In hiding from a family scandal that years ago tore her
family apart, Ellen Drake is companion to the beautiful
Rebecca Burton in the months prior to Rebecca's wedding to
Alex Marshall, Lord Stanton. When Ellen discovers Alex in a
compromising position with another woman, she makes it her
mission to ensure that the man remain faithful to his
fiancée, devoting herself wholeheartedly to her self-
appointed pursuit.
Initially irritated by the drab woman stalking him and
interrupting his carnal pursuits, Alex soon discovers that
beneath the drab garb of the aggravatingly persistent Miss
Drake is a strikingly attractive and fascinating woman.
Ellen soon finds the tables turned as Alex begins a sensual
pursuit, one he isn't going to give up until he's made
Ellen his own. All is not what it seems in the Stanton
household, however, as someone plots the downfall of Ellen,
Alex and Rebecca, using their passions against them to
further an evilly Machiavellian plot.
Ms. Holt's TOO TEMPTING TO TOUCH is an intriguing,
sensually explicit, thoroughly entertaining story set in
1812 London. The many plots are woven together to create a
fast-paced, can't-put-down story. Characters come to life
on the pages, holding the reader from first page to last.
This one goes on the keeper shelf!
THE ONLY CURE FOR TEMPTATION...
Ellen Drake has seen first hand how dangerous scandal can
be. Her family was torn apart by an unjust accusation ten
years ago, and now, working as a paid companion, Ellen
must keep her reputation above reproach. Catching her
employer's betrothed in a sizzling tryst is bad enough;
even worse that Ellen should find herself so infernally
enthralled by the spectacle! Ellen intends to prevent Alex
Marshall, Lord Stanton, from dallying with other women
before his wedding day, but the rogue turns the tables —
with an invitation to be his paramour. It's a proposition
that is too outrageous, too indecent... and strangely
irresistible. With a single touch, Alex opens the door to
a secret world of sensual desire, a world Ellen is burning
to explore...
IS TO SURRENDER...
Alex intends to be faithful once he's married, but in the
meantime, London offers so many tempting bed partners.
Giving the prim Miss Drake a taste of the excitement she
clearly craves will be a delightful diversion, nothing
more. But their secret dalliance unleashes the vengeance
of someone who is plotting revenge, someone whose own
erotic pursuits are twisted with madness. And the scandal
that destroyed Ellen's family is about to come calling
once again...
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
London, England 1812
"Do you feel sorry for me?"
"Dreadfully sorry, darling."
At the sound of voices, Ellen Drake halted in shuffling
her deck of cards. She'd been anxious for a quiet
interlude and a chance to rest after a trying day, but
apparently, no privacy was to be had. She was huddled in
the shadows of the earl's library, hiding and playing
solitaire at a writing desk that was situated behind a
large potted plant. She peeked around it.
From her discreet location, she couldn't see who'd
entered, but it was a man and a woman. Considering that
they'd sneaked away from the crowded party — as had she —
and that they were cooing and purring, it was obvious that
a romantic tryst was commencing.
When the man spun the key in the lock, Ellen's suspicions
were confirmed. He was bent on seduction, and his partner
eager for it to happen.
Of all the rotten luck!
She glanced about, searching for a rear door by which she
could escape, but there wasn't one. She was trapped, and
the sole means of exit was her bumbling into the middle of
the torrid scene, which she was loathe to attempt.
Though she'd been in London but a few hours, she was aware
of how the members of the Quality were prone to amorous
mischief, and she couldn't bear to witness which wife was
consorting with which husband. She had a firm moral
constitution, had had a decent and respectable upbringing,
and when she knew a person had a penchant for adultery, it
was difficult to be civil.
Her host, Alex Marshall, Lord Stanton, was the prime
illustration of how arduous it was to pretend nonchalance.
A decade earlier, when she was a girl of eighteen, Stanton
had been in the country, merry-making at a local estate.
She'd stumbled upon him in the woods, doing all sorts of
things he oughtn't with a neighbor's daughter. Ellen had
never forgotten a single detail of the spectacle, so how
was she to exhibit any courtesy toward him?
For months, since the moment she'd learned that she'd be
traveling to London and staying in Stanton's home, she'd
been panicked. In light of her post as a lady's companion,
she couldn't have refused to accompany her employers,
Rebecca and Lydia Burton. Nor could she voice her opinion
as to why she was opposed to Rebecca's betrothal to
Stanton. As the disaster unfolded, she could only observe
and stew.
As a spinster who'd been forced to make her own way in the
world, Ellen's reputation had to be beyond reproach. She
could never mention Stanton's base character, for then,
she'd be compelled to recount how she'd spied on him.
Fortunately, during the brief period they'd been in his
house, Stanton hadn't deigned to appear, so she'd avoided
meeting him, and she hoped to delay an introduction for as
long as she was able. Rebecca was Stanton's cousin, their
marriage arranged when they were children. Rebecca had
spent most of her twenty-two years waiting for Stanton to
decide he was ready to tie the knot, which he finally had,
so at his behest, they'd scurried to the city to set the
process in motion. She was thrilled and excited, but Ellen
was convinced that Rebecca would be miserable with such a
rampant libertine for her husband.
"The nuptial noose is tightening," the man was
commenting. "I'm about to have my wings clipped."
"Poor dear," the woman soothed. "Matrimony can be so
tedious."
"Can't it, though?"
An engaged man! Ellen fumed. Who was about to be wed! The
cad!
There was a lengthy pause, a rustle of clothing, some
giggling, then the woman said, "You're a beast to lure me
away from the festivities."
"Why did you let me?"
"You're so...tense."
"Oh, I'm definitely tense," the man agreed. "Very, very
tense. I need to relax. And soon!"
"I thought I should offer my assistance."
"Oh, you should!" the man replied. "You absolutely
should."
Each sentence was punctuated by intervals of silence, and
though Ellen would have poked her eyes out rather than
look, her curiosity was piqued. What — precisely — were
they doing?
She leaned farther to the side, discovering that the
ribald scene was every bit as tawdry as she'd envisioned.
The couple was wrapped around one another so completely
that they might have been glued together.
The woman was a short, buxom brunette, while the man was
tall — six feet at least — with a fit, muscled physique.
He had dark hair, and though she couldn't see his face,
she was sure he'd be handsome as the devil.
He was cupping the woman's buttocks, and as they writhed
and wrestled, Ellen rippled with equal parts disgust and
exhilaration.
Don't watch! she scolded, declining to be drawn in to the
squalid rendezvous, yet she couldn't stop staring.
Once prior, she'd viewed such licentious conduct — as a
girl in the forest when she'd glimpsed Lord Stanton — and
evidently, naught had changed since that shameful day.
Maturity had neither bestowed wisdom nor granted
heightened judgment. She was as intrigued as ever by
sexual endeavor.
What was the matter with her?
At twenty-eight, she was resigned to her situation.
Circumstances had guaranteed that she would never marry,
so why was she enthralled? Was she secretly pining for a
beau? Had she a lusty aspect to her personality of which
she was oblivious?
How peculiar! How terrifying!
She'd often heard that a woman needed to wed, that — after
a certain age — it was unhealthy to shun matrimony. She'd
always scoffed at the prospect, but what if the stories
were correct?
What if she had a buried need for male companionship? What
if it became worse with time? Could she grow crazed from
unfulfilled desire?
"We really shouldn't be dallying," the woman contended.
"But I can't predict when I'll manage to slip away again.
This could be my last chance. You wouldn't ask me to pass
it up, would you? It's like ordering a starving man to
ignore a feast, a thirsty man to walk by an oasis."
Ellen rolled her eyes. She hadn't had much experience with
men, her deceased father and her tormented brother, James,
being the two main examples, but she recognized the
statement for the banal remark it was. What sane female
would succumb on the basis of such drivel? If Ellen was
the one being seduced, she'd insist on something a tad
more romantic!
"So...my participation would be an act of kindness?" the
woman queried.
"Think of it as your Christian duty to a deprived soul,"
he advised. "As I said, it may be my only opportunity."
"Then we shouldn't waste it."
Instantly, the tryst was pitched to the next level. They
were kissing with a mutual fervor. Her arms were draped
around him, her leg, too, a heel anchoring him as she
stroked her foot up and down his calf.
His crafty fingers were fondling her bosom and ultimately
slithering under her clothes to caress and pet. With a
smooth yank, he tugged at the bodice so that a breast was
bared. He pinched and squeezed then, stunning Ellen to her
very core, he dipped down and sucked at the nipple. The
gesture was so surprising, and so unexpected, that Ellen
clamped her hand over her mouth, lest she gasp aloud.
Though she'd previously seen Lord Stanton frolicking, and
thus, assumed herself an expert in libidinous affairs,
that assignation had entailed a great deal of enthusiastic
kissing and hugging, but nothing similar to this.
She was so naïve! She'd had no idea that a man would do
such a thing to a woman, that a woman would enjoy it, and
her body responded with an impatient zeal. Her breasts
were inflamed, her nipples throbbing, and she suffered
from the strongest urge to massage as them.
Cheeks burning, temperature rising, she was so hot that
she worried she might ignite, and she could scarcely keep
from fanning herself.
The lovers were next to a fancy sofa, and they laid down
and stretched out so they were shielded from sight. She
couldn't see what was transpiring, but there was heavy
breathing, sighs and murmurs, more rustling of fabric.
What was occurring?
How frustrating to have her analysis stymied by a piece of
furniture! She was desperate to know all, her salacious
tendencies raging, and she had to physically grip her
chair so that she didn't sneak over for a closer look.
"Oh...oh..." the woman panted. "Oh...Stanton, you're so
good at that!"
Stanton! The annoying Romeo was Lord Stanton? The swine!
As if she'd been doused with icy water, Ellen jerked to
reality. Fury replaced curiosity. How could she not have
guessed it was he?
Over the years, there had been appalling rumors about him,
and she'd believed them all. He was a wastrel and roué,
who trifled with any willing female, but beyond his
profligate habits, Ellen was positive he was a liar and
perhaps a thief, as well.
That fated summer, when he'd been loafing in the country,
a duchess's ring had been stolen. In Ellen's opinion,
everyone who'd been staying at the manor was a suspect —
Stanton included — but her sixteen year old brother,
James, had been accused instead. He'd been naught more
than a boy, the estate agent's son, and he'd been
sentenced to twenty years hard labor and transported to
the penal colonies. The disgrace and shock had killed
their widowed father, so Ellen had been left all alone in
the world to fend for herself.
Her cherished family had been ruined by the calamity, and
she blamed Alex Marshall and his affluent friends.
Plus, he was engaged to Rebecca! Since he'd been too lazy
to arrive on time, she was down the hall, entertaining his
guests. No wonder he couldn't be bothered to join them for
supper. He was too busy dishonoring himself with every
hussy in attendance!
Ellen was so angry that if she'd been holding a pistol,
she'd have marched over, aimed, and shot him through the
middle of his black heart.
So far, she'd remained hidden, but she was finished with
wallowing in the corner. If Stanton presumed he could
behave so despicably toward Rebecca, he was in for a
surprise. He wasn't going to philander! Not if Ellen had
anything to say about it.
His wicked ways were about to end!
She reached for her cards, split them in half, then
shuffled — slowly and loudly — each card falling with a
determined snap. It was a new deck, the paper crisp and
stiff, and it made a brittle noise that echoed off the
high ceiling.
Across the room, the woman hissed, "What was that? Did you
hear it?"
After a brief hesitation, Stanton replied, "No."
There were whispers, more shifting on the sofa, so Ellen
shuffled again, and she started to hum, stridently and out
of tune, but impossible to disregard.
Lord Stanton's head popped up over the edge of the
couch. "What the devil?"
"Stanton? Is that you?" Ellen asked, acting as if they'd
been acquainted forever which, in an odd way, they had
been. "I hadn't realized anyone was in here but me."
"Who are you," he barked, "and what are you doing in my
library?"
"I'm playing solitaire," she answered evenly, "but it's so
boring. Would you care to let me beat you at another game
of gin? It's been an eternity since I've taken any of your
money." She was fibbing — they'd never socialized in the
past — but it was amusing to pester him.
"Gin?" he sputtered. "You want to play...gin?"
"Unless you'd like to suggest something else."
His expression was comical. He scowled at Ellen, gazed
down at his Jezebel, scowled at Ellen, then
grumbled, "Bloody hell."
The woman pushed at him, tossing him on the floor in her
frenzied effort to right herself. In seconds, they were
both standing, their backs to Ellen, as they straightened
clothing and tucked in bodily parts.
Ellen rose and sauntered over, only to ascertain that she
knew the woman — the circles of the Quality were quite
small — and she hoped to shame her into better conduct.
"Why hello, Mrs. Farthingale," Ellen greeted with a cold
calculation.
"Have we met?" Farthingale inquired.
"Have you forgotten me already?" Ellen prodded. "I'm
Rebecca Burton's companion."
"You are?" Farthingale gulped with alarm as Stanton
muttered, "Dammit!"
"We were introduced when you were visiting her last
autumn."
"Oh, yes," Farthingale claimed, clearly not recollecting
at all. She paled. "How marvelous to see you."
"Isn't it, though?"
"Alex...that is Lord Stanton...was helping me with my
dress. It...ah...came loose."
"Dresses can be so tedious, can't they?" Ellen
commented. "Like matrimony."
"We slipped away to...ah...to..." Farthingale halted.
There was nothing she could say to extricate herself from
the mess with any aplomb.
"I'll just be going," she finally mumbled. "If you'll
excuse me..."
She slinked away, groped at the key in the lock, then
bolted into the hall. As she went, Ellen and Stanton were
frozen in place, watching her flee, but once the door
shut, Stanton whipped around.
He advanced until they were toe to toe, until his boots
dipped under the hem of her skirt. He towered over her,
every inch of his six-foot frame aching to wring her neck.
When she'd spied on him a decade prior, she'd seen him
from a distance and had figured he was handsome, but she
hadn't grasped how attractive he would prove to be up
close. She was disconcerted, by his height, by his
demeanor, by his blatant masculinity.
He appeared dark and dangerous, his black hair swept off
his forehead to reveal high cheekbones, an aristocratic
nose, a sensual mouth. His shoulders were wide, his chest
broad, his waist narrow, and he had lanky legs that were
braced with fury.
He was studying her, his blue, blue eyes roaming across
her face and torso, and she was uncomfortable with the
intoxicating scrutiny. She felt too short, too old, too
skinny, too...too...ordinary, when she suddenly didn't
wish to be. She yearned to confront him in a stylish
sapphire gown that would match the color of her eyes and
set off the blond of her hair. She craved silk gloves, a
lace shawl, tasteful jewelry, and she shook off the
foolish whimsy.
From where had it sprung? Why would she pine to be all
that she was not? And for him, of all people? She loathed
him and all he represented.
"What is your name?" he seethed.
"Miss Ellen Drake."
"How long have you been in here?"
"The entire time."
"Gin, indeed," he ultimately griped. "I've never seen you
before in my life."
"No, you haven't," she agreed, grinning, "but you've
definitely seen me now. And" — she arched a brow — "I have
seen you."
He loomed until there was no space separating them. She'd
never been so near to an adult male, so she hadn't
understood that the experience could be so invigorating.
She reeled with excitement — but dismay, too. She found
him intensely intriguing, when she didn't want him to be,
and she pulled away, which he wouldn't allow.
He moved with her, very much like a hawk stalking its
prey.
"Are you threatening me, Miss Drake?"
"Not at all, Lord Stanton. I'm merely stating the facts."
"To what end, you aggravating tart?"
"Tart!"
He snorted with derision. "There are a few other terms I
could call you, but I don't think I ought."
"Minding your manners, are you?"
He ignored the taunt. "What is your relationship to
Rebecca?"
"As I said, I'm her companion."
"She has no companion."
"Oh yes, she has," Ellen asserted, "and if you don't
reform your scandalous behavior, I'll notify her as to
what I've witnessed."
He evaluated her again, searching for her petty secrets
and apparently locating them all. He chuckled. "No you
won't. You'd never hurt her."
"I wouldn't consider myself to be hurting her. I'd be
doing her a favor."
"A favor!"
"Yes."
"But I'm the catch of the kingdom," he mocked, "and
Rebecca has me on her hook."
"You are so vain!"
He stepped in, and she stepped away. They were like a pair
of dancers, gliding across the floor. They continued on
until she bumped into his desk and could go no further.
She was wedged against the polished oak, her bottom
perched on the edge, and he leaned in so that she was
tipping over, and his firm palm between her shoulder
blades was all that kept her from being prone.
"You don't like me, do you?" he asked.
"Not a bit, and I wish Rebecca didn't like you, either."
"Why you arrogant, uppity — "
"Uppity!"
"How dare you malign me! If you are who you say you are —
and I admit that I have grave doubts as to your veracity —
you're living under my roof, employed by my cousin, and
friend to my fiancée, which indicates that you have more
audacity than anyone I've ever met. I ought to talk with
Lydia and have you fired."
"If you try, I can promise that my farewell to Rebecca
will involve a vivid description of Mrs. Farthingale's
bosom."
Ellen didn't know where she'd garnered the courage to spar
with him, or why she was bent on provocation. He brought
out her worst traits, making her bold and rash. Their
wrangling gave her an exhilarating sense of power. She
felt as if she could do any wild thing without
repercussion.
"Listen, you cheeky little — " He paused in mid-insult and
reined in his temper. With an undignified scoff, he sidled
away. As if his cravat had shrunk and was choking him, he
tugged at it. "How much?"
She sat up. "How much...what?"
"Don't play dumb — which you're obviously not. What will
it take for you to be silent?"
"You suppose I'm blackmailing you?"
"Well, yes." He shrugged. "I don't want to upset Rebecca.
Neither do you. So name your price. Cash? Baubles? A few
new gowns from Madame LaFarge?"
She let her own gaze wander down. He really was a fine
masculine specimen. How sad that so much low character
could be wrapped in such a pretty package.
She smirked. "Celibacy."
As if she'd struck him, he blanched. "Celibacy!"
She wasn't certain what celibacy entailed, but the
mysterious deed included some of what he'd been doing with
Farthingale. "Yes. I would have your word on it."
"Not bloody likely."
She nodded, latching onto the idea with a particular
relish. "It shall be celibacy till the wedding, and your
complete devotion to Rebecca. Or else!"
"Or else what?" Struggling for calm, he pinched a finger
and thumb to the bridge of his nose. "Miss Drake, is it?"
"Yes."
"I realize you're a spinster."
He uttered spinster as if it was a vile disease, and she
was incensed by the denigration. "By choice, Lord Stanton.
Absolutely by choice."
"You probably hate all men."
"Not all," she assured him. "Just some."
"I only meant that you're in no position to fully grasp
the nature of the male beast."
She glared at the couch where he'd enjoyed his torrid
embracing. "Actually, I think I grasp it quite well."
"I shan't be officially engaged for another month, and the
wedding won't roll around till six months after that. You
can't expect me to...to..."
"Can't expect you to what?"
A muscle twitched in his cheek. Murder gleamed in his eye,
and she was positive he'd have throttled her if he could
have figured out how to conceal the crime.
"I'm calling your bluff," he said. "Go ahead and tell her.
Lay bare the entire, sordid episode. I dare you."
"I will," Ellen insisted. "I swear it. I'm not joking."
"I'm betting you are."
He assessed her, taking her measure, and she had the
strangest impression that he knew everything about her,
that he could read her mind. There was no way to keep him
from discovering that she would never hurt Rebecca by
passing on such terrible news.
"Good evening, Miss Drake," he stated. "I won't say it's
been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, because it
hasn't been, and if I'm very, very lucky, I shan't suffer
the misfortune of speaking with you ever again."
She'd lost the upper hand — and so quickly too! — but she
was determined to get it back. He seemed to have a genuine
fondness for Rebecca, so perhaps she could use it to stir
his dormant conscience. "Have you no feelings for Rebecca,
and how the information will wound her?"
"I have many feelings for Rebecca, but they are none of
your concern. Just as my personal affairs are none of your
business. I am a man, Miss Drake. Not a eunuch. Go
blackmail someone else — if you can find anyone who's not
already weary of your tiresome company."
With that deftly-hurled slur, he strutted out, leaving her
to dawdle in the quiet, to fume and stew about how weak
she was. She'd never had any control. Not over her fate.
Not over her circumstances. Not over her income or her
reduced status. She was dependent, beholden, alone, and
the tedium of her situation reared up as though it were a
living, breathing creature that was suffocating her.
What she wouldn't give to be free and self-sufficient. She
was like a slave who yearned to break out of bondage, and
the fierce burst of discontentment rattled her.
When had she grown so dissatisfied? So unhappy? Long ago,
she'd accepted her dreary lot. Hadn't she?
Stanton was correct: She would never confide in Rebecca as
to what she'd seen. But if he thought she'd let the matter
rest, that she'd ignore him as he gamboled with every
strumpet in London, he was in for a huge shock.
Celibacy she'd demanded, and celibacy it would be.
Stanton's life was about to change — drastically! — and
she was the one who'd make it happen.
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