Page 1 of Reckless Desire

Chapter One

Bryson Maxwell, the future 4th Earl of Newhall, had grown up being told that he would one day fall madly in love. Falling in love—or more accurately, falling in love at first sight—was a requirement of Newhall men. Bryson slowed on one of Inverness’s lovelier park’s graveled paths. Affection rippled through him with the memory of sitting on his grandfather’s knee while his grandfather described the instant his father laid eyes upon Bryson’s great grandmother and knew that she would be his bride.

The old man sighed. “It was the same with my own Sophia. She had eyes as green as emeralds. How they flashed when she was angry.” His expression clouded, and Bryson just knew that his grandfather had returned to a time before Bryson was born, when the woman he loved still lived.

Bryson hadn’t known either woman, but he imagined they indulged their husbands’ tales with the same patience Bryson’s mother did his father when he recounted how he had seen her across a crowded ballroom one fateful night thirty-two years ago and had begged for her hand in marriage two days later.

The story was enough to induce a man to avoid ballrooms.

Almost.

Ballrooms weren’t his problem today.

Bryson fixed his gaze on the woman strolling beside Lady Chastity, twenty feet ahead. From his vantage, he only glimpsed her profile, and the red hair peeking out from beneath her bonnet. That he’d fallen in love with her without fully seeing her face stung his pride. What sort of man decided to marry a woman whose face he had never seen? A fool, that’s what sort of man.

He didn’t usually stroll in the park. On beautiful early summer days like today, he preferred to ride about his father’s estate, where his horse could trot for an hour before reaching their farthest field. Two days ago, however, Sir Stirling James requested that Bryson join him in town to discuss business. A note sent to Bryson’s townhouse this morning invited Bryson to meet Stirling in the park. Apparently, Sir Stirling favored morning walks, and a man didn’t turn down an invitation from the future Duke of Roxburgh.

The women halted, and the red-headed angel bent to sniff a rose on a bush that crowded the path. Bryson stopped. His heart pounded, whether in dread or euphoria, he wasn’t certain. His only chance at escape was to…well, escape. Forget business. Forget Sir Stirling. Board the first ship to France— Nae. America. He would need the two-month voyage to forget the desire that tightened his bollocks to near discomfort. Bryson spun, took one step, then stopped short. Sir Stirling, fifteen feet away, rapidly approached.

“Forgive me, Stirling,” Bryson said. “I cannot stay.”

Stirling stopped in front of him and frowned. “What is amiss?”

For the first time in his life, Bryson’s stockpile of harmless fabrications fled his mind. One learned to bend the truth—or, at least, avoid it—when ladies were in the vicinity. Now, however, all he could focus on was Stirling’s eyes, which shifted past him to… God help him, Stirling had to be looking at Lady Chastity and the woman. Stirling’s face lit up. Of course. Everyone knew the man was besotted with his wife.

In the next instant, Lady Chastity stepped up beside Bryson with the red-haired lass at her side. Lass, nae. Nymph. He got a good look at that damned hair, and desire caused his cock to twitch. He’d never seen hair dance as if alive with fairies. She was tall for a woman. The top of her head reached the bridge of his nose. Her bloody pelisse dipped low enough to offer a teasing view of creamy flesh. Too easily, he envisioned the lithe legs hidden by her pale gold dress.

“Stirling.” Lady Chastity smiled at her husband, then turned to Bryson. “Lord Newhall, how nice to see you.”

“My lady.” Bryson bowed, forcing his eyes to remain on her.

“May I introduce Miss Ramsay. Kenna, this is Viscount Newhall.”

Miss Ramsay extended a gloved hand. “Sir,” she said in a low, throaty voice that sent his heart galloping.

Bryson grasped her gloved fingers. His chest tightened when he noted the slight tremble in her hand. Was she as affected by him as he was by her? He bowed and brushed his mouth against her fingers. How he wished she didn’t wear those blasted gloves. He caught a hint of lilac and his cock twitched again. God help him. He was about to embarrass himself as he hadn’t done since the age of seventeen. He straightened and released her. Now to make his getaway.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Lady Chastity said.

Bryson frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

She smiled. “Your brother is to be married.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” He sounded like an idiot. He was an idiot.

Last week, when his younger brother announced his engagement to Lydia Crawford, the sister of his childhood friend—and the lass Matt had sworn to marry when he was ten—Bryson had concluded that chances favored his avoidance of whatever curse afflicted Newhall men that caused them to fall in love with such abandon. He was the fifth Newhall man and one out of five was decent odds. It seems he’d been wrong.

Lady Chastity turned toward Sir Stirling. “Shall we walk, or do you gentlemen have business to discuss?”

Stirling’s eyes softened. “I believe we can spare a few minutes for you ladies.”

Lady Chastity shook her head and looked at Miss Ramsay. “Isn’t that just like a man? They believe they do us a favor by allowing us to bask in their company for a few stolen moments.”

Sir Stirling grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes locked with hers. “We are the fortunate ones.”

Lady Chastity’s cheeks pinked, and Bryson thought of his father who, after more than thirty years of marriage, still had the ability to make his wife blush. Might Bryson be able to make Miss Ramsay blush thirty years from now?

His thoughts froze. God help him, it was too late. No power in heaven or hell could get him to board that ship to America. He was going to marry Miss Kenna Ramsay.