The Lady Flees Her Lord

413 Pages·2008·1.14 MB·English

by  Michele Ann Young

She’s desperate for peace and safety…
Lucinda, Lady Denbigh, is running from a
“The perfect love story with
husband who physically and emotionally abuses
her because she is unfashionably plump and has wonderfully imperfect characters.”
failed to produce an heir. Posing as a widow, she —Laurel Bradley, author of A Wish in Time,
seeks refuge in the quiet countryside… on Michèle Ann Young’s No Regrets
He’s returned from the wars, woundLLed
and tormented…
Lord Hugo Wanstead, with a wound that won’t
aa
heal, and his mother’s and Spanish wife’s deaths
on his conscience, fi nds his estate impoverished, his ddThTh

sleep torn by nightmares, and brandy his only solace. yy
ee
When he meets Lucinda, he fi nds her beautiful—

body and soul—and thinks she just might give him flfl ThTh ee
something to live for…
Together they can begin to heal, ee
but not until she is free
ee
from her violent past… LLaaddyy
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FFlleeeess HHeerr
Praise for Michèle Ann Young’s
ee
No Regrets
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“…dark heroes, courageous heroines, intrigue,
heartbreak, and heaps of sexual tension.
LL
Do not miss this fabulous new author.”
—Molly O’Keefe, Harlequin Superromance LLoorrdd
oo
“Readers will never want to put her book down!”
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—Bronwyn Scott, author of Pickpocket Countess
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“…the suspense and sexual tension accelerate
throughout.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Romance/Fiction $6.99 U.S./$7.99 CAN/£3.99 UK
ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-1399-1 S
ISBN-10: 1-4022-1399-9
www.sourcebooks.com
www.sourcebookscasablanca.com
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Copyright © 2008 by Michèle Ann Young
Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover photos © Fotolia, Michael Fennell; Dreamstime.com,
Dennis Elke
Cover design by Anne Cain
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of
Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means
including information storage and retrieval systems—except in
the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher,
Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious
or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of
Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
[phone]
Fax: [phone]
www.sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Young, Michèle (Michèle Ann)
The lady flees her lord / Michèle Ann Young.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-2074-6
ISBN-10: 1-4022-2074-X
1. Overweight women—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.Y69L33 2008
813'.6—dc22
2008029370
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
DR 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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This book is dedicated to women who love to read,
who like chocolate, and who live life to the fullest,
no matter their shape or size.
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One
London, April 1811
Blissful silence.
Lucinda Palgrave, Countess of Denbigh, lifted her
ear from the cool wood of her husband’s adjoining
chamber door. She wanted to laugh out loud. To twirl.
To yell, ‘No Denbigh!’ A delightful evening free of his
presence stretched ahead. It was a giddy sensation, like
drinking too much champagne. And utterly inappro-
priate. Fingers pressed to her lips, she glided out of her
bedroom and into the hallway.
A figure in black loomed in front of her.
She gasped, a hand at her throat, her heart pounding
wildly. Dash it all. Why did the butler always creep up
on her? The supercilious beast ought to care more for
life and limb, since according to Denbigh, a mere
bump from her hip would knock a man flat. Oh, for
the courage to try.
“Yes, Galloway?” To her chagrin, her voice sounded
more like a frightened scullery maid than the mistress
of her own establishment.
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2 Michèle Ann Young
The butler smirked. “Tea awaits you in the drawing
room, my lady. As does his lordship.”
The lightness dissipated in a sickening rush. She
swallowed the sour taste of disappointment tinged with
the acid of fear. “Thank you, Galloway. Please have two
places set for dinner.”
The butler’s smirk broadened. “His lordship does
not intend to dine at home, my lady.”
Relief dulled her irritation at the man’s triumphant
expression. “Very well. That will be all, thank you.” She
skirted around him.
He gave as much ground as he might for a scullery
maid.
Anger spread out from her chest in hot slow waves.
She damped it down. One of these days, she really
would speak to Galloway about his insolence. She
rubbed her collarbone through the fabric of her gown.
But not now. Not while Denbigh waited.
She pattered along the hall, the jewel-toned runner
seeming to taunt her with its brightness. With one hot,
damp palm on the smooth balustrade, she sped down
the curving oak staircase to the first floor of their
Mayfair townhouse. Hurry, her heartbeat goaded. He
hated when she was late. Not too fast, she reminded
herself. He despised her when she appeared all hot and
flustered. Dammit. He hated whatever she did.
In the hallway, she confronted the white drawing-
room door. Smoothing her ivory skirts, she stole a
moment to hide her rapid heartbeat behind a calm
demeanor and to suck in her stomach. Slowly, she
eased open the door. The tall windows at the west end
of the room cast bars of light across the cream-colored
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The Lady Flees Her Lord 3
carpet, yet the blue walls and white paint gave the
room a chilly feel.
Brandy in hand and not a blond hair out of place,
her husband, the Earl of Denbigh, slouched on the
royal-blue velvet sofa beside the marble hearth. Slender
legs crossed at the ankles, he acknowledged her
entrance with a sulky grimace that ruined his Apollo-
like handsomeness. Had she really once thought his
brooding expression romantic? She lowered her lashes
to hide the disloyal thought.
“Good afternoon, Denbigh,” she murmured.
“For God’s sake, stop hovering and sit down.”
She scurried to the chair behind the tea tray and
perched on its edge.
He stared at her over the rim of his glass. “Where
the hell were you?”
Despite the mild tone, her pulse jumped. She eyed
the brandy in his half-full glass. The worst of his rants
happened after the third refill. At the moment his eyes
seemed clear, his words crisp. She offered a smile. “I was
dressing for dinner.”
The disparaging glance he ran over her person
chilled her to the bone. “I can’t think why you bother.”
A flare of something hot ignited inside her and
burnt its way up to her tongue. Only by clenching
her jaw did she prevent its eruption in angry words.
She inhaled slowly. “I didn’t expect you this after-
noon.” She gestured to the tray. “Can I offer you a
dish of bohea?”
As his gaze shifted to the tray, she winced. The chef
had outdone himself today. Not only did the tiered
cake dish contain her favorite lemon tarts, but he’d