He's No Prince Charming (Ever After)

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected] Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

My thanks go back many years to the many people who have made this story what it is today.

To Judith McNaught, who’s book
Kingdom of Dreams
, inspired my love of all things romantic. To my high school history teacher, Donna H., who I now swear is some sort of prophet. Years before I even attempted to write my first romance novel, she would read the vignettes of my academic papers (which I was forced to include because essays are just so boring without them) and announce to the class that I would be a romance writer. To my first college professor, Beverly, who introduced me to National Novel Writing Month for extra credit. Who knew I could ever write all those words? And to Lucy M., for being the first outside my family to read my stories and tell me I was good.

Many thanks to the Unicorn Writers’ Conference for introducing me to the world of publishing and connecting me with Gina Panettieri of Talcott Notch Literary Services. I liked her the minute I met her. To my wonderful agent, Rachael Dugas, who believed in my manuscript, and provided constant support and invaluable advice.

My eternal gratitude to the amazingly talented people of the Grand Central/Forever Publishing team. In particular, Lauren Plude, for taking a chance on my novel, and Megha Parekh, my editor, who did a truly incredible job bringing this book up to scratch—thank you for all your patience and expert advice!

To my aunts, uncles, and cousins, I have no words to convey how grateful I am for your unwavering support and enthusiasm. I also want to thank Deb, Denise, Hannah, Maura, Kevin, Vicky, Meghan, and the many others who’ve shared in my excitement.

And last, but not least, a thank-you to my mom for editing the monstrosities that are my first drafts, and to my dad, who actually read the book—out loud—and tried to make it better. And to my brothers, Dan and Jim, my biggest supporters, who will never read a word I write.

H
e had many names. The
ton
called him the Beast behind his back. To his face they called him my lord. If he could have stomached friends, they would have called him Fleetwood. His sister referred to him as a pain in her arse. He simply called himself Marcus.x

At the moment, everyone would have called him drunk.

And drunk was exactly what he wanted to be. Being drunk meant he felt nothing. It meant he remembered nothing. The blessed golden stuff meant that he could survive another day in his cage. But the relief didn’t last long. Even as he stepped along the rain-dampened path, he could feel the pleasant warmth leaving his veins. He could feel the shadows of the past slowly creeping back to the forefront of his mind. Keeping them at bay was too much effort, but facing those memories was the more terrifying of the choices.

The ringing of his champagne-polished Hessians ceased as he halted on the cobblestone sidewalk below. A gas lamp illuminated the darkness. He opened his coat to search his pockets, ignoring the chill hanging in the air.

“Where is that blasted flask?” he mumbled, grasping clumsily through his clothing.

His hands greedily clasped the smooth metal of the container and quickly brought the opened flask to his lips. In minutes, the warmth spread to his limbs and the quiet oblivion, the numbness, returned. His mind fogged, blurring the past and present to a comfortable degree, allowing him to continue his way home unfettered by memories.

He’d taken only half a dozen steps towards his destination before he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Marcus flinched, turning quickly with his fists raised, his heart beating erratically in his chest. For a moment, he’d thought…

He shook his head at his foolishness, fishing his flask out of his coat again.
Goddamned memories!

He tipped the mouth of the flask against his lips, the cool surface like a kiss. But before the liquid relief slipped over the edge, he saw movement again. He jolted as if struck, his body spinning around to meet his assailant. The ring of metal on the ground set him jumping backward, his entire body on alert to defend himself from the lash of a knife or the sting of a whip.

Marcus found himself facing nothing but the empty street, the night shadows draping corners in darkness. He glanced down to find that his flask had hit the ground, causing the echoing ring. What had remained of his liquid relief now soaked the front of his overcoat and starched shirt.

His breath came in short gasps, his hand moved to hold his chest in an effort to control himself. He imagined that he looked exactly like the Beast the
ton
painted him—the whites of his eyes gleaming in terror and a wild look about him.

He bent to pick up his flask, but halted when a clatter echoed in the empty streets, followed by the flash of movement he’d seen before. With slightly unsteady hands, Marcus finished his task, debating whether he should investigate. Despite his constant quest for emotional numbness, he couldn’t stop the surge of concern that flooded him. What if the movement was a result of someone being hurt? Frowning, he pocketed his flask and moved in the direction of the noise. His steps were unsteady as he walked closer to the wrought iron gates of an imposing house. Something about the house struck him as familiar. Stepping back, Marcus realized it was the back garden at the home of his fiancée, Miss Anne Newport. He tilted his head, listening for the noise. It was soft this time, but it had the distinctive clang of metal against metal.

Marcus edged around the corner of the tall fence and watched in stunned silence as a trio of boys slipped unnoticed from the gardens. A gas lantern swung in the hands of the tallest as he held open a gate for the other two behind him. The trio then hurried down the dark alley, pausing only a moment as the last turned to close the gate. Without warning he looked up. Marcus ducked back behind the corner as quickly as he could, unsure if he’d been discovered. He waited for some sort of alarm to be raised, but when nothing happened, he looked back around the fence. The alley was deserted.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he turned down the alley to follow the miscreants. Even in his current state, he knew nothing good would come from three boys skulking about one of the finer residences in the area at this time of night. His lips twisted in a sneer as he walked; his plan was simply to give them a scare. Lord knew his face could frighten even the stoutest of hearts.

Unconsciously, he ran a hand down his cheek, feeling the bumps and ridges of the scars he would forever bear. A tendril of darkness threatened to invade his thoughts, sending his shaking hands for his flask before he realized he was wearing what he sought. Closing his eyes against the sting of the past, he beat it back as best he could before continuing. If he focused on what he was doing, he might be able to escape it.

Marcus halted at the point in the fence where the trio had emerged. It looked as if the fence was whole, but when he ran his fingers over the rain-slicked bars, he could feel the slight indents of where they had been separated to create a passage. It seemed that the boys were more than simple troublemakers.

In the face of such ingenuity, he should have sought a constable. Whether it was the drink’s false courage or his determination to never be cowed, Marcus couldn’t say, but he kept going down the alley. He paused at the other end of it to watch the scene unfolding before him. The alley opened onto a street, fully illuminated by the light coming from the lanterns surrounding a waiting coach. The well-sprung vehicle looked as if it was about to embark on a long journey, with luggage packed tight wherever it could fit. Before it stood the three boys. Only…

As Marcus peered closer at them, he discovered something he would have missed had the light not revealed their figures. Two of the three boys were not boys at all. They were actually petite women dressed as men. Curiosity blossomed, his mind running through the possibilities as to why women would risk their reputations in such a way.

He refocused his attention as the shorter of the two women stepped forward to greet the coachman when the man dropped down from the driver’s perch. The pair embraced tightly. Marcus dismissed him quickly enough, judging him to be mostly harmless. He was an average man of medium height, his only distinguishing feature an odd mustache that parted in the middle and curled at the ends. The woman, on the other hand, captured his full attention.

How he had mistaken the little sprite for a boy was beyond him. He could only blame the two bottles of very fine whiskey he had consumed. Marcus watched the seductive roll of her lush hips in the form-fitting trousers. His interest instantly piqued as his gaze roamed over the impossibly curvy figure on such a tiny frame. He felt his mouth suddenly go dry as her shirt stretched snugly across her bosom, showing it off in every detail.

How long had it been since he’d had a woman? His sudden lust sent his mind wandering down an avenue he did not wish to explore. He did not like to think about the sad circumstances he’d been reduced to in order to enjoy feminine company. The few times he’d attempted to take a mistress had resulted in rejection, the women claiming they couldn’t stomach him. He’d made a habit of paying a small fortune for a whore in the dark.

Just looking at the wee thing illuminated in flickering rays of light made him long for things he could never have. Things that were simply not for him. Ever.

“John! How have you been, old man?”

Her husky voice flowed across the cobbled street and his mind like cool water soothing a burn. It drowned his dark thoughts, dragging him back to the present, something very few people had ever been able to do. Despite his annoyance that this fraud and prowler could affect him in any way, he leaned forward to hear the conversation better.

“I’m doing as well as can be, Miss Danni. The two boys got into a scrape with ol’ man Howard the other day. Me wife damned near took off their ’ides.”

At this, Miss Danni shook her head with a soft clucking sound. “I do not blame her. Mr. Howard has threatened to send the constable after them.”

“They’ll be the end of us, I’m sure. Never have little ones yourself, if you know what’s best for you.”

It was then Miss Danni smiled. It changed her face from simply pretty to stunning. Marcus caught his breath, his hands clenching against the sudden urge to possess her. It was utter madness, but then again, he’d been mad for most of his life.

“Hush, John! Don’t let Hu hear you say that.” Her murmured chuckle was as smooth as her voice.

“Too late for him, anyway.” The amusement in his reply echoed across to Marcus. John glanced over to the other pair, who waited some steps away. Then, glancing skyward, “You picked a wonderful night for this, Miss Danni! The mud will slow us down.”

Her muffled laugh reached him as she inspected something on the carriage. “As if I conjured up this weather! Besides, the roads are still passable.”

John motioned about him as if the wet streets were all the evidence he needed to be concerned for the party’s welfare.

“Don’t fret. You’re worse than a mother hen,” she continued, ignoring his sudden glare. “We have not been seen and no alarm has been raised. You will all be halfway to Gretna before they even realize Anne is gone.”

Marcus tried not to feel emotions. They led to memories, but he could not stop the shock that rippled through him at the name.
Anne.
It couldn’t be the same. There were plenty of women bearing that name in London. Possibly even a maid in her household. With growing dread, his gut registered the impending doom before his mind would accept it.

His gaze flew to the other girl, standing beside the only real boy—or man—in the group, his burly build suggesting a much more mature age. He was off at one end of the street, lantern held aloft, casting the second girl in a soft glow as she scanned the night. An anxious expression clouded her angelic face, the face he’d looked at so often this past month. She had removed her cap in favor of twisting it in her hands, exposing a long rope of light-colored hair braided in seeming haste, nothing like her traditional coiffures. There was no doubt as to the woman’s identity. It was Miss Anne Newport, daughter of one of London’s wealthiest merchants. His fiancée. Running away from him.

He wasn’t sure what to feel. How could he have been so stupid? He’d known the marriage was contracted for convenience, but he’d begun to believe she might eventually see him in a favorable light. They’d had amicable conversations. He’d been kind, respectful—a gentleman. She’d seemed cooperative, if perhaps a bit hesitant. Apparently he’d been wrong, as the scene before him revealed the truth. Now he was going to suffer embarrassment on top of his crushing defeat, and he couldn’t bear to think about the repercussions for his sister.

Miss Danni bent forward to speak an aside with the coachman, her voice barely audible across the distance. “Where is the groom?”

The coachman shook his head, a worried expression crossing his face. Danni gave Anne a considering look before striding to stand beside her. “He knows that tonight is the night, right?”

Her voice shook as she spoke, sounding as if she was trying to convince herself. “Y-yes, I managed to speak with him in private today to confirm the details. He assured me he would be here. George is not one to change his mind at the last minute. ’Tis one of the reasons I fell in love with him.”

Love.
Marcus choked back the laugh welling in his chest. He felt light-headed with the absurdity of the events he was witnessing. The vague thought that he was becoming hysterical collided with another sobering thought. There was no doubt that this groom was conning Anne, playing on her schoolroom fantasies and paying his three assistants a large sum to help him lay claim to her inheritance. Marcus could all too easily imagine such a thing happening to someone as naive as Anne. He had half a mind to halt this entire affair, but he couldn’t make himself move.

Anger snaked through his chest. That Anne would do this to him, that she so hated the idea of an alliance with him she would run away under the cover of night. Even as he stood there, knowing they had not loved each other, knowing the marriage was a mere business arrangement, he thought she could have at least showed him a little consideration. Revenge curled with anger in his gut. His cruel side wanted her to get what she deserved.

The fraud nodded reassuringly, staring down the avenue as she joined the girl and the lantern bearer in their vigil. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”

Marcus stood waiting as well, his drunken thoughts swirling down a well of emotions. If this George was really a con man, then why was he not claiming his prize? Could it be he’d grown a conscience? Had regrets? A thought struck his befuddled brain. Could it be that George was the intended victim and not Anne?

His shoulder propped up against the damp brick wall, his mind slowly transformed Anne into his little sister. He could see the desperate hope in her green eyes, shining with worry and hopeful anticipation. In his imagination, he envisioned her returning to her room, devastated from being abandoned by her “true love.” Or, perhaps even worse, returning to her home, trapped in a miserable marriage for the rest of her life.

His concern won out over his desire for revenge. If it were Caro in Anne’s place, he’d hope her soon-to-be-ex-fiancé would have tried to stop this disaster. His lungs constricted with his anger. It wasn’t the sharp, blinding rage that he was so used to. It was a deep-seated, writhing storm, threatening to roll into a more malevolent force. He pushed off the brick, his feet seeming ready to fly him into the light, but a quiet shout from where the three “men” stood stopped him. He drew back as a slender figure stumbled out of the darkness. Marcus caught the gleam of glasses reflecting in the lamplight just before the youth fell forward, seeming to trip over nothing.