Nicole Jordan Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Nicole Jordan

  Excerpt from Wicked Fantasy

  Read on for a sneak peak at Nicole Jordan’s most seductive novel yet . . .

  If you were seduced by Wicked Fantasy, don’t miss one of Nicole Jordan’s steamiest novels, The Warrior

  Pillow Talk

  Copyright Page

  To Linda Francis Lee, who understands.

  With love and thanks.

  Prologue

  London, April 1811

  Her first sight of the wicked, dashing adventurer Trey Deverill startled Antonia Maitland immensely, for he was unmistakably, breathtakingly nude.

  Seeing his unclothed body was purely accidental, of course.

  Glad to be home from her select boarding academy for a spring holiday, Antonia handed her bonnet and gloves over to the waiting butler and turned toward the Map Room, where her father oversaw his vast shipping empire. She was eager to see him for the first time in over a month.

  “I believe you will find Mr. Maitland upstairs, Miss Maitland,” the butler intoned. “Possibly in the gallery.”

  “Thank you,” she replied with a brief smile, knowing her father must be communing with the portrait of his beloved late wife.

  Antonia ran up the wide, sweeping staircase and hurried along the elegant east wing of the mansion. Eight years ago, shortly before her mother’s unexpected death of a lung fever, Samuel Maitland had spared no expense to build the grand residence in a newly fashionable district of London just south of Mayfair. But his favorite room was the portrait gallery, where he kept his wife’s memory alive.

  Antonia’s current favorite room was the luxurious, newfangled bathing chamber, located at the far end of the corridor.

  When she saw a footman exit the chamber and disappear around the corner, Antonia almost sighed in anticipation. Ever interested in novel inventions, her father had added a boiler in the kitchens last year that carried heated water directly above to the large, uniquely designed copper tub. The thought of a hot bath pleased Antonia to no end, since the elite Baldwin Academy for Young Ladies offered superior education and instruction in genteel social skills, but never such delightful extravagances as hours spent soaking in a steaming hot bath.

  Upon reaching the corridor’s end, Antonia saw that the door had been left partway open. But when absently she glanced inside, she stopped short.

  A man had just stepped from the oval tub.

  A sleekly muscular, powerfully built man.

  A shockingly nude man.

  She could see the side of his tall form—his bronzed back and taut buttocks, his lean hips and long sinewed legs, all streaming with water. Suddenly breathless, she stood riveted at the sight of his body: hard-muscled, vital, beautiful, except for the disfiguring scars on his torso. . . .

  As if sensing her presence, he lifted his head alertly and swung toward her, giving her a fuller view of his loins.

  “Oh, my . . .” Antonia murmured, startled and fascinated at the same time.

  Swiftly, she jerked her eyes away from that forbidden masculine territory, only to have her gaze roam helplessly back up his body. In all of her nearly seventeen years she had never seen anything so stunning as this man. Or magnificent. Nor had she experienced such a purely primal, feminine reaction.

  Heat flooded over her skin, and she felt a sudden, shocking warmth between her thighs.

  When she managed to drag her gaze higher, from his broad, hair-sprinkled chest and wide shoulders, up the strong column of his throat, she realized that his face was as sinfully handsome as the rest of him. Slicked back, his wet hair was a sun-streaked brown, while his strong features boasted a square jaw and slightly clefted chin, roughened now with a hint of stubble. But it was more his striking, sea green eyes beneath slashing brows that gave him such a bold and wicked appeal.

  When those clear green eyes locked with hers, Antonia felt fresh heat sear along all her nerve-endings.

  He reached for a towel to cover himself and draped the linen around his lean hips. “I beg your pardon.” His voice was low and deep and unmistakably sensual, but fortunately, hearing it served to jolt Antonia from her captive state.

  Realizing she had been staring witlessly, she blushed to the roots of her dark red hair and stammered a reply. “No—it was entirely my fault—I should not be here. . . .”

  “Miss Maitland, I presume?”

  “Yes . . . Who are you?”

  At her bluntness, a crooked smile flashed across his mouth.

  Appalled by her uncustomary lack of manners, Antonia raised her hands to her fiery red cheeks.

  “Trey Deverill,” he replied to her question, watching her expression for a reaction.

  She gave him one; her eyebrows shot up as she

  recognized the name. Of course, Antonia thought distractedly, with the satisfaction of a puzzle piece fitting into place.

  She’d heard tales of the notorious Trey Deverill over the years—from various shipping merchants and sea captains, and from her father as well, since they’d been partners in a minor shipping venture for some time now. Deverill was an adventurer and explorer, renowned in particular for battling pirates on the high seas.

  She had often imagined what he was like, but given his celebrated reputation, he was younger than she’d expected, closer to twenty-five than thirty, she calculated. And in the flesh, he was far more . . . vital than her wildest fantasies.

  Deploring the direction her mind was taking, Antonia cleared her throat to compose herself and spoke, hoping to sound more mature than the green schoolgirl she was. “Forgive me for barging in on you, Mr. Deverill. And for my rudeness. It was merely a shock to find you . . . like this. I am not normally so easily flustered.”

  “Understandable under the circumstances,” he observed, amusement glinting in his remarkable eyes.

  He, on the other hand, seemed not the least embarrassed, she noted. Or inhibited. No doubt he was fully aware of the effect he had on females. On her. He stood at his ease, his head cocked to one side, contemplating her.

  Or perhaps he was merely waiting politely for her to cease gawking and leave.

  “Would you oblige me by shutting the door?” he finally said.

  “Yes . . . certainly.” Coming to her senses at last, Antonia reached forward to grasp the door handle.

  “Oh, and Miss Maitland?”

  She tensed, wondering what he meant to say. “Yes?”

  “I don’t think we should mention this unfortunate encounter to your father. He would skin me alive for compromising you.”

  Her blush only heightened, if that was possible. “Believe me, sir, I have no intention of mentioning this to anyone, most especially my father.”

  Firmly shutting the door, Antonia hurried away to resume her interrupted search for her father, determined to forget her decidedly scandalous encounter with the exciting adventurer.

  Yet as she fled, Antonia knew without a doubt that the wicked, breathtaking image of Trey Deverill’s body would be indelibly etched in her memory
forever.

  Dinner that evening was a discomfiting affair for Antonia, since she could scarcely meet Deverill’s eyes over the expanse of gleaming china and crystal.

  Thankfully, at least, he acted the gentleman. Not by a flicker of his long, dark eyelashes did he let on that they had already met under highly inappropriate circumstances. Yet Antonia had never been so tongue-tied in her life.

  Her father regularly invited various sea captains and business partners to dine at Maitland House, and sometimes, as in Deverill’s case, to stay the night. Usually she peppered visitors with questions about their ships and their adventures at sea. But in this instance, Antonia remained so rarely quiet that even her father noticed and commented.

  When she claimed fatigue after the long carriage ride from school, Samuel Maitland frowned skeptically at her absurd prevarication before resuming his conversation with Deverill.

  During three more courses, Antonia determinedly kept her attention focused on her plate, although she couldn’t stop herself from casting surreptitious glances at Deverill from time to time.

  He looked the part of a gentleman now as well. His fashionably tailored coat of blue superfine molded his powerful shoulders, while the pristine white linen of his cravat enhanced his rugged, rakish good looks. His thick, wavy hair had dried to a lighter shade of brown that glinted with streaks of gold—likely from being bleached by the sun, she surmised. His bold, smooth-shaven features were also sun-bronzed, doubtless because he spent a great deal of time on the deck of a ship.

  Then Antonia recalled that much of the rest of him was just as bronzed and caught herself blushing. She might never be able to look at him again without picturing his magnificent, virile body.

  It was even more lowering to acknowledge that she was unlikely to have the same fascinating impact on him. An extraordinary man like Deverill would pay her little notice. She was still essentially a schoolgirl—tall and gangly, with unconventional red hair, although that fortunately showed promise of darkening into an attractive auburn someday. In truth, her biggest claim to appeal was that as her father’s only child she would eventually inherit the vast Maitland wealth and shipping empire.

  Samuel Maitland was a self-made magnate, whose firm built the swiftest ships in the world. Although a shrewd businessman with a hand in numerous enterprises, he had chiefly made his enormous fortune with his brilliant designs for sailing vessels.

  His genius, however, was considered an anathema to respectable society. He was not only a mere commoner, but worse, he was In Trade. A Cit, looked down upon by the snobbish ton. And in truth, he had little polish or refinement—which was why, in an attempt to increase his daughter’s respectability, he had sent Antonia to the most exclusive young ladies’ academy in England.

  Where you had exquisite manners drummed into your head, Antonia sternly reminded herself. So why was she sitting here as mute as the potted palm gracing the rear corner of the dining room?

  In an effort to conquer her deplorable bashfulness, she forced herself to speak during a lull in the conversation. “I suppose you have had a good many adventures, Mr. Deverill?”

  He turned those brilliant green eyes on her, and she thought she saw a gleam of amusement shimmering in the clear depths.

  “A good many, yes.”

  “I should like to hear about some of them.”

  Giving a chuckle, her father shook his head. “Oh, no, my girl. Any of Deverill’s tales would be unfit for a young lady’s tender ears.”

  Feeling her face warming again, she gave her father an affectionate but exasperated glance as she replied to Deverill. “I love Papa dearly, but he tends to wrap me in cotton wool.”

  Deverill’s sensual mouth curved with definite amusement this time. “But he is right to warn you away from me, Miss Maitland.”

  “Are you so wicked, then?”

  “To you, I am. I’m the black sheep of my family, I fear.”

  “What did you do that was so shameful?”

  Her father snorted in disgust and answered for him. “Deverill dared to join the merchant marine when he was a lad and then had the audacity to make money in the shipping trade.”

  It was an extreme sore point with her father, being condemned for daring to make his fortune through his own labors.

  “I defied my father,” Deverill agreed, “and ran off to sea. I and my American cousin set off together to see the world and make our marks on it.”

  Antonia eyed him with curiosity. “Your father is a knight, I believe.”

  “Yes, but as the youngest of three sons, I will never inherit the title.”

  Yet he still had a measure of blue blood running in his veins, Antonia reflected. His Christian name was aristocratic as well, since Trey was a shortened version of Treylayne, from his mother’s side of the family.

  He was also reportedly very wealthy. Deverill owned a small fleet of armed vessels that hired out to shipping companies and provided protection for the huge, lumbering merchantmen carrying valuable cargo, both from the French navy and from marauding corsairs. Rumor was, however, that he had grown rich from confiscating fabulous pirate treasure.

  “I should have liked to run away to sea,” she remarked lightly, “but it would have disappointed Papa terribly.”

  “Aye, daughter, you would have broken my heart. But you’ve made me proud. Antonia,” he boasted to their guest, “will make a brilliant match one day.”

  When she felt Deverill regarding her, she returned her attention to her blancmange pudding, not wishing to discuss such personal matters as her father’s dreams for her.

  His fondest wish was that she marry a British nobleman to elevate her position in society and diminish the stigma of her breeding. Her mother had been of noble birth, and Samuel Maitland couldn’t bear the thought of his daughter languishing on the fringes of society due to his lack of respectability.

  Antonia adored her father and would do nearly anything to please him, even it if meant quelling her own secret yearnings for something more exciting and adventurous than the proper, stifling, grandiose life that most society ladies led.

  She glanced at her tall, brawny father, noting that he seemed to have grown older in the month since she’d last seen him. His bright red hair was now speckled with gray and his face more lined, while his once jovial personality had dimmed, burdened by the sadness that had stricken him at his beloved wife’s death many years ago. The fact that he now lived for Antonia—his only child—was not lost on her.

  She didn’t realize she had fallen silent again, however, until her father addressed her.

  “It’s time you leave the men to their port, my girl. Deverill and I have a great deal of business to discuss, and he will only be here this one night.”

  “Very well, Papa,” she said, hiding her disappointment and forcing a smile as she rose and came around the table to kiss her father’s ruddy cheek. “I will be in the drawing room if you need me.”

  Both men politely stood for her, and as she left, she heard her father say, “Let us retire to the Map Room, Deverill. I have an intriguing new design to show you.”

  The Map Room was what Samuel Maitland called the large study where he sketched out plans for his new ships. Lately, in a further effort to become more respectable, he had begun ruling his empire from home rather than traveling daily to his offices near the London docks.

  He enjoyed having an appreciative audience, however, someone who recognized his brilliance as a designer, which only a fellow nautical man like Deverill could truly do. When Antonia heard their shared laughter, she winced at her own selfishness. She might be jealous of Deverill for claiming her father’s attention away from her, but she was very glad to hear her father laugh.

  She was still alone in the drawing room an hour later when the Maitland housekeeper, Mrs. Peeke, brought her tea.

  Antonia would have liked for the kind, elderly woman to stay and keep her company, but Mrs. Peeke was a stickler about servants knowing their proper place. So
they merely chatted a moment, with the housekeeper asking her about school before bustling away with a smile and a muttered comment about making certain the master received proper sustenance, since he became forgetful when he locked himself away in his Map Room.

  Antonia tried to ignore her loneliness as she finished her tea. Then, feeling restless, she put down the book she was reading and went upstairs to change out of her fashionable white muslin dinner gown into the warmer, green velvet riding habit she usually wore for target practice.

  The April night was cool and damp when she made her way out-of-doors. On the grounds at the far rear of the mansion, her father had built her an archery range that ran the entire width of the estate. The target distance was only sixty yards rather than the standard one hundred, which most archery societies used for competitions, but for training it served Antonia well. Archery was one of the few sports that permitted female participation, and she hoped one day to be granted membership to the Royal British Bowmen.

  She was severely out of practice now, for the Baldwin Academy considered even that tame sport too indelicate for their young ladies to indulge in. But shooting tended to calm her restlessness, since it required skill and concentration.

  There was enough moonlight to see by as Antonia descended the terrace steps and followed the path through the landscaped gardens. She passed a gazebo with its delicate lace woodwork and clinging rose vines, her late mother’s favorite spot to enjoy a summer morning, and arrived at a small outbuilding where her equipment was stored. There, she lit two lanterns—one that she placed at the far end of the range to illuminate the circular straw boss, the other on the marble table beside the shooter’s line.

  Then she retrieved her bow and a quiver of arrows and took up the archer’s stance. She was glad to feel the smooth, polished yew of the bow in her hands. And from the moment she nocked a wooden arrow and drew back the bowstring, a sense of pleasurable calm descended over her.

  Her skills were indeed rusty. In the first two rounds of twelve arrows each, a majority struck the target but only three hit the golden bull’s-eye in the center.