What the Hart Wants (Headstrong Harts Book 1) Read online

  What the Hart Wants

  Headstrong Harts, Book 1

  by Emily Royal

  © Copyright 2020 by Emily Royal

  Text by Emily Royal

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition August 2020

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily Royal

  Headstrong Harts

  What the Hart Wants, Book 1

  Queen of my Hart, Book 2

  Hidden Hart, Book 3

  London Libertines

  Henry’s Bride, Book 1

  Hawthorne’s Wife, Book 2

  Roderick’s Widow, Book 3

  Dedication

  For Jasmine

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily Royal

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks go to my writing tribe the Beta Buddies, and my twitter tribe the UKRomChatters.

  Thank you Sarah, for the wine, nibbles, hugs, café-writing sessions (particularly the one where you encouraged me, over tea and toast, to fire up the laptop and write the first scene of this book) and, more recently, for the socially-distanced walks and videochats.

  And finally, I must thank the all the Scottish mountains I’ve climbed for the fresh air, breath-taking views, sore calves, blisters, midge bites, and, most importantly, the inspiration for Beinn Mo Chridhe.

  Prologue

  Perthshire, Scotland

  1819

  “I’m not jesting, sir. You’re now the thirteenth Duke Molineux.”

  Fraser drained his glass. The amber liquid burned his throat, and he choked and slammed the glass on the desk.

  “Is the brandy not to your taste, Your Grace?”

  The lawyer gave Fraser a look of smug disdain, no doubt considering whether a Highlander was fit to be called a duke rather than a savage.

  “I prefer moonshine myself, Mr. Simpkins,” he said.

  “Fraser!”

  Ma leaned forward; her brow furrowed with disapproval. Despite her age, she was still a good-looking woman, but the presence of the black-clad cockroach of a lawyer, come to seek profit from the death of a distant relation, had tempered her good humor. Or was it the fact that Fraser had alluded to the illicit activities upon which their livelihood depended?

  The woman sitting beside Ma bore a different look altogether. Though a beauty, with hair as golden as hay in the sunshine, and eyes the color of heather, her expression reeked of ambition. Jennifer—beautiful, lush Jennifer—who’d parted her thighs more times than he’d corked bottles of moonshine.

  Ma’s face had twisted with horror as the lawyer related the fate of the twelfth duke. But Jennifer’s expression betrayed her greed. Jennifer used sex for her own ends. She’d taken many lovers, pitting one rival against another to heighten their desire. But, on hearing that her current lover had inherited a title, her expression had changed from the indifference of a woman who toyed with a man’s heart, to the hunger of a woman seeking a prize.

  And that prize was him. There was nothing like the prospect of being a duchess to renew a weary woman’s vigor. Doubtless, she’d offer him the usual delights, which he’d sampled in her bedchamber, on this very desk and, if he recalled rightly, three times against the oak-paneled wall of the minstrels’ gallery.

  But never against the rock of his homeland, the hard granite which pulsed with the lifeblood of the highlands. He’d save that for the woman who won his heart if such a woman existed.

  But now was not the time to think of rutting. Before him lay the unpleasant duty of seeing to an English estate crippled by debt, if the newspapers were to be believed, and clouded by scandal. According to Simpkins, the twelfth duke had possessed tastes rivaling the Marquis de Sade, had drunk and whored himself into near-bankruptcy, and finally met his maker after falling out of the top floor window of a brothel.

  With a sigh, Fraser signed the document.

  “Excellent,” the lawyer said. “Perhaps we might schedule our next appointment at my offices in London once you’re settled at Clayton House.”

  “Why would I want to go there?”

  “To assume your responsibilities, of course,” the lawyer said. “It’s the Molineux London residence. You must be anxious to begin overseeing the estate, and my fees are very reasonable.”

  The
lawyer licked his lips in a gesture, almost mirroring Jennifer’s.

  Another individual who viewed him as a prize.

  “You imagine incorrectly, Simpkins,” he said.

  “But, sir,” the lawyer said, his features now showing desperation, “these matters need to be settled.”

  “And they shall,” Fraser said, “in a manner, and at a time, of my choosing. Not yours.”

  “But…”

  “Be so good as to leave the papers with me, Simpkins,” he said. “My mother will show you to the door.”

  Ma rose to her feet and ushered the cockroach out.

  Jennifer’s smile broadened, and she leaned forward and ran a fingertip along the edge of her gown, dipping it into the valley between her breasts.

  “I think, my love, it’s time for a celebration.”

  Did she think he’d offer for her now he was a duke? If she thought to use him, she’d discover he was a much better player at that particular game.

  But for the present, her willing body would prove a pleasant diversion.

  With a smile, he rose to his feet, not bothering to disguise the bulge in his breeches, and swept aside the contents of the desk.

  Chapter One

  Clayton House, London

  1823

  “Have you missed me?”

  Lilah held out her hand, and the bird flew toward her and settled on her finger, dipping its head as if in welcome.

  One of the few remaining souls in a crumbling ruin which had been abandoned for four years.

  But that crumbling ruin provided Lilah with a haven from the incessant noise generated by her family who, now she’d embarked on her first season, insisted on trying to teach her propriety.

  Especially Dexter. Though Lilah loved her brother dearly, the increase in his fortunes had come hand-in-hand with a disproportionate increase in his desire to elevate their status in society. Wishing to sweep aside their humble origins, Dex had paid a considerable sum to fund Lilah’s debut, and he expected her to reward his investment with the dividend of a society marriage.

  Which meant she’d have to surrender her liberty to a man who valued only three things in a woman:

  Biddability, silence, and the ability to bear children.

  But unlike her brother, she had no burning desire to marry a title—or marry at all.

  The bird chirped, returning her to the present.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” she said. “Here, I have a treat for you.”

  She held up a piece of bread, and the bird pecked at it, ruffling its feathers as if in thanks. Ripples of iridescence shimmered across the creature’s back. The bird looked out of place in the aviary—a bright exotic prisoner among the dull, earthy colors of plants, which might once have conformed to aesthetics, but were now choked by ivy.

  Four years of neglect had turned Clayton House into a ruin, as if the soul of its late owner, the twelfth Duke Molineux, had permeated into the fabric of the building and rotted it from within. And well, he might. Lilah shivered at her childhood memory of him—a beautiful youth whose exterior concealed a blackened heart. Soulless gray eyes, which glittered with mirth at the discomfort of others.

  The whole line was rotten to the core. The first duke had earned his title from a grateful Henry Tudor after distinguishing himself in battle. But his successors had gained notoriety, which increased with each generation. The tenth duke had narrowly escaped the gallows after a spate of murders. The eleventh had been killed in a duel within a week of inheriting the title after compromising six young women in a single night. As for the twelfth—he’d debauched his way around London before ending his life in the manner by which he’d lived it—drunk, naked, and in the arms of a harlot—leaving a penniless widow who’d been turned out of the estate before he was cold in his grave.

  Lilah lifted her hand, and the bird launched into the air and disappeared into the ivy. She would have freed it, but it would never survive in the wild. It had lost its independence, as she would lose hers if married.

  Why was it that a woman was expected to marry in order to find fulfillment? Could she not thrive as an individual in her own right, rather than as half of a pair? If Dexter expected her to yield her liberty, it would have to be with a man who saw her as an equal.

  And such a man did not exist, except, perhaps, Sir Thomas, who, for all that he was a baronet, at least appreciated the value of the lower classes.

  She scattered the rest of the breadcrumbs on the ground and stepped back to let the more timid inhabitants of the aviary seek their bounty in peace. Closing the door behind her, she picked her way across the ground toward the main building.

  Clayton House was a large mansion built during the Jacobean era, but through the years, each incumbent had added layers of ostentation, as if to establish their superiority of rank. To Lilah, the building served a purpose, for it was a reminder of the evils of society. It served to inspire her Essays on Patriarchy, and it provided her with respite from Dexter’s admonishments and Dorothea’s attempts to turn her into a lady.

  She crossed the main hall and entered the library, where row upon row of books filled the shelves, their colors clouded with a thin film of dust, punctuated by occasional fingerprints, evidence of Lilah’s trespass. Plucking a book from the shelf, she traced the title on the spine, running her fingertips across the smooth surface of the gold embossing. Byron’s Hours of Idleness. Published when he was younger than her.

  Might her poems be published one day? What would it feel like to have her name embossed in gold on the spine of a book?

  She smiled at the notion of realizing her dream.

  A creak echoed outside, followed by a faint scratching. The sounds of London always filtered through the air—a voice from the street at the bottom of the drive, the cry of a bird, or the soft creaks as the fabric of the house expanded and contracted in the ever-changing temperature as day turned to night, summer turned to winter. Or perhaps it was one of the many rats which resided in the bowels of the building.

  Lilah sat in an armchair beside the empty fireplace and opened the book.

  Reading should be a means to further a moral and spiritual education. But Byron’s words, written by a man renowned for debauchery, stirred unwelcome feelings in her body, and she closed the volume with a snap, coughing at the dust which tickled her nostrils.

  To succumb to the body’s desires was the first step to humiliation. And one only had to recall the fate of Lady Caroline Lamb or Augusta Leigh to understand the imbalance of society in favor of rakes such as Byron.

  She had no desire to suffer humiliation at the hands of such a man. Her first ball of the Season had shown her the dangers of doing so, when, in search of the dance partner Dexter had taken great pains to secure for her, she’d come across him in flagrante delicto with another.

  Which just went to prove that men of the aristocracy were not fit to rule the world.

  She jumped at another crash—this time much closer.

  Someone was in the house. A ripple of fear raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She stood from her seat and looked around the room.

  Her gaze landed on a vase situated on a pedestal beside the window, decorated in bright, gaudy colors and embossed with gold leaf. It contained the ashes of the seventh duke. Perhaps, today, one of the cursed Molineuxs would prove himself useful in her hour of need.

  She picked it up, drawing comfort from its cold hardness, as she tried to dispel images of ruffians and brigands ransacking their way through London and murdering the innocent.

  She heard a curse right outside the door, which resembled a deep growl.

  The door handle turned, metal winking in the fading sunlight, and she lifted the vase over her head, ready to defend herself as the door swung inward.

  *

  Fraser crossed the front garden and stopped when the house came into view.

  It was worse than he feared. Clayton House was a bloody ruin. The cost of restoring it would reduce his funds to almo
st nothing.

  He cursed himself for not coming to London sooner, though there had been little point while the Excise Act was still being debated. But now that the Act had been passed, he could openly attract investors and customers, and show these London fops, that compared to a MacGregor single malt, French brandy was nothing more than horse piss.

  The building before him seemed to soak up the light, the windows, reproachful eyes staring blankly out. The light of the setting sun glittered on the glass, where some of the windows had been smashed.

  Perhaps he should burn it to the ground and start again. Or let the dissidents do it for him. The newspapers had been full of stories of houses being ransacked. It seemed as if the Terrors in France had ignited bloodlust in the dispossessed, and a handful of riots had sprung up, resulting in the occasional nobleman finding himself standing outside a burning building in his breeches.

  One paper, the City Chronicle, even encouraged such behavior. Not directly, of course, but a careful editor could use language to incite unrest. Only last week he’d heard someone complaining in Whites about a new series of articles entitled Essays on Patriarchy. The author, a Mr. Jeremiah Smith, was nowhere to be found—most likely, too cowardly to write under his own name. The bastard had even made a reference to the Molineux lineage in his first piece.

  Though Fraser might agree that the previous dukes had earned their reputation as wastrels, such notoriety risked his chances of using the title to further his business prospects.

  A flicker of light caught his eye, then a shape moved across one of the ground-floor windows.

  A trespasser. Or worse.

  The front door was ajar, and he pushed through it, wincing as the hinges creaked. He paused but heard no movement from inside. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of dust, damp, and rotting vegetation, he crept across the hallway. Patches of mold adorned the walls, and the marble statues guarding the doors had a greenish hue.