An Improper Aristocrat

Trey bent low over the girl, shielding her

from their gaze with his body.

“Laugh,” he said, his face perilously close to hers.

“What?” Her eyes were wide with alarm.

“Laugh.” He whispered the harsh command. “Like the sort of woman who should be out alone with a man at this time of night.”

Still she did not comprehend. Speechless, she just stared at him, her pupils dark with surprise and, if he was any judge, with sudden want.

So Trey did what he must. What some part of him had burned to do since he’d first laid eyes on her. He pulled her hard against him and seared her with his kiss.

An Improper Aristocrat

Harlequin® Historical

Author Note

I came to romance as a reader long before I even conceived of being a writer. Broken marriages were common in my experience as I was growing up. Looking back now, I realize how lucky I was to discover romance as a teenager, and to find so many wonderful examples of strong women and the men who value them. Every time I picked up a romance novel I learned a lesson about characters struggling with difficulties in life and fighting their own personal demons. I struggled and fought along with them, and rejoiced as they truly earned their Happily Ever Afters. I think I picked up a few valuable lessons along the way.

An Improper Aristocrat is my second novel for Harlequin Historical. I hope you enjoy riding along with Trey and Chione on their journey to a happy ending.

DEB MARLOWE

An Improper Aristocrat

Available from Harlequin®Historical and DEB MARLOWE

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Contents

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

Chapter Twenty

Prologue

The Valley of the Kings, Egypt

1820

From the shadowed walls of the desert wadi, the Frenchwoman watched. Truly it was him—and from her hidden vantage point he lived up to every whispered tale making its way along the Nile. Her heart quickened.

He sat alone in his tent, scratching out notes by the weak light of his lamp. Narrowing her gaze, she studied him. Ah, yes. The light might be dim, but it illuminated a feast for the discerning female eye: a strong, chiselled profile, impossibly broad shoulders, rugged muscles straining the fine linen of his shirt.

He set down his pen and indulged himself in a lengthy, catlike stretch. Even in so unwary a pose she could sense his power, feel the pull of unwavering confidence and absolute masculinity. Inwardly, she smiled. This assignment, which she had objected to with such vehemence, was going to be no hardship at all.

She crept closer, moving carefully in the mix of rock and sand that littered the valley floor, mentally reviewing all that she knew of this renegade. The Englishman was a legend. He had discovered valuable antiquities in India, Persia and throughout the Orient. In the short time since his arrival in Egypt, he had already made some remarkable finds.

A great man, yes. But here, alone in the cool, dark hours of the desert night, just a man. And one who looked simply weary, and oddly content. Her lips curled wryly. Soon she would fix that.

Her quarry closed his ledger and rose. Stepping lightly, she approached the open tent flap. In one lithe movement she released the catch and stepped inside. Both the canvas and her cloak swirled satisfactorily at her feet.

The Earl of Treyford paused, caught in the act of peeling off his shirt. Fixing his unexpected visitor with an impassive stare, he reached for a name to go with the lovely face. ‘Madame Fornier, is it not?’ he asked, shrugging back into his shirt.

Her smile appeared to be one of genuine pleasure. ‘Indeed. How flattering it is that you remember me, my lord.’

‘I make it a point to know my rivals, madame.’ Deliberately he did not return the smile.

‘Rivals?’ She pursed her lips. ‘An ugly word, and one I’m not at all sure applies to our present situation.’

Trey didn’t reply. The less he said, long experience told him, the quicker she would get to the crux of this late-night visit.

‘My husband—you met him as well at le docteur Valsomaki’s?’

At his nod, she continued. ‘Fornier, he would be happy with your choice of words. Nothing more would he like than to be considered your rival. He tells himself and anyone who will listen that he is Monsieur Drovetti’s foremost agent. But your accomplishments?’ She raised a brow. ‘He belittles them and says you have only been lucky in Egypt.’

She gave a sad shake of her head and reached up to loosen the fastenings of her cloak. ‘Jealousy steals the sting of his words. He has done nothing to equal your feats. I myself saw those figures of Sekhmet you shipped back to England. Very impressive, my lord.’

He inclined his head and watched as the last tie came undone. One lift of her shoulders and the cloak fell away. She stood proudly, her magnificent body skimmed by a shimmering, transparent shift. The effect was infinitely more arousing than even her bare skin would have been.

Trey merely nodded again. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

She advanced until she stood pressed up against him. ‘There are other reasons that my husband envies you.’ Her voice dropped to a husky tone that set his pulse to jumping. ‘All of Egypt talks of your many lovers. They whisper of your ability to take a woman beyond herself and into a world of passion that few ever know.’

Against his chest he could feel the softness of her incredible gown and all the abundance it showed to advantage. Their gazes locked, then with a coy smile she snaked a hand inside his shirt, running her palm up and over the muscles of his chest. Moving slowly, she stepped all the way around him, trailing soft fingers across his arm and the breadth of his back as she went.

‘Surely you were made for these harsh Eastern deserts,’ she whispered. ‘When first I came here I thought it foolish and arrogant that the men keep so many wives.’ Her orbit complete, she pressed into the front of him once again. Trey knew she could be in no doubt about his interest. She cast a sultry look down at the throbbing evidence of it. ‘But you…’ she sighed ‘…you are the first, the only man to make me believe. You alone could do it, pleasure so many women, keep them satisfied and happy.’

She smiled up at him. ‘Perhaps, in addition to your other talents, you will be the first Englishman to practise poly…poly…’ She paused. ‘What is the word I want? For marriage to too many wives?’

‘Monogamy?’ He returned her smile.

She laughed, a dark, throaty sound. ‘It is a certainty that no woman would wish to share you. Already I hate all of those on whom you have practised your wiles. I want to tear their hair and scratch out their eyes.’

Her eyes met his boldly. With an unspoken challenge she pushed him gently back until his knees struck the cot. Searching and warm, her hands crept up, sliding slowly along his ribs, his neck, the line of his jaw, before pressing firmly down on his shoulders.

Trey allowed it, sitting on the cot and finding himself at eye level with her lovely bosom. He reached up and pushed aside the fabric, baring first one breast, then the other. ‘So, we have established that your husband envies me.’ Slowly he traced a finger around one dusky areola. ‘And that you envy all the ladies who have come before you.’ He teased the other now, circling both erect nipples in an ever-narrowing path.

He watched her shift restlessly, leaning into his caress. ‘But what I wish to know, madame, is what Drovetti thinks.’

Her breath was coming fast, her pupils dilated with desire, and yet she smiled in appreciation of his tactics. ‘The consul-general thinks only of winning the ancient riches of Egypt for France.’

She pressed his hands against her and again he obliged her, cradling the fullness of her breasts and running his thumbs over her peaks.

‘And?’ he prompted.

‘And he thinks you are a talented Englishman with no love for England.’ She sighed with pleasure. ‘I am to offer you a partnership.’

He laughed. ‘Is that what you are offering?’

‘That is what Drovetti offers.’ She pushed him away and shed the gown, standing confident before him in all of her naked glory. ‘This, I offer of my own free will, for nothing other than the pleasure you can give me.’

The smile still lingered on Trey’s face. ‘And if I accept the one, must I accept the other?’

Her only answer was a hungry look of intense desire. She leaned forward, straddled him on the cot and kissed him deeply. Burying his hands in her hair, Trey abandoned himself to his own inclinations. As was his habit—nay, his life’s chosen philosophy—he seized the pleasures of the moment and left the inevitable trouble for tomorrow.

Unfortunately, trouble couldn’t wait.

She knelt above him, her hands on the fall of his trousers, when the scream echoed along the craggy walls of the valley. Their gazes locked. Trey could read only puzzlement and alarm in hers as he grabbed her roughly by the arms. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded, his voice harsh.

‘Nothing!’ she cried. ‘What is it? I must not be found here.’

Another shout. Cursing, Trey flung her away. He was out of the tent and running before the last chilling echo bounded off the rocky outcroppings. His partner’s tent was dark, and, he realised after a quick search, empty. He stood a moment in the middle of camp. From which direction had the screams come? His feet and his gut knew the answer before his head, sending him pelting towards the closest tomb.

‘Richard!’ he shouted into the dark. ‘Where are you?’

No answer. He ran harder, gravel and sand making the canyon floor treacherous, but at last he reached the spot. It was the first of eight tombs that had been discovered four years earlier by the Italian, Giovanni Battista Belzoni. Almost invisible during the day, now it was little more than a blacker maw against a background of darkly shadowed rock.

There, just outside the opening to the tomb, he found his partner sprawled against the rough, rock wall, a knife imbedded in his chest.

Trey gasped. ‘No!’

He stumbled to Richard’s side, frantically feeling for a pulse. It was faint, but present. His shirt was soaked in blood. Underneath him a dark stain was fast disappearing into the sand. Trey fumbled at his belt, and cursed himself for not bringing a flint.

‘Richard. Who has done this?’ He clutched the man with bloodstained fingers. ‘Never mind. I’ll go for help. Just hold on, damn it! Hold on!’

‘No.’ Richard’s voice was faint, but insistent. ‘Treyford, stay.’ He lifted a feeble hand to the open neck of his shirt.

‘Damn it to hell!’ Trey cursed. ‘Richard, was it the French? What have you got mixed up in?’

‘My pendant,’ he breathed. ‘Bastards…heard you…ran off.’ There was a long pause, punctuated by Richard’s slow gasp for air. ‘You take it.’

Trey bowed his head. The pendant, ancient and carved with old Egyptian markings, was Richard’s most prized possession. His partner’s breath rasped, sounding harsh and frightening in the dim light, but his fingers still fought to remove the piece. Trey closed his own hand over Richard’s and gently lifted the chain from around his neck.

‘Chione,’ he choked. ‘Give it to Chione.’

‘I will.’ The pendant was warm, but Richard’s hand was cold.

‘Promise.’ Richard was emphatic. ‘Promise me, Trey.’

‘I do promise. I will deliver it to her myself.’ It was the least he could do to comfort his partner, who was as close to a friend as Trey was ever likely to get.

Richard’s grip, when he grasped Trey’s arm, was surprisingly forceful. ‘My sister. They will come for her. Trey…help her.’

‘Of course I will,’ he said soothingly.

Richard’s grip tightened. His breath was coming now with a sickening gurgle.

Trey squeezed his opposite hand. ‘I give you my word.’

Richard’s body relaxed. For a moment, Trey thought…But, no, Richard’s hand was moving again, clasping his with grateful pressure.

‘Sorry…take you from your work,’ he whispered. Somehow he summoned the strength for a faint smile. ‘Know you hate…to go home.’ Richard’s eyes closed. ‘Protect Chione.’

‘I…’ Trey paused until he could go on with a steady voice. ‘I swear to you, I will keep her safe.’

It was then, in the darkest time of the early desert morning, that Richard breathed his last, his hand still clasped tight in Trey’s.

Trey stayed, crouched where he was, unaware of the passage of time, unaware of anything save the familiar ache of loss. More than a colleague, Richard had been the one person who understood what this work meant to him. Mutual interests, similar drives, complimentary skills; it had been enough to forge a bond of companionship and camaraderie. And, yes, of friendship.

Eventually their dragoman and some of the workmen arrived. Trey saw more than one of the natives furtively making the sign against the evil eye. Spurred on by the headman, a few hearty souls stepped forward to tenderly bundle Richard’s body and prepare to carry him back to camp.

‘Where is the woman?’ Trey asked harshly when the dragoman approached him.

‘She slipped away. I let her go.’ Aswan cocked his head. ‘Shall I find her?’

Trey shook his head. ‘Do any of them know anything?’ He jerked his jaw towards the milling men.

‘I will discover it if they do,’ Aswan said firmly. ‘We go back. Latimer effendi must be prepared for burial. Do you come?’

Trey stared down at the pendant in his fist, then up into the lightening sky. ‘No,’ he said. The tide of anger inside him was rising with the sun. Grief and guilt and rage threatened to overwhelm him. He experienced a sudden empathy with the howling dervishes he had seen in Cairo; he wanted nothing more at this moment than to scream, to vent his fury into the deceptively cool morning air. Instead, he turned to the opposite direction than that which the workmen were taking, and headed for the ancient trail leading to the top of the cliffs.

It was little better than a goat path and required all of his focus, especially in the poor light and at the pace he was taking it. He was sweating heavily when he reached the top, and he stood, blowing against the cool morning breeze.

The sun was just topping the eastern cliffs, the sky above coming alive in a riot of colour. Trey ignored the incredible vista, looking away as the light crept across the fields and kissed the waters of the Nile. Stately temple ruins and the humble villages came to life beneath his feet. But Richard was dead.

Trey straightened, aware only of his own overflowing bitterness and the bite of the pendant in his grip. This was the reason Richard had been killed. Trey was sure of it. Richard had searched relentlessly for the thing since he had first arrived in Egypt, nearly a year ago. The day he found it, he had told Trey that the object filled him with both hope and dread.

Trey could see nothing to inspire such deep feelings. Shaped like a scarab, it looked almost alive in the rosy light of the burgeoning day. Until one felt the empty indentations—in the shape of the insect’s wings—where at some time in antiquity thieves had pried the jewels out. Or until one turned it over to gaze at the underside, scored with the old writing.

Such defects had not lowered the value of the thing in Richard’s eyes. He had strung it on a chain and never, as far as Trey knew, removed it since. Until today.

Trey ignored the stab of grief and fought to tighten his thoughts. He dragged his mind’s eye back over the past months. Yes, it was true. All the strange little occurrences they had suffered had begun after Richard acquired the scarab. They were only small things at first: a few insignificant items missing, their belongings rifled through. Once an itinerary of antiquities that Richard had purchased for the British Museum had disappeared.

Lately, though, the situation had become more sinister. Their rooms had been ransacked and some of their workmen scared off. Richard had refused to discuss the matter, and had scorned the incidents as that which any foreigner might expect to endure in this harsh land.

Trey had not believed him. He had suspected that something more was going on, but he had trusted Richard to handle it. The boy was young, yes, but half-Egyptian himself. Like many of his countrymen he had appeared old beyond his years. He had handled himself with such dignity and their workmen with such ease; it had been easy to forget he hadn’t much beyond a score of years in his dish.

And now Richard was dead. Trey should have pushed him, demanded an explanation. He hadn’t. He had been too caught up in his work to spare it much consideration. Damn, he thought, letting the sour taste of guilt wash over him, and damn again.

He focused his rage at the pendant, glaring at the offensive thing, for a long moment sorely tempted to pitch it out into the abyss; to leave it once more to the ravages of time and the elements.

But he had promised. Given his word of honour to deliver the cursed thing to Richard’s sister. A gruesome memento, in his view. And he had vowed to protect the girl. But from whom? Drovetti? Why would the French want the thing? Why would anyone?

He sighed. It didn’t matter; he had promised. He would do it. He turned away and set his feet back on the path into the Valley.

Back to England.

Chapter One

Devonshire, England

1821

The ominous drip, drip of water echoed against the roughhewn walls of the hidden chamber. It was true; the idol was here. It sat enthroned on its pedestal, bathed in a mysterious light that set its ruby eyes to glowing. Nikolas reached for it. Almost he had it, but something gave him pause. The glow of the eyes had become more intense. The idol was staring at him, through him, into him. He shook off the notion that the thing could see every stain ever etched into his soul. He reached again, but…

‘Excuse me, lass.’ Neither the impatient tones nor the broad Highland accent belonged to brave Nikolas.

With a reluctant sigh, Chione Latimer abandoned her rich inner world and slid back into her only slightly more mundane life. She set down her pen and turned towards the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Ferguson, I am quite busy. I thought I had asked to be left undisturbed.’ She had to suppress a flash of impatience. She had pages to write. There would be no payment from her publisher until the latest installment of Nikolas’s adventures was in his hands.

‘That ye did, and so I told the gentleman, but bless me if some of us dinna act as high and mighty as the day is long.’

A strangled sound came from behind her. The squat, solid figure of Hugh Hamlyn, Viscount Renhurst, stood right on Mrs Ferguson’s heels.

‘Lord Renhurst,’ Chione said in surprise. ‘Are you back from town so soon?’ A quick surge of hope had her instantly on her feet, her heart pounding. ‘Have you heard something then? Has there been word of Mervyn?’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’ He waved an impatient hand. ‘My steward wrote me in a panic, some sort of blight got into the corn. I had to purchase all new seed for the upper fields, and since nothing momentous was happening in the Lords, I decided to bring it out myself.’ His habitually harsh expression softened a bit. ‘I’m afraid your grandfather’s whereabouts are still a mystery, Chione. I’m sorry.’

Chione smiled and struggled to hide her disappointment. ‘Well, of course, a visit from you is the next best thing, my lord.’ She filed her papers away, then stood. ‘Will you bring tea, please, Mrs Ferguson?’

The housekeeper nodded and, with a sharp look for the nobleman, departed.

‘Now what have I ever done to earn her displeasure?’ Lord Renhurst asked in amused exasperation.

Chione waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Oh, you know how Mrs Ferguson’s moods are, my lord.’ She shot him a conspiratorial smile. ‘I know the perfect way for you to get back into her good graces, though.’ She led her visitor over to a massive desk centered at one end of the room. ‘You know how she loves it when people make themselves useful.’

She indicated the large bottom drawer of the desk. It was wedged tightly askew and impossible to open. ‘Could you please, my lord?’ Only with a long-time family friend like the viscount could she ask such a thing. ‘All the sealing wax is in there and I’ve desperate need of it.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I come bearing news and get set to servants’ work!’ Yet he gamely folded back his sleeve and bent over the drawer. He pulled. He pounded. He heaved. ‘Why haven’t you had Eli in to take care of this?’

Eli was the ancient groom, the only manservant she had left, and also the one-legged former captain of the Fortune-Hunter, her grandfather’s first merchant ship. ‘He does not come in the house,’ Chione explained. ‘He claims his peg will scuff the floor, but I think he is afraid of Mrs Ferguson.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Renhurst huffed in disgust. His fashionably tight coat was straining at the seams, and a sheen of perspiration shone on his brow. ‘We’re all afraid of Ferguson,’ he grunted. ‘And you still have not told me what I did to end up in her bad graces.’

Chione smiled. ‘It appears that Mrs Ferguson was, at one time, of the opinion that you were on the verge of marrying again.’

The viscount was startled into losing his grip. ‘Good God. Marrying whom?’ he asked, applying himself and pulling harder.

‘Me.’

With a last mighty heave, the drawer came loose. Chione hid her grin as both the sealing wax and the viscount ended up on the library floor. He gaped up at her, and Chione could not help but laugh.