Page 1 of Broken

PROLOGUE

London, 1811

It was a rare day when a disturbance could interfere with Giles Wexham’s pursuit of pleasure, but the presence of a ghost hovering at the door of Huntley House’s guest bedchamber proved a real distraction for the Earl of Daventry.

The delicate specter shimmered at the edge of the room, neither writhing nor moaning, but watching with an intensity that would disturb if she were made of flesh and bone.

Until now, Giles had never seen a ghost. He had always supposed these visions were the product of a bored mind, but he had to admit that being the subject of a ghost’s attention was not as frightening as he’d always heard. In fact, Giles found it downright arousing.

The little wraith seemed to float, and he wondered if a strong puff of air would dismiss her. A halo of wispy, white-blonde hair hung around her pale face and cascaded over her shoulders to her waist, disordered, as if just raised from sleep or the grave.

Delicate lips formed an O as her gaze dropped low to the woman on her knees before him. He grew harder, if that was possible.

Unaware of their audience, Sabine, his lover for the night, continued to bob on his length. Giles bit back a moan of intense pleasure as the dual attention stirred every sense he possessed.

Thin, ghostly fingers twisted into the folds of her rumpled white shroud as if nervous, though what a ghost could be nervous about escaped him.

Although he would have liked to prolong the moment, his lover’s efforts were producing pleasurable results. Sabine had her hand cupped around his stones, so Giles gave up on the soulless ghost in favor of the warmth of mouth and fingers.

He curled his hand around his lover’s neck and closed his eyes to focus, enjoying the wet lips encircling him. Pleasure clutched his spine and he thrust his hips forward, impatient for sweet oblivion to claim him. After four good strokes of hand and tongue, his whole body pulsed and shivers raced down his legs at the force of his much-needed release.

Yet when he raised his lids to view the room, disappointment stung. The ghost had vanished into the night as if she’d never been.

CHAPTER ONE

Summer, 1813

Giles forced a smile to his lips to welcome Lord Winter to his country estate in Northamptonshire. “Winter,” Giles called. “Welcome back to Cottingstone.”

The newcomer shook his head. At least the old baron could pretend to look pleased that Giles had broken his rule about receiving a guest at Cottingstone Manor. But no, Lord Winter’s face wore a perpetual frown, just like every other time their paths had crossed in London.

“Daventry.” The older man’s quavering voice, pitched somewhat lower than Giles’, betrayed exhaustion. “The place hasn’t changed.”

Giles held out his hand. “You must be weary. Dinner won’t be served for an hour, but I have some excellent whiskey to soothe you while we wait.”

The baron crushed Giles’ fist. “Brandy would be preferable in its place—especially today. But first…” Winter returned to the carriage.

Giles took a step back toward his butler. “Dithers?”

“I shall switch the decanters when I return to the house, milord,” he promised.

“Do that, and ask Cook if dinner can be brought forward,” Giles murmured. “Lord Winter doesn’t appear in good health.”

“I don’t believe his health is the problem, milord,” Dithers replied.

Without another word of explanation, the butler stepped back, leaving Giles to ponder to whose health he had referred. The baron traveled alone and often. His servants all looked a disciplined, healthy bunch. But they moved carefully on the carriage and didn’t speak overloud. The horses were settled swiftly, too. Calm, efficient, eerie.

As Giles stepped out of the way of a burdened footman, a bloodcurdling howl erupted from beyond the house. Every man stopped and stared, not in the direction of the sound, but at the dark carriage they were unloading.

The steady pounding of paws heralded the arrival of Giles’ ancient wolfhound, Atticus. Judging by the dog’s speed and his whining agitation, something was seriously amiss with him. In fact, this level of energy from the hound was more than a little surprising. He had spent most of Giles’ visit lying under his feet snoring.

Atticus skidded to a stop beside the closed door of the carriage. If the door had been open, Giles was sure the hound would have barged his way in. He ignored the restless horses and stunned attendants to haul his beast out of the way. The dog was heavy and determined to stay exactly where he was, but Giles managed to pull him aside.

Lord Winter stared at the dog, nodded, and then stepped into the carriage. When he emerged a few moments later, he held a body in his arms.

Atticus, generally so docile, whined and whimpered, straining against Giles in such a fashion as to cause alarm. Lord Winter adjusted the black-cloaked figure, and the bundle moaned.

Every hair on the back of Giles’ neck rose. That was a woman’s moan—one in great pain. He renewed his grip on the restless dog.