Kissed; Christian

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

Published by Oliver-Heber Books

To my sweet children, in whose eyes I first knew unconditional love.

RT Book Reviews Best All-Around Historical Romance of the Year Nominee

4 ½ Gold and Top Pick!

Compelling tale ablaze with heartfelt characters who walk off the pages and into your heart. KISSED is a story to make your heart sing.
 – RT Book Reviews

“Unusual tale with ingenious plot twists, exquisite sexual tension and engaging characters. Readers are drawn in and taken through an emotional wringer with this powerful tale of love.” 
– Rendezvous

“Only a writer of incomparable skill could turn such an endeavor into a brilliant triumph ... fast-paced, superbly written. - 
Genie ROMex Reviews

“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…”
– Publishers Weekly

“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.”
– The Oakland Press

“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue …”
– Affaire de Coeur

“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic, tantalizing!”
– Rendezvous

“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.”
– Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author

“A first class author.” 
–RT Book Reviews

• Title Page
  
• Praise
  
• Part 1
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Part 2
  
• 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
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Epilogue
  
• Introducing Jack...
  
  • Chapter 1
    
  • Chapter 2
    
• Books By Tanya Anne Crosby
  

"What sweet thoughts, what longing led them to this woeful pass?"
—Dante

England, Rose Park, April 1763

W
hat sort of man paid to have his sister’s heart broken?

Lord Christian Haukinge tossed the parchment aside, and reclined deeper into the leather desk chair, contemplating the inconceivable notion.

He didn’t bother considering the issue it raised: What sort of man accepted such a proposal? He already knew the answer to that one.

The scribbled letter before him bore no salutation—a deliberate rudeness, a flagrant omission of his title—courtesy though it may be—and his demeanor, as he retrieved the parchment, shifted from indifference to keen irritation. His gaze skimmed the page once more, settling upon the last paragraphs.

... as she seems to have convinced herself no other beau will do, save you, fatuous as it seems, and she has set her face against the new contract I have put before her, clinging to your annulled betrothal simply to defy my wishes, I am forced to offer this proposal. Please consider the above remuneration for your services; the amount is more than adequate for your brief employ, and, indeed, should prove quite useful in the refurbishment of your newly purchased estate. As to that, please accept my condolences.

I am certain you shall wish to begin with all due haste, and look forward to your timely response in this matter. The sooner she has been suitably disillusioned, the sooner you might be compensated for your troubles. For the greater good, I do hope we might overlook the nature of our past relationship, and endeavor to assist each other in persuading my dear, misguided sister in choosing the right-minded course. The advance will assure you see it my way. Accept it in good faith. I shall enlighten you further when we are face-to-face.

Signed simply,
Westmoor.

For the greater good?

Bloody bastard.

Christian’s lip curved with contempt—and then a thought occurred to him: If Westmoor knew he’d purchased Rose Park, doubtless his own brother had gotten wind of the fact, as well. Philip was likely choleric with rage, having to discover something of that nature second-or even third-hand. Damn… Christian might have given much to glimpse the expression on his brother’s face when he’d been informed of the fact.

Gazing out from his office window, at the unkept garden, a rueful smile touched his lips. What a family he had; the elder a greedy thief, the younger a
contrebandier
.

With a sigh he reached back to rip out the satin tie that bound his hair, and then thrust his long fingers through the unpowdered length of it, muttering sourly beneath his breath.

Hell, at least he had no qualms over admitting the fact. Though it might seem appropriate to bear some measure of guilt… too bad he couldn’t muster the sentiment. In fact, he’d burn in hell before he’d regret a damned thing. And that in itself should have disturbed him, he supposed. But it didn’t. Not in the least. He was what he was, and he felt absolutely no remorse for his... enterprising. Supplies were needed in the colonies, and he simply transported those goods. Nor had he any falsely noble incentives to declare. His motives were quite simply self-indulgent.

He wanted money.

Aye, and he wanted respect.

He wanted land.

He wanted more than anything for the sons he intended to sire to all have equal shares of the empire he would build for them. Damned if he’d leave one alone to fend for himself in a world such as this. And nay, it was not so much the lack of title he abhorred, for he might truly have been happy in most any situation—save the one in which he found himself. Youngest son, nonentity.

All that disdain without anyone having known of his greatest social flaw, even. His wry smile deepened. What a field day the gentry would have if they were to discover his bastardy.

All those years he’d settled for what little his father had cared to give him. Which was nothing, not even a momentary-lapse pat on the head, a “good show, son.” Nothing. The only one thing he’d counted on, was his bequest of Hakewell, his mother’s dower land. It was to be hers, until her death, and then it was to go to Christian. And God’s truth, he’d been perfectly content to bide his time, however long that should be, for he cherished his mother and would have her live an eternity were it possible. But he
had
counted upon that estate someday. And then he’d been offered a betrothal with Westmoor’s young daughter, and he’d found himself with such great expectations, such dreams. Security for his heirs.

Shattered, all of it shattered upon his father’s death. The old man hadn’t been gone more than a single month when Philip had set in motion Christian’s disinheritance. All very discreetly done, of course. He’d finagled possession of Hakewell through legal loopholes and treachery.

Certainly Christian knew he could contest it, for Hakewell was his mother’s to give, but Philip—the son of a bitch—had resorted to extortion, knowing Christian would never sully his mother’s good name. And then he had run to Westmoor to inform him of the transfer of property, and with his bequeathal gone, Westmoor had annulled the betrothal at once; as the sole reason for the contract to begin with was Hakewell. Without that parcel of land, Christian was worth no more than a brass farthing.

In the blink of an eye, everything had been stripped away, and like a man caught in the throes of a riptide, he’d been helpless to do anything but let it bear him away.

No more.

He was helpless no more.

And never again.

His gaze returned to the letter in his hand, and his fingers closed about the parchment, crumpling it. He slammed his fist down against the hardwood desk.

By damn, he wanted revenge.

The certainty of it struck him full of force.

Despite that he’d sworn himself against it—even after what had happened before—he wanted it, with a bloodlust that was almost palpable. Cold fury seized him and he determined, instead, to give the cocky young duke his due. The idiot had offered him a ridiculously low sum for this insulting task, as though he were a green boy fresh out of Eton with a bulge in his breeches and little in his purse. But that was not what rankled most. Rather it was the snobbery and contempt at the heart of the insult offered.