In Love With a Wicked Man by Liz Carlyle

And a few cases of expensive wine to somehow wedge into her household budget, for Aurélie’s most recent letter had arrived. The horde was indeed descending—and bringing, her mother threatened—a shocking surprise .
    Aurélie was often both shocking and surprising. And those two things together in one sentence—however redundant—could not possibly bode well.

CHAPTER 6
    A Fragile Friendship
    D etermined to cast off his role as invalid, Edward went searching for Kate the following afternoon in Bellecombe’s estate office where, he was reliably informed by the good-natured Jasper, the lady spent most afternoons.
    Having bathed, shaved, and dressed himself, he set off on his quest feeling a little more sure of the world. And very sure he owed his hostess an apology.
    He could not for the life of him think why he had kissed her, and so lasciviously. Or why he had dreamt such torrid, sensual dreams of her last night. In his fantasies, Kate had trembled beneath him, her fingers tangled in his hair, her small, perfect breasts his for the tasting. He had woken in a tangle of bedsheets, burning to kiss her again, sweat beading his forehead.
    It was . . . disconcerting.
    Perhaps it really was the blow to his head? The good doctor had ordered him not to think, and apparently, he had succeeded.
    Oh, he didn’t fancy himself an upright paragon of virtue—quite the opposite, he feared. But nor did he have the sense that he was the sort of fellow who went around seducing virginal young ladies—and if he was, then he was in need of a good horsewhipping.
    Except that Lady d’Allenay was not exactly young. And she didn’t kiss like a virgin. Nor quite like a lady of experience, either.
    She was something in between, perhaps?
    She had once been betrothed, she had said. To a man who had not loved her. How could such a thing be? The lady was not a beauty, but she had a purity of character one could not mistake, and a wicked, scathing wit. A man could not for one instant find himself bored, he imagined, in her company.
    There seemed to be no huge fortune involved—the usual thing that drew suitors. An entailed estate like Bellecombe could not be sold, but only carried forth into the next generation. Until it was flourishing, there would be no money to fritter.
    So it seemed that, where Kate was concerned, at least one gentleman had been wise enough to see the jewel shining within—and then let it slip from his grasp. It intrigued him, Edward told himself, and that was all. He was just a man who liked a puzzle.
    And perhaps a challenge.
    Certainly his goddess was more interesting to muse upon than was the great, black void that constituted his past, and his brain’s pathetic inability to add two plus two. For if he dwelled upon that, he soon began to sink into the sands of despair.
    And so he went in search of her. To apologize. And yes, perhaps to pick up their light flirtation where he’d left it. But more than that? It was a line he would not cross. No, he would not be living out his sensual fantasies with the enticing Lady d’Allenay.
    Bellecombe’s estate offices encompassed the whole ground floor of the south tower, Jasper explained, and were most easily accessed via the inner bailey. But despite his room being situated in the main house, Edward decided to first hobble up six flights of stairs and onto the open parapet that connected the east and north towers.
    From this soaring vantage point, one could see that the original medieval construction consisted of four towers linked by wide, crenellated walls like the one on which he stood. However, a pair of more modern wings extended beyond the walls, making Bellecombe Castle what must surely be one of England’s most splendid homes.
    Far below him lay the cobbled inner bailey, and beyond that, the outer bailey, surrounded by the secondary walls that appeared to house the stables and other utilitarian functions. There was an outer gate and an inner gate, both likely