Harlequin
Featuring: Oliver "Beau" Blackthorn; Lady Chelsea Mills–Beckman
384 pages ISBN: 0373775911 EAN: 9780373775910 Mass Market Paperback Add to Wish List
Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn will never forget the day he
foolishly proposed marriage to Lady Madelyn Mills-Beckman.
Not only did Madelyn heartlessly reject his proposal, but
Oliver was brutally beaten with a whip by her brother,
Thomas, the future Earl of Brean. Although impeccably
educated and extremely wealthy, Oliver was considered a
ridiculous match for Lady Madelyn. After all, Oliver was
only the bastard son of the Marquess of Blackthorn. Seven
years later, Oliver has never forgotten the shame of being
whipped and ridiculed by the heir of Brean. Only one person
had shown him kindness on that dark day, Madelyn's youngest
sister, Chelsea.
Years later, Oliver is no longer the foolishly romantic boy
with hopes of winning the hand of a Lady. He bitterly
accepts his role as his father's bastard, but has been
secretly sabotaging Thomas Brean's life from a distance.
Oliver's ultimate revenge on Thomas Mills-Beckman is served
to him on a silver platter when a familiar face appears at
his home one day. As he looks into those dreamy blue-gray
eyes, he recognizes Madelyn's youngest sister who wept at
the sight of her brother's brutality. Only Chelsea is no
longer the young child Oliver remembers. She is now a
stunning beauty who has come to plead for his help-- he must
marry her in order to avoid marrying a man she despises.
The Earl of Brean announced to his sister that she was to
wed the Reverend Francis Flotely, a corrupt man who had
gained control over Thomas' life after Thomas recovered
from a dangerous illness. Flotely had transformed a man
who had once been devoted to women and drink, to man who
lived by the Scriptures. Thomas would give the Reverend
anything he asked, including his sister, Chelsea. Chelsea
knows the only way to avoid marrying the odious Reverend is
by running away. And what better way to punish her brother
than by marrying his old enemy, Oliver Blackthorn?
Chelsea is simply the means of avenging the worst
humiliation Oliver had ever endured. Marrying Mills-
Beckman's sister would finally settle the score that had
haunted Oliver for years. But as Oliver and Chelsea race
to Scotland to take their vows with the Earl of Brean hot
on their heels, Oliver begins to realize that Chelsea is
not like the woman who broke his heart and her cruel older
brother. While they manage to evade Thomas on their
adventure through the north of England and through
Scotland, Oliver begins to realize that Chelsea has become
more than a tool for revenge. But will he risk his heart
once again?
THE TAMING OF THE RAKE is full of romance, humor, and
adventure. Readers can't help but sympathize with Oliver's
tender but foolish marriage proposal and his later
overwhelming need for revenge. Although brought together
out of mutual self-interest, Oliver and Chelsea's romance
transforms into a lighthearted and playful romance readers
will adore. Revenge may be sweet, but falling in love is
even sweeter, especially when it becomes impossible to deny.
Charming, wealthy and wickedly handsome, Oliver “Beau”
Blackthorn has it all…except revenge on the enemy he can’t
forget. Now the opportunity for retribution has fallen into
his hands. But his success hinges on Lady Chelsea
Mills-Beckman—the one woman with the power to distract him
from his quest.
Desperate to escape her family’s control, Lady Chelsea
seizes the chance to run off with the notorious eldest
Blackthorn brother, knowing she’s only a pawn in his game.
But as Beau draws her deep into a world of intrigue,
danger and explosive passion, does she dare hope he’ll
choose love over vengeance?
Excerpt
Men have died from time to time,
and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
William Shakespeare As You Like It
Prologue
Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn was young and in love, which
made him a candidate for less than intelligent behavior on
two counts.
And so it was that, with the clouded vision of a man
besotted, and more than a tad guilty of what some might
term hubris (others would simply say he was an arrogant,
upstart puppy), that same Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn, raised
to think quite highly of himself, the equal to all men, did
with hat figuratively in hand, hope in his heart, and a
bunch of posies clutched to his breast, bound up the marble
steps to the mansion in Portland Place one fine Spring
morning and smartly rap the massive door with the lions’
head brass knocker.
He performed a quick mental inventory of his appearance,
one he’d worked over for a full two hours, crumpling both a
half-dozen neck cloths and his valet’s abused nerves in the
process.
Beau was presenting himself in a morning rigout of
finest tan bucksins, dazzlingly white linen, a stunning yet
unobtrusive waistcoat of marvelously brushed silk shot
through with cleverly designed stripes made of the lightest
tan thread (carrying through the tone of his buckskins — he
was hoping he might start a new fashion), and a darkest
blue jacket that so closely followed the lines of his
young, leanly muscled body that he could not manage to get
his arms in or out of the sleeves without assistance.
He’d practiced the jaunty positioning of his curly-
brimmed beaver in front of the pier glass in his dressing
room for a full ten minutes before pronouncing the angle
satisfactory; showing off his thick crop of sun-streaked
blonde hair rather than crushing it, providing just enough
cover from the brim that his bright blue eyes were not cast
into the shade.
It only just now occurred to him that the hat would be
handed over to the Brean footman, along with his new tan
kid gloves and walking stick, and Lady Madelyn would never
see them.
Hmm, no one had as yet answered his knock. Shabby,
that’s what that was. He lifted his hand to the knocker
once more, just as the door opened, and very nearly tapped
on the footman’s nose.
Beau glared at the fellow, who stepped back quickly, and
the well-tailored Mr. Blackthorn sauntered into the black
and white marble tiled foyer, feeling his cheeks growing
hot and damning his lifelong tendency to blush.
Shortly thereafter he was admitted to the Grand Drawing
Room by the family butler, who seemed disapproving in some
way as he looked at the flowers, to await the appearance of
Lady Madelyn Mills-Beckman, elder daughter of the Earl of
Brean, and Beau Blackthorn’s Beloved.
"Quite a lot of Bs in there," he murmured to himself, an
outward sign of the nervousness he felt but had thus far
managed to conceal. There had been that small slip with the
footman, but by and large, Beau was still feeling quite
confident.
"Talking to oneself is considered by some to be an
indication of madness. At least that’s what Mama said once
about Aunt Harriet, and she was mad as a hatter. Aunt
Harriet, that is. Mama was simply silly. I once saw Aunt
Harriet with her clothes on backwards. Are those flowers
for Madelyn? Should I tell you that she loathes flowers?
They make her sneeze, and her eyes water, and then her nose
begins to drip ..."
Beau had already turned about smartly, to see Lady
Chelsea Mills-Beckman, a rather pernicious brat of no more
than fourteen, ensconced on a flowered chaise near the
window. She had her bent legs tucked up under the skirts of
her sprigged muslin gown, and an open book was perched on
her lap.
His reluctant scrutiny took in her long and messily wavy
blonde hair that had half-escaped its ribbon, the eyes that
were neither gray nor quite blue below flyaway eyebrows
that could make her look devilish and pixyish at the same
time, the budding young body that should certainly be
positioned with more circumspection.
The wide, teasing grin on her face, he ignored.
Beau had suffered the misfortune of Lady Chelsea’s
presence twice before in the past month, always with a book
in her hand and a too-smart tongue in her head, and he was
as loathe to see her this morning as he’d been either of
those other times.
"Your father should order a lock put on the nursery
door," he drawled now, even as he strode to the French
doors and unceremoniously tossed the posies out into the
garden.
Lady Chelsea laughed at this obvious silliness, be it
directed at his statement or the flowers he couldn’t be
certain. But then she told him, drat her anyway.
"I’d only find another way out. I’m motherless, you
understand, and allowances must be made for me. Too young
for a Come-out, too prone to mischief to be left with my
governess in the country while Madelyn is being popped off.
I suppose you want me to vacate the room now, before
Madelyn makes her grand entrance and you delight her by
drooling all over her shoe tops. Oh, look at that, you’ve
got a wet spot from the stems on that odiously homely
waistcoat. I’ll wager that’s put a crimp in your airs of
consequence."
Beau hastily brushed at his waistcoat before his brain
could inform his pride that the dratted girl was making a
May game out of him. Had he really only considered the
nursery for her banishment? He would rather the cheeky brat
left the continent, perhaps even the universe, but
refrained from that particular honesty. "I would like to
converse with Lady Madelyn in private, yes."
"Oh very well, if you’re going to be all starchy about
the thing." Lady Chelsea got to her feet and smoothed down
her gown. She was a rather attractive child, he supposed.
She’d probably break a dozen hearts in a few years. But she
didn’t hold a patch on her sister, she of the ice blue eyes
and nearly white-blonde hair, her mouth a pouty pink, her
skin so creamy and flawless above the low bodice of her
gowns.
Beau inserted a finger beneath his collar and gave a
small tug, as it had suddenly become difficult to swallow.
"Mr. Blackthorn, what a lovely surprise. I hadn’t
thought to see you so soon after our dance at Lady Cowper’s
ball. Naughty man, showing up uninvited as you did. Quite
shocking, really. And just to dance with me and then take
your leave? It was all quite romantic and daring." Lady
Madelyn tipped her head to one side as if trying to somehow
see behind his back. "Did you bring me a gift? I adore
gifts."
Beau bowed to the love of his life and apologized for
his sad lack of manners.
Lady Madelyn looked crestfallen for a moment, but then
brightened. "Very well, I accept your apology. Next time,
perhaps you’ll bring me flowers. I do love flowers."
A giggle from the corner alerted Beau to the fact that
the brat was enjoying another small joke at his expense,
but he refused to look at her or acknowledge the hit. "I
will buy you an entire hothouse full of flowers," he
promised Lady Madelyn earnestly, bowing yet again. "And
now, if I might have a word with you in private? There is
something of great personal importance I wish to ask you.
After the events of last night, I should think you know
what that is."
She didn’t move, didn’t blink, and yet something changed
in dearest Lady Madelyn’s ice blue eyes. Her smile became
frozen in place, and her creamy white skin seemed to pale
even more, all the way to porcelain, and looking just as
cold and hard.
"Now, Mr. Blackthorn, you know that is quite impossible.
No young lady of quality is ever without a chaperon in the
presence of a gentleman, as we both know. I do believe, if
I am interpreting your statement correctly, that it is my
absent father you should be asking for, not me," she
scolded in a rather strangled tone. "Chelsea, would you be
a dear and ask our brother to step in here for a moment?
Mrs. Wickham is still dressing, I’m afraid."
"But I saw her earlier on the stairs, and she was
completely —"
Lady Madelyn whirled about to glare at her sister. "Do
as I say!"
Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn was young and in love, and
like many of his similarly afflicted brethren, not thinking
too clearly. But it didn’t take a clear thinker to
recognize that the rosy scenario he’d pictured in his brain
and the scene playing out in front of him now were poles
apart.
She was probably nervous. Women tend to be nervous at
times like these; they can’t seem to help themselves. He’d
make allowances.
"Lady Madelyn … and if I might be so bold, dear, dear
Madelyn," he said, taking quick advantage while they were
still alone, dropping to one knee in front of her and
clasping her right hand in his, just as he had practiced
the move on Sidney, his horribly embarrassed valet. "It can
be no secret that I have admired you greatly since the
moment we first met. With each new meeting my affection has
grown, and I believe it has been reciprocated, most
especially after our walk together the other evening when I
so dared as to kiss you and you did me the great honor of
allowing me to —"
"Not another word! How provokingly common of you speak
of such things! No gentleman would ever be so crass as to
throw a moment’s folly into lady’s face. A single kiss? It
was a lark, a dare, no more than that. Get up! You’re a
dreadful creature."
A single kiss? It had been considerably more than a
single kiss. She’d allowed him to cup her breast through
the thin fabric of her gown, moaned delightfully against
his mouth as he’d run his thumb across her hard, pert
nipple. If not for the sound of approaching footsteps,
there would have been much more. He’d nearly been bursting,
had come within moments of thoroughly embarrassing himself,
for God’s sake.
He would have thought her a tease, a cold, heartless
bitch, if he was in his right mind. But no, he was in love.
And she was clearly upset.
"I know I’m being forward," Beau persisted — he’d been
all night rehearsing this speech. "I ask only that I have
your permission to address your father. I would not wish to
do so if my affection truly wasn’t returned."
"Well, it isn’t," Lady Madelyn responded hotly, pulling
her hand free. "You overreaching nobody. Just because your
father is one of us, and you’ve been accepted in some
quarters because of him and because of that ridiculous
fortune he’s bestowed on you, doesn’t mean you’ll truly
ever be one of us. You’re a joke, Beau Blackthorn, a
laughingstock to everyone in Mayfair, and you’re the only
one who doesn’t know it. As if I or any female of any
decency in the ton would deign to align herself with a — a
bastard like you."
Beau would later remember that the lady’s brother
entered the drawing room at some point during this heart
shredding declaration, along with two burly footmen who
quickly grabbed hold of Beau’s arms and hauled him to his
feet, and beyond, so that he was dangling between them, his
boots a good two inches off the floor.
He called out his beloved’s name, but she had already
turned her back and was walking away from him, holding up
the hem of her skirts as if to avoid stepping in something
vile.
A dare? A joke? That’s all he’d been? She — and God only
knew who else — had been encouraging him, yet secretly
laughing at him? Is that how Society really saw him? As
some sort of monkey they could watch dance? A performing
bear they could prod with a stick, just to see how he’d
react? Here, bastard, kiss me, touch what you’ll never
have. And then go away. You’re not one of us.
His mother had warned him, warned all three of her sons.
Beau had never believed the dire predictions that she
ascribed to the ridiculous notions and actions of their
father. The world had to have been better than she’d
painted it. But she’d been right, and he and his father had
been wrong.
At last Beau, his dreams, all of the assumptions and
hopes of his young life shattering at his feet, came to his
senses. He struggled violently to be free, to no avail,
until he was carried out the way he had come in and been
thrown down the marble steps to the flagway. He could hear
as well as feel the crack of a bone in his left forearm as
it made sharp contact with the edge of one of the steps
even as all the air left his lungs in a painful whoosh.
Then the first snap of the whip hit him across his back,
and he could do nothing more than curl himself into a ball
and take each blow, trying to protect his face, his eyes,
his injured arm.
"Insult my sister, will you? Take advantage of her
innocence?" The viscount flourished the coach whip again
and again, the braided leather with the hard, metal tip
slicing through Beau’s new morning coat and straight on
through to his skin, setting his back on fire. "Putting on
airs above your station? That’s what coddling your type
leads to, damn it. Society in shambles! The very breath you
take is an abomination to all that is decent. I should have
you bound and tossed in the Thames like the worthless dog
you are!"
At last the assault with the whip ended, followed
briefly by some well-placed kicks from the footmen, and
Beau heard the slam of a door. He tentatively got to his
feet, his body a mass of pain, his heart and soul in
tatters, just like his fine coat. One of the footmen spat
at him before they both shouted at him to go away, their
coarse oaths drawing the attention of any passersby who
hadn’t already stopped to stare at the spectacle.
Still crouching like a whipped dog as he supported his
broken arm, Beau turned to look back at the mansion, only
to have the door open slightly and the face of Lady Chelsea
peek out at him, her eyes awash in tears.
"I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Blackthorn," she said, sniffling,
tears running down her cheeks. "Madelyn is vain and
heartless, and Thomas is just an ass. They can neither of
them help themselves, I suppose. I don’t think you a joke.
I…I think you’re entirely worthy, if a little silly in your
head. But perhaps you should go away now. Very far away."
And then she closed the door and Beau was left to stare
down his own groom, who had been waiting with the new
curricle that had also been purchased to impress Lady
Madelyn. He’d planned to take her for a drive once he’d
spoken to her father, and perhaps steal another kiss (and
more) as they rode out to Richmond Park.
"Thank you, no, and thank you so much for springing to
my aid with all the loyalty of a potted plant," Beau said
stiffly as the room stepped forward to lend him support,
gritting his teeth against the nausea that
threatened. "Return that damned thing to my stables. I’ll
walk back to Grosvenor Square."
And that’s just what Beau did. He walked all the long
blocks to his father’s mansion. Staggered at times, but
always righted himself, kept his chin high, his spine
straight, looking each passerby in the eye. Let them see,
let them all see what they’d done to him while calling
themselves gentleman and ladies, thinking themselves
somehow better than he, more civilized. Let them laugh now
if they could. And let them remember, so that the next time
they saw Oliver Le Beau Blcckthorn, crossed his path,
they’d know well enough to beware.
With each step, as those he encountered quickly crossed
the street to avoid the torn and bloody sight of him, while
none of them, acquaintance or supposed friend, raised a
hand to help him, that same Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn left
more of his youth behind him, until he was left with only
one thought, one remaining truth.
His money, his looks, his charm, the friendships he’d
believed he’d forged at school and here in London, the
acceptance he’d thought he’d found? At the end of the day,
they meant nothing.
The oldest son of the Marquess of Blackthorn, at two and
twenty years of age, had at last seem himself as the world
saw him. Not as a man, not as a friend, not as a mate. They
saw him as he was. Illegitimate. Born on the wrong side of
the blanket, son of a marquess and a common actress. An
educated and well-heeled bastard, yes, but a bastard all
the same.
When they saw him again, they would think differently.
By God they would!