A Novel in Three Parts


Julia Quinn

Eloisa James

Connie Brockway







Dedication

For our husbands . . .

. . . Paul. He might not throw cabers,

but give him a pair of scissors,

and he can slice a wasp in half in mid-air.

As far as I’m concerned, that’s the

modern-day equivalent of slaying dragons.

—JQ

. . . Alessandro, because we met on a blind date,

and although it didn’t take place in a Scottish castle,

one might argue that our characters

find themselves in a similarly happy situation.

—EJ

. . . the good Dr. Brockway, whom I forgive

for not gaining a single pound since the day we wed.

No truer love has a woman than this.

—CB







Contents

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

About the Authors

Praise

More Dazzling Romance

Copyright

About the Publisher







Prologue

Some said the legendary storm of 1819 that screamed down from the north pushed madness ahead of it. Others said the only madness exhibited that night was born inside a bottle of contraband whiskey. And then there were those who claimed that magic rode vanguard to the snow, sweeping the halls of Finovair Castle and inspiring its laird to heights of greatness . . .

Or something along those lines.

All that’s known for certain is that it was a chilly December day when Taran Ferguson led his clansmen to the brow of a hill from which they could see Bellemere Castle glowing like a jewel in the dark Highland night. As his men told the story later, the wind whipped Taran’s tartan back from his shoulders as he forced his steed to paw the air, then brought the magnificent beast back down to earth.

Nearly disbalanced, ’tis true, but that was part of the miracle: he’d drunk a bottle of whiskey and kept his seat.

“A glorious and sacred task lays ahead of us this night,” he bellowed. “Our cause is just, our purpose noble! Down yonder sits the Earl of Maycott . . . The English Earl of Maycott!”

This brought forth a roar from his men. And perhaps a belch or two.

“He sits amongst his gold cups and fine china,” Taran continued grandiosely, “seeking to worm his way into our good graces by bidding the finest Highland families to dine and dance with him.”

His clansmen glowered back at him: none of them, including Taran, had been invited. Not that they’d wanted to be. Or so they told themselves.

“No English interloper will seduce a Scottish lassie on my watch,” Taran shouted. “Scotland is for the Scots!”

There was another obligatory roar of approval from his men.

“Ye ken full well that I have been sowing wild oats since my dear wife died, some twenty years ago,” Taran continued. “But sadly, laddies, ye also know that none of those seeds bore fruit, for it takes a rich field indeed to nourish a seed as mighty as that of the Ferguson.” Taran had the good sense not to wait to see how this was received. “My line is threatened with extinction. Aye. Extinction! And where, I ask you, will you all be then? Where will your children be without a Ferguson laird to see to their well-being?”

“A better place than we are now,” one of the men muttered, pulling his tartan closer against the screaming wind.

Taran ignored him. “Yet all is not lost! You ken I have two nephews by my younger sisters.”

Unhappy mutters met this statement. One of Ferguson’s sisters had married a refugee from the French Revolution, a penniless comte. The other had wed an English earl who turned out to be as disagreeable as he was English.

Taran raised his hand, quieting the grumblers. “It’s the half-French one, Rocheforte, who’ll inherit my castle.” He paused dramatically. “Think on it, lads. If my Frenchie nephew marries a Scotswoman, his son will be one of us—a true Scotsman!!” He slashed the air with his broadsword so vehemently the momentum nearly carried him off his saddle, but at the last moment he righted himself. “Or mostly. And it’s the same for my English nevvy as well.”