he had invested some with Colin Faulkner, Earl of Clifton and had made quite a bit from the venture.

  “Merely to avoid Crane and his wandering hands,” she said airily.

  Trystan’s face hardened into a mask of displeasure. “He has been improper with his advances?”

  She glanced into his eyes and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I am capable of defending myself, Trystan, as you should well recall.”

  He gave her a slight smile. “I remember everything about that day.”

  Words escaped her. Trystan Wilkes had way more experience than she did. While she had stopped him that day after the kiss, to this day it was something she continually thought about. His taste, so raw and purely masculine. And so unforgettable.

  “Me too. And I meant every word,” she said with sugary sweetness.

  The music wound down and she began to step back only to find his grip had tightened, keeping her anchored to him. She coolly arched a single eyebrow at him. People had begun to toss them strange looks.

  “Something else to say, Lord Wilkes?”

  His eyes traveled with overtly familiarity along her face and her stomach tightened. He had stared at her in a similar fashion after he kissed her. Five years ago he had kissed her and she still could not get it out of her mind. She wanted to slide her hands up along his shoulders and sink them into his hair before tugging him close enough to kiss.

  “Not a thing, hellcat, not a thing.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Do not call me that.” Trystan opened his mouth only to shut it with a snap. All emotion drained leaving her with a shell of a man.

  He released her and took her arm before leading her back to where Clara stood with Major McCutcheon. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Adrys.”

  “My pleasure,” she replied wondering what had caused him to withdraw into himself like that.

  Trystan lifted his gaze to hers and the heat returned, bringing with it more shudders and want. “Until next time,” he said. His look possessive and intimate. Then he was gone with the major as well.

  Clara touched her arm and she glanced at her friend. Her green eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “My first dance with a non-family member and it is a waltz,” Carla said on a sigh of pure pleasure.

  “With a handsome major, too,” Jo teased.

  “He was that. All of them are.”

  Jo followed her gaze to find Trystan and the four military men she had met first a few years ago. They turned as one to head for the door, only before they vanished, Trystan glanced back at her. Even from this distance, it was as if he had reached ou
t and dragged a finger down the side of her face.

  Damn him! His lips twitched and she knew he knew what affect he had on her. Still, she wondered as he strode out if he even cared. He rarely noticed her. In addition, when he did, he flirted as he did with every woman. He was after all, a rake.

  Another breathy sigh came from Clara and she took her friend’s arm, leading her away from the approaching and scowling Ian Crane. Three steps from the sanctuary of the ladies sitting room and he caught up to them.

  “Miss Adrys, a moment.”

  Grinding her jaw, she slapped a smile on her face and rotated so they faced one another. “Yes, my lord?”