Patricia Rice (41 page)
Authors: Dash of Enchantment
Dash of Enchantment
(previously: Touched by Magic)
Patricia Rice
Book View Café Edition:
February 19, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-61138-247-1
Copyright © 2013 Patricia Rice
Copyright © 1992 Rice Enterprises, Inc.
First published by New American Library, New York.
Cover design by Kim Killion
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
This
is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real
locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents
are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual
events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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With several million books in print and
New York Times
and
USA Today’s
bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia
Rice is one of romance’s hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary
and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the
RT Book Reviews
Reviewers Choice and
Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of
America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is
married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of
Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides
in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a
member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.
For further information, visit Patricia’s network:
http://www.facebook.com/OfficialPatriciaRice
https://twitter.com/Patricia_Rice
http://patriciarice.blogspot.com/
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Sample Chapter:All A Woman Wants
by Patricia Rice
Wearily, Beatrice Cavendish pulled out a volume on
agricultural production and attempted to make head or tails of the lengthy
lists of which counties produced which crops and when, but it was meaningless
to her. She felt as if she’d been stranded in a foreign country with no coins
and no means of speaking the language.
What she needed was someone to teach her by doing, as men
were taught. Of course, that meant she would require a knowledgeable man who
was not only willing to teach her, but also believed she was teachable.
Better to ask for a miracle.
The pounding of the door knocker resounded so loudly in the
hall, she jumped and almost dropped the book. No one in the village knocked so
forcefully.
Fear clenched her insides as she waited for the servants to
answer the door. A bill collector? She should have instructed the servants to
say she wasn’t at home.
James was in the privy. Mary was helping Jemmie chase the
escaped hounds. Had the dogs caused some dire accident in the lane that had
caused an emergency?
The knocker rapped again, with a slamming authority that
would not be denied.
Shelving the book with a shaking hand, Beatrice smoothed her
skirts again. Just the angry sound of the knocker immobilized her.
She had to grow a backbone.
When it became obvious that no one would answer, she
clenched her teeth and swept out of the study as if she were master of all she
surveyed.
She was master of all she surveyed. That was the problem.
She was an incompetent master.
After fumbling with the massive door bolt, she cautiously
swung the huge door open on the gloomy, threatening day. Amazingly, a dark
green waistcoat and rumpled white neckcloth blocked her usual view of the lawn.
Being as large as she was, she didn’t think she’d ever
looked a man in the waistcoat before. Gaping, she tilted her head back. Green
eyes narrowing in grim resignation studied her as if she were the last thing on
this earth that the visitor wanted to see. A lock of golden brown hair fell
appealingly over a wide, furrowed brow, and, without thinking, Beatrice took a
step backward.
A whimper extracted her from a survey of clenched lips and
square jaw, and her gaze dropped to the bundle the man held. A growing wet spot
on the green waistcoat and a glimpse of wispy golden curls wrapped in a man’s
short box coat so startled her, she almost closed the door in their faces. Rain
began to pour.
With a whoop and a burst of energy, a small muddy form
bolted past her skirts, skidded on the Oriental rug, and raced for the stairs.
Tousled curls above a blue velvet coat disappeared around the landing.
“Excuse me, madam.” The stunning giant dumped his burden
into Bea’s arms, shoved the door open, and, taking the steps two at a time,
raced up the stairs after his small charge, leaving damp footsteps in his path.
Utterly distracted, Beatrice gazed down at the bundle she
held, into beatific blue eyes in a cherub’s face, and almost forgot the savages
invading her upper story.
She’d never held a baby before.
They stared at each other raptly. The infant popped a thumb
into her rosebud mouth, but her gaze never left Bea’s. Caught in the study of
tiny fingers and chubby cheeks above a lace-bedecked smock, Bea didn’t register
the dampness spreading across her bodice until shouts overhead intruded upon
her reverie.
A man’s roar followed by a childish scream of outrage
abruptly brought her head up, and she grimaced as moisture sank through the
fabric of her bodice and her chemise and chilled her skin. Heavy boots pounded
down the stairs, coming into view first, followed by dirt-streaked trousers
over massive... thighs. Bea gulped, flushed, and tried to look away.
It had never occurred to her to look at a man’s… limbs...
before.
Narrow hips, a wide chest beneath an unfastened waistcoat
and twisted neckcloth, and a squirming, shrieking toddler clasped under one
masculine arm appeared next. The look of mixed resignation and rage on broad,
chiseled features should have sent her fleeing. Instead, curiosity compelled
her to remain, clinging to the smelly, sopping child in her arms.
If she did not mistake, a stranger and two children had just
arrived on her doorstep on the brink of a rainstorm. In novels, did it not tend
to be an abandoned mistress arriving with babes in arms during a howling
snowstorm?
“I’m here to speak with Miss Cavendish,” the man said
peremptorily, heaving the toddler over his shoulder. The boy loosed his
bandaged arm from its sling and tried to climb down the man’s back, but his
captor’s big hands firmly wrapped around small ankles, preventing escape.
Dressed as she was, he probably thought she was the
housekeeper. She could say Miss Cavendish wasn’t at home and send this
terrifying apparition away.
She could tell from his stance that he was entirely too
certain of himself. His restless energy permeated the room and would stampede
right over her if she admitted to her existence. His massive size reduced her
elegant foyer to the size of the closet. But he had the most fascinating green
eyes, and a bronzed, windswept look that no gentleman crossing these portals
had ever possessed....
She could almost feel the hurricane winds of change sweeping
through her cloistered walls.
She didn’t have a clue as to who he could be.
“My lady!” an effeminate male voice squeaked from the depths
of the interior. “Shall I show this motley lot to the door?”
Bea closed her eyes and sighed as James finally appeared.
The stranger’s eyes narrowed again as her bewigged cousin,
in a scarlet coat and gold buttons, hovered behind her. A growling terrier
would offer more protection.
Donning her haughtiest demeanor, Beatrice raised her
eyebrows in the stranger’s direction. “I am Miss Cavendish, sir. I believe you
have mistaken me for someone else.”
Expressively, she held out the child for him to retrieve.
He glowered at her, glowered at her cousin, and holding the
squirming boy firmly beneath one muscular arm, refused to take the babe. “I’ve
been told you can tell me of Nanny Marrow.”
The bottom dropped out of Beatrice’s heart at this mention
of her lifelong friend.
“Nanny Marrow passed away last week.” To hide a fresh spurt
of tears, she swung on her heels and marched into the formal parlor.
We hope you have enjoyed this sample of
All a Woman Wants,
by Patricia Rice
All a Woman Wants
Copyright © 1992 Patricia Rice
First published: New American Library 2001
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
First published by New American Library, New York. This
is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real
locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents
are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual
events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
