Olivia Newbury has written the most fascinating novel of the year and taken the ton by storm. Suddenly her novel is the talk of the town and Olivia should be thrilled. Except ... she didn't really mean for the novel to be published. For the villianous hero she wrote into the pages of her book is in fact a very real man.

Patrick Crawford, The Marquis of Avondale has held rumor and scandal a bay for years in a desperate attempt to redeem his family name. Now the final step of his plan, marriage to a biddable miss, is within reach and everything is just as he always wanted. Until ... he meets Olivia Newbury.

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 Read an Excerpt 

Across the room, Viscount and Lady Bloom stood with Jeremy and one of the sisters. Lady Heston, perhaps. He squinted, remembered Lucy had pale blonde hair and decided it must be the youngest daughter, Olivia. She was almost as tall as Jeremy and shared his curly brown hair though hers was neatly threaded with a golden ribbon and held above the nape of her neck. It complimented the deep green of the rather wispy gown she wore. Patrick took a moment to admire her visage—her smooth pale skin and her roundness. He caught Jeremy’s eye. A calculating smile spread across his friend’s face, and Patrick cursed under his breath. Newbury raised his arm in a wave.

           

              “Avondale,” Newbury called loud enough to cause several people to look around. “I say, Avondale, over here.”

Miss Newbury did not turn as Patrick slid through the throng to reach them, keeping his eyes firmly on Newbury’s face and off Olivia’s backside.

“Avondale, may I present to you my sister, Miss Olivia Newbury. Olivia, this is the Marquis of Avondale.”

Miss Newbury raised a blushing face to stare at his chin and Patrick bent over her glove, pressing a fleeting kiss to the back of her hand. She drew away as if on fire, and he looked automatically to his hand to find dark smudges on his fingertips. Miss Newbury’s blush now extended to her chin, down her neck and across the creamy skin of her chest.

“My apologies, my lord. I must have soiled my glove.”

To their right, Newbury snickered under his breath and then winced. Patrick saw Miss Newbury’s slipper disappear beneath her gown and Jeremy twisting his foot in the air.

“I’ve no doubt the fault lies with your brother.”

Jeremy choked and Miss Newbury, bless her shyness, looked as if she might laugh had she not been so nervous.

“You forget,” Patrick continued, addressing Jeremy, “I’ve met both your sisters numerous times though I am sure my presence is not enough to make an impact on Miss Newbury.”

“I haven’t forgotten you,” Miss Newbury said, finally lifting her gaze to his. Large brown eyes wrapped with lush dark eyelashes flashed away from him, returning to the spot of his chin. He rubbed at the patch, wondering if perhaps he had a bit of dinner left there. Silence descended over the group. Miss Newbury was doing her best to ignore him, and he felt a stab of annoyance.

“Well,” he began, intent on making his excuses when Newbury said, “Fiendish business this novel is making, eh?”

Miss Newbury jumped.

“Every gentleman in the room thinks himself important enough to be Lord Quibbley.”

“Quiggley,” Miss Newbury inserted sharply.

“I think it’s me,” Jeremy continued. “But Olivia is certain it is not.”

Miss Newbury turned blazing eyes on her brother. “You most certainly are not important enough.”

Newbury slapped a hand to his chest and staggered backwards. “Who do you think it to be, Avondale? You’ve read it?”

“Just today actually,” Patrick said in an amazingly stable voice. And then, to test their reaction he said, “My sister is convinced I must be Quiggley’s literal double.”

This time, he did not mistake Miss Newbury’s decided flinch.

“Do you think her wrong, Miss Newbury?”

Her mouth dropped. “Pardon?” she croaked.

“My sister,” he said patiently. “You seem to have such decided opinions about your brother’s innocence in the matter, perhaps my sister is mistaken also.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say. I cannot fathom a woman who would waste paper on Jeremy.”

“Sibling affection,” Patrick murmured, intrigued by her reserved manner sprinkled with spurts of cheekiness.

“You’ll have to excuse Olivia, Avondale. She’s set out on a new venture tonight.  I’m afraid it has her perturbed which in turn makes her quite difficult.”

Miss Newbury stepped to her brother’s side, locking his arm in a deathly grip. “Jeremy, Lord Avondale couldn’t possibly be interested in this. Forgive me, my lord, for my imprudence and Jeremy’s as well. I’m afraid you caught us in the midst of a disagreement of sorts, and it has made me unbearably rude.”

Patrick smiled. “Siblings can be quite difficult. Please do not trouble yourself.”

“There? You see Livy.” Jeremy extracted himself from Miss Newbury’s slipping grasp. “Avondale is a good chap, considered quite a catch.”

“Jeremy,” Miss Newbury growled, and Patrick grinned.

“She’s husband hunting,” Jeremy said as he danced away from Miss Newbury’s fury. She stood, fists clenched, chest heaving, her cheeks so red Patrick thought they must be on fire. She gulped in air and stared him straight in the eye.

“Every woman wishes for a husband, my lord. I am not doing anything not done for all the years of this earth.”

Patrick’s heart constricted inside his chest as if he himself were experiencing her embarrassment. Sparing Newbury no attention, he stepped closer to Olivia so his body shielded her from the ballroom’s collective gaze. “I wish you luck in your search,” he said kindly. “And do not fault you for your intentions. Perhaps a dance with a marquis will increase your chances?”

“Please don’t pity me,” she whispered to his cravat. “My brother delights in seeing me flustered. He cannot help his uncouth manners.”

He stretched out his arm, palm up. “This is not pity.”

Patrick waited several agonizing heartbeats before she slid her palm across his. He closed his fingers over her hand, triumphant, and she followed him to the area set aside for dancing as the first strains of a waltz floated through the room.

“Do you have permission?” he asked, and she peeked over her shoulder at her mother and father, Lady Bloom’s head bobbing like a chicken.

"Tonight," she said, smiling at him for the first time. "Tonight, I do."

Phillippa Leavenworth doesn't believe in love. Finnigan Kinsley doesn't believe in second chances. And neither believe in ghosts. But all that is about to change when a mischievous spirit conspires to bring them together and prove the impossible is never out of reach.

*  *  *

Her way lightened as she climbed the gently rising hill toward the house and she could now make out the path on which her feet trod. She passed a set of stone benches and crested the rise. A low earthen wall ended the path abruptly and she found herself at the edge of a terrace. Here, closer to the house, she could see the property – like so many others in her little piece of London – had fallen into disrepair. Tangled vines covered the house’s façade all the way to the roof line where several shingles hung haphazardly. Windows that appeared to be unbroken when the light brightened were now revealed to be jagged edges of glass in most of the openings. The wall at which she stood was lumpy in some spots and missing altogether in others, while the slates of the terrace looked mostly cracked and disjointed by the roots of a large willow tree to her left. Philippa’s gaze traced the largest root to the base of the tree, up the massive knotted trunk, and to the first ring of branches only to widen in disbelief. She ducked under the swinging arms of the willow to get a closer look.

 

Oh no, absolutely not. She would not do it. She would not climb this tree to retrieve the dress. No. Obviously the house was deserted, just look at the state of it. Tomorrow she’d bind Jane to secrecy and return with a ladder. Jane had much better balance anyway and often bemoaned the lack of excitement in the life of a lady’s maid. Retrieving Philippa’s dress from the branches would be like a gift. It even had ribbons.

 

Decided, Philippa turned on heel only to pause at the sound that reached her. Had that been a door opening? In the swinging branches above her an owl hooted a lonely note and she released a breath. Nothing but the creaking of branches. She made a move to leave the tree.

 

“Who’s there?” a man’s voice called.

 

Torch light spread across the ground and stopped just short of her toes. Philippa dove for the cover of the willow. She scrambled around its base and lay half-propped on her side, and tried not to breath. You see? This is why she didn’t go in for adventure. This is why she elected for good common sense and a slightly dull, maybe a little unfulfilling lifestyle. Because as soon as a body ventured outside their front door – or back garden gate – something terrible happened. Like being forced to crouch behind a tree whilst your dress dangled above you in the breeze and a strange gentleman (Dear Lord, may he please be a gentleman and not a common criminal) chased you about with a torch.

 

“I see you,” the voice called. “Your hand at least.”

 

Philippa jerked her arm back and crawled a fourth of the way around the tree, away from the house.

 

“Please, let’s not be ridiculous. I won’t harm you.” There was a pause. “Unless you stole something. Did you steal anything?”

 

No, Philippa thought, something was stolen from me. Her mother’s beautiful wedding dress and her dignity.

 

His boots crunched closer and Philippa crawled further around until she faced the garden gate. It was much too far to make a run for it. She’d never make it in her bedroom slippers and he had a light. She felt about for a weapon of some sorts and almost sobbed in relief when her hand closed about a fallen branch. True, it was more of a whip than a good sturdy stick, but at least she had something.

 

“Come out little thief.”

 

She stood and cocked the branch back. Nothing for it now.

 

His voice and boots came ever closer. “If you were hungry I would have gladly given you something to eat.”

 

The branch trembled in her grasp. A good whack across the back of the shoulders should do the trick neatly. A dark head ducked under the waving arms of the willow. Philippa drew the branch up over her head, standing on tiptoes to gain better leverage. But that proved a mistake for she wobbled on the hard-packed uneven ground and fought to gain her balance. The man straightened. His hooded eyes widened in the light of the burning torch he carried and he flung it aside so it rolled in the dirt and extinguished. Then he reached for her. Philippa wrenched herself backward. Her heel hooked around an exposed root and her bottom hit the ground with bone-jarring intensity. Her teeth gnashed together and she tasted blood on her bottom lip. The branch rolled from her lifeless fingers and she groaned.

 

The man advanced.

 

Philippa pushed her hands to the ground and lifted her bottom in a desperate attempt to scoot away.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” he grunted. His hand closed over her bare ankle and Philippa squealed. She flopped to her stomach and clawed forward but he was stronger. She kicked out her free leg and her toes sunk into his stomach. She retracted to kick again but he caught that ankle fast. Her nightgown slid upward to rest at her knees. Cool air rushed over her skin. She twisted and the gown rode higher. Philippa stilled. The man chuckled though there was little humor in the sound.

 

“You may stand of your own violation and walked to the house with me or I can simply drag you. The choice is yours.”

 

Philippa rested her forehead on her arms. “Let me up, please.”

 

His grip tightened a fraction and his fingers dug into the soft flesh surrounding the knot of her ankles. “You won’t run.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“I won’t.”

 

Her legs were lowered to the ground. She climbed to her feet and whipped around. She dare not look up to the dress for fear of drawing his attention there. The man drew the willow curtain aside and inclined his head. Philippa, her back ramrod straight, marched out. She chanced a furtive look about, preparing to run, when her wrist was clamped tight in his grip. She pulled reflexively and ceased immediately when his grip turned steel-like.

 

“Here,” he said and led her to the crumbling stone terrace.

 

Fear made her mouth thick with distaste but she would not quail before him. She had trespassed for good reason though she could hardly explain such happenings to a stranger. She could only hope the man with his fingers looped warmly about her wrist was something of a gentleman. He couldn’t be a mere footpad for his accents distinguished him as educated and cultured. And despite the home’s forlorn appearance, a large purse was still required for its purchase. There remained hope he would not harm her if only she could fabricate reasons for her presence in his garden. Foolish hope, but hope still. The Leavenworths were always an optimistic lot.

 

He stopped short of the doors leading into the house. Another torch burnt here and she was able to divine his features for the first time.  He wore his white shirt un-tucked over dark trousers. They had the look of being hastily donned and unbearably rumpled. His face was set into hard lines. Dark eyebrows winged up at the very corners and his deeply set eyes – perhaps blue in color – searched over her in his own assessment while his thin lips slashed in a half-disapproving, half-amused line. His cheekbones were excellent, just high enough to appear strong without a touch of femininity to them. Dark hair fell over his forehead, lending his countenance a boyish air.

 

He scared her still but now that she could see her foe, the sharp metallic edge of fear dulled a bit. The realization did nothing to calm her however and she only wished to return home where she belonged. She held to her composure by a gossamer thread.

 

His eyes skimmed over her, subjecting her to the same perusal she gave him. If he found her less threatening now, he gave no indication.

 

“I trust you are not a thief.”

 

“You trust correctly. I trust you are a gentleman.” Her voice came out rather thin and she raised her chin.

 

The unrelenting line of his mouth softened with a quick uplift of his lips. “It’s a name I’ve been given.”

 

His cryptic reply did nothing to ease her.

 

“Your dress gave you away. Any self-respecting criminal would not attempt robbery in such thin cotton.”

 

Philippa looked down at her rumpled gown. Dirt streaked the fabric and a long tear rent the neckline and the gown gapped open. She yanked at the ends of her shawl. The material closed over her exposed skin and he tisked.

 

“Pity. You make a rather pretty thief.”

 

Definitely not a gentleman then.

 

“Tell me, what would a wood nymph such as yourself be doing in my garden at this hour?”

 

Philippa worried her bottom lip and winced at the still tender bite she encountered. She raised two fingers to her lips and drew away to examine them in the flickering light. Spots of red spotted her fingertips.

 

“I would pity you,” he said, “had you not held that branch in preparation of attack.”

 

“I didn’t know who you were.”

 

“You still don’t.”

 

She shook her head. “No. However I am certain you mean me no harm.” She spoke bravely and persuasively, but felt less so.

 

His eyes crinkled at the corners, enhancing his youthfulness. All traces of the stern man who dragged her from the tree had disappeared. “How can you be sure?”

 

“Who are you?” she asked instead. She was not yet comfortable that she had escaped danger but with every word he spoke, she eased a little.

 

The man startled her with a sharp bow. “Finnigan Kinsley at your leisure, miss.” He straightened and frowned. “Or is it ma’am? You don’t have a husband lurking about my garden paths as well, do you?”

 

His absurdity caused an unexpected bubble of laughter to rise up in her and she had no recourse but to answer in kind. “I certainly hope not for if I had, he has failed his wife greatly by allowing her capture.” The last of her fear melted away with his returned laugh. A man in jest, with such a smile, set her mind at ease. He would not harm her and he would not call for the guards.

 

“Then pray tell, what are you doing here? Stealing apples?”

 

Ah, but he would demand an explanation.

 

Philippa drew herself up. “Most certainly not. I have trees of my own. Splendid ones if you must know.”

 

He nodded gravely. “I must. We can discuss them further if you wish though I warn you now, I will have a satisfactory answer as to your most odd appearance. That should come first, in fact, then we’ll return to your splendid fruit. Let us begin with your name.”

 

              It was then that Philippa began to suspect Mr. Kinsley’s madness. Though, upon reflection as to the events that led her to his door, she had no right to cast stones.