“My lord, please be so kind as to release my hand immediately,” said Helena with the utmost politeness.
In response, Lord Varington raised his gaze to hers and lifted her hand until it was just short of his mouth. Then slowly, carefully, never taking his eyes from hers, he touched his lips to the center of her palm. It was as if he had touched the very core of her being. A spontaneous gasp escaped her, and she found she could not take her eyes from his, could not move, could barely breathe.
“My lord, I must protest!” she said in a breathy whisper.
“You are beautiful,” he said, and she sat as if mesmerized, watching his head bending toward hers until he was so close that she could examine every detail of his face. Helena knew that he was going to kiss her, and, despite the knowledge, she did nothing.
“Helena,” he whispered, and her name rolled off his tongue as if it had been made to do so. There was a richness to his voice, a sensual ripeness.
She felt her eyelids flutter shut. Tilted her mouth to accept his.
The carriage suddenly swerved to the side, throwing Lord Varington off balance and bringing Helena to her senses in an instant.
Untouched Mistress
Harlequin®Historical
Praise for
Margaret McPhee
“A fresh new voice in Regency romance. Hugely enjoyable.”
—Bestselling author Nicola Cornick
THE WICKED EARL
“McPhee skillfully weaves a tale of revenge, betrayal and an awakening love in this emotional and compelling romance about an innocent young woman, a forbidding lord and an evil villain.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
MISTAKEN MISTRESS
“McPhee spins a lovely Cinderella story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
THE CAPTAIN’S LADY
“Captivating high-seas adventure.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
MARGARET MCPHEE
UNTOUCHED MISTRESS
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Author Note
I’ve always enjoyed reading Harlequin’s historical novels, and I still do. I love to lose myself in a good romantic story, preferably set in Regency times, with a dangerous dashing hero, a heroine I’m rooting for and a happy ending. With Harlequin I know that’s what I will get. I’m so pleased and honored to be a part of this famous romantic tradition with my own few books.
Knowing how much Guy hated the countryside in his brother’s story, The Wicked Earl, made me mischievously place him on the rugged coastline of western Scotland for his own story—Untouched Mistress. It was during a cycle along the shore on a cold gray day, with a stiff breeze blowing and a smir of rain in the air, that I thought of the idea of Guy stumbling upon a beautiful, half-drowned woman washed up with the seaweed on the sands. And so came about Guy and Helena’s story. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Available from Harlequin®Historical and MARGARET McPHEE
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
1 November 1815—Ayrshire, Scotland
A white froth of waves crashed against the rocks as the solitary figure picked its way along the shore. The morning sky was a cold grey and the fine drizzle of rain had penetrated the woollen cloth of his coat and was beginning to seep through his waistcoat to the cotton of his shirt below. Beneath his boots the sand was firm, each step cutting a clear impression of his progress. A gull cried its presence overhead, and the wind that had howled the whole night through stung a ruddy rawness to his cheeks and swept a ruffle through the darkness of his hair. Guy Tregellas, Viscount Varington, ignored the damp chill of the air and, not for the first time, thought longingly of London: London that had no gales to part a man’s coat from his back. No incessant rain. No empty landscape that ran as far as the eye could see, with only the hardiest sheep and cattle for company. Guy suppressed a shudder and continued on, avoiding as best he could the mounds of seaweed and driftwood that the sea had cast upon the sand during the night’s storm. The pain in his head was dulling and the nausea in his stomach had almost disappeared; the memory of just how much whisky he had drunk had not. And so he continued, walking off his hangover in this godforsaken place. He crossed the stream that ran down to meet the sea, taking care not to lose his balance on the stepping stones, and followed the curve of the shore round. It was then that he saw the body.
A dark shape amidst the seaweed. At first he thought it was a seal that had been unfortunate enough to suffer the worst of the storm in open water. But as the distance between him and the shape lessened, he knew that what lay washed upon the shore was no seal. The woman was curled on her side, as if in sleep. The dark sodden skirt