Deceived by Desire
Sample ~ Deceived by Desire
Steamy Regency Shapeshifter
Larissa Lyons
About Deceived by Desire
Larissa Lyons
Meet a Shakespeare-quoting shapeshifter who wants nothing to do with love…
Cursed into the form of a lion without nightly sex, Lord Nash Hammond wants only two things—his liquor strong and smooth, and his wenches wild and willing. What he doesn’t need is a virgin!
Nash senses the man across from him in the cramped stagecoach is trouble, a danger to the veiled woman accompanying her lofty “protector”. Nash knows he’s no hero, yet she keeps asking for his help. And how is it the vexing female knows so much about his secrets? Ones that could rip her apart if she only knew it…
And the spunky “lady” from the streets who masquerades as another man’s mistress…
Blessed with the second-sight—or cursed, depending upon which relative she believes—Laney sees her two possible futures: bleak and a soon-deceased victim (ack!) or frolicking with her fellow stagecoach passenger: a golden-eyed, tawny-haired gentleman—who’s anything but.
The miserable rip who’s already stepped on her dress, who keeps staring…
Nash is surly and rude and resistant to her every effort to speak with him. When they stop for the night and she overhears him order a “strumpet” to bed, Laney takes the doxy’s place, convinced she can pretend well enough. After all, she’s pretended to be a mistress for years. She’ll satisfy his needs, but refuse his money—demand he listen and help her instead. Then she’ll be safe.
Until, along with her body, Nash starts to claim her heart as well.
Reader Advisory: While Deceived by Desire is laugh-out-loud funny in places, it contains a short *vision* of violence and brief references to past abuse. Beyond that, expect a fun and sexy good time because…
Changing into a lion is all fun and growls—until it isn’t.
Sample ~ Deceived by Desire
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2nd Ed Copyright © 2022 by Larissa Lyons Published by Literary Madness
Contents
Deceived by Desire - Introduction
1. The Wretched Hat and the Wretched Man
2. The Wakeful Wake, A Tempest Blasts From the Future, & Egad! Answers?
3. Cursed Blessings Conjure Invisible Vermin
4. A Grand Idea, a Grandiose Dose of Guilt, & Time with Tyndale
5. The Deception Begins…
A FREE story - The Pirate’s Pleasure
About Larissa
More Bang-up Regencies
Larissa’s Booklist
6. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
7. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
8. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
9. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
10. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
11. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
12. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
13. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
14. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
15. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
16. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
17. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
18. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
19. Fun, Nonsense Cat Stuff to Take Up Space
Deceived by Desire - Introduction
Howdy! If you’re seeing this, you’ve clicked on the sample for Deceived by Desire. Swipe on to check out the first few chapters. (Note-Details may be added/altered.)
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I’m thrilled to be back in the world of my Roaring Rogues and hope they tickle your fancy too. Enjoy!
Larissa
The happy tidings of his good escape. How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?
So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch that trembles under his devouring paws…
—Henry VI, Part III
1
The Wretched Hat and the Wretched Man
August 1812
Escaping London
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Nash roused from his latest bout of self-pity long enough to crack his eyes open and watch the newest passengers climb aboard the already cramped, soggy stagecoach. The pair settled directly across from the corner he’d occupied for the past several hours.
He shifted and pressed his foot solidly against the floor of the coach.
Demmed inconvenient it was, having to share the dank spot he’d staked out as his own with the outwardly perfect couple. He kept his head lowered in the guise of dozing and refused to admit, even to himself, that he’d cared enough to peek.
People. Who needed ’em?
Certainly not Nash Hammond.
The stagecoach? Now that he needed, though if the blasted sky would just cooperate, not for much longer. He had enough money to buy his own horse—a splendacious one if he wanted. Hell, an entire stable full if he so desired—and actually had a stable. But then he’d have to care for it. Them. No demmed matter!
It was easier to put up with public transport.
Gave him something to think about other than his own contemptible problems.
“Pardon me, sir, but your foot snagged on my dress.” The cultured voice cascaded over him like a heaven-sent waterfall, at odds with the jarring way its owner tried to wrench her long, surprisingly dry skirts from beneath his boot.
He refused to budge, kept his boot clamped down and continued to feign sleep as he’d been doing ever since the horses had splashed to a stop, the stagecoach rolling to a sodden halt behind them when the driver paused for a fresh team and additional passengers.
Folks left a slumbering man alone—Nash knew by now, reckoning he was drunk most likely—and refrained from asking him to scoot over. That was the pertinent motivation; if he was going to be trapped inside, then he’d make blame certain he had every bit of space he could muster. He always claimed an extra thumb’s width between his body and the side of the coach, celebrating whenever he managed to secure more than the typical sixteen inches allotted to paying chaps like himself.
He’d begun his flight out of London as an outside passenger on the Royal Mail Coach—because it moved faster than lightning—but the incessant rains drove him inside and onto a public conveyance. Never could abide being exposed to the elements when it was pouring.
“Mister! My dress,” the female hissed, trying in vain to arrange herself across from him. “It’s caught under your boot!”
She pulled harder and he glanced at her through slitted lids, but the frothy contraption perched precariously atop her head hid her face.
Did she know that he’d stepped on her trailing hem on purpose?
Could she tell he was fighting back a gloat at her pathetic efforts to free her skirts? Did she have any idea of his pathetic existence?
Just as he tensed the muscles in his thigh to lift his foot, a ripping sound exploded from the floor and she plopped backward on the opposite bench, her skirts flying up to expose surprisingly inviting petticoats.
“Wretched man!” she muttered under her breath.
Acting no better than an unlicked cub, he was, amusing himself at her expense. He should apologize.
But he didn’t move.
Or say a word.
He was too busy rumbling a fake snore and inspecting the luscious treat whose lacy hem remnants lay trapped beneath his sole and the fop who’d just climbed in after her, lurching more than a bit. The fop who she appeared to be wedded to, if the dandy’s sour look toward Nash was anything to go by.
Figured.
Refined thing like that. Her in her fancy hat and white traveling dress—white! As if she shouldn’t be
covered from head to toe with a thick layer of mud and grime. How she managed to look so perfect and proper on a day like today, with her apricot-colored kid slippers, closed ruffle-edge parasol that matched her dress and immaculately gloved fingers was beyond him.
Her generous bosom looked anything but refined though, ready to spill from the not-quite-decent neckline with just the slightest encouragement.
Nash strangled on the sudden growl of desire that threatened to erupt, turning it instead into a garbled snore.
Criminal, the way his cock behaved. Rearing up as if it needed a warm quiver, as though he hadn’t attacked his brother’s woman just hours before. Blast him! His primed penis deserved to be ground beneath her heel.
“All set, m’dear?” the red-haired dandy asked on a hiccup, squishing close to the woman and plunking his arm across her shoulders in a proprietary move while he cast Nash a glower as if the man could read minds.
Nash’s first-rate wattles caught the slight hitch in her breathing, his conk the hint of sour fear. “Indeed, Mr. Tate.” She squirmed within her companion’s restrictive embrace. “Thank you for asking.”
Her cultured tones had turned puny. From vibrant waterfall to watered-down dribble.
Nash hunched lower, slightly lifting his lids to gaze at her from beneath the overlong fall of hair that blocked half his face. Some sort of netting hung from the brim of the ungodly confection perched atop her head, hiding her features. The curve of her cheek was visible—barely—but naught else.
Probably had the face of a sow, a pointy-nose, bulgy-eyed mamma pig. God surely had to give such a one a curse to balance the bounty of figure He’d blessed her with.
The dandy patted his pocket and pulled out a snuffbox. He made a great show placing a pinch just inside his lower lip, which he ruined with another hiccup, then did everything in reverse, returning the snuff to his pocket. His actions were ludicrous, done with one hand as the other was still firmly ensconced atop the sow’s shoulder.
Nash hadn’t seen more flounces even at court. How the dandy’s chin moved as his pursed lips blathered at her with so much starched linen and lace at his throat was beyond him. The clunch likely spent more time at Weston’s than he did his own dinner table.
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! his conscience taunted, compliments of Mister William Shakespeare.
Jealous? Jealous of the overdressed man and his feminine fortune? Never. Never! As if hearing the mental shouts, the man echoed…
“Never fear, m’dear,” Dandy drawled, “only two days confined in this infernal conveyance—three at the most if this Scotch mist keeps up—and we shall arrive at our destination.”
She left off gazing at the torn hem fraying in her fingers and glanced through that irritating netting at Dandy. “Will you please bring yourself to tell me where we are going?” she inquired so softly anyone without Nash’s exceptional hearing would have missed it.
He wished he’d missed it, for the dulcet sounds of her airy syllables would never let him think of her as a sow again. Pig-faced or not, she had the voice of a princess. “I am quite sure it will not ruin your surprise if you—”
“Nay! And leave off asking!” The dandy swatted her shoulder. “You will enjoy it,” he added cajolingly. “I assure you.”
At the threatening undercurrent in the man’s voice, Nash lifted his head and uncrossed his arms. He remained slouched, giving the appearance of only casual interest. “You would not be taking the lady somewhere she prefers not to go, now would you?”
The woman flinched. The sour scent of her fear now blasting off her in waves.
“Of course he isn’t!” She trilled a practiced laugh. “Mr. Tate is forever treating me to new experiences and surprises.”
“Mind your own bloody business!” the dandy bit out.
“Here! Here!” an older man in the opposite corner grumped. “Females present and all that. Mind your mouth!”
“Forgive me,” the redhead reprobate said even as his knuckles whitened on her shoulder. To the others, he was all polish and shine. Slime.
Nash wanted to lose his breakfast on the man’s gleaming Hessians. Instead, he tried to see past the netting, clueless where his sudden bout of chivalry had sprung from. “Ma’am? Are you well?”
He sensed her nervous smile, practically tasted the salty thickness of her looming tears. “I am wonderful. My life is…wonderful.”
“See?” Dandy boasted, as if there had never been any doubt.
She was lying.
Nash cursed himself for caring. For even asking.
He didn’t want the responsibility of sheltering a blame horse. What made him think he was up for the challenge of saving a bountiful-breasted, soft-voiced princess?
Sow, he told himself. A veiled sow. Oink.
Oink, oink! so cries a pig prepared to the spit. He intentionally butchered Shakespeare’s original line, but couldn’t stop from wondering…
Did lions eat pigs?
Three days, maybe two, if the stinking rain didn’t sink this coach as it had the first one they’d climbed into.
Reginald curved his arm more securely around Eleanor’s shoulder. He couldn’t stay mad at her for more than a minute.
Damn but he was parched.
Thoughts of her always made his throat go dry. So why can she not make your twanger go stiff?
Ever since the Unfortunate Incident when his brother George John arrived unexpectedly at Reginald’s townhouse and caught him with Neils, life hadn’t been the same.
From the time they were in the nursery, Reginald knew he was different, knew with an inborn certainty that he should keep his sexual desires to himself. But even his sense of self-preservation couldn’t stop him from finally expressing his inner yearning once he and Neils met. Lovers. They’d become lovers and Reginald had never been so happy.
Eleanor made the perfect foil—she attended all appropriate venues for a mistress and played her part well, keeping George John pacified and mollified.
Eh, eh. Reginald chuckled at his private jest.
Ironically, when it came to his older brother, no matter how much he positively loathed the man, Reginald secretly aspired to emulate him in every manner. George John was a true out-and-outer—the man boxed with Gentleman Jackson, rode with the Prince, and was a top-notch gambler and womanizer to boot. With his wife tucked away in the country raising their three brats, two mistresses ensconced in London and reputations at more than one high-class brothel, George John was all the crack. And he had mistaken illusions that his younger brother was made of the same stamp.
When in fact, the only thing Reginald ever dreamed of cracking…was Neils.
Eleanor winced and he consciously relaxed his fingers, patting her shoulder. Leaning forward, he slid his tongue inside his bottom lip and gathered up the spit-soaked snuff. Hated the stuff. Only did it to look manly and because Eleanor had started clearing her throat and coughing every time he lit a cheroot these days—not that he blamed her on that score.
The fancy snuff tin had been the most recent gift from Neils and that alone made it worth using, though the constant reminder brought a pang each time Reginald pulled it out.
Determined to put his past love affair and liaison behind him, Reginald spat the wad of tobacco on the lurching stagecoach floor. The brown blob slid toward the impertinent rogue in the corner.
Reginald straightened and smiled. He’d just shown the other man who was in charge. Easily discounting the way the stranger’s eyes narrowed, he leaned into Eleanor, knowing he couldn’t make his claim any clearer.
He really didn’t need to. He owned her. Body and soul.
Owned her. The knowledge didn’t bring the comfort it usually did. Because from the moment George John discovered Reginald in his own home, in his own bedchamber no less, and in an extreme state of dishabille with another man—and Eleanor nowhere in sight to mask his true actions—George John had made it his mission in life to “make Reginald into a real man”
and “purge his soul of those detestable, perverted leanings”.
Father would be appalled, Reginald had heard countless times. Usually followed by A sodomite! In my God-damned family? or A Miss Molly—in the Tate family tree? Take care, Reg, the authorities don’t get wind of this or you’ll soon find yourself swinging from a branch.
Yammering on and on, over and over, as if Reginald were to blame. If anyone was to blame, ’twas Eleanor.
At the thought, Reginald ground his teeth. If she’d been at home as she should have been, instead of flitting off to the sweet shop with her little teacher friend, then she would have been there to salvage his reputation.
But oh no. She’d been gone, George John had found Neils in bed next to him and Reginald hadn’t had a moment of solitude since.
“If that juicy flap under your roof cannot harden your cock, I will break it off myself,” George John had threatened. “You take that bitch, prove to yourself—and to me—that you are capable of siring a babe. Damn you, Reg! You know how I have begun negotiations with Lord Volmering about his youngest chit. I expect you to do your duty and get her with child within a year of the nuptials.”