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Her lips—soft pink, full and tempting—were parted, and, as rotten as he felt, still his loins stirred at the thought of tasting them.
He frowned, a memory floating a fraction beyond his reach.
Her lips. He could feel them, he knew their taste—silky as rose petals, sweet as honey. But how? He licked his own lips, paper-dry and sour. The answer eluded him as he continued his perusal of the woman by his bed.
Her hair. He paused, feeling his forehead pucker. Why had he thought her hair to be guinea-gold? It was not. It was more beautiful by far—the soft golden colour of corn ripening in the August sunshine. Not brassy, not a mass of curls, but soft waves where it escaped from its pins. He wanted to see it loose, flowing down her back.
He frowned again as he watched her sleep, striving to remember, fragments of memories teasing at his mind …
JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. After leaving school at eighteen she moved to Devon, and any thoughts of writing became lost in the hectic rush of life as a farmer’s wife, with two children and many animals to care for. When her children left home for university she discovered a love of history, and of the Regency period in particular, and began to write seriously for the first time since her teens.
Janice now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats. Over the years, apart from farming, she has worked as a conveyancer, a call handler for the police and an administrator for a teacher training programme at a local university. She currently works as an exam invigilator and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor (vainly trying to control her own weight, despite her love of chocolate!).
This is Janice Preston’s fantastic debut novel for Mills & Boon® Historical Romance!
Mary and the Marquis
Janice Preston
To Ian, for your unwavering support and encouragement.
And with grateful thanks to the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and in particular the organisers and readers of the wonderful New Writers’ Scheme.
Contents
Dedication
September 1811
Mary clutched her cloak tighter around her and shivered as she peered through the gathering gloom. She hoped it wasn’t going to rain. She felt a tug on her skirt and looked down.
‘Mama.’ Pinched features set in a face too pale stared up at her. ‘Mama, I’m hungry.’
Mary summoned a reassuring tone. ‘Hush, Toby; yes, I know, lovey. We shall have something to eat as soon as we find somewhere to shelter.’
Grimly, she quelled her rising panic and reached for Toby’s hand as she hefted two-year-old Emily higher on her right hip, where she had fallen asleep, one grubby hand entangled in Mary’s hair. They plodded on, following a muddy track that wound through dense woodland, the trees—a mixture of mature specimens and saplings—crowding in on either side, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere that had intensified as the afternoon wore on. No breath of wind stirred the limp foliage, not a bird sang and no woodland creature rustled amongst the undergrowth.