The Incomparables: 6 Heroes of Waterloo and the 6 Ladies They Adore
This limited edition box set includes 6 scorching romances
that commemorate the 200th anniversary of the June 18, 1815 Battle of Waterloo.
From the Duchess of Richmond’s ball in Brussels to the
Battle of Waterloo and beyond, join these six unforgettable heroes as they
journey back from the physical and emotional trials of war and discover the
passion that thrills the body can also heal the heart.
Coming June 18th from bestselling and award winning
historical romance authors Cerise
DeLand, Sabrina York, Suzi Love, Lynne
Connolly, Suzanna Medeiros and
Dominique
Eastwick.
Read more about this steamy collection!
Interlude with a Baron by Cerise
DeLand
Emma wants only an interlude with the man she’s adored for
years. But Drayton Worth has spent five years riddled with guilt for hurting
her—and he’s determined to have more than a few nights in her bed.
Tarnished Honor by Sabrina
York
Daniel Sinclair is a broken man with war wounds
that are physical and spiritual. He’s weighed down by grief and guilt and
tormented by his tarnished honor. When he meets Fia Lennox, a beautiful and
brave Highland lass in dire need of his protection, he sees in her his chance
for redemption…or utter damnation. Because despite his valiant attempts to
resist her, he cannot.
Love After Waterloo by Suzi
Love
When Lady Melton and her son join Captain Belling and the last wounded soldiers
evacuating from Waterloo to London, she expects clashes with army deserters but
doesn’t anticipate how falling in love with the antagonistic captain will
change her life.
Dreaming
of Waterloo by Lynne Connolly
Paul “Lucky” Sherstone daren’t even let his wife too close
because of his headaches and the living nightmares he can’t dispel. Hetty
hardly knows the man who comes back from war, but one thing she does know—she
still wants him.
The Captain’s Heart by Suzanna Medeiros
A man who is determined to fulfill his duty at the expense
of his own happiness, a woman who wants only one taste of true passion, and a
case of mistaken identity. Can Captain Edward Hathaway and Grace Kent overcome
the guilt that continues to haunt them both and find true love?
For Love or Revenge by Dominique
Eastwick
Captain Roarke Wooldridge is about to find out that
sometimes love does heal all wounds.But when his need for revenge collides with
desires he never believed he would feel again, will he be able to put aside the
scars of Waterloo to embrace his future?
READ MORE!
Interlude with a Baron by Cerise DeLand
After Waterloo, Drayton Worth watched the woman he loved suffer
because of his failures.
Riddled with guilt he strives to improve Emma Bedlow's dreadful
existence, while cursing his never-ending desire for her. When he finally has
the chance to convince her to share his life, she refuses. No man will control
her ever again. She desires only an interlude with the charming baron. But Dray
is determined to have much more.
Read an Excerpt!
All rights reserved.
"You're here at last." Dexter Elgin hailed him
with a wave of his hand above the crowd. His former colleague in Wellington’s
army in Spain wore his artillery uniform, though neither of them still served
in ranks. "Spotted you by that mop of hair, Ginger."
Dray winced at the boyish reference to his red curls.
"I'm glad to offer you speed and accuracy. Where’s Wellington?”
"In a meeting with the Dutch. You have news of your
quarry?"
“Some.” Dray needed more absolute proof that Montroy was
betraying them to the French. “I won’t ask for an audience until I learn more.
I would say though that he’s here.”
Dex raised his dark brown brows. “What gall.”
“Indeed.” To spy on the British General Staff at their
leisure was dastardly. But then, what else should they expect from a man who
had turned coats so many times?
“I should not be shocked.”
“No,” Dray agreed. Dex knew of his mission. He’d been in the
meeting with Wellington when the commander had ordered Dray to find proof of
Montroy’s treachery or end the chase once and for all. “Where else would he
prosper this evening?”
“Precisely. In the meantime, let’s get you a drink. You
might even take up a set with a lady on the floor.”
Dray followed his friend through the crowd. He did love to
dance. “Not tonight, I’m afraid.”
“What better way to get a full view of those present?”
Dray smirked. “You have a point. But I’ll have that drink
first.”
The room was so crowded that working his way through the
masses was a challenge. Worse, he covered his mouth as he coughed at the
nauseating mix of tobacco and sweat, brandy and bad cologne.
"Lord Lansdowne! Oh, we are honored, sir." The
companion to the elderly countess of Penn appeared at his side, looping her arm
through his. In her cups as usual, Janet Berwyn tried to train her eyes in his
and failed. "My Lady Penn has anticipated your arrival. So has the
Duchess."
By this she meant the hostess of this ball, the illustrious
Duchess of Richmond. But Dray knew this woman's real purpose was to waylay him
and lure him to a corner if she could. She’d tried that before. Often.
Dray gave her a polite smile, the better to get away from
her and on to his purpose. "Good evening, Lady Berwyn. You look lovely and
so far from home, too.”
"Thank you, good sir. Always a gentleman." She
tightened her fingers around his forearm.
Damn, she was a grasping creature. But then her actions were
his fault. She had once been in his bed and wished never to leave it, but to
tie him to her with vows and rings and her fortune in the bargain. Truth be
told, he liked her enthusiasm in bed, but sadly, nowhere else. He patted her
hand, then extricated her fingers from him. "I have business here, my
lady. I must see the Duke."
She sighed, intemperate when she wanted attention from him.
"Do you promise to attend me after you've done your duty?"
"I cannot
promise, but I will try." She deserved that from him. After all, she had
taught him much about the needs and joys of a woman in the throes of passion.
"Very well," she said with a pretty pout. “Go if
you must."
"Come, my lady," Dex coaxed her. "You know
the value of our worth!"
Long an old joke among his friends in the Royal Artillery,
Dray's last name lent power to his reputation as a man who had been decorated
often for his bravery on the field and off. That he was effective in military
maneuvers and business, he would have liked to have attributed to his
doggedness and his analytical skills. He measured his own worth by his profits
in chemicals and spices and by the good health and rising prosperity of the
tenants on his estates.
His value in the Royal Artillery, however, was measured by
his commanding officer, the newly minted Duke of Wellington. And that man would
ask him tonight if he had caught the traitor in their midst. And if not, when
would he?
“We have the little Corsican to defeat, Colonel.” Wellington
had said to him two days ago, his impatience with the chase doubled. “Get on
with it before our good Englishmen turn the dust of Belgium blood red.”
Now Dray had to prove his worth quickly—or return home with
his comrades in arms, defeated by the French and despised ever more.
Dex handed him a glass of red wine and he took it, parched
from riding north for the past two hours and attempting to stay well out of
sight of Montroy.
"How many are here?" he asked Dex. "It is a
crush."
"The Dutch general staff. Twenty or so. The Prussians,
too. Another thirty.”
"The orchestra sounds good." Too bad tonight he
was not in the mood to avail himself of the music. Dancing seemed too
light-hearted for the dreariness of the task at hand. The irony, too. How many
men had the duty to prove a man a traitor—and ruin the man’s innocent wife in
the process?
"Supper will be served soon. I hear there’s beef and
fowl."
“I’m ready.” Dray’s stomach rumbled. When had he eaten last?
Breakfast was nothing but weak tea and an old army biscuit. "Where does
the Duchess get her purveyors? Hell, we are scrambling to supply our troops.
Many men are killing the local farmers' cows and pigs."
"They are objecting, too. Two dozen farmers came up
from the south of the city today to complain to the old man about how the
English and Scots requisition their animals."
Dray sighed. "The price of ousting Napoleon from their
land is their animals to our service. Someday we’ll supply an army with their
own food, but for now living off the land is our only means. Better yet, we’ll
decide to fight no more wars."
Dex nodded. "May we see that day soon.”
Dray smiled at Dexter but froze at the vision in the far
corner.
"What's wrong?"
Dray’s stomach turned, angry at what he saw. Anxious, he
grew dismayed that the one woman he had ever cared for would be here in the
midst of preparations for the biggest battle Europe had yet seen in thirty
years. "Women. Does it not seem obscene that we have so many women here
nights before we plan a slaughter?”
“I agree,” Dex said, downing another swig of his wine. “But
you know we may need them to nurse the wounded. Others argue it improves
morale."
"Does it? I doubt it." The dark-haired beauty he
was focused on did not appear to be enjoying herself. In fact, she looked
dismayed. Her unusual aquamarine eyes, so large, so expressive scanned the room
and came to land on the empty wine glass in her hands. Her gown, a lustrous
white column, swept down her slight form. She was a sad angel amid this sea of
brightly colored magpies chattering to men in brassy regalia. Em, dear woman,
why the hell are you a hundred miles from London? You should be by a fireside
where it's warm and safe.
He stifled his urge to go to her. He had business. And she
was too much a distraction. A young woman Emma’s age joined her and both
smiled. Enjoying herself, she talked with her friend and leaned back to
chuckle. He rejoiced with her. She’d known little laughter in her life. An only
child, she’d grown up with a doting mother until the woman died when Emma was
twelve. Her father had been a tyrant of the first order. Dray had the
villainous evidence of that the day that man had refused Dray’s suit and
ensured in a most heinous way that she marry a man with greater title and
supposedly huge wealth.
“I say, Dray, it’s not good for you to wish for what you
cannot have.” Dex frowned, well aware of the sad history between Dray and Miss
Emma Bedlow.
Dray drained his glass and set it on a nearby tray.
"Wellington. Lead me to him.”
Dray focused on his mission. Better to forget her, his
step-brother Victor Cameron urged him often. “Lose yourself in other females.
You’ll find one you can adore. I promise you." The paradox there was that
Victor himself had never fallen in love with any woman, though one couldn't
predict that from the vast numbers who had graced the Marquess Cameron's bed.
Dray felt a tug at his sleeve. As he turned, he heard Dex
warn him not to stop and talk.
But there stood Emma before him. Her wide-set eyes pleading,
her mouth so sensual that young bucks in London clubs had bet on how well she
kissed. None of them knew. But Dray did—and she had responded to him like a
woman in love.
Dex sighed. “I leave you alone.”
Emma drank him in with limpid eyes. “Good evening, Lord
Lansdowne. Or should I address you as Colonel?”
He’d not seen her since last August in Paris after her
marriage. Then she appeared at a court reception with her new bridegroom for
the new Bourbon king. She was still the ebony-haired siren whose ripe red lips
and rare blue eyes made every man stop dead in his tracks with lust. But she’d
taken one look at Dray and become subdued, teary-eyed, a gorgeous creature laid
low by her father’s shameful sale of her virtue and good name.
“Madame le Comtesse.” Dray bowed as much for etiquette as to
hide his surprise and delight that she’d taken the risk to address him. He rose
and dare not kiss her hand. To hold it was more than temptation to crush her
close and run away with her. “You are ravishing this evening.”
“Am I?” she asked barely above a whisper.
“Always.”
“I do not feel lovely.”
“You shine above all others in the room, my dear lady.”
Her plush lips turned downward. “I live for your praise.”
Christ, if only I could give it to you every day. “You
should have it often from your husband.”
“I’ll savor what I gain from you.”
Complimented, anguished, Dray dropped her hand.
She put it to her bosom. Her eyes danced over every detail
of his face. “How are you?”
“Well.” Broken. Lonely. “Busy.”
“I came tonight hoping to see you.”
His breath died in his chest. Jesus. “Em, you must not say
such things.”
“I must.” She took a step toward him and the distance
between them was much too close to be proper.
A purple blotch above the line of her bodice distracted him.
What was that?
She leaned closer. “Dray, listen to me. I have to tell you
that I wish you to live. To live well. To please take care the next few days.
If anything were to happen to you, I would—”
“Please, Madame.” He stepped backward. Propriety might
foster some sanity. His mind awhirl with her sentiments, he focused on the
bruise at the top of her breast. He would kill the man who’d done that. Rip him
apart in tiny pieces for it.
“Dray, please.” She put her gloved hand atop his and
squeezed. “You must live well and laugh and love. Do it, Dray. Do it for me.”
“Em, do not say this.”
“Why are you talking with this man?” A tall grey-haired man
stepped to Emma’s side and wrenched her hand from Dray’s.
Dray’s gaze bored into the crystal blue glass of his
adversary’s eyes. “Take your hand from her wrist.”
The man snorted. “As if you have the right to tell me how to
treat my wife.”
Dray seethed. “A gentleman always has a right to protect a
lady from brutality.”
“She is mine, Lansdowne. I do with her as I wish.”
Dray checked Em’s expression. She glared at her husband and
Dray rejoiced. She had gained courage in the past months since her father had
let this creature abduct her and ravish her, then force her to speak vows
before a minister. “She is to be treasured.”
“I treasure her, don’t I, ma petite?” The man said with a
flare of his large nostrils.
She wrenched her hand from her spouse’s grasp. “I’m going to
our lodgings.”
Dray said farewell to her with his heart in his eyes.
Fortunately, her husband did not make a scene and recapture
her. He shot his cuffs instead. “Do that.”
Two tears dribbled past her lashes to her flushed cheeks.
Catching up her skirts, Emma swallowed hard.
“She should not be here,” Dray told her husband and she
shook her head at Dray in warning.
“She is my loyal wife. Are you not, ma chérie? She does as I
say. And I want her here. She will be a good nurse, won’t you?” The man gave
Dray a salacious wink. “Wouldn’t you like her tending your wounds, hmm? Bathing
your…brow? Your aching—”
Filthy roué.
“Enough!” she spat at her husband.
The man cursed in French and caught her upper arm. “Come,
come. Show us your finest manners, wife.”
“You show us none,” she replied.
“You’re a little—”
Dray seized the Comte de Rambouillet by the neck of his
dusty Royal Foot Guard uniform. Raise him another iota and Dray would have him
on his tiptoes. “Shall I dismember you here or in the street?”
With one hand, the man caught up Emma.
She yelped.
Grabbing the man’s other lapel, Dray shook him. “Unhand
her.”
The man peered up at him. Since Dray had more than four
inches in height and two stone in weight on him, the bastard demurred. He
released her.
With a small cry, Emma hastened away.
Dray peered down at her husband, the animal whom he would
gladly murder with his bare hands. “Cease your abuse of her, Montroy.”
“I may do as I wish with my wife. No man would stop me.”
“I will.” From
hurting her or our cause here, I vow I will stop you.
“Ah, Monsieur le Baron, but then I would counter you because
your pitiful heart is broken. Touch a hair on my head and I will put it abroad
that you do it to gain her in your bed. That it was you who absconded with her
and it was I who saved her reputation and saved her from ruin.”
“As if I would care what you say of me.”
“Certainement. You have no regard for the ton. You are a petit
bourgeoisie who makes his living by trade.”
“Better than to make it by cheating at cards.” And by
treachery.
“I have taken what was available from men of little
intelligence.”
“To steal what is not yours and call it acceptable because
it was possible is to live a lie.”
“I have no fears.”
Dray thought of the firing squad that awaited Montroy when
Dray finally proved the man had betrayed not only his native country but also
his adopted one. “Isn’t that a bit short-sighted on your part?”
Henri Montroy, the eleventh Comte de Ramboulliet,
great-grandson of the Sun King, scoffed. “Never.”
Dex appeared at Dray’s side. “Wellington asks for you. He’s
received a message of troop movements.”
Montroy shot Dex a look of alarm. “I must see the Duke
myself.”
Dray stared the man down. “He asks for me. But do remember,
Montroy, that never is like most absolutes, it does not exist.”
Dray would ask Montroy how much he feared again one day soon
when the skinny bastard stood before a gallows or a firing squad.
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