A Reckless Encounter
Only Rosemary Rogers could create a tale of passion and vengeance so captivating, so unforgettable, that you'll savor it time and again.REVENGECelia St. Remy Sinclair has harbored a dark obsession since the tender age of twelve: to bring about the downfall of Lord Northington, the man responsible for her mother's death. Now an elegant and self-possessed beauty of twenty-two, she leaves America for London, determined to avenge the act of violence that shattered her life.REDEMPTIONCelia is stunned when she comes face-to-face with her nemesis–for this rakishly charming gentleman called Colter is not what she expected. When she discovers he is the new Lord Northington, son of the man she's vowed to destroy, she embarks upon a daring plot to take revenge on the father through the son. But even the best-laid plans can be thwarted by the powerful forces of the human heart….
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Jacqueline gave a small gasp of delight. “It is Northington!”
A chill shivered down Celia’s spine. She steeled herself to turn and look toward Lord Northington at last, and drew in a deep breath for courage.
Yet she could not find him. She had thought there would be instant recognition, that the hatred she had nursed all these years would immediately focus on Northington despite the time that had passed. Yet none of the men present had the face of her childhood nightmares.
She had a vague impression of a tall man with dark hair, impeccably dressed and with an air of polite boredom in his movements, but her gaze focused beyond him.
“This must be the young lady who has captured Sir John’s instant admiration,” a deep voice said, the tone slow, rich, seductive.
He reached for her hand, took it in his broad palm, held her fingers in a light clasp as he bent to place a kiss upon her gloved knuckles.
Celia did not resist. She felt as if all eyes were watching, waiting for her response. Panic swelled, coupled with an overwhelming need to escape. But it was his touch that unnerved her most.
Faintly, she managed to say, “If you will excuse me, I must attend to some personal business.”
Celia maneuvered a path through the crowd without taking flight or stumbling. She had to escape that penetrating gaze and the discovery that this Northington was not the man she had hated for so long, was not the man she had come to ruin.
There had to be two Lord Northingtons.
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CONTENTS
PART I
“The heart has reasons of which reason has no knowledge.”
—Pascal, Pensées
Prologue
Georgetown, District of Columbia
1810
Danger wore an elegant coat and arrogance. When twelve-year-old Celia Sinclair opened the door that cool autumn evening, a tall man with features as sharp as a hawk stood on the stoop. His voice was impatient and brusque, the words clipped, the accent unmistakably British.
“I have come to visit Madame.”
When she did not reply, but continued to stare at him, he added impatiently, “This is the home of Léonie St. Remy, is it not?”
Celia smoothed her hands over the blue kersey of her dress, suddenly aware of how shabby she must look. “Madame Sinclair is busy at the moment, sir. If you will leave your card, I will—”
“My card? Rather pretentious of you, considering this humble abode, I think. Go and fetch your mistress, girl.” He pushed her hand away when she moved to close the door, and wedged his body inside. “Inform her that Lord Northington wishes to see her at once.”
Brown eyes stared down at her from a face pitted with the faint remnants of scars. His mouth was full, his cheekbones high and stark, the slash of black eyebrows a marked contrast to his powdered hair.
This was Lord Northington, the man her mother had once said was a beast!
“Don’t stand there gaping at me, girl,” he said sharply. “I’ll see you’re dismissed from your post for this impertinence. Fetch Madame at once!”
“I am not a servant, my lord,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of fetching Madame. Leave your card, and when she returns, I shall give it to her.”
“Impudent brat,” he spat. “I know she’s here. I followed her.” Even in the gloom, she could see the hot flare of anger in his eyes, the white lines that cut grooves on each side of his mouth as he grated, “It would serve you best to do as you’re told. The consequences can so often be…unpleasant.”
Celia’s brief spurt of courage failed her. She took a backward step, her heart hammering fearfully in her chest.
“You have no authority here!”
“I have no intention of remaining here to bandy words with an insolent brat.”
Ignoring her choked cry, he brushed past her. Boot-steps echoed loudly on the bare wooden floors as he moved down the hallway to the tiny parlor. His glance into the empty room was dismissive, his lip curled.
Celia saw it as he must see it, so bare now of the once lovely furnishings; not even linen scarves were left to adorn the single drum table that had yet to be sold, and the upholstered settee looked alone and forlorn in front of the cold fireplace. The years of deprivation since her father’s death were obvious, the remnants of their once comfortable life pitiful. Northington moved past the parlor.
“You must not!” she cried as he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. Panic drove her, and unreasoning fear that he meant to harm her mother. She caught at his sleeve, but he jerked free.
