Title Lord Ramsey’s Red-Headed Ruin
Author Cerise DeLand
Genre Historical Romance
Publisher Dragonblade Publishing
Book Blurb
It’s dangerous to be an honest woman—and torture for the man who loves her.It’s dangerous to be an honest woman.
Amber St. Antoine flees Paris—and her role in spying on Bonaparte. The deputy chief of police, a venal man, craves Amber as his mistress. He’ll do anything to seduce her, even imprisoning her friends and charging them with crimes.Amber, rescued from neglectful parents as a child by her influential aunt, grew up in the shadow of the Terror and went to prison with her aunt and Josephine Beauharnais. Despising the tyranny of a few corrupt men, Amber learned to value freedom.As a result, when she was approached to serve in an espionage network, she accepted—and excelled. Now in fear of Vaillancourt, she flees Paris, her home—her friends.It’s torture for the man who loves her.
Godfrey duClare, Lord Ramsey, comes to Paris as part of the British diplomatic mission now that peace exists between his county and France. His first assignment by his superior Kane, Lord Ashley, is to find the elusive agent Amber St. Antoine and keep her safe.Following gossip and logic, Ram finds the stunningly beautiful woman deep in the French countryside. He declares she needs his protection, especially since she refuses to leave France. Defiant, Amber agrees to his company, even if they must pretend they are married.The two travel France, discovering in each other, each day, a delight that leads to a passion neither can deny.But when they also find new evidence of Bonaparte’s warlike plans, they must change their own. Suddenly, Vaillancourt surprises them with a ploy neither Amber nor Ram considered.But Amber decides to outwit him.
Ramsey is furious—and wild to save her from herself. What’s a man to do if he seems foiled at every turn?
Is he a fool to believe that love conquers all?
Excerpt
Frantic, she flew toward the only hiding place. A narrow closet wherein her man hung his greatcoat on a peg. He could not need it tonight.
Could he?
She slipped open the door, winced as the rusty hinge squeaked and shut herself inside.
Just in time.
She heard the door handle jiggle. The portal creak open wide. Through the slats of the closet door, she could see him. Closer than she had ever been to him, she smothered her gasp of appreciation. He was taller than she had imagined. She was no petite woman, but he loomed, large and imposing as he strolled about the room. Then he wandered closer, his frown arresting her breathing. His face with its classic arches and shadows captured her imagination. He was Mars, Thor, no man she’d ever encountered. The curve of his lips as he gazed around the room in some private satisfaction was as alluring as his kisses must be. But then he spun toward her, focused on her hidey-hole—and grinned.
“I know,” he said with a base voice that could rival the depths of Lucifer’s, “you are in there. Do come out.”
To run was impossible. She’d get one step and he’d catch her in those long, muscular arms. But before she complied, she stopped to consider one startling fact. If he wished to kill her, to do away with her in the name of Vaillancourt and the glory of the Consulate, he would have simply opened the flimsy door and assaulted her. He could snap her neck and be done with her in ten seconds. So. He was on a different mission.
But what?
“I rather like it here,” she told him with a sniff. All bravado, it was, too.
He settled before her door and, hands on his hips, he scoffed. “I’ve no idea why, Madame.”
He knew she was a widow? She wore no ring. She’d sown that into her coat hem with her gold. Well then. Informed scoundrel, wasn’t he?
“I prefer dark close spaces,” she told him. “Especially when I am being intimidated.”
“I assure you, Madame, I’ve no wish to do that. In fact, I wish to save you from yourself.”
“You cannot. No one can. And you cannot talk me into a quick trip to Paris to demonstrate the errors of my ways.”
He inhaled. Between the slats of the door of her little closet, she could see how he smiled like a hungry jungle cat. His expression was not sadistic, but benevolent. Few rakishly divine men ever developed the capability of compassion. When had he? “I’ve no desire to take you anywhere you do not wish to go.”
Despite his tenderness, she scoffed. “Who are you then if you are not Vaillancourt’s man come to haul me back to him?”
“I would never do that man’s bidding.”
“Whose do you do?”
“Scarlett Hawthorne.”
She sat with that revelation for far too long. Her hesitance gave credence to his words, but still, they stunned her. Even more, she realized he spoke cultivated English. She had returned the favor, and never noticed in what language they conversed until he revealed this about Scarlett. Speaking English did not make him an agent of her friend’s, but it soothed her feathers a bit. Nothing for it, now, was there, but to admit knowledge of the English merchant who was her school chum? “I know her.”
“She definitely knows you. She showed me a watercolor portrait of you. A fine one.”
Whose painting could that have been? Only Augustine. For years, her best friend Augustine had refined her art by redoing Amber’s portrait in ink or pencil or watercolor over again and again. “I know you best,” Gus had often said when Amber complained. “It gives me joy.”
However, the gentleman before her was not joyful. He frowned at the door slats. “That portrait is how I have been able to track you in and out of town the past few days. Even in your men’s attire, to say nothing of your numerous changes of public carriages, hired coachmen—and haylofts.”
“I tracked you today,” she blurted at him as a ripple of despair shot through her.
“I know. A double play, eh?”
This man trailed her. Were there others? More whom she had not noticed? Were they from Scarlett or from Vaillancourt? What had she not seen? Who else was out there plotting her capture?
Her bravado was for naught. She clutched her arms around her middle. If she had had more space in this cramped closet, she would have doubled in distress.
“Come out, Madame,” her captor murmured with sweet appeal. “I long to meet you face to face.”
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Author Biography
Cerise DeLand loves to write about dashing heroes and the sassy women they adore. Whether she’s penning historical romances or contemporaries, she’s praised for her poetic elegance and accuracy of detail.
An award-winning author of more than 60 novels, she’s been published since 1990 by Pocket Books, St. Martin’s Press, Kensington and independent presses. Her books have been monthly selections of the Doubleday Book Club, Rhapsody Book Club and the Mystery Guild. Plus she’s won countless 4, 4.5 and 5 star rave reviews from Romantic Times, Affair de Coeur, Publishers Weekly and more.
To research, she’ll dive into the oldest texts and dustiest library shelves. She’ll also travel abroad, trusty notebook and pen in hand, to visit the chateaux and country homes she loves to people with her own imaginary characters.
And at home every day? She loves to cook, hates to dust, lives to travel and go to Jazz class once a week!
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