Chapter One
Susanna Seymour stared out at the magpies and sparrows feeding on the crumbs of bread scattered over the lawn and wished she was outside with the birds. It was a glorious spring morning, blue sky chasing away the ragged clouds of last night’s storm, green as far as the eye could see from the edges of the Seymour estate and into the wilds of the Yorkshire moors. Susanna often dreamt of clambering around the rocks and hiding in the long grass, buffeted by the wind and the rain, pursued by nature’s elements. Ever since she left her teens, her parents had deemed her too old to play on the moors, too old since she reached the age of 27 to ever be married, firmly on the shelf and cast in the spinster role while they instead looked for a husband for 21-year-old Lucy.
It wasn’t that there hadn’t been offers for Susanna’s hand before, but she had turned them all down flatly. It served her right for reading too many novels and thinking her own romantic hero might be out there somewhere. It had got her nowhere other than confined to her parents’ house for the rest of her life.
Lucy’s prospective suitor, their new neighbour at Rainton Grange, would call today to pay his respects. Having already asked around, Elizabeth Seymour knew he had an income of £20,000 a year and was well thought of in his usual circles in London. The Grange was somewhere to holiday for the hard-working bachelor, and Mrs Seymour was keen to hook him for Lucy without preamble. All she had talked about in the six days since he had written to accept their lunch invitation was the rumour that the exotically named Elijah Storm was as arresting as his moniker.
Susanna couldn’t care less. Mr Storm could go right to hell for all she gave a damn. She was sick of meeting Lucy’s suitors and sick of having people look at her in pity for missing her chance. In all reality, she wasn’t sure she cared about having a man. What did it matter when men such as those in the novels didn’t exist anyway?
A commotion in the hall signalled the arrival of their guest, Lucy’s little dog, Toby, yapping excitedly. Her mother gathered up her skirts and fled to a chair, arranging herself with deliberate boredom as though she had not just spent the last two hours gazing from the window in anticipation.
Susanna lingered apathetically behind, prepared to be little more than disdainful towards whichever fop stepped through the door. The door opened, Richard bowed and announced loudly, ‘Mr Elijah Storm,’ and Susanna’s knees almost buckled as an angel fallen from heaven entered their parlour.
He was perhaps in his late 30s and tall, almost a head taller than her father at about six feet, and so well made! He wore a black suit with white linen, the lace at his throat and cuffs understated and neat. His body almost strained the velvet of his frock coat and breeches, his shoulders broad, his thighs strong and …
Susanna’s gaze halted halfway down his body, drawn magically in to the apex of his thighs. Good God, what was that down his breeches? Her cheeks turned scarlet as she saw the bulge at his crotch, the material hugging cock and balls greedily. She swallowed, her eyes flying to his stunning face and finding ice-blue eyes fixed on hers, dancing with amusement at her awe.
Susanna swallowed, pressed a hand behind her against the glass to hold herself upright. His perfect face was almost pretty, even though there was nothing effeminate about him. His bone structure, the curve of his sensual, somewhat sardonic lips, and the sooty lashes over his crystal eyes. His skin was lightly tanned, as though he spent plenty of time outdoors in rough, masculine pursuits despite his class. Scandalously, he wore neither wig nor ribbon, his hair black as a raven’s wing and cut close to his neck. Susanna saw her mother perusing him with shock and awe as she held out her hand to be kissed.
Elijah Storm turned his attention to his hosts. He bent low over Elizabeth
Susanna Seymour stared out at the magpies and sparrows feeding on the crumbs of bread scattered over the lawn and wished she was outside with the birds. It was a glorious spring morning, blue sky chasing away the ragged clouds of last night’s storm, green as far as the eye could see from the edges of the Seymour estate and into the wilds of the Yorkshire moors. Susanna often dreamt of clambering around the rocks and hiding in the long grass, buffeted by the wind and the rain, pursued by nature’s elements. Ever since she left her teens, her parents had deemed her too old to play on the moors, too old since she reached the age of 27 to ever be married, firmly on the shelf and cast in the spinster role while they instead looked for a husband for 21-year-old Lucy.
It wasn’t that there hadn’t been offers for Susanna’s hand before, but she had turned them all down flatly. It served her right for reading too many novels and thinking her own romantic hero might be out there somewhere. It had got her nowhere other than confined to her parents’ house for the rest of her life.
Lucy’s prospective suitor, their new neighbour at Rainton Grange, would call today to pay his respects. Having already asked around, Elizabeth Seymour knew he had an income of £20,000 a year and was well thought of in his usual circles in London. The Grange was somewhere to holiday for the hard-working bachelor, and Mrs Seymour was keen to hook him for Lucy without preamble. All she had talked about in the six days since he had written to accept their lunch invitation was the rumour that the exotically named Elijah Storm was as arresting as his moniker.
Susanna couldn’t care less. Mr Storm could go right to hell for all she gave a damn. She was sick of meeting Lucy’s suitors and sick of having people look at her in pity for missing her chance. In all reality, she wasn’t sure she cared about having a man. What did it matter when men such as those in the novels didn’t exist anyway?
A commotion in the hall signalled the arrival of their guest, Lucy’s little dog, Toby, yapping excitedly. Her mother gathered up her skirts and fled to a chair, arranging herself with deliberate boredom as though she had not just spent the last two hours gazing from the window in anticipation.
Susanna lingered apathetically behind, prepared to be little more than disdainful towards whichever fop stepped through the door. The door opened, Richard bowed and announced loudly, ‘Mr Elijah Storm,’ and Susanna’s knees almost buckled as an angel fallen from heaven entered their parlour.
He was perhaps in his late 30s and tall, almost a head taller than her father at about six feet, and so well made! He wore a black suit with white linen, the lace at his throat and cuffs understated and neat. His body almost strained the velvet of his frock coat and breeches, his shoulders broad, his thighs strong and …
Susanna’s gaze halted halfway down his body, drawn magically in to the apex of his thighs. Good God, what was that down his breeches? Her cheeks turned scarlet as she saw the bulge at his crotch, the material hugging cock and balls greedily. She swallowed, her eyes flying to his stunning face and finding ice-blue eyes fixed on hers, dancing with amusement at her awe.
Susanna swallowed, pressed a hand behind her against the glass to hold herself upright. His perfect face was almost pretty, even though there was nothing effeminate about him. His bone structure, the curve of his sensual, somewhat sardonic lips, and the sooty lashes over his crystal eyes. His skin was lightly tanned, as though he spent plenty of time outdoors in rough, masculine pursuits despite his class. Scandalously, he wore neither wig nor ribbon, his hair black as a raven’s wing and cut close to his neck. Susanna saw her mother perusing him with shock and awe as she held out her hand to be kissed.
Elijah Storm turned his attention to his hosts. He bent low over Elizabeth
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