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‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘I think I will be able to sleep now. I will be up and ready to leave first thing.’
For a moment he thought she might rise up on her toes and kiss his cheek, like a sister or a friend, but it was his mouth where her gaze lingered. Heat rushed through him. His blood headed south.
The distance between them was so very slight he could feel the graze of her breath against his throat, see into the warmth in the depths of her melting soft brown eyes. Could such a kind, gentle creature, such a respectable woman, really want a man like him?
I have wanted to write Caro and Blade’s story for ages, and finally had the chance in More Than a Lover. Discovering from Blade that he was at Peterloo, a massacre of civilians at St Peter’s Field near Manchester that was vilified in the press of the time, gave me lots of interesting historical background. Having a character tell you where he was and how it affected him is always the icing on the cake for an author. I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I did.
Also, I hope you enjoy this opportunity to catch up with the twins and their brides from The Gamekeeper’s Lady and More Than a Mistress, because they are some of my favourite people. If you would like to know more about me or my books you will find me at my website: annlethbridge.com. I love to hear from readers.
More Than a Lover
Ann Lethbridge
In her youth, award-winning author ANN LETHBRIDGE re-imagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com. She loves hearing from readers.
I would like to dedicate this book to all the wonderful editors at Harlequin Mills & Boon who have helped me write more than twenty-five stories to date, and in this particular case to Nicola Caws, who let me write the story my way and then helped me to make it better. Thank you.
Contents
March 30th, 1820
Bladen Read, erstwhile captain of the Twenty-Fifth Hussars, stretched his legs beneath the scarred trestle table in the corner of the commons of the Sleeping Tiger. Nearby, a miserable fire struggled against the wind whistling down the chimney while the smell of smoke battled with the stink of old beer and unwashed men oozing from the ancient panelling. He might have stayed somewhere better these past five days, but it would have been a waste of limited coin he preferred to spend on decent stabling for his horses and a room for his groom. After all, it wasn’t their fault he’d been forced to tender his resignation from his regiment.
That was his fault, fair and square, for not blindly following orders. And not for the first time. It was why he’d never advanced beyond captain and never would now.
Hopefully, his letter to his good friend Charlie, the Marquess of Tonbridge, would result in an offer of employment or he’d be going cap in hand to his father. The thought made his stomach curdle.
He nodded at the elderly tapman to bring him another ale to wash down the half-cooked eggs, burned bacon and day-old bread that served for breakfast in this establishment. Not that his rations while fighting for king and country on the Iberian Peninsula had been any better, but they also hadn’t been that much worse.
He opened The Times and placed it beside his plate. The tapman wandered over with a fresh tankard. He slapped it down on the table, the foam running down the sides and pooling in a ring around its base. His lip curled as he pointed a grimy finger at the headline—the words were stark: ‘Hunt. Guilty of Sedition’.
‘Sedition?’ the old man growled. ‘It was a massacre. There was women there. Families. It’s the damned soldiers what ought to be up on a charge.’
‘You are right.’ Blade knew, because he’d been at St Peter’s Field. Hunt had been invited to Manchester to speak to a populace suffering from the loss of work or low wages and high prices for bread. He advocated change. What the powers that be had not expected were the vast numbers who would come to hear the man speak.
People had come from miles away, the women in their Sunday best, many of them wearing white, holding their children