Beauty is like the night, fleeting and hard to hold, a truth the forbidding Lord Treyhern is about to discover. Let the opulence of Liz Carlyle's prose immerse you in the beauty of England while plunging you into the midst of the outrageous Rutledge family, where scandal is served up like a soup course and dangerous secrets are everywhere.
The daughter of London's wickedest widow, Helene de Severs has struggled to overcome her heritage. Renowned within Europe's emerging psychiatric field, Helene has a gift for healing children. When fate sends her back to England, the country she left in disgrace, Helene is confident she has learned to govern her own reckless emotions.
Ruthlessly, Treyhern has dragged his notorious family from the brink of ruin. But a disastrous marriage has left him with a traumatized child, and his rebellious brother is just one step ahead of the bailiffs. When his dissolute father drops dead while debauching the governess, Treyhern's infamous temper is truly tested.
But the forceful earl means to straighten everyone out -- as soon as he has hired a reputable governess. Yet the moment she steps from his carriage, Treyhern's cold reserve is melted by a rush of desire he had long thought dead. With her elegant clothing and mountain of luggage, the woman is not who he expected. Or is she? Sometimes the workings of the mind are as dangerous as those of the heart. And soon, danger is truly everywhere...
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
January 23, 2001
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from Beauty Like the Night by Liz Carlyle
Chapter One: Miss Middleton goes Home to Gloucestershire
The newly invested Earl of Treyhern stood at his bedroom window, absently sipping tepid coffee, and pondering the state of his life, when his black traveling coach spun merrily into the long drive, returning from its errand in the nearby village of Cheston. An ancient dray, which the earl did not recognize, rumbled along in the coach's wake. Lord Treyhern gazed wearily across the perfectly manicured lawns of Chalcote Court, watching as the faint November daylight reflected off the carriage roof, and wondering what next he ought to do.
He did not care for life's uncertainties, for he was a precise, controlling sort of man. And yet, the preceding month had been a difficult one; harder somehow than he had expected. It had brought home to him the stark realization that while his father's death had removed an undeniable burden from his life, it had been by no means the only one.
Indeed, following the sudden departure of her most recent -- albeit incompetent -- governess, Ariane had crawled ever deeper into her dark silence, and he was at a loss as to what should be done for the child. In all of his twenty-nine years, the earl had never felt so alone, nor so old.
As his valet moved quietly about, neatening his room, Camden studied the carriage, its yellow wheels spinning inexorably toward the front door as it trundled beneath the blazing oaks which lined the drive. And as his eyes followed its progress, Cam began to fervently pray that it held at least a part of what his life so desperately needed right now. Oddly enough, he had the most fanciful feeling that it did, and he was not a man much given to optimism or prognostication.
He could hear the crunch of gravel as his coachman neared the steps which led down into the sweeping circular drive. In a flash, a liveried footman trotted dutifully down to open the door, a second following to unload the luggage. Through the open carriage door, Cam saw an arm extend gracefully; saw the flash of white skin just where her cuff met her glove. Surprisingly, both sleeve and glove were a deep, rich shade of purple, like a well-cut amethyst viewed by candlelight. Subdued, but nonetheless opulent.
At a glance, neither her attire nor her bearing looked quite like that of a governess, and yet, Cam could not have said precisely why that was so. She stepped down into the drive, her burnished black tresses swept tightly up in what Cam always thought of as "governess hair." But once again, on this woman, the arrangement looked strangely paradoxical, particularly so when topped by a dark purple hat, trimmed with a rakishly tilted black feather.
The footmen were unloading her luggage now as she stood beside the dray, gesturing her instructions to them in a decidedly bold, Gallic way. Good God! Had the woman come to stay forever? A veritable heap of boxes and trunks seemed to be accumulating in his driveway. Cam was taken aback; he had never known a governess to own so many things, let alone to travel with them.