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196 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 29, 2014







That's my Bastian. :) When he reached the drawing room and laid a palm on the heavy oak door, it swung open revealing the rich red-and-gold-papered walls and covered furniture. He hadn’t had the chance to visit every room in the castle in the last seven months, since he’d been here sparingly, and he had definitely not been into this one. Randolph had been overseeing the cleanup of the rooms upon Bastian’s instructions and given the number of rooms, many had yet to be opened.
Personally, he had been avoiding this room, because it was the only one in the castle where a portrait of Isabelle hung. His grandmother had said looking upon Isabelle’s face was bad luck, and since Stormclyffe had been abandoned for longer than he’d been alive, he’d never had the chance to find out himself it was true. But now, seeing his ancestor for the first time…he was arrested at the sight.
There on the wall was the infamous woman whose swan dive off the cliffs had tainted his family’s lives forever. Bastian studies the portrait for a moment. A fair-skinned woman with a hint of rose in her cheeks gazed out from the layers of oil with serious gray eyes. Her pale blue gown molded to her curves, and waves of rich ebony hair tumbled down her shoulders to tease the tops of her breasts. There was a curious expression on her face. She was happy, but wariness lurked in the depths of her eyes, as though she expected to lose her joy at any moment.
Below the painting, a flesh-and-blood woman stood with her back to him. Windblown hair, dark as a raven’s wing, spiraled down her back in enticing waves. He had the sudden urge to thread his fingers through the silken strands and shape her full curves with his other hand. A curious burning settled deep in his bones, and a ringing filled his ears as visions of him pining her to a bed filled his mind. Wild, erotic thoughts tumbled through him, stealing his breath before he regained control and focused on his visitor again.
As though she’d heard his lustful thoughts, the woman turned to face him, cheeks flaming. She couldn’t have known what he was thinking. His hand dropped from the door handled, his jaw slackened in shock.
The dreamy gray eyes fixed on him were identical to the eyes of the woman painted above her. Noble, high cheek bones, curving brows, a sensual mouth made for kisses, and that nose, both delicate and impish, a perfect fit for the face of the woman before him. Her inky black tresses and curves designed perfectly for a man’s hands made her a living memory of a woman centuries gone.
Dear God… He repeated the words in his head over and over, mesmerized by the closeness of their shared features.
“You must be Lord Weymouth, I’m Jane Seyton.”
The woman strode over to him, hand outstretched. Without thinking, he took it. Heat flared between them. He inhaled sharply.
She dropped his hand and retreated a step, her eyes wide. Had she felt the same jot he had?