Ensnared by Innocence Read online

  Ensnared by Innocence

  Changing into a lion isn’t all fur and games.

  A Regency lord battles his inner beast while helping an innocent miss, never dreaming how he’ll come to care for the chit—nor how being near his world will deliver danger right to her doorstep.

  * * *

  If Darcy possessed a roaring libido and grappled with feline curses…

  * * *

  Lady Francine Montfort may have led a sheltered life till her parents’ untimely demise but that doesn’t mean she’s ignorant. Neither is she blind to the conniving ways of her persistent aunt, who’s determined to marry Francine off for her own selfish gain. Forced to drastic measures to avoid the wretched woman’s scheming, Francine concocts her own masterful plan.

  She might need to beg a favor from Lord Blakely—the sinfully alluring marquis who inspires all manner of illicit thoughts—but she’s determined to help him as well. To ease those mysterious, haunting secrets that torment him so…

  * * *

  When Lady Francine, the epitome of innocence, requests he pose as her betrothed, Blakely knows he should handily refuse. He’s baffled when unfamiliar, protective urges make themselves known, tempting him to agree while danger stalks ever closer.

  Alas, it’s fast approaching the season when Blakely loses all control. Either Francine satisfies his sexual appetites or he’ll be forced to reveal his beastly side. And that will never do. Not now that he’s come to care for the intrepid miss.

  Standalone ~ HEA ~ 80,000-word Novel ~ Book 1 - Roaring Rogues Regency Shifters

  Note: This love story between two people contains some profanity and a lot of sizzle, including one partial ménage scene that gets rather…growly.

  To Erin Wright, champion of wide indies everywhere, all-around terrific teacher, fantastic friend, and super-fun person. For someone who made me cry the first time we met, I could not like you more! Thank you for the advice and especially for the smiles and laughs—something everybody needs. :-)

  Ensnared by Innocence, 2nd Edition Copyright © 2021 by Larissa Lyons

  Published by Literary Madness.

  * * *

  ISBN 9781949426694 E-book - August 2021

  ISBN 9781949426298 Paperback (2021)

  All rights reserved, including the right to decide how to market this book. By law, no part of this publication may be copied, uploaded or transferred to illegal recipients. Please respect the hard work of this author and only read authorized, purchased downloads. All characters are fictional creations; any resemblance to actual persons is unintentional and coincidental.

  Proofread by Judy Zweifel at Judy’s Proofreading; Edits by Elizabeth St. John; Cover by Literary Madness

  At Literary Madness, our goal is to create a book free of typos. If you notice anything amiss, we’re happy to fix it. [email protected]

  Contents

  About Ensnared by Innocence

  Note to Readers

  1. The Preposterous Proposition

  2. Considerable Consideration

  3. The Mettlesome Miss and her Bold Bargain

  4. The Nick-Ninnies Natter On (formerly, The Interruption)

  5. Anxious Anticipation

  6. The Wylde Interlude

  7. A Wild Interruption

  8. Dark Discoveries Illuminated

  9. Horrid Horrors of Horrible Humidity

  10. The Mummy and the other Marquis

  11. Confessions & Warnings, and Promises Be Damned

  12. Time to Brave the Night

  13. Angst, Anxiety, and Demmed Animals

  14. The Sauce Box to the Rescue

  15. The Bespectacled Beauty Tames the Beast

  PREVIEW: Deceived by Desire

  About Larissa

  A FREE story - The Pirate’s Pleasure

  More Bang-up Regencies

  Larissa’s Booklist

  Note to Readers

  The more I write, the more I diligently research, I realize how much I still don’t know about the Regency—and words used during that time. So while I truly attempt to get things right, there will, no doubt, still be mistakes.

  Hopefully not glaring enough to detract from the story. >^..^< Roar!

  Ensnared by Innocence

  Steamy Regency Shapeshifter

  Larissa Lyons

  I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.

  * * *

  Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.

  Shakespeare, As You Like It

  1

  The Preposterous Proposition

  I leave this recordation for my beloved sons. Erasmus and Nash. My heirs. Who will one day, pray God, live to manhood and conduct themselves in a manner more gracious, more fitting to their station and responsibilities than I have managed.

  My dear offspring who I cannot believe I condemned to such a fate, however unknowingly.

  A fate I share but one that was not known to me until after you were both conceived. (And which also no doubt explains the sparsity of children in our family, and siblings for you both.)

  The urges for The Change first came upon me in the summer of the year I turned five and twenty. It was not yet the middle of July and yet I sensed the stirrings of what I would eventually learn was my animal blood. My feline side, if you boys will only set aside skepticism and believe. Please, sons, heed my warnings, for you do not want to be caught unaware as I—and irreparably harm the woman you love.

  To see the fear in her eyes when she looks upon you and beholds a monster. A beast. Your inner beast. The lion, untamable. Unstoppable.

  Deadly?

  I pray not. ’Tis why I locked myself away, in this, my 28th year, the third of the curse. Why I place armed guards at the door for the entirety of the month.

  As I battle the inner demon once again, my only consolation is knowing that you both are still too young to remark upon my absence.

  Too young to question why Papa turns into an ogre toward the end of the hot, sultry summer months.

  Too young to recall how severely I injured your mother...

  London, England

  May 1812

  “Lord Blakely, pardon the interruption. Might I beg a word with you?”

  Erasmus Hammond, Marquis of Blakely, looked down his long patrician—scarred—nose at the intrepid female who dared interrupt the boisterous group of men he currently conversed with.

  Delicate, feminine young ladies such as this one definitely did not mix with his oft-beastly ways. Not unless they wanted to be torn asunder.

  He didn’t recognize her, but judging from the looks his companions aimed her direction, they did. The meaning behind the smirks and elbow jabs was unmistakable, confound it.

  Just what he didn’t need—another wedding-minded miss setting her cap for him. Every Season he remained unmarried, it seemed his value on the marriage market escalated. Despite the air of libidinous rake he cultivated in public—and indulged in private—his attraction as an eligible mate only increased with each year that passed, as though snaring his dissolute self would be something of a coup. Hardly.

  Where was her chaperone?

  “Gracious me,” he drawled as sarcastically as he could manage, “a bold little muff, are you not?” He gestured to his chortling companions, hoping the crude comment would be enough to send her heels flying. “Approaching me? Here?”

  Here, at Lady Longford’s crush, celebrating the engagement of one of her many offspring, the place teeming with too many people and too much perspiration, offensive odors he chronicled as easily as breathing. Odors he tolerated, along with the boorish twaddle that surrounded him, because unlike some others he could name—ahem, his brother for one—Blakely bore his responsibilities,
took them very seriously indeed.

  Yet, no sweat-drenched, unpalatable odors emanated from the brash one before him, he couldn’t help but note. So she wasn’t here to dance and make merry?

  Dance and make a marriage, more like. Is that not the ultimate aim of every young chit here?

  Blakely grunted at the thought, taking her in.

  The very definition of English miss—blonde, blue-eyed and insipid—stood before him. Granted, she was a trifle taller than perfection allowed these days, and her face looked decidedly powdered—smelled powdered too, the pale artifice likely hiding all manner of spots, blemishes and daunting imperfections.

  But when she shifted, allowing the shawl curved within the crooks of both arms to slide, he noticed the two-inch expanse of skin between the short, puffy sleeves of her gown and her long gloves. Two inches of implausibly dark skin, which forced his attention back to her face. Caused him to study…to linger. Beneath the powder, ’twas smooth as silk. At least that’s how it appeared, making his fingers twitch with the sudden urge to test the observation.

  So she wasn’t hiding spots? Perchance only an unfashionable liking of the sun? As one who spent more time than he’d like in the dark, that alone piqued his interest.

  “Please, my lord?” She scooted further around the column separating his small group from the dance floor. “I promise not to take but a few moments of your time.” So earnest. Her voice so very serene, even as he scented her… What was it? Fear? Frustration? Apprehension that her asinine errand—approaching him, of all people—would prove unsuccessful?

  Of course it would. It has to.

  Trying again to discourage her, he glanced around the ballroom, purposely avoiding her gaze and employed his loftiest voice. “I do not believe we have been introduced and therefore, most regretfully, I cannot begin any manner of discourse with—”

  “But we have,” she had the audacity to interject. “It was three years ago at the Seftons’ ball. We danced, but I have no expectation that you recollect the encounter.”

  He didn’t.

  And he knew she was shamming him. If they’d met, if he’d been near her for a dance, he’d remember her scent.

  A remarkably fresh yet earthy fragrance that appealed to him on so many levels ’twas dangerous. Dangerous for them both.

  She stood her ground and spoke calmly, despite their eavesdropping, snickering audience. Taller than most women, she came nearly to his chin. Hers was tilted at such an angle he suspected she must practice the determined stance in front of a mirror.

  More than that, most fresh-faced elegants weren’t bold enough to approach him directly, and he couldn’t help but admire this one in spite of himself. He almost hated to crush her spirit but dissuade her he must. Innocents were not for him. Especially now.

  It was nearing the time of year he had two choices: Either secret himself away and privately battle his demons. Or find the wildest women he could to exorcise away his fiendish tendencies through exhaustive, nightly rounds of intense prigging. Smashing choice, that. No wonder he always chose the second, more sociable option. Something he seriously doubted would appeal to this one.

  “By all means, do forgive me,” he stated, matching her tranquil tone. “But, alas, you are correct. I do not remember you.” There was more jostling from his cohorts. They knew the type of female he preferred—and the kind he avoided at all costs. Though several years beyond the schoolroom, the flaxen-haired miss in front of him definitely fell into the latter category.

  Even so, he was surprised how her poise drew him. And if he tipped his head…just so…

  Ah, yes, he could look straight down the front of her pale blue gown, to furtively gaze at the womanly endowments not quite hidden beneath. Of course, he had no business looking at her dugs, none whatsoever.

  “A word?” she insisted, angling her chin a fraction higher. “Consider it imperative.”

  Imperative? Intrigued despite his better judgment, he inclined his head in a show of assent.

  ’Twas odd, how her voice drew him, all calm assurance instead of the more heated, sultry tones he was used to hearing from his experienced lovers. Would she maintain that cultured, confident manner in the throes of passion?

  What of it, man? She’s not for you.

  True. So very true.

  Especially now, with his latest suspicions? With even more danger surrounding London than before…

  Had he missed one? Failed to pick up on a potential wrong-side-of-the-blanket Hammond offspring? Had all the sacrifices, the years spent miring himself in the dungeons of the ton, seeking out the most dissolute, reckless individuals, praying they were only human—and nothing more sinister—been all for naught?

  Shaking off the dread that accompanied him these days like a persistent and bothersome fly, he followed her a short distance further, away from the periphery of the crowded dance floor.

  When she reached a secluded corner and stopped, he did as well. And found himself curious, if only remotely so, why she had approached him directly—and without a formal introduction. Totally unheard of in the upper realms of the ton he inhabited.

  “Lord Blakely, I have a proposition I would like to put forth to you.” For all her height and assured poise, she seemed dainty, almost fragile, standing before him.

  “By all means, please do.” His curiosity grew by the second. And so did the reluctant attraction running rampant through his veins. Which would never do.

  Never! Do you not have sufficient responsibilities, man? Ferreting out who’s destroying—

  Blakely shook off the annoying reminder, the one that settled fear and concern heavily on his shoulders; far more pleasant to ponder the diverting package before him. “State your case,” he encouraged in as droll a voice as he could cultivate, “so I may rejoin my crew.”

  When she hesitated, glancing behind her, he took possession of the gloved hand nearest—which brought her attention swiftly back to him. He then lifted it to his lips and kissed the air over her fingers before releasing them. Instead of scaring her away as he’d intended, a blush flared up her chest and over her face, delighting him, which was patently ridiculous.

  Blushes were for maidens; whores were for him.

  So why was it that the tinge of pink flushing her cheeks fascinated? The slight color was difficult to discern beneath the powder and her unfashionably dark skin but he saw it clearly nevertheless. Unbidden, curiosity rose regarding the extent of her exposure to sunlight. Where might the golden hue leave off and pale porcelain begin?

  And why do you care?

  Aye, definitely time to curtail their conversation. “You were saying? A proposition, I believe. I weary of being here,” he lied. “Speak in haste.”

  The pale blonde ringlets surrounding her face swayed as she took a fortifying breath, readying for battle. “I know I presume much, but I would be eternally grateful if you could see your way to posing as my betrothed until—”

  He laughed outright at her outrageous request, drawing the attention of several guests. Sobering, Blakely stated, “Completely out of the question. But thank you for asking. I needed some amusement this evening.”

  When he turned to leave, her hand shot out, latching on to his arm with surprising strength. He halted and peered at her gloved fingers until she removed them. Damn if a bolt of need hadn’t flashed through him at the contact. Astonishing, for he’d just dallied with the amorous and very accommodating Mistress Rose of the Crown & Cock not twenty-four hours before.

  “Lord Blakely, please. Hear me out.” She rushed on before he could say yea or nay. “It would be a pretend betrothal, a farce if you will, lasting only a few weeks. Surely you can find it in your heart to assist me for such a short time? I will pay you handsomely for your trouble and release you publicly from our agreed-upon understanding after you fulfill its terms.”

  “We have no understanding,” he felt compelled to remind her. “But for the sake of argument, your reasoning is faulty. How would this ass
ist you in any way? For upon becoming affianced to me, not to mention later breaking said betrothal, your reputation would be tantamount to ruined.”

  “That has no consequence,” she said rather convincingly. “I only want the appearance of a betrothal for the remainder of the Season.”

  Which only intrigued him further. What manner of eligible miss cared naught for her reputation? ’Twas a young female’s only currency, all her real blunt controlled first by her father and then by her spouse. “And why is that?”

  “My reasons are my own.”

  Stubborn chit. He half wished he couldn’t see her so clearly in the candlelit ballroom. What was it about her that drew him?

  The unspoilt scent of heather and fresh air? The sunshine she exudes? The hint of freedom from the chains that bind you to London as surely as if you were locked in Newgate.

  “If you will not explain yourself, why should I even consider your ridiculous proposal?”

  That willful chin lifted again. “Because I will pay you.”

  “Not enough, not for what you ask.” She had no idea what she was asking, what being near her the next few weeks might cost him. Or her.

  She proceeded to name an amount that sent his head spinning.

  Good God. He’d just been propositioned by a bloody heiress.