Four Promises of Forbidden Love

Prologue

Fog shrouded the night, a light mist clinging to Owen Harrington’s face.

The cool evening was typical of spring in London.

The gentlemen spilling out of the Haymarket theatres were swaddled in greatcoats, the ladies in furs and velvet.

Owen hadn’t bothered to don a layer over his frock coat.

He’d known true cold: snow dumping over mountain passes, winds that sliced like an icy knife.

He’d endured a deep freeze that became desperation, then defeat, causing stalwart soldiers to sink to their knees and surrender their last breath.

Resisting the tug of the past, he focused instead on his surroundings.

He felt the slickness of the cobblestone beneath his leather soles, listened to the clattering of carriage wheels, and smelled the pungent mix of horses, coal smoke, and floral perfumes.

He counted the gas lamps along the street until his pulse steadied.

These were tricks he’d taught himself over the years, and their effectiveness brought grim relief.

Unclenching his fists, he took a breath and strode on.

As he passed the grand facade of Her Majesty’s Theatre, where well-heeled patrons mingled beneath the portico, he no longer questioned his own purpose.

At first, his journey to London had felt like a failure—like a capitulation to the past he fought to keep locked away.

He shouldn’t need to be here. He should have control over himself and his vices.

Yet he’d learned it was best not to ignore the feeling building inside him.

He knew what had triggered it: he’d tried to save a drowning man—and failed.

While the dead man had been a bounder who’d threatened Owen’s family, Owen couldn’t stop dreaming about those last moments when he’d been sprawled on the muddy, dissolving bank of the stream, his muscles straining as he tried to pull the man to safety.

He’d felt the other’s slick fingers slip from his grip and stared into the man’s terrified face the instant before water closed over it.

Some nights, he was pulled under too.

Those nightmares and others stalked him.

He couldn’t sleep and felt constantly on edge.

Out of nowhere, he would feel a cold drop in his stomach—the same sensation he’d had as a child falling from a tree.

The chill would spread from his gut to his chest, becoming a ball of ice lodged behind his breastbone, crushing his heart and lungs.

He couldn’t breathe…yet that was still better than the alternative.

That terrifying feeling of slipping out of his skin.

Of losing control over his senses and feeling nothing.

In those early years after returning from war, he had sought comfort with drink and dice.

His gut clenched as he thought of his despicable behavior and how his family—his brother Ethan in particular—had paid the price.

He had hurt those closest to him, wronged them in the worst possible way, and although he could never make amends, he was determined to try.

In the last two years, he’d abstained from his vices.

With a few notable slips, he’d been successful.

Yet he had to do something about his present state.

Since drinking and gambling were out of the question, he had one path left to temporary relief.

A way to distract him from the nightmares, slake his restlessness, and anchor him in the present.

He wasn’t proud of it, but a visit to Mrs. Maudy’s discreet establishment felt more like a necessity than a choice.

He arrived on Panton Street, just off Haymarket.

The tidy lane boasted a mix of inns, public houses, and shops.

A gentleman might come here to visit a tavern or a bootmaker—or one of the shuttered second-story businesses that catered to patrons who wanted more refined pleasures than those found in Covent Garden.

Owen wanted a clean experience with no fuss or surprises, and for that, he was willing to pay Mrs. Maudy’s premium prices.

He navigated past a boisterous group outside a chophouse and was a block from his destination when a voice startled him.

“Good evening—oh, beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

He waited for his heart to stop ricocheting against his ribs before turning toward the voice.

“You didn’t,” he said.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. The woman’s voice was well modulated and as soft as petals; it wasn’t her fault that he was a madman who reacted as if he were perpetually under fire.

The glow of the streetlamp revealed that she was in her early twenties and exquisitely pretty.

Silver-blonde curls dangled around her heart-shaped face, and she had full lips and cat-like eyes that tipped up at the corners.

The frock she wore was modest for her profession, although it did show off her trim ankles and slender figure.

Her build was his personal preference: sleek and subtly curved, she looked deliciously… pliable.

When she smiled at him, he felt a hot stirring in his loins.

“My name is Sarah,” she said. “I was wondering if you would like company?”

He considered her proposition—specifically, the risk it involved. He patronized reputable businesses like Mrs. Maudy’s for good reason. Porters dealt with troublemakers, French letters were provided, and the rooms were clean and well-appointed. Most importantly, there would be no surprises.

Owen hated unpredictability.

Yet Sarah pulled at him in a way that none of Mrs. Maudy’s girls ever had.

It wasn’t just her physical charms, but the way she was assessing him…

directly and without embarrassment. She was taking his measure while he was taking hers.

When she smiled, entrancing dimples peeped out, her eyes taking on a lively glint.

She had an air of honesty about her, he decided. While she was obviously no innocent, there was a freshness to her—a resilience of spirit that suited him. He looked for partners with sturdy dispositions and whose appetites matched his. Fragility was the one quality he avoided like the plague.

Looking around, he saw the group by the chophouse had disbanded, and there were few passers-by. No one was paying him and Sarah any mind. Even if they were, the sight of a man bartering with a prostitute was hardly remarkable.

He made his decision. “I would enjoy company. Of a specific sort.”

“Do I fit the bill, sir?”

She fluttered her darkened lashes. The coquettish gesture was accompanied by a cheeky grin. Flirting was part of her job—and she knew he knew it. In fact, she was inviting him to play the game with her.

His wariness gave way to appreciation. “You do indeed.”

“Then it’ll be fifteen shillings for the hour. Room included. I’ve lodgings up there”—she waved at the upper floor of an adjacent tavern—“guaranteed to be as clean and accommodating as I am.”

“The price is agreeable. I require discretion and no fuss.”

“Discretion comes gratis with the service. And I won’t throw up a fuss, unless your tastes run to the exotic. In which case, we ought to discuss the menu now, as there will be additional costs.”

At her blunt reply, he felt his face heat.

“Nothing exotic,” he muttered. “Just the usual.”

“Then we have an understanding?”

Disarmed by the hand she held out, he took it. His hand engulfed hers entirely, and he noted the fraying edge of her glove. Yet her grip was firm and confident.

“Come with me,” she said.

Her sultry summons made resisting impossible.

He followed her to the tavern. Inside, they headed up a flight of stairs to the second floor, where the narrow corridor smelled of hops and roasting meat.

Sarah took him past several doors, stopping at the last room.

When she removed a key, Owen took it and opened the door for her.

“Such civility, sir,” she murmured.

He found himself flushing again. After the atrocities he’d committed, he didn’t consider himself a gentleman. Yet some courtesies were ingrained, and he’d been raised to treat a woman with respect—even when he was paying for her company.

“My name is Owen,” he heard himself say.

Usually, he chose anonymity; his coin was sufficient introduction. Yet with Sarah he wanted…well, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. Other than the obvious.

For God’s sake, you’re here to tup her, not court her. Get on with it.

As she closed the door, he took stock of her lodgings. The chamber was sparsely furnished but clean and welcoming. A fire crackled in the hearth, blanketing the nearby bed with a cozy glow. Reminding himself not to get too comfortable—this was a transaction, after all—he took out his purse.

He lifted his brows. “Fifteen shillings, you said?”

She nodded. When he gave her the coins, she slipped them smoothly into her skirts. Her eyes took on the color of the firelight, glittering like faceted topaz.

“Let us have a drink first.” Going to a small table cluttered with bottles and glasses, she inquired over her shoulder, “Wine or gin?”

“Neither. Thank you.”

She gave him an arch look. “In a rush, are you?”

“No.” He hesitated. “It is not my habit to partake of spirits.”

At least, not any longer. He’d learned that imbibing caused more problems than it solved. But his desire to discuss the topic rivaled his wish to get a flaming poker in the eye.

“How about tea?” she asked.

Relieved by her easy acceptance, he nodded. “Please. With sugar, if you have it.”

As she prepared the tea, he clasped his hands behind his back and tried not to fidget.

He wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

He had strayed from his usual habits, something he avoided doing.

Yet he couldn’t deny that Sarah was a treat—from all angles.

Her profile revealed the slight upward tilt of her nose and the delicate point of her chin.

She had a beauty mark just below the corner of her mouth, and he wanted to lick it.

To nibble his way down the graceful curve of her neck and draw his tongue over her skin.

He wanted to taste and smell and feel her.

She brought him a chipped cup.

“To new friends,” she said.

Clicking his teacup to hers, he drank the brew. She’d added too much sugar, probably to mask the bitterness of the cheap tea. Collecting their cups, she deposited them on a table. When she approached him in a saucy, hip-swaying stride, his blood heated.

This is more like it. The sort of distraction I need.

She looped her arms around his neck. “What would you like to do next?”

“Allow me to show you.”

He slid a hand into her hair and kissed her.

Her lips parted readily, and by God, she was as delicious as she looked.

Her mouth was soft and lush, her tongue tangling with his.

Her flavor was more intoxicating than spirits: like candied peel, she was sweet with a sharp and addictive tang.

She also smelled divine, like verbena and rosemary mixed with wildflowers.

He fisted her silky locks, pulling her head back and plundering her mouth.

She yielded with a soft moan, and their kiss caught fire.

He gloried in the shared heat and wet friction, the way she made his blood pound and his cock swell against his trousers.

He thrust his tongue deep into her cavern, and when she sucked on his offering, pleasure tingled across his scalp.

Hell’s teeth, I must have more.

Sweeping her into his arms, he ignored her squeak of surprise and carried her to the bed. When he laid her across the mattress, she propped herself up on her elbows.

“Why the rush?” She wetted her lips. “Let me undress for you and give you a show you shan’t forget—”

“Give me the show later.”

He grabbed a fistful of her skirts, shoving them to her waist. His blood sizzled as he admired her shapely legs encased in mended white stockings.

Pale pink garters circled her thighs, framing her exquisite pussy.

Her thatch was darker than her hair, and the chestnut curls perfectly complemented her rosy slit.

“Why don’t I take care of you—” she began.

“Later.” Reverently, he sank down on one knee. “I want this first.”

“What do you want?” Sarah’s voice held a tremor.

Na?veté was part of her game, no doubt, and it was working. Shaking with hunger, he clamped his hands over her sleek thighs and spread them. Fully exposed, her pussy looked even more delectable—plump and juicy.

“What I want,” he said thickly, “is to make a feast of you.”

When he put his mouth on her tender juncture, her flavor saturated his senses.

She tasted sublime: feminine and real, her essence unlike anything else.

It was something he could only have here and now—and the fact anchored him.

To this room, where he was on his knees, gamahuching this delightful minx.

He delved for more, grunting with pleasure when her ambrosia coated his tongue.

She was sprawled on her back now, moaning, squirming against his mouth.

“Do you like being licked?” he growled.

“Yes. Blooming hell, I didn’t think…oh, don’t stop.”

Her abandon made him dizzy with lust. Painfully hard, he pleasured her as if his life depended upon it.

As if there was nothing else but Sarah and her needy cunny beneath his mouth, her abundant dew slick against his cheeks.

When he found her pearl, circling the little bead with his thumb, she gripped his hair.

“There. Right there,” she gasped. “Oh, Owen.”

By God, she’s the sweetest wanton.

Dazed by his good fortune, he flicked her pearl with his tongue while she gasped and swore.

He thrust two fingers into her channel, grunting at the tight squeeze.

Christ, he couldn’t wait to get inside her.

Sensing she was on the edge, he closed his lips around her bead, sucking hard.

She came with a wail. Triumph flooded him… along with other sensations.

Raising his head, he realized that he was…woozy?

He looked at Sarah—and blinked when two of her appeared.

“I am sorry,” one of them said.

“Sorry?” His tongue felt leaden, and his head was spinning.

Her glittering topaz eyes came in and out of focus, making him dizzier.

“Especially after that. Hardly tit for tat, is it?”

His vision wavered. “Tit for tat…?”

Darkness enveloped him, and he knew no more.