The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  ~~~

  The Gentleman Who Loved Me © Grace Callaway, 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-939537-10-2

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  ~~~

  Her Goal is Respectability

  The product of her mama’s youthful indiscretion, Primrose Kent makes the painful discovery that, in Society’s eyes, neither her beauty nor her charm can overcome the fact that she’s a bastard—and one with a murky past. After her attempts to gain respectability backfire, Rosie resorts to desperate measures to salvage her reputation. Yet her plan leads to further peril and throws her into the arms of a devastatingly attractive man—a stranger who feels achingly familiar… and who will guarantee her ruination…

  His Business is Scandal

  A former prostitute and now the owner of London’s most successful pleasure house, Andrew Corbett is certain of one thing: he’s no gentleman. His notoriety has never bothered him until he encounters Primrose Kent, the girl he’d once loved like a sister, but who, as a woman, captures his heart in an entirely different way. He’ll stop at nothing to protect Rosie from her enemies—but he must also shield her from his own ungovernable desires…

  Their Attraction is Irresistible… and Dangerous

  As Rosie and Andrew struggle to contain their passion and a love too powerful to resist, danger stalks their every move. They must battle not only their present foes but the looming shadows of the past. In their journey to happily ever after, the pair discover that love isn’t what you think you want… but what you truly need.

  ~~~

  Praise for Grace’s Books

  “Readers looking for a good historical mystery/romance or a historical with a little more kink will enjoy The Duke Who Knew Too Much.”—Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

  “Her Husband’s Harlot is a pleasing, out of the ordinary read.”—Dear Author

  “I discovered a new auto-buy author with [M is for Marquess]… I’ve now read each of Grace Callaway’s books and loved them—which is exceptional. Gabriel and Thea from this book were two of the best characters I read this year. Both had their difficulties and it was charming to see how they overcame them together, even though it wasn’t always easy for them. This is my favorite book of 2015.”—Romantic Historical Reviews

  “Erotic historical romance isn’t as plentiful as many would think, but here you have a very well-written example of this genre. It’s entertaining and fun and a darn good read.”—The Book Binge

  “I devoured this book in a couple of hours!…. If you love a story with a heroine who is a wallflower with a backbone of steel or a damaged hero then you will love this one too.”—5 star review from Love Romance Passion on Her Wanton Wager

  “I found this to be an exceptional novel. I recommend it to anyone who wants to get lost in a good book, because I certainly was.”—A Top Pick from Night Owl Reviews

  “I thoroughly enjoyed this story. Grace Callaway is a remarkable writer.”—Love Romance Passion on Her Prodigal Passion

  “The depth of the characters was wonderful and I was immediately cheering for both of them.”—Buried Under Romance on The Widow Vanishes

  “Callaway is a talented writer and as skilled at creating a vivid sense of the Regency period as she is at writing some of the best, most sensual love scenes I’ve read in a long while. For readers who crave sexy, exciting Regency romance with a fresh plot and intriguing characters, I would highly recommend Her Protector’s Pleasure.”—Night Owl Reviews

  ~~~

  Explore other books by Grace:

  HEART OF ENQUIRY

  The Widow Vanishes

  The Duke Who Knew Too Much

  M is for Marquess

  The Lady Who Came in from the Cold

  The Viscount Always Knocks Twice

  Never Say Never to an Earl

  The Gentleman Who Loved Me

  MAYHEM IN MAYFAIR

  Her Husband's Harlot

  Her Wanton Wager

  Her Protector's Pleasure

  Her Prodigal Passion

  GAME OF DUKES

  The Duke Identity (2018)

  CHRONICLES OF ABIGAIL JONES

  Abigail Jones

  Abigail Jones and the Asylum of Secrets (2017)

  ~~~

  Prologue

  1816

  Easing from beneath the naked woman, Andrew Augustus Corbett left the bed. He froze, muscles bunching, as she stirred beneath the red satin sheets… still asleep—Praise Jesus. A widow twice his age, she’d put him through his paces. He had ample experience with the voracious ladies of the ton and hadn’t been surprised by her appetite, but it had made him reconsider how he charged for his services.

  As he tugged on trousers and boots, belting a dressing gown over his bare torso, he mused that he ought to be compensated for satisfaction given rather than time spent in a patron’s company. After all, he’d brought the lady in question to climax a half-dozen times: no small feat by anyone’s standards. Stamina was never a problem for him—by virtue of his hot-blooded nature and his expertise in his trade—but his expenditure of energy should count for something, shouldn’t it?

  He glanced at the bed: in her sleep, the widow stretched toward the place he’d vacated like a cat seeking a sunny spot. Another satisfied customer. Yes, he’d definitely talk to Kitty Barnes, his employer and lover, about upping his fees. Like any commodity, pleasure lost worth when it was sold too cheaply. At eighteen, he’d been in the business long enough to know that he had to make the most of his prime years.

  And if I want to make it past my prime, he thought darkly, I’d best secure us that extra blunt.

  Kitty had made some disastrous decisions in the past year. Despite his advice, she’d expanded her business with reckless abandonment. When her string of brothels failed, one after another like a line of dominoes, she’d compounded her error by betting on eve
n riskier investments. Now she was up to her ears in debt to Bartholomew Black, a cutthroat not known for his patience.

  Last week, a dove had appeared on her doorstep, a note tied to its snapped neck:

  Pay—or face the consequences.

  His chest clenching, Andrew closed the door behind him, his booted feet striding down the empty corridor. At this early hour, guests and employees of the bawdy house were sleeping, and he welcomed the stillness. The momentary solitude in which he didn’t have to charm or cajole or be anything but what he was. A man with worries. A man who could no longer staunch his fears—for his lover, himself… and the girl in their care.

  His gut knotted at the thought of Primrose. At four, the blonde tot was as bright as her namesake, her sweetness as unexpected as a flower springing up in the stew’s dirty streets. Wherever she went, her charm and sweet songs made strangers smile; hell, she’d even wound her way into his jaded heart. She was the little sister he’d never had, and he was determined to protect her innocence—in and of itself a bloody miracle, given her murky origins.

  Three years ago, Kitty had brought home the infant girl, surprising Andrew—his older lover wasn’t what you’d call the maternal sort. Kitty’s brisk explanation had cleared up any confusion: some rich cove was paying her to take care of his by-blow. Personally, Andrew thought a man could do better for his daughter (even if she was a bastard) than placing her with an infamous bawd, but who was he to judge?

  He knew nothing about fathers. Self-deprecation twisted his lips as he treaded up the steps to Kitty’s private suite. He’d neither met nor been acknowledged by his own putative sire; the only thing he had from the man was his middle name, which Kitty had fashioned into part of his nom de plume.

  The world knew him as Augustus Longfellow. A better man might cringe at the crude moniker, but Andrew didn’t fool himself: he was no gentleman. Honor and pride were luxuries he couldn’t afford. He was a survivor, one who’d parlayed his every God-given asset—Longfellow wasn’t false advertising—to make his way up in the world.

  As his departed mama had put it, If you have it, sell it.

  But it would take his less obvious gift—the one between his ears—to keep his ragtag clan of three safe. Over the years, he’d stashed away some savings, gifts and the like from grateful customers. He’d kept the money a secret from Kitty for pragmatic reasons. Whilst his paramour had many talents, fiscal responsibility wasn’t one of them, and there was no use throwing good money after bad. He didn’t have enough to clear her debts, but if he invested wisely, he might be able to appease Black with regular payments.

  Thus, he’d been keeping his eyes and ears open for the right opportunity…

  Shattering glass pierced his reverie. For a moment, he froze, staring at the projectile that had smashed through the window. A bottle—fire spewing from its rag wick.

  “Bloody fuck!”

  The words exploded from him as he sprinted to the window, yanking down a curtain, using it to beat down the flames spreading over the carpet and floorboards. He whacked at the fire as it strained hungrily toward the tinder all around. He fought off the conflagration—then heard more glass breaking, followed by terrible thumps, the whoosh of air being consumed.

  Heart thudding, he spun around: the corridor—littered with flaming bottles.

  Everything was ablaze.

  Holy hell.

  “Kitty!” he shouted. “Fire!”

  The door at the end of the hall flew open, revealing a night rail-clad Kitty.

  “Dear God.” The inferno raged in her wild gaze. “It’s Black, he’s after us—”

  “Sound the alarm, get everyone out!” Andrew was on the run, battling flames to reach the stairway at the other end of the hall. “I’ll fetch Primrose and meet you outside!”

  He raced up the spiraling steps to the garret room. At the top, he twisted the doorknob, cursing when it was locked, even though he’d been the one who’d lectured Primrose to keep it that way.

  He pounded his fist against wood. “Primrose, wake up! There’s a fire!”

  No reply. He backed up, readying to break down the door when it squealed open. Primrose blinked drowsily up at him, her toes peeping beneath her nightgown. “Andrew?”

  “Come with me. Now,” he said urgently.

  Without a word, she lifted her arms, and he scooped her up, heading back the way he’d come. Smoke thickened the air, stung his eyes. He came to a halt as waves of heat blasted into him: flames engulfed the floors, walls, ceiling. He jumped back as a beam collapsed in a shower of embers. No way to make it to the last flight of stairs. Against his chest, Primrose’s small body wracked with gasping coughs, her arms tightening around his neck.

  Cursing, he retraced his steps back up to the garret room. Slammed the door to shut out the choking smoke. Sprinting to the chamber’s only window, he threw it open and pushed Primrose’s head through.

  “Breathe, little chick,” he said, his voice gritty from the smoke.

  As she drew in great gulps of air, shouts and the clang of a fire bell came from the front of the building. Andrew took rapid stock of his options. Here, at the back of the house, there was only one way out: a twenty-five-foot drop to the empty alleyway. To climb down, he would need a rope…

  He went over to the bed, yanking off the bedsheet. He tore it in half, twisting and knotting the pieces together. He tested the makeshift cord: strong but not long enough. Adding the curtain panels to extend the length, he secured the rope to the bedframe, tossing it out the window. The end dangled some fifteen feet above the cobblestones. Still not long enough—but a damned better option than being burned alive.

  He crouched in front of Primrose. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “All right.” Her trusting reply came readily, despite the fear in her wide jade eyes.

  He placed a hand atop her sunny curls. “We’re going to climb down that rope together, but I’ll need both of my hands. That means you must hold onto me very tightly. You’re not to let go under any circumstances, understand?”

  “Yes, Andrew.”

  “Then up you go.” He turned around, and she clambered onto his back, her arms circling his neck and her legs clamping his waist. He grabbed the makeshift rope and exited through the open window onto the narrow ledge of the roof. When the cord held after another testing tug, he readied to make the descent—and heard her frightened whimper.

  “Trust me, sunshine,” he said.

  Her arms tightened around him; her curls brushed his neck as she nodded.

  With a silent prayer, he stepped off the edge.

  They swung in a dizzying arc before his boots hit the wall of the building. Bracing with his feet, he lowered them down the rope, fist over fist. He made the mistake of looking down: the cobblestones swam in his vision, miles away from where they hung, suspended, one false move away from certain death. Primrose’s heart hammered against his back, and her face, buried against his neck, was slick with tears.

  “Don’t look, sweetheart,” he panted. “We’re almost there.”

  Trembling, she burrowed closer. His muscles bulged, straining as he climbed down foot by foot. He didn’t have a plan for when they ran out of rope. He’d have to do a free fall for the last fifteen feet, to somehow cushion Primrose’s body with his own—

  “I’ll be there in a minute!”

  His head whirled in the direction of Kitty’s voice, the clip-clop of hooves. Relief blasted through him at the sight of the wagon barreling down the alley, and he had a crazed desire to laugh. How could he have underestimated Kitty? If he could count on one thing, it was that she always landed on her feet—which meant, in this instance, that he and Primrose would too.

  Strength renewed, he continued the hand-over-hand journey to the end of the rope, beneath which Kitty had now aligned the straw-filled cart, closing the gap to less than ten feet.

  “Hold on,” he told Primrose.

  When she clutched him tighter, he let go of the r
ope. He twisted in the air, shielding her small body with his. His back hit the cart, the breath knocking out of him.

  Primrose scrambled off of him and peered into his face.

  “Andrew?” she said fretfully.

  “I’m fine,” he managed.

  She burst into tears.

  Gingerly, he sat up and patted her rumpled curls. “There, my brave chick. No use crying after the fact, is there?”

  “I w-wasn’t brave. I was scared,” she sobbed. “You s-saved me.”

  Survival had rid him of any capacity for self-delusion. He knew what he was, and it wasn’t a hero, not by a longshot. Yet her words wended through him like dawn’s first rays through the rookery’s dark streets.

  “Shut up, you stupid girl! Or I’ll give you something to truly cry about.”

  Kitty’s threat drew his eyes to the driver’s bench. His lover’s russet tresses were loose around her cloaked figure, her beautiful features hard with rage. Primrose instantly quieted, biting her lip, her breaths fitful as she tried to obey.

  Andrew’s gaze clashed with Kitty’s.

  She said defensively, “There’s no time for bawling. Black’s not done with us yet.”

  Bloody hell, she’s right.

  He tucked straw over Primrose, murmuring, “Close your eyes and try to sleep, all right?”

  When she nodded, he vaulted into the seat next to Kitty.

  He took up the reins. “Where to?”

  “Somewhere far,” Kitty said, her features feral. “Somewhere beyond the devil’s reach.”

  Chapter One

  1835

  Looking left and right, Miss Primrose Kent (Rosie to intimates) ascended the stairs of the Hartefords’ elegant townhouse. The Winter Masquerade—her Aunt Helena’s annual January ball—was a crush, a fact that had helped Rosie to escape undetected. As she continued her stealthy mission, she held no illusions about herself, good or bad.