Lord Libertine

Praise for Gail Ranstrom

THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP ‘…this book should not be missed.’ —Rakehell

THE RAKE’S REVENGE ‘Ranstrom crafts an intriguing mystery, brimming with a fine cast of strong and likable characters and a few surprises.’ —Romantic TimesBOOKreviews

THE MISSING HEIR ‘Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end.’ —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

SAVING SARAH ‘Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England… If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then SAVING SARAH is when Ranstrom comes of age.’ —The Romance Reader

A WILD JUSTICE ‘Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.’ —The Romance Reader

‘So, Lady Lace, is that yourgame? Gathering kisses?’

She was not surprised that he knew her alias. She was well on her way to becoming notorious.

He was dark and handsome—strong and commanding—dangerous. She realised what she had to do.

She closed the short distance between them, slipped her arms around his neck and lifted on her toes to reach his mouth. When she pressed her lips to his, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to the wall. No escape.

No mercy.

His kiss was consuming and powerful, making her head swim and her senses reel. When her resistance weakened, it turned coaxing, teasing with little flicks of fire at the edges. There could be nothing even remotely similar to this kiss. She was losing herself to it—losing her very will to resist.

Gail Ranstrom was born and raised in Missoula, Montana, and grew up spending the long winters lost in the pages of books that took her to exotic locales and interesting times. That love of the ‘inner voyage’ eventually led to her writing. She has three children, Natalie, Jay and Katie, who are her proudest accomplishments. Part of a truly bi-coastal family, she resides in Southern California with her two terriers, Piper and Ally, and has family spread from Alaska to Florida.

Recent titles by the same author:

A WILD JUSTICE

SAVING SARAH A CHRISTMAS SECRET

(in The Christmas Visit anthology)

THE RAKE’S REVENGE

THE MISSING HEIR THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP INDISCRETIONS

Gail Ranstrom

London, May 25, 1821

Panic licking at her heels, Isabella hurried down the long dingy second-floor corridor of Middlesex Hospital, the man sent by the Home Office leading the way. He indicated a door and she stepped through into a ward with twenty or more beds. The odor, something foul and fetid, hung ominously in the air.

“This way, Miss O’Rourke,” her escort said, directing her to a curtain along the far wall.

She slowed, reluctant now, after all their urgency. He’d tried to prepare her, the man from the Home Office—Lord Wycliffe, she thought he’d said. He told her she might not recognize Cora, and that she needed to brace herself and be strong. She glanced up at him again, hoping for reassurance and finding none.

She wished she could have waited for Mama to return from looking for Cora in the park, but Lord Wycliffe had said there was no time to lose. She’d left her sister Eugenia to bring her mother and Lilly to the hospital when they returned. Then Lord Wycliffe had brought her here. To identify Cora. On the way, he’d told Isabella what had been done to her—she’d been beaten, dishonored, disfigured and cast off in a dust heap at the end of a blind lane, where she’d been found by the morning watch. Now, so close, Isabella was afraid of what she’d find.

She swallowed hard.

“Do you need a moment, Miss O’Rourke?”

She shook her head and proceeded slowly. Lord Wycliffe stepped ahead and drew the curtain back for her. He touched her shoulder as she went forward. “I shall wait for you, miss.”

Only the meager light able to penetrate a filthy window illuminated the bed, but there was nothing of Cora’s in evidence. Where was her cloak? Her gown or slippers?

Isabella stepped closer. The occupant of the bed was swathed in bandages wound around her wrists and neck. Her head was turned away, and Isabella summoned the last of her courage before she touched her shoulder. “Cora?”

Slowly, painfully, her sister turned, and a sob broke free from Isabella’s chest. She had thought she was prepared for anything, but she hadn’t been prepared for this…this parody of Cora. And it was Cora—her honey-blond hair caked with dark, stiff blotches of blood, her forehead missing a large triangle of flesh, her eyes—those sparkling blue eyes—dull now and nearly swollen shut, and her lips cut and distorted.

The tortured lips parted, and a faint sigh emerged. “Bella…”

She took Cora’s hand. “I am here, Cora. You will be all right now. I am here and I will take you home.”

“Not…going home,” she said, and a glistening tear trickled down her puffy cheek.

Isabella nearly choked with the effort to hold her sobs back. “Please, Cora…”

“D-don’t pretend.”

Isabella could no longer stem the flow of her tears. Her pain and grief welled up and spilled over.

“Be…brave,” Cora whispered. “Avenge me, Bella.” Cora stopped for a moment when her swollen lip cracked and a fine line of blood appeared. Then she blinked and started again. “He lied about everything…was not who he said.”