One Wicked Weekend: Gentlemen of Honor, #1

By Charlotte Russell

FROM THIS NIGHT FORWARD

As a newcomer to Lord Bruton's scandalous house party, Hugh Drake was to choose first. He would select the woman whose eyes and body excited him most, whose lips and tongue would do all of the things he had been told a true lady never did. He would select a woman who would need all he wanted to give—and less. He would choose she who showed him both strength and desperation, and who would be the answer to his secret mission. He would choose an angel and a temptress, a protégé and a partner. He would choose his future wife.

Catherine Jones never regretted the loss of her innocence. She forged ahead and made a respectable life for herself as a governess. Things turn bleak, however, when she loses her latest position. If spending a few days—and nights—at Lord Bruton's scandalous house party earns her the money she needs to survive, she intends to enjoy herself while she's there. Never does she expect to meet an honorable gentleman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlotte Russell
• Release date: Apr 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386936886

Charlotte Russell

Charlotte Russell didn’t always know she wanted to be a writer. At one point she had grand plans to be an architect, until she realized she couldn’t draw anything more complicated than a stick figure. So, she enrolled at the University of Notre Dame and studied her first love—history. Now she puts all that historical knowledge to good use by writing romances set in Regency England. When not pounding on the keyboard or tending to one husband, two cats, and three children, Charlotte is privileged to serve the people of her community at the local library.  She's resided in numerous, varied locales, including Indiana, Mexico City, Phoenix, and Seattle but currently calls the heartland of the USA home.

Book preview

Russell’s debut hits all the sweet spots in historical romance—political plots, spies, and secrets, along with ‘true love.’

—Library Journal on A Spy’s Honor

FROM THIS NIGHT FORWARD

Catherine Jones never regretted the loss of her innocence. She forged ahead and made a respectable life for herself as a governess. Things turn bleak, however, when she loses her latest position. If spending a few days—and nights—at Lord Bruton’s scandalous house party earns her the money she needs to survive, she intends to enjoy herself while she’s there. Never does she expect to meet an honorable gentleman.

Hugh Drake attends the scandalous house party to help a friend, but meeting Catherine Jones pushes his shameful fantasies to the forefront. When passion explodes, he discovers that the governess has a thing or two to teach him.

One Wicked Weekend

Two Hearts

Charlotte Russell

One Wicked Weekend

Copyright ©2014 Charlotte Russell

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Book cover design by Patricia Schmitt, 2019

www.PickymeArtist.com

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, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Shelly,

my sister of the heart

Chapter One

Warwickshire, England 

Drake, as the neophyte, the first choice is yours. Lord Bruton sent him a sly look across the drawing room.

This was the first, and last, time Hugh Drake ever planned to attend one of Bruton’s house parties. Besides his host, two other men lounged about the opulent red room in gilded armchairs. Philip Jance and Jack Telford rounded out Bruton’s well-known licentious circle. Perhaps not so much well-known as well-rumored.

Until Hugh had arrived at Bruton’s estate, Thornbrooke, the morning before, he’d had no idea if the rumors concerning the viscount were true.

They were.

Hugh swept a glance over the four young women displayed on Bruton’s specially built stage. As far as Hugh had ever heard, the females who participated in Bruton’s bawdy retreats did so willingly.

Thank God for small favors.

Hugh wasn’t here for the sensual ladybirds, the naughty games, or Bruton’s fine stash of brandy. His host was in possession of a letter that didn’t belong to him, and Hugh intended to retrieve it and return it to its rightful owner. He would do what needed to be done in order to avoid detection.

At least, that was what the morally upstanding, conscientious grandson of Lady Hartfield told himself. But ever since he’d used a tenuous acquaintance and the knowledge that Bruton was always eager to ensnare new blood for his parties to secure an invitation, Hugh’s mind had raced in an uncharacteristically lascivious direction.

No one, not even his vaunted grandmother, knew he was here. The other three, bound by the same desire for secrecy, wouldn’t tell. Would it be so wrong to enjoy himself, to bring to life those half-formed, always-suppressed salacious fantasies that lingered in the back of his mind?

Yes. His grandmother’s strident voice echoed in his head. Remember what happened to your cousin Sophia.

Right. Well then...

Bruton cleared his throat and tilted his head toward the stage. He was neither a well- nor ill-favored man, at least according to Hugh’s sister. He swept his black hair back instead of forward à la Byron, exposing the crinkled skin—not from laughter but from cynicism—around his blue eyes. Nearly forty, Bruton had never met a vice he didn’t try, and often sought out the ones he wasn’t familiar with. Needless to say, Hugh had never introduced Lord Bruton to his sister. Ever since Cousin Sophia had been ruined by a rake, the Drake family protected their females with a vengeance and chastised their males about the sin of lust until they might as well be eunuchs. Over the next four days, though, Hugh was out from under the vigilant eye of his grandmother.

He raised his glass of brandy in thanks to Bruton and assessed the costumed chits. There was a dimpled housemaid, a thin governess, a sultry milkmaid, and a demure shepherdess. One girl for each of the men, in turn, over four days. The housemaid was full of saucy smiles—too playful for Hugh’s present mood. By contrast the governess was a dour little thing. But then that was her role, wasn’t it? She probably had a nasty leather strap clasped behind that rigid back. The milkmaid kept it simple, turning this way and that to display her huge jugs to advantage, while the shepherdess, complete with staff and lamb, ducked her head shyly.

The very idea of having a different woman each night made his blood run—

Cold. Definitely cold and not hot.

Sexual congress was reserved for marriage. An unwed gentleman might discreetly avail himself of a woman from the demimonde. Occasionally. And did he mention discreetly? These were the tenets of the Drake family.

Did it really matter which one he chose? According to Bruton’s rules, he’d get a day and night to tumble each of them—with restraint, of course. He should be hoping that he discovered what he was looking for sooner rather than later, and then he’d make his excuse and leave before Bruton was any the wiser.

Yes, he’d be much better off leaving before he got himself into trouble. Hugh took a deep breath and banished his wayward thoughts once more.

Jance threw up his hands. Hurry up then, Drake. You’re wasting precious time.

Hugh ignored him and ran an assessing eye over the girls again. To give Bruton credit, each was enthusiastic in her own way, which rather frightened Hugh, truth be told. Except for the governess. He studied her more closely.

She looked very unsure of herself. Her light eyes darted around the room, never resting on any particular person or thing. He couldn’t discern if the dark hair scraped into a tight coil was brown or black. She was slender and her face had paled to the same pasty white color of his grandmother’s—except that fine lady used face powder. The governess’s deathly pallor looked unfortunately natural.

A pea-sized lump materialized in Hugh’s throat. Something was wrong here.

Damnation, he didn’t need a complication. But he’d dredged up that image of his grandmother and he heard her again too: Hugh, do not disappoint me.

No one willingly disappointed the Dowager Countess of Hartfield.

A gentleman always assists a lady in distress.

Drake? A note of impatience tinged Bruton’s query.

Hugh sighed and waved his hand toward the governess, indicating she should come closer. With obvious hesitation, she walked to the steps of the stage and descended. He attempted to keep his expression open and non-threatening, though he could only do so much before the other men thought him a drooling idiot.

Hands clutching the skirts of her grey dress—not the leather strap he’d imagined—in a death grip, she made her way to Hugh. He felt like a cat watching its prey offer itself up. The brandy soured in his stomach. What the hell was Bruton about? These women were supposed to be here of their own accord.

Hugh took a surreptitious look at the viscount. Bruton watched the governess approach with a keen eye. As soon as she stopped in front of Hugh, Bruton reluctantly turned to Jance.

Your turn, my dear fellow.

Jance, his jowls quivering, announced, The milkmaid! I want her.

With the others diverted, Hugh stood and gave his full attention to the trembling governess. I beg your pardon, we’ve not been introduced.

Her eyes, a light blue, cut to his. I’m Catherine J—Jones, sir. Her voice was as thin as her body and not at all what Hugh had expected. She spoke like a lady.

Impossible. He must have heard wrong.

She shook from head to toe and Hugh hoped she wouldn’t faint. Not that she didn’t have a right to be afraid. Well, not of him, but of the others. If she was as innocent as he thought. Perhaps he was mistaken and she was simply a skilled actress.

Gad, he was babbling inside his head.

Please, call me Hugh. He grabbed her hand. She snatched it back, her eyes as round as tea dishes, and Hugh took a deep breath. One of them had to remain calm. He lowered his voice even further. Do you want to be here?

She stared at him with those fathomless eyes and he saw the exact moment the pupils contracted. He slipped his hand beneath her elbow just as her knees gave way. This time she didn’t recoil from his touch but reached a hand out to his chest and steadied herself, dragging in two deep breaths.

Hugh ducked his head to her level. Are you well?

She nodded. She was older than he’d thought from afar, closer to five and twenty he would guess, though her skin was smooth and unlined. The near-faint had turned her cheeks a chalky white. She withdrew her hand from his waistcoat and swallowed thickly.

I will go wherever you like, sir. Hugh.

He had heard correctly the first time—she spoke like a lady. She also hadn’t meant a word she said. But if he badgered her too much about her willingness to be here and she really was just acting, Bruton might begin to suspect Hugh’s presence. That, he could not have.

Somewhere private would be just the thing. He moved his hand to the small of her back and guided her toward the nearest door.

AS THE GENTLEMAN