The Secret Life of Lords

If Lady Claire Albright had one wish, it would be to forget brooding, powerful Lord Flavian Monroe. But even after two years of bewildering silence, she yearns to touch his sinuous arms and feel his calloused hands upon her cheeks. Then, on the brink of her come out, they accidently meet. His ward is ill, and he begs her to use her knowledge of healing to help the girl. But this patient is sick in a way that’s far different from what Claire expected—dangerously different. And, as she struggles to find a cure, Flavian resists rekindling their love. Is it the ward’s illness that keeps him cold and distant, or a dark and terrible secret?

The thought of Claire in the arms of another man is unbearable, but in his heart Flavian knows he mustn’t ask her to share the consequences of his mistake. Nor should he have brought her to his home and exposed her to his ward’s sickness. Yet he lacks the strength to send her away. Each time he looks into Claire’s eyes, the urge to feel her body pressed against his consumes all reason, and he is left unable to utter the word, ‘goodbye.’

At last, they reached a door Claire guessed led to the crenelated tower that jutted above the eastern wall of the house. He gave her the candle and fished in his pocket for a key. Metal squealed against metal in the chamber of a padlock bolting the thick wooden barrier. As it swung open, she noticed grain sacking on the floor. It had been stuffed into the gap at the jam.
“Let me know the minute you wish to leave,” he said.
A pang of fear rattled through her. But it was too late to back out now, or she’d appear a total ninny. With an upward tilt of her chin, she replied, “Don’t worry about me—worry about your ward’s gift to the world.”
The line of his lips stretched in an unreadable grimace. Without answering, he pulled an immaculate handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. “Hold it to your nose if you need to.”
She handed it back. “I’ve smelled gangrene. Nothing could be worse.”
His features tightened. Taking back the candle, he drew a deep breath and plunged into the tower’s dark stairwell.
Flavian didn’t wait. She had to make do with what little light reflected off the spiraled walls. On the final turn before the landing to the third floor, she caught sight of him, his face cut with shadow at the ridges of cheek and jaw, an ominous, harsh expression suffusing his features. As she joined him, he lit the wick of a mirrored sconce and light flooded the space.
At first, she couldn’t grasp what she saw, and then her breath strangled in her throat.