Excerpt from . . .
BEDDING THE HEIRESS
by Cathy Maxwell
Avon Books, April 2007
ISBN 0-06-112180-0

The door in the library opened. 

Penthorpe had come.  At last.  Panic welled in Francesca’s throat at seeing him again. 

The door closed. 

She sensed his progress through the library.  She heard the faint movement of his steps across the room’s thick Indian carpet.  He didn’t walk out to the terrace immediately but paused in front of the fire.  On this side of the house, away from the merriment of the ball, there was no other light other than that small blaze in the hearth inside and the slip of a moon in the sky above outside.

Her heart pounding, she stepped back into the shadows, toward the ivy covered brick where the terrace railing met the house.  Her original plan had been to be firmly demand the pearl, threatening to have the servants toss him out if he refused. 

Now, she realized such a plan wouldn’t work.  He knew she wouldn’t call the footmen because then her father would learn the truth. 

Francesca was surprised to realize that, in spite of his anger at her father for betraying her mother’s memory and marrying so quickly, she didn’t want to disappoint him with her own foolishness.  Nor did she want anyone else to know how stupidly she had behaved over a rake.

No, she was going to have cajole the necklace from Penthorpe.  She must appeal to his vanity, to make him believe she’d had a change of heart.  She would have to seduce him into giving her the pearl.  It was the only way that would work.

There was a footfall.  He was coming toward the terrace door. 

Her breath caught in her throat.  She took another step back into the corner, not wanting him to see her first.

A cloud covered the moon.  His shadow darkened the door, blocking the light from the hearth.  Framed as he was, he appeared taller and larger than she remembered.

He stepped out onto the stone terrace.

Francesca didn’t dare breathe.

Penthorpe moved toward the balustrade.  He was dressed in black relieved only by the snowy white of his neck cloth.  Tension radiated from him.  He braced the railing with both hands and appeared for a moment as if he wished for nothing more than to jump over it and escape into the night.  It was as if something weighed heavily on his mind.  Perhaps he repented what had happened between them--?

Her moment had arrived.  God give her strength.

She moved forward, her kid dancing slippers making barely a whisper of sound—and yet, he’d heard her.

He started to turn. 

Quickly, she slipped her arms through his and around his waist to hold him in place.  Pressing her breasts against his back, she whispered, “At last you’ve come,”—even as she realized his shoulders really were broader than she remembered. 

And it hadn’t been her imagination.  He was taller.  And more muscled . . . and even smelled differently.

Penthorpe preferred perfume water and cologne.  This man smelled of himself, spicy, warm . . . masculine.

This man wasn’t Penthorpe.

The realization so stunned Francesca, she couldn’t think fast enough to untangle her arms before he turned, taking her in his arms. 

His head a silhouette against the night sky, his face a shadow, he said, “If I’d known you were waiting for me, lass, I’d have been here sooner.”  His rolling Scot’s brogue confirmed her worst fear.

Before she could issue protest or apology, his lips came down over hers.

© 2007 Cathy Maxwell