Nicola Beaumont's Books Info

Ethereal. The word invaded Jonathon’s mind the moment he laid eyes on Lark Blackwell. She seemed to float across the room, her white muslin gown flowing around her, caressing her legs as a cool breeze touches the cheek on a hot summer’s day. Her hair, adorned with a ring of fresh flowers, shone the colour of the sun at its hottest white, her skin the palest alabaster.

No wonder she had been redubbed the Somerset Ghost. She was otherworldly. But angel would have been a more appropriate moniker. She was beautiful, not frightening. Drinking in the sight of her awakened feelings he didn’t know he had—chivalrous, protective desires…and something more base, more passionate. The yen to reach out, lift her into his arms, and carry her off to private a rendezvous began to melt his anger, and he immediately knew he needed to be wary of this bewitching creature.

He stiffened his spine and schooled his countenance. “You have been hiding in the shadows like a rat, Miss Blackwell. What say you of this? Did you know of my father’s plans to saddle us together? Did you have act in them?”

As he fired questions at her, she shook her head adamantly, her face strained with evident worry. He ignored it, refusing to be swayed by feminine wiles.

“Why do you not speak, vixen? Do you not realize you will never prevail? Answer my queries.” He quieted for a moment and studied her teary-eyed mien.

She looked like a chastised child, and for a moment, he felt a twinge of guilt at crucifying her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Smythe touched his arm, drew his attention. He scarcely had time to comprehend what was happening before Lark picked up her skirt and fled the room.

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