By Anne Stuart
Longing for the downfall of Nicholas Blackthorne, the infamous rake whom she holds chargeable for the lack of her advantage and her relatives fortune, Ghislaine de Lorgny is unexpectedly kidnapped via her such a lot hated enemy.
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If I remain on the shelf it will be passed along to his offspring. If I marry, my husband will own it. In the meantime I'm lucky I'm allowed to reside here with Binnie. " "Not willingly," Ghislaine pointed out. "No, not willingly," Ellen admitted. "If only it were someone other than Nicholas Blackthorne! Why the blackest of all the black sheep, the one person likely to compromise every healthy female between six and sixty who even happens to be within the same county as he is! " Her tone of voice changed to one of sudden concern.
An English gentleman wouldn't enter the kitchen. He'd send his servant. "Dark in here," the man remarked. Ghislaine put the knife down very quietly, moving toward the cheap tallow candles that were considered sufficient for kitchen use and lighting them, one by one, filling the cavernous room with a fitful light. She knew the man was watching her, and if she didn't sense outright hostility she at least could feel his reserve. This was the man she was going to have to circumvent, if Nicholas Blackthorne was to have the fate he so richly deserved.
Ellen rose, fluffing her yellow skirts around her, and Ghislaine watched her with emotionless abstraction, suddenly aware that this was the last time she would see her benefactress. She dressed poorly, ignoring Ghislaine's occasional tasteful suggestions. Her form was voluptuous and her taste ran toward the extreme in ornamentation. Two ribbons were always better than one, three ruffles better than two, bright colors better than the pastels that would suit her pink and white prettiness to perfection.
A Rose at Midnight by Anne Stuart