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Overview
Tudor England, 1542
When beautiful widow Lady Annabelle Benton-Hayes is ordered to court, she is terrified. Henry VIII desires a sixth queen for his bloodstained throne, and her scheming family cares not for her wishes. Annabelle yearns for love, but there is no escaping her fate: escorting her is Rafe de Vere, the man who abandoned her to become England's most loyal and brutally successful soldier.
Rafe is utterly weary of war and its impossible demands. Thankfully, his final task is the easiest: accompany a wellborn lady to London for Henry's perusal. Until he discovers she is Annabelle, the woman who swore to wait for him but married another. Rafe isn't permitted to care, yet time hasn't dulled their sizzling attraction and his orders are increasingly difficult to obey. To love her, he would have to risk all and cross his king to secure the ultimate prize - Annabelle's heart.
A Scandalous Novella
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781633750500 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Entangled Publishing, LLC |
| Publication date: | 08/11/2014 |
| Series: | Entangled Scandalous |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 80 |
| Sales rank: | 356,784 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Nicola Davidson worked for many years in communications and marketing as well as television and print journalism, but hasn't looked back since she decided writing wicked historical romance was infinitely more fun. When not chained to a computer she can be found ambling along one of New Zealand's beautiful beaches, cheering on the champion All Blacks rugby team, history geeking on the internet, or daydreaming. If this includes chocolate - even better!
Keep up with Nicola's news on Twitter (@NicolaMDavidson), Facebook (Nicola Davidson - Author), or her website, www.nicola-davidson.com.
Read an Excerpt
His Forbidden Lady
By Nicola Davidson, Kate Fall
Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2014 Nicola DavidsonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63375-050-0
CHAPTER 1
Essex, England, March 1542
The folded cream parchment sat atop the library's polished oak side table like a coiled snake poised to strike.
Lady Annabelle Benton-Hayes didn't dare touch it. In fact, she was trying to forget the missive existed. Unfortunately, the words were already seared in her mind.
Henry the Eighth, by the grace of God, King of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and of the Church of England and also of Ireland in Earth Supreme Head, desires the pleasure of the company of ...
No. She would not torment herself with the words, not when there still might be a way out of this summons masquerading as an invitation to court. It was still a week hence, after all. Just because Henry Tudor commanded her to be paraded in front of him like a banquet platter didn't mean it would happen. Just because he sought a sixth queen to birth a passel of sons and secure his throne didn't mean she would be the one fated to grant his fervent wish.
Her fists clenched so hard she hid them in the heavy folds of her green velvet gown. The King of England always got what he wanted. And his people well knew it.
"Annabelle!"
She jumped at the sharp tone. Her father and his illustrious guest had been discussing her great fortune in the sparsely-furnished manor library for over two hours now, neither expecting nor encouraging her participation. Until the moment she allowed her thoughts to wander, naturally.
"Yes, Papa?"
Charles, Baron Mayberry, resettled his slender frame in a high-back chair and shot her a look of extreme displeasure.
"Your uncle asked you a question, girl, and you'd do well to answer him."
Guilty anger churned her stomach, but she forced herself to look directly at Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford. Not actually her uncle but her father's younger cousin, yet undoubtedly head of the family. Save the king, no man in England held more power, and it was thanks to him she'd come to Henry's attention in the first place.
"Beg pardon, my lord. You were saying?"
"Sit, lady," Hertford replied gently, but his dark eyes held no warmth. "I'm not certain you comprehend the enormity of the opportunity ahead of you. In your appearance, you hold a significant advantage over the other ladies attending His Majesty's festivities."
Reluctantly obedient, Annabelle perched on an embroidered chaise. Only a halfwit wouldn't understand what it meant to be connected to the all-powerful earl. Or to bear a striking resemblance to their revered kinswoman Queen Jane Seymour, the king's third wife, who had died after birthing his long-awaited heir. Never in all her twenty-five summers had she cause to loathe the combination of wide brown eyes, fair complexion, and flaxen curls so well.
"Yes, my lord."
"His Majesty has bestowed much upon us because of young Prince Edward. But if Henry fell in love again, made you his wife, and you in turn presented him with another son ... we would be assured of favor and position for always."
She gritted her teeth. "As you say."
"However, I am concerned that in your first marriage, you failed to quicken with child. You are not barren, are you? Birthing a Duke of York for England will be your foremost duty."
Humiliation scorched her cheeks, but she had a defense for this, at least. "My husband was unwell for much of our marriage. I have no reason to think I cannot conceive."
"Good. Then you must travel to London without delay."
"Annabelle knows her duty," said her father, smiling ingratiatingly. "When it is unclear, time in a locked chamber provides clarity. Or sterner correction, as her husband Walter used to —"
"Now, now," said Hertford, amusement quirking his thin lips. "Damaged goods won't tempt His Majesty. To ensure this, the captain of my personal guard will lead her escort to London. Rafe de Vere is a seasoned military man and won't allow any harm to our jewel."
Her father leaned forward and lifted her chin with a careless finger. "Who would have thought you the sweetmeat to tempt a monarch?"
"Papa, I — "
"Go and begin your packing. Gerda will assist."
Head bowed at the order, she stood to leave, her shaky legs working by sheer force of will.
Abruptly Hertford loomed over her.
"De Vere will arrive on the morrow. I shall see you again at court. And remember this — no fresh-faced, dim-witted whore like Katherine Howard will win the king's love this time. You must be as my late sister was: gentle, decorous, devout, a loving stepmother. Yet also free with your widow's tricks, for Henry's palate is ... jaded. Allow him every liberty bar your bed, for that will be a wedding night privilege."
Breath hitching at the matter-of-fact coarseness, Annabelle curtsied deeply. "My Lord Hertford. Papa."
They dismissed her with a cursory wave. Fortunately, her anger remained within until she reached her chamber. Then a heeled slipper, embroidery frame, and pewter tankard greeted the north wall in quick succession.
"They will 'ear, my chick," soothed a kind voice as a small framed portrait of her father was forcibly removed from her white-knuckled hands. "Tell me the news instead."
Annabelle scowled at her beloved waiting woman, Gerda.
"I must go to court. Tomorrow! They want me to entice and marry the king."
"Bah. Foolish men make thrice-foolish plans. Hertford's schemes benefit Hertford. Your father should know better."
"More than that, he broke a promise. When I first came home, Papa swore I could choose my second husband."
"I know, I know. But remember, no tapestry is complete till the final stitch."
Annabelle shook her head. To think she'd actually dreamed of courtship this time. A handsome young man — a valiant, dark-haired, and chivalrous knight — winning her heart with daring deeds, unusual trinkets, and sweet kisses. Sweeping her away to be mistress of a charming manor ready to be brought alive with the laughter of sturdy sons and pretty daughters. Surely after being sold to Lord Benton-Hayes, an old, wealthy landowner who padded his doublet, smelled of mildew, and preferred the buckled belt for correction, she deserved a little happiness.
Instead, her father sought to gift her to the royal monster who banished, set aside, and executed his wives at will.
"Stop woolgathering, my chick. How are you getting to London? Could the escort be bribed?"
Annabelle locked her gaze with Gerda's. "My escort is Rafe de Vere."
"No," choked her waiting woman, crossing herself swiftly. "Hertford's Butcher himself?"
"The very same," she replied, shuddering at the horrifyingly accurate nickname. Of course she'd heard the tales. One could hardly be unaware when they were whispered in every household, church pew, and village green in the country. De Vere conquered castles, sacked towns, and killed all who opposed him with nary a drop of sweat, and was well paid for his brutal efficiency.
Yet he hadn't always been so. Before Gerda, before Hertford, Rafe had been a very different man. No girl in their northern village could resist his devil-may-care grin, quick-witted teasing, or steadfast defense of those younger or weaker. It might have been an uneven match, a high gentry daughter and a magistrate's youngest son, but all her dreams of the future had been woven around him. Annabelle and Rafe, talking, dancing, stealing kisses amongst the emerald-green hedges or stone wall ruins — until he'd left her for the military's lucrative opportunities and never returned.
The Rafe of yesteryear might sympathize, perhaps even assist her. But today's cold, hard soldier of fortune wouldn't so much as blink at the task, merely truss her up and hand her over to Henry with his best compliments. There would be no escape.
She was doomed.
* * *
Rafe de Vere slid from his purgatory-black stallion in one smooth movement, although a slightly unsteady landing reminded him of the knee injury yet to properly heal. And how little sleep he'd had in the past week. Make that month. Or year.
Most military men would be insulted to their very bones being given a task like this. Who would choose escorting some spoiled, wellborn widow to London over leading a charge against the French or the Scots? Yet all he felt was relief. Since turning thirty, he'd grown weary of war, of mud and blood and the sick despair that blazed in a man's eyes just before an expert blade extinguished it. Of broken sleep in cold tents. Of ruthlessly suppressing his urges rather than slaking them within a soft, sweetly scented woman.
So today was to be his final assignment. For the first time, actually a simple matter — deliver this Lady Benton-Hayes to court and collect a hefty purse. At long last he'd be able to purchase the seaside manor and acreage he'd coveted for years and, once settled, find a pretty, lusty widow — he had no time for timid virgins — who somehow hadn't heard of his reputation, and together fashion a life of amiable contentment.
A grim smile tugged at his lips. God willing, soon he'd not have to set eyes on a relentlessly ambitious Seymour ever again. Damned fools. Henry Tudor's love was as fickle as spring weather and he only grew darker and more fragile in mind as the years passed.
"Master de Vere. Welcome. It's been a long time, eight years I believe."
Rafe glanced sideways and froze in recognition. Charles Hamilton?
"Thank you, sir. Indeed, both years and miles from home. Do you know Lord Mayberry? I'm commissioned to —"
"I am Mayberry. An elevation gifted to me, along with this property."
"Then ..." His voice faltered, unable to continue. Surely not.
"Yes, 'tis Annabelle you'll be escorting to Hampton Court."
Breath rushed from his lungs so hard he nearly choked.
Annabelle was a widow. The widow.
Why the news even affected him was a mystery. He'd gone to war believing that lying, scheming witch's promises of love and patience while he made enough money to marry her, but she'd barely waited for his horse to round the hedgerow before leaping into another man's wealthy, highborn arms. What was the point in returning then? Besides, he'd discovered a talent for battle, and war offered plenty of profitable opportunities for an angry man with nothing to lose.
"Well then. I trust she'll soon be ready to depart? Won't do to keep His Majesty waiting."
Or allow others time to sink their claws into the royal flesh.
"Indeed. My daughter is well aware of what rests on this journey. We are much obliged to Hertford for sending you, especially considering your usual duties and responsibilities."
Rafe inclined his head and tried not to loom over the baron. 'Twas difficult, though, as the man was more than a head shorter and probably half his weight.
"And where is the lady?"
"I am here, sir."
His every muscle involuntarily tightened. Her voice hadn't changed, still soft, liquid honey, although the words were cool, lady-of-the-manor. Well used to such games, he turned slowly. Which was just as well, because when he got his first glimpse of an older Annabelle, he barely resisted the urge to cross himself. God's teeth.
The promise of Seymour beauty had always teased, but now she was the spitting image of Queen Jane. Slightly taller, with curlier hair, but no wonder the family were so eager to get her to court. One look at Annabelle and Henry would be simultaneously professing his undying love while attempting to mount her wherever he could get her alone. Those curved hips were made for delivering healthy sons and, as for her lush, lush breasts, what a pillow they would make for a weary head.
"Lady," he replied stiffly, waiting for her direct gaze, impatient to know her mind. No trace of the dreamy, laughing Annabelle he once knew appeared in her rigid stance. She might have been carved from stone. Finally her large brown eyes met his, and the emotion there jolted him to his toes. Not fear, sadness, or triumph, but fury. As if she held the right to be blazingly angry with him.
His lips compressed, but Annabelle neither spoke nor looked away until Mayberry broke the seething silence.
"Don't dawdle, girl, can you not see Master de Vere is eager to leave? Gerda will follow in the cart with your belongings."
"Yes, Papa."
Actually the thought of being back in his polished leather saddle so soon almost made him groan, but he nodded firmly.
"If it is agreeable to you, Lady Benton-Hayes," said Rafe, irritation roughening his tone even more than usual, "we'll begin our journey soon to ensure we cover as many miles as possible in daylight. Far too many unsavory types who become even bolder with their weapons under the cover of night —"
His voice snapped off like a green twig. It was months since he'd been to London, yet it seemed he could out-innuendo any of those damned mincing courtiers. And Annabelle had understood the accidental inference too, the hint of color in her cheeks telling, although she still remained resolutely mute. Well. If she wished a swift, silent journey, that suited him just fine. The sooner they were on the road, the sooner he could collect his bounty and continue onto freedom.
"Ah, daughter, here is your horse. Safe journey, then." announced Mayberry, not even bothering to disguise his impatience as he hurried back toward the manor house.
The seething silence fell again.
"Here," he said eventually, stalking toward Annabelle. "Let me help you."
"No," she snapped, raising both hands to ward him off, her eyes practically shooting poisoned darts. But his hands had already encircled a surprisingly slender waist to lift her. Off balance, her arms flailed and she fell forward.
Plastering her body against his.
Several violent oaths leaped to the tip of his tongue as her ample curves briefly settled against him. She writhed in an attempt to put distance between them, only succeeding in grinding herself directly against his long-neglected and abruptly awake cock.
You once knew her lips, but sweet Jesus, imagine Annabelle in your bed. Hair unbound, nipples damp and swollen, thighs spread wide. She'd be tight. So damned tight and hot, arching and moaning her pleasure, desperate to feel the bliss of an explosive climax ...
"Please," she gasped.
He blinked. "What?"
"Please ... I can't breathe."
Cursing again as he realized exactly how bruising his grip was on her waist, he quickly swung her up into the sidesaddle and stepped well back.
"Let's be away," he barked, remounting his stallion and gesturing impatiently to the two servants perched atop the cart carrying Lady Annabelle's waiting woman, clothing, and trinkets.
This would be the longest journey of his life.
* * *
The countryside was beautiful, green and fresh after the light morning mist lifted for pale blue skies and surprisingly warm afternoon sunshine. But even after a day's riding in the shadow of her escort's rather evil-looking mount, when her bottom had long numbed and gloved fingers cramped around the sturdy leather bridle, the courtyard incident still circled Annabelle's brain like hungry falcons.
Despite his calling and incalculable sins, time had only increased Rafe de Vere's appeal. His former boyishly swarthy good looks and lanky physique had become the very portrait of masculinity — broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest barely contained by a black velvet doublet, well-shaped thighs, calves lovingly outlined by hose and needing no padding whatsoever.
Now she had sins of her own to confess, but were there even words to describe the wicked rub of her breasts against his chest? Of his full codpiece pressing directly between her legs? How swiftly he'd turned a calm, respectable widow into a mindless wanton. How easily he'd woken her body from sleep so all the frustration, anger, and desire could be hidden no longer. And how tempting it was to imagine how life might have been ...
Sweet heaven. She truly had gone mad. So much depended on the weeks ahead, on this prearranged audience with His Majesty. If she failed to win the King's love, her family would never forgive her and even harsher punishment than usual would follow. Perhaps she'd be married off to another cruel ancient or locked away forever in a nondescript nunnery. Or worse.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from His Forbidden Lady by Nicola Davidson, Kate Fall. Copyright © 2014 Nicola Davidson. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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