The Secret Life of Miss Anna Marsh

302 Pages·2013·1.61 MB·English

by  Quinn Ella

CAUGHT IN A KISS
Anna’s heart beat faster as his lips reached her throat. When he kissed her, she
thought nothing could be better; then his tongue moved against hers, and she
thought she’d swoon. She tried to put her arms around him, but they were
trapped under his body. It was as if he were possessing her. Thank God he didn’t
know who she was.
“Anna, tell me what you’re doing here,” Rutherford whispered into her ear.
“How did you know it was me? I thought you were just kissing . . .”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You thought I’d just kiss any woman? What the
hell do you take me for?”
She struggled to sit up, but his body weighed her down. “I haven’t even given
you leave to kiss me, and you’re doing even more!”
“Harumph.” He bent his head to kiss her again. “And I plan to continue.”
“Sebastian!” She wiggled to get out from under him.
“Anna. Be still. I’ll let you up when you tell me what you’re doing here. Until
then . . .”
He moved his hand over her breast again and an ache started between her legs.
His mouth covered hers and she opened to him. His tongue skated over her teeth,
before caressing the inside of her mouth. She’d never imagined a kiss could be
like this . . .
Books by Ella Quinn
THE SEDUCTION OF LADY PHOEBE

THE SECRET LIFE OF MISS ANNA MARSH

THE TEMPTATION OF LADY SERENA

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
THE Secret Life OF Miss Anna Marsh
E Q
LLA UINN
eKENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents CAUGHT IN A KISS
Books by Ella Quinn
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
To my mother-in-law,
Margaret,
who has supported my
decision to write in
both words and deeds.

Thank you so much.
Acknowledgments Writing The Secret Life of Miss Anna Marsh
was an exercise in organization. One cannot have two converging
love stories, spies and smugglers without it. Thanks so much to
the Regency Romance Critique group as well as Romance
Critiquers for bearing with me as they patiently reviewed several
versions of Anna Marsh while I tried to figure it all out. To
Courtney Milan who graciously offered up the name of her editor,
Robin Harders. Robin edited the first few chapters when I needed
her most and did it quickly. To the members of the Beau Monde
Chapter of Romance Writers of America who are always
available for advice and support.
As always to my wonderful agent, Elizabeth Pomada, and my editor at
Kensington, John Scognamiglio, without whom this book would not be
published, and the talented staff at Kensington.
Prologue
October 23rd, 1814, London
Lord Florian Iswell, the fifth son of the Marquis of Wigmore, entered his rooms
on Jermyn Street after eating dinner at his club in the convivial company of
some old school friends. He spied a sealed letter propped up on the fireplace
mantel.
His heart thudded painfully. It had been months since he’d seen his name in
that bold scrawl. Gingerly, he reached out his trembling hand. Using two fingers,
he plucked the missive up as if merely touching it might harm him, and broke
the unadorned seal.
As he read the note, his stomach roiled. He should have never eaten the
lobster patties.
My dear Florian,
Meet me at the Cock and Crow at eleven o’clock this evening. Do
not, my friend, be late. We have matters of Great Urgency to
discuss.
G.
“Envill,” Florian bellowed to his valet, “when did this arrive?”
“About an hour ago, my lord.”
Florian shook the letter. “Why did you not send for me? I’ll barely make the
meeting as it is.”
“I’m sorry, my lord. I told him you were out. He didn’t say it was urgent.”
Forty-five minutes later, dressed in a shabby brown frieze coat and well-used
hat, Florian entered the dingy tap of the Whitecastle inn a few minutes before the
appointed time. The pungent smell of unwashed bodies, gin, and ale made him
wish he could hold his handkerchief to his nose.
He glanced around the room. A man, indistinguishable from the other patrons,
sat in the far corner, nursing an ale. From this distance, he was very like Florian,
not much above average height, medium brown hair, and a forgettable face,