Ashton Laytham was a happy little boy until, at the age of seven, he lost his parents. Sent to Fayerweather to be brought up by his uncle and his uncle’s wife, he was perceived to be an unhappy, unlovable child. Shunned by family and servants and permitted no friends to visit, he grows to adulthood alone and aloof, with only an occasional illicit rendezvous to lighten his days. When his uncle dies, leaving the estate virtually bankrupt, it’s left to Ashton to make good on his uncle’s gaming debts and save Fayerweather. But how? The family talisman, worth thousands of pounds, has been stolen and the suspects vanished in the night, leaving Ashton to face the loss of the home he’s come to love. Geo Stephenson, who works in His Majesty’s civil service, has ghosts of his own. The product of a marriage of convenience, Geo has known all his life his father never loved his mother, and he vows that will never happen to him. Marked by a physical scar earned in battle, none of his previous lovers could bear looking at it without shuddering; his mental scars are due to the many friends lost in useless battles. Geo arrives with a fistful of Sir Eustace Laytham’s IOUs and a solution: Ashton accommodating him in bed, thereby paying off the debt. Attracted to Geo in spite of himself and desperate for any human kindness, Ashton agrees ... never expecting to lose his heart to a man who has sworn he’ll never give his. Can these two men find a measure of happiness together?

Bless Us With Content

William shrugged and leaned against the doorjamb. “I’ve no idea.”


I couldn’t help but note the tension in the way he held himself, in spite of his apparent indolence.


“What of you, John?” William asked.


“I’d buy us a home that was ours alone. Not that we aren’t grateful for all you’ve done for us, Aunt Cecy, but there we could be together and do as we chose…” He flushed and glanced at William under his lashes.


“And so we would. You’d come with us, wouldn’t you, dearest aunt?”


“If only I could,” Aunt Cecily murmured. She opened the chest and raised the lid.


The Flame of Diabul lay on a bed of satin which had once been a pristine white, but which time had aged to the colour of clotted cream. The ruby sat amidst its folds, the candlelight making it appear as if a flame did indeed burn within its depths.


Chapter 19