An obsession that blooms into scandal
Since childhood, Ryan Donally adored Rachel Bailey, though the brilliant, beautiful lass saw him as just another rowdy boy. The years pulled them apart, carrying Rachel to a place of responsibility and respect few women of her time enjoyed ... while Ryan ascended to undreamed-of heights of wealth and success, and bound his heart to another.
Now fate has brought them together once again -- and Rachel sees not the boy she once spurned, but a breathtaking man she desires. Yet Ryan has moved on and is unwilling to forgive, and Rachel hides a secret shame that could destroy everything she has worked for. Then, in one moment of unrestrained passion, the walls between them tumble, and the price they must pay is a marriage neither can afford. But will a sensuous fire too-long resisted bring tragedy ... or will it forge a glorious and undying love?
With a sigh of frustration, Rachel Bailey thrummed her fingers on the polished banister, the diaphanous froth of her emerald skirt whispering with her movement. Perfumed currents of air mingled with cigar smoke drifting from the ballroom below. She turned, her fan dangling from one wrist, an empty dance card on the other.
She'd tried not to care that so many here found her an intellectual oddity or had excluded her from their social circles.
Especially tonight.
For Cinderella had nothing on Rachel, except perhaps the eye of the handsome prince, or in this case the talented recipient of one of the most prestigious awards in all of Great Britain. A civil engineer could garner no higher honor than the Gold Telford Award, an honor that she would never receive because of her gender, but one that Ryan Donally most aptly deserved. From the gilt-edged balcony of the Palace Hotel, overlooking the ballroom, she watched him, his tall, dark form easily recognizable among the colorful assemblage. Music floated high above the spacious floor to resonate against the dome-shaped roof, elaborately paneled in Venetian mirrors. All about her, the ball was in full swing, the swirl of colors arcing across the polished floor like a rainbow.
Incredibly handsome, Ryan was suited to the petite blonde he held a little too intimately in his arms, Lady Gwyneth Abbott. His future wife, if one was to believe the rumor running rampant among the crowd. She was a jewel of elegant architecture in vermilion silk and upswept blond hair wrapped in a diamond tiara. The two conversed, his vital energy mesmerizing, his open smile reflecting an animated conversation that drew more than Rachel's attention.
Ever since they'd been children, Ryan had garnered attention wherever he went. He mastered crowds as easily as he gathered accolades, his charisma a reflection of his Irish good looks. Now, having amassed a fortune in the iron-ore industry, Ryan himself had since become an international conglomerate separate from his family—and separate from her—a far reach from the uncouth boy who used to throw spiders in her hair when they were children.
Theirs had always been an impossible relationship. He was her curse.
And the very reason she had returned to England.
Drawing in her breath against her tightly laced corset, Rachel knew she was naive to think she could walk back into his life tonight after everything she'd done to him, and not feel panic.
They had not spoken since Kathleen had died four years ago.
She had to find a way to speak with him. She needed to talk to him.
“The woman in my brother's arms is the Earl of Devonshire's niece,” a masculine voice murmured next to her ear and startled her.
John Donally had managed a soundless approach and caught her staring at Ryan. “And of whom are you speaking?” Rachel plucked a fluted champagne glass off the tray of a passing footman.
“You know of whom I'm speaking. I understand that she's the earl's ward and that she's sought after among the ton's bachelors. But she has eyes only for my brother. She's quite beautiful.”
And Ryan's brother, with whom she usually managed an excellent rapport, only jammed the knife a little deeper into her heart. Rachel truly didn't want to know that the girl was flawless as a snowflake. Sipping champagne, she welcomed the wet effervescence against her senses. “Did Lady Gwyneth make him cut his hair?” she asked, for lack of anything charitable to say. She'd noticed Ryan's trademark queue missing.
“I doubt it, colleen.” Johnny crossed his arms. “But you can always inquire.”
“I would very much like to talk to him. He's not been in London for a week.”
“He's been in Bristol....
MELODY THOMAS is a wordsmith, a creator of dreams, and a passionate believer in happy endings. A product of thirteen schools and twenty-two moves stretching across the United States and Europe, she is a self-proclaimed gypsy. Her fascination with historical romance began when, in her teens, she visited the Tower of London and learned that Henry the Eighth had beheaded two of his wives. This was great fodder for her teenage imagination and the start of a love affair with history, intrigue, and irresistible heroes.
Melody now lives with her husband near Chicago and invites you to visit her website at www.melodythomas.com.
