What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Books by Adele Clee

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Thank You

  What You Promised

  Chapter 1

  Books by Adele Clee

  What You Deserve

  Anything for Love

  Book 3

  Adele Clee

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission.

  http://www.adeleclee.com

  Copyright © 2016 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9935291-4-6

  What You Promised (excerpt)

  Copyright © 2016 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Jay Aheer

  Books by Adele Clee

  To Save a Sinner

  A Curse of the Heart

  What Every Lord Wants

  Anything for Love Series

  What You Desire

  What You Propose

  What You Deserve

  The Brotherhood Series

  Lost to the Night

  Slave to the Night

  Abandoned to the Night

  Lured to the Night

  Chapter 1

  Tristan Wells, seventh Viscount Morford, stood alone in the drawing room of Lord Mottlesborough’s townhouse, watching the musicians unpack their instruments in preparation for the concert.

  Lady Mottlesborough came scuttling into the room, her hand flying to her chest when she discovered him loitering behind the door. “Good heavens, my lord. You gave me a fright. What on earth are you doing hiding back there?”

  Tristan blinked rapidly. Judging by the sight of the excessively large turban wrapped around the matron’s head, he should be the one clutching his chest. Beneath the voluminous folds of exotic silk, he imagined she was as bald as the day she was born.

  “I am taking a moment to gather my thoughts.” Under present circumstances, she could hardly question his motives. Whilst mourning the loss of one’s brother rarely affected a gentleman’s social calendar, a more subdued countenance was only to be expected.

  The lady gave a rueful smile. “I assume your mother has pestered you to leave the house again this evening.” She gestured to the musicians and whispered, “I doubt praise for their skill has dragged you here. They are hardly the talk of the Season.”

  He snorted. “As you are aware, my mother makes no secret of the fact she is keen for me to find a bride.”

  With Tristan being the only male member of the family, his mother’s eagerness for him to produce an heir bordered on desperation.

  “I have heard she has a particular lady in mind.”

  “She has many ladies in mind,” Tristan said with a derisive chuckle, “as long as they’re from good breeding stock.” In truth, he was beginning to feel like a reluctant bull being herded into a field full of heifers.

  “I understand your mother’s urgency to see you wed,” Lady Mottlesborough said. “Despite her mourning period, no one would cast aspersions on the decision to protect one’s heritage. Indeed, we are all aware that one’s duty and responsibility must come before everything else.”

  Tristan knew better than anyone the sacrifices one must make for the sake of patrimony. But with his mother still in full mourning, it prevented her from attending functions, and as such, he found it more preferable to wander the corridors of other people’s houses than to remain in his own. He also came in the hope of finding more stimulating conversation, something that did not involve talk of flounces and other such fripperies.

  “For the moment, I have been granted a reprieve,” he said with a weary sigh.

  Lady Mottlesborough nodded. “And so you linger in the shadows in the hope the ladies won’t find you.” She raised a curious brow. “Or perhaps it is one particular lady you wish to avoid. Where is the lovely Miss Smythe this evening?”

  Miss Priscilla Smythe was lovely. She possessed a sweet, kind disposition, a generous heart, and a pretty countenance. Whenever he thought of kissing her, his mind conjured images of summer meadows, birds chirping merrily, and chocolate macaroons. On the whole, he imagined the experience would be pleasant, if not particularly memorable.

  “I believe you will find her surrounded by a host of other ladies just as eager to discuss the merits of ribbon over lace.”

  Lady Mottlesborough nodded despite the hint of contempt in his tone. “I am afraid we ladies tend to take the topic of haberdashery extremely seriously.” She chuckled. “Sewing and embroidery are subjects dear to my heart.”

  Tristan wondered if that was why she wore the turban. Perhaps she carried her frame and threads around with her in case she found the evening’s entertainment too dull. “I’m certain that when you stumble upon Miss Smythe, she will be only too happy to hear all about it.”

  The matron’s suspicious gaze drifted over his face. “Perhaps your interest lies elsewhere. Perhaps you have another lady in mind.”

  Tristan knew to have a care. Friendly overtures were often used to drag snippets of gossip from unsuspecting fools. Many unwilling parties had been forced into an arrangement simply to stop loose tongues from wagging.

  “This evening, I am only interested in listening to a soothing melody whilst enjoying my freedom for a little while longer.”

  He wanted to say that he had no interest in titles or land. He had no interest in the begetting of an heir, or to be the husband of a woman who failed to ignite even the smallest spark of passion in his chest.

  Lady Mottlesborough winced at the sound of the harsh chords as the musicians warmed up their bows. “I hate to be the one to ruin an evening, but the Baxendale Quartet are quite mediocre when it comes to Haydn.”

  “Then I thank you for the warning,” he said with a smirk, “and shall take care to sit near the back.”

  “A splendid idea. Had I not been the hostess, I most certainly would have joined you.” Lady Mottlesborough’s attention drifted to the door. “And now it seems your plan to go unnoticed has been foiled, my lord.”

  Tristan followed her gaze to see Miss Priscilla Smythe and her companion, Miss Hamilton, enter the drawing room.

  Lady Mottlesborough tapped his arm with her closed fan. “I’m afraid there is no escaping now,” she said before turning to greet the other guests pouring in through the door.

  He suppressed a groan as both ladies smiled sweetly and came over to join him.

  “I simply knew we would find you in here, eager to secure the best seat.” Miss Smythe chuckled sweetly, her golden ringlets bobbing up and down in response. She turned to Miss Hamilton. “Lady Morford said he simply adores Haydn.”

  “You all know me only too well,” he said, his affable tone bringing on a bout of nausea. In reality, none of them knew him at all.

  Tristan sighed
inwardly. It had not taken him long to fall back into the feigned modes of conduct he despised. Showing enthusiasm when he had none came easier to him than he thought.

  “I wanted to introduce you to Mr. Fellows,” Miss Smythe said fluttering her lashes, which appeared to be a nervous habit as opposed to a means of flirtation.

  “Mr. Fellows?” He made an attempt to look interested.

  “My friend’s brother. Do you not remember me telling you that he has recently returned from a spell in India?”

  She could well have mentioned it amongst all the talk of bonnets and bombazine. “Of course,” he lied.

  Miss Smythe gestured to the gentleman with wavy black hair and ridiculous side-whiskers who, upon catching their eye, nodded to the row of chairs at the front.

  “Oh, there he is.” In her excitement, Miss Smythe hopped about like a bird on a perch. “He did say we should all sit together.”

  Tristan cleared his throat. “I prefer to sit at the back. I find one can appreciate the melody much more when it is carried through the room.”

  Miss Smythe’s bright smile faded. “Oh. But Mr. Fellows is here alone, and it would be rude not to accompany him now he has gone to the trouble of securing the best seats.”

  Tristan suppressed a smile. “You and Miss Hamilton may sit with Mr. Fellows. I shall sit elsewhere. Besides, I find Haydn can best be appreciated when there are no pretty distractions.”

  The lady blushed. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” He inclined his head. “And poor Mr. Fellows looks as though he could do with some company. Now, make haste before someone attempts to steal the seats from under his nose.”

  Miss Smythe gasped at the suggestion. “Shall we all meet for refreshments in the interval?”

  “Certainly,” he said with an affected smile.

  Tristan watched them hurry away before heading to the empty row at the back. Dropping down into the chair, he gazed over the sea of heads and stifled a yawn.

  Good Lord.

  What the hell was he doing?

  With each passing day, he lost sight of the man who spied on smugglers, got drunk on cheap wine, cursed and laughed with labourers and farmhands. He hated behaving like a preened prig. Had his mother not been so distraught over the death of his brother, they would be sharing a few stern words.

  Tristan closed his eyes, but the low hum of mumbled whispers from the crowd, interspersed with a few strained chords of the cello, proved too distracting. He peered between the rows of shoulders to see Miss Smythe seated next to Mr. Fellows. Perhaps the gentleman had developed an affection for her. Tristan sincerely hoped so as it would ease his burden a little.

  As the musicians began to play and the haunting notes filled the air, a sudden shiver raced through his body. Having chosen not to sit next to the aisle — if he fell asleep there was a good chance he would end up on the floor — he was surprised to find that the latecomer had decided to sit next to him as opposed to the empty row adjacent.

  For fear of appearing rude he did not gape but glanced covertly out of the corner of his eye. The lady was dressed in grey silk, the edges of her sleeves trimmed with black lace. She held her hands demurely in her lap. The sight of her black gloves, coupled with her sombre-looking gown, complemented his choice of black attire.

  The lady edged a little closer.

  The air around them vibrated with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the music. The hairs at his nape stood to attention, his body growing more acutely aware of the woman seated at his side. He shuffled back in the chair in an attempt to study her profile. But without any warning, she spoke.

  “Hello, Tristan.” Her words were but a soft purr. The soothing sound caused tingles to spark suddenly in various parts of his body, like fireworks shooting and bursting sporadically in the night sky.

  He would know her voice anywhere.

  He had heard it in his dreams too many times to forget its sweet timbre.

  Turning slowly in a bid to prepare his weak heart, he glanced at her face. Her deep pink lips were just as full as he remembered. Her dark brown eyes still held the power to reach into his soul. The ebony curls were just as dark as the night he had covered her body with his own to claim the only woman he had ever wanted.

  “Isabella.” Years of torturous agony hung within that one word, years of longing, years of living with her betrayal.

  “I must speak to you,” she said, her breath coming as quick as his.

  He suppressed a snigger of contempt. She’d had nothing to say to him when she left him and married another man. During the five years since their separation, she could have written to him many times. She could have found him in France if that was what she’d wanted.

  Why here?

  Why now?

  “After all this time, I doubt there is anything left to say.” His tone was deliberately cold, blunt. The memories of her were like painful wounds that refused to heal and so he had no choice but to hide them beneath bandages of indifference.

  “I did not come here for the music,” she whispered, but he noted anger infused her tone.

  What the hell did she have to be angry about?

  The gentleman in front turned his head. “Shush.”

  Tristan cast him an irate glare. “And I did not come here to revisit the past,” he muttered to her through gritted teeth.

  “But this is not about the past.” She gave a weary sigh as though she would rather be anywhere else than sitting talking to him. “This is about Andrew.”

  “Andrew?” He could not hide his surprise.

  During the two months since his return, she had not called at the house. She had not come to pay her respects or offer her condolences.

  “I cannot speak about it here,” she said as she placed a hesitant hand on his arm. His traitorous body responded immediately as a familiar warmth travelled through him. “My carriage is waiting outside.”

  Without another word, she stood and walked out through the door.

  His heart lurched. The urge to run after her would never leave him.

  He should tell her to go to the devil, let her husband be the one to listen to her pitiful woes. Turning back to face the musicians, he closed his eyes in the hope the melody would ease his restless soul. But the haunting harmony only served to remind him of all he had lost.

  Perhaps if he went to her, she would offer an explanation for her lies and deceit. Perhaps then he would be able to move forward, take a wife, and produce an heir.

  Straightening his coat as he stood, he crept out of the room.

  When it came to Isabella, he would always be too weak to resist.

  Chapter 2

  Isabella Fernall flopped down into the carriage seat and exhaled deeply. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest the thumping echoed in her ears. She did not need to put her fingers to her cheeks to know they flamed berry red. Besides, how could she when sitting on her hands was the only way to stop them from shaking?

  She glanced at the empty seat opposite, at the closed carriage door. Her vague plea had failed to rouse Tristan’s enthusiasm. After noting the contemptuous expression on his face, she doubted he would come. Whilst he grieved his brother’s passing, the men had never been close. She did not know or understand why. During the last few years, and until his untimely death, Andrew had been a good and loyal friend to her.

  The sudden tap on the window made her jump and gasp for breath.

  Good Lord. The ghostly hauntings at Highley Grange had turned her into a shivering wreck. Sucking in a breath, she leant forward and opened the door ajar. Catching a glimpse of the gentleman’s golden hair and black coat, she sat back in the seat in a bid to compose herself before he entered her conveyance.

  With swift efficiency, Tristan climbed inside the carriage and slammed the door.

  Time stopped. Just for a moment.

  He sat down opposite, his glacial gaze scanning the interior as though he would rather observe the qualit
y of the leather than look at her.

  “What is this about?” His blunt tone sliced through the air.

  In her mind, she imagined slapping the sour look from his face. “It is about your brother.” Her reply was equally as cold and direct.

  He sat back in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and stared right through her. “What could be so important you would wait two months before approaching me? You could have called at the house rather than accost me at a concert.”

  She searched his face, struggling to find the kind and carefree man who had once stolen her heart. Hostility did not come naturally to him. It was an ill-fitting mask, worn to hide his true feelings.

  “I’m sure you know the answer to that,” she said haughtily, refusing to let his frosty tone penetrate her composed demeanour. “I tend only to call where I know I will be welcome.”

  He raised an arrogant brow. “As family, you are always welcome at Bedford Square.”

  “Family?” She could not help but give a contemptuous snort. “Was I ever anything more than your father’s ward? We are not related by blood, and you once said that two summers spent living under the same roof hardly quantifies such a connection.”

  “My father promised your mother he would care for you, and he was true to his word. You should have made some attempt to repay his kindness by calling on my mother in her hour of need.”

  Bitterness dripped from every word. Good Lord. Had it not been for the mop of golden hair and the dimple on his chin, she would not recognise him.

  “Perhaps you should consult your mother before condemning others,” she said in a superior tone. His arrogance was infectious. “I believe she is not of the same opinion when it comes to who she permits entrance into her home.” Indeed, Lady Morford had written to her and specifically asked her to stay away.

  “You could have asked to speak to me.” He examined his fingernails as though he found the conversation highly tedious. “My mother does not dictate whom I see.”