In this enthralling Regency romance by award-winning author Elizabeth Mansfield, a young woman vows not to fall in love with the nobleman who killed her husband

A dashing stranger sweeps Lady Gwendolyn Rowle onto the dance floor. She is living every woman’s fantasy until she discovers who her romantic waltz partner really is: Viscount Andrew Jamison—the man who killed her ...
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My Lord Murderer

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In this enthralling Regency romance by award-winning author Elizabeth Mansfield, a young woman vows not to fall in love with the nobleman who killed her husband

A dashing stranger sweeps Lady Gwendolyn Rowle onto the dance floor. She is living every woman’s fantasy until she discovers who her romantic waltz partner really is: Viscount Andrew Jamison—the man who killed her husband.
From the moment he saw her glide into the ballroom, Drew was captivated by the ravishing beauty. Finding out she is the widow of the blackguard he killed in a duel puts something of a damper on the evening, especially with all of London calling him a cold-blooded villain. To quiet the gossip, Drew devises an ingenious scheme. The only person standing in his way is the lovely Gwen, who has no intention of marrying her husband’s murderer. But then she does something far more dangerous: She falls in love with him.

A murderer, a lady, and love--a triangle of sorts in a stunning tale from the award-winning author of A Christmas Kiss. Lady Gwen is repulsed by Drew's proposal of marriage. She considers him nothing more than the murderer of her husband. Until he uses his dazzling charm like a rapier to cut away her resolve. A Regency romance reissue.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781497697737
  • Publisher: Open Road Media
  • Publication date: 1/13/2015
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 251
  • Sales rank: 279,213
  • File size: 502 KB

Meet the Author

Elizabeth Mansfield is a pseudonym of Paula Schwartz, which she used for more than two dozen Regency romances. Schwartz also wrote an American immigrant family saga, A Morning Moon, as Paula Reibel, and two American history romances—To Spite the Devil, as Paula Jonas, and Rachel’s Passage, as Paula Reid.
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Read an Excerpt

My Lord Murderer

By Elizabeth Mansfield


Copyright © 1980 Paula Schwartz
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9773-7


Andrew Seymour Viscount Jamison surveyed the hall with ill-disguised boredom. Dancing was not to Lord Jamison's liking; in fact, it was he who had first been heard to utter the now-famous epithet that dancing represented society's sanction—in public, vertical expression—of what were essentially private, horizontal desires. (Fortunately, the remark had been so widely and inaccurately repeated that its author's identity had been forgotten.) He regretted already that he had let his sister persuade him to attend her ball. The hour was still early, but he had already discovered that the card games in the side rooms were insipid (his sister never permitting anything more daring than silver- loo), the buffet tables were overcrowded, the champagne too tame, and the dancing—well, enough said on the subject of dancing. He should have known that his sister's annual ball would be no livelier this year than it had been in the past. But he knew he dared not take his leave for yet another hour.

Lady Hester Selby's balls were always popular with the polite world of London, Lord Jamison's views notwithstanding. Those who knew described them as "regular squeezes." Her ballroom was one of the largest in London, a tremendous, cavernous place boasting three enormous French chandeliers which hung from the high ceiling on long brass chains, sixteen windows set high on the side walls, and a dance floor made of the finest oak parquet. Two rows of graceful, fluted columns ran along two sides of the dance floor, separating the dancers from those who only wanted to watch, to sit and chat, or to promenade around the room. Well-laden buffet tables were set up at the far end of the room, and no less than six small alcoves were set aside for cards.

But although his sister seemed always to have made provision for the entertainment and satisfaction of her other guests, she invariably did something to render him uncomfortable. This time it had been a Miss Calisher. He had no sooner arrived when Hetty had taken his arm and pulled him to the sofa where Miss Calisher and her mother were seated. The girl was pretty enough, but she had an aggressive manner and a loud, too-ready laugh. He had been forced into an interminable country dance with her. And as soon as he'd restored her to her mother, Hetty was back again, urging him to meet another of her wallflowers. This time he'd been adamant.

"But Drew, why do you think I invited you?" his dear sister had asked. "I need you to brighten the evening for a few of these young ladies. There are never enough desirable bachelors to go around, and what's the good of my having a brother who's rich, single and so devilishly handsome that all the silly geese simper over him, if he won't put himself out a tiny bit to make his own sister's ball a success?"

"I'm not in the least concerned with the success of your ball, and not a bit moved by what you probably think are flattering remarks," he had told her roundly. "And if you've invited me just to use me in this odious way, it's the last you'll see of me at your annual squeezes!" And he had turned his back on her and walked to the nearest card room.

Now, with more than an hour to go before midnight (when he could feel safe in taking his leave), Drew leaned his broad shoulder against a nearby column and sighed. He thought briefly of slipping out quietly without taking leave of Hetty at all, but he dismissed the urge. She would descend on him first thing tomorrow and subject him to more than an hour of recriminations. Better to stand here until midnight than to face her on the morrow.

He looked across the room. There was Hetty, greeting a newcomer at the doorway. Drew's boredom dropped away. Who was that ravishing creature his sister was welcoming? The lady at the door was taller by a head than his diminutive sister, and her hair had a bronze-gold color that seemed to glow from some inner, suppressed life. It was pulled back somewhat severely from a pale, oval face whose features were strong yet perfectly proportioned, mature yet youthful. She wore a darkly-colored dress—but who cared to notice the dress?—cut low across softly-sloping shoulders and an exquisitely-modeled bosom. When she turned her head to greet a few acquaintances who were beginning to circle around her, Drew glimpsed a warm smile and the sparkle of eyes surprisingly dark in that pale face.

Hetty was leading her across to the row of sofas and chairs that Drew secretly called the Dowagers' Circle. The two ladies were followed by a number of people who had recognized her and were hurrying over to greet her. Who on earth was she? How was it he had never seen her before, when obviously she was quite well known? He was almost tempted to cross the floor himself and demand that Hetty make him known to her. But no, he thought, she would probably turn out to be as insipid as the rest of this gathering. He would simply while away his enforced hour of attendance by watching her from a distance.

The lady seated herself. Hetty bustled about her solicitously, and the partly-deaf Lady Ogilvie, who was seated next to her, leaned close to hear the conversation. Now Freddie Knightsbridge was bowing to her. Drew leaned back against the pillar comfortably and grinned. It was not often that Freddie, prematurely grey and awkward in conversation with women, could be roused to play the gallant. Drew would enjoy watching him make a cake of himself on the dance floor. But the lady was shaking her head. She would not dance with him. Poor Freddie was bowing and walking away slowly, looking awkward and disappointed.

The lady was now smiling and chatting with Lady Ogilvie. Drew could see that her dress was a dark purple, much too dark a ballgown for such a young woman. Had she just come out of mourning? That would explain why she wasn't dancing. Now his brother-in-law, Lord Selby, approached her. Again she smiled and shook her head. Lord Selby bowed politely and turned to Hetty. Drew could see Hetty gesturing toward the dance floor. He could almost hear her: If you were willing to appear on the dance floor with someone else, why not with me? Drew laughed out loud as his portly brother-in-law shrugged and permitted his wife to lead him to the dance floor, reluctance manifesting itself in every step he took. It wasn't often that Hetty could so maneuver him, but fate had dropped him into her hands that time!

Good heavens, was that Lambie Aylmer approaching the lady in purple now? Not Sir Lambert Aylmer, the greatest fop, the biggest bore, the flattest flat in the room! The poor woman would be in for it now. She was about to be struck by "Lambie the Leech." Drew watched in amused fascination as Sir Lambert bowed and scraped and begged and wheedled to no avail. The lady remained firm. Sir Lambert pulled up a chair. Drew could almost feel, from his vantage point across the room, the restrained annoyance of the lady as she shifted closer to Lady Ogilvie and turned away from Lambie. But Sir Lambert leaned toward her, interrupting the ladies' conversation every half-minute. The lady made a gesture to the buffet table. Clever girl, thought Drew. She's sending him away to fetch her some refreshment. Now she'll get up and make her escape.

As he had anticipated, the lady rose. But Lady Ogilvie took her arm and detained her with a question. Before the exchange was over, Lambie was back with two glasses. The lady was caught again. Drew felt he could almost hear her sigh as she sat down again.

"There you are, Drew," said a voice behind him. "What on earth are you staring at with that stupid grin on your face?"

Drew turned to find his friend, Wystan Farr, looking at him curiously through his quizzing glass. Drew laughed. "I look a fool, do I? Well, never mind. Just cast your eyes over there, Wys, and see what Lambie Aylmer has leeched on to."


"There in the Dowagers' Circle. See him?"

"Oh, yes. Now, I—" Wys suddenly drew in his breath in a gasp.

"Yes, I quite understand," Drew said, amused. "She does take one's breath away, doesn't she?"

"Yes, but that's not why I ... er ... Drew, old fellow, don't you know her?"

"The lady in purple? Never saw her before in my life, I assure you. But never mind that now. Just watch our Lambie! She can't rid herself of him, try as she may."

But Wys was staring at Drew with a strange, arrested expression. Drew noted it with a flicker of surprise, but his mind was on the lady across the room. "Tell me, Wys," he asked musingly, his eyes on the lady and her comic tormenter, "shall I bestir myself and rescue the fair damsel?"

Wys shook his head in alarm. "No, no, Drew, please! Not your affair at all. I wouldn't go near her if I were you."

Drew stared at him. "What's the matter with you, Wys? It shouldn't be too hard for me to find a ruse to separate her from her unwanted companion. What's your objec—?" But before he could finish his sentence, his eye was caught by a movement of the lady in purple. "Oh, she's getting up. I wonder if she's leaving? Look at that, Wys! The Leech is still after her! This is too delicious—I must get her out of this. I'll see you later."

"No, Drew, you can't! You don't realize who she is!" Wys called urgently. But Drew was already crossing the ballroom, out of hearing. Wys shook his head worriedly and followed as quickly as he could, skirting the dancers clumsily and treading on more than one offended toe.

The lady in purple was walking purposefully on the outskirts of the dance floor, closely followed by Sir Lambert, who was determinedly impeding her progress by asking her questions which necessitated her turning to answer them. Drew placed himself directly in her path, and when she turned back from Sir Lambert's last question, she found her way blocked by a tall, smiling stranger. "Ah, there you are, my dear," Drew said to her familiarly, taking her arm and placing it cosily over his. "I've been searching for you all evening!"

The lady started. "What?" she asked uncertainly.

Drew went on smoothly. "Now, I know you are not dancing, but you cannot have forgotten your promise to me the last time we met."

Sir Lambert, close behind her, looked at Drew with shock and anger. "My God!" he said in a choked voice. "Not you!"

Drew noted that Lambie's reaction was especially nonsensical, even for Lambie, but chose to ignore it. Smiling down at the lady, he asked, "You haven't forgotten, have you?" and gave her the briefest wink of his eye.

The lady's eyes sparkled mischievously. She flicked a glance at Sir Lambert, then looked down at the floor demurely. "Forgotten?" she asked tentatively.

"Your promise! You said you would grant me a waltz the very next time we met. And, my dear, here we are, and I hear that a waltz has just begun. So, without further ado—" And with that, Drew swept her firmly toward the dance floor without a backward glance at the sputtering, apoplectic Sir Lambert who stood staring after them.

A moment later Wys was beside Lambie, shaking him. "Where are they, Lambie? Tell me, where are they?"

Sir Lambert pointed a shaking finger to where Drew, with smiling grace, was taking the lady into his arms for the waltz. Wys clapped his hand to his forehead in despair. "Too late!" he groaned. "Too late. We'll just have to let whatever happens happen."

On the dance floor, the lady in purple was smiling up at her handsome rescuer as he twirled her lightly around the room. "Do you always dance off so brazenly with strangers to whom you've not been introduced?" she asked in mock severity.

"Yes, always. I sweep them off their feet before they have time to think better of it," Drew answered with a grin.

"And for a waltz? It's infamous of you!"

"Why not a waltz? This isn't Almack's, you know. We need not have the permission of a patroness here."

"I think you deserve a good scold for your abominable manners, especially to Sir Lambert," the lady chided.

"Do you? I thought rather that I deserve a kiss."

"A kiss!"

"Yes, indeed! For ridding you of the man. I'd been watching you for quite a while, you know. Never have I seen a lady so in need of rescuing."

"I may have needed rescuing, I'll admit. And I'll admit to a sense of gratitude for your effective, if unconventional, action in my behalf—"

"Now, that's better," Drew interjected, grinning.

"—But I draw the line at being instructed in the nature of the reward," she said with a saucy toss of her hair.

"Oh? Are you not going to kiss me, then?" Drew asked in a tone of deep disappointment.

"Certainly not," said the lady, laughing.

"Then I shall immediately restore you to the side of the charming Sir Lambert," Drew countered promptly.

"What an unhandsome thing to say," said the lady, laughter lingering in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. "I see you have an unpleasantly calculating character."

"I'm afraid I have," Drew said unabashed. "If I can't have a kiss, what will you give me as my reward?"

The lady looked up at him with her mischievous glance. Drew felt an unfamiliar constriction in his chest and almost missed a step. The lady in his arms was something quite out of the ordinary. What a lovely ball this was after all.

"I'll give you my name. Is that enough of a reward for you, sir?" she asked.

"Your name? Nonsense, that won't do at all. I can get that from my sister."

"Your sister?" she asked, puzzled.

"Yes, my sweet innocent. My sister is our hostess, Hester Selby."

The lady stared up at him, her smile fading. "Hetty is your sister? Then you ... you must be—!" She stopped dancing, thrust his arms from her and stood still, her cheeks white, her eyes shocked. "Good God! You're not ... you couldn't be Drew Jamison?"

The dancers around them were staring at them. The dance floor was rapidly becoming a sea of murmurs and confusion. Drew tried to take her in his arms again. "Of course I'm Drew Jamison," he said with a puzzled smile. But the lady had turned into a frozen fury. Her arm swung up, and she struck his face with a resounding whack. "Murderer!" she hissed. "You vile, cowardly murderer!"

Drew stood speechless, his lips white, a wave of icy tension gripping his chest. "Oh, my God! You're not ... Lady Rowle?"

She bowed, a deep, cold mockery of a bow. "May I present Gwendolyn Rowle, the widow of the man you so cold-bloodedly killed," she said icily. Then she stood erect and looked at him with loathing. "I ask only one thing of you, my lord Murderer. Only one thing. Never, never come near me again!"

And she turned quickly and ran from the floor, leaving Drew alone at the center of the crowd of dancers who were staring at him in embarrassed silence.


It was an unusually agitated Wystan Farr who hammered impatiently on Lord Jamison's door the next morning. Wys was a sensible, temperate, calm young gentleman who, like Aristotle, believed in moderation in all things. From his not-quite-reddish hair, cut in a conservative, not-too-short mode, past his shirt collars whose points were not quite high enough to mark him a Dandy, to his shiny top-boots which did not sport the extravagantly-flagrant bows on the cuffs favored by the fops of London but merely a couple of insignificant tassels, he was every inch a gentleman of modest taste and style. Only his extreme loyalty to his friend Drew could shake him out of his customarily tranquil demeanor. The repercussions of the events of last night had upset his equilibrium. Already spreading among the ton of London were a rash of malignant rumors about his closest friend, and his loyalty to that association overrode his natural inclination to reticent behavior.

The violence of his knocking did not cause the door to open with more than usual dispatch. The staid and imperturbable Mallow opened it with no trace of having hurried. "His Lordship is in the breakfast room, Mr. Farr," Mallow said as Wys ran unceremoniously by him and up the stairs. Wys halted abruptly in the doorway of the breakfast room, amazed and annoyed to see his friend seated contentedly at the table looking very much at his ease in a green silk, frogged robe, calmly tapping the top from a soft-boiled egg. "Confound it, Drew, how can you sit there slopping up eggs," asked Wys in an aggrieved voice, "when all of London is gossiping about you?"


Excerpted from My Lord Murderer by Elizabeth Mansfield. Copyright © 1980 Paula Schwartz. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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