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

“We’ll speak no more of it. Simply know you have a friend in us. Now. Shall we have luncheon? Afterward, Patricia must look for material for new dresses. She told her father we’d be doing this, and I wouldn’t want her to have lied to him.”


I offered my arm, led her to where Miss Coulbourne waited, and assisted both ladies into the curricle.


We had a pleasant meal, and for the moment, the weight of the situation at Fayerweather was off my shoulders.   8


Things remained quiet, until one morning, a sennight after the Flame of Diabul—and the Scarlett brothers—disappeared, Colling brought a letter to the breakfast room. “Beg pardon, m’lady. This arrived in the morning’s post.”


I straightened in my seat. Was this the start of it? “For me, Colling?” I swallowed, pleased my voice neither trembled nor cracked.


“No, Mr…I beg your pardon, sir. Sir Ashton.”


Would I ever grow used to hearing myself addressed as ‘Sir Ashton’?


Chapter 27