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    My Dear Lord Forrester: The Infamous Forresters, #2
    My Dear Lord Forrester: The Infamous Forresters, #2
    My Dear Lord Forrester: The Infamous Forresters, #2
    Ebook95 pages1 hour

    My Dear Lord Forrester: The Infamous Forresters, #2

    By Eliza Lloyd

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    About this ebook

    Joshua Forrester is a man of the world, returning to London after receiving a wound in a Parisian duel. He's done it again - out to save all womankind. When will he learn not all women want to be saved? In London, he is reacquainted with a family friend and now widow, Char Dunlevee. He is charmed - and appalled. He knows her secret and is furious his friend, Char’s now dead husband, could have left her in such circumstances. He can save her, if she will only say yes to his proposal.

    Char has other plans. Joshua would make a perfect husband—for one of her sisters. She doesn’t need to be saved. Seduced perhaps…? With one kiss, Char forgets her plans as she is drawn closer to the enigmatic and dear Lord Forrester.

    Previously published in the Seven Nights of Sin anthology.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEliza Lloyd
    Release dateMar 16, 2017
    ISBN9781386269205
    My Dear Lord Forrester: The Infamous Forresters, #2

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      Book preview

      My Dear Lord Forrester - Eliza Lloyd

      Chapter One

      The salon on South Audley Street was closed to the usual art patrons in favor of a more select clientele, connoisseurs who were interested in the finer aspects of canvas and color, and in the delicacy and privacy required to paint nudes.

      If only one could ignore the arrogant, demanding artist who commanded the audience’s obedience while he painted.

      Joshua Forrester had been dragged along by his erstwhile friend, Ward Sutherland, and had paid a tidy sum to be one of those few to receive an invitation. He had not seen Ward since the last time he was home, and Ward had always been easy company. Plus, it was a good distraction from the stabbing pain in his side and the trailing boredom that had accompanied his departure from Paris.

      As he drank the glass of Bourgogne wine, which came from an old cask recently discovered in a smuggler’s basement, he thanked the gods he was not his brother’s immediate heir—which had freed him up to make a fool of himself on a secluded grass field in Paris, wielding a spadroon against a French madman.

      Or allowed him to waste away the day at an afternoon salon with an old friend. Something about light and shadows, he thought he’d heard. The painting held no interest; he was here to see the nude model.

      Gentlemen, we ask you not interfere with the artist or his subject, the host said.

      In other words, don’t touch.

      The artist in question, the Frenchman DuChamp, was a force in his own right and huddled in the corner of the room, alone with his paint and canvas for the time being. He’d snubbed everyone, nose raised, and waved away anyone who’d approached his canvas.

      The weak-chinned host bowed politely to the gentlemen in the room, then backed out and eased the double doors shut.

      The general hum of conversation died down and all eyes turned toward the side of the room where a robed, masked woman entered. Her feet were bare, and he stared at her dainty appendages until she turned her back to the small group and lowered her covering.

      Viewing a naked woman was never an opportunity to be missed.

      His mouth went dry, and there might have been a collective gasp from the group. The reaction in his body was ill-proportioned to the sight. He had seen plenty of naked women, as had everyone in the room. This one was thinner than he liked but...nudity.

      His gaze was first drawn to her ass, the most perfect white peach. Her limbs were long and slim. His assessment was interrupted by a glass crashing against the floor and when he glanced up again, she had taken a place on the plush velvet couch, unperturbed by the stir in the audience. Reclining, she faced the far wall. He could still see her ass, but he’d missed the display of her breasts.

      One leg was straight, the other drawn up so that her upper foot rested against her ankle. She lay in a languid pose, her head resting against her arm. Her hair? He could not determine if it was a wig or her natural look.

      She was clean, without scars, and refined. A lady then.

      His brow winged. Was his conclusion farfetched? Had the others in the room deduced something similar? But who was she?

      A lady posing nude for a preeminent artist? Was she destitute? Bored? Curious?

      He sipped at his wine. Thinking was a decided waste, at this time especially. Such a moment was meant to be enjoyed.

      Except he was bothered by his inability to do something. He had no difficulty separating his pursuit of a little sensual entertainment with that of rescuing a woman truly in dire straits. But he didn’t really know.

      He supposed there were many ways for a lady, under financial strain, to earn a modest sum to run her household. Most of them honorable but not all of them, obviously.

      From time to time she would move in subtle ways to relieve the tension of inactivity. Her toes flexed. Her legs shifted—the bottom clenching, the upper stretching.

      He assumed the painter was busy doing whatever it was painters did. Quiet conversations had started amongst the seated gentlemen. He braced his forearms against his thighs and leaned forward.

      Such a mystery. A beautiful, compelling mystery.

      Sutherland leaned toward him. Who is she, do you think? he asked, staring in a way Joshua found offensive. He recognized his own hypocrisy.

      Joshua swallowed and reclined against the chair, taking his time to consider the woman. You’re asking me? He swirled the wine in his glass and sniffed. The Bourgogne was very fine but the drink only kept his interest until it passed the back of his throat.

      But you would like to know? Sutherland asked.

      I think the young woman— He hesitated. Prefers her anonymity.

      The painting ought to sell for a tidy sum. If not for DuChamp’s name, certainly for the subject matter, Sutherland said.

      Joshua nodded. Yes, it should. To be displayed in some pervert’s private domain. Ah well, better the painting than knowing she was bought and sold like a possession.

      She was no bored, highborn lady. Such a creature was usually full of pride and would not have minded being on display. It would have been a lark. A dare.

      But the creature upon the couch was a lady still. A reluctant participant, perhaps?

      An improvised gentleman’s daughter, most likely. This was probably the next step in a progression of desperate attempts to care for herself and her family. And if this didn’t provide enough money, what next? Selling herself and her honor?

      He held up his glass and a servant filled it a second time.

      After an hour, a few of the other gentlemen departed. All nodded to him as they left as if they shared a dark secret. Joshua wasn’t new to illicit behaviors. However, he was unused to his proclivities being shared amongst old acquaintances.

      When the artist called for tea, the young lady reached for the silken robe, slipped into it and stood on the other side of the couch. Her movements were quick and practiced. Or was she just anxious to get away? Hmm. Had she done this before?

      So many questions.

      He had stared at her for nearly two hours. Was there any feature he might recognize if he saw her in public? No. Not the color of her eyes nor the shape of her body.

      Once she disappeared from the painting room, Joshua stood, grimacing a bit at the pain in his side,

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