Excerpt from "Temptress In Training"
by Susan Gee Heino
So where the devil was Fitzgelder? And what was in that bloody parcel he'd received?
A commotion from farther down the hallway snagged Lord Lindley's attention. It seemed to be coming from
behind a narrow door, probably a closet or cupboard. He heard the low drum of Fitzgelder's voice, and the panicked
high pitches of a female. Well, it would appear he might yet catch Fitzgelder in the act, although sadly this was far from
the act he was hoping for. Apparently the parcel had turned out to be less enthralling than Fitzgelder expected.
Really, Lindley knew he ought to leave the man to his efforts. He'd worked hard to insinuate himself into
Fitzgelder's confidence. A good friend would never interrupt a gentleman—or rather, in Fitzgelder's case, a ruddy
lecher—who was availing himself of an opportunity for a little tussle with a willing maid. An interruption just now might
actually sever what bond of trust had been established between the men. Was Lindley prepared to sacrifice that?
Yet the female's protest and the sounds of struggle were obvious. She was clearly—and not surprisingly—
unwilling. Lindley decided he was not game for heaping that guilt upon his shoulders along with all the other. He'd no
doubt kick himself for it later, but right now he must certainly intervene.
And he was glad that he did.
Light from the many sconces in the hallway poured into what turned out to be a linen cupboard. Fitzgelder,
startled, struggled to right his clothing. Lindley politely averted his gaze. What his eyes landed on made him temporarily
forget his disgust, his guilt, and his mission to implicate Fitzgelder.
Sophie Darshaw. Hell and damnation, it was she who had been struggling with Fitzgelder. By the looks of it, she'd
been giving the man quite a fight, too. Her clothing was in dreadful disarray, her fair hair was mussed and tangled in
clumps, and were those droplets of blood spattered on her pretty, ashen face? By God, he'd kill the man.
No, he couldn't. He'd come too far and had too much at stake. Sophie Darshaw was just a minor player in this,
and Lindley reminded himself he wasn't even entirely sure yet what part she played. He'd interrupted and that was
enough. He would not give in to ridiculous sentiment when there might still be a chance to salvage things.
He wiped all trace of loathing from his face and carved out a disgruntled pout.
"I say, Fitz, why did you not bother to tell me the festivities had begun already? You know how I deplore coming
in late on the entertainment."
"Bloody hell, Lindley," Fitzgelder growled. "What in damnation are you about, tearing in while a fellow's readying
to plug himself a little laced mutton?"
Lindley simply shrugged and allowed a lengthy—and welcome—look over Miss Darshaw's disheveled person It
appeared he'd come just in time. The girl was shaking and pale as the crypt, but he was pleased to see a healthy spark
of defiance left in her crystal blue eyes. She'd done well for herself, all things considered. Fitzgelder sported a bloody lip
while she was merely untidy.
"Well then," Lindley said, unbuttoning his coat and placing his hand as if to begin unfastening his trousers. "If the
mutton's willing, I might fancy a go at her myself."
"The mutton most certainly is not willing!" Miss Darshaw announced firmly.
She shoved Fitzgelder aside and pushed her way out of the tiny room. Lindley stood aside to let her. He could well
do without a bloodied lip tonight, and Miss Darshaw seemed every bit capable of giving him one. Hell, if he hadn't
interrupted when he did poor Fitzgelder might have ended up singing soprano. The way Miss Darshaw glared murder at
them both he wasn't entirely convinced she had needed his intervention at all. The girl showed ferocity enough to do
serious damage.
by Susan Gee Heino
So where the devil was Fitzgelder? And what was in that bloody parcel he'd received?
A commotion from farther down the hallway snagged Lord Lindley's attention. It seemed to be coming from
behind a narrow door, probably a closet or cupboard. He heard the low drum of Fitzgelder's voice, and the panicked
high pitches of a female. Well, it would appear he might yet catch Fitzgelder in the act, although sadly this was far from
the act he was hoping for. Apparently the parcel had turned out to be less enthralling than Fitzgelder expected.
Really, Lindley knew he ought to leave the man to his efforts. He'd worked hard to insinuate himself into
Fitzgelder's confidence. A good friend would never interrupt a gentleman—or rather, in Fitzgelder's case, a ruddy
lecher—who was availing himself of an opportunity for a little tussle with a willing maid. An interruption just now might
actually sever what bond of trust had been established between the men. Was Lindley prepared to sacrifice that?
Yet the female's protest and the sounds of struggle were obvious. She was clearly—and not surprisingly—
unwilling. Lindley decided he was not game for heaping that guilt upon his shoulders along with all the other. He'd no
doubt kick himself for it later, but right now he must certainly intervene.
And he was glad that he did.
Light from the many sconces in the hallway poured into what turned out to be a linen cupboard. Fitzgelder,
startled, struggled to right his clothing. Lindley politely averted his gaze. What his eyes landed on made him temporarily
forget his disgust, his guilt, and his mission to implicate Fitzgelder.
Sophie Darshaw. Hell and damnation, it was she who had been struggling with Fitzgelder. By the looks of it, she'd
been giving the man quite a fight, too. Her clothing was in dreadful disarray, her fair hair was mussed and tangled in
clumps, and were those droplets of blood spattered on her pretty, ashen face? By God, he'd kill the man.
No, he couldn't. He'd come too far and had too much at stake. Sophie Darshaw was just a minor player in this,
and Lindley reminded himself he wasn't even entirely sure yet what part she played. He'd interrupted and that was
enough. He would not give in to ridiculous sentiment when there might still be a chance to salvage things.
He wiped all trace of loathing from his face and carved out a disgruntled pout.
"I say, Fitz, why did you not bother to tell me the festivities had begun already? You know how I deplore coming
in late on the entertainment."
"Bloody hell, Lindley," Fitzgelder growled. "What in damnation are you about, tearing in while a fellow's readying
to plug himself a little laced mutton?"
Lindley simply shrugged and allowed a lengthy—and welcome—look over Miss Darshaw's disheveled person It
appeared he'd come just in time. The girl was shaking and pale as the crypt, but he was pleased to see a healthy spark
of defiance left in her crystal blue eyes. She'd done well for herself, all things considered. Fitzgelder sported a bloody lip
while she was merely untidy.
"Well then," Lindley said, unbuttoning his coat and placing his hand as if to begin unfastening his trousers. "If the
mutton's willing, I might fancy a go at her myself."
"The mutton most certainly is not willing!" Miss Darshaw announced firmly.
She shoved Fitzgelder aside and pushed her way out of the tiny room. Lindley stood aside to let her. He could well
do without a bloodied lip tonight, and Miss Darshaw seemed every bit capable of giving him one. Hell, if he hadn't
interrupted when he did poor Fitzgelder might have ended up singing soprano. The way Miss Darshaw glared murder at
them both he wasn't entirely convinced she had needed his intervention at all. The girl showed ferocity enough to do
serious damage.
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