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EVERY MAN’S DREAM
He pulled her into his arms. “I’ve never been with a woman of business before. Or for that matter”—he smiled—“a governess.”
“What? You’ve never fulfilled that dream of every little boy?”
“Not yet.” He bent closer and kissed the curve between her neck and shoulder. She shivered.
“Then we are well matched.” A slight breathless note sounded in her voice. Her eyes were green and glazed with desire. “I have never before been with a wicked lord.”
“You will tell me if it doesn’t live up to your expectations,” he murmured against her skin.
“You shall be the first to know.” She pulled away, wrapped her arms around his neck and drew his face to hers.
Their lips met in a kiss, slow and deliberate. A kiss that said they had all the time in the world. A kiss to savor, to relish and enjoy.
It was not enough....
Books by Victoria Alexander
THE PERFECT MISTRESS
HIS MISTRESS BY CHRISTMAS
MY WICKED LITTLE LIES
WHAT HAPPENS AT CHRISTMAS
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING WICKED
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Importance of Being Wicked
VICTORIA ALEXANDER
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
EVERY MAN’S DREAM Books by Victoria Alexander Title Page Dedication Prologue April
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10
Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14
Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27
This book is for Lizzie,
Jenn and
MaryKaren.
Thank you!
Prologue
March 1887
It could be worse.
The phrase repeated itself over and over in his head like the irritating refrain to a little-liked song.
Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, stared at the façade of Fairborough Hall and tried to ignore the leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, a weight that had settled there since the moment late in the night when he and the rest of the household had been roused from their beds by cries of fire.
“It doesn’t look nearly as bad as I thought it would,” his cousin, Grayson Elliott, said in what he obviously meant to be a helpful manner. It wasn’t. “A bit scorched around the edges perhaps, but not bad, not bad at all.”
“No, it doesn’t look bad.” The two men stood some ten yards from the house at the foot of the circular drive that linked the long drive to the main gate. And from here, given this precise angle and in the cold light of late afternoon, there was indeed little to indicate the destruction within the stone walls of the hall. Certainly what was left of the front door was charred and the glass in most of the windows in the center section of the house had shattered, but the east and west wings appeared untouched. All in all it really didn’t look bad.
“Appearances, cousin, are deceiving.” Win started toward the house, barely noting the puddles of soot-laden water or trampled, filthy snow or the chunks of charred wood lying about. Nor was he especially aware of the pervading aroma of smoke and acrid burned matter or the brisk breeze and his lack of suitable outer garments. “It is much worse than it looks.”
It could be worse.
“Fortunately,” he continued, “everyone in the house escaped unharmed. And no one was injured battling the blaze.”
“Something to be grateful for,” Gray said at his side.
Any number of people still milled around the building, mostly