The Abduction of Julia

“I AM BEYOND RECLAIM," ALEC SAID RUEFULLY.

“No one is beyond reclaim,” Julia said stoutly.

His disturbing smoky gray gaze slid across her, lingering on her mouth and bosom, and Julia felt the heat as surely as if he’d touched her. Her skin tingled at the thought of his hands sliding where his gaze had rested: up her arms, across her shoulders, and down her— “May I get you a drink, Miss Frant?
he
asked abruptly. ”Perhaps I could take your pelisse
?“

Julia clutched the buttoned front even closer and shook her head. “No, no. It’s quite cold in here.” Or it ‘would be, if she hadn’t indulged her reckless imagination in the most wanton manner.

The viscount regarded her through half-closed eyes, and his gaze darkened. “You may be chilled,” he murmured, “but I find I am quite the opposite.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to the incomparable Georgette Heyer, who stands as a shining example of perfection. Special thanks to Laura Ravn who read on demand and was brave enough to give me her honest opinion. (Look! I fixed all the frownie faces!); Rachelle Wads-worth, critique partner extraordinaire and my indispensable Dial-a-Historian—I couldn’t write without you; and last, to the loves of my life, my husband and children—thank you for always believing.

Hampstead Heath
, England
May, 1812

It was a hell of a night for an elopement. After three miserable hours, the rain had finally ceased. A ghostly blanket of fog crept along the edges of the narrow one-lane road, glowing eerily in the scattered moonlight.

Alec MacLean, fifth Viscount Hunterston, pulled the coach to a thundering halt in the yard of the Black Anvil Inn. Mud splattered the inn door and sent wispy spirals of mist scattering across black puddles.

His groom, Johnston, stepped from the dripping eaves. “There ye
be
, m’lord. Mite late, ain’t ye?”

“Her ladyship apparently cannot tell time,” Alec said with a shrug.

“A woman who’d keep ye
waitin‘ at
the altar will stop at nothin’ to annoy the spit out of ye,” the old groom prophesied glumly.

Alec ignored him and climbed down from the perch. Johnston was a family heirloom of sorts, with a Welshman’s habitual sullen disposition. Though normally Alec argued against such a dour outlook, on this occasion he feared the groom was right.

The coach door creaked as his passenger tried to open it from within. Johnston grunted. “Door’s stuck agin.”

“A pity, but we’ve no time to linger.” Alec consulted his watch. It was barely ten. Considering the condition of the road from London, he had made remarkable time.

The noise from the coach increased to a firm knocking that lasted an annoying length of time. Johnston eyed the equipage with an interested gaze. “Her ladyship seems a mite determined. Do ye think she’s changed her mind ‘bout marryin’
ye
?”

“With the amount of money I stand to inherit?
Highly unlikely.”
Spoiled and vain, Therese had made her objectives plain from the beginning. She wanted money, power, and position.

The thought turned his stomach. He had eschewed polite society his entire life, hating its hypocrisy and vapid politeness, only to end up here, dragging his heels all the way to the altar with the catch of the season.

The coach swayed more furiously as the steady knocking was replaced by loud, determined thumping, along with a muffled demand for release. Alec sighed and replaced his watch in an inner pocket. “I suppose we can spare ten minutes, but no more. Have the horses changed, Johnston. They’ve had to fight this damnable mud the entire way.”

The old groom shook his head. “Ye shouldn’t have waited so long to plan yer nuptials.
Pushin‘ yer
luck a mite far, if ye ask me.”

“It was Grandfather’s wish I marry—not mine,” Alec replied curtly, peeling off his gloves.

“As crusty as the old lord, ain’t ye? There weren’t nary a thing ye could do with him neither, once he set his mind on somethin‘.” The groom eyed the wildly rocking coach.
“Though ye may have met yer match.”

“I can handle Therese Frant,” Alec said shortly.

Johnston snorted his disbelief. “I’ll order ye a nice stiff drink whilst the horses are
bein‘ changed
. Ye’ll
be needin’
it.”

Alec nodded and the old groom shuffled into the inn, wisps of night fog swirling about his boots. Steeling himself, Alec turned toward the coach. Better to get it over with, and quickly. Fortunately, he knew exactly how to deal with his bride-to-be.

Therese Frant was far from the demure innocent she presented to society. Too many times since she’d discovered the extent of his inheritance, the chit had attempted to drag him into a secluded alcove and plaster herself against him.

Therese’s mother, a notoriously lax chaperone, did little to stifle her daughter’s high spirits. Instead, the duty of keeping a watchful eye on the sensual Therese fell to a cousin of some sort, a plain dab of a female who took her duties so seriously that members of the
ton
had dubbed her the “Frant Dragon.” Peering through her thick spectacles, the Dragon did what she could to quell Therese’s propensity toward ruin.

A pity, Alec thought tiredly. Had Therese been involved in a scandal, he could have convinced the dry, dusty executors of his grandfather’s will to overturn the requirements. But it was too late now. He would have to marry the tiresome girl.

He yanked open the carriage door and grabbed Therese by the wrist, pulling her into his arms. She tumbled from the coach, her bonnet sliding forward across her eyes. It was too dark to fathom her expression beneath the wide brim, but he knew what he would see— china-blue eyes glittering with petulant anger, a rosebud mouth twisted in rage.

To halt her angry tirade before it
began,
he pushed back the bonnet and covered her mouth with his. To his surprise, a trill of raw, sensual excitement jolted through him.

Therese must have felt something different, too, for she stood as rigidly as a soldier braving a firing squad. Usually she moaned with pleasure at his embraces and clung with the stranglehold of a limpet.
Maybe she is nervous about the wedding
.

“Kiss me,” Alec murmured against the silk of her cheek. She wore a new fragrance. Light and bewitching, it mingled appealingly with the rain-fresh air and swirled along his senses. His body tightened. Perhaps there would be some benefits from this arrangement, after all. “You smell like heaven. Kiss me, sweet Therese.”

She kicked him.
Hard.

“Owww!”
Alec yelled, instantly releasing her. He bent to rub his shin.

And froze.

One of the many things his vain bride-to-be prided herself on was her dainty feet. The shoes that met his eyes were not dainty. Large and tightly laced, the heavy black boots reminded him of his old governess.

The implication hit him like a cannon shot.

This wasn’t Therese.

He had eloped with the wrong woman.

He straightened abruptly, the pain in his shin forgotten. “Who in the hell are you?”

“I might ask you the same question,” his prim attacker stated flatly.

Alec grabbed the impostor by the arm and pulled her toward the inn, where light flooded the yard. Her mouth thinned with annoyance, but she made no protest, merely stared back at him with a stern frown.

If Lady Therese Frant ever had an exact opposite, this woman would have been it. Instead of artfully arranged golden curls, the impostor’s hair was light brown. The remains of a severe hairstyle fell in tortured loops about a narrow, angular face. Slim and flat, her figure offered a stark contrast to the lush, rounded curves Therese so delighted in flaunting.

All in all, the impostor was thin, brown, and plain.

The only good features she possessed were an appealing wide mouth and a pair of thickly lashed green eyes.

She squinted. “I had to take my glasses off.” Her flat accent rubbed Alec’s frayed nerves. “The coach ride was too bouncy by half.”

“You’re a damned colonial.”

“I am
not
a colonial. I am an American.”

There was something disturbingly familiar about that scowl. Alec frowned. If he imagined her with the missing spectacles, her mousy brown hair pulled into tight braids about her head, he could almost…

He groaned. “Damnation! You’re the Frant Dragon!”

An unbecoming red blossomed in her thin cheeks.

“Did she put you up to this?” he demanded furiously.

“Who?
Put me up to what?” She leaned forward and squinted. “Are you bosky?”

“Am I
what?

“Disguised.
Inebriated.
Drunk.”
She regarded him speculatively.
“Drunk or a bedlamite.
You must be one or the other.”

“I am neither drunk nor crazed,” he said in a stiff tone, glaring at her.

“You must be,” she insisted, “unless you normally kidnap women, then yell at them in posting yards.”

To her dismay, Julia Frant suddenly knew why certain members of the
ton
called the viscount “Devil” Hunterston. His handsome face could harden into white fury on a moment’s notice, his gray eyes glinting like liquid silver.

“You have just botched an elopement, not a kidnapping,” he said in a chipped-ice voice. “Therese was supposed to be in that carriage.”

Julia swallowed a surge of disappointment. Of course he had thought she was Therese. No one would ever bother to kidnap,
then
kiss, plain, simple Julia Frant. “I thought you were a hackney,” she said apologetically.

“A hackney?
Look at that carriage! Does it look like a hackney?”

She squinted at the blurry blob. “It did in the rain,” she said finally.

He made a strangling noise. “Where is Therese?”

“At the Hadmores’ musicale.
She went with Lady Satterley.”

“That damned little cat!”

“Perhaps she forgot,” Julia offered.

“Not bloody likely. When I find her—” He stopped, clenching his hands.

A stab of pity clutched her. No doubt both his pride and heart were crushed. Her cousin enjoyed that sort of thing, making men suffer. Therese was probably at the musicale now, laughing behind her fan.

Julia peered up at him and stifled a sigh. Therese was a fool. Viscount Hunterston was beyond handsome. His was an unforgettable face, strong and aristocratic, with an arrogant slash of brows that gave him a darkly saturnine look.

Known as a reprobate, a scoundrel and a rake, he rarely followed the dictates of polite society. He freely discoursed with the most ragged edges of the demimonde, frequented gaming hells, drank to excess, and engaged in a wide variety of sinful pastimes, all with a flagrant disregard for common decency. In fact, it was a shock to see him so obviously sober.

No man had ever needed reforming more than Devil Hunterston.

Julia cleared her throat, wondering what she should say to ease the moment. After a brief struggle, she blurted out, “It’s a fine night, isn’t it?”

His brow lowered.
“Of course.
It’s rained for the last three hours nonstop, the roads are atrocious, and I’ve just lost the greatest fortune ever bequeathed on English soil. Other than that, I think the night is particularly fine.”

Julia planted her hands on her hips. “Perhaps I should remind you that it has been a difficult evening for me, too. I’ve been kidnapped, tossed about in a poorly sprung carriage, rudely handled, and yelled at. It’s enough to cause heart palpitations.”

After an astonished moment, a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Her heart gave a strange leap at the sight.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am behaving abominably.” He cast a swift glance around the yard. “Perhaps we should finish this conversation indoors.”

“I really should—”

“I’m having fresh horses put to,” he interjected smoothly, taking her elbow and propelling her toward the door.

“But I—”

“Lord Hunterston!” said the innkeeper, pouncing on them as soon as they crossed the threshold. “Yer man just announced yer arrival.”

The viscount herded Julia into the front parlor. The innkeeper followed, reeking of garlic, his damp face ablaze with welcome.
“Tom Bramble, at yer service.
I’ve mixed up some hot rum punch. Now ye and her ladyship can rest yer pegs by the fire.” He grinned with the air of one preparing to confer a long promised treat. “Would ye like some supper? We’ve rack of lamb, goose tarts, jellied calf tongue—”

“Goose tarts are her ladyship’s favorite,” the viscount interrupted. “She could speak of nothing else the entire way here.”

“I did n—” Julia began only to be cut off by Alec’s dark glance. “Oh,” she said lamely, loosening her bonnet ribbons. “Indeed. Goose tarts. I just love them.”

“Do ye, now?” said the landlord, eyeing Julia with an interested gaze. “Who’d have thought the gentry would be so fond of goose tarts?”

Alec held the door open and waved Bramble into the hall. “Amazing, the things you discover. Pray inform us when supper is ready.” Before the man could open his mouth again, the viscount firmly closed the door.

“Why did you tell him that?” Julia demanded, laying her bonnet on a nearby table. “I hate goose tarts.” She glanced around the room, wondering what sort of romantic tryst the handsome viscount had planned for her beautiful cousin. Sparsely furnished, the parlor had the look of a hastily converted taproom. Julia didn’t know whether she was relieved or disappointed.

The viscount strode to the table and poured himself a drink from the steaming bowl of punch. “If I hadn’t told that fool you preferred goose tarts, he would have bored us all evening with a list of the indigestible fare offered at this posting house.”

“Of course,” Julia agreed, though her mouth watered at the thought of a tasty rack of lamb, with perhaps just a sprig of mint. She hadn’t had time to eat, as she had already been running late before she’d even climbed into the viscount’s carriage. At the thought of her missed meeting, she almost groaned aloud. The Society had met without her.

Stifling her impatience, she said, “I must return to London as soon as possible.”

“Will they have missed you yet?”

The Society for Wayward Women would miss her badly. She was newly in charge of the Funds Committee, a position she had fought long and hard to earn. But the viscount had no way of knowing that.

He was really asking about her aunt and cousin. That was a simpler answer, though hardly to her credit. Neither would notice her absence unless a pressing need arose for a new packet of embroidery thread or a flounce came loose from a frock. But she wasn’t about to admit such a lowering fact. “Of course they’ll be looking for me,” she lied.

A shadowed smile crossed his face. “I beg your pardon, Miss… er…
Frant.”

Julia pulled her spectacles from her reticule and set them firmly on her nose. She wasn’t surprised he didn’t remember her name. Few people did. “You may call me Julia.”

He looked surprised, but quickly covered it with a rakish grin that sent a wave of weakness straight to her knees. “1
forget
you are an American. Allow me to introduce myself. I am—”

“Viscount Hunterston,” she interrupted. “I met you before.
At the Seftons’ ball.”
He frowned as if puzzled and she added helpfully, “And the Montcastles’ fete, the Markhams’ breakfast, the Jollets’ musicale, and…” She felt the heat rise in her cheeks at his amazed expression.