Falling from His Grace Read online

  Praise for Kristin Vayden and her novels

  “Vayden never lets me down; always and forever a one-click author . . . every work a work of magic!”

  —S.E. Hall, New York Times and USA Today

  bestselling author

  “I’ve come across a genius with a gift in reading Kristin. I can’t wait to read more of her books!”

  —Kathy Coopmans, USA Today bestselling author

  Praise for Heart of a Cowboy

  “A touching tale of family, friendship, fated love,

  and everything in between. A sweet romance that

  will make you swoon!”

  —Audrey Carlan, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “A wonderfully woven story that will have you

  laughing, swooning, and choking back tears.”

  —Molly McAdams, New York Times bestselling author

  “Start to finish, Heart of a Cowboy sucked me in and didn’t let go. Vayden put my heart through every emotion, especially love. Incredible story I already want to re-read. With lots of tissues.”

  —Jennifer Ann Van Wyk, bestselling author

  “A breath of fresh air . . . Cyler and Laken’s

  story warmed my heart and made my toes tingle

  with feelings. Beautiful. Five stars.”

  —Erin Noelle, USA Today bestselling author

  Books by Kristin Vayden

  Lyrical Press mass market

  Gentlemen of Temptation series

  FALLING FROM HIS GRACE

  From Lyrical Press e-books

  Elk Heights Ranch series

  HEART OF A COWBOY

  THE COURAGE OF A COWBOY

  THE COWGIRL MEETS HER MATCH

  Falling From His Grace

  Kristin Vayden

  Lyrical Press

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  LYRICAL BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Kristin Vayden

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Lyrical and the Lyrical logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-5161-0568-7

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0569-4

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0569-9

  I can’t write a book without dedicating it to my husband. Without him, this book—any of my books—wouldn’t happen. He’s the inspiration behind all the romance, the security of my heart, and the maker of dinner when I’m holed up in our bedroom fitting in some time to write! I thank God for you each day. I love you!

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Kay Springsteen Tate, for all the years of correcting me on my Regency facts, and for always being there to answer some obscure question! Thank you, Paula, you’re always saving me somehow with your eagle eyes in editing, and I’d be lost without you! Thank you, Rachel Van Dyken, for feeding my love for historical fiction and giving me the push I needed to write it myself! And thank you to Kensington Publishing, your faith in my writing is a blessing.

  Prologue

  London 1817

  Lucas Mayfield, the eighth Earl of Heightfield, was a lot of things, depending on whom you asked. But chief amongst all the adjectives his peers or others might attribute to him, none was more accurate than the one with which he labeled himself.

  Bored.

  It wasn’t a benign state either, rather a dangerous one—because boredom bred ideas, and the ones spinning about in his mind were of the scandalous, inventive, and daring variety. Ideas also necessitated risk, something with which he didn’t dally lightly. Rather, he craved control—thrived on it, in every aspect of his life. Control prevented pain, prevented others from manipulating you—because you held the marionette strings. If you were in control, life couldn’t toss you on your ear with blindsiding betrayal, death, or worse.

  Because yes, indeed, there were always things worse than death.

  Life, being one of them.

  However, risk compromised that basic need for control, so it was with careful calculation that he even considered such a reckless and delightful diversion.

  He would also need assistance, but that was easily afforded and solicited. Heathcliff and Ramsey were as bloody bored as he. Among the three of them, they had every connection and resource necessary to breathe life into this concoction of his imagination.

  He tapped his finger against his brandy glass, the amber light of the fire in his study’s hearth casting an inviting glow. Darkness was so predictable, so protective. Much easier to manipulate than light.

  He took a long sip of the fine French brandy, savoring the burn. It was heavenly. The perfection leading to temptation . . . leading to . . .

  He sat up straighter, the leather chair squeaking slightly from the abrupt movement. Tempting.

  He rolled the word around in his mind, a grin widening his lips even as he shook his head at the audacity of such an idea.

  It was the perfect irony.

  His idea had a name—a bloody insightful one.

  Different than all the other gaming hells about London—his would thrive on anonymity. No names. No faces. Masks and the uttermost exclusivity that no other hell could boast. No strings attached, where your privacy is also your security—your pleasure.

  Temptation. Short, sweet, and directly to the point.

  Where you could fall from grace and never want to go back.

  He lifted high his brandy glass, toasting himself, and took a long swig. It would solve so many of his own problems, the problems of his friends as well. And no do
ubt, if he struggled with such things, countless others did too.

  Unable to resist such a brilliant plan’s lure, he stood and crossed his study in several wide strides, heading to the door. It was still somewhat early in the night, surely his friends would be still lingering at White’s. So with an eager expectation, he rode off into the night, the irritation of his boredom long gone.

  In its place, something far more hazardous.

  Determination.

  Chapter One

  Lady Liliah Durary urged her mare, Penny, into a rapid gallop as she flew through Hyde Park. A proper lady should have a care about the strolling couples about the park. A proper lady should not ride at such breakneck speed. A proper lady should obey her father in all things.

  Liliah was not a proper lady.

  And hell would have to freeze over before she’d ever even try.

  Tears burned the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision as she urged Penny faster, not caring that she was in a miserable sidesaddle—or that her speed was indeed dangerous for her precarious position. She wanted to outrun her problems—rather, problem. Because aside from the one damning issue at hand, life was otherwise quite lovely.

  Being the elder daughter of a duke had its distinct advantages.

  Of course, it had its distinct disadvantages as well. Like your father demanding you marry your best friend.

  Who so happened to be in love with your other best friend.

  It was a miserable mess . . . and she was caught in the middle of it all. If only her father would see reason! Yet asking such a thing was like expecting her mare to sprout wings and fly: impossible.

  She slowed Penny down to a moderate walk and sighed deeply, the light breeze teasing the strands of unruly blond hair, which came loose from her coiffure as a result of her quick pace. She blew a particularly irritating curl from her forehead, and tucked it behind her ear. Glancing about, she groaned, remembering that she hadn’t taken a maid with her. Again.

  Thankfully, the staff at Whitefield House was accustomed to her constant disregard of propriety. Maybe Sarah, her maid, would notice and make herself scarce, giving the impression she was with her mistress. Liliah bit her lip, turning her mare toward home—even if that was the last place she wished to be—simply for Sarah’s sake. It wouldn’t go well for her maid if her father discovered the way his staff allowed his unruly daughter far more freedom than he did, and should he discover it, such freedom would end abruptly—and badly.

  Being attached to the staff—especially her maid Sarah—Liliah increased her pace. Besides, running from problems didn’t solve them. As she swayed with the steady rhythm of Penny’s trot, she considered the situation at hand once more.

  It made no sense.

  Yet when had one of her father’s decisions required logic? Never.

  Her best friend Rebecca was delightful and from a well-bred and heavily pursed family. There was no reason for the family of her other best friend Meyer, the Baron of Scoffield, to be opposed to such a match. Yet Meyer’s father refused to see reason, just as Liliah’s father refused. Only Meyer’s father, the Earl of Greywick, had threatened to disinherit his son and grant the title to a cousin when Meyer had objected to the arrangement.

  It was wretched, no matter how one looked at it. Love matches were rare amongst the ton, and here was a golden opportunity for each family—squandered.

  It was true, Liliah was quite the match herself. The elder daughter of a duke, she understood she was quite the heiress and pedigree, yet was her breeding of more importance than Rebecca’s? She doubted it.

  Apparently, her father didn’t agree.

  Nor did Lord Greywick.

  As she crossed the cobble street toward her home, she took a deep breath of the spring air, feeling her freedom slowly sifting through her fingers like dry sand. As Whitefield House came into view, she pulled up on the reins, halting Penny’s progress toward home. The horse nickered softly, no doubt anticipating a thorough brush-down and sweet oats upon returning, yet Liliah lingered, studying the stone structure. One of the larger houses in Mayfair, Whitefield demanded attention with its large stone pillars and wide, welcoming balcony overlooking the drive. It fit her father’s personality well, as if magnifying his overinflated sense of importance. Reluctantly, she urged Penny on, taking the side entrance to the stable in the back.

  Upon her arrival, a stable boy rushed out to greet her, helping her dismount. Penny jostled the lad with her head, and he chuckled softly, petting her velvet nose.

  “I’ll take care of Penny, my lady. You needn’t worry.” With a quick bow, the boy led the all too pampered horse into the stable, murmuring softly as they walked.

  Carefully glancing around, once she was certain that no one lingered about, she rushed to the servants’ entrance just to the side of the large manor. The heavy wooden door opened silently and she slipped inside, leaning against the door once it was closed. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she took the stairs to the second floor, turning left down a small hall and turning the latch on the door that would lead to the gallery, just a short distance from her chambers. The metal was cool against her gloved hand as she twisted, then peered out into the sunlight-filled room. Breathing quietly, she listened intently for footsteps or voices. Just before she dared to step out, Sarah, her maid, bustled down the hall, a pinched frown on her face as she opened the door leading to Liliah’s rooms.

  After waiting one more moment, Liliah stepped from the servants’ hall, rushing her steps till she approached her room, then slowed as if she weren’t in a hurry at all, just in case someone noticed her presence.

  Quickly, she opened the door to her room and swiftly shut it silently behind her, Sarah’s relieved sigh welcoming her.

  “My lady! You’ve not but a moment to lose! Your father is searching about for you! When he noticed me, he bid me find you, but I fear he is growing impatient. He was in the library.”

  “Quick, help me disrobe. I need an afternoon dress.” Liliah started to tug off her gloves, exchanging them for ones that did not bear the marks from the leather reins, as Sarah made quick work of the buttons on her riding habit.

  In only a few short minutes, Liliah was properly attired—all evidence of her earlier unchaperoned excursion tucked away. And with a quick grin to Sarah, who offered a relieved sigh, Liliah left her chambers and strode down the hall as if without a care in the world.

  When in truth, the cares were heavy upon her indeed.

  Because her father rarely spoke to her, unless demanding her obedience in some matter—and she knew exactly what he had on his mind.

  Drat.

  She clasped her hands, trying to calm the slight tremble as she took the stairs and walked toward the library. How she hated feeling weak, out of control in her own life! With a fortifying breath, she made the final steps to the library entrance, the delicate clink of china teacups drifting through the air.

  “Your Grace.” Liliah curtseyed to her father, taking in the furrow in his expression, drawing his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows like thunderclouds over his gray eyes.

  “At last. I was about to begin a search,” he replied tersely, setting down his teacup and gesturing to a chair.

  “Forgive me, I was quite absorbed in my—”

  “Book, I know. Your little maid said as much. And I’ll remind you that you mustn’t spend so much time engaging your mind. Fine-tune your other qualities. Your pianoforte could benefit a great deal from some practice.” He sighed, as if already tired of the conversation with his daughter.

  Liliah bit her tongue, not wishing to initiate a battle of wills just yet; she’d save the fight for a more worthy cause.

  The only worthy cause of the moment.

  “Now that you’re here, I need to inform you that Lord Greywick and I have decided on a date—”

  “But, Your Grace . . .”

  His brows knit further over his eyes, and he glared, his expression frosty and furious. “Do not interrupt me.”
>
  Liliah swallowed, clenching her teeth as she nodded.

  “As I was saying . . .” He paused, arching a brow, daring her to interfere again. “Lord Greywick and I are tired of waiting. We’ve been patient, and your progress with Greywick’s heir is apathetic at best. Therefore, tonight, at the Langford rout, Meyer will be asking you for two waltzes. That should set up the perfect tone for the banns being read in two weeks’ time. Hence, you shall be wed at St. George’s in two months. That is beyond generous and I—”

  “It is anything but generous and you well know it!” Liliah couldn’t restrain herself any longer. Standing, she took position behind the chair, her fingers biting into the damask fabric as she prepared for battle.

  One she knew was already lost.

  “How dare you!” Her father’s voice boomed.

  “Father, Meyer has no interest in me! How long will you imagine something greater than friendship?”

  “I care not if he gives a fig about you!” her father roared, standing as well.

  “I refuse.” Liliah spoke softly, like silk over steel as she clenched her teeth.

  Her father took a menacing step forward. “There is no other way. And consider this: If this arrangement is not made, your friend will lose his title. Do you think that Lord and Lady Grace will allow their daughter to be married to a man with no means? No title?” He shook his head, his eyes calculating. “They will not. So cease your reluctance. There is no other option.” He took a deep breath and met her gaze. “I suggest you prepare for tonight; you’ll certainly be the center of attention and you should look the part. You’re dismissed.” With a quick wave of his fingers, he turned and went back to his tea, sitting down.