That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Free Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About Georgette

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Free Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About Georgette

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  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN wrapped in the arms of Radcliff M. Barrington, the fourth Baron Broadmoor, sighed into a wide smile as she nestled her body between his nakedness and the bed sheets. Gazing down at Lady Penelope Robbins, his mistress of nearly a twelvemonth, Broadmoor allowed her a moment to indulge in the afterglow of her third orgasm though he had yet to satisfy his own hardened arousal. He brushed his lips against her brow and happened to glance toward the corner of her bed chamber, where a man’s waistcoat was draped over the back of a chair. He did not recognize it as his own. The fineness of the garment suggested that neither did it belong to one of her male servants.

  Penelope was entertaining another lover, he concluded even as she murmured compliments regarding his skills as a lover. The realization came as no surprise to him. Indeed, he had suspected for some time. What surprised him was that he cared not overmuch. Nor had he the faintest curiosity as to who her other lover might be. He wondered, idly rather than seriously, why he continued to seek her company. Or she his. They had very little in common. He knew that from the start and yet had allowed her to seduce him into her bed.

  He was possessed of enough breeding, wealth, and countenance to be able to command any number of women as his mistress. With black hair that waved above an ample brow and softened the square lines of his jaw, charcoal eyes that sparkled despite the dark hue, and an impeccable posture that made him taller than most of his peers, Broadmoor presented an impressive appearance. He had no shortage of women setting their caps at him. A number of his friends kept dancers or opera singers, but he had never been partial to breaking the hearts of those young things. In contrast, Penelope was a seasoned widow and had little expectation of him, having been married once before to a wealthy but vastly older baronet, and scorning a return to that institution, preferred instead to indulge in the freedoms of widowhood.

  Pulling the sheets off her, he decided it was his turn to spend. She purred her approval when he covered her slender body with his muscular one. Angling his hips, he prepared to thrust himself into her when a shrill and familiar voice pierced his ears.

  “I care not that he is indisposed! If the Baron is here, I will speak to him!”

  The voice was imperial. Haughty. Broadmoor recognized it in an instant.

  Penelope’s eyes flew open. “Surely that is not your aunt I hear?”

  His aunt, Lady Anne Barrington, was not wont to visit him in his own home at Grosvenor Square, let alone that of his mistress. He knew Anne found him cold, heartless, and arrogant. He had a dreadful habit of refusing to encourage her histrionics, and in the role of the indulgent nephew, he was a miserable failure.

  “Let us pretend we do not hear her,” Penelope added, wrapping her arms about him.

  It would be easier to silence a skewered pig, Broadmoor thought to himself.

  A timid but anxious knock sounded at the door.

  “What is it?” Penelope snapped at the maid who entered and apologized profusely for the interruption, informing them that a most insistent woman waited in the drawing room and had threatened, if she was not attended to with the utmost haste, to take herself up the stairs in search of his lordship herself.

  “I fear there is no immediate escape,” Broadmoor said, kissing the frown on his mistress’ brow before donning his shirt and pants and wrapping a robe about himself. “But I shall return.”

  Before descending the stairs, he took a moment for his arousal to settle.

  Whatever had compelled his aunt to come to the home of his mistress had better be of damned importance.

  “Anne. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” he asked of his uncle’s wife when he strode into the room.

  He discerned Anne to be in quite a state of disconcertion for she only sported two long strands of pearls—far fewer than the five or so he was accustomed to seeing upon her. Her pale pink gown did not suit her complexion and made her pallor all the more grey in his eyes.

  “Radcliff! Praise the heavens I have found you!” she cried upon seeing him.

  He refrained from raising an inquisitive brow. Undaunted by the lack of response from her nephew, Anne continued, “We are undone, Radcliff! Undone! Ruined!”

  His first thought was of her daughter, Juliana, who recently had had her come-out last Season. Had the girl run off to Gretna Green with some irascible young blood? He would not hesitate to give chase, but Juliana had always impressed him as a sensible young woman with an agreeable disposition—despite whom she had for a mother.

  “I can scarce breathe with the thought!” Anne bemoaned. “And you know my nerves to be fragile! Oh, the treachery of it all!”

  She began to pace the room while furiously waving the fan she clutched in her hand.

  “I could never show my face after this,” she continued. “How fortunate your uncle is not alive to bear witness to the most disgraceful ruin ever to befall a Barrington! Though I would that he had not left me to bear the burden all alone. The strain that has been put upon me—who else, I ask, has had to suffer not only the loss of her husband and now this—this unspeakable disgrace? I have no wish to speak ill of your uncle, but now I think it selfish of him to have gone off to the Continent with Wellington when he knew he would be put in harm’s way. And for what end? What end?”

  Broadmoor did not reveal his suspicions that his uncle had taken himself to the Continent as much as a means to relieve himself from being hen-pecked by his wife as for military glory. Instead, he walked over to the sideboard to pour her a glass of ratafia in the hopes that it would calm the incessant fluttering of her fan.

  “And what is the nature of this ruin?” he prompted.

  “The worst imaginable!” Anne emphasized in response to his complacent tenor. “Never in my life could I have conceived such misfortune! And to think we must suffer at her hands. That—that unspeakable wench. That wicked harlot.”

  So it was the son and not the daughter, Broadmoor thought to himself. He should have expected it would be Edward, who was four years Juliana’s senior but who possessed four fewer years to her maturity.

  “You cannot conceive what torment I have endured these past days! And I have had no one, not a soul, to comfort me,” Anne lamented, bypassing the ratafia as she worried the floor beneath her feet.

  “The engagement to Miss Trindle has been called off?” Broad
moor guessed, slightly relieved for he did not think Edward up to the task of matrimony, even with the dowry of Miss Trindle serving as a handsome incentive. But it displeased him that Edward had not changed his ways.

  “Heavens, no! Though it may well happen when the Trindles hear how we have been undone! Oh, but it is the fault of that devil-woman! My poor Edward, to have fallen victim to such a villainous lot.”

  Broadmoor suppressed a yawn.

  “No greater ruin has ever befallen a Barrington,” Anne added, sensing her nephew did not share her distress.

  “Madam, my hostess awaits my attention,” he informed her, looking towards the stairs.

  Anne burned red as she remembered where she was. “As this was a calamity—yes, a calamity—of the highest order, I could not wait. If your uncle were here, there would have been no need…well, perhaps. His disquiet could often worsen my state. But your presence, Radcliff, affords me hope. I have nowhere else to turn. And you were always quite sensible. I wish that you would learn Edward your ways. You were his trustee and have fifteen more years of wisdom than he. You might take him under your wing.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Edward came of age last year when he turned twenty-one. He is master of his own fortune and free to ruin himself as he sees fit.”

  “How can you speak so?”

  “I have intervened once already in Edward’s life and have no wish to make a practice of it,” Broadmoor replied coolly.

  “But…”

  He placed the ratafia in her hand before she sank into the nearest sofa, bereft of words in a rare moment for Anne Barrington.

  “But that darkie is a hundred times worse than her sister!” Anne said upon rallying herself. “Oh, are we never to rid ourselves of this cursed family and their treachery?”

  Broadmoor watched in dismay as she set down her glass and began agitating her fan before her as if it alone could save her from a fainting spell. He went to pour himself a glass of brandy, his hopes of a short visit waning.

  “What will become of us?” Anne moaned. “What will become of Juliana? I had hopes that she would make a match this year! Did you know that the banns might be read for Miss Helen next month and she has not nearly the countenance that Juliana has!”

  “What could Edward have done to place Juliana’s matrimonial prospects in jeopardy?” he asked. “Juliana has breeding and beauty and one of the most desirable assets a young woman could have: an inheritance of fifty thousand pounds.”

  His aunt gave an indignant gasp. Her mouth opened to utter a retort or to comment on her nephew’s insensitivity but thought better of it.

  “But what are we to do without Brayten?” she asked with such despondency that Broadmoor almost felt sorry for her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The thought overwhelms me. Indeed, I can scarcely speak, the nature of it is so dreadful...”

  He refrained from pointing out the irony in her statement.

  “Edward has lost Brayten.”

  It was Broadmoor’s turn to be rendered speechless, but he quickly collected himself and said in a dark voice. “Lost Brayten? Are you sure of this?”

  “When I think of the care and attention I lavished upon him—and to be repaid in such a fashion! To be undone in such a manner. And by that wretched harlot. What sort of odious person would prey upon an innocent boy like Edward?”

  “Edward is far from innocent,” he informed her wryly, “but how is it he could have lost Brayten?”

  The boy was reckless, Broadmoor knew, but Brayten was the sole source of income for Edward. The estate had been in the Barrington family for generations and boasted an impressive house in addition to its extensive lands. Surely the boy could not have been so careless as to jeopardize his livelihood.

  “It is that witch, that hussy and devil-woman. They say she works magic with the cards. Witchcraft, I say!”

  “Do you mean to tell me that Edward lost Brayten in a game of cards?” Broadmoor demanded.

  “I had it from Mr. Thornsdale, who came to me at once after it had happened. I would that he had gone to you instead! Apparently, Edward had to wager Brayten to win back his obligation of eighty thousand pounds.”

  “Eighty thousand pounds!” Broadmoor exclaimed. “He is a bigger fool than I feared.”

  “I wish you would not speak so harshly of your cousin.”

  “Madam, I shall have far harsher words when I see him!”

  “It is the work of that harlot.” Anne shook her fan as if to fend off an imaginary foe. “A sorceress, that one. The blood of pagans runs in her veins. Her kind practice the black arts. Yes, that is how she swindled my Edward. She ought to be run out of England!”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Of whom do you speak?”

  “Darcy Sherwood.” Anne shuddered. “Her sister and stepmother are the most common of common, but Miss Sherwood is the worst of them all! I hear the Sherwoods are in no small way of debt. No doubt they are only too happy to put their greedy hands upon our precious estate! I wonder that the darkie, that wench, had orchestrated the entire episode to avenge herself for what Edward had done to her sister—as if a gentleman of his stature could possibly look upon such a common young woman with any interest.”

  It had been five years, but Broadmoor remembered the Sherwood name. Only it had been Priscilla Sherwood that had posed the problem then. He had not thought the young lady a suitable match for Edward, who had formed an unexpected attachment to her, and severed the relationship between the two lovebirds by removing his cousin to Paris, where Edward had promptly forgotten about Priscilla in favor of the pretty French girls with their charming accents.

  But Broadmoor had only vague recollections of Miss Darcy Sherwood, the elder of the Sherwood sisters.

  “Oh, wretched, wretched is our lot!” Anne continued. “To think that we could be turned out of our own home by that piece of jade.”

  “That will not happen,” Broadmoor pronounced, setting down his glass. Perhaps Anne was right and he should have taken more of an interest in Edward’s affairs.

  Relief washed over Anne. “How grand you are, Radcliff! If anyone can save our family, it is you! Your father and mother, bless their souls, would have been proud of you.”

  His thoughts turned to the woman upstairs. Penelope would not be pleased, but he meant to have his horse saddled immediately. His first visit would be to Mr. Thornsdale, a trusted friend of the family, to confirm the facts of what Anne had relayed to him.

  And if Anne had the truth, his second visit would be to Miss Darcy Sherwood.

  That wicked harlot.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NO ONE NOTICED the gentleman sitting in the dark corner of Mrs. Tillinghast’s modest card-room. If they had, they would have immediately discerned him to be a man of distinction, possibly a member of the ton. His attire was simple but elegant, his cravat sharply tied, his black leather boots polished to perfection. On his right hand, he wore a signet bearing the seal of his title, the Baron Broadmoor.

  Upon closer inspection, they would have found the edition of The Times that he held before him and pretended to read was over two days old. Why he should be reading the paper instead of participating in the revelry at the card tables was a mystery unto itself. No one came to Mrs. Tillinghast’s gaming house to read. They came for three distinct reasons: the friendly tables, the surprisingly good burgundy, and a young woman named Miss Darcy Sherwood.

  That wicked harlot.

  Somewhere in the room a clock chimed the midnight hour, but the wine had been flowing freely for hours, making her partakers deaf to anything but the merriment immediately surrounding them. From the free manner in which the men and women interacted—one woman seemed to have her arse permanently affixed to the lap of her beaux while another boasted a décolletage so low her nipples peered above its lace trim—the Baron wondered that the gaming house might not be better deemed a brothel.

  The only person to eventually take notice of Radcliff Barrin
gton was a flaxen-haired beauty, but after providing a curt answer to her greeting without even setting down his paper, he was rewarded with an indignant snort and a return to his solitude. He rubbed his temple as he recalled how he had left the hysterics of his aunt only to be met upstairs with a tirade from his mistress about the impolitesse and hauteur of Anne Barrington to come calling at the residence of a woman she had hitherto acknowledged with the barest of civilities. After noting that the waistcoat upon the chair had disappeared upon his return, Broadmoor had turned the full weight of his stare upon Penelope, who instantly cowered and, upon hearing that he was to take his leave, professed that naturally he must attend to the affairs of his family with due speed.

  A lyrical laughter transcending the steady murmur of conversation and merrymaking broke into his reverie. It was followed by a cacophony of men exclaiming “Miss Sherwood! Miss Sherwood!” and begging of said personage to grace their gaming table of faro or piquet. Peering over his paper, Broadmoor paused. For a moment, he could not reconcile the woman he beheld to the devil incarnate his aunt had described.

  Miss Darcy Sherwood had a distinct loveliness born of her mixed heritage. The gown of fashion, with its empire waist and diaphanous skirt, accentuated her curves. The pale yellow dress, which Broadmoor noted was wearing thin with wear, would have looked unexceptional on most Englishwomen, but against her caramel toned skin, it radiated like sunshine.

  Her hair lacked shine or vibrancy in color, but the abundance of tight full curls framed her countenance with both softness and an alluring unruliness. However, it was her bright brown eyes, fringed with long curved lashes, and her luminous smile that struck Broadmoor the most. It was unlike the demure turn at the corners of the lips that he was accustomed to seeing.

  He felt an odd desire to whisk her away from the cads and hounds that descended upon her like vultures about a kill. But this protective instinct was shortlived when he saw her choice of companions was one James Newcastle.

  Miss Sherwood could not have been much more than twenty-five years of age. Newcastle was nearly twice that, and it was all but common knowledge that he buggered his female servants, most of whom were former slaves before the British court finally banned the practice from the Isles. But then, the man was worth a hefty sum, having benefitted tremendously from his business in the American slave trade.